The Infinite

By Nick Pobursky

Jack Fox Can't Die.

Using his unique condition and skills, Jack fights to rid the city of Detroit of its most notoriously untouchable criminals - and someone has taken notice.

The Infinite is an organization that works in the shadows to protect the world from impossible threats far greater than the murderers, rapists, and drug lords Jack has been hunting for years.

When all is seemingly peaceful, Jack and the Infinite are thrust into battle against a twisted and ancient power that threatens hundreds of thousands of lives. It's a race against the clock to stop the greatest mass tragedy the world has ever seen.

"Pobursky blends sci-fi, horror, action, and buddy comedy into a fast-paced and exciting read that feels like it wouldn't be out of place in the Marvel Universe... Jack Fox is a charming and charismatic leading man, with a swagger and wit that makes his adventures with his immortal friends, enemies, and frenemies leap off the page"
- Leonard Kinsey, The Dark Side of Disney

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bamboo Forest Publishing
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201981785

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Copyright © 2021 Nick Pobursky

Cover Art and Interior Design: Hurl Ravenscroft

Editor: Leonard Kinsey

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Any descriptions of illegal activities in the book are intended purely for educational or entertainment purposes. The Publisher and the Author do not support, advocate, encourage, or endorse any illegal acts described herein. In no event will the Publisher or the Author be liable for any illegal activities performed by readers of this book. In other words, if you get busted and go to jail, don’t blame us!

Published by Hatbox Press, an imprint of Bamboo Forest Publishing

First Printing: August 2021

Part One: The Beginning of Everything

April.

Remember tonight...for it is the beginning of always.

-Dante

1

A FIST CRASHED INTO the side of my face. It turned my head, it left a bruise, it split the skin a little—but it didn’t hurt.

I know it sounds cryptic, but pain doesn’t mean a whole lot to me anymore. Sit tight—I’ll fill you in on what I mean by that a little later.

Feel better now? I irritably asked my assailant as I stood toe-to-toe with him in an alley in Detroit’s southeast side.

The fuck? he responded, apparently confused by my lack of reaction to his attack. As expected, he reached behind his back for what I assumed was either a knife or a gun. It was always one or the other with these idiots. Just once I wish they’d reach behind their back and pull out...I don’t know...a Chili’s gift card or something?

No luck this time—it was a knife.

He flicked the blade out and brought it to bear in one smooth motion that told me this wasn’t his first time around the block. Unfortunately for him, I’d seen this maneuver a couple of times myself.

He swung the knife toward my gut in an upward arc, so I stepped inside of his reach, grabbed the top of his wrist, and twisted in the opposite direction. I heard a pop and watched the knife sail upward, riding its skyward momentum without him. With my free hand, I caught the weapon by its grip.

I still had a firm grasp on his forearm so, without releasing him, I sent an elbow upward into his chin with enough force to knock his teeth together with an admittedly hilarious clack. He wobbled a bit, and I could feel his legs starting to give out, so I let him go and he collapsed in a heap on the grimy alley concrete.

Ignoring my attacker for the time being, I took a moment to inspect his knife. It was a cheap, gaudy, dull gas station blade that was rusty and pitted with age and hard use. How many innocent people have been hurt by this cut-rate piece of steel? I wondered.

The man currently pissing his pants on the ground before me was a piece of human garbage named Clarence Durant. For some reason that I can’t fathom, his preferred moniker was Ice. Ridiculous.

Anyway, why was Ice trying to gut me in a dirty alley in broad daylight? Simple answer: because I’d cornered him there. I’d come to teach him a valuable life lesson.

My best friend and business partner, Alex Sheffield, is a detective over at the DPD and she’d sent me his current location, even though I hadn’t needed it—I’d already known where he’d be. Clarence had been a special project of mine for quite some time.

To put it bluntly, our friend Ice is a lowlife and a killer with friends in very high places. Somehow, even after all of his arrests, no charges ever seemed to stick. There has been enough evidence to convict Mr. Durant of murder on three separate occasions, yet free he remains. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes, and it’s pretty awful stuff. I’ve also seen the families of his victims sobbing in court while the man that took their loved ones laughed as his cuffs were removed outside.

I believe monsters like Clarence are the reason I exist. The law is adequate up until the point that it isn’t. Once that point is reached, what happens next? Should these assholes be allowed to steal and rape and kill at will—all because the law is bound by layer after layer of red tape or corruption? Are the families of the victims just supposed to accept that their loved ones’ killers are still out there destroying more lives?

No.

Fuck that.

That’s where Alex and I come in. When the law has no official cards left to play, Alex sends me information on cases like Clarence’s, and I deal with them in a variety of ways depending on the offender and their crimes. Sometimes I make them fear for their lives, other times I make them part with them. When those methods don’t work, I get creative. It all hinges on how they want to play the game.

Being a good person is a choice that must be made by everyone individually. I simply remind these wayward souls of that choice, wait for them to decide, and then act accordingly.

This brings us back to Clarence himself—he was starting to come to.

Who the hell are you, man? he asked, massaging his jaw.

Think of me as a fortune teller, I told him plainly. I’m here to predict your future.

What’s that supposed to mean?

That means you’ve done some bad things to some good people and you haven’t paid for it. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘nothing in life is free?’ You need to pay for what you’ve done, Clarence—and I’m not looking for money.

Clarence lifted himself up onto his elbows. This was always the part where my targets would act tough or defiant. It was also usually my favorite part.

My name’s Ice, motherfucker, get it right or—

The rasp of my pistol being drawn from its kydex holster cut him off mid-sentence.

What was that, Clarence? I asked, tilting the barrel in his direction from my hip like a Wild West gunslinger.

He stayed silent.

I looked down at the gun in my hand with a double take, as if I’d just realized I was holding it.

Oh, this? I joked. This is my problem solver—and you’re a problem, Clarence.

It was an intimidating weapon to look upon, especially from the wrong end. A Glock 19M I’d received when I worked for the FBI that I’ve since highly modified for precision and speed. It has gotten me out of more jams than I’d care to admit. It seemed to work wonders on Clarence, who deflated at the thought of a few jacketed hollow-points turning his head into a mushy, red bowling ball.

What do you want? he asked, staring me dead in the eyes. Credit where credit is due: his voice didn’t waver.

I paused for a moment, pretending to consider his question. He didn’t seem to notice that the cut and bruising on my face had already completely healed. Oh well, that was probably for the best.

"I really want you to attack me again, Clarence, I said, simply, so that I can erase you right here in this alley. I’m being very serious about that. However, you might just be in luck because, so far, you’re being pretty obedient. That said, you are still a murderer—among numerous other awful things—and all of that shit has to stop immediately. I’m serious. You’re going to get a real job, and you’re going to work for your money and contribute to society like an actual adult. From this day forward, you are going to be an honest, hardworking, straight-laced human being. Understand?"

Are you serious right now? he asked, incredulous, his face breaking out into a wide grin as if this was all just an elaborate prank.

Deadly serious.

Clarence actually laughed.

Yeah, I ain’t doin’ any of that shit.

I smiled sadly and bowed my head.

I thought you might say that, so I brought you a present—maybe it’ll help change your mind.

Careful not to cut myself with his knife, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out an earring. It was cheap—cubic zirconia and sterling silver—but it was old, and it clearly meant a lot to somebody, as it was well cared for. I tossed it to him.

You recognize that? I asked, but I already knew he did.

Where did you...?

I didn’t wait for him to finish before I bulldozed on.

"Your mom—Judy? She lives over on Casmere in Hamtramck with your little brother Zeke. I paid them a visit last night and picked that up for you. They’re nice people—and I know a lot about them.

"I know what time they go to sleep, and I know when they wake up. I know what time your brother gets home from school every day. I know where the fat kid that bullies him lives. I know that your mom is three months behind on her mortgage and is very close to losing the house you grew up in. I know that Zeke steals the neighbor’s Wi-Fi to play Fortnite on a PS5 that you stole from a house you robbed last year. I even know the names of the people who lived in that house. Want to know what else I know?"

Clarence softened.

Please... he stammered.

I shook my head, refusing to let him off the hook just yet.

"I also know that I will not hesitate to put a bullet into both Mom and Zeke if I hear that you did so much as steal a bottle of Faygo from 7-Eleven. Do you think I’m lying to you?"

Clarence looked into my eyes and saw nothing there but iron and frost. He believed me.

Please don’t hurt them, man. They didn’t do anything to anybody.

I nodded, but I wasn’t done. I was here to make a point. I needed Clarence to believe I was more of a monster than he could ever be.

Neither did the people you hurt, Clarence. But you hurt them anyway, so why shouldn’t I?

Clarence couldn’t look me in the eye anymore, and I kept going, hammering my point home. This was always the hardest part for me—but the most effective.

Imagine this, if you can. From now on, this gun is in your hand. I nodded toward my weapon, even though he wasn’t looking at me. "If you show restraint and behave, it never goes off and Mom and Zeke are safe. But if you hurt someone ever again, you’re pulling the trigger—and I will drive you to Mom and Zeke’s closed-casket funerals in my own car. And there isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it."

Jesus, Clarence breathed, on the verge of hyperventilation. Everyone has a weakness, and I’d found his.

"Jesus isn’t here, my friend. I am. And my word is the fucking gospel now. So, let’s recap. When I leave, you’re going to stand up, go home, change into some piss-free pants, and apply for a real job—because you’re going to need it."

I holstered my gun, pulled out my phone, navigated to a banking app, and read off the details for him.

"Now, you’ve got a lot of dirty money in the bank, Clarence. Or, I should say, you had a lot of dirty money. I took care of that for you. I used some of that money to pay off your mom’s house. You are free to take credit for that. The rest of your money, however, I donated anonymously to a charity for victims of domestic violence, because I think you should also literally pay for the damage you’ve caused. Your current balance is zero dollars."

Clarence couldn’t speak, he simply gazed up at me, mouth wide open in astonishment.

I’ll be watching you, Clarence, I warned him. If you do what I ask, you’ll never see me again and everyone gets to live happily ever after. But if you don’t—if you fuck up just once—you know what it’ll cost you.

With that, I snapped his cheap knife in two and walked out of the alley.

2

BEFORE WE GO ANY FURTHER, I want to make it abundantly clear that Clarence’s mom and brother were never in any real danger—and they never will be. If Clarence falls off the wagon—which he more than likely will—I would never harm them. They’re innocents, and they’re the exact people I’m here to protect—it’s why I used Clarence’s money to pay off their house. They don’t deserve to suffer for Clarence’s crimes which—in a way—they already have.

Don’t get me wrong, I will put three holes in Clarence’s head and never bat an eye, because he is a piece of shit and the world would be a far better place without him—but I’d never hurt an innocent person for any reason. Sometimes, however, the fear of harm to loved ones motivates people who believe themselves to be untouchable. It isn’t pretty, but I’m certainly not above it. I don’t do this to make myself feel good, I do it to help people that have nowhere left to turn.

I suppose you have some questions at this point. Why do I do what I do, and how did I become what I am? To answer those questions, we have to start at the very beginning. Origin story time!

My name is Jack Fox, and I can’t die.

Yeah—sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

Long story short: I found out I was immortal in high school. I’ve got a big mouth and it got me killed. Or it would have, if that had been an option. I know it sounds insane—and it definitely is—but bear with me and I’ll explain.

I was seventeen and it was my senior prom. It was held at a place called the Roostertail on the north side of Detroit. My date only agreed to come with me because she was from a different school and wanted to hang out with some mutual friends that went to mine. So, after the first five minutes, she bailed on me and I didn’t see her again for the rest of the night.

I’d pre-gamed with a few alcoholic beverages in the parking lot before heading inside, so I had a healthy buzz to carry me through the crushing grief of losing my date. Truth be told, I wasn’t especially heartbroken because I didn’t really want to be there in the first place. I’d only showed up so that my parents wouldn’t think they’d raised some freakish, antisocial abnormality—which, of course, they had, but they didn’t need to know that.

Breezing past the irrelevant bits: the dance sucked, I slipped on a spot of too-waxed floor and ate shit in front of a bunch of people, went back out to my car and put more work in on the bottle of Buffalo Trace I’d stolen from my dad’s liquor cabinet, and left before eleven o’clock.

I got in my car—a sweet rust-and-red ‘94 Chrysler Le Baron GTC with a rod knock and a burned-out clutch—and figured I’d drive across the nearby bridge to Belle Isle and sit alone on the beach like the miserable little shit that I was.

I had just polished off the rest of the bourbon and thrown the bottle into the river—let’s face it, you’d have to work pretty damned hard to make the Detroit River any worse than it already was—when I saw two guys walk out onto the sand dragging a third between them.

It was pretty dark, and I was sitting a good distance away, so they didn’t see me at first. I could hear their voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I figured them for a couple of bros who had taken their drunk buddy to sleep it off on the beach for a little while before heading back to wherever they were partying.

Boy, was I wrong.

I got up to leave as they dragged the third guy to the water’s edge. He was on his knees in a foot of water and they loomed over top of him. One of them pulled out a shiny, nickel-plated pistol and placed it against the back of the kneeler’s head. I decided then that stealth was a phenomenal idea, so I did my best impression of a statue and tried not to be seen.

Without a word, the man with the gun pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was surprisingly quiet and hollow there by the water, and the reverberations dissipated so quickly that I could hear the dead man’s bone, skin, and gray matter splashing against the water’s surface. It was so similar to the sound of vomit splashing into a toilet that I was immediately reminded of how much whiskey I’d drunk and got a bit nauseated myself.

They let the dead man fall face first into the river with a splash, and the strong current wasted no time in carrying him away toward Lake Erie.

I prayed to whatever god would listen that they wouldn’t see me, but of course they saw me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be telling you this story.

Who the fuck are you? the one with the gun barked, marching toward me through the sand. People ask me this question a lot, if you haven’t already noticed.

I looked behind me at first in a you must be talking to one of these many people behind me gesture.

Me? I asked, dumbfounded, putting a hand on my chest.

No, the fucking werewolf standing behind you, he spat. "Yeah, you. What did you see, kid?"

If it wasn’t for the bourbon, maybe things would have gone differently. But they went the way they did, as most things usually do.

I’m pretty sure I just saw two dudes murder another dude. But it’s dark, so I’m not a hundred percent on that one.

I hiccupped.

The gunman sighed, looking back at his silent partner for the smallest of split seconds.

No, that’s not what you saw.

You’re right. I didn’t see anything. I’m actually blind and wandered away from my tour group at the aquarium and I’ve been lost for hours. Have you seen them—bunch of people with huge sunglasses and canes, nice old lady explaining in detail what all the fish look like? –is what I should have said.

No, I’m pretty sure that’s what I saw, is what the alcohol made sure I said instead.

And, without further ado, he shot me in the face.

When I woke up, I was still on the beach, but it wasn’t dark anymore. The sun was rising—or setting, I never remembered which direction was which—and I was still in my shitty rental tux. It was covered in blood. I’m talking saturated. I had a little bit of a headache that I assumed had come from the alcohol until I remembered that I’d recently been shot in the head and left for dead on a dirty beach.

I scrambled to my feet and looked at the scene of carnage around me.

The sand had been sprayed with blood and what looked like little bits of gristly gray meat. There was a misshapen chunk of metal lying next to the divot were my head had been. It was a hollow-point bullet.

I panicked.

I ripped off my jacket and started scooping handfuls of the gory sand into it. When it was full, I dragged it to the river and let the current take the evidence away. It took two more trips and a creative shuffling dance routine, but eventually I was able to make the beach look like it hadn’t just been the scene of a double homicide. As an afterthought, I put the bullet it my pocket; it was too weird not to keep.

When I got back to the Le Baron, I changed into a hoodie and jeans that I’d packed in the car the night before. The tuxedo, however, was a complete loss so I wedged it deep into a garbage can near a picnic table. Either nobody would find it and it would make its way to the dump, or one of the city’s many homeless people would find it and wear it. I didn’t particularly care at that point.

I finally had the presence of mind to look at my reflection in the rearview, and I was startled to see a fresh pink scar directly above my left eye.

So, it was true, I realized: I’d actually been shot in the damned head.

And my fucking brain had regenerated; I’d thrown chunks of it into the river. I didn’t feel any dumber—not like I’d lost any more brain cells than the average seventeen-year-old did on a daily basis. Everything seemed to be in its proper place. Somehow, the bullet had worked its way out of my head while I’d been unconscious, and the world had stopped making sense.

It was insane. I couldn’t believe it. But I did believe it because I’d lived it.

It took some serious finagling to explain the scar and the missing rental tux—which I had to pay for—but eventually I put that night behind me and didn’t breathe a word of what happened to anyone.

Still, I knew what I was and what I could do. So, being an asshole, I decided to push the limits whenever I could. Once, I broke my collarbone swinging on a rope in the woods with my buddies and I didn’t say a thing. Hours later, it was good as new. Broke an arm in a car accident and actually hid that fact from the police because I knew that it would be fine before all the glass was swept out of the street. Took a bullet to the neck in Afghanistan and told my squad mates that all of the blood on my BDUs was from a nosebleed—you know, dry desert air and all that. Missed out on a Purple Heart for that one.

Over time, my regeneration became even faster. A cut that should require stitches would seal up and be nothing more than scar tissue within minutes. The scars would be gone by the end of the day. Hell, even the scar from the bullet that killed me was gone within a week.

Along with the regeneration, I became very fast and incredibly strong—freakishly strong without even having to work for it. I was by no means a car-lifting superhero, but I could put a linebacker from the football team flat on his ass and I’d never even been in the same room as a bench-press rig.

Consequently, basic training was a breeze for me when I enlisted in the Army. Ranger School was a joke when I was promoted. I never got winded, tired, or sore. Some of the other recruits were less than enthusiastic about my abilities.

All these changes got me thinking: had I ever been sick? I honestly couldn’t remember a single instance. Had I ever even needed a Band Aid? I didn’t think so.

Pain, like I mentioned earlier, eventually lost all meaning. My mind, having disconnected the sensation of pain from lasting damage, made it something that could be easily ignored. Even the pain from grievous wounds such as gunshots could be disregarded as simply as if it was a mild itch, since I knew that no injury could cause me any permanent harm.

Being an immortal definitely came with perks.

3

EVEN THOUGH I KNEW I was an immortal, I was also still a regular guy and I needed to keep up with regular guy things. Just because I couldn’t die didn’t mean I couldn’t fail. It also didn’t mean I’d be rich and famous—I needed a job to pay the bills just like everyone else.

I went to college for Criminal Justice and graduated early in three years. After graduation, a rare moment of bravado and patriotism led to me enlisting in the Army so as to use my gift to combat evil. Within a year, I was a proud member of the 75th Ranger Regiment’s 3rd Battalion stationed in Fort Benning, Georgia.

After six years as a Ranger, I’d had enough of kicking in doors overseas, and I was honorably discharged. I returned home and, with my schooling and background in Special Operations, I was quickly offered a position with the FBI.

I lasted two years at the Bureau before I decided that it wasn’t for me. I couldn’t get behind any of the politics, and those very politics made it nearly impossible for me to do my job with any degree of efficiency.