Book 2: Chapter 61: Predator and Prey (1/2)

Dan wasted a full second on shock, before instinct kicked in. The ball bearing he'd kept falling through t-space exited his veil at Mach speed accompanied by the resounding boom of air being violently displaced. The chunk of metal moved faster than the eye could follow, striking at center mass; it slammed into Cannibal's chest at speeds that would turn a normal man into paste— and ricocheted. The projectile shattered on impact, acting more like a grenade than a bullet. Shrapnel sprayed in every direction, shredding the walls and obliterating the minibar. Cannibal rocked backwards from the force of Dan's attack, and the recliner tumbled on its side. The serial killer voiced a grunt as he fell, not of pain but of surprise.

Dan loaded another ball bearing, eyes wide and heart racing. It took a moment for his brain to catch up to his eyes. What he'd just seen seemed impossible, but that was nothing new. More important was the fact that Cannibal was still alive, and quickly finding his feet. The notorious villain rose like Dracula out of his coffin, swift and sudden. He was vertical between eyeblinks, his thin shirt now nothing more than a rag. Cannibal ripped it off, revealing a sunken chest and bulging ribcage. There was a tiny grey smear on his chest where Dan's ball bearing had struck. Cannibal glanced down at it, amused, then the man casually rubbed his finger across the mark and wiped it clean.

”That was rude,” he remarked, as if being struck by a railgun round was a completely normal part of his day. Cannibal's voice was higher than Dan would've expected from that rough throat, and almost gentle in its pitch. It was soft-spoken and soothing, like a man trying not to spook a frightened animal. Then his eyes raised and met Dan's, and Dan saw the truth of things in that hollow gaze: He was a starving wolf in sheep's clothing, and his control was slipping quickly.

Cannibal made a fist and slowly flexed his arm. Muscles bulged out, larger and more defined than anyone so clearly malnourished should have. He twisted his waist and shoulders, and a series of loud cracks filled the room. He leaned backwards and yawned at the sky, revealing a carnivore's teeth, with pronounced canines and a distended jaw. Then he fell into a slight hunch, arms hanging loose at his side and hands slightly curled. His fingernails, Dan noted absently, were thicker than normal, and curved like talons.

”Where's Andros Bartholomew?” Dan tried, proud that his voice didn't quaver or hitch. He couldn't stop himself taking a step back though; it felt like Anastasia was looking at him, the hungry gaze of a predator.

Cannibal took a deep, rattling breath through his nostrils. His chest expanded grotesquely, his lungs almost popping free of his ribcage. The air was expelled with a violent whoof that made Dan jump, and Cannibal peered at him curiously.

”You smell... familiar,” he rasped, his voice deepening and losing its gentle nature. He completely ignored Dan's question. ”There's something nostalgic about you, but faint. What's your name, boy?” The sudden question came out as a demanding growl that shook the walls of the motel room.

Dan's heart made to claw its way out of his chest, but he forced it back down and tried to think. He clearly wasn't going to get anything out of this man, and Dan had zero interest in answering personal questions. He had no idea what Cannibal was capable of, other than apparently being ludicrously tough, so fighting was out of the question. Bartholomew was still out there somewhere, and so was his hostage.

Time to run.

It was as if Cannibal sensed Dan's decision. His entire body tensed, and his face twisted into a snarl. He lunged forward, little more than a blur of movement, as he bellowed, ”Answer me!”

Dan ignored Cannibal's question—Turnabout was fair play—and fired off his second railgun round at the man's face. He lingered just long enough to watch the flash of silver strike Cannibal's closed eyelid, before Dan's veil whisked him away to the safety of t-space. He floated bonelessly in the void, allowing himself to finally feel.

Terror seized his mouth and limbs, he gibbered incoherently and hugged himself tight. Failure weighed on him like an anchor, dragging him into the depths of the sea of despair. He let it all out, let it all echo into the vast emptiness of t-space. He screamed himself hoarse, rage and fear and everything in between taking control of his body, emptying himself until he was nothing more than an empty husk devoid of feeling.

He lost track of time as he floated there, waiting for the storm of emotions to end. Finally, finally, he regained control. He let the lingering remnants of his feelings flow from his veil and into his Navigator, and the eldritch thing strapped to his soul returned nothing but the calm and the cold. Logic found Dan again, and he considered what to do next. He needed to prioritize.

Bartholomew could still be in the motel, somewhere. It was a large place, and Dan hadn't searched it in its entirety. He should check the front desk, and see if Burl Meyers had a room in his name. It was as good a starting point as any... but no, it would take too long. Time was in short supply. Cannibal was present, and Dan had no idea what to do with that information. Presumably he hadn't gone on a rampage yet, but Dan's presence had certainly triggered something in the man.

Gregoir needed to be told, obviously. Hopefully he had some way to alert the National Guard and those federal assault teams. That would take time, though, time that Cannibal would be free to run around the city at his leisure. Dan didn't think the APD had anyone capable of taking down the notorious villain, who was very much supposed to be dead.

Was it even Cannibal? Dan reflected on the question briefly, before concluding that it didn't matter. He looked close enough to the picture Ito had provided, albeit much skinnier. The man looked like he'd barely aged a day, despite being something like seventy years old. And he took Dan's ball bearing like it was a nerf dart. It hadn't even broken the man's skin, or left a rash. Dan would've at least settled for friction burn, but nothing. So it didn't matter who he was, Dan was forced to assume he was legitimately a long dead serial killer come back to life.

A thought drifted through his brain: What about the rest of the motel? Dan was planning on searching it anyway, he should raise the alarm. Would they believe him? He didn't know. Even if he swung by his house to pick up his orange vest, this wasn't a crisis zone quite yet. Dan had no real authority, and people weren't all that inclined to believe panicked strangers shouting nonsense at them. Especially when said strangers appear uninvited in their motel room.

He'd still try. But first he needed to find Bartholomew.

Dan reappeared in the parking lot on the opposite side of the motel. He dialed Gregoir's number as he sent his veil whipping out to the nearest motel room. He heard wood splintering in the distance, followed by a frustrated snarl, then nothing. Dan raced from door to door, sweeping each room for inhabitants.