David “Mosh” Pitt woke up on his hotel room floor with an agonizing headache. He was no stranger to hangovers, but this one was particularly epic.
After Owen had sucker-punched him and stormed out, Mosh had finished off the contents of one of the bottles he’d found on his table. He wasn’t even particularly sure what brand the nasty concoction was. It could have been jet fuel for all he cared at that point, and since he hadn’t made it to his bed, it might actually have been. He couldn’t tell what time it was. His watch was missing and the alarm clock was blinking 12:00 over and over again. “Where’s my watch? Oh yeah, that one groupie stole it from me last week…Stupid chick. That Rolex was totally fake…” He’d had to sell the real one. Besides, he didn’t need a watch. The light coming around the curtain hurt his eyes enough to tell him that it was in the afternoon, so close enough. He just needed to be coherent enough to play some half-hearted crap before eight P.M.
Staggering to the bathroom, Mosh discovered that he was still wearing one boot. He splashed some water on his face and took stock of the damage. His bottom lip was split and his front teeth hurt. His brother always could throw a mean punch. Mosh poked at the sore spot. “Damn it, Owen, you self-righteous asshole. I can’t believe you did that. Ah, that stings.” Talking to himself wasn’t a recent development. He had always done it, but usually only when he was lonely, not that he would admit it.
Owen was such a jerk…It wasn’t enough to drag his business into everyone else’s business, but now he was into something that was going to endanger Dad? Not that Dad would care. He was psycho too. Hell, the whole family had problems. Mosh found himself staring back at his own bloodshot eyes. “Look at you. You used to be something. What happened to you?”
“I do not know this answer. You should turn on the television set. Watch news.”
Startled, Mosh spun around to see who had said that. He could’ve sworn that the voice had come from right behind him, but the bathroom was empty. Had the maid come in? Walking lopsided because his remaining boot had very thick soles, Mosh went into the suite to find that it too was empty. The security latch was still locked.
“I’m losing it.” Mosh rubbed his face in his hands. He could’ve sworn he’d heard a man’s voice, like an old dude, with a thick accent, sort of Eastern Europe, kind of like Mom when she got excited, but way worse. He found a bottle of Tylenol in the kitchenette and popped four of them. “Can alcohol give you hallucinations? Is it a hallucination if you hear it?” Unlike many of his peers in the music business, Mosh didn’t mess around with drugs. He’d seen too many other musicians fry their brains, and he liked being the smart one too much.
The drinking was just to help him sleep…Until things picked back up.
“What is it with this family? None of them can listen to instructions!”
Mosh leapt back and crashed into the refrigerator. “Who’s there?” There was no response. He had heard that clear as day. “If you’re messing with me, it isn’t funny.”
Who would play a trick on him? His so-called friends had bought the government’s line. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with him. His name was mud. The only people that would have anything to do with him anymore weren’t the kind he wanted around. A bunch of sycophant groupies weren’t the best company, and he couldn’t even remember the names of the ones he’d found here in the mornings.
“None of Pitts can listen. Is simple request. Watch news program, dummy.”
Mosh jumped. That had come from right behind him. Now he was really freaked out. “Okay, assholes. It’s on now.” He hobbled back to the bedroom and picked up the Glock 19 he kept on the bedside table. He wasn’t the family gun nut—that honor went to his brother—but he’d been raised by a fanatical survivalist, which meant that Mosh knew damn good and well how to take care of himself. After a death cult had kidnapped him, and a psychotic bitch had sawed his fingers off, Mosh was more than happy to shoot first and ask questions later. “You want trouble, you got trouble.” He came back around the corner with the 9mm in both hands. “You better get out of here. I’ve got a piece and I will shoot your ass dead. I mean it.”
“This wreck is the best we can do?”
“G’ah!” Mosh turned around and stabbed out the gun. That voice had come from a different man, deeper, with a slow southern drawl. His hands were shaking. His finger was on the trigger. But there was nobody there. “Stop that!”
“Can make contact. Is same blood as champion. You have better idea?” the disembodied old man’s voice said. “Idiot boy. Turn on television.”
“This place is haunted!” Mosh shouted.
“Yes. Boo,” said the southerner. “I’m a haint. Now do what Mordechai said already. We’re burning daylight.”
“Mordechai?” Owen’s imaginary friend? His brother had told him some crazy stories, only half of which he believed, and only then because he’d seen giant monsters and been teleported himself. When Owen had talked about ghosts and time travel, he’d wondered if his older brother had started licking toads. What was it Earl Harbinger had told him when he’d tried to cheer Mosh up, flexible minds? Like that helps when your whole life has just been ruined. “What do you want from me?”
“I am messenger, appointed by one side in big war to help Hunters. You are only person I can reach in time to warn.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. So you’re really Mordechai Byreika?” He was supposedly the dead guy that had guided Owen through his first brush with cosmic weirdness. “I’ve got to be tripping.”
“You are not going anywhere right now. Yes. Is I. Now hurry.”
Mosh found the remote control and turned the TV on. It was still on one of the adult movie channels. “Damn, boy. Times have changed. In my day you had to work to see nekkid ladies,” said the southerner.
“Easy, Bubba,” the old man’s voice took on a cautionary tone. “Is strange world now, but still worth saving. Sometimes.”
Embarrassed, Mosh quickly flipped through the channels until he found a cable news show. There was a special bulletin with the Las Vegas Strip in the background. The announcer was rattling off information about fires, the CDC, Ebola, a chemical spill, and an evacuation, but he’d jumped in midstream and Mosh’s aching brain was having a real hard time catching up. The live video showed a line of fire trucks, police cars, and military vehicles, and behind them was a wall of whirling gray smoke.
“You are only one we can reach. Much magical energy spilling out of vortex. I use it to talk to you. You are close. You are blood of champion, so we can talk. Surprised I am, how good your mind works for this. Is more easy than your brother’s even. He has to be close to death for me to even say hi anymore. Remarkable how good you are at listening to the dead.”
That was a whole lot to take in on short notice while suffering from a hangover. As far as Mosh was aware, he’d never talked to any dead people before. So either more of his brother’s nonsense was intruding into his life again, or somebody had slipped him something last night. Either one was equally possible.
“We need your help.”
“Wait a second. I recognize that place.” Mosh pointed at the TV. “That’s the new hotel where Owen’s staying. Is this more of his monster bullshit? Look, dead guys, I don’t want to get involved in my brother’s crazy-ass business ever again. Last time I lost my fingers and wrecked my career. This isn’t my thing.”
“Is everyone’s thing. Not time to be selfish, boy. Hunters, how you say, kidnapped. Taken to another world. Whoosh. Whole place, taken away. If you do not help, one by one they all will die. When they all used up, the monster come back here to feed on more. Your brother needs you, Mosh.”
“Mosh? What kind of name is Mosh?” the southern ghost asked. “Thought you said he was a musician.”
“What kind of hillbilly-ass name is Bubba?” Mosh answered. “You a NASCAR driver?”
“What’s a nascar?”
The live feed changed to an aerial shot from a helicopter. Mosh couldn’t believe his eyes. “Shut up for a minute…” Mosh walked over to the window and pulled open the curtains. The sunlight drove a shaft of pain through his eyeballs and deep into his cerebral cortex. “Man, I think I need to cut back on the drinking.”
The street below was packed with cars and people, all fleeing. After a few seconds of throbbing agony he could see the pillar of gray smoke rising from the opposite end of the Strip. This sure didn’t look like smoke from a big fire, though. It was as big around as a city block, twisting like a leisurely tornado, rising up over the city until it blotted out a giant chunk of the sky. It was really weird looking, and didn’t seem to be dispersing like a normal smoke cloud. Instead, it seemed to be hanging together, coherent. And worst of all, it was huge.
“Damn it, Owen. What have you got into this time?”