Urban Enemies (Cainsville 4.5)

This man, this pathetic insect, had stolen from him. He'd cost the Long Man his pride and made him look a fool before the Father. It was time to put things to rights.

The Long Man pushed Joe back and whipped the knife back and forth with wild abandon. The defensive tactic gave him the breathing room he needed to get his wits back and his legs under him. He darted forward and flicked the knife's tip at Joe's face.

The blade opened the Night Marshal's cheek from the corner of his left eye down to the edge of his jaw.

The Long Man's strength was flagging, but the pieces of his plan were coming together. He could still win this. "I didn't come all this way to take a beating. I gave you a chance to end this without pain. You don't want to be rid of me? Fine. I'll never be far from you again."

The Long Man lunged and flailed the blade left to right, then right to left, then back again in a relentless sweeping arc.

The Marshal took a step back, then a second, and a third. The catwalk was a long skeleton of beams and steel lattice that stretched the length of the brewery's old bottling plant. Every step carried the combatants across open containers of ale that filled the room with a rich, earthy perfume.

The Long Man pressed the attack, forcing the Marshal back with one wild swing after another, but his vigor was flagging. He wasn't strong enough to keep this up all night, his reserves of endurance were limited by the body he was trapped in. I should've chosen someone else, someone fitter.

But he hadn't. That was all right, he could still do what needed doing.

The Long Man let the knife's tip drop and the Marshal took advantage of the opening. He stepped forward and threw a straight punch into his opponent's flabby chest.

The monster took the blow full in the sternum. His eyes bulged with surprise at just how much the attack hurt. The Marshal had fueled his attack with the power he'd stolen from the Long Man, adding insult to the injury. The stolen body's ribs crackled and separated from the muscle holding them closed around heart and lungs.

Joe's former boss fell over the savage blow. He angled his left arm around Joe's right, twisting them together and pulling the Marshal close. It was easy to get inside your enemy's defenses if you didn't worry about surviving.

"Give me what is mine."

Joe snorted and slammed a head butt into the center of the sneering, demanding face before him. Blood splattered from the Long Man's shattered nose and his thoughts splintered into jagged shards of rage.

The Long Man fell against Joe. He used his greater weight to push the Night Marshal back into the railing. The Long Man held fast to Joe's arm and leaned in close. His mouth opened wide and his teeth gnashed the air an inch from Joe's cheek.

Just one bite, he thought. He just needed one bite and he would be inside Joe. Like he'd been inside the squirrel, the pig, and now Sean. If he couldn't beat Joe, he'd become him.

The Long Man growled and snarled, snapping his teeth like a rabid dog. His incisors grazed the Marshal's cheek, but couldn't find purchase. His tongue dragged across razor stubble and he tasted sweat and stale bar smoke, but he couldn't get the bite he needed to possess his enemy.

Joe shoved the Long Man back. He punched the old bastard, a downward strike across the jaw that shattered teeth into bloody enameled chunks. "I done killed you once, it's time for you to go back where you come from."

Another punch loosened more of the Long Man's stolen teeth and rattled his brain like a pea in a gourd. Through a concussed haze, the once-powerful spirit saw his future. There was still a way to do this. He should have seen it earlier.

He raised his knife to strike.

Joe grabbed his adversary, his onetime ally, his former mentor, by the hair and hauled him to his feet. He spun the old monster around and hooked a wiry forearm across the stolen body's throat. Joe's words were an intimate whisper. "This ends now," he growled, crushing the Long Man's windpipe.

The broken spirit gripped his knife with both hands, and turned the tip up and in. "Yes, it does."

The Long Man convulsed as the knife punched up under his ribs. The weapon's tip plunged through his diaphragm and into his heart.

With the last of his strength, the Long Man ripped the knife from his chest and flung it into the kettles below. A gushing torrent of blood followed the blade, splashing into the beer along with the shattered remains of the Long Man's essence.

The Long Man watched the Cubs win the World Series through the eyes of a trucker with a mouth stuffed with chewing tobacco. He watched them win from inside a meth junkie swigging black-labeled beer in a desperate attempt to stave off the tremors of withdrawal. He heard that last game in Chicago through the ears of a cop listening to the game instead of keeping an eye on the pimps and prostitutes strolling down the alley outside his car.

The Long Man was no more, but he was also much more than he'd been before. The blood-tainted beer had gone out to his customers and they'd served it in bars, taverns, and restaurants across the Midwest.

He'd lost his body, but now there were pieces of him, scattered remnants of his personality and power, lodged inside the minds and bodies of the weak and the hopeless and the angry who guzzled beer in the vain hopes it would smooth out the ragged edges of their doomed lives. None of them were a match for the Night Marshal, but that was all right.

The Long Man lived inside each of these boozy disciples, and he had plans for each. His hosts smiled when they saw one another, secretive smirks that signaled a deep, dark knowledge the rest of the world wouldn't share until it was far too late.

Weeks passed, and the Long Man's spirit spread far and wide. His hidden army grew, their numbers swelling as bottle after bottle of tainted beer vanished down unsuspecting gullets. Some threw off his influence, but more--many more--welcomed him into their lives and bodies.

He gave them something they needed, even if they couldn't articulate what had been missing from their useless existences.

He gave them a tribe to call their own. He gave them purpose. These bodies, each one weak on its own, would do what the Long Man, in all his glorious power, had not been able to accomplish. He would guide them on their missions, and they would do the dark deeds that would save the world. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, would die, but the rest would be saved.