The Shell: Troubled Spirits

Chapter 1: The Business of Vengeance

40 years later

An abandoned Warehouse near Boston Harbor.

The warehouse was dim, lit only by a handful of portable lamps, set on tripods with high powered bulbs on the end, the kind construction workers used on job sites. Three men sat around a green folding table, each seated on matching chairs, a bottle of liquor and a deck of cards sat upon the table, it appeared the men were in the midst of a game.

“How long we gotta hold up here” The smallest of the three asked. He had a bald head and small darting eyes, his left leg bounced with nervous energy. He held his cards close to his chest and his eyes kept darting between the two men and the door, as if he couldn't decide if he was more nervous about his fellows or someone walking in on them.

“As long as it takes for Mickey to get us outta town” The grizzled looking thug to his left replied. He kept his blonde hair close to his scalp and had a thick mustache. He seemed more relaxed then the other two and had an air of quiet confidence about him, clearly the leader.

“I told you bout killin cops, told you to be careful.” The last man, who towered like a mountain over the other two said in a deep gravely voice. He had scars along his bare arms and a dark bushy beard that was flecked with gray.

“Well there's nothing I can do about that now is there? And its not like he gave me much of a choice, standin right between us and the car like that” The mustachioed man replied indignantly, he pronounced car like 'cah' his accent thicker than the other two. “Look, we got the money, we got to the safe house, all we gotta do is wait a little while and we'll all be free and clear,” He reached out for the bottle and took a long swig. “You'll see, Mickey'll come through and get us outta town. He just needs some time.”

“I'm afraid, that you three are out of time.” A new voice, unknown to the men spoke from the gloom. They all instinctively reached for their weapons. there was something about that voice that put them all on edge, some unknown quality, almost supernatural in nature, like the voice of death itself.

They all glanced about wildly, their chairs clattering to the ground as they all stood. Cards fluttered through the air as they held out their guns, searching for the source of the voice.

“Show yourself!” Shouted the criminals' mustachioed leader, he held a large caliber pistol in his hand, the mountainous thug held a sawed off shotgun, and the small squirrely one held a semi-automatic pistol.

As if from nowhere a figure appeared, one moment the space was empty and the next a man stood in front of them. He was dressed in a long black coat, a pair of combat boots, and plain gray pants and shirt. He wore a gun-belt with a revolver slung low on either hip. But his clothes were the least remarkable thing about his appearance. His skin was pale and sallow, like that of a corpse, his curly mid-length hair a shock white and his eyes black pools of nothingness. And to tie the ensemble together, there was a black skull painted across his pale face.

All three men opened fire, the sound of gunshots and the smell of gunpowder filling the air. The mysterious man just stood there, smiling as the bullets passed through him. He extended his arms and the guns leapt from his belt and into his waiting hands.

“My turn” Crackling blue bolts burst forth from the antique revolvers as the mystery man pulled the trigger, speeding through the air and towards their intended targets. The leader dived behind the big man, the blasts connecting with his large frame, he slumped instantly, falling to the ground with no wounds upon his body.

The small bald one dived to the ground, narrowly avoiding the shots meant for him and returned fire. There was a resounding c***k as he sprayed bullets across the room in a panic. Most went wide but the skull faced man cried out as one of the shots connected with his side, black liquid seeping into the gray shirt. The revolver raised again, firing another bolt that landed square between the squirelly man's eyes and he too slumped without any visible wounds.

The figure looked up at the sound of a door slamming reverberated through the near empty warehouse, a sigh escaping his lips. The surviving cop-killer ran down an alleyway as rain poured down his head. His mouth was dry and his heart pounded in his chest as he ran with all the speed his legs would muster. He didn't know where he was going, or what he would do next, his only thoughts were fear and escape.

Suddenly the skull faced man stepped out ahead of him, through the wall. The criminal let out a scream and fell backwards, landing in a puddle that splashed around him, a yellow tint spreading from the man and into the water. “Who are you!? What are you?!” He screamed as the image of death raised one revolver.

“The Shell, a Spirit of Vengeance” The thing that had once been Charles Madison stared down at the corpse thoughtfully for a moment before turning to face an ethereal figure. The ghost was dressed in a policeman's uniform and still wore the evidence of his death, most souls that only stayed for brief business did.

The dead policeman gave Charles a nod. “Thank you.”

“It is my purpose, the only thanks I need is your ascension”

The other ghost gave another nod, then began to glow, a bright warm light emanating from him. As the light grew in intensity the police officer grew less distinct till finally he was just a pillar of light. Then he vanished, leaving Charles alone in the rainy alleyway

The Shell let out a grunt, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done, but like all his emotions, it was muted. He looked up to the sky, fully embracing his ethereal nature, his ghost half, and rose into the air. His work was done, time to head home and rest.