The Dark Side of Eleanor Warwick
HUNT

Years later, about 13 miles outside of Carmadie, A necromancer strokes his beard.

Whit Corgan looks up to the perfectly clear night. His hot breath meets frigid air and appears as a willowy mist. A bright moon casts a glow on the world below. His boots crunch on the gravel road that cuts through the pine woods. Taking a deep, euphoric breath, he hums in satisfaction as he exhales. “What a night. Perfect for the hunt.”

Turning, the wide-framed man faces a collection of hunters, each decked out in camo and carrying 12-gauge shotguns. He spits on the ground as he approaches the group. They are a collection of young and old, some he’s seen before and some newbies.

“Listen up, kiddoes. This is yer last chance to wuss out.” Pacing before them, he scans the band critically. “This ain’t no Disneyland ride. You head out there, you are in danger.”

A few of the hunters shift uncomfortably, while others smirk at his attempt to frighten them. Whit steps up to one of those amused, standing nose to nose. “You think I’m fuckin’ around, son?” he asks, despite the hunter being clearly older than him. “This is the real deal. You gotta keep yer head on a swivel out there. One a’ these fuckers gets ahold of ya, yer mama’s gonna be cryin’ her eyes out.”

“My mom’s dead,” the hunter informs him.

“Good,” Corgan brings his face even closer, “now she won’t have ta try and identify yer body in the morgue after you get yer fuckin’ face ripped off.”

Glancing around at the rest of the group, he takes note of a young hunter shivering. He’s willing to bet it has little to do with the weather. “Ah. Here we go. Here’s the one that’s gonna run out on us.”

“N-no I’m not!” the young hunter shouts, trying to sound more confident than he is.

“Ya sure, son? It’ll be hard to run away once ya been weighed down by all the shit in yer pants.”

A quick retort dies in the youngster’s mouth. Instead, he leans in and speaks quietly. “Are…are they really out there? I mean…for real?”

Corgan spits before glaring at the boy with hard eyes. “Oh, yeah. And they will wear yer guts like a hula skirt if you let ’em.” The boy’s eyes widen, and his shoulders slump. Corgan smirks in sardonic satisfaction. He holds out his hand and nods to the young hunter. The boy quickly places the shotgun in his hand and flees with urgency. “Look at ‘im. There goes the only one a’ ya with any brains.”

Stepping away from the party, Corgan approaches the tree line before turning back to them. “Well, if the rest a’ ya dumb-shits are dead set on gettin’ killed, then let’s get this fuckin’ hunt started.”

Pointing the shotgun upward, he fires into the air. The group whoops and hollers as they head off into the woods. Foliage crunches under their boots as they spread out through the trees. The forest is cold with just enough moonlight breaking through the branches to create deep, black shadows all around them.

“So how does this work?” one of them asks anyone. “Are there targets or what?”

“Weren’t you listening?” another responds. “These bastards are as real as you or me. When you see them, you better shoot before they get their hands on you.”

The first scoffs. “Alright. Enough with the goddamn scare tactics. You don’t expect me to believe that we’re out here hunting actual- .”

A grunt and a rustling of leaves interrupt him. The rest of the party turns to where his voice came from. They find nothing but his shotgun lying in the grass.

“Holy shit!” one of them curses. “They’ve already got one of us!”

“Calm down. They aren’t that quiet. There’s something else out here.”

“What do we do?”

“Just stay out of the shadows and you’ll be- .” Before the calm hunter finishes his instruction, a dark figure darts out from the darkness and tackles him, carrying them both into another bank of shadows. Yelps of alarm echo through the trees as the remaining hunters panic.

One turns to run as the others slowly approach the blackness into which their colleague disappeared. The frightened hunter runs as fast as he can, completely oblivious to the fact he is running deeper into the woods. The outbursts of shock and terror behind him spur his pace.

“This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!”

Footsteps at his heels drown out his increasingly ragged breath. The attacker gave up stealth for speed. Tightening his hold on his weapon, the hunter acknowledges he will not be getting away. Fighting back is his only chance. He spins, shotgun at the ready. What he sees is terrifying.

Nothing.

Anything would have been better than nothing. The weapon trembles along with the hands that hold it. He scans the dark woods around him. The rattling of his teeth is the only thing breaking the chilling silence. Every second ticking away feels like a lifetime.

When the figure bursts out from the dark, he yanks the barrel toward the threat and fires. Two bursts of buckshot are unleashed before the predator pounces and his life flashes before his eyes.

Corgan carefully arranges the charcoal powder into specific shapes.

He rises and dusts off his hands. He looks around the circle and nods. Walking over to his pick-up, he lifts out a dark green duffle. Opening it up, he removes a dented metal canteen. He unscrews the top and slowly drizzles dark red liquid into circles around each design. Once complete, he pours the remainder into a puddle in the center of the ring.

Returning to his bag, he retrieves a human skull. The bone passes his quick inspection, and he places it into the pool of blood. With a spit, Corgan pops his knuckles and focuses on the skull. A pair of shotgun blasts from the trees diverts his attention.

Tilting his head, he gathers up his firearm. “What the fuck are they shootin’ at? I haven’t even summoned the damn things, yet.”

“And you won’t.”

The sudden voice makes Corgan whirl around, barrel pointing. If the weapon intimidates his surprise guest, she doesn’t show it. She’s short and plump, with curly blonde hair on her head and thick glasses on her nose. Layered against the cold, she wears a turtleneck, under a fleece pullover, under a tan raincoat, the tail of which dances in the wind. A satchel hangs from her shoulder. Hands in her pockets, the intruder stands casually, clearly unimpressed with whatever threat Corgan represents.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Eleanor Warwick, and this ‘Zombie Hunt’ is over, necromancer.”

“Pardon my language, but what fuckin’ business is this a’ yers?”

“You call that language?” Eleanor asks with a shake of her head. “Amateur.”

Corgan only stares for a moment, not sure how to respond. Finally, he chuckles, glancing over to the trees. “What’cha got out there? Some kind a’ demon?”

“Yeah.” She smirks. “Some kind.”

The foliage rustles as a woman emerges. She violently yanks back the hood of a zipped-up sweatshirt worn under a heavier leather jacket. Long, black hair whips about an angry, but attractive face adorned with a small nose ring.

Jessie Blackwell snarls. “I hope you’re fuckin’ happy, Warwick! You just had to send me into the goddamn woods like I’m a fuckin’ Girl Scout! And for what? So I can watch out for some pig-fucking, hillbilly fuck-wits! And if I stepped in any deer shit, or whatever the fuck, you’re gonna buy me some new fuckin’ shoes! Goddamn bullshit!” She motions to Corgan. “And just what the fuck are you looking at?”

A brow raised, Corgan looks back to Eleanor. She gestures to Jessie. “You see that? The pros can always take it to the next level.”

“What the hell are ya doing here?” he asks angrily.

“Isn’t it obvious, shithead?” Jessie answers with a bitter tone. “We’re shutting your ass down.”

“Put the gun down,” Eleanor suggests, but not really.

Corgan sneers. “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

“Really? You really said that, did you?”

“You heard the man,” says Jessie as she pops her knuckles.

“Hold on, Jessie. This doesn’t have to- .”

Corgan aims his weapon and fires. Buckshot sprays forth. Eleanor throws her hands forward. The ancient power called magic rises to her command. She conjures it with her mind, guides it with her hands, and strengthens it with her will. She erects a solid, but invisible wall. The pellets glance harmlessly away.

Swiping her arm to the side, she sends the same energies out and snatches the shotgun from the necromancer’s grasp. Corgan thrusts a fist toward Eleanor, slamming her with a burst of kinetic energy. As she stumbles backward, Corgan turns back to Jessie.

She walks calmly toward him, her big hazel eyes shifting to an inky black. Sneering, a low, guttural growl escapes from behind her clenched teeth.

Corgan was unimpressed. “You think I’m afraid a’ you?” Tightening his fists, he calls forth a gust of dark smoke that swirls around him.

The branches sway briskly and Jessie’s long raven hair, spotted with the occasional streak of red, rises completely off her shoulders, twisting and tumbling above her head. The smoke grows upward like a cyclone. A figure takes shape at its highest point.

The necromancer’s features appear from the tornado. His smoggy face stares down at the tiny woman with blazing red eyes. When he speaks, his voice booms, deep and menacing. “I’ve summoned scarier shit than you and made ’em my bitch!”

With a calm sniff, Jessie charges into the vortex. The necromancer’s false countenance wears a shocked expression before it whips violently back and forth, mirroring his physical body as Jessie plied her trade. He shouts and bellows expressions of pain.

Corgan bursts out from the cyclone, landing hard on his back. The vortex fades into nothing as his focus shatters. Blood oozes from his nose, staining his beard. Groaning, he starts to pick himself up but doesn’t get far before Jessie pounces. She lands squarely on his chest and draws back her fist. Corgan squeals as he covers his face with his hands.

“Jessie! Wait a sec!”

Corgan is thrilled to see Eleanor standing over Jessie’s shoulder.

“I need some questions answered before you pulp him.”

Jessie does not immediately relent, but the darkness in her eyes fades. The necromancer wishes it hadn’t. A burning, almost manic fury dwells within her hazel glare. There’s surely no way he could have provoked that much rage. There’s something else inside her that conjured such emotions. He has no doubt unspeakable violence can be born from them. Cooperation seems like the wiser course of action.

After several agonizingly long moments, Jessie releases him and rises, but her eyes remain locked on his. Eleanor steps beside her and stares down. “As I was saying; my name is Eleanor Warwick and you are in violation of the Carmadie Necromancy Ban.”

“The what?” Corgan asks.

His question seems genuine, but Eleanor is hardly convinced. “Carmadie is under the purview of numerous treaties. Rules for operating on the Shadow Side.”

Corgan scoffs. “Regulation. Typical big-city liberals. Besides, we’re hours outside the city.”

“You recruited your victims out there from the city.”

“Victims? Bullshit!”

“So what was the plan, Whit?” Eleanor asks. “Summon some zombies. Get some idiots out here to ‘hunt’ them. They’re killed. Now you have more zombies. So on, and so on, until you have an army.”

The necromancer stares blankly for a moment. “What the hell are- ? The plan was ta charge people ta come out here an’ blow away some zombies. Like in them movies. Simple as that.”

With a groan, Jessie steps away. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. So glad we rushed out here.”

Eleanor glares into Corgan’s eyes, reading him. After an uncomfortable moment for him, she nods. “Alright. I believe you. But these hunts are over. Forever.”

“Aw, what is the big deal?”

“Once you open the zombie box, it can be hard to put the lid back on.”

“Bah,” Corgan spits. “I done it several times.”

“Then you shouldn’t press your luck. Believe me; The Walking Dead has come closer to being a documentary than anyone is comfortable with.” Eleanor kicks the ritual site, scattering the runes. “You’ve got another chance. Don’t blow it.”

Corgan dusts himself off as he rises. “You’re costin’ me a lot a’ money, lady.”

Eleanor doesn’t bat an eye in the face of the necromancer’s hard glare. “You’ll live. There are plenty of other ways for shady wizards to- .”

The sudden blaring of a Journey song cuts off her sentence. Both wizards look around, confused. Jessie pulls a phone from her pocket, checks the I.D., and answers. “Hey.”

“You have a cell phone?” Eleanor asks.

“Just a sec.” Jessie moves the device away from her face. “Yeah. So?”

Eleanor arches her brows expectantly. “Were you going to tell me about it?”

“Why?”

“Uh…so I can call you on it.”

Jessie stares a moment. “Why?”

With an aggravated nod, Eleanor turns back to Corgan. “Never mind.”

“I’m back.” She returns to her call as she walks away. “What? No. It’s nobody. Just Warwick.”

With a sigh, Eleanor shakes her head. She never thought she would miss the way she and Jessie used to fight all the time. At least then Jessie spoke to her on occasion.

“Nobody.” Corgan whistles in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“Shut up.”

The necromancer groans at the sharp response. “Are we done here?”

“Yeah. We’re done. Shut these things down.”

Corgan grabs Eleanor’s arm as she turns to leave. “Hold on a second. Answer me somethin’.” He looks at Jessie. “What is she? She ain’t no demon. A demon couldn’t a’ busted through my spell like that.”

Eleanor jerks her arm away from him. “She’s a hellblood.” When the necromancer only offers a confused look, she elaborates. “You take a human, and you replace their blood with the blood of a demon. If they survive the process, they become a hellblood. They’re tougher, stronger, and deadlier than any normal demon.”

Corgan chuckles. “That little girl?”

“Yeah, and if we ever find out about another violation of the ban, we’ll be back. Next time, I won’t stop her. She will…” Eleanor stares, her face as serious as she can make it. Corgan only looks back at her expectantly. “will, uh, rip you to…she’ll…you know, she’ll pull you apart. Blood and stuff. Nastiness. Don’t doubt that for a second.”

The necromancer nods. “You’re kinda cute when you’re completely failin’ to intimidate somebody.”

“Okay. Let me get Jessie back over here.”

“No, no! That’s all right. I’ll go.”

Eleanor smirks and walks away.

“Dad.”

Alexander Blackwell jerks his head away from the window, startled. “What?”

Adrian Blackwell furrows his brow. “Are you all right?”

The Blackwell patriarch glances around the small charter plane. Out the window, luggage carts cruise about the tarmac as massive 747s prepare for takeoff. “What is it?”

“The pilot says we’ll be ready to go in about 10 minutes.”

“Good.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hesitating a moment, Alexander sighs. “That night has been on my mind lately.”

“The night Mother was killed?”

“No. Long before. The night I decided to turn my daughter into a weapon. I’ve never told you this, but I’ve often wondered if I made a mistake.”

“You shouldn’t second-guess yourself, Dad.”

“And why not?” the father asks as he turns to face his son. “Who am I that I am beyond regret? You’ve always feared doubt, Adrian. Sometimes it’s the second thought that’s the correct one.”

“Madeline is going to try to convince you not to kill her,” Adrian says, trying to change the subject.

The predictable attempt to dodge criticism does not escape Alexander, but he lets it pass. “I suspected as much.”

“I just wanted to be certain that you- .”

“She killed my wife, Adrian. Your mother. Madeline will argue that she didn’t mean to do it and that we initiated the situation. Both are fair points, but I’m not interested in what’s fair. We will take what we need from her, and then she will die.”

Alexander looks back out the window. “As will anyone foolish enough to stand with her.”

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