Link to ebook
Blurb:
After he is struck by a car bomb in Iraq, Marine reservist John Kern starts to hallucinate. He sees spirits, forgotten gods, and the man he beat to death back when he boxed professionally.
While he recovers in Germany, Kern gets caught up in a plot by a cult of ghouls to resurrect a medieval Prussian torturer. With the help of his newly found second sight and those around him-a fawning nurse, a concerned priest, a drunken fellow soldier, and a transsexual alchemist-John tries to thwart the fiendish plan and its creator, the necrophiliac leader of the cult, Kursk Mosnar.
Does Battlin' John Kern possess the strength to face what steps out from the gates of Hell?
A story of horror, twisted lives, sacrifice, and heroism, TORMENTOR reaches deep into the soul and forces one to face their fears and overcome them.
Excerpt:
"Are you really Battlin' John Kern?" the nurse asked him, not even trying to suppress her giddy smile. She flashed her emerald eyes and white teeth at him.
He jerked his head off the pillow and glanced at the television nearest him on the ward, then gazed at his army nurse. Clad in a more stylized uniform than a common LPN, the tall, reddish-haired woman wore an earnest look to go with her intense question. Next to her stood a short man of Hispanic origin wearing a priest's collar. John Kern had every reason to accept this man's profession as clergy, save for his youth. Unformed phantoms swirled behind these two and John hoped the priest, at least, was real.
The nurse seemed the genuine deal from his fuzzy recollections of the past days. She had sat by his bedside and read him the newspaper. He faintly recalled her showing him the faces of tarot cards as a means of amusement. John remembered the nurse said she really possessed no skill with them, and she put them away when John said they caused him a headache. Yes, the nurse seemed the authentic article, he mused. Why? She had a nicer ass than the priest.
He shifted in his bed a bit, tried to get his bearings and said: "Yeah, I guess that's what they called me way back when." Though he'd been in Germany for a week, John still awoke with a start, unsure of his surroundings. "Battlin' John Kern, heh," he muttered, voice trailing off as if someone brought up a nickname from his childhood, not a trivia question only 18 years in the past.
"John Kern!" a voice bellowed, floating around the low ceiling. At first, some terror crept into John's chest. Then, it became evident the voice originated from down the line of men in beds. A crazed tone bellowed, "I'm coming for you, John Kern!"
The nurse shouted to the male orderlies down the line. "Stop Robbie! He's loose from his restraints again." What she didn't articulate was that Robbie, the soldier in question, masturbated with great fury with his one free hand. In seconds, two short men ran down the ward and stopped the screaming man from his activity, securing his wrist down beside him.
John was about to say something, how weird that was, what a coincidence that happened to be, when the swirling shapes in the ward overloaded his mind. He blinked many times, and turned his gaze toward the television, then took a few breaths to calm down. He glanced at the soldier in the bed next to him and asked: "Can ya turn this up a bit, Dave?"
The soldier with short blonde hair held out the remote and said: "Sure thing, man. Glad to see you awake, not in and out of lucidity so much."
John managed a weak smile as he touched the bandages on his head and felt the aches all over his body. Through the eddies, he peered down the ward at dozens of beds and humanoid forms. "Stop using such big words. Ya make my head and my ass hurt," John said. "Um, sorry, Father."
"That's all right, my son," the priest said with a wink. "I need to attend to other matters now anyway. I wanted to see how you were doing."
John patted his forearm. "What was your name again?"
"Father Rey Salinas. I'll come around later."
John looked at the screen as the young cleric left, wondering if this was his first assignment out of seminary. "Huh. No semi-private rooms, eh?"
Dave said in a lazy voice, "Naw, I think you're forgetting what they told you when they brought you in here."
"Probably," John agreed as he tried to get used to the idea of a clear mind at last. "At least I remembered your name." He stared at the nurse and noticed how her longer hair was tied back and fixed up, but couldn't recall her name. Behind her, the soldier, Robbie, struggled inside his bonds. John searched for the reason for restraining the soldier, but that too slipped his aching mind. Apparitions floated in the room, but held no tangible form. For some reason he expected to see the Salzikrum but she wasn't there. Only fluttering and floating images, like sheer curtains caught in a taunting breeze, mixed up his version of actuality.
"I'm Wilbanks," the soldier next to him said with a wink.
"Good for you," John said, then glanced at his IV tube, trying to clear his head and get comfortable with his surroundings. "Seems like I recall that name. The drugs must be making my head better. Then again, I was never too punch-drunk for very long."
Green eyes gleamed like beacons in the pale white background of the ward, and the nurse gushed: "You are the boxer, Battlin' John Kern! Uomo grande di combattimento."
Both men, while entertained by her glee and use of Italian, never made much of it aside from a glance toward each other. John held out his hand to Wilbanks and the man handed him the remote. John flipped the channels and frowned.
"That means big fighting man. My daddy took me to see you when I was little," she said, her mouth trying to avoid forming a pout. "I'm Anne."
John kept glaring at the screen but said to her: "Well, Anne, ya make me feel like I'm a relic. It's all right, really hon." He did note that her accent came from the Midwest, like his. He didn't think she appeared of Italian heritage, either. "I haven't boxed professionally for over 10 years."
Wilbanks eyed the big man and asked: "You were a boxer, no fooling? Must have been a heavy weight, you big fucker."
While he ignored Wilbanks, John studied the television and said: "Not a word of it anywhere on here." He changed the channels. "Not even in German. What's up with that?"
"What?" Wilbanks asked, looking confused as he glanced at the set.
"The weapons of mass destruction, the canisters and crates of stuff in the temple of Marduk that were all over the place when I got injured. How can a big story like that go away so fast?"
Anne and Wilbanks appeared dumbfounded. A few nearby soldiers lifted their heads from their pillows, looking curious at his words.
Wilbanks asked, "Anne, you know of any such news?"
"No, never heard about that. As much hay as they make saying there are no such weapons in Iraq, are you saying you found them before you came to Germany?"
"Well," John thought for a moment and then said: "I saw a lot of crazy things in that temple." A flood of images crashed into his head. He wished he were home on the farm, surrounded by vacant fields, instead of lying hurt in Germany, surrounded by wounded soldiers, admiring nurses with green eyes and grand delusions. "Maybe it was from getting my brain knocked around and it was all in my head."
He thought about being not in one but two significant bomb blasts, and the luck in surviving them both. Luck? More like a flippin' miracle. He shivered inwardly for a second at what could have been the flip side to that good fortune.
Anne read over his chart and nodded. While her smile remained irrepressible, her focus darted from the chart to John. "Certainly looks like you were badly concussed."
Quietly, he cursed then peered down the way again, and saw a few attendants and another nurse grimace at his filthy words. His gaze returned to the screen and he ruminated over his aged mother, who he should call her soon.
"All I see here is a lot of crap about a body in a bog they found over here," John said.
"Yeah," Wilbanks agreed, showing sudden enthusiasm. "See how well he's preserved? He's like Neolithic or some such thing. Really cool, man."
From the moving pictures of the body and the flashes of the bulbs of reporters, the figure on the science table shown to the world media was that of a fairly well preserved human body. "More like Iron Age, but I won't quibble." John corrected him with a wink. "This is news? Some dead guy? There's a damned war on and people are dying over ‘God' dick fear. That's news. This ain't news."
Anne glanced at the screen, wrinkled her nose and said: "Only that he's been stolen."
"What?" John said, almost laughing, again seeing the billowing forms in the air around the nurse. A few of them pretended to braid her hair but a stern-faced spirit sent them packing. John thought it looked like a nun swinging a morning star.
Anne nodded. "That's old footage there, Battlin' John Kern." She grinned like a schoolgirl, her feet shifting in capricious steps. "The body was stolen from the university a few days ago."
"No weapons of mass destruction?" He sighed and almost added, no ghosts in the drywall thereabouts?
"Why did you stop boxing?" Anne pressed him, ignoring the television. "I know you were a Golden Gloves champ in the Marines and fought pro after the first Gulf war. Why did you give up and go back to the farm?"
John gave her a poisonous look. Hands gripping the rails on his bed, he said: "You know a lot about me, Missy." His words rang grave and unfriendly.
"I'm from Chicago," Anne said, clearly taking no offense or hint of his displeasure. "I know you were from Iowa, and fought in Chi-town often. My gramma was from the Italian portion of the city."
"Glad I could entertain you when I was younger, but that life wasn't for me." His words were stabbed dismissive, and he prayed Jesus would shut her trap. Fiddling with the remote, John felt his head throb and the figures that floated in the air took on harder edges. He muttered, "Who the hell would steal a body that old?"
"Lots of weirdoes in this country, John," Wilbanks said. "I hear they pay top dollar for Nazi helmets with the skull still in them. No shit."
John blinked but everything stayed the same. "I reckon they'd be rare, although many may have been buried fast as Berlin fell." He lay back on the pillow, head hurting more. "I knew an old guy who was in the Hitler Youth, the first time I was in Germany back in the late 80s. I wonder if he's still around? He used to tell me long stories about the fall of Berlin. Dunno how he ever got to live here in Frankfurt, but he was an interesting guy."
Anne put John's chart back down and said in a cheery voice: "He'd be very old by now if he was still around, il mio uomo grande." She paused, and wrung her hands a bit. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you, sir."
"Call me John." His tone softened. He didn't have the heart to destroy this fawning child, so he eased her pain. "It's okay. Hell, I'm flattered you know me, really. I'm just still screwed up in the head from the bomb, I guess. I need some sleep."
She gave him a warm smile. "You've done nothing but sleep since you've been here."
"Then it's time I woke up." John gave her a sideways smile, one she returned. "Why are we in this long assed ward and not semi-private rooms?"
Anne's eyes lit like fires when she answered. "They're adding a wing and redoing things. Locals won some politics game with the labor front and we get a new wing. There are bricks everywhere, here and outside, a real mess."
Wilbanks yawned, stretched and added, "No luxury, aye?"
John took a sip of water from a plastic cup, and gritted his teeth. "I need a beer."
In an instant, Wilbanks exploded in eagerness. "We oughtta go get one once your meds are cleared."
John asked, "What am I on, anyways, um, Anne, is it?"
With a mild shrug, Anne responded, "Just an antibiotic and mild pain reliever. You're about healed up, faster than most."
"I always did," he said, not wanting to talk about the forms that still danced around, a few becoming more pronounced as time went by. "I used to fight about five times a year. Some asshat in a bar in Liverpool about broke my nose two weeks before I fought a great British Contender, Dashing Daniel Dexter."
While Dave let out a laugh at the name, Anne nodded vigorously. "I remember! You went to England for that bout. They stopped it in the fourth round." She looked at Dave and affirmed, "Battlin' John Kern beat the snot out of the number one contender for the heavyweight title. That Dashing Dexter guy was going to beat you to prop himself up."
"Damn." Dave's voice filled with wonder. "You beat a high contender while sporting a busted nose yourself?"
"It didn't hurt that bad, and that asswipe Joe Katrina in the bar was a tomato can. Couldn't hit for dick." John shrugged and touched his nose. "Besides, Dexter was a pussy. He'd built a career on fighting washed-up fuckers and glass-jawed rookies. I surprised the shit outta that South African."
Anne gushed and stomped a foot. "I still have the issue of SI you were in after the fight."
John chuckled. "Yeah, they called me the Great White Dope before that fight. That's what Dexter called me, and the press ate it up, anyways. When I handed him his ass through his nose, they thought they had something. Before you ask again, I quit boxing because, well, we all have demons we can't put to bed. Maybe someday I'll tell you why."
Wilbanks smirked. "That must be some helluva story. Sounds like you were really on the upswing. Tell us the story."
John shrugged and winced. "It's pretty bland, really. It's nothing as exciting as stealing old bodies." He then squinted at the television and asked: "What's with the box of bones? This ghoul TV or something?"
"Oh, they're showing how they discovered the box of bones from Herr Egmont Carsten's judgment bench," Anne said. "They're believed to be the stolen remains of the Prussian Inquisitor, Helmut Strom. Herr Carsten kept them under his bench as he pronounced judgment for the Third Reich. He kind of had a thing for the legendary tormentor."
"Helmut Strom?" John said. "Cripes that's a mouthful. That was a real person? Sounds like a fable. Why was he legendary?"
Anne frowned, fingernails tapping on the bed railing. "You really don't want to know, but you can imagine why if he worked for the Inquisition. These bones were found recently when some old foundations got cleared out."
John noted the restrained soldier down the way convulsed twice and then grew still. "Somebody steal those bones as well?"
Wilbanks and Anne both laughed, shaking their heads to indicate that they hadn't been stolen.
"Praise God," John muttered, thinking of how close he came to bouts with Tyson, Holyfield, and Douglas. "I need a drink."
A loud yelp came from Robbie. The restrained soldier was off his back and up on his feet. Having worked free of his bonds somehow, Robbie's long arms waved and his face flushed white. He ripped a bandage off his left eye and revealed a ruined socket, devoid of any eyeball.
"They're eating my soul!" he screamed, waving both arms as if to frame in his ruined face. "From all over they eat me alive! War is coming! Big Evil is coming back!"
Two attendants tried to get hold of the flailing man, but he shoved each of them away and ranted on, coming closer to Anne. Dave and John swung their legs out of bed.
"Robbie, calm down," Anne said in a measured tone, but the soldier swung at her face. She dodged the shot and tried to get a hold of his arms.
"War is coming. The beast is on his way," he said as Dave took a step and Robbie backhanded him. Blood spurted from Wilbanks' nose and he never advanced.
John's feet hit the cool tile of the hospital floor. He half-squatted, feeling the world tilt sidelong a bit as his bearings came back to him. The IV line tugged at his hand and arm like the strings of a marionette. He yanked these free, felt the pain, but moved on Robbie anyway. Robbie's eyes grew wide as Kern rose up to full height, a hint of sudden dread in their depths, but the gnawing insanity regained its hold. Spittle flew from clenched teeth as Robbie lashed out wild with both arms. Kern blocked each shot as if playing with a child, and then slapped Robbie across the face. The open-handed blow stunned the young man long enough for Kern to grab him by the shoulders, twist him around, and bear hug him.
"Big Evil is coming," Robbie howled, thrashing and slobbering as more attendants ran into the ward. "Coming for you, John Kern! Coming for us all!"
"The war is over, kid," John promised, his voice stern, then turning calm. "At least for you it is."
The orderlies took hold of Robbie, one on each arm and two more ready to grab his legs if he further resisted.
The young soldier seemed to momentarily return to a tranquil, sane state, and sobbed. "I almost had cancer you know. Do you think that's funny?" Then the moment faded and, leering back with one eye, he screamed: "Look at you all, judging me, bare-assed to God and all humanity! Get some decency and self respect!"
John looked down and shrugged, making no effort to close his gaping gown as he turned back to his bed. He gave Anne a sheepish look then stretched his long body out once more. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Once ya seen yer first hundred naked asses in the service, the rest are just faces lost in a crowd."
Though smiling at John's remark, Anne said of Robbie: "Poor kid, he doesn't know what he's doing."
"Like I do," John murmured and sat on his bed. He looked at his arm. "Better hook me up again, honey. I'd hate to have to be tied down if the meds stop working."
Anne was at his arm and her touch felt kindhearted on his rough skin. Suddenly, for a moment, he saw a different face. Her touch grew firm and the nails on her hand extended long, pointed and took on a scarlet hue. Anne's eyes were green, clear, and earnest. The eyes in John's mind were of the bizarre Salzikrum woman in Iraq, the vision from the temple, and her grim eyes. How two sets could be so different amazed John. That Salzikrum had russet-colored eyes, almost luminescent with tiny pupils. Perhaps it was the paint on her eyelids that made John so apt to recall them. So much heavy eyeliner and color they nearly screamed 70s porno. Anne was pretty with hardly any make-up, and John liked that. He didn't know if her eyes would make him forget those of the odd woman in Iraq, but he wanted to think on them more.
Anne asked him, "What is it?"
Just as sudden as she appeared to him, the Salzikrum exited and the nurse returned. In a moment, though, the woman from Iraq stood behind Anne, hands on her hips, mouth closed, but smiling all the same. Behind the Salzikrum, a hulking man stood in a leather hood, chains across his chest, and metallic gauntlets on his hands and a whip at the ready.
"This is...him?" the leather bound giant said, but the words only seemed to be in John's head.
John's eyes drew to another figure to their right, an image that was not very clear, but much larger still than the others. This figure, a bear of a man with unkempt hair and beard, sported a hunk of metal in his cranium. John took a breath, blinked, and they were no more.
The other shapes and styles of bygone eras never returned like the creature who tried to help him. Omar Sharif and Willie Nelson remained absent, but this big leather S&M looking dude was here. The pseudo-femme persona stood so vivid and clear. Then again, so was the Willie-Nelson-on-steroids guy before, but he thought him nearly a cliché of the area. This figure never returned to him, though. For that, he was glad.
However, with words of a Prussian tormentor in his head, he saw such a figure. That didn't lend much to his mental toughness, he thought. Was he that easy to fall under the power of suggestion?
"Damn, I need a beer," he said plainly, looking into the eyes of the young nurse who he reckoned would brew it on the spot for him if she could.
Anne hooked up the IV and John pulled himself from the bed, now able to walk about with the unit on wheels. He wobbled a bit and turned to look out the window. The long opening was shaded, full of so many panes and metal sections they may as well have been bars. John took several breaths then peered out into the world. He gripped the windowsill as he saw the MP's by the gate to the hospital. Certainly, no major security detail, but they had a tall woman stopped, talking to her. They laughed and she walked away. John observed her long legs that happened to be in thigh high leather boots, which vanished up into her billowing dark skirt. She was remarkable in that she was damn near a carbon copy of the Salzikrum in both body language and shape.
* * * *
It would be a while before John got a drink.
Several weeks passed as John Kern healed in the confines of the army hospital and neighboring grounds. His German proved rusty, but weeks of watching television and walking around the construction site boned him up on his local talk.
In the park across from the hospital, Dave leaned back on the bench and said to John: "I'll be sent back to Iraq in time. I'm not as bad off as you were. I want to test out this injured thigh. I'm eager to go hit a Bauhaus and perhaps the Red Light District of the town. You're heading home, I bet."
"Thanks muchly. Eh, you'll hit easier duty, I reckon. They gotta have the new army and cops trained there sooner or later."
John was tempted to say, I sit out here because the visions of the transsexual acolyte and the tormentor never seem to wander outside the ward. At times, no floating phantoms showed up and that made him feel somewhat better. Still, randomly, they returned and he never told anyone about them. Unsure if his mind was unhinged or if the injury blasted loose some sector of his brain that made him dream while awake, he preferred to deal with it personally rather than submit to restraint or more drugs. So far, he coped, but they never went away completely.
Wilbanks eyed John and grinned. "How're your ears feeling? It took mine quite a bit to adjust even after I came here."
John placed a hand to the back of his neck and tried to rub out a knot. "A great deal better since they put the tubes in. Y'know, I swear I can feel the tubes like they're glass or something." His hand went to his dog-tags and he eyed the Celt cross resting in his palm between them. Dave watched him do this.
"That's funny," Wilbanks said, without laughing at the impossibility of which Kern spoke.
"Yeah, feels like I could get radio free Europe or could get basic cable on these fuckers." He then touched his right ear, but removed his hand quick. One thing he was thankful for was his head and ears leaving him alone. "Dave, do you get weird dreams?"
Legs bopping, Wilbanks said: "Sure, for years now." He laughed. "No shame in that, old man. I think this place we're in used to be a barracks for the SS. Some goose-stepping ghosts are probably picking at your brain, huh?"
"Yer a lot of help." John chided him with a bitter look, half-wondering if he hallucinated the tall woman in the boots by the MP's many days before. "Maybe it's because of all that stuff with the dead bodies and the aged torture guy we saw on the TV. I keep seeing him walking the ward. Yeah, no shit, the tormentor guy, or what I think he'd look like." John wanted to add, even the spirits and the gal with the penis give him a wide berth, but decided against it.
Not bothering to hide a grin, Wilbanks said, "TILT! Keep talking like that they will tie ya down next to Robbie. Ya oughtta hear that fucker rave when the meds wear off."
"Yeah, can't believe he isn't isolated, even if the place is under construction."
"Times are tough. Besides, when his meds are on he's okay. They keep him tied, but his brain is his enemy. Poor dude. Them car bombs are a bitch." Again, Dave looked around as if his nerves were afire. "Well, you got to understand, I want to have some fun, score some trim, before I hit that dusty inferno in the desert again."
John nodded. "I gotcha. I'm feelin' a bit stir crazy, too, even with sweet Anne to keep me company each night. Ya know she told me her life story a few times already?"
Wilbanks gave him a mock hurt look. "You really rate, you old fart. Saw her dealing you an inside straight with them tarot cards of hers. How come she loves you so? What's up with that?"
"My magical powers, I suppose." John rubbed his eyes. "Heck, I'd like to go see if that old Nazi I knew is still around."
Wilbanks shook his head. "I wanna get laid, and you wanna talk to old Nazis?"
Kern frowned, and felt the scars on his forehead come together. "Bite me. All this talk on the television of stealing bodies has me wondering about that old boy, that's all. We can hit the district later and score a hummer. Probably safer that way."
Wilbanks made the sign of the cross, and then clutched his crotch, eyes flaring. "Yeah, sounds damned good. Colonel Fulbright ain't likely to give us much grief either. Well, not much anyway."
At the name of the officer in charge of the area, Kern sighed. Colonel Christopher A. Fulbright was a quiet enough fellow, and just never wanted trouble out of his charges, especially those grunts in a hospital recovering.
"As long as we don't end up in jail, sure." John thought for a moment. "Take your afternoon nap, tough guy, and we'll hit the street tonight. I think I'll get a cab and try to find my old friend today."
With a laugh, Wilbanks joked about his own daily ritual and stood up to stretch. "Will do. Yeah, if you still feel poorly, just get a blow job, like you said. That'll clear up your head right quick."
"Yeah, couldn't hurt." John smiled at last, looking at the distant buildings of the city.
Wilbanks gave him a sideways look, and asked: "You married?"
John stared across the pale green lawn at a pile of bricks. "Not any more."
"Bummer."
"You don't know the half of it."
"The way ol' nurse Anne looks at you, she's ready to start her own race with you."
Good demeanor fading, John said quietly: "Don't really wanna go there, all right?"
"Sure man. Hey, what part of the city does the old guy live in? This place has changed a lot since the late 80s, dude."
Kern stood as well, towering above the younger soldier, and said with points in his words: "Well, dude, I imagine so. Heck, some of this country was still behind the wall when I was here last time."
"Damn, how old are you?"
Kern imparted an indignant look. "Not too old to kick your punk ass."
"Sure. You're Battlin' John Kern, after all." Wilbanks winked and walked across the street.
John stared at the scars on his knuckles and the wear on his hands caused by factory and farm work. His mind shifted to the blood in the ring, the roar of the crowd, then to the blood and brains on his hands in the streets of a Chicago slum.
John mumbled, "Yeah, I sure was."
Author's bio:
Steven L. Shrewsbury, author of HAWG, GODFORSAKEN and THOROUGHBRED, lives and works in central Illinois where he dreams of a brighter tomorrow. Over 350 of his short stories have been published. His website is http://www.stevenshrewsbury.com/
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