Bright and early on Friday morning, Frankie, Indira, Joey, and Caden piled into the team’s blue minivan (“Like we’re soccer moms,” Indira quipped. “I love it.”) to go to the first gig of the day. Frankie drove, with Joey in the passenger seat and the other two in the back. Joey was looking over the brief for the client’s problem with horror, with Indira straining against her seatbelt to read over his shoulder.
“It ate her couch?” said Joey.
Frankie snorted, amused. “Yeah. Real nasty one. Lucky you, your first time out,” she said, glancing over at him.
“How did we get the gig?” asked Indira.
“Tip from our contact Louise from Animal Control.”
“’Snarling and growling from the bedroom,’” read Indira, pushing back the jaunty top hat she was inexplicably wearing. “At least she’s got it trapped?”
“But we don’t know what it is,” said Joey.
Frankie reached across and patted Joey’s arm. “That’s why we’ve got our fancy Researcher along, to classify it before we take it down.”
Glancing into the back, Joey examined the hoard of weapons Frankie had thrown in the trunk, incongruously piled into a grocery store tote bag. Her usual machete, some knives, a baseball bat, as well as some contraption with ominous spikes stabbing through portions of the plastic. Caden was sitting next to the bag and caught Joey’s eye with a small smile. Joey realized he was smiling back goofily then breathed in sharply and turned away, settling in his seat again.
“Does it matter that I’m a null?” asked Joey, resisting the urge to chew on his lips.
“Nah,” said Frankie. “Most of the team are nulls. Plus we’ve got a Channeler now. Nothing to worry about.” Belying her words, she narrowed her eyes at Caden in the rearview mirror: she was always a bit leery of new teammates. “We’re pros. We got this. Don’t throw a fit.”
“I can’t guarantee I won’t throw a fit,” warned Joey, and Indira barked a laugh from the backseat.
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The team stood at the door of the client’s apartment building, Chicago brick with a lush, green courtyard and black metal fence. Frankie hit the buzzer.
“Who is it?” A distorted voice came from the speaker box.
“Service is here,” Frankie said into the microphone.
“Oh, thank God,” came the tinny voice through the speaker, and they were buzzed in.
The apartment was on the ground floor, close to the street. When Frankie knocked on the door there came a sudden, animal roar and loud scraping and thumping from one of the windows, clearly audible from the street. A passerby stopped in their tracks and gave a startled look through the fence before carrying on walking, glancing back over their shoulder in evident confusion.
The door opened, revealing a harried-looking, young white woman with red hair falling out of a loose bun and a tear at the hem of her shirt. “Thank God,” she repeated, after taking in the sight of their group. She mostly focused on Frankie’s machete and baseball bat. Standing back, she ushered the team inside.
“This been happening a lot?” asked Frankie, referring to the deafening snarling noises that were now even louder inside the apartment.
“I told the neighbors I’m watching TV. There’ve been complaints.”
Joey took a good gander at the apartment: the couch was, as described, partially consumed, and multiple other pieces of furniture were scattered, variously broken, around the rest of the living room. The wall-mounted television sported a large crack down the middle. With every detail he took in, his stomach clenched into a tighter knot and his heart sped up a little more. He forced himself to take deep breaths, reminding himself that the others on the field team were here and wouldn’t let anything happen to him.
“Right,” said Frankie. “Indira, we need a distraction from the noise for people outside.”
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Saluting, Indira went back through the apartment’s front door. Everyone watched out the window as Indira crossed the street, put her top hat on the ground, switched on a Bluetooth speaker she pulled from seemingly nowhere, and started doing what looked like a professional popping and locking routine. Within a minute, people had started gathering around her.
“Did we know she could do that?” asked Frankie of Joey under her breath, and Joey, eyebrows raised, shook his head. Frankie clapped to draw everyone’s attention again, then said, “Okay! Brooklynn, is that your name?” The client nodded, tugging a little at the tear in her shirt. “We’ll have to ask you to wait outside while we work.”
“What are you going to do to it?”
“We’ll try not to get too much blood on the furniture,” promised Frankie.
Brooklynn asked, “What is it? Do you know where it came from?”
“If we find out, we’ll tell you.” Then Frankie shooed her gently out the door, which Caden opened for her. “All right, Joey, time to find out what we’re dealing with.” Rubbing her hands together, Frankie looked up at him expectantly.
It took all of Joey’s willpower not to scream ‘No!’ and run out the door, never to be seen again. He took a deep breath. “’Kay.” Picking his way through the broken furniture, he approached the door from which the animal sounds had emanated—quiet, now. Unclear if that was a good sign or not. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he darted his gaze back at Frankie, who simply hefted her baseball bat, then at Caden, who had his hands raised. If Joey had been any less scared he’d have wondered how a Channeler prepared for a battle.
Joey opened the bedroom door halfway and stuck his head inside. Instantly, the beast that had been sitting across the room jumped up and ran toward him, jaws open and dripping blue saliva. Shrieking, Joey pulled back out and slammed the door shut, leaning against it and pressing a hand to his heart.
“Well?” prompted Frankie. She could barely be heard over the sounds of snarling and thumping that Joey could feel through the (fortunately) solid wood door. “What is it?”
“Hellhound,” gasped Joey.
“Great,” said Frankie, and Joey gaped at her. None of this was great. “Corporeal.”
‘Hellhound’ was just a part of the Company’s classification system since they hadn’t found proof of anywhere actually called ‘Hell’. Often the Company labeled supernatural creatures with what they deemed the nearest folkloric name, rather than coming up with a new title. Hellhounds were about the size of a Great Dane, with black and blue fur and enormous spikes jutting out of their backs and tails. They also had blue saliva with mild acidic qualities which couldn’t poison you, but it sure would sting until you cleaned it off. That is, provided you hadn’t had your throat torn out first.
“Channeler,” Frankie addressed Caden. “I forgot to ask your specialty. What can you do?”
“A little of this, a little of that,” said Caden, hands still up and battle-ready.
Frankie narrowed her eyes at him again. “I thought all Channelers had specialties.”
“Is this a good time?” said Caden, nodding his head towards the bedroom door.
After glaring at Caden a few seconds longer, Frankie turned back to Joey. “Got your brush?” Joey fumbled in his pocket and brought it out. “Got the Box?” More fumbling with another pocket. “Okay, since it’s your first time, I’ll be the bait. Step aside and let it at me and I’ll go at it with the bat. While it’s distracted, you grab and hold it with your brush. Pop the Box and nab it. Caden will assist when and where it’s necessary. Good?”
Privately, Joey thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea, especially since they hadn’t taken the time to find out what Caden could do. If it were up to him, he would have suggested regrouping and evaluating the situation, then possibly have whoever wasn’t doing the grab-and-hold manage the Box. But this was his first day after all, so he kept this to himself.
Caden was nodding in agreement, so Joey nodded, too. It had gone quiet inside the bedroom again.
“Get the door on three and step aside,” instructed Frankie. “One…two…go!”
Joey shoved the door open, then stepped back. The hellhound tore out into the living room and, as Frankie had predicted, went right for her since she was yelling and waving a bat. With perfect form, she swung and cracked the hellhound across the head, and it teetered and collapsed. “Joey!” yelled Frankie, prompting him.
Cursing internally, Joey swished his brush upward on his hip twice and twirled it to point at the hellhound—but his aim was wide, latching instead onto the couch, and the hellhound was already stumbling to its feet. It caught sight of the light from Joey’s brush and, letting out a loud growl, began to run toward it. At that moment, however, Caden made a pulling motion with his arms across the room and the hellhound skittered backwards across the hardwood floor, claws clicking and scraping.
Frankie took this opportunity to belt the hellhound across the head again with her bat. “Again!” she called to Joey.
Two brushes upward and aim: the lightning shot out at the hellhound and latched onto its side this time, and for a few seconds Joey thought he had it. But the hellhound shook itself like a dog getting out of water, spines rattling on its back, and the holding lightning shook loose as well, the light withdrawing into the brush in Joey’s hand.
The hellhound immediately charged again at the source of the light, hurdling the ruined couch, and Joey stumbled backwards, tripping on the edge of the area rug and landing hard on the floor, back striking the wall. Struggling for breath, he raised his arms up in defense, blocking his view of the slavering maw of the hellhound. The rancid breath of the beast came over him in a wave, and Joey felt the hellhound’s jaws close around his right arm, teeth piercing flesh.