Spirit Breaker by William Massa

a sickening crunch that was followed by the thump of the punk hitting the ground.
    Reacting on pure instinct, Benson ran down the dark concourse, unsteady legs barely able to support his two-hundred pound frame, leaving the circle of hooded wraiths in his wake.
    He wasn’t going down without a fight, that much was for certain. He stole a glance back and saw more members of the psycho skater gang separate from the crowd and shoot after him in dark formation. Shadows pinballed through the mall at breakneck speed, phantom figures who sported steel that was all too real.
    Benson’s legs kept pumping away as the boarded-up, gated stores rushed past him.  
    Behind him, the urban wraiths ripped around empty water fountains and derelict kiosks. Skating with near supernatural grace and agility, they slalomed through the mall's obstacle course, matching his pace, never letting up.Benson was doing his best to shake his pursuers, but he knew it was merely a matter of time before they would catch up with him. He was running for his life.  
    Breathing hard, he rounded a corner. Didn’t get far before another skater appeared in front of him, cutting off his escape. As the skaters closed in, Benson rushed toward a nearby escalator. He powered up the stairs as fast as his body allowed him to.  
    His plan was simple: He had to reach one of the exits inside the department stores at either end of the mall. If he could make it out of the mammoth shopping center, he might lose the cultists in the parking lot or the trees beyond.  
    It was a long shot, but what choice did he have?
    As he reached the second level, he was confronted with more shuttered stores. The mall had transformed into one giant haunted house.
    Benson exhaled, and his breath clouded before him. Once again he experienced the unnatural chill, as if he’d walked into a freezer. He took a few steps back, adrenaline pumping, as the shadows separated and a bone white figure lurched from the liquid darkness.  
    Time froze as his eyes locked on the apparition. Blood-shot eyes peered back from a blue-veined face straight out of Benson’s nightmares. The Reaper was back. A gaping bullet hole formed a third eye on his forehead where Benson’s bullet had felled the mass murderer.
    Not everything that dies disappears from our world. Sometimes the dead linger…
    Benson reeled, his blood turning to ice.
    “No,” he cried. His voice was a glassy whisper as the Reaper’s spirit advanced with jerky, surreal speed.
    The figure shimmered and vibrated and was suddenly upon him, inches separating them. Terror-stricken, Benson recoiled and hit the balcony. Arms wheeling desperately, he pitched over the railing. The ground rushed up as he plunged head-first toward the floor… but the deadly collision of bone and cement never came.  
    Seconds before impact, Benson froze in midair. An invisible force clamped around his ankle, the nerve endings of his skin lighting up with fiery pain. The air crackled with energy and then he was being pulled up, faster and faster.
    The force flung him aside like a ragdoll and he landed hard on the second floor balcony. It was a brief reprieve as two hoodies lurched toward him, murder in their eyes. Benson was spent, no strength left in him. He bowed his head and awaited his fate.
    Red dots found the two hoodies and then their chests erupted with a burst of gunfire. The cultists collapsed.  
    Weakly, Benson craned his neck toward his savior. A man garbed in black emerged from the shadows, machine pistol up and ready, night vision goggles giving him an insectile quality. One gloved hand reached for him while the other fired a burst of rounds at three more incoming skaters. The hoodies went down in the darkness.
    Benson allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and a beat later they were moving down the concourse, the cultists hot on their tails.
    But the detective didn’t worry about the men rushing after them. All he could think about was the inhuman face