John Leach: The Immortalizer

By Vince P Hennessy

After spending his life of immortality in solitude, suffering depression and suicidal thoughts, John Leach's life is suddenly bursting with one problem after another. His somber day of mourning ruined by gangsters at a graveyard, John ends up taking in an emotionally abused girl who needs help. As the two learn about each other's lives, and John

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vince P Hennessy
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649906977

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Cape Cod Crusader

(Chatham, Cape Cod, MA. April 10, 2022)

J

ohn Leach, a man whose figure was ominous and lifeless at all times, was standing on the beach as he often did, at least during the unwelcoming fall and winter. He stood there in perfect posture, indifferent to all that was going on around him, his mind milling about the dark bowels of his heart, though it already knew every crevice, mark, and texture of the forgotten chamber.

Being early April, the beach was still scarce of the many tourists that flooded the town once the weather turned nice. The many buildings of the area went from being ghostly abandoned to roaring with life. The almost untouched golf courses would come alive with the many players trying to get that last hole-in-one. The gift and novelty shops would sell their overpriced souvenirs, and the restaurants would serve up food nonstop as the hungry tourists sampled the many dishes offered there. The locals would take a step back, now strangers to their own towns. A bit ironic, but most disliked the hustle and bustle of the summer season, and John was especially not fond of people. It was too early for that, however, and as of now, the beach was still cold enough to make one's hair stand on end.

On this particular grey day of bleakness, the wind whipped hard enough that eyes would tear up, and the cold air against the face would send chills down the spine and shoulders. Granted, he could not actually feel the coldness of the air, but John could tell by the hostile way it brushed against his figure that the wind was not a friend today. The crashing waves looked ominous and dark as if they were trying to match the storm clouds above that covered the sky in sheets of depression that were slowly heading toward the mainland. The sun had already retreated away, afraid of what was to come.

The harshness of the beach was enough to cause it to be deserted of all life besides a few squawking seagulls and one stingy crab that was missing a claw. It was just the way John liked it, actually. When the grey sands were lifeless like this, it was the perfect haven of self-reflection and solitude. Ironic, given the loneliness that tore his soul apart by its mortal fibers, but he had grown to prefer isolation. People on the beach bothered him in the summer, but just a lone walker or a small quiet family during the offseason was of no trouble to him. There was not a single soul around today, however, and it was uncannily appropriate for the date, as the dreary day marked the 100th anniversary of his parents’ death.

After reflecting on his countless thoughts for some time, which covered decades of torture and misery, a tear managed to escape each of his dark eyes. John turned away from the murky waves and slowly walked off of the beach, each step carrying the unbearable weight of his memories and emotions. He moved forward monotonously, but neither like a zombie nor a robot, but like that of some inhuman creature that had never before existed, carrying with it an aura of hopelessness, and, quite possibly, death.

The cold sand uninvitingly crept its way into John's old sneakers with each step, seeking shelter from the lifeless conditions outside the small fabricated haven they now resided in. When he had reached the street, John pulled the worn-down sneakers off of his feet and shook the sand out of them. He watched as the small pebbles and shells poured their way out. What am I in this world, but one persisting grain of sand in a continually renewing beach? The waves eventually sweep up these grains, but they never stray by me. I am one of the only grains left from a sand dune that was dumped on the beach of life ages ago. Every other grain from that heap has been eroded away. After the sand had stopped pouring out of the sneakers, John slowly put them back on.

Turning around halfway, John looked at the beach one last time before heading off. It started to drizzle lightly as a few grey drops fell here and there, but John did not notice. He half-attentively saw the rain, but he did not feel it. His vision mainly stayed focused on the grey sidewalk ahead of him, but he would glance around at his surroundings occasionally. The roads, as he had expected them to be, were empty and almost silent, except for the occasional car that would pass by quickly without even taking notice of John. The cars were far and few between, however. So, silently, he pressed onward, headed to the Seaside Cemetery, where his parents were buried. Along the way, John stopped at two stores, picking up flowers and a bottle of Vodka.

John's parents both had their own gravestone, the two standing side by side, cracked and broken down by the years they had endured. By his mother's, John placed the flowers after a moment's hesitation and a contemplative stare at her name and the dates engraved in the stone. Then, for his father, John poured the Vodka onto the ground in front of the grave so that his father's dead, dry mouth could have a drink, even if the wretched man did not deserve it.

Coming to the cemetery was always painful for John, and not just because they were gone. In fact, he was kind of glad that they had died. What truly upset him was that their gravestones represented a missed opportunity: the graves were the timeless symbols of a broken family that had never been functional, and the two stone slabs meant that it could never be put together. The chance to function properly was gone, now that the family was missing two of the three pieces that had never managed to fit together. In a way, John felt that death and the absence of life were two different things, and that to have to endure the second one as he did was far worse.

Despite how he felt, John would visit the cemetery every year on this day to see them, as he believed he at least owed them that much. Sometimes, he would visit them on holidays too if he worked up the heart to do so, but he mostly went because he had nothing else to do. Ironically enough, the holidays seemed to mean more to his dead parents than to him since the concept of holidays had deserted him long ago. It was, unfortunately, part of his bland lifestyle. John's life with his new adaptations was far from normal, but even before his immortality, his life had never been the typical one that everyone else got. A major part of that was his inability to forgive and let go of the past, but, then again, some emotional trauma cannot be thrown away so easily.

John's mother had died a terrible death of several medical complications, although her consuming wrath and cold heart seemed to be what truly killed her. His father, who had been a raging alcoholic, died a drunkard over the passing of his one true love. Such unfortunate deaths within just twelve hours of each other had left John all alone in life, with no relatives or friends, and barely himself, although it had always been as if it were just him in the ever-changing world. His family life had always been a disaster, unlike how the television shows and movies depicted life to be. On those shows, people in their forties had both their parents and their grandparents, alive and healthy, as well as happy. By the young age of twenty, John had neither of those and just a scarred mind.

Due to his unfortunate youth, which was rotten soil that could never hope to grow any fruitful vegetation, John unnaturally grew up and accomplished nothing, for why achieve anything when there is no one to be proud. Perhaps the shows were right, and he was just wrong, but he still felt that it was unfair. Growing up with a family with members that all loved each other was a once in a lifetime opportunity, just as childhood was. John never got that, however, and he never would. Almost everyone he had known as a young man had gotten it in the end, but he did not. They even got the chance to start families of their own, but that chance for a second family was taken from him even more quickly than the first one.

Overcome with a mixture of bitter emotions and the faintest spark of hope, which was quickly drowned in the whirlpool of his negative thoughts, John looked at the two graves before him, unsure of what to think despite having looked at them for decades now. Such a life as his own would have destroyed any other person to an irreversible point, but his sensitivity, shattered soul, and immortality made it far worse. There was no escape for him.

The gravestones, however, were silent and gave John no answer, nor did they comfort him at all. They never did. Every time I come here, I always think that I’ll leave a different man, he thought to himself. That I’ll leave everything here at this place of death and peace and move on to finally be happy. I always tell myself that although I may not have had a past, that doesn’t mean I can’t have a future. But why have a future when your life is purposeless? I’ve tried almost everything, but there's nothing that can be done.

Looking at the rows of graves that lined the field, John almost wanted to dig a burrow into the ground and join all the other people lying there dead and decayed. At least they had found peace, one way or another. Perhaps if he joined them, then he could finally be able to rest as well. John knew, however, that he would never find such joy and peace, even if he were dead. The closest he could get was, perhaps, a coma-like state if he lay in utter darkness and silence long enough, but his mind was haunted, and even if all of Earth was silent, he would still be overwhelmed with noise. There would be no peace for him. No break from the haunting human characteristic known as emotion.

Maybe to celebrate, I’ll go to that restaurant you guys used to take me to, John softly muttered to the gravestones. It was the only time we ever had fun together for a bit, but… even that ended. All things on this wretched planet come to an end except for me, John spat out bitterly. How unfortunate, he said with a sigh as he placed the empty bottle in front of his father's grave. He turned around and slowly walked across the yellow-brown grass that was barely holding on to life amongst the headstones.

Aye, man, don’t ya know that's littering, a voice riddled with trouble yelled. John quickly turned around to see a group of kids approaching him from a few graves over. Their faces were, for the most part, covered by the shadow of their hoods. A boy with aggressive posture and movements led the group, a cloud of smoke exiting the cave of his hood every now and then as he brought his arm up to his mouth and then back to his side. This world can’t have garbage on it wherever one please since that's bad for the environment. Someone oughtta teach you some manners, the boy stated with a purposeful crack of his neck, his voice matching the one that had just spoken before.

Someone oughtta teach you to mind your own business, John replied coldly as he stretched his neck to either side, aware of what was to come. If garbage on this world is bad for the environment, then you might as well go and kill yourself. He shifted the black handkerchief that hugged the lower half of his face a bit higher up, so it was tighter, as it had slowly been slipping down. That grave belongs to my mother and father, and I’ll decorate it as I see fit, just as I have for the past few decades. That bottle isn’t garbage but a commemoration to his death.

Is that so. You know, I-

The boy, who seemed to be the leader of the shady group, was interrupted by a scrawny girl in an oversized charcoal sweatshirt, who had walked up to him and begun to whisper in his ear. For a moment, she glanced over at John and made eye contact with him, her whole body tensing up as she shivered and went back to whispering to the boy. She gestured over to John with a tilt of her head and then made a motion to leave him alone and go. The boy smirked as he turned his attention away from the girl and looked over at John, a smug, challenging look in his eyes. I’ve changed my mind! My girl here says she recognizes you from a story her dad told her while growing up, the boy said as he and the group slowly began making their way over to John again. The boy ran his fingers along the top of some gravestones. A tale of an invulnerable vigilante nicknamed Cape Cod Crusader. I think I’ve heard rumors of those past tales before. Are you him?

I honestly didn’t think people still talked about me. John kept his dark eyes at bay with a cold look in them as he fidgeted his fingers around, unsure of what was to come. He knew that he could easily defeat the group of teenagers, but he hoped to get away without any physical confrontation for their physical sake and for the sake of his laziness. I’m him, John stated threateningly. "Or at least I was… a long time ago. I don’t do that kind of hero crap anymore, and I’m certainly not looking for any trouble."

"Ohhhh, I see, the boy commented with attitude as he exhaled a cloud of smoke before flicking something to the ground. And so you think that means you can do whatever you want, is that it? That the rules don’t apply to you? That even washed-up wannabe heroes are above the law and nature?"

The girl quickly went up to the boy and urged him with tears in her eyes to leave John alone, but he pulled away from her with a violent motion. Shriveling back up into her large hoodie, the girl hesitantly sulked backward, walking slower and slower as she distanced herself from the group.

John slowly began to clench his hands into fists. He knew that a physical confrontation was unavoidable at this point. Given his advanced body, he knew he could easily run away without the group ever hoping to catch him, but he was an entity that brought punishment forward instead of running. I never said that I thought I could do whatever I want, John replied defensively.

You didn’t have to, the boy stated heartlessly as he lifted up the right side of his sweatshirt just a bit. Let's see you survive this, immortal bastard. The boy instantly pulled out a gun with a swift movement and fired it, hitting John directly in the center of his chest. Staggering backward, John fell to the ground clutching his chest, emitting a groan of utter pain. That's what I thought, liar. You’re not Cape Cod Crusader, the boy muttered with a disappointing shake of his head. The girl shrieked, her fearful cry echoing across the quiet cemetery. Shut the fuck up! Liars deserve to be shot, the boy yelled at her. He clipped the gun back to his waist and pulled the sweatshirt over it as he quickly looked around. Come on, squad, we gotta get out of here, the boy commanded as he turned around, the others following behind him. Now, my old man will probably find out that I took his gun, so let's go find a bullet to replace the one I used.

The girl hesitated. She glanced back at John.

Come on! It's quiet out and ain’t nobody around, but we can’t just hang around here all day. Let's go, the boy commanded, the girl turning and running after the group.

A short series of ominous chuckles echoed eerily throughout the lifeless cemetery. Everyone in the group immediately turned around, alarmed by the outburst.

"Leaving so soon? After all, there's no one around today, right? I thought we were just getting started, John commented cockily as he got up, not even scratched from the bullet. There's no need to scurry away in such a hurry. He twisted his back and moved a few joints in a manner that imitated a corpse being resurrected, which was not necessary to do, but he figured it would help terrify the group even more. It's been quite a while since I’ve been in action. You caught me by surprise, as I wasn’t expecting a teenager to have a gun, but the world's changed a lot, I guess. That was a feeble attempt to kill me, but an attempt nonetheless. I’d give you bravery points for that, but you’re just stupid-brave, and there's a big difference between that and real bravery. John dusted off his pants, which had a few strands of the half-dead grass on them. Not that I would know either, given my invulnerability, John muttered to himself, but I watched hundreds of brave soldiers die for this country. In fact, I fought alongside them. You’re nothing compared to them."

Everyone in the group had an indescribable expression on their face, brought about by an impossibility that somehow existed before them. It terrified them to know not only did such a person exist, but that he was also their enemy. The sky itself could have turned a beautiful blue as every depressed cloud instantly departed from the sky, and they would not notice but would stay frozen there, staring at John with their mouths agape and eyes almost shaking with fright. The only movement among them were a few shifts in the arms and legs of the boys who took to a defensive position against the impossibility that existed before them.

None among the group seemed more initially shocked than the boy who had shot John, but he tended to cope with everything through the constant process of denial, and so he was unimpressed after a few seconds. So you’re wearing a bulletproof vest underneath that jacket, huh? What a cheap trick!

I suppose that's a reasonable thing to think, John remarked as he slowly took off his brown leather jacket. He neatly folded it before placing it on top of a rectangular headstone nearby. Of course, it's completely wrong, he lifted his dark grey shirt to show he was wearing no bulletproof vest while also displaying a prime example of peak masculine physique, but it was a logical conclusion based on the fact that it would be the only answer for any other person. He let his shirt fall back down. I’m not like regular people, though.

That's impossible, the boy spat out gravely in frustration as he stared at the hole in John's dark grey shirt.

I am the impossible, John exclaimed powerfully. Did you not believe me when I answered you before? I’m Cape Cod Crusader, and you’re messing with the wrong guy.

Or you’re just some jerk with thick skin, the boy replied as he whipped out the gun again and aimed for John's face. The boy let out a growl as he fired the gun. The bullet went flying through the air, headed straight for John's smooth forehead.

With a fast spring of his arm, John caught the bullet in his right hand and gripped it tightly, a wave of gasps coming from the group. He turned his uninjured hand toward them and dropped the bullet to the ground before looking up at the boy, his dark eyes proudly smirking in a manner that was smug and wicked. "Thick skin? Now you’re just humiliating yourself. Are you in that much denial, or are you just that stupid?

The boy narrowed his eyes. So, you’re bulletproof after all? I guess we’ll just have to do this the hard way then, the boy announced as he punched his fist into his other hand. You’re really getting me pissed off.

John looked at the boy, who was approaching him angrily. Is he serious? I thought he would’ve been scared by now. This kid has guts. I’d rather not beat the crap out of him, but I honestly don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore. John simply shook his head in disappointment. I warned you, but you don’t want to listen.

That's because I only listen to myself. It's what keeps me on top at all times. Besides, I never back down from a fight.

I respect that. However, you’re still a disrespectful punk, and you should listen to others sometimes, John advised as he looked to his right and smiled to himself underneath the black handkerchief.

To John's right stood a stone cross that marked some poor soul's gravestone and final place of resting. He grabbed each short end of the horizontal part of the cross and ripped the headstone out of the ground with remarkable strength, dirt spewing to either side. He lightly tossed the stone cross into the air and then caught it with his right hand by the long end, which was covered with traces of dirt. The end was wide, and his fingers