When a shootout with criminal mastermind Alexander Crowley, leaves his partner, Lincoln lying in a coma, Joe Buchanan begins to piece together his life. Searching for answers, Joe meets with Angie, an old friend who can talk to spirits, and she tells him of a new threat. Joe and Angie track down Crowley to a mysterious estate in New Orleans, where everything is not as it seems. But, as Joe digs deeper, Crowley has one more final trick up his sleeve, resurrecting his bloodline for one final battle with Joe. Joe will throw down the gauntlet, and prepare to make the ultimate choice. Kill the man responsible for Lincoln’s coma, or capture the spirit responsible for their best friend’s death. Either way, justice will be served.
Joe’s mind, twisted and wrapped around a prism of confusion, failed to recognize reality from Jonas’s drug induced nightmare.
The cold rain pounded against the tombstone’s, dripping down the aging marble. A few drops splattered across Joe’s face, forcing an insignificant twitch of his right eyelid.
The residents of the cemetery surrounded the fallen officer, hungry for their meal. A few inched closer, inspecting the bloodied face with curious looks, as the red rainwater rolled off Joe’s face.
Joe felt his heart kick start, yet no feeling returned to his limbs. Unaware of his location, Joe’s experiences taught him to remain calm, patient, and digest as much information as possible. He pieced together a potential area: outdoors, rain, mud, and soft earth. Joe’s inability to open his eyes, forced his brain to ignite any of the other senses, hoping they would recover in time.
The residents stretched out their hands, grabbing at Joe’s legs, pulling, tearing at his slacks with curled, shattered fingernails.
Joe could feel something clawing at his legs, tearing away the fabric, and scraping against his skin. A pain so rough and chaotic, Joe’s emotions escalated, his voice in argument with his brain to get everything moving once again.
A hard breath pounded against his ears, leaving behind a sticky residue inside Joe’s eardrum.
One by one, Joe felt his fingers returning to full power, nudging a hard metallic substance across the wet ground, with his left index and middle finger. He knew exactly what it was: the Glock.
Joe raised the Glock without a moment’s hesitation. His eyes slow to reopen, the stampede of growls consumed the dark cemetery, shattering Joe’s concentration.
A blurred image appeared before him, a grotesque cadaver besieged by death and years from burial. The creature clamped down on the end of the Glock, furious to chew on its intended prey. Joe’s vision, still marred from the toxic drug, delivered the horrifying image before him. A quickened flick of his index finger, obliterated the creature’s lower mandible, jarring the attacker backwards. A wave of blackened blood sprayed Joe, the tombstone to his right, and the base of Lancaster’s statue.
“Holy Shit,” Joe muttered, watching the rest of the cemetery’s tenants rushing the wounded creature. Joe’s attacker, a man, barely approaching what looked like to be middle age, scurried across the ground, clutching his dangling jaw in his right hand. The series of other mutated men and women, swarmed over him, pecking away at his body with their fingernails and teeth, eventually tearing clear through his lemon colored skin. A stream of black blood spurted, saturating the hungry entities, staining their disjointed, carnivorous teeth.