Author's notes: Hope you all enjoyed the last one, sorry about any spelling and grammar errors. I really need to remember to proof read these things. Anyway here is the next chapter. Enjoy.

Jackie was annoyed. It wasn't the bumpy helicopter ride from the prison that bugged him. It wasn't even the twelve hour ride in the AC-130 that they weren't even half done with yet. It was Caleb. Jackie gazed at the impossibly-old man in silence. Caleb sat across the plane from him, leaned back with his feet crossed and his hat pulled down over his eyes. The old man was napping. He had barely noticed the cowboy's change of clothes when they climbed on the chopper. He couldn't believe he had worried about Sullivan out-doing him. Caleb was dressed in a brown leather duster and a cowboy hat of the same color. The red tinge of Caleb's eyes and his age-wrinkled face complimented his clothing in such a way…

If Jackie had any doubts about Caleb's past before, they were gone now. Caleb would have been right at home in Dodge City or riding with Jesse James or Billy the Kid. He definitely looked old enough to have done all those things. The Darkness had been completely silent about Caleb. Jackie took that as a sign of fear. At first Jackie was relieved to have someone who could frighten his dark parasite to silence. But then it dawned on him. This guy could show him up. He might even try throwing his weight around when they get where they're going. Having the military types was annoying enough. The last thing he needed was this old fart trying to boss him around.

Thankfully, Caleb remained silent thus far. Which eased Jackie's worries slightly. Soon Jackie's annoyance transferred to the Russian. Nikolai was a trained killer, and proud of it. As the flight dragged on, Nikolai began boasting of his combat experiences. He even mentioned Raccoon City and the zombies and mutated monstrosities he'd fought there. It was a good distraction from the boredom, but Jackie could tell he was trying to put on a dick-measuring contest. Which annoyed him.

"Ever blew your own brains out and walked it off through hell?" Jackie asked with a grin. "That would impress me," he giggled. Nikolai stared at him blankly. Jackie thought he saw a glint of fear amid the blankness. He had guessed right, Nikolai had heard about him. "You ought to try it some time. A military man like you might appreciate it. It looked suspiciously like World War One for some reason. Germans zombies, tanks, planes, and everything."

"You want hell?" asked Cohen. "Try a couple weeks in an African jungle. That damn continent don't need zombies to kill you," he finished with a bitter laugh.

Jackie clapped his hands mockingly. "Captain America up in here!" he laughed. "How about you Tork?" he turned to the Baltimore gang-banger. "You gona join in and tell us some of your exploits?" he offered. Tork just looked in silence for a moment then looked away. "How about you Caleb?" he called out to the old gunslinger, to wake him if he was asleep.

Caleb grunted, as if he'd just awoken. "You'll see my tricks when the show starts, kid," he grumbled.

"Who the fuck are you callin kid, old man?" Jackie spat. He had a feeling the old goat would talk down on him. Now was his opportunity to establish dominance. Caleb pushed his hat up to his forehead and looked, blankly, at Jackie. Jackie was already glaring at the old man. He clenched his fists when their eyes met. It might have been the shade of his hat, but Caleb's red eyes seemed to be blazing brighter than ever. Jackie bit back his nervousness, hoping it wasn't showing.

"The twenty-some-odd year old pecker-wood city slicker, who thinks just because his great-grand-daddy bequeathed him a shadow-huggin parasite, he's William Bonney," Caleb answered. Jackie felt his nails dig into his palms even harder. It was a shame there were so many lights on in the plane.

"I say that's some tough talk coming from a wrinkled old fart," Jackie growled. Caleb didn't even blink.

"Better to be a wrinkled old fart than a greasy little back-shootin whop what can't even protect his own woman," Caleb sneered with a menacing grin. That tore it.

"YOU HICK FUCK!" Jackie roared as he burst from his seat. He charged at the seated gunslinger like a mad bull. Caleb didn't move and continued to smile. Jackie didn't care, soon the old man wouldn't be able to get up or smile if his life depended on it. He was inches from grabbing Caleb's throat when a solid impact to the head sent him tumbling to the floor.

Jackie shook the bell-tower out of his ears and stumbled to stand as the room slowly stopped spinning. Once he had his bearings again he looked into the glaring eyes of the Point Man. Jackie was impressed. The Point Man was at the far end of the cargo-hold, near the entrance to the cock-pit. Not only was he fast, but had razor sharp reflexes and a sledge hammer up his sleeve.

Soon the fake-blonde, Mason, was at Point Man's side. She fixed him with a glare that would melt steel and trained her uzi on him. Jackie smiled. "Easy there huny, someone could get hurt," he chuckled. "Good hit, Mr. Man," he winked at his attacker and pumped his thumb into the air. Point Man said nothing. "Mr. Man here saved your life, hillbilly," he grinned sadistically at Caleb.

"Your life dego-boy," Caleb replied with a matching grin. "Your life," he repeated, aiming his finger at Jackie like a school-boy playing Billy the Kid.

"LOCK IT UP!" Mason roared like a lioness. "Both of you!" she went on. "Remember we can kill any of you fucking psychos whenever we want!"

"I told them this was a bad idea from the beginning," the new-comers voice and the stench of whiskey and B.O. told Jackie that Agent Thomas was invading the conversation. "Each of these scum-bags alone is a ticking time-bomb. Put them together and you don't have a team, you have a bottle of nitro-glycerin waiting for a good hard shake!"

"Is that what that smell is, Agent?" Nikolai's voice intruded. "Nitro-glycerin? I thought for a moment is was that distilled piss you Americans call bourbon. If you're going to squat on streets and drink people's charity into yourself it could at least by some quality vodka." Nikolai giggled.

"Fuck you!" Thomas spat.

"ENOUGH!" shouted Sgt. Burke as he emerged from the cock-pit. "Save it for the enemy. We're half way to the drop point."

"What enemy?" asked Cohen, who stood from his seat. "Where the hell are you taking us?"

"Japan," the sergeant snapped. "We'll be on the horn with the brass soon, you maggots will get the full mission statement then. For right now, sit tight and try to pretend you're all friends. Because once we get where we're going, the only thing keeping any of us alive will be each-other," he finished.

"Sir, yes sir!" Jackie sounded of like a good-little-recruit and snapped off a mocking salute. He gave Caleb one last grin. "Until next time old man."

"He's got a point, Jackie," Sunderland said behind him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Whatever they're about to throw us at, we'll have a better chance at getting out of this alive if we all work together." Jackie viciously slapped the hand away from his shoulder.

"Keep your fuckin hands off me, wife-killer," he growled, thrusting his finger inches away from Sunderland's face. He glared at the middle-aged man with all the hatred and violence he'd focused on Caleb moments ago. "And since when do you give a fuck about getting out of this alive?"

"I don't!" Sunderland snapped, Jackie's finger not deterring him. His voice was stern but his face betrayed no anger. "But you should. You, Tork, and Billy are still young," he said. "The three of you can still start over, you can live your lives on the outside. Not like me or Caleb, and definitely not like Sullivan."

"I take exception to that!" Sullivan called out from the far end of the hold. His voice sounding indifferent and almost humorous.

"All you need to do is play ball with these guys," James went on, ignoring the serial killer's interruption. "Then you can go free. They'll keep tabs on you but it's better than rotting in that prison." He finished. Jackie was taken back. The middle-aged wife-killer actually sounded like he cared. Prison life had clearly toughened this former retail clerk up. Jackie had to admit he had grit to stand his ground and try to lecture him. But he hated being lectured. Still he couldn't help being amused and slightly touched.

"Thanks dad," Jackie huffed with a laugh. "But I think I'm a little beyond a mentor by now," he said and sauntered back towards his seat. "Don't worry though, Jimmy-boy, if I need help smothering anybody when we get to the frontlines I'll let you know," he winked as he sat down. Sunderland rolled his eyes.

"Forget you!" he huffed and turned back to his own seat.

"Don't bother trying to reason with the little cuss," Caleb drawled. "If he had enough sense to reason he wouldn't have tried to suck me into the Bolsheviks pecker-measuring contest." Jackie blinked. Caleb had caught on to Nikolai's game too. Jackie tried hard not to be impressed.

"Well that's what I get for trying to have friendly conversation!" Nikolai huffed indignantly, but kept his usual menacing grin. Mason and Point Man turned and walked cautiously back to their seats. Agent Thomas rolled his eyes and face-palmed himself.

"This was a bad idea," Thomas moaned.

The day had not started well for agent Ethan Thomas. His comrades in the FBI found him in a run-down dive bar in the Bronx. He had just spent the last dollar he'd begged off the street for a double shot of bourbon. He'd been sipping it slowly, wanting to make it last. That was when the skin-head punk sucker punched him.

Before Ethan knew it he was on the floor. His shot splashed all over his face. He looked up into the wide, crazed eyes of the skin-head. Ethan thought it was odd the bastard didn't have a swastika tattooed on his shaved forehead. Instead there was a tattoo of a red circle, with three smaller red circles inside it forming a triangle. Ethan wasn't sure if he was a skin-head or just another drugged out gang-member; but then there wasn't much difference between the two. Ethan's assailant roared like a lion. He began screaming about a lost disciple of God and the return of "the sacraments." The punk went on to shout for Ethan and the bar-tender to turn away from the drink and prepare for the end-times.

It didn't take long for Ethan to tone the punk's bizarre sermon out. He tasted the bourbon on his lips and knew this was the last taste of it he'd have that day. Maybe for days to come. That was not good. The booze was the only thing that helped keep the visions at bay. Ethan didn't know the science of it but somehow alcohol weakened the strength of his psychic senses. It was one of the reasons why he hadn't gone back to the Bureau, even after Rosa let him know he'd been acquitted of the murder charges. They'd make him clean-up. They'd put him back to work. He couldn't face that again. Vanhorn had told him his ability was a gift. But Ethan only knew it as a curse. Getting shit-faced was his only path to peace and this gutter-trash had just denied him his peace!

The bald punk had barely finished preaching his new age bullshit when Ethan thrusted his steel-toed boot up into his groin. The punk grunted in pain and staggered backwards. His back arched forward as he grasped his groin with both hands. Ethan didn't wait for him to recover. He climbed to his feet, grabbed the punk's head and began slamming it on the bar over and over. As he pummeled the punk's head on the wooden counter he heard snapping sounds. It could have been the wood, his nose, or his jaw. Ethan was too far-gone with rage and bloodlust to give a damn. Then a different cracking sound made him stop. He looked up to see the bar-tenders tense face behind both barrels of a shotgun.

"Get the fuck outa my bar!" he ordered, visibly shaken. Ethan couldn't blame him. He was a far-cry from his former self. He hadn't shaved or changed clothes in weeks. His face was pocked with the cuts and bruises he'd come to accept as part of his every-day struggle to survive. He looked more like one of the crazed junkies in the subway or abandoned buildings than an FBI agent. He could see his reflection in the terrified eyes of the bar-tender. He looked like a monster.

As if on cue, the front door of the bar burst open and a dozen FBI agents in full riot gear stormed into the bar. They said nothing, but Ethan knew they were there for him. He let go of the punk and put his fists up, determined not to go down without a fight. He did. The agents swarmed him, knocking him back to the floor. He was powerless to resist as they cuffed him and dragged him towards the door. Ethan thought he could hear the fanatical punk shouting again for a moment. "The Sacraments will be fulfilled! In the rising sun!" he shouted. Ethan's ears started ringing as the punk finished. As the agents dragged him out into the blinding light of the morning sun, the image of a doll in a black dress blared into his mind. He squinted and shook it from his head. His ears stopped ringing after a moment. Ethan cursed the bastard for spilling his drink.

After herding him into a van, one of the agents explained the situation to him. He was being called back to duty, whether he liked it or not. There was some kind of situation in Japan and an outside benefactor concurred that Ethan's unique abilities made him the man for the job. The agent went on to explain that he'd be given alcohol in small increments to keep the effects of withdrawal at bay. And once the mission was accomplished he would be let go. But only if he cooperated. Ethan knew better than to refuse. He asked the agent if Rosa would be involved. He didn't know.

Ethan missed Rosa. She had practically begged him to come back to the agency. She had even offered to let him stay at her place for a while. But he couldn't do that. His episodes had been getting worse and worse. And there was the chance that they could attract unsavory attention. Rosa had almost gotten killed the last time he involved her. She had even risked her career by warning him with a written note that she was wired, back when the FBI still thought he had murdered his supervisor. He didn't want to put her at risk. Maybe it was best that she wasn't involved.

A few helicopter rides, a few hours and three quarters of the way across the Pacific Ocean and there Ethan was. Forced onto a team of military spec-ops and convicted murderers, and heading towards what he could only speculate was a suicide mission. Despite everything, Ethan had to admit his luck was technically improving.

After a few more hours of boredom, Sgt. Burke emerged from the cockpit again. He was wearing a parachute. Mason and Point Man seemed to take this as a que and began handing parachutes out to the rest of the team. Ethan took his parachute from Mason nervously. He had never like heights and he knew where this was going. "You gotta be fuckin kiddin!" Jackie huffed, clearly seeing his own vision of the future, and not liking it any more than Ethan did.

"Relax fellus it's easy," Cohen said with a grin. "Your first time is never all that bad. It's the second and every time after that gets to you," he went on.

"Unless chute does not open," Nikolai chuckled. "Then first time is pretty bad. But then you don't need to worry about second time, yes?" Ethan decided he hated the Russian. After a few minutes of fiddling with the chutes, everyone had theirs on. Just then Capt. Raynes entered the hold. He was also wearing a parachute and was carrying one of those new-fangle-computer tablets.

"Alright everyone on your feet," Raynes ordered. Mason, Burke, and Point Man snapped instantly to attention. Ethan and the others obliged more sluggishly. "Alright Task Force Omega, time for your brief," he continued when all eyes were on him.

"Task Force Omega?" Jackie repeated. "Sounds like a bad video game," he said with a laugh.

"Cut the shit!" Raynes grunted. "Here's the situation. About twenty-four hours ago, the town Yomiyama, Japan went dark," he went on. Raynes held his tablet up to show a gps zoom-in on the town. It was in the mountains, a good distance from the nearest city, Tokyo. The screen showed some recent photo-shots of the town. It wasn't small but not quite a city.

Raynes went on. "No radio contact, no cell-phone coverage, no internet, and all land-line to the town have been disconnected; despite no evidence of lines being down. There was no earthquake, no fire, no explosions reported, nothing seems out of the ordinary. There is, however a slight anomaly with the weather, it is unseasonably cloudy, rainy, and windy, but nothing that should cause storm warnings. Less than an hour after the coms black-out, one of Langley's informants in the town gave a disturbing report."

"Langley?" Cohen said. "What's some little mountain town in back-woods Japan have to interest the CIA?" he asked. Ethan was about to ask the same thing.

"The CIA, special investigations wing, has been watching Yomiyama for about twenty years now," Raynes explained. "Apparently there have been a number of strange and mysterious deaths involving one of the classes of a middle-school there. Something about the class being haunted and the students of the class being prone to deadly accidents and murders."

Jackie rolled his eyes. "A cursed class?" he giggled. "All schools have things like that, I remember there was a rumor about the lunch-room being haunted by the ghost of a dead nun at the orphanage I grew up in," Jackie said. "It was a load of bullshit though. Turns out it was just the sister who ran the place sneaking down there at night for her secret liquor stash. Bit of a nasty shock for her when it mysteriously disappeared," Jackie finished with a laugh, some of the others joined in, even Ethan. Mason fixed Jackie with her usual glare. "Don't give me that look, huny," he grinned at her. "She was nun, she really shouldn't have been drinking at all. Hell, I did her a favor."

"Cohen, Estacado, thank you both for the interruptions." Raynes snapped. "Langley's informant managed to get a faint call out via satellite phone. He said that people were being attacked all over the town but people he knew to be dead," he paused. The group was silent. Ethan thought he'd miss-heard at first, but the stark silence told him otherwise.

"Are we talking another T-virus outbreak here?" Cohen asked. "If so, I'm pretty sure the BSAA would be more ideal for this mission."

"No viruses here people," Raynes answered. "No zombies, no mutations, and no it's not a gang. Before the satellite link went out, our informant said numerous people who had died over the years in connection to 'the cursed class 3', as he called it, have returned to life and are attacking and killing everyone they find."

"Ghosts on a rampage," Caleb grunted.

"Shouldn't they call the ghost busters?" asked Jackie with a grin.

"Not exactly ghosts," Raynes explained. "They're not spirits, they actually appear to have physical bodies and look just like they did when they died. Except that they seem to be permanently pissed off and out for blood. The informant said he saw a few cops shooting at one of the dead-men and the bullets didn't seem to have much immediate effect on him. Our job is drop into the town, assess the situation, establish a stable communication with command and eliminate all hostiles. As well as secure the informant and as many civilians as possible."

"Shouldn't the Japanese be handling this?" Ethan asked. "If the CIA is so sure about this ghost-outbreak why not contact the Japanese Self Defense Force or their police force?"

"Already been done," Raynes answered. "Every police unit that's entered the town has gone dark. Gunshots have been heard from the police barricades on all roads leading in and out of the town. But no radio contact, no survivors; just gunshots and screams." Ethan was sorry he'd asked. "We'll be over the town momentarily," Raynes said and nodded to Burke and Point Man. The two of them began handing out weapons to the team.

Ethan recognized his .45 Colt and Taser as Burke handed them to him. It had been a while. He'd given both to Rosa to keep the Bureau off him. Ethan scanned his team-mates. Caleb gratefully accepted two berretta 9mms, a sawn-off shotgun and a flare gun from Burke. Cohen accepted a Python 44 magnum from Point Man, who went on to give Nikolai a Samurai-Edge 9mm. Tork was given two magnum revolvers and a small, improvised knife. Jackie's eyes widened with delight as Point Man gave him two engraved .45 caliber pistols. Jackie seemed to recognize them. Ethan figured these weapons were all personal possessions of the convicts. Sunderland was given a 9mm automatic and Sullivan a revolver. Sullivan began stroking his gun, like it was a pet. Ethan thought he heard Sullivan mutter something about his mother to it. Ethan and the rest of the team placed their weapons in the holsters on their chutes.

A red light started flashing in the roof of the cargo hold. "That's our cue, Omega," Raynes said. "Don't worry about your chutes. I'll activate them myself by remote control," he explained and held up a small remote device in his hand. "And if that doesn't put your minds at ease, command is watching this whole thing from D.C. If anything happens to me on the way down, the brass will activate your chutes."

Faint clapping was heard and Ethan turned to see Jackie applauding and grinning. "You feds sure thought this whole thing out didn't you?" Jackie giggled. "But good luck getting us to jump out the back of this thing," he said with a cocky smile. Ethan rolled his eyes. He couldn't wait to see Mason kick him over the edge. Just then the red flashing light went out and was instantly replaced by a green one.

Raynes smiled at Jackie. "Actually, we thought of that one too," he said. He raised his hand holding the remote again and pressed one of the buttons. A metallic clunk was heard beneath the team's feet and floor gave out from under them.

Instants later Ethan was in free-fall, screaming his lungs out. He thought he could hear his teammates screaming along with him. After several seconds he was sure he could make out Jackie screaming "FUCK ME!" Ethan might have enjoyed that if he weren't screaming down the sky at terminal velocity. The sky was clouded and Ethan couldn't see for several seconds. Then the Ethan dropped below the clouds and could see the town. In the dreary dark of the overcast the town looked desolate. Not that Ethan cared at the moment. The ground was getting closer and closer, still not chutes were deploying.

He wanted to shout "Raynes deploy the chutes!" but he couldn't control his screaming long enough to form words. Ethan saw what he thought was a school building rushing towards him. All he could do was brace for the crushing impact. When a sudden thud jerked him slightly upwards. The chute had deployed! He was mere seconds from the ground. Before he could figure out how to control the chute he realized he was heading straight for a first floor window of the old-looking building. "Shit!" Ethan gasped. Seconds later he had crashed through the window. Then all went black.