The Punisher
"What Are You?"

Chapter One

It was a cold night in New York City. Just like any other, really. Warmed by sewer steam and houses of ill-repute, lit by soulless neons and fluorescents. Sirens screamed and dogs barked. Stereos blasted and muzzles occasionally flashed.

But the East Docks lay shrouded in darkness, save for the faraway streetlights. The only sounds were the odd seagull, the tinny sounds of the buoys, and the soft seawash against the ancient wooden piers. All was calm. All was quiet.

But somewhere on the South side, a door banged open on one of the lonely dockside warehouses, and an orange glowed flicked to life. Carlo Medici leaned against the side of the warehouse and breathed deep the smoke of his cigarette before quickly expelling it through his nose. He was bored. Flat-out bored. Within seconds, he was joined by John Picardi, coming skidding out of the warehouse brandishing an uzi in one hand. John looked at Carlo and hissed angrily through his teeth. "You wanna keep it the fuck down out here? What if somebody sees us?"

Both men were young, but of medium build. Carlo's hair was a deep brown, and feathered carelessly over a youthful face and wiry features. "So what if somebody sees us? We're guardin' a fuckin' box, for Christ's sake."

John could feel his temper rising, and used one hand to pinch the top of his nose. He was only a few years older than Carlo, with slick black hair and a stronger build. But he was a nervous person, and it showed in lines on his face. His hair was already beginning to recede. He leaned against the side of the warehouse next to his friend, and sighed. "Alright. What's up your ass tonight, eh?"

Carlo stepped angrily away from the wall and kicked away some of the gravel at his feet. "This fuckin' bullshit detail, man! We been part of the family for over a year now, and the Captains still don't give us the good stuff! We get stuck watching their damn crates for 'em."

John waited a moment, lighting his own cigarette. "Ya finished? Ya got any idea whats IN those crates? Eh?" He shot Carlo a knowing look, to which Carlo looked away, sighing defeatedly. "No."

John took a quick drag and held the cigarette between his fingers as he talked. "Well, I happened to have talked to Big Tommy tonight, and he says we're guarding some heavy shit tonight." Carlo stared back challenging. "Oh yeah? What kinda shit?" John ran a hand over the back of his scalp. "Well... ya know... shit. Alright, alright, he didn't tell me anything. But he DID say it was an important job!"

Carlo began to yell, but heard his first syllable echo and quieted himself. "Oh yeah, sure! Every job is an "important-fucking-job." Just like last week when we had to sit in the car and watch that stupid whorehouse all fucking night." Carlo took a quick drag on his cigarette, beginning to pace in front of his friend. "Every little thing matters, like little blocks holdin' up the big blocks. Little things don't get done, and the grander schemes suffer. Yadda-yadda. Bullshit. If they really respected us, they'd be using us for the good stuff. Like guarding Little Johnny or watching the house. Important stuff. But noooooo, we get to spend all week watching a fucking warehouse."

When Carlo had seemingly run out of steam, John spoke again. "Well if the warehouse weren't important, why would anyone be guarding it, huh? For all we know, we might get some action tonight. Ya don't put a turd in a safe, know what I mean? If Tommy put us here to guard something, it must be worth stealing."

Carlo leaned back against the wall with his friend, who was considerably more relaxed. "Oh yeah? And who'd be dumb enough to come on our turf to steal something?" John's cool seemed to turn to a cold shill. "I may have heard Tommy say something about... the Punisher."

Carlo began to hack, having almost choked on his cigarette. When he regained himself, he stared at his friend in disbelief. "The Punisher?" John merely looked at him, calmly taking another drag. "Yep."

After a moment, Carlo replied. "You're full of shit. If the Punisher were anywhere near here, you'd be pissing your pants right now." John sneered. "I AINT full of shit. But yeah, normally you'd be right. I'd be begging you to come back inside and worrying myself stupid. But tonight, I'm not worried." Carlo scrunched his face in confusion. "Why?"

John took one final drag of his cigarette and put it out on the sole of his shoe. "Because what happens, happens. Either he shows up and we die, or he doesn't and we live. No use worrying about it." Carlo crossed his arms and thought, his rage ebbing. "What makes you think we can't blow this guy away? I mean, he's just one guy."

John uttered a nervous laugh. "Oh yeah, sure. The one guy that killed the entire Costa Family. The one guy that single-handedly killed the slave trade in New York. The one guy that's been killing our guys for over twenty years now. Sure, we can take him. You can't kill the Punisher."

Carlo's voice became lower now, almost wary of breaking the perfect silence of the docks that he had so blatantly ignored earlier. "Why do ya say that?" John shot Carlo an even look. "Because you can't kill a guy who's already dead." John could see mild confusion and a hint of disbelief in his friend's eyes. "He's a ghost. The Costas already killed him. But he woke up anyway. Got revenge. He's a restless spirit, is what he is."

Carlo and John both stood silently, staring off into the perfect blackness of the docks. A chill wind swept from the ocean, screaming softly as it played through the rickety warehouse like some macabre instrument.

After a few minutes, Carlo spoke again with renewed clout. "Not that I believe in any of this voodoo bullshit, but how would we kill a ghost?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure John was going to answer. But he did. "Ya gotta settle the spirit to make a ghost pass on. Give them no reason to stay here anymore. Usually its got something to do with the past, or the way they died. Unfinished business. Either that, or salt and burn their remains. But Nicky Cavella, the sick fuck from a few years back, dug up his family's grave and disgraced it. His bones weren't in there. So we couldn't find them if we wanted to. And if it had to do with revenge, he's already killed the Costas, and half the families in the city. He's got his revenge." Carlo tightened his arms around himself to guard against the cold. "So... how much more 'unfinished business' could he have? When's he gonna be... not restless anymore?" Carlo's voice had gone soft now. And John's hard with weariness. "Ahdunno. Maybe never."

The two men sat in silence for the longest time, watching the moon move across the night sky as their only source of light. Their hearts each skipped a beat as the exterior lamp above the door buzzed to life, and their boss Enzo appeared at the door.

"Fucking Jesus, there you are! What the fuck are you doing out here? Get back inside!" Enzo was a tall, lean man. Bald except for a mustache that surrounded his mouth. His eyes were hard, and his face scarred. He was a career soldier.

Carlo spoke up. "Hey boss, what are we guarding?" Enzo sighed in annoyance. "I don't know, because I don't ask. If they wanted us to know, they'd have fucking told us. When people ask stupid questions, they get a bullet for an answer." John merely watched nervously as Carlo pressed on. "But if its something important, we need to be on our toes in case the Punisher shows-"

At the mention of the name, Enzo held up one of his large hands. "Ho-ho-hold up. The Punisher?" He glared at John, who's neck had receded into the collar of his coat. "You been filling his head with that horseshit?" John merely looked at the ground and shuffled nervously, giving no reply.

Enzo stepped out of the door fully, standing in front of his two subordinates. "Alright, I'mma set this straight for the both of you right now. There aint no fucking Punisher." Both men immediately jerked forward, ready to argue otherwise, but Enzo once again held up a shield-like hand. "Shut up and listen. "The Punisher" aint nothing but a bunch of bent cops taking their job too seriously. The higher-ups pick the best guys and send them out like hit-squads to fuck with our business. Why do you think we can never catch or kill the son-of-a-bitch? There aint no one-man-army out there taking the law into his own hands, it's a bunch of trigger-happy flatfoots."

Carlo spoke up. "Then what about the Capos? All the shit he's done and people he's killed." John piped in as well. "The guy's killed over two-thousand people. You can't make those numbers up. Explain that!" Enzo was getting visibly pissed now, and it told in his voice. "No shit! This aint no goddamn pleasure cruise we're running here, dipshits! This is organized crime, not some girlscout operation. Greater risks for greater reward. Some people die, some live, and some go to jail. That's life in the business."

"But if everybody knows this, then why don't they tell us it's a ton of guys instead of just one?" Carlo was nervous to ask any more questions, but curiosity was beginning to keep him warm against the chill harbor wind.

"Because the Capos know that the only way to keep mooks like you in line and on your guard is by giving them a boogie-man to worry about. 'Don't fuck up, or the Punisher'll getcha!' He's a fairytale you idiots. Now get your asses back inside." Reluctantly, and under Enzo's ugly glare, John and Carlo trooped back inside.

As the pair made their way between the high-stacked crates in the dimly-lit warehouse, they said nothing. It was hard for either man to make anything of the night. Carlo's anger over the assignment had been overruled by Enzo's anger, John's creepy theory, and the perfect stillness of the world outside. He felt very little but exhaustion. He just wanted to get some sleep. But for now, the best he could do would be to play a little cards with one of the other guys to pass the time.

But as they approached the area where the tables and chairs had been set up, the lights in the warehouse suddenly went black. There was no flicker or spark as if from a short-out. And no crashing from blown bulbs. The light simply vanished, as if it'd been shut off. He heard the other guys, whine and complain. "What is this, Enzo? Some bogus college 'lights-out' shit? Turn 'em back on so we can see our cards."

Turning to look back for Enzo, Carlo slammed his foot against something and fell hard to the concrete in the dark. Cursing as he felt his foot, he heard a loud crash from above, like glass breaking. He immediately thought of the skylight on the warehouse, but his thoughts were soon drowned out by gunfire. Short bursts from his friends' uzi's.

As he moved to his back and gripped his own 9mm, Carlo could see the faint moonlight coming from the doorway. And in the moonlight, he saw Enzo's shadow. He stood there, writhing, like he was being strangled by some invisible rope. He grasped his neck, even though Carlo couldn't see anything, and reached into the air above him, grabbing something he couldn't see. And the worst part, Enzo, a man who easily weight two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, was practically floating in mid-air. His feet stretched desperately for the ground, but found no purchase. Carlo could only watch as his boss went limp like a ghost in the moonlight.

Carlo was brought back as screaming began to intersperse with the gunfire. Screaming, gagging, and all kinds of sounds Carlo knew human beings weren't supposed to make. Hands shaking too fiercely to pull his gun, Carlo scrambled for the crate a few feet ahead of him. In the glow of the moon from the doorway and the broken skylight, he could see that the top wasn't completely closed.

Shifting the boards just so, Carlo climbed inside the crate, and sat there, thinking. His breath was coming out in harsh gasps, and his leg throbbed painfully. His mind was in a whirl, trying to piece together what was happening, moving the boards of the box back over top of himself. But the first conclusion he came to was that what was happening, had already happened. There were no more gunshots. No screams. Not even the wind moved. Everything was quiet again, except for his breathing. Realizing this, he held a hand to his mouth and tried to slow himself down.

After a moment, he heard something. Footsteps on the concrete of the warehouse. The heavy sound practically echoed. And as he dared peek over the edge of the box, he saw it. He saw Him. A gaunt, pale face beneath the skylight. Slick black hair. Eyes hidden in shadow. Broad shoulders in a black trenchcoat. The lips of which were splayed open wide enough to reveal a stout chest, and a portion of a white skull painted there, almost mirroring the head that stood at least six feet high, overlooking the boxes. Looking for life.

Carlo's eyes were now bulging in his sockets, and sobs began to choke him. He wanted more than anything to look away, but he couldn't. Those black pits where eyes should have been were holding him. Any second, he expected the darkness to open like windows into Hell itself, to swallow him up. He was waiting for the ghost of the Punisher to find him, and kill him.

With a sudden burst of energy, from some primitive survival reflex, Carlo dropped down below the lip of the box and lay at the bottom, holding a hand tightly over his mouth to control how much noise he was making. He slammed his eyes shut and focused entirely on his ears. It took enough effort to hear anything over the sound of his heart beating in his throat, but he could make out the sound of the footsteps as they began again. He quickly found that they were growing louder. Closer.

But as the footsteps drew up next to the crate, a strange resolve had clawed its way up from Carlo's gut. He wasn't going to die. The Punisher WAS one guy. Which meant that he WAS real! What kind of a ghost has footsteps? And if he was real, then he could be killed.

Gripping his pistol in both sweaty hands, Carlo fired blindly into the side of the crate, where he knew the bastard had to be standing. His magazine was quickly emptied, and he could see dim moonlight streaming through the holes he had made. A sort of crazed grin stretched across his face. He must have done it! He must have hit him, he must have!

But before he could lift himself out of the box, the lid was torn off from above him. And there, standing over him, was the gaunt pale face, with eyes as black as pure darkness. He felt his eyes nearly bug out of his skull, and his heart slam against the inside of his chest. His arms went numb, and his breath seemed heavy in his lungs. He couldn't breathe! He couldn't move! And his chest felt like it was being crushed!

As Carlo Medici's world went black, his only thoughts were a horrible tempest of fear and doubt. And a certain surety that the world itself was not going dark. But rather, he was being pulled into those black eyes. Those black, ghostly eyes of Death itself.