Chapter 6 Heroes

I return to the front of the bar, I walk around looking for many more information I can find on what is going on here. I give Tail "the list" and she gives me the facts; Tail is wonderful. I still can't remember how long we have known each other, but it's long enough for me to understand that she is absolutely trustworthy. I might imagine that her rough voice garnishes a lot of negative attention, aside from her being a so-called freak, but I find it beautiful. "Hey check this out," Tail says as she texts me a letter:

From Colonel Donavan on Jan 6th, 1969

To General Karingson

Dec 15th

We sent a battalion of hand-picked individuals to investigate a series of weapon depots reported to us by our information network in North Vietnam. The battalion was divided into three companies in order to execute simultaneous action. The companies were then divided into nine squads for strategic reasons. Paratrooper drops were made twenty-five miles out from their targets to avoid detection.

Dec 17th

Radio contact was lost. The last transmission was received at 0600 hours sent by Captain Reeves reporting his unit was under fire. All units appeared to be lost in a large-scale assault on our covert troops.

Dec 19th

We received an encrypted message by hard line from Corporal Thompson that appeared to be a collateral report. 297 American soldiers were confirmed KIA 50 MIA, and the remainder of the soldiers had joined a fallback organized by Lieutenant David Lay, a sniper, and Lieutenant Mattimeto Whitewolf, infantry commander. Half of the men under their command were reported injured.

The soldiers under Lt. Whitewolf commandeered a farm town in which they set up fort. After losing his unit, Lt. Lay made his way to the last known locations of the surrounding teams and escorted the survivors to relative safety, where he joined up with Lt. Whitewolf.

Dec 21st

Lt. Lay requested evacuation of his wounded. He went on to explain that he and seven others were abandoning the fort to go in search of the missing men.

Dec 24th

Lt. Lay and Lt. Whitewolf reported that they had captured one of the weapons depots and recovered five POWs. His report explained that though the base is now under their control they have failed to locate any high-powered ballistics.

Jan 5th, 1969

Lt. Lay and his team have just arrived home. General, it is my belief that this attack was well beyond anything we expected and can only be the result of an intelligence leak. Had it not been for the quick actions of Lieutenants Lay and Whitewolf, this could have been a disaster of a far greater scale. I believe that Lts. Lay and Whitewolf should both be considered for the highest Honors that can be afforded.

P.S. On another note, it may not be my place, but I believe that until this leak is repaired we should launch a withdrawal of all troops.

Tail continues her story. "Lieutenants Lay and Whitewolf, along with their teams, are labeled as killed in action on January 8th, 1969--killed behind enemy lines in an attempt to rescue a Blackbird team. The team leaders are recognized as some of the most decorated soldiers to come out of the United States Armed Services. Lay and Whitewolf were buried at sea by the marine squad next on scene. Their bodies were recovered during a fallback. What a drag, huh?"

I think for a time, and Tail speaks again. "So, do you think these guys are the real deal?"

More thinking. "Well," Tail answers herself, "there are two clear possibilities if you ask me. Either they are and the people in there are in the best hands possible, or they are not and they're S-O-L-N-J-W-F."

That is the longest acronym I think I have ever heard slipped into a normal conversation. "Say again, Tail?" I ask.

"S-O-L-N-J-W-F. Shit out of luck and jolly well fucked."

I make my way over the hill--if one can call it that--on the other side of the street and open my bag to begin assembling my rifle. "How about Larry Gekks?"

"The man is a parking ticket away from the FBI most-wanted list. He has spent time in a padded room at the National Institute for Mental Health. He is a highly disturbed, violent criminal with a history of sexual offenses, and he has a multi-murder on his record. He is wanted for questioning in a dozen and a half other crime, too. He makes his brother look like a saint; he's only wanted for numerous thefts and drug trafficking."

I line up my crosshairs as I listen. "Sounds like a couple of nice guys. What about Lucia Wingate? Is she another award-winning asshole, or did she just get off the bus on the wrong side of town?"

"Hold on."

There is silence for several minutes as I assume Tail scans her computer looking for info. I wait, occasionally throwing up verbal pauses.

"She is a runaway, her mother is enjoying the hospitality of the state, her father is the headmaster of a school down south. Suspect in an arson case. Not much else."

I have to struggle to hold back a chuckle as Tail tells me this. Floods of filthy thoughts run through my head. "She is an amateur artist, you know. She has some wonderful pieces right here in her notebook. I think you would appreciate them; maybe I'll steal some for you."

Tail laughs once into the phone. "Thanks, Blake, I'm sure she will love to give you her life's work."

"Well if she ends up dead the price won't be to high. if you think about it." I spend a moment reflecting on the dismal work at hand. I'm sitting on top of a dirt mound waiting to assassinate a roomful of men and women as they escape the most difficult fight of their lives--assuming that anyone gets out at all. I would assume best-case scenario, a Wolfin opens the door, I kill it, and justice is done. But that wouldn't be any different than the worst-case, really, would it?

Tail questions "are you saying it is easier to pick pocket the dead then to steal from the leaving?"

The harder I think about it, I realize that if I follow orders to a T, everyone is dead except for me. But what do I really have to choose from? I kill the things in there, human and otherwise, or I sacrifice myself--which might not be all bad in the end--and Tail. That second part is not acceptable. Damn, what is a man to do? I'm a soldier; I have to follow orders. No, I'm not a soldier, I'm a supernatural investigator and eliminator, an exorcist, a mercenary at best. I don't have to follow orders. There is nothing stopping me from going back to HQ and killing everyone there instead. Aside from not knowing the way back, or how many men I'm outnumbered by, or even their ultimate goal. I have to live up to it, I suppose. I'm a heartless killer. But these are human beings, not faceless monstrosities. Lucia is a runaway, she has a family, and I don't know anything of the others.

"Tail," I break the silence, "the last one Charlie Belmond."

Tail takes her time scanning page after page on her computer. "Well aside from a bounty on his head, the guy is invisible. No police record, no credit cards, no cosmetic surgery."

"Did you say bounty?" I interrupt her.

"Yes, a man named A. C. Dem Row is offering a hundred thousand bananas to the first man to deliver 51 percent of his corpse to Del International, Miami, Florida, room 18F," Tail elaborates.

"That's a whole lot of bananas," I think aloud.

"It's not just for Charlie, ether. It's for any Belmond with heritage that can be traced to Turkey," Tail continues. "I'm not sure what Mr. Dem Row's beef is with Belmond, but he is willing to pay out the ass for it."

"Is Belmond a Turkish name?" I ask.

"Yeah, no, I don't know. I type it in and get 843 marks. It could be Turkish, or it could be ... Swahili?" Tail explains to me in a mater-of-fact fashion. "I just don't know." There is a hum as Tail thinks aloud "About your trouble with the front door, someone must have locked it..."

I exhale heavily, thinking about the future. Things are going to get bad, and it is going to get there in one hell of a hurry. "Tail, I have to let you go. I don't know what's about to happen, but I'll call you when it's over."

Tail starts to say something, but I can't make it out; I slam my phone shut and lie upon the ground, one eye placed firmly against the sight of my gun as I sweep my surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

I don't know what I was expecting to find, but little more than a few seconds pass before my sixth sense kicks me in the groin. Instinct takes over as I roll onto my back and reach for my iron, an antique replica of the Jesse James's six-shooter made of silver with an ivory handle. The vortex--I can feel it again; it has followed me. But it refuses to come any closer. I hear a deep laughter. It is muffled, as if being forced down.

The rolling moonlight is playing tricks on me. Bathed in darkness, I see a face smirking at me from about a hundred feet away. It looks to be carved in wood with grotesquely fine detail. There is now an appalling stink in the air, like burning flesh. As the moon comes back out the devilish vision stops, and once again I am alone in the dark. I sit frozen in place for several moments, holding my piece in both hands, staring at the vortex only inches outside my range of vision, awaiting the return of the monstrosity that mocks my humanity. But it never returns.

I rub my eyes until I start to see spots then replace my gun in its holster. My vision returns to clarity. The hell that has been following me has receded to whatever depth it calls home. I suddenly wonder, is this the hell I made for myself, or can others see the darkness, also? If others do see it, do they ignore it somehow, or do they cower away from the monsters hiding so near? I feel I'm filled with fear, but I know that the fear protects me. Sometimes I think that only myself and children truly understand the nature of the darkness, and everyone else is simply hiding in the metaphoric closet from it. Or maybe I'm going mad after all. There was something there, I have no doubt of that, but it was not a man or monster. It was a dog--yes, that's it, it was a dog.

Who do I think I'm kidding? I'm a psion, and one of the worst parts of being a psion is no one can lie to me, not even myself. There is something around me, but I cannot do a damn thing about it. I can take comfort in the idea that two-thirds of the time an entity that you can't feel can't feel you, either. We are at an impasse until it takes on a solid form so I can fight it.. Until that comes to pass, there is only one thing left to do--wait....

***

Joe shuts the book he has been writing in, he stands up and looks to Amarant. "I need a dink." Joe leaves the library. He walks down the hall to a nearby door in the underground structure. Joe folds his arms and taps his cane to the wall as he is thinking. 'something about all of his isn't sitting right with me, life can't simply be wished into existence by man can it? If man had the power to give and take away life then what need is there for gods and devils?'

The door is opened by an old Jamaican man in a leopard spotted cloak and fez, the Jamaican holds out his arms in a smile and laugh "Josephus!"

Joe smiles to his companion "Lincoln." Joe takes the man in a hug "How long have we know each other Lincoln?"

Galard pats Joe on the back "A life time, not a day less."

Joe nods "Lincoln, I need an ear to bend."

Lincoln waves Joe into his den, "you are in luck, I have two of them and they both still work, most of the time."

Joe steps into Lincoln's room "I stumbled on something I have never seen before and I need advice."

Lincoln pours a cup of tea as they start talking "that is becoming an ever-rarer a phenomenon. As we age the world keeps becoming smaller, or maybe we keep getting larger."

Joe explains "I met a girl today..."

Lincoln asks "is she your type?"

Joe laughs with his friend "I tend to like older girls."

Lincoln hands Joe a cup "So then what is on your mind dear friend?"

"Did you know Sato?" Joe request

"I have seen his journals, he took the Karingson job from me." Lincoln expresses

"then you know Marks Karingson." Joe extrapolates

"Yes."

Joe takes a sip from his cup "what where your feelings about him, anything that didn't make it to the archive?"

Lincoln chuckles "The man was crazy like a cat with a cucumber. But he was not a leir, not a crook. He was a warrior through and through." It is clear to Joe that Lincoln has some level of affection for Marks

Joe cuts to the chase of his though process "How much human blood do you need to have before you are human?"

Lincoln senses there is something strange about the question. There are details that Joe is leaving out. This stamen will be used to fill in the gap in more than one inquiry Lincoln will not let Joe play games with him "Do not talk to me like you think I am stupid, you know epistemology as well as I do, your statement is Mu."

Joe lowers his head with a smile and a nod "you are right, let me tell you more, Marks created something, something almost human but not quite..." Joe trust Lincoln, the two have fought side by side, the two have been friends for generations. Lincoln folds his hand in front of his face and leans onto the table tacking in everything joe has to say. The two men will spend the rest of the night sitting together drinking tea and determining the fate of Tail and her kin.

Chapter 7 The Slayer part 1

My eyes are heavy; I've been lying face-down in the dirt for hours. I check my watch. It's almost 9 AM. I can hear a car coming down the dirt road to the southeast of me, so I turn the rifle, stare down the scope. It's Moses, the strange Spanish Italian dwarf I met last night. He stops his car out in front of the door and makes his way for the Gekks brothers' car. He opens the trunk then hops up and down approvingly. Then he looks at the hotdog taco truck. He reads the trailer number and I feel him thinking, They're early.

There is something strange about Moses, but I can't figure it out yet. He knows all too much. He pounds on the door to the bar, then yells through it to the patron. A minute later, an arrow flies through the roof, landing at Moses's feet. There's a key ring attached. Moses receives his instructions through the door, then takes the keys to the truck owned by David Lay, or El Driver, if that's more correct. He pulls the truck up to the door, attaches tow cable, and turns on the crane. There's a moment of struggle, but then the door bends and quickly falls, revealing a crowd of men and women.

Snake is the first out the door. I can feel that his soul is in turmoil; he fights with himself. Though he is good, he can seem to only to do bad; greed, lust, and pride cloud his vision and darken his spirit. His aura flickers gray to signal to me his inner conflict.

He yells harshly at Moses, but quickly calms before Moses's charming demeanor.

Next is David Lay along with Mattimeto Whitewolf. David Lay wastes no time; he whispers something into Moses's ear then briskly climbs into the truck. He offers a meaningful glance to the party, but no one notices. Whitewolf follows Lay into the cab, then they are off onto the road again with the sun at their back. David Lay glows a pale blue. He hides his power; he hides everything and lives with honor and grief as his dance partners. Mattimeto burns more brightly than any spirit I've seen before. I can't decide what to make of him.

The next two I don't recognize--it's an old man in a white polo shirt and tan slacks, a cowboy hat, and snakeskin boots carrying a child, female, Caucasian, roughly ten years of age. The old man has been touched by evil, I can see that clearly, but the evil can find no home in his heart and is burning away within his pure, loving convictions. The child is an innocent aware of the evil, but untouchable by it. Or is she? I see something, something like a psionic insect asleep under her skin, powerless, dormant, but still alive, waiting, maturing.

Time is running out. My evacuation should be here soon; I have to head inside. I make my way around one side, staying low to the ground, out of sight. Four more lone warriors come out at the end, practically holding each other upright. They are three men and a woman: Charlie Belmond, Mohamed Quinn, Lucia Wingate, and Larry Gekks. Charlie Belmond seems brave and noble; he flares with a bluish white energy in an almost electric fashion. Mohamed Quinn has a green glow; he is spirited, but his powers have been fading away for years. Lucia Wingate has yet to awaken as a full-fledged warrior like me, but I feel the gift in her. Given a year or two more, she'll be ready to fight. With any luck, she'll never have to.

Larry makes me nervous. He is changing; he is corrupted. Alien blood flows through him and has changed his body already, but his mind is uninfected as of yet. I slip in through the door behind them. I stretch out with my mind and grab Larry's shoulder. I

don't know why, but I feel inclined to let Larry see me. He looks at me, we lock eyes, and I nod my head slowly. He knows I know who he is, and I want him to know that after I'm done here, I'll be looking for him. It's like destiny's cold hand has pushed us to meet. I only wish things were clearer--are we to fight, or are we to be friends? Or maybe the destiny is his, and I'm standing in his way. Enough is enough, he knows I'm here, and now I'm just dillydallying.

***

I grab my bag and step inside. It's a terrible mess. The ground is littered with the corpses of seemingly hundreds of men and women. Impalement, crucifixion, decapitation, bludgeoning, and shooting victims surround me. I've never seen such a horrifying sight as what lies before me. I feel myself tremble in excitement for a moment. By the looks of things, I missed the blunt of the party. So I dig through my bag, looking for only the fastest to draw and most versatile tools. Probably won't need the machine gun, maybe the tactical shotgun. Come to think of it, underground a grenade is a bad idea. Best stick with my good old .44 mag and this blade; I'll hide them both in my coat for now.

I extend my psionic influence again. I read the impressions left lingering in the air to take in the story thus far. As I do so, my danger sense tells me I'm not alone; there are two others with me. The stronger is a high Baatezu. "I think I know exactly who that is," I say aloud. And now that I have a lock on him, his mind control powers are meaningless. The other is a mid-level undead called a Juju, not much more than a ghoul, but smart enough to use tools and simple weapons; a straggler, I guess?

The Juju jumps out from beneath an overturned table. It produces a machete. Ironically, it's the one the cleric had lost. It howls gustily, swinging the big knife. I duck and roll, unsheathing a gladius from my coat, a single-edged short sword with a short hand guard, the preferred sword of Roman cage fighters. The Juju charges, I block with the back of my blade. It swings downward furiously three times, and three times I block and push against it. The fourth time I twist the blade, forcing the creature to kneel, and with one upward slash I've claimed its head.

I walk around the top floor--the stage, the bathroom, and the bar, taking in the sights, for what they're worth, then it's down to the trial of nightmares. My stalker remains as a shadow, but I know he's there, and now he won't sneak up on me again.

The blood on the ground turned half to jell squishes under my feet the most power vision I would see tonight starts to play out behind my eyes. Every drop of blood has a story to tell. Last night was a night like no other that came before. But one that would become a story repeated a dozen time in the coming years

Act 2 Echoes

Chapter 8 Struggle and Aftermath

Jacob stares at his old, wrinkled face in the rest stop bathroom. The glass is filthy, and smoke stains cover it and everything in sight. Once a faithful servant of God, he is now just a miserable old man looking for a new life for himself and his girls--Ashley, age ten, and Lizzet, age fourteen. Jacob took what little money his church was willing to give him upon retirement and used it to purchase a station wagon. It was about twenty years old and looked like it might shake to pieces at any moment, but the price was right.

Jacob washes his face and tries to shake off his disgust at the putrid scent of the liquid waste splattered upon the stone floor. They have been driving for several days. They left from Oregon on a Friday and haven't seen a proper bed or clean bath since. The last road sign read, "Old Silent Hill 20 miles, Bram County 30 miles, Navu 35 miles."

"How does a man who hasn't questioned himself in fifty years wake up one morning and decide he no longer has the strength to keep serving his god?" Jacob asks himself. "Well, no sense in waiting around here any longer. The sooner we reach Maine, the better." With heavy feet and a tired heart, Jacob makes his way back to the car, shaking his hands dry on the way. He sighs heavily, knowing he has no real direction or any_real_ destination. As a boy, he'd always walked into the sunset like a great Western hero. Now, as a man with no family left aside from his children, he is retracing his steps one last time in hopes of a new beginning.

His children wait patiently for him. Ashley smiles as she awakens in the back seat. "Where are we, Dad?" she asks.

"We are still a long way from home," he answers as he hits the roof of the car with one hand, mustering up a small amount of enthusiasm.

Only an hour after getting back on the road, the car starts to make a strange sound. It is an odd round of clicks and clanks. Shortly thereafter, the car coasts to a stop. The engine revs as if it wants to run, but the wheels just won't rotate. Lizzet looks at her father from the passenger seat. "Why are we stopped?" she asks, a hard look of confusion on her face.

Jacob takes his hat off and scratches at his chest and then his chin, staring straight ahead with a baffled look on his face. Finally he responds, "I don't know." He waits a moment, then he tries to turn over the engine again, but there's only a wet, flopping sound followed by the feeble click of the starter.

"Let me take a look." Jacob gets out and opens the hood of the car. He stares into the steaming, hissing mess and can think of nothing to say but, "Well ... shit."

Jacob has worked on a handful engines in his life. He can change his own oil, clean his sparks, and he knows what a leaking gas line looks like, but this is like nothing that he has seen before. He retrieves a rag from the back seat and then reaches into the engine, removing half of the broken transmission casing. "I think we're going for a walk," he states as he examines the oily pieces of steel. "There was some sort of buffet or something back that way a handful of miles, I think. If we start walking now, we'll be there around sunset. We can call for a tow from there."

Lizzet, the older of the girls, speaks up. "Dad, you can't walk that far. Can't we wait for someone to drive by and pick us up?"

"I don't think I've seen another motorist in over an hour," he says, cracking his neck and stretching out his aged but sturdy form. Lances Jacob is an old, heavy man with weathered features; he has put on a good amount of weight in recent years, giving him a husky look, but he's still healthy enough. Today he has chosen to sport a tan polo shirt and matching canvas pants with his dust bowler cowboy hat and snakeskin boots. He takes his spectacles off and wipes his face, thinking about the long task at hand.

It takes some convincing, but he and his children soon begin walking back up the highway in the treacherous summer heat. When you're young, five miles isn't too far a distance. But when you reach sixty or so, every mile is trying on the bones.

The establishment they eventually reach is a strange-looking place. Neon lights illuminate the Old West-style façade, and a bizarre group of vehicles wait out front--some bikes, an eighteen-wheeler, a sports car, and an old bus like the kind Western bands like to use. The name of the unwholesome place is Lamia's Back. There's a picture of a serpentine woman with her ass up in the air looming above the door, which is fifteen feet tall and made of cold steel. Inside, a roguish-looking man greets them. The walls are gray as stone, and the stink of sex and liquor runs strong on the breeze around the joint.

It is a rowdy place. There is a live band playing behind a chicken-wire gate, and a powerful-looking colored man with a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his exposed chest looms near the entrance. He gives the three of them a dirty look as they make their way to a table to await hot food and any leads to assistance with their little problem they may find. It appears that the Lamia's Back is a nightclub of some sort, as shortly after they take their seats, a woman takes the stage and begins an erotic dance.

I can't believe I'm here, and seeing this, Jacob thinks, sitting in a bar with my children watching a woman undress in front of a bunch of inebrieties. The scene is quickly broken, however, when a pair of slick-looking men in silk suits stand up and a fight breaks out between them and the man that was at the door. Screams of gunshots shatter the air. No more than a few seconds later, the dancing woman morphs into a snake-tailed beast and sinks her fangs into one of the suited men. Soon all hell breaks loose as the floor breaks open and the room fills with animated corpses.

Fighting breaks out all around Jacob where he stands in shock. There's an explosion to his left. Blood starts to spill from the sprinklers, and there is a scream from one of Jacob's girls as a hissing bark comes from his right, followed by the sound of twisting metal.

Jacob spins to catch a glimpse of two of the monsters careening away with his children. The first abomination is a fly-like man, hunched over with elongated traits and oily skin. The other, a rickety, aged corpse, fades into the murky depths of the bar to the point where the former holy man can only make out an indiscrete shape. He is forced to quickly shake himself awake and accept what he is now seeing. He rips a leg from his chair and begins his struggle with the armies of the damned.

Jacob's eyes burn with a divine rage that only a parent could understand. He squares himself off with one of the devils surrounding him, tightening his grip on his pseudo mace. He pulls back and takes his first swing furiously, anger giving him strength well beyond that which a man of his age should have. The force of the blow flings the befouled creature away, toppling two more in the process.

Heart filled with spite, Jacob drives the club into another's gut then across its face, driving it to the ground. Struggling to hold on to his humanity, he whispers a prayer to himself. Consumed by a sort of blood frenzy, he swings his club again and again into swine after swine, shattering their bodies with most every attack, clearing waves of his prey as he tries to catch a glimpse of his children in the mass carnage. Monster after monster falls beneath his fury until the waves thin out and he finds that his girls are nowhere in sight.

Grief taking over for a moment, Jacob looks to one of his fallen nemeses and strikes it several more times until his club breaks, cracked beyond the point of usefulness, at which time Jacob discards it and spits on the corpse.

***

"Larry," Snake yells, "I need you!"

As Snake kicks the serpent woman's body off of Larry, one of the undead monsters' leaps at him. Snake crosses his arms to catch it against his chest then places his gun under its chin and blows a hole through its head. He pushes the limp body off of himself, then he shoots the next nearest one a number of times.

Snake reloads his gun and then pistol-whips yet another attacker away. He swoops down, grabs Larry's revolver, and begins pissing lead over the battlefield round after round fired in haphazard rage. Snake is filled with fire, he demonstrates skill and focus well beyond that which would be expected from a drunk ruffian. Three shots and the first drops, two more the next, an entire clip and another falls. With no need for conservation, Snake hovers over Larry, passionately protecting his brother. He mercilessly shoots every rotting corpse to come within six feet of them until he runs out of ammunition and is forced to pick up a chair and break it over the last one's skull he can see, two bits of broken chair I his fist link hon-bo's.

***

One shot, one kill, El thinks to himself as he's blowing both heads off the bartender with a single bullet from his Jackal. Never be wasteful. Every movement must count. Nothing seems to escape El's eagle eyes. Zombies start leaping over the bar at him. El grabs the nearest one, bends it over the bar, El grabs a steak knife from the table alongside him and drives into unearthly things chest. He backhands the second to spin it around, grabs its head with both hands, and cracks its neck. The third comer he round kicks into the wine rack, impaling it with a second kick. El is in artist in hand to hand combat, tampered in the fire of war, his steal tested in the trenches of Vietnam. El knows what he can do and what his opponents cannot, this wisdom leaves him with no fear weather fighting one fowl or fifteen.

El hears a girl scream, turns toward the sound and, spotting a monster carrying a young girl, raises his Jackal to attempt to snipe the fly-man. Just in time he spots his partner. "Lacerti," El says over the ruckus, nodding at him. Lacerti nods in return and continues his pursuit of the monster and girl. El leaps back over the bar and tries to find a clean shot, but instead he is forced to shoot the eyes out of three other, closer zombies. "Bugger." He whispers knowing that he has missed his opportunity to safely lay chase himself.

This clears a path to the pool table on the other hand, where El grabs a cue. A staff isn't El's proffered weapon, but it offers speed and reach, it is light weight and easy to control, as room to jump and dodge becomes limited a more maneuverable tool can offer an edge.

Meanwhile, Lacerti runs at the door to save the girl, but he is met instead with an unmovable object as the iron door slams on him. Lacerti looks to El, disappointed. El catches the glance and nods in understanding. Nothing Lacerti can do now but resume his primary objective of protecting El--as if either of them needed protection. Lacerti picks up two nearby zombies and smashes them against one another in a maneuver sometime called 'the coconut' before commencing to pound them into the group into submission with his bare hands. El cracks his erstwhile staff over one foe's head and stabs another with the pointy end of one half. He swings the bo between two with a clean strike to one and a rebound to topple thee other before him and finally smoothly smashes another, crushing its neck.

***

Having little experience fighting, Trash grabs a bar stool and, like a lion tamer, thrusts it at a group of the undead. One of the corpses grabs the stool away, but Spooky shatters a beer bottle over its head. "Eat shit, motherfucker!" Spooky shouts at the fallen monster. Undead gather before them, growling and barking like ribbed beasts. Spooky lights a new cigarette on a candle and raises his defenses.

Trash looks up at him. "Think that will work four more times?" She turns her attention back on the in-closing swarms. She nimbly leaps away as the creatures start diving at them. One grabs Spooky's leg and he brings his foot up and stomps on its head, collapsing its skull.

"What do you say we find out?" Spooky says through his teeth as he dances around the monsters.

The two of them practically run circles around the zombies until they knock themselves out. "Good thing they're not smart," Trash heckles.

Spooky has never fired a gun, he has trained in knife fighting and 'Khally-style stick-fighting' but in the end Spooky only has one worthwhile weapon, his mitts. A hand grabs spooky from behind, Spooky spins into a crashing elbow strike then reverses into a rising strike, hammer hand and cannon punch and he has crushed an attacker.

Trash and Spooky stand but to but to protect each other. The next wave move in for an attack, Trash produces a folding knife from her jean pocket, she spines the knife holding it to the back of her arm. "you know. I wish I had a gun right now." A monster steps up to grab Trash, Trash pulls it's hear back and drives her knife up into its chin.

Another jumps at Spooky, spooky lets himself get grabbed. If he knows where his enemies' hands are he knows where their body is, he gooseneck grapples in a counter grab, he pulls the monster forward into a knee strike then a dropping elbow, he grips t by the head spinning it around and pushes it into one of the others to slow there advance. The old boxer and the young punk-rocker making a half way decent par once they have their footing.

***

In those few minutes, which felt like hours, the various groups fell the beasts. Snake grabs Larry's arms and pulls him to his feet. "That bitch broke my damn shoulder," Larry curses.

"It's not a bitch," Snake says, pointing at her, "it's a ..." He pauses as he looks at it. "nope, you're right. It's a snake bitch."

"I don't care what it is. Ten minutes ago I was jacking off to it; now I'm covered in blood, and piss, I can't move my arm," Larry speaks in a fluster.

"Your shoulder's not broken." Snake points out

"How do you know?" Larry argues. "Are you the doc now?"

"Can you move it?" Snake asks, raising his voice slightly.

"Yes."

"Then it's not broken." Snake swoops down and grabs Larry's glasses. "What is this?" Snake holds them out to their owner.

"I ... I ... don't know," Larry stutters.

"Do you know why you don't know?" Snake asks, leaning into him.

"Because I dropped my glasses and I can't see."

"I know. I'm holding them."

"Give them back, please," Larry says.

"I can't," Snake protests, "they're broken."

"OK, I'll go get the other pair from the car."

"No."

"Why not? I can't fucking see!"

"You broke that pair while we were in Chicago," Snake explains.

Larry leans in, aggravated. "Then why didn't we fix them in Chicago?"

"We were kind of on a time limit." Snake grabs his shoulders.

"Fuck!" Larry yells.

"Stop shouting." Snake pokes his brother's nose, a friendly gesture that he does to settle Larry down.

"OK," Larry says, relenting.

"I'll go get someone to bandage that shoulder up." Snake lets go of him. "Take off your coat."

Larry nods, takes his coat off, and unbuttons his shirt. He rubs his arm and notices that it's swollen and bleeding a yellowish green color, like a burn sometimes would.

Trash and Spooky join up with El and Lacerti. "What the fuck just happened?" Trash asks, jumping up and down, both scared and excited. Spooky shakes his head. "Those things sure weren't human." "Where are Pistol and the others?" Trash orders.

"Quiet." El looks around, noticing that something's not quite right--other than the obvious. El and Lacerti have both seen war, they have both seen fighting, and they both know death. But the stillness, the silence, and the lack of blood on the ground hint at something. Freshly dead bodies don't look like that. El kneels down to examine one closer. He states calmly, "I think they're playing possum on us."

***

Jacob walks toward Snake and Larry. He asks, "Is that man hurt?" Snake

points aggressively and says, "Are you a fucking doctor?"

Jacob shakes his head. "No, I'm a fucking priest."

Snake shakes his head in disappointment and covers his eyes with one hand, then asks, "The faggot kind I assume."

"Nope." Jacob boldly stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Snake. "I'm the real thing, a mean mother-fucking servant of god."

"Listen, Father," Snake starts, "my brother got bit. It looks pretty bad to me." Snake sounds scared, but he is putting on a strong face.

"What is his name?" Jacob asks.

"Larry."

"And yours?"

"Snake."

"Then let's take a look." Jacob kneels in front of Larry, who's clutching at his arm in agony. Jacob pulls Larry's shirt out of the way and examines the wound. He looks at the serpent woman on the ground. Like a doctor, he pulls up Larry's lip and then looks at one of his eyes. The holy man sighs a familiar sigh that his children know can mean a variety of things, none of them pleasant. "Is that what bit you?" Jacob asks Larry.

Larry nods, looking drunk with pain.

Snake looks at Jacob with concern. "What do you think?"

"It's a puncture wound, so it's going bleed like hell." Jacob looks at the snake woman again. "I once fell in a whole damn nest of snakes like that one; they ripped up my arms and legs really good. And do you know what my old lady did to make the swelling stop and bleeding stop?" Jacob asks. He explains, "She poured vinegar all over the bites. Made the most rank smell I have ever known, but it ate the venom right out of me. Go find me some, and I'll fix up your brother in a jiffy."

Snake nods, and for the first time in a long time he feels gratitude toward anyone. "Snake," Jacob yells as he is walking away.

"Yes, Father?"

"There is one more thing I need. I came in here with my children, and I think they're still here somewhere. After I help you, I want you to help me," Jacob pleads.

Snake nods. "I will, Father."

"Lances, my name is Lances," Jacob calls out.

Snake nods and offers a smug look. "All right, Lances."

***

Down in the basement, Pistol calls out to the child he rescued, thinking, What the hell is a ten-year-old girl doing in a sleazy night club like this? The girl crawls out from under a pile of potato bags. Pistol kneels. "Hey, honey, how are you?" He helps her to her feet.

She smiles. "Good, thank you."

"What is your name?" Pistol asks, in his kiddy voice again.

"Ashley," she responds, "how about you?"

He starts to answer, "Pistol," but stops himself, instead saying, "Name's Charlie. It's a little scary down here." Pistol looks around, making note of the heavy-looking medieval construction.

"What happened to your face?" Ashley asks innocently, feeling his scars.

Pistol shrugs. "Some of it is my bike, some I got fighting. Almost all of it is because I did things I should've known not to do."

"If you knew not to do it, why did you?" she asks, not understanding his answer. The man takes a deep breath and looks to the roof trying to form a reply. "I guess I wanted to know what would happen, or maybe I thought it would be fun." Pistol stands and begins pacing about. The room is two times the size of the upstairs, with a dozen doors and many candle-stands all around. There must be a hundred unopened boxes lying about as well.

"Charlie," Ashley pats his back, "I heard the man in the hall call you Belmond. Do you know him?"

Pistol thinks back to something his grandfather told him. "No," he begins, "but he knows me."

"How?"

"It's a bit of a story, but here goes," Pistol says. "My family's a bunch of Turks, formerly knights in the Ottoman Empire of the fourth century. Belmond led the Dracul Army, mostly Knights under the control of the church, alongside a man named Sir Nithies Clever. At that time in history, Turkey was a buffer zone basically being passed between all the kings of Europe. The Turks got pissed and asked us Dracul to protect Turkey under the offices of Her Holy Mother the Church. But as history tells, Mother Church is paranoid and greedy. So instead of watching the borders, we hunted the enemies of Christ, like the paladins in times before us.

"My ancestors were damn good at it. On one unforgiving hunt, Belmond returned home to find his sister missing. He went to Nithies for guidance. Nithies sent him on a witch hunt. One hag had named Nithies as a member of her covenant. With great haste, Belmond searched out the Dracul for confirmation of this. The devil himself seemed to have infiltrated their ranks. Nithies admitted he was a practitioner of black magic, then he returned Belmond's hexed sister to him. Nithies had signed a declaration of war on God for killing his wife. Belmond, it was told to me, had hexed himself after this betrayal, and with an angel and a demon as his witnesses announced that he and all his seed would be cursed to hunt the night against endless beasts that shall know his name until the last befouled Dracul burns in the abyss. The angel handed him this whip--" Pistol points to his whip--"saying, 'This will be your blessing,' while the demon took his hand and said, 'This will be your curse.'" Finally Pistol stops, finishing his tale.

"Is Nithies still around?" Ashley asks.

"If he is, he must be the most powerful undead around by now." Pistol shudders.

"That's not a very nice story to tell a little boy," Ashley adds.

Pistol thinks for a moment. "I was twenty-five before my granddad told me that. Even then, I figured it was malarkey," he explains.

***

Up top, Trash is walking from side to side, frustrated, rambling on and on about the missing bikers. Snake lobs a bottle of rubbing alcohol to Jacob. "Lances," he calls, "will that work?" Jacob nods baffled, and seemingly unaware of his surroundings.

Snake points around authoritatively and addresses the group, taking charge.

"Attention, if you will." He points around at everyone as he sits atop the serving station. "That over there is my boy Lances. He is a badass motherfucker." He points two fingers at Jacob as Jacob's cleaning out Larry's wounds. "The lot of us dirtbags are going to help

him find his kids, then we'll get the hell out of here. You all got that?"

El looks up. "It's not happening."

Snake stands, pissed off. "Why not, baldly?"

El gets up defensively and explains calmly, a hint of defiance in his voice. "Number one," he nods to the door, "that is a fourteen-inch cold iron door with a six-inch crossbar for a total of twenty inches of metal to try to break through. That will require a minimum of three thousand pounds of pressure to break open. Ten of him couldn't match that," he concludes, nodding to Lacerti.

"Then we can punch out the wall," Snake commands.

"Not likely," El continues, "the cubical volume of this room is 15 percent less than its circumference, meaning that the walls are thirty-six inches deep, and the building has all-granite exterior walls."

"So what?" Snake asks ignorantly.

"Means we couldn't crack it with anything less than dynamite," El educates him.

Larry laughs. "Burn!"

"Second," El goes on, "I don't think I heard you say please."

"Burned! You are the insult master!" Larry calls out playfully.

Snake looks like he's been slapped. "Are you calling me stupid?"

El confronts Snake. "Open your ears; that is not the statement I made is it?" He walks back over to the monster he'd knelt by before. "Third," he says as the beast howls and the rest of the undead creatures in the place all come back to life, "they likely wouldn't let us if we could." El looks down as the beast on the floor reaches for him. "Welcome back," he says, driving his fist into its mouth, shattering its jaw, nose, and skull against the concrete.

Trash screams and the group circles the wagons, moving to stand around one another defensively. "Snake," Larry utters, sounding upset, "where is my gun?" The monsters start to loom over the group. "I don't think it matters."

"Why?"

"We're out of ammo."

Spooky yells, "Fuck this shit! Backstage, ya'll!" The black man leads the way behind the stage and into the storage closet. El and Lacerti cover the way, slugging monsters left and right consecutively before barricading themselves in.

Chapter 9 The Stone-faced Ghost

El and Lacerti smash open boxes in the storeroom with great proficiency, digging around but finding only mountains of useless stuff like books, soap products, and car parts. One sad, lonely Trash watches them with some interest. Snake, Jacob, and Spooky argue amongst themselves, trying to grasp the situation, while Larry sets himself unenthusiastically.

Trash approaches El. "You don't talk much, do you?" she says in a weary tone.

"No," El answers simply, focused on his work. "Talk is meaningless."

"So what is important then?"

"The SOP." El pulls a stuffed animal from a box and hands it to her after staring at it for a moment.

"SOP? What's that?"

"The standard operational procedures." El picks up a hunter's bow and nods approvingly.

"Are you a soldier?" Trash asks, trying to understand the enigmatic man.

"I am Incognito, a ghost. I have no birth certificate, no social security number, no credit cards or bank accounts. My image is sculpted to leave no impression. I am Fugowy {a tern his father used to describe the unseen}," El explains.

"How can that happen to someone?"

"I was my father's shadow. I walked his walk, and I learned to talk his talk. His father was the same to him."

"You must have really loved your father."

El stops working for a moment. You're a real annoyance, you know that? he thinks to himself, remembering his father. In the course of his father's work as an old-world gangster, El remembers seeing men tortured. Here, in the situation they are in, he is reminded of the constant stream of shady company and the cold, calculated deals that accompanied his father, but most importantly, he is reminded of the rules.

"I hated him, and loved my mother. My father didn't believe in normal things, like relationships, friends, toys. He had only two loves in the world, and it wasn't my mother or me." El gets lost in his own mind. "My father's dance partners were his work and his partner. He taught me everything; his work, his fighting skill, how to drive, and the value of faith. There are only two things you can trust in life--yourself and your shotgun." El looks at Lacerti. "Any man alone is a man simply waiting for death, but two with absolute trust can fend off most any enemy."

Trash smiles lustfully. "You're cute," she says, grinning.

Irritated by the young woman's attention, El slams down a box lid and pivots to face her. Pointing sternly he says, "You are a teenager suffering from Cinderella syndrome, which is sad, but is fact for one in fifty women. I have my share of difficulties in life and one of them is solitude, but I can't imagine your pain, and I would enjoy you not dragging me into your private hell."

"Cinderella syndrome?" Trash asks, puzzled.

"The inability to control sexual urges or command one's mating drive."

Trash seems cut by El's words. She crosses the room to isolate herself rather than listen to further verbal abuse. El watches as Lacerti puts a comforting hand on Trash's shoulder as she passes, and she pats his hand as she continues on her way. El shoots Lacerti a cool glance as if to remind him of the mission. Lacerti shakes his head disapprovingly before the men continue to work in silence.

After finishing his search, El makes his way to Lacerti's side. "What do you have?"

Lacerti draws two custom Blacktails with folding blade attachments, fully loaded with fifteen rounds each, pointing to a box labeled "Andy's Guns and survivor gear." El nods his approval.

The bald man opens the box and looks to the group. "Who has combat training amongst you?" he demands as he starts to distribute a small arsenal. Larry and Snake are provided with ammo to reload their guns, El gives Trash and Spooky a pair of 9-millimeters, and Jacob is provided with a pump-action shotgun and half a box of shells.

***

In the basement, Pistol cracks open a door. His eyes grow wide as he catches a glimpse of the winged wolf from upstairs talking with a snake woman and a shadowy man with purple eyes and raven black hair dressed in a trench coat. Pistol hides around the corner, pushing Ashley behind him and barring her with his whip. The Lamia speaks. "The men upstairs are hunters." "I figured," the Wolfin responds.

"They have a cleric."

"I saw that."

"And the Belmond."

"I know."

"We're fucked."

The shadowy man smiles sinisterly. "The last child of Belmond," he chuckles. "Saves me the trouble of looking for him."

The Lamia looks at him. "What will you do, Lord Cravixs?"

"If he is as proud as his ancestors, he will burn with them." Cravixs steps into darkness, becoming a part of it. The Wolfin sniffs the air, then starts to move to the door.

Pistol bites his lip. The Wolfin steps into the hall, following the scent.

"Hi," Pistol laughs nervously as the wolf creature comes into view. It howls to get the attention of the other monsters. Pistol coldcocks him, toppling the beast. He picks up Ashley and runs away, flying up the steps to the bar only to find it riddled with monsters.

"Big mistake," he mutters.

The Wolfin has recovered and he charges around the corner, chasing Pistol and the girl. Pistol snaps his whip from side to side, clearing a path for Ashley and him to run along. The man throws Ashley onto the stage as he spins around and whips the Wolfin, creating a moon-shaped burn on its forehead. He flails the whip again, but this time the Wolfin grabs it. Pistol pulls a street fighter's knife from his belt and flings it, grazing the Wolfin's wrist. The wound causes the creature to release the whip, allowing Pistol to run onto the stage after Ashley. The ghouls give chase after them as well.

Ashley and Pistol attempt to run backstage, but the door is jammed. Thinking quickly, Pistol decides to snap his whip at the catwalk ladder and drag it into reach. He pushes Ashley up the ladder and starts to climb himself. The Wolfin leaps over the undead to reach them and Pistol, hearing him coming, hangs from the ladder upside-down by his legs. He backhands the monster, but the beast grabs him and the ladder and shakes both. As the ladder shudders and creaks, Ashley screams, nearly losing her grip. "Charlie!" she calls.

Pistol head butts the beast, dazing himself. The Wolfin slashes Pistol across the chest with sharp claws. Pistol elbows the monster's arm, buckling the joint, then looses a palm punch. The blow makes the monster lose its grip, and Pistol gives it a healthy knee to the groin. The Wolfin falls to the ground, breaking the lower part the ladder on its way. Finally, the man can spin around and continue his ascension.

Below, the mass of monsters begins tearing at the Wolfin. It bursts out of the pack and curses, "Damn Belmond!"

Pistol winks and waves at it with his whip in plain sight. "Don't look so smug; if I don't kill you, something even less human will!" the Wolfin howls.

Pistol crawls onto the catwalk and falls onto his back, panting for air. He may act unshakable, but fear and excitement will tucker one out faster than one may think. Pistol's will is strong, but so are the forces at work here. Ashley kneels over her rescuer, tucking her dress under her knees. "Charlie, are you OK?"

Pistol takes off his leather coat as he finds the strength to sit up. His arms are banged up real good, scratched and bleeding, and his shirt is half shredded from the fight. Thank God for armor, he thinks to himself. He hands his coat to Ashley and takes her arms. "Here, put it on over your dress; it's heavy and baggy. If something grabs you, it will have to eat a lot of fabric before it will find skin. Don't try to fight--run if you have to. Run till the sun is up and someone comes looking for you."

"Charlie," she says, a sad look on her face, "what's wrong?"

Honestly, he thinks, a lot is wrong, but he can't say that to this little girl. "I'm hurt," he responds. "It's not too bad, I think. But if the things down there come up here, I will fight as long as I can, and I want you to keep running until I catch up."

Pistol wipes her face as she nods, understanding that Pistol is strong, but that unlike in the stories her father would tell her, sometimes the valiant knights lack the power to overcome all evils.

Chapter 10: The Colossus from the Blights

Lacerti locks the blades down on his Blacktails. The door rattles. Someone is out there, and it sounds too small to be a zombie ... the other child? Lacerti thinks. He looks at El, and El looks back, another battle starting in his mind as he thinks, Is the value of one life worth seven? Of course it is. Lacerti nods his head to the door. El reaches for his Jackal.

"I am going to open the door; someone is out there still, and we are going to rescue them. Anyone that would like to help, it would be appreciated," El explains as he and Lacerti begin un-barricading the door.

Jacob looks stern. He nods as he grabs a machete and slices it into the crossbar of his shotgun. Snake looks to Jacob for approval then nods also. Larry stands in protest.

"Are you all nuts?" he gasps. "What if it's another monster?"

El looks at him momentarily. "What if it's a child?"

Lacerti brings up a huge foot and kicks the door out. The waiting monsters scatter in shock as the party pours onto the stage. Snake looks to El as he raises his weapon. "This already failed once," he says as he shoots two zombies in the eyes, dropping them in a much more controlled fashion than before. "The mission is search and rescue, not seek and destroy. We don't need to kill our enemies--only retrieve the target."

El spots the Wolfin having just leapt to its feet. He shoots a signal shot that rips through a zombie before hitting the Wolfin cleanly in the kidney. The monster howls in pain as it starts leaping away.

Lacerti lets out a battle cry as he springs the blades on his guns. He skillfully dances around the field, slashing at his enemies and smashing through flesh and bone without difficulty, dismembering his foes as they fall.

A zombie runs at Jacob, who holds out his cross-shaped weapon as a shield. The symbol seems to frighten the undead, and it freezes in its tracks. Jacob fires his gun, and the force of the impact flings the zombie into the air. As it falls, it burns to ash. Jacob looks for a moment at his "Holy-shotgun."

Lacerti notes the phenomenon, but without understanding. He changes his tactic to decapitation, severing heads with every opportunity as monsters jump and grab at most everyone. But the group is better prepared this time, and the party forces the undead into a retreat.

Another body jumps at Larry. He grabs it and says to it, "Snake, is that you?"

A short distance away, Snake shoots another enemy twice in the head. "No," he pauses to say.

"Well fuck off then," Larry tells the thing in front of him as he places his gun against its chin and shoots it three times. Beaten back, the beasts scatter to the winds.

***

"Hey!" Pistol yells from above, "Which one of you boys is daddy?" He pounds the handrail to get the party's attention.

Jacob looks up. "That's me."

"Great," Pistol yells down. "Big Stuff, give me a hand," he calls to Lacerti. The tall man smiles and nods, recognizing that the child is with Pistol. "Ashley, I'm going to wrap my whip around your hands and lower you down." Pistol kneels. "That man is a friend of mine. He is going to catch you. Then I'll jump." Ashley smiles and nods her head. Pistol slowly lowers Ashley to the ground as far as he can until he runs out of slack, then drops her into Lacerti's waiting arms.

Suddenly with no sign of warning the swarms of flesh eaters return, double in number. These ones are twice as aggressive as the ones before. Pistol's eyes go wide as he mumbles, "Oh shit," then dashes off to the other end of the catwalk in search of a way down.

A beast leaps at El, but the bald man slugs it, then it crunches as Lacerti slashes it with his gun-blade. Larry and Snake stand side-by-side, flashing their own blades. "Follow me, bro," Snake instructs, and they begin moving, clearing an escape route with merciless aim and skill.

Jacob holds out his shotgun-cross and begins to sidestep toward Ashley and Lacerti. The beasts thin out, letting him pass. One brazen monster charges him, ignoring the pain that staring at the cross induces. Jacob pulls back his weapon, draws the knife, and strikes a deadly blow across the monster's torso. The cross now broken, though, half a dozen monsters rush him simultaneously. Jacob shouts a battle cry as he lets a raging halo of slugs fill the air and then starts furiously slashing his way through the hellspawn.

But Jacob seems to weaken, and suddenly he stops in mid-swing and drops his knife. He moans as he grabs at his chest. Time seems to stop as both the beasts and the men look to see what has happened. The last of his strength nearly gone, Jacob closes his eyes and falls to his knees.

"Lances!" Snake yells. He turns around and recommences combat by unloading the rest of his clip into one of the beasts facing Jacob.

El glances over as swings around a monster to break its neck. "On your feet, old man," he whispers. "It's too early for you to die." Lacerti howls as he cuts his way to Jacob.

"Charlie!" Ashley calls. "Help us!" Ashley runs to her father, shoving several monsters out of her way. Trash runs at her to stop Ashley from rushing into the mist.

"Stop!" Trash orders. Ashley begins crying as her father falls forward onto one hand. Spooky shoulder rushes two zombies away as he shelters the two girls.

Pistol watches the chaos below. "Fuck," he thinks aloud, finding no easy route down to ground level. "Tally ho!" he yells, gallantly leaping from the catwalk to Jacob's aid, playing the role of Ashley's white knight. He lands on two monsters, seemingly crushing them.

El points to Jacob and commands, "Pick him up." On cue, Lacerti tosses both Ashley and Jacob onto his back. "Fall back, double time," El orders, waving his unit onward to safety.

The group, now nine strong, fights their way past the waves of the dead. Pistol collects his whip and takes up the rear as they head to sanctuary in the storage room.

What a terrible night to have a curse, Pistol thinks as they're running. The battles have already been trying and plentiful, and the night has barely begun.

Chapter 11: The Death of a Cleric

Something is wrong, Jacob thinks as he drops his knife. My heart is pounding. I can't breathe. He looks up as he hears his friends calling him and his child cry.Everyone is fighting, as I should be. Jacob looks from side to side as he hits his knees. I hear voices, but I don't recognize them. Is it the demons that surround me? Jacob sets one hand on the ground to prop himself up.

We have won. The cleric belongs to us. The hunters are powerful as always, but we are endless, the demons taunt him in his mind. Jacob lays his other hand on the ground, and the world seems to shatter around him. The gray stage still stands, the red curtains, the cool stone floor, dozens of tables. But now he is alone aside from the sound of crows cooing overhead; the crows flutter about. The pain has stopped, along with nearly all feeling.

The giant metallic doors seem to crack open ever so slightly. The birds fly about, sending a mess of feathers into the air as a white light bathes the room. Stunned by confusion, Jacob finds his feet. He breathes heavily, moving for the open door. The light swallows him as he steps into it.

Slowly Jacob's eyes adjust to the light. A thunderous wind blows across the scorched, red earth. Flames roll off the ground carried by the hurricane-like wind. Earth and sky alike loom in a crimson light, the moon itself dark as autumn silk. Jacob shakes his head in disbelief. Faceless life-forms begin crawling from the hundreds of cars outside the bar. "No!" Jacob yells over the wind. "No! This cannot be!"

The earth seems to sit still as a new, chillingly soft voice comes to be heard. "Ooh, but it is Lances Jacob." The man with the voice of the devil steps into view. His face is like a saint compared to the demons snarling and barking around them like animals. His black robe and hair fly with the wind as a murder of crows pool together to form his body, pearl-white flesh, and flowing garments.

"Diablo?" Jacob whispers.

The mysterious man grins. "No, I am no simple legion of hell." His deep purple eyes narrow, staring into Jacob's soul grabbing at it. The dark stranger pulls his arm into his own body and a chain appears connecting Jacob's chest to the stranger's hand. "Bow before me, Father," he calls, "and know that I am your lord god."

With a jerk of the chain, Jacob finds himself on all fours. Who is this man? What sort of devil is he?

_ _"No!" Jacob yells, grabbing the chain that protrudes from his chest. "I will not let this be!" Jacob finds the courage to stand defiantly. "I, Father Lances Jacob, will bow to only one God." Jacob begins a tug-of-war for his very soul against the monstrosity standing before him.

"Ambulatio lenisly etenim unis hadere minime unde domare dormire!" Jacob begins to recite prayers in Latin.

Laughing in amusement Crow calls out "now this is what I want from humanity, after all you were made in my image. Tall, Beautiful, powerful, no fear, no remorse, your every breath spits valor, rebellion your native talk!" The monstrous man echoes him in English and continues, "There is none greater in this house than I, neither hath he kept anything from me but thee. How then can one do this wickedness?"

Jacob begins a new line: "Esse fortis penes deus pulvis summa!"

_ _ The monster interrupts again, "Put on the whole armor of God that one may stand against the wiles of the satan the apposed."

Jacob begins, "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of darkness!"

The stranger continues," Against the spirits of wickedness on high ..."

"... Wherefore I take onto me the whole armor of God, that I may withstand evil this day and having done all to stand!"

"The breastplate of righteousness ..."

"... My shield of faith!"

"Take the helmet of salvation ..."

"... And I draw onto you the Sword of spirit that is the word of God!" Jacob gathers his strength, "For I am strong in the lord and the power of his might!" Jacob tugs back on the chain. When most would fall, Jacob has found once again the lunatic strength with which to do battle. "Speak your name, devil, that I may smite ye in the name of the lord!"

Though only feet away, the howling wind pulls their words away. "I know the old magic well, Father; I lived to see it written, to watch it perverted by time and raped by the ignorant. But I shall entertain you nonetheless." He laughs to himself. "I am the guardian of the black pantheon, keeper of the fallen gods. I am Cravixs! Or Adam Crow, if you would prefer my human name. The son of Yggdrasil gardener of Eden" Crow musters more strength with one hand than Jacob can find throughout his entire body.

"Give me back my children!" a stern, struggling Jacob growls through his teeth.

"Enough nonsense." Crow brings forth one hand as an unseen force ties Jacob's arms and legs to his chest. Jacob flies into Crow, who smiles malevolently placing one hand on the mortal's face and leans in close, nearly kissing the man's flesh. "Father, there are now only two things preventing me from acquiring apostolate power in this world, and you are going to give me one of them."

"You can tear me to pieces with your unholy magic, but I'll be damned if I'm going to help you." Jacob struggles in anticipation of his death. Boldly, he spits at Crow.

"Have no fear; it's not your turn to die yet," Crow says as he drops him and sits on his chest, legs straddling the man. The demon leans over him, grabbing the collar of his polo. Cravixs lays his head back then flings his head off to one side to get the hair off his face, and when he lowers it again, he bears a set of fangs. "I want the Soul Eater Charlie Belmond has, and if you can't fetch it, your lovely Ashley will." Crow smiles as he tickles the sides of Lances face. "I am a gentle god. I ask only that you worship me and I will give you riches beyond your dreams."

A look of hopelessness overtakes Jacob, but then a spark of reason comes to light.

"If you're so great, why can't you get it yourself?" Jacob taunts.

Crow grins. It seems every word that would be said, every move that would be made, has played into some larger game known only to him. "You're old, Father. You're tired, you have fought so long and hard, but if you can't serve me this one time," he sets his head on Jacob's neck and whispers to him, "after Ashley gives me Soul Eater, I will turn my magic on her to make her my youngest whore, and she will pant like a beast for me."

The feeling of hopelessness returns to Jacob as Crow lays him down. "Good God, you have no soul," Jacob says, helpless. "Do you have no shame?"

"I have many souls." Crow materializes a monster in the form of a scorpion with a humanlike face in his hand. He holds it by the tail and lowers the ghostly thing to Jacob's face, placing it upon his hairy chin. "All that I see belongs to me."

"I swear upon my last breath I will send you screaming to your masters!" Jacob yells as he struggles.

The monster bug crawls into his mouth, and he hacks and lashes in agony as it climbs deep into his body. Crow says, "I have no masters. There is only one man on Earth that can walk toe-to-toe with me, and you are not him. You see, I have turned thousands of men just like you. However strong you may be, your will simply can't defy mine. My will be done"

Jacob shakes and jumps as the evil thing latches onto his soul. Jacob's eyes widen, and his skin darkens and cracks. Crow licks Jacobs face and laughs one last time, knowing well that they will meet again, but it won't be for many years. And when they do meet, it will at last be time for him to face his twin, Sala-day-nam-O, the son of man....