

# Red Twilight

## Part 1: Dawning of Power

Dustin Feyder

with coauthor Joseph Feyder

Contents

Prologue

**Chapter 1** The von Richton Watcher's Society

**Chapter 2** The Struggle and aftermath

**Chapter 3** Stone-faced Ghost

**Chapter 4** The Colossus From the Blights

**Chapter 5** The Awakening

**Chapter 6** The Death of a Cleric

**Chapter 7** The Call to Arms

**Chapter 8** A Broken Union

**Chapter 9** Moses

**Chapter 10** Surrogate Mother

**Chapter 11** Medal of Honor

**Chapter 12** Pure Souls

**Chapter 13** Silent World and White Coat Fever

**Chapter 14** Final Combat

Chapter 15 Heroes

**Chapter 16** A Place of Rest

**Chapter 17** Hunter's Sonata

**Chapter 18** Indignation

**Chapter 19** Dread of Night

**Chapter 20** Light of Day

**Chapter 21** **The Slayer**
Epilogue

Prologue

Father Lances Jacob

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 drunks_. 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....

Snake and Larry Gekks

"Today is a good day!" Snake yells back to his younger brother, who was half asleep in the back of the Mustang. "Less than fifteen hours ago I broke a man's nose and threw thirteen gold bars into the trunk of my _new_ car." He laughed. "I wanted twenty, but that many just wouldn't fit! Woo hoo!" he yelled out, enjoying the sound of his car's hum and the feeling he got from speeding down the street at nearly ninety mph.

Snake is slick, sexy, and confident. His only weak spot is his little brother Larry Gekks. Both brothers dress in matching black silk suits with green inner linings and light red accents around the neck and cuffs. Snake has short hair and is thin. He has tattoos in the shape of flames leaping from beneath his collar running up and kissing the sides of his face. Larry has his long hair tucked into his jacket and wears wide-rimmed glasses; he is also a slightly larger build than his brother.

"Only the best is good enough for you, bro," Snake thinks aloud. "Cars, women, food, nice threads, big houses, drugs—whatever you want, I'll give it to you." Snake turns up the radio to hear Pink Floyd's '80s hit "Money." He laughs again. "Things just don't get any better, do they!" he howls wildly into the early evening sky.

In the past, Snake and Larry have been runners doing little more than moving drugs and other undesirables from one side of their home town to the other. But a year ago they were promoted to fieldwork after moving some "Ice." It turns out the two of them are pretty good at it. Ruthless and controlling, the Gekks brothers are nothing shy of a murderous pair perfect for the role.

_My brother is helpless without me_ , Snake thinks. Larry waves at him in a nonchalant fashion as he fades in and out of sleep. Snake laughs to himself, reaching back and poking at Larry

"I shot some people," Larry mumbles as he's nodding off

"Larry," Snake holds his hand back, "give me your glasses." Larry hands them over. "Killing people takes a lot out of you, doesn't it?" Larry nods as he crosses his arms in a snore. "You must have fired every bullet I gave you, didn't you, bro?" Larry snickers and nods. "It's eighty miles to the checkpoint. Our friend Moses is going to meet us in the morning." Snake stretches his arm behind him and rubs Larry's head. Larry bats at his hand like a kitten. "We will be there in less than an hour, which gives us all night to drink beers and get laid if we want to." Snake joyfully beats the wheel, cranks up his tunes, and flies down the street.

"Come one, come all! _Cum_ all you like! Come on in! The Lamia's Back is open all _night_ for all of your bordello needs. Here we have it all—fine wine, hard liquor, and all the sexy bitches a man can handle!"

The man who's voice is yelling over a loud speaker as Snake and Larry arrive is a burly Spaniard with a handlebar mustache and flannel sweater, hefty, Hoss-style bicker boots, and hair in a ponytail despite his widow's peak. "What color would you like your pussy today? Red, yellow, tan, or even black and white? But tonight only, fifty percent off your third purchase, so buy all you need, buy in excess!" The man gives a hearty laugh as he finishes his pitch.

Snake throws his arms in the air as he and Larry step out of the car. He yells out in excitement, "Sounds like my kind of place! Come on, Larry, pussy and beer is on me!" They head across the dusty parking lot, Larry following closely behind his brother.

As they approach, the man on the speaker holds out an intercepting hand. "Hey you, nice suit. A bit _too_ nice, I think. FBI maybe, or maybe Jews, or Jew feds. Man, Jews and cops, this place isn't for you."

Snake looks down at the hand on his chest. "Larry, can you believe this guy?" Snake fervently grabs the arm and runs his fist into the bouncer's face repeatedly until he falls to his knees. He then shoves the bouncer to the ground. "For your information, I'm a Mormon."

Larry looks down at the bloodied man and giggles with a hint of insanity. "Snake ... He doesn't like being touched ... He doesn't like to hear people say no to him, either." Larry stands up straight and starts to kick the life out of the bouncer, punctuating his words, "And ... neither ... do ... I!" The two of them step over the body, slam open the doors, and walk in calmly.

Snake and Larry spend almost an hour putting back drinks and laughing hysterically at one another as they talk about the past years and the work that they have done. A hot Egyptian woman takes the stage and she starts her dance. Snake slaps a pair of fifties on the stage. "So, bro, you know how to play finger cuffs?"

Larry giggles as he nods. "Let's get our dicks wet." The woman climbs down off the stage and kisses Larry deeply. They both chuckle, but their moment of fun is interrupted as the bouncer comes inside, loudly cursing at them. The man picks up a knife with equally violent intent and points it at the two brothers who just kicked him ... to death?

"Damn English bitches, I'll kill you both for what you did! Knock the god damn filling out my teeth and everything." He flings the knife from hand to hand, demonstrating his competency with a blade.

Snake points and shouts, "Larry! Shut his mouth!"

Larry nods. "Yes sir." He pulls out his revolver and shoots the man three times in the forehead. The two of them laugh as he falls over backward. A group of bikers off to one side are startled at the commotion, as are the old man next to them and the bold prick at the bar wearing a cotton suit. The bikers start to walk toward the brothers. Snake draws a gun, and Larry a second.

"Hold it right there!" Snake yells, "Sit down and enjoy your drinks, and no one has to get hurt!"

The man Larry just gunned down stands back up, taunting them. "What the fuck?" Snake whispers. The man smiles at the two thieves as his face melts into a semi-reptilian shape. "Smoke him!" Snake cries, enraged. Larry unloads his revolvers, throwing down the first gun as he starts with a second one. Snake starts to fire his gun as well.

The woman standing between the brothers lets out a diabolic hiss and throws Larry on his back. She begins dry humping him as she sinks a set of viper-like fangs into his shoulder.

Snake turns from the mob near the door to see the Egyptian woman has become the same serpentine monster shown on the sign out front. He pumps five shots into her back before she drops Larry and looks at him. She hisses again, and the floor shakes. Snake looks around and sees that the band members have all turned into monsters and that snarling wolves and walking corpses have begun to emerge from below. "Larry!" Snake calls out, "I need you!" But there's no answer. The longest night of Snake's life has begun....

El and Lacerti

It's a night like most every other. El Driver ,A name he has given himself, has company at his favorite bar—the unfriendly kind of company. He's with two men—a Cuban with his hair in cornrows and a Negro as bald as El himself. The Cuban has drawn his gun, a 13mm Jackal, limited edition. _It's a good gun; too much gun for most to handle_ , El thinks to himself while examining the firearm. He is completely without fear as he stares down the muzzle of the gun with his head held high. He adjusts the collar of his gray, economy-class suit with matching tie then crosses his arms atop the table. His eyes are deep brown and seem to hold back a fiery evil, and his imposing presence as even as he sits makes it is clear that he would stand over six feet tall.

"Mister El, your price—it's just too much!" The Cuban man yells out. "Seven thousand for only one truck?"

"Plus seven grand more on delivery, plus expenses." El's face is stone cold as always.

"What do I pay for?" the Cuban asks.

"Insurance," El responds, his voice calm and piercing. "No questions, guaranteed. I provide the tools and the training. If I fail, my replacement picks up where I left off...." El continues in his soft but demanding voice, "Before you think any more about shooting anyone, are you any good with numbers?"

"No, why?" the Cuban questions.

"It so happens to be that I'm exceptional, so let's play a game. Count with me. If you look around right now you will see there are twenty-seven men looking at you in addition to myself. Twenty-five of them are carrying guns, twenty-four of which are pointed at you. Half of those guns are 9mm Berettas, the favored gun of the CIA, a third are .45 Dostoveis, a Russian hand-cannon. The rest are United States .50 Desert Eagles, and there's one man outside with an M18 an assault rifle, which the army just started using in 2008. So tell me, how many rounds are there between them?" The Cuban tries to count on his fingers as El continues, "Its 388 not counting your Jackal. You fire, you're not getting out of here alive."

"I see your point, Mr. El." the Cuban puts his gun down and El takes it.

"I trust the package is outside, like in the deal?"

"Yes," the Cuban man responds.

"Lets all take a look."

"It's the Hot Dog Taco truck." The now nervous Cuban nods to one side as sweat starts to pour down his brow. "Is it true what people say about you?" he questions, tentatively.

"What's that?"

"That you kill people who refuse to pay you."

"What do you think?" El questions calmly and coldly as he stands, tucking the Jackal into the back of his pants. He leads the Cuban and the Negro to the front of the bar and outside to the back of the big rig.

"You never look at the package, I'm told," The Negro says as El opens the truck.

"I never look in the package," El confirms as he begins moving boxes around.

"What are you doing then?" the Cuban questions.

"Making sure that what's here is what's supposed to be here." He starts counting the boxes.

"A hundred and one boxes weighing between twenty and forty-five pounds each." He finishes his count. "There are 104 boxes here. Three of them have to go. That's the deal," El coldly explains to them.

The scared men nod, knowing their game is up. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes. Clean this mistake up and I'll give you the flight plan," El orders.

An hour later, El leads them back inside the bar after recounting the truck. He gives them the recap. "Here's the plan. I drive only by day and within the speed limit. I begin at 8:35 am stopping at 12:35 and 5:35 pm for food and drink and making no more than three stops for gas per day. At 7:45 pm I make my way to the nearest hotel, motel, rest station, or legal park and go to sleep. You reimburse me for whichever when I drop the assets in your PO box.

"This map shows my intended path. If this is not acceptable, you can set a new one. I will arrive at the rendezvous in seven to fourteen days. Once there, I will make two attempts to deliver the package, thirteen hours apart. If there is any sign of danger, I will leave and come back in one hour. If there is no one to meet me, I will take the contents and sell it myself. If I get there and there is no money or it's not the right amount, I kill the messenger, call my assistants and have them kill you, find your address book, and take the remainder of the money from your accounts. So don't mess up again."

Everyone agrees and El sets off, everything according to plan. Less than a block away, El picks up his partner, Lacerti. A giant of a man with dark red hair and a matching beard, Lacerti is reminiscent of the Vikings. He seems to stand over eight feet tall and has a highly trim, but muscular, physique.

The drive from Florida to Mexico is long and unfriendly, but one that El and his partner have made dozens of times, just like their fathers had made and their sons will make after them. El's family has been in the same career for generations, moving and transporting anything and everything, and always with the same set of rules.

On the fourth day they hit a snag. A road that's on El's map isn't actually there in truth. El turns the truck around and they return to the last town for both gas and directions. They stop at a diner where there seems to be a biker gang dining, as well.

Inside, El approaches the waitress and calmly asks, "Miss, can you help me?"

She is chewing gum and smells heavily of a watermelon-scented perfume. "What's up, stranger?"

"Ten miles up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

One of the bikers pipes in. He is a man with black hair and has a face torn up from years of drug use. "That's old Navu, isn't it? The bridge is gone, but there is still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" El inquires with curiosity.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now," the biker explains. "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" El asks in his always-calm tone.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way," the man answers. "Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

El cracks a smile. "We don't drink, but thank you. We will sit."

As El and Lacerti wait around with the bikers, they learn that the one who spoke with them is named Pistol. The rest of the talk, though, is almost incoherent blabber. After a time, they leave, El and Lacerti following the bikers around the mountain to "the hangout," as they called it—a sleazy whorehouse called Lamia's Back.

The place is not quite El's style, but it's the only stop along the way, if they want to stay punctual. He goes to the front bar to sit by himself while Lacerti makes his way to the restroom and the rest of the group finds a table together to continue their heavy drinking.

Some commotion begins, but El pays no heed until the bartender takes his cup and growls at him, "Time to pay your tab."

El looks at him and quickly notices that something is not right. Blood begins to rain from above projected by the sprinkler system, and the bartender has grown a second head. Neither head resembles anything even remotely human-looking. He leans over to grab El, but El kicks his chair back out of reach and leaps to his feet. The bartender jumps onto the bar and crouches like some kind of wild animal. El round kicks him in the side and then axe kicks him to the ground. The mutated bartender grabs El as he gets back up and throws him over the bar.

"Bleed for me!" the monstrous bartender ferociously orders.

El stands and cracks his neck in a prominent show of defiance. The 'tender stretches his rubbery necks and snaps at the man. El grabs a nearby fire extinguisher and swings. It gets caught in one of the monster's mouths. Having bought some time and wondering where the hell Lacerti is in the surrounding ruckus, El raises his new gun to blast that mutant second head to pieces. By this time the room is crowded with dozens of beasts of all shapes and sizes. "It looks like the mail will be late today," El mutters as he faces a bar full of hell's own minions....

Pistol Trash and Spooky

Pistol kicks down the stand on his hog as he pulls into the diner's parking lot. He and all the members of his group with the exception of Trash are dressed in black leather. Pistol has ratty, dark brown hair and a similar eye color. He wears a whip wrapped around his waist and has horrible scars covering his face that look like they could have came from an animal attack, but he still smiles bright as a boy.

His girl climbs down off the back of his bike, a sixteen-year-old redhead who goes by the apparent nickname "Trash." She is wearing way too much make-up for her young age and is dressed in a red tank top with a jean skirt dyed red, black fishnet stockings, as well as knee-high boots. Alongside Pistol on a matching bike is a man so black the leather of his jacket is nearly the same color as the skin on his face. His name is Spooky, and he and Pistol have been friends for nearly twenty years. They have rolled from town to town in search of fun and freedom. Trash just joined them about a year ago after Pistol shook some rapist off of her in the back of a movie store.

Today the three of them are riding back from Bram with five buddies they hooked up with at the last stop. They walk into the diner, which is about a half-hour's ride from Navu. Pistol himself is feeling fine, but some of the younger riders are not set up for a half-day-long haul. The hostess greets them with a smile and routine-sounding, "How are you?" as well as a, "Welcome back!" They all extend half-hearted greetings while looking for a suitable booth to sit down. In nearly no time the lot of them finish off nearly a full pot of coffee each.

Trash has been sweet on Pistol since they met, almost to the point of being sickeningly sweet. He looks after her much like a father, but he is just as allured by her pretty face as any man would be. Yet he has to remain true to his strong sense of responsibility, lest he should act on such animal-like instincts in the face of her frequent pressure.

Part way through everyone's third or fourth cup, Spooky lights up a blunt and starts passing it between his friends. Pistol shakes his hand and passes it on knowing that it's difficult to ride half deaf, and he doesn't need to be half baked, too. Having a light frame and little tolerance to the drugs, Trash finds herself becoming high in no time. She swings one leg around Pistol and sets her head gently on his shoulder. She seductively whispers to him, "Do you want to fuck me?"

Pistol smiles and answers "Yes ... _no_!" He quickly regains his bearings and pushes her back into her seat.

"Christ, Trash!" he says angrily, "I'm probably older than your father!"

"So what?" Trash protests in an upset tone.

Spooky takes off his leather jacket, revealing his large, broad shoulders. He laughs through his teeth as he speaks, "Do you know who you remind me of? Steve Buscemi."

With a crossed look of disgust and disappointment, Pistol shakes his head. "First off, I have no clue as to how you would know personally the comedian Steve Buscemi. Second, I'm nothing like him for three reasons: this is my hair, Steve is not deaf, and he has never needed reconstructive surgery for ripping his face off after a bad high. How exactly did you come to that conclusion, anyway?"

Spooky laughs, "You like cartoons, rockabilly music, and you dig dudes."

"I'm not gay," Pistol argues. "Trash gave me head last week."

"A guy can give head," Spooky states firmly. "I don't get it, anyway. Why do girls want you? I wouldn't fuck a hideous fuckin' _chud_ like you."

"I wouldn't want you to fuck me," Pistol jokes.

As they continue speaking to one another, another pair of men walk into the restaurant. One is a tall, powerful-looking bald man in a gray suit. His partner is built for all the world like a modern-day Viking. Large chest, powerful arms, taller than most—he seems ten feet tall from Trash, Spooky, and Pistol's point of view—and possessing hair of a deep crimson. Pistol overhears the bald one with the stone face say to the hostess, "Ten miles back up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

Pistol kicks his feet up on the table as he thinks about what was just said. He then responds to the stoic man's inquiry as his mind pulls up the information he was trying to remember. "That's old Navu isn't it? The bridge has been gone for a while, but there's still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" inquires the stone-faced man with the well-pressed suit.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now." Pistol's explanation continues, "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" the icy stranger asks.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way pretty soon," he answers. "Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

"We don't drink, but thank you. We will sit."

"What's your name? " Pistol asks out of curiosity.

"El," the calm man states plaintively.

"El?" Pistol chuckles upon hearing the stranger's name. "Like, The? How about him? What's his name? Is?" Pistol sarcastically speaks with a snicker, almost disbelieving of the man's answer.

The man who could be mistaken for an ox steps forward with an angered look on his face, moving with an apparent intention to rearrange Pistol's. El calmly holds out one hand to stop his large friend.

"He is my shotgun. We call him Lacerti."

"Muscle," Pistol responds.

"Something like that," El answers, suppressing a small amount of shock that the apparent biker gang leader knows anything of the Latin language. "'Lacerti' actually means 'strength of muscle.'"

The early evening hours proceed much like that, the group of them discussing most everything—from music to actors to Madonna and big dicks, manly men and feminine women and the things that can make them better, hairy chests, waxed asses, and even rhinoplasty After several more cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes on Spooky's behalf, everyone's ready to set back out on the road. Throughout the conversation, El and his big buddy Lacerti sat quietly, saying word neither to the bikers nor one another—they were seemingly happy listening in not needing to talk to understand, like a pair of owls.

After the short ride the bikers arrive at the hangout as they commonly do on their weekends, and the heavy drinking begins, though El goes to sit by the bar and Lacerti heads off elsewhere. The music is good the beer is not too bad, either. A live mariachi band like you might see in Mexico or the deep West plays. Taking a good look, Pistol notes that the women aren't looking too bad, themselves. Partway through "Johnny Be Good," Pistol announces it's time to take a piss and parts from his friends.

The bathrooms here at Lamia's Back are divided from the stage by an iron gate and a narrow hallway. The bathroom is amongst the cleanest Pistol has ever seen, flawlessly beautiful aside from a broken mirror over the sink nearest to the door. Pistol sees that Lacerti is in there, too.

Pistol tries to make small talk, but Lacerti never says a word, merely shrugging and grunting in response to any given statement. A new song starts, and the melody is familiar to Pistol. It's a country song from the late '70s called "Misunderstood." As he reminisces, the sounds of gunfire ring out in the club. Pistol laughs uncomfortably. "I guess this isn't just my favorite song, after all."

A child screams, and at that Pistol quickly re-zips his pants and the two men run to see what's the matter. As Lacerti throws open the door, four zombies lunge in at him. Lacerti throws his fist at them, and they tumble back through the door as quickly as they came. Pistol reaches around his waist and pulls his whip. The two of them push their way out of the bathroom and back to the hall. The scene looks bad; Trash and Spooky are wrestling with the undead. The bartender has turned into a twin-headed demon that is getting knocked around by El wielding a fire extinguisher. A man in a silk suit has gunned down one of the dancers, and the old man that Pistol saw come in with a pair of kids several minutes ago as he headed to the restroom is swinging a chair leg at a group of flesh-hungry beasts. As the children are being carried away, the younger-looking of the two toward Pistol and Lacerti, the other being taken toward the front of the bar.

The music stops and the sprinklers come on, pouring blood from the ceiling. Pistol points to the older girl and yells, "Big stuff!" Lacerti nods and charges through the gate toward the beast making away with her. Pistol pulls his whip back as the younger girl is carried into range, He lashes at just the right moment, wrapping the whip around the zombie with the girl. Pistol smiles as he tugs on the monster and says, "I don't think that's kosher, someone your age picking up someone hers." He waves a mocking finger.

The monster drops the girl and runs at Pistol, its mouth draped open hungrily. It pushes the man backward into the gate, slamming it shut. Other undead hands reach through, tugging at Pistol. "Bad touch, bad touch," Pistol calls he elbows the gate to shove the other zombies away then pushes the one holding him. Pistol swings his whip again, wrapping it around the zombie's head this time. He pivots inward at it and side-kicks it, and the force rips the minion's head clean off.

The gate shakes as the other zombies start to try to get at Pistol, who strikes a ready stance. He calls to the girl, "Out the back, sweetheart." Pistol smiles again, and using his best kiddy voice, says, "I'll follow you in just a sec."

Pistol pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket and uses them to chain the gate shut. For the first time he notices a swirling mist on the ground, which now starts to form a humanoid shape. A hand flies out at him and wraps around his chest as a wolf-like monster with bat wings on its back materializes. It lifts Pistol into the air and begins choking him. "Belmond," it growls.

Pistol looks it up and down. Hanging from its body are tattered remnants of the shiny clothes one of the band members had on. _It's the guitar player_ , he thinks.

The monstrous wolf beast looks at the whip. "Son of Belmond," it snarls, "how many of my brothers' souls have you swallowed with that cursed instrument? Do you even know?" The monster whips Pistol to the ground, making a horrible cracking sound. Pistol can't tell whether it was his arm or the cement cracking beneath him.

He groans in pain. "That really sucked," he mutters as he rolls onto his stomach and starts to stand back up.

"Crushing your pathetic body will bring great honor to the Dracul," the monster shouts, kicking him back over as he gets to his feet.

Pistol half-laughs and half-cries as he tries again to stand. "Isn't sixteen hundred years a long time to hold a grudge?" He backs up against the wall.

"Son of Belmond, you and all your ancestors will spend eternity as one of us," the wolf beast bellows. It gets onto all fours, and Pistol starts to sidestep it. The monster pounces and as Pistol brings his arm up to block it, it sinks its jaws into Pistol's forearm. They fall into the gate, toppling it with their combined weight.

More zombies start to pour into the hall as Pistol and the wolf man growl at one another. Pistol desperately backhands the beast, and to his shock the monster yelps in surprise. Pistol takes this opportunity to place his foot in the monster's gut and judo-throw it off of him.

The man leaps to his feet as he grabs his whip from the ground and recoils it. He takes one last look back at the monster and boyishly salutes it. "We will have to finish this another time," he jests. Pistol runs away, giving chase to the girl.
Chapter 1: The von Richton Watcher's Society

Her name is Wright von Richton, and mine is Richard Blake. Yesterday I was picked up by her men, the so-called Holy Order of The von Richton Watcher's Society. "Around here, Dick Blake, we try to be punctual," she calls to me in her thick British accent. But honestly, I don't even know what day it is, let alone the time.

"Richard," I respond. "I like to be called Richard."

She crosses her hands and hides her mouth as she lowers her head, slouching slightly on her ancient throne of a chair. "I prefer Dick." She is wearing a pair of glasses with wire frames and introverted lenses, as if to impair her vision rather than improve it. But as far a dick goes, I do not think she sees it often. Her face is lovely, but her posture belies her beauty, as does her clothing. She's wearing a business suit, crimson in color, with a bright ascot held in place by a brooch in the shape of the iron cross. Her hair is platinum blond, almost silver.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Blake," she says as she reaches alongside her chair for a martini glass, "you are what we around here call an Abet," she takes a sip of her sweet, light liquor, "and I don't particularly like your kind." She tauntingly places her glass back on the table and strokes up the back of the cat statue that makes up one leg of the chair. The chair looks to be carved from a red wood, finely crafted with two cats lying on their stomachs with their ass ends in the air, forming the legs. The back of the chair seems to be a gargoyle of some kind, but I can't make out the details due to the red light being cast through the window behind Ms. von Richton.

"You're mistaken," I explain, "I'm a ghost hunter."

"You are a clairsentient with the innate ability of Aura Sight," she explains, "just like your brother was. In fact, I bet you could even feel me, couldn't you?"

What? How would she know about my brother or me? That's not right—or rather she _is_ right, and that scares me.

"Did you know my brother?" I feel compelled to ask. Come to think of it, Ms. von Richton doesn't feel right—she is emanating energy almost like that of the demons my brother and I used to slay together. She smiles, no doubt knowing the confusion I'm feeling. She understands perfectly the power she has over me. She might be really sexy, if she acted like a woman.

"There is a saying my predecessor liked; maybe you can appreciate it. It has so many meanings. 'Sometimes you may see some of my people, others times you may see all of them, but you cannot see all of them all the time.'" She tugs on the sleeve of her overcoat, allowing me to see the tattoo on her wrist in the shape of a W with three rings around it. "I hear you killed the monster that killed your brother, a Lemure."

"It was a demon," I argue, "and we had slain at lest ten before that one caught us off guard."

She smirks almost evilly. "Filthy tainted mortals foolish enough to fall beneath the kiss of an Erinyes, infantile monster. Those sad posers aren't worthy of being associated with true demons."

I change my mind—maybe Ms. von Richton isn't so cute after all. She says, "Tell me, have you ever seen a _real_ demon?" A strange energy overcomes me. The room seems darker. I feel a cold wind, and a dread unlike any I can remember sweeps over me.

I look behind me and see the most grotesque thing I have ever seen—a monster pretending to be a human being. It stares at me mockingly. It's over six feet tall, with leather skin pulled so tightly that the stretch of its muscle can be seen through its skin. Its teeth look like drill bits, and a crown of spikes grows from its skull. Elongated hands end in hooks at the end of its fingers, and the foul beast's eyes are horrible—so deep, so dark, greener than any other green, and portraying not the rage I'm familiar with, but instead a malevolent cunning.

My heart pounds within me, almost physically jerking me to and fro. I can't breathe. My eyes are locked on _it_ as feelings of fear and rage fill me and it groans a laugh, joyfully feeling my fears, which seemingly bring the creature erotic ecstasy. It stands like a wall before me, no larger then an ordinary man, but somehow far more imposing. It is clothed in blackened scrubs stained with blood. I feel myself sweating and, becoming dizzy, I nearly faint from fear before von Richton speaks again.

" _That_ is a true demon," she says, calling my attention back to her. "His name is England. He is a Greater Baatezu from Phlegethos, the fourth tier of the land you call hell."

I can't understand a word she is saying, but she continues, "Blake, are you a saintly man?"

"No." But maybe it's not too late to start.

"Good," she responds, "that saves me the heaven/hell analogy. I get so bored repeating myself for every zealot slacker that comes in here. I can move right on to dimensionalism."

She looks relieved, but I still don't understand. "Earth as we know it," she says, "is not a part of a single universe, but instead a part of a multi-verse. This one is one of millions of Earths like it, which are connected by both nothing and everything. The power called Agency ( Agency is the power of free will which shapes destiny and the world itself) is the key, free will is the way, and every move you make—every dirty thought you may think—has a tremendous effect on the multi-verse. This results in endless worlds, some with only mild changes from this one, such as your favorite café having changed their prices, but others with changes so significant as man having evolved from avian life, or the influence of God being so great that the discovery of electricity becomes as meaningless to the average man as the discovery of gluons."

The monster England steps up to Ms. von Richton, and my vision grows foggy. All of a sudden I can't hear anything. She takes of her glasses. She is radiant. The room seems brighter. England kisses Wright passionately. Her suit changes before my eyes. Now it's a nightgown, white and transparent. I'm hallucinating—that's the only answer.

Or maybe I'm wrong. I feel warm. There is something soft beneath me, and I discover that I'm sitting on my knees. It isn't England kissing Wright, it's me. Yeah, I can get use to this. The office has melted away, and we are in a wondrous bedroom with gold sheets. Wright is rolling her back up and down my chest, moaning like a dog in heat as she turns and kisses me. I'm not in control of my body. I reach one hand down to her pelvis and squeeze her lovingly. She firmly presses her ass against me, begging for attention. A pair of radiant white wings sprouts from her back, like the wings of angels in old-world art. Her warmth is overwhelming. I feel a passion I haven't felt in years.

I hear the clank of metal, and suddenly there is something wet on my hand. No, this can't be! I know what I think I'm feeling but it can't be—or at least I don't want it to be. Wright slouches forward, her wings limp. She slowly becomes cold. The room darkens and my vision blurs in and out as I pull my hands away from her. Knives have grown from my fingertips, and I'm half covered in blood. The room browns in decay. I feel myself scream, but no sound emerges. What is wrong with me?

"Blake!" I hear a scream, "are you listening to me?"

It's Wright—the real Wright, not my fantasy. My sight clears, and I'm standing right where I was before, dazed and confused. "Come with me and I'll show you around before your job, but first let's get you burned."

How much time has passed? What happened to me? Is it England? Is that only a taste of what's yet to come? I fear the world I have just entered.

Ms. von Richton sticks her hand into her overcoat and draws a weapon. My eyes widen. I hear a click, I feel a sting, and I look down to see a dart with three needles protruding from my chest. Has this happened before? It seems familiar. My eyes drop, and I feel like I'm falling.

"Mr. Blake."

I'm walking. My arm is numb. That voice; it's Ms. von Richton's. "They say you have a taste for the exotic." This place—is it below the bastion? It's different. The walls are metal, and so are the floors. There are men in hazard suits all around us.

"Your brother. His girlfriend was a licensed succubus; you and him shared her many times during their relationship," Ms. von Richton says.

"The perk of being a twin I guess."

"Mr. Blake, in my experience, every extra-planar being is a hair away from being a snarling, drooling, bloodthirsty monster, and if you knew what was good for you, you would content yourself with relations with only your own kind before you became the very monster you hunt."

I don't think they're that bad. In fact, some are really pretty up close.

A pair of men are struggling with a fox woman. She is athletic-looking, with a model's body—large, full breasts, a sharp curve to her hips, orange-red fur with slightly grayed tips, and reddish brown hair tied in a ponytail. She has a cluster of tails, maybe ten, and she is dressed in a pair of tight black jean shorts, a tube top that reads "porn Q" in glitter, and an overshirt wrapped around her waist, like a skater might do. She has a California accent but is yelling like a New Yorker. Ms. von Richton looks to me as she signals me to stand still.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" she demands.

One of the men holding the fox woman says through his helmet, "We found her in San Francisco."

The fox woman struggles furiously, but to no avail. "WTF, mate! This is no way to treat an American citizen! Are you a lawyer? I was sitting on the beach, someone shot me, now I'm being dragged into a prison, and no one has read me my rights yet or even told me why I'm under arrest."

One of the men twists her arm. "Silence in the presence of Wright von Richton," he says in a stoic tone.

"Get the fuck off me!" The fox woman thrusts her arms back and a wave of fire spits from her fingertips, singeing one of the guards' armor. "Umm, sorry." She laughs distraughtly.

"Shut up," von Richton barks at her with force. She grabs a report write-up from one of the officers and skims it. "You are an unlicensed nine-tailed canine Yugoloth, and had you been caught in Manchester instead, I would have had your execution warrant signed well before you saw a prison cell. But due to weak American protocol, I can't sentence you to death without a trial."

The fox growls, "Are you some kind of Nazi? You can't do that!"

"Take her away," Ms. von Richton yells. The men start shoving the fox away down the hall.

"God damn it!" the fox yells. "Get me my phone call! I want Johnnie Cochran, or Perry Mason! I'll compromise—how about Ingrid Nowcert ... the ALF ... PETA!"

"Sorry about that," Ms. von Richton says as she returns to my side. "Here is your job. We have ID'd a Wolfin nest. Go there and kill anything not human. If you get there and find tarnished humans, do them a favor and kill them, too. If you fail, I'll simply send another agent, so try not to die on your first day on the job."

"Sorry," one of the officers speaks out, "but freaks don't have civil rights."

My mouth is dry I feel numb fear is in the air like it is most every time the dark side calls, but something not the same this time I cant tell if I'm hunting the monsters today or if it's a monsters shadow in which I know lie. I feel death all around me like a stinging water and I cant help but wonder, is it coming for me this time or just passing under my nose like it was with my brother so few days ago it would seem.
Chapter 2: The Struggle and Aftermath

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. 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.

_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, and drives a steak knife from the table into its 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 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. This clears a path to the pool table, where El grabs a cue.

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 before commencing to pound 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 cleen 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.

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. "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.

{to comment CN34 please make this change I can't seem to remove them}

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?"

"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 real good. And do you know what my old lady did to make the swelling 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. "Its 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; I made no direct statements." 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 3: 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 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 punches. 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 4: 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 5:** The Awakening

Where the hell am I? I rub my face. I'm lying facedown in the dirt. I climb to my feet and notice that my clothes have changed. I'm in a sports coat and slacks. This stuff isn't mine. I look at my watch. It's September 11th, 2001. I've been out for seven days.

This makes no sense. I feel my face, and I must have just shaved today. My gut hurts, so I think I haven't eaten lately. Come to think of it, my arm hurts, too.

I strip out of my coat. My arm has a bandage wrapped around it. I tear it off to reveal a tattoo a W. There is a fresh scab on my neck and a briefcase at my feet. I open the case and see a gun inside—a 30-06, I think. My brother knew more about guns than I do. But I know how to fire it, at least. Looks like it is bolt-action.

There is a map also. There are all sorts of scribbles on it: red lines, circled spots, Xs, and address. "County road UU 1006 Navu 5557." I must be in Missouri. There is a stack of photos, as well. no one I know, and an envelope as well. It contains instructions. "Kill anyone tainted," it explains, to be brief.

I hear a ringing coming from one of my many pockets. I must have twenty of them on this thing. In my inner breast pocket I find a phone and a picture of a redheaded fox dressed in blue jeans and a shirt that says, "Fear Factory." The picture's caption reads, "My name is Tail" across the bottom. She looks sweet.

I pick up the phone and say, "Who is this?"

"Blake," a young, excitable girl's voice says across the line, "it's me, your operator."

"Bullshit," I reply, "he's dead."

"Yeah, well, we will be too if we fuck this up." I look at the photo as she speaks to me.

"Is this Tail?" I ask. "Pay attention. I cant remember you. I cant remember anything—how I got here, what I'm supposed to do." I cant help sounding a bit panicked; I'm flustered.

"Blake, they poisoned you. It's a neurotoxin produced by my mother's company, Claw Company, called INT-21. I bet your head hurts like hell, and you're not going to remember shit for three days. But you'll be OK so long as you don't OD."

"How do I know you?" I start to get a grip on myself as things are starting to make sense again, but things are still not adding up right.

"You sprung me from the detention center."

"What the hell is going on?"

"Blake, you are a member of a exclusive organization known as The von Richton Watchers Society, an underground union that monitors and polices the actions of planeshifters as well as studies the movements of immortals and the undead."

I'm baffled; how would something like this happen to me? "Where do you fit into all this?" I ask.

"I got beaten within an inch of my life by your buddies and you decided, like your boss, that you wanted a pet freak."

The memory is still fuzzy at best, but the subject seems touchy, so I change it. "Tail, what is my mission?"

"Right!" She must get into this, I think as she goes on. "Your GPS shows you on county road UU. It is thirty-five miles to your goal, south by southwest."

I look up. I'm in the middle of the nowhere and I'm wearing Italian kicks. Not a good combo. Tail continues, "After you arrive, simply go inside and do your voodoo on the place—you know, purify the hell out of it and all. Your ETA is 2300 hours and pickup is at 1300."

I've never been good at that techie stuff. "How long is that?"

"Fourteen hours, boss man," she explains to me.

I hang up the phone and set my feet in motion. The scenery is familiar; I think I walked this road once before. I find that it's not long at all before my coat is wrapped around my waist, and my shirt around my head. I guess I should be happy that there isn't sand in my boots.

Think, Blake, what has been going on? Ms. Wright von Richton ... she tranquilized me after I met her monster. But that was not the first time, ether. I remember that I've drawn on that map before. I'd been on my way to that address hitchhiking when a Jag pulled up next to me. Wright von Richton was in the back seat. She asked if I was Christopher Blake, then she shot me. When I awoke, I was in her castle being branded. Then I had sex with her—no that's not what happened at all ... is it?

Tail—I went to see her in her cell. It was refrigerated, and there was a wall of icy vapor behind the door. She had been stripped prior to being thrown in. The bed was made of steel, and she had only a hemp blanket. It was amongst the least humane things I had ever seen. The men that imprisoned her were going out of their way to make her uncomfortable. I had seen the inside of a county jail before, and I knew that those jailers at least offered heated rooms and a decent bed.

I think I'm starting to see things clearly. I remember that Tail had looked up to see me observing her. She seemed to be quite the wisecracker. The first thing she said after noticing me was, "If you're here to rape me, believe it or not, you're the first in line. And I'm a virgin, so you don't have to worry about me gumming up your works ... much to my discontent."

"I'm not here to rape you, I'm here to get you out," I had explained. "That is, unless you would like to be raped first," I'd joked.

Then what? How did we get out? I don't think I did. I had attempted to break the security lock, but someone had interrupted me. Was it England? Or Wright? Or what ...?

It's hot as hell out here in the middle of nowhere. I have been struggling for two, maybe three hours to recall what has been happening to me, with little progress. Well if nothing else, it has still given me something to think about aside from how much pain I'm in right now.

Wings? In my dream, Wright von Richton had wings. I've seen demons before, lots of them. Might Wright be my first angel? She did say something about heaven and hell, after all. No, that can't be.

I hate the road and I always have. But I have a job to do. I have a promise to keep to my brother, to von Richton, and to Tail.... I made each of them a promise—a promise to fight, to protect, and even to kill in their names. The smell of death is still so fresh in my mind. I feel as if it is my fault. I know it wasn't my fangs that pierced his chest, but the way it plays out in my memories, it very well could have been.

In the end I guess this is for the best. I have power, and this is the price. I can never have a life like others do. Children, a wife, a job with benefits—they're just not me. I love you, big brother. After I'm done here, maybe you can show me the way home.

It's starting to get dark right about now. It's still a dozen or more miles to Navu. I wipe the sweat from my face. The temperature is dropping fast. At this rate, it feels like my sweat is going to freeze to my skin. But just now I see headlights over my shoulder. Looks like I have a ride.
Chapter 6: 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's compared to the demons snarling and barking around them like animals. His black robe and hair fly with the wind as a flock 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."

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.

The monstrous man echoes him in English and continues, "There is none greater in this house than I, neither hath he kept any thing 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 devil."

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." 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 as he places 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. He 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 bares a set of fangs. "I want the Soul Eater Charlie Belmond has, and if you can't fetch it, your lovely Ashley will."

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.

"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, "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."

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....
Chapter 7: The Call to Arms

The doors slam to the storage room. Trash and Spooky pile boxes up behind them to hold them shut. Spooky looks at Jacob. "Why the hell did we bring a corpse in here with us?" He points at him nonchalantly. "We should have left him with the rest of the cadavers."

Snake stares him down. "No one is touching Lances."

"What if he turns into one of the undead?" Trash says, nervously.

"He will not." El interjects.

Snake turns his attention on El. "How the hell would you know?"

El squares his shoulders to Snake. "Because he isn't dead," he responds in a matter-of-fact fashion. "He is in neurogenic shock."

Snake squints in confusion and says, "What is that?"

El glances down. "In case you didn't go to school, neurogenic shock is a form of paralysis resulting from dopamine overdose, much like combat fatigue. When frightened or injured, most all omnivorous animals enter a state known as the fight or flight response. During this, one's heart rate rises, as does blood pressure. Muscles tense, and dopamine is introduced into the bloodstream. In the instance of prolonged trauma, a cooldown stage must be interred in order to prevent damage to the brain due to depressurization, which induces the condition called shellshock—the inability to act within normal parameters without the chemical agent. Neurogenic shock is a forced cooldown to prevent brain damage. I've seen it a dozen and a half times. He will be fine in twenty minutes."

Snake laughs in irritation. "Well, Mister Wizard," he says covering his eyes as if a headache seems to set in, "do you get a kick out of busting my balls?" He smiles forcibly. "I mean, really, is there anything you don't know?"

"If so, I haven't figured it out yet," El replies sassily.

"Ouch!" Larry yells, "Incineration! You set the high score!" he jokes.

"OK." Snake starts undoing his tie and shirt. "That's it 'Coin-Dexter,' I am sending your ass to school."

El exhales hard. "You're not really going to do this, are you?"

Snake cracks his neck. "The name of the class is Pain. My name is Professor Gekks, and I will be your instructor."

Snake throws down his coat. He steps into El, throwing a punch. El grabs his arm and spins him around, tucking the appendage behind its owner. El places his free hand on Snake's shoulder, bending him over. He jars upward, pushing Snake's own elbow into his shoulder blade.

Snake raises his head and starts shouting nonsensically. El cocks Snake's wrist downward. "Will you look at this?" he says, taunting. El starts dragging Snake around the room, bent over. "It seems I have your arm." He pushes his catch into a wall face-first. "I think I might just chop it off."

"Oh, fuck no!" Snake cries out.

"Why not?" El whispers to him. "It's mine now to do with what I want."

Lacerti knows well that El is simply playing with him—not that El couldn't rip Snake's arm off right now. To the contrary, he could have snapped his spine just as quickly. But El doesn't kill people that don't need to die. _Killing those people is my job_ , Lacerti thinks, snickering at the fruitless conflict. Pistol stares on in shock, not knowing whether to help Snake or stand back and let El have his fun.

El is a combat artist. He could have thrown Snake to the ground and he wouldn't have felt a thing, but instead he twists Snake's arm a little farther. El wants him to feel it, and he does. " You want to know about pain? Let me take you to school, wiseass, " El teases him. "Pain is a nervous response of the body stimulated by the interruption of the brain's electromagnetic resonation. There is a thin line when it comes to pain; if the resonation is slow and rhythmic, we perceive it as pleasure. But if it's fast and violent, even a good touch can turn into a painful one. The trick is to learn the differences."

"Snake," Larry yells, "are you OK?" Larry rushes over to help his brother. Lacerti holds out an interposing hand.

"Fight back! Fight me, you worthless maggot!" El commands, smashing him into the wall again. "Prove you're not as worthless as you look!" Snake can do nothing but call out for help. "God damn it!" El shouts as his inner demons make their way to the surface. "Do something. Do something! Do you hear me? You sack of shit!"

"I can't," Snake cries.

El squeezes his wrist, and the bone starts to make a tense, pulling sound. El smiles devilishly. He understands that Snake is helpless, and if he squeezes any harder, all the cartilage in his arm will be destroyed. "How disappointing." El spins around and throws Snake partway across the room onto his back. "Now get the troops organized, figure out who knows what about what, and stop wasting my time with banter."

"Holy shit, Snake," Larry whispers as he helps Snake to his feet. "It looks like you just got owned."

Snake nods as he grabs his shirt and coat, redressing. "I guess I did." He cradles his arm. "What are you going to do?" he says, looking up to El.

El rubs his eyes. "I have to think." He walks to the back of the room and sits down. He stares around the room at the men that are now his brothers at arms, noticing each one uniquely. He seems to lose himself in his thoughts.

There was a man that lived in Great Britain in the 1880s whose name was Dr. Joseph Bell. His field of expertise was social science. Professor Bell ran classes at Edinburgh University. He believed that man was capable of seeing and understanding far more than we realized. "Most people see but do not observe." The eyes of men are the windows to the truth of mankind.

He was the real Sherlock Homes, it was said by the local papers. He often would attend "fire sides," pep speeches," and host "power points" and other debates. His favorite game—and claim to fame, I might add—was to invite a guest onto stage with him and tell them who he thought they were and then ask if he was right. From what I understand, 70 percent of the time he was right. "Glance at a man, and you find his nationality written on his face, his livelihood on his hands, and the rest of his stories in his gait, mannerisms, watch-chain ordainments, and the lint adhering to his clothes."

I myself have been practicing a similar art, hoping it would help me understand a world that I am otherwise separated from. Allow me to take down this record that should anyone ever follow our footsteps, my knowledge may guide others. My unit is now nine bodies strong, consisting of: six able men, two women, and one man, currently disabled. Six are MIA, including who I assume to be the older of Lances Jacob's children.

The most recent addition to my combative party calls himself Pistol. I wager it's either a sexual connotation or a nickname given by his colored confidant. He is likely in his early forties but has the energy of a man in his twenties. His posture is loose, but he stands bladed. He has some training as a warrior. His hands are cracked and filthy, indicating that he works with his hands and in a place too tight for gloves. His eyes are lively. My best bet, he is a boiler engineer or technician. His friend looks like a boxer, but his skin is too glossy for active fighting—maybe he is a personal trainer, or mayhap a PE instructor. Trash, the girl with them, looks like a student. If she works, it is not legally.

Snake is by far the greatest thorn in my side at this time. He and his brother seem to have dreams of the better things in life—expensive clothing, a custom-fit Mag revolver, tattoos, and gold rings on most every finger. They're likely drug dealers who've never worked a real job, born and raised on the streets of some backwash city filled with wanna-bes, soft, small-time criminals running from underpaid or maybe corrupted law enforcers. Snake is the loud one, fairly unsophisticated, and the elder of the two. He sees his brother as a rabble-rouser, or maybe as if he were mentally ill. I think he is just without discipline.

Next there is Lances Jacob. It's obvious that he is a priest or parishioner, to what faith is unimportant. He has two children, both girls, and I'm pretty sure they're not his biological children seeing how he would have been in his mid-fifties when they where born. Not impossible, but not likely. He is intelligent and fit as a fiddle. His stern realist point of view is a welcome one.

Lacerti—one may ask, how can one become like him? The secret is male selective breeding, a ritual first documented as having been practice in Rome. The hypothesis is, if you take one man with a desired trait, such as excessive height, and mate him with a woman of similar magnitude, there is a one in four chance the spawn will be greater still. To determine success, look for the child to be born twice the size expected. If this is not the case, kill the runt and try again. The change over a century is small, but after several iterations it is extreme, as is in my partner.

He and I fought together in Vietnam. We were both field commanders for the Marine Corps sniper division. We were stationed together after the two of us returned from separate but equally disastrous missions. To my understanding, both our units were annihilated at the hands of Vietnamese guerrilla warriors—we were the sole survivors. We served out our terms thereafter and retired from the armed forces. We have an agreement never to speak of those times again.

Today we fight again, and again we fight an enemy we can't ID. One with no weak spots to exploit, and we fight them on their terms. Not a fun situation at all. I myself am not a doctor, investigator, or even a man of arms anymore. I'm only a driver. But today I will have to resume my old job. El Driver XIV will once again have to become Lt. David Lay, black ops agent.

"OK," Snake calls out to the team, "what do we know so far?"

Trash speaks up. "Well, they're already dead. That part seems noteworthy."

"They're undead, not dead," Spooky pipes up. "The dead don't walk and talk."

"Well, we can't kill them," Larry adds.

"Jacob killed one," Pistol explains.

"And I impaled one, but it got back up," Trash adds with a look of annoyance on her face. "Are you confident he killed one?"

"Well, it burst into flames. I'm fairly sure it's dead."

Larry jumps in, "How did Jacob do it?"

"He blasted it at point blank." Pistol explains.

Snake looks agitated. "Bullshit, I pumped one with a half dozen .44s. Shooting them won't do shit." He pauses. "Wait, Lances is a priest." He thinks about that for several minutes, then he leaps to his feet and confidently rallies the team. "All right, gentlemen, we are dealing with ghouls, undead parasites. Now, I don't need to hear any skeptical tales, because I'm a skeptic myself. But I know the undead when I see them, and that's what I'm seeing right now, so ..." He paces about. "Tell me about ghouls," he requests.

Everyone looks around as they think about it. A good deal of confused looks are passed back and forth before Snake looks to Larry. "You read _Demonology and Witchcraft_ in school, didn't you?"

Larry looks up for a moment and narrows his eyes. "You mean the Frank X. King book about the occult?" Larry strains to remember. "Nothing. I can't remember."

Trash sits on her knees and adjusts her skirt before enlightening the group. "That's because ghouls are not associated with witches. If anything, they are vampiric. Ghoul, or _ghoulah_ , is an Arabic term that refers to an animated human husk that was the body of a vampire or of a vampire's victim. In modern mythology, the traditional Ghoul is now a half-bred zombie. A figure from Haitian folklore, Ghouls and Ghoulah are the reasoning behind burying the dead. When a body isn't disposed of properly, it stands back up and attempts to resume its former existence, but with a taste for the flesh of its own kind."

Pistol looks surprised. "How do you know that?"

"J. Gordon Melton's book, _Vampire: Encyclopedia of the Dead_ ," Trash responds.

"How can we fight them?" Snake asks.

Trash exhales heavily. "We can't, unless you want to cut them all into kabobs. Zombies are indestructible; you can't kill the dead."

Jacob begins to stir about. "Snake, Snake!" he calls.

Snake leaps to his side. "Lances!" He kneels. "You're OK."

Jacob reaches up and grabs Snake's arm. "Snake, I'm sick!" he coughs.

Snake tries to comfort the old man. "You're fine, Lances. You are in some form of shock."

"Damn it, Snake, listen to me!" Jacob shakes him. "I'm sick, and I'm going to die." He coughs again. "And it is going to be soon." He turns his head and spits up some blood.

Snake nods. "OK, Lances."

Lances sits up as he regains his balance. "Snake, I want to kill as many of those monsters as I can before I fall."

"Lances, I'll get you out of here," Snake explains. "Gentlemen, let's get out of this hellhole!"

Spooky speaks up, "Did you forget about the door problem?"

"We'll use the back," Snake proposes.

Pistol joins the conversation. "There is no back door."

Larry joins in also. "There is always a back door."

Pistol shakes his head. "Not here."

Snake says, "There's always a back; the Federal Health and Safety Committee ordered all buildings constructed after 1896 to have one installed."

"I know the law, but there is no back door," Pistol insists. "I spent forty-five minutes running around downstairs, and I saw no doors."

El approaches. "The building is on a incline, so there won't be a back door."

Larry looks to El. "There has to be ... cat burglars like us count on it."

Snake cuffs him on the back of the head.

El looks annoyed. "Fine, we will look for a back door."

Spooky looks to the group, changing the subject. "Won't a holy sign work against them?" he asks.

Trash looks at him. "A holy sign is only as powerful as the man holding it." She thinks, _But a blessed object will work for anyone_.

Jacob takes Trash's arm and nods, not needing any more explanation. "I'll do it," he suggests. "I can bless our weapons."

"You can?" Ashley asks.

Jacob half-nods. "Just like wine." One by one, he prays over the adventurers, blessing their guns, knives, and every other object in sight. With a new confidence, the group gets ready to set out again. Pistol can see something is wrong, but he can't put a hand on it. Jacob looks colorless and pushes his child away as she tries to hold him while he works on his prayers.

Pistol narrows his eyes as he considers the circumstances. _What sort of darkness is hidden within us_?
Chapter 8: A Broken Union

The men all nod, knowing what needs to be done. Trash shakes herself in disbelief. _After all that has already happened, they want to go out and fight some more_. She looks at Ashley as Jacob blesses the artillery. "You aren't for real, are you?" Trash looks puzzled. "Can't we wait for the National Guard or something to show up and rescue us?"

El racks-n-taps his Jackal after Jacob hands it back. "Not likely." He looks down the end of the barrel then makes a strange adjustment. "If the Guard were coming for us, they would be here already." He drops out the magazine and counts his shells, then reloads.

"So what is the ultimate plan?" Trash asks.

Snake takes the lead. "We knock down that door," he points at the barricaded door, "we blast every flesh eater behind it, secure the floor, and head downstairs and out the back." He looks around. "After that, it's every man for himself, if that's the way you like it. I'll call the cops and have them clean up the mess, and by the time they get here I'll be well on my way to Mexico," Snake finishes.

El momentarily has an ill look on his face as he terns his attention back on his gun. "I'm not too sure I like this plan," he says to himself.

Jacob grabs his own gun and notices that his knife is gone, so he takes a bat instead. He looks severe. He clutches his weapons. "Gentlemen," he address the team, "let's go sanctify this unholy place."

"You said it, Lances!" Snake calls as he, Lacerti, and El topple the barricade for one last time.

"Lacerti," El looks up, holding the door shut while he gives final instruction, "you, Snake, Pistol, and myself will go out first," he recommends. "We are the front line. Jacob, stay behind Pistol." He looks around. "Trash, Spooky, you are the core men. You come out at the rear as a resistance line. Keep Ashley and Larry between you," he explains. "And for God's sake, nobody get dead."

El swings the door open. Instantly the army of zombies takes notice and rushes in to attack. Snake is the first out the door. Gun blazing, he shoots his way into the crowd. His first shots are two to a zombie's chest. The ghoul hits the ground hard and with a grunt burns to ash. Next, one slug to another's shoulder—its arm singes off like the head of a match. As it leans in to attack, Snake side kicks it and shoots it once more in the chest, turning it to embers on the ground. One fiend jumps in from his side. Snake tucks his gun under his arm and like a cowboy blasts it away, swings off to the other side, and with his last shot shoots out another's eyes.

Larry runs out behind his brother and draws his revolver from his coat. With an uncanny amount of precision he closes one eye and squeezes off two rounds, firing one shot over either of Snake's shoulders so close that the bullets blow Snake's hair back. One zombie falls with each shot.

Snake looks up with no small amount of shock on his face. "That's me, dumbass!"

"No, its OK, I can see them," Larry justifies.

Snake reloads and swings to Larry so they're back-to-back. "You can't see shit; you broke your glasses, remember?"

Larry nods as he continues fighting side-by-side with his brother. "I know, funny, ain't it?"

Almost like well-tuned soldiers, they fight toe-to-toe with the undead beasts, guarding each other. "What are you seeing, anyway? Your vision is something like twenty-eighty."

Larry bobs his head. "It's weird. At first I didn't see nothing, now it's like heat vision or something, like in a comic."

Snake shakes his head in disbelief then simply responds, "Gnarly."

El and Lacerti rush in next. They're both old and experienced fighters, having spent years side-by-side fighting all types of monsters ("mostly other men," they joke). The two of them need not exchange another word to know what needs to be done. Lacerti pulls his blades and in a whirlwind begins sending his enemies howling back to the abyss from which they came. A slash and a stab and two vanish, a cleave and another is gone, a thrust and one more. A scissor attack and five burst into flames at once.

El fires his mighty Jackal and massive holes are blown in several; a hand, an arm, and half of one's head all evaporate with a single blast, a leg and half of a torso with the next. Wishing to conserve his last two shells, the next monster to approach meets the back of El's arm. El shouts a battle cry as he grabs the next nearest zombie and twists its head nearly clean off. He throws the undead into Lacerti's spinning knives to finish it off.

Now that the heroes are armed with "the right stuff," zombies fall just as easily as anyone would. Pistol steps out next. His whip, Soul Eater, behaves outlandishly, glowing with a blue-white flame when he grabs at it. The flames do him no harm, but the monsters all leap away in astonishment before ultimately charging in, drawn in by the power of Soul Eater.

At last Soul Eater seems to recognize its master. Pistol grins, empowered by the memories of his ancestors. With foolish persistence, masses of beasts lunge at Pistol. He lashes his whip from side to side, killing waves of the tormented monsters. _The Wolfin was right, Belmond lives,_ Pistol thinks, _and he lives in me_. As the beast swarm begins to thin out, Pistol hops into a zombie, kicking it over as he continues his onslaught.

Jacob stands alongside him fighting with what might he has left, but it is clear to Pistol that Jacob has little left to offer. The holy man fires his shotgun twice, killing one. He then pulls his bat and begins smashing one into the dirt. He seems half exhausted after only three swings. Jacob stands up straight and cracks his neck and back. Caught unaware, a zombie grabs him from behind.

Pistol spins around and throws one of his knives into Jacob's attacker's forehead. Pistol calls out, "Eyes open!" Jacob nods in understanding.

Trash holds Ashley back with one hand as Spooky takes the point, the two friends staying close together. They mathematically aim and fire at separate targets, offering cover for the forward combative party. "Hey, Spooks, do you think El was right and I'm sick?" Trash asks, thinking back to when El had called her mentally ill.

Spooky thinks for a moment or two. "Maybe." He snipes a zombie.

"What is your real name, anyway?" Trash asks as she also blasts a monster.

"Mohamed Quinn," he responds. He fires a shot, but he grimaces as it finds the wall instead of a monster. "How about you?"

"Lucia Wingate." She brings one of the last zombies to its knees with another shot. "Your aim kinda sucks, you know that?" she teases.

The last zombie runs at Snake, who drapes his revolver over his shoulder with the intent of shooting behind his back at it but is shocked to find his next bullet a dud. The foul monster wraps its arms around the man. Snake swings his arm down and elbows it in the gut; he stomps on its foot, grabs the monstrosity's head, and flings it over his shoulder. "Do I know my shit or what?" Snake jokes, stomping on his fallen enemy several times.

El takes one of Pistol's knives from the ground, struts over to Snake, and flings the knife into the broken beast's body. As the monster smolders away, El turns his gaze to Snake. Snake leans back with a look of momentary surprise, or perhaps fear from El's frozen, intent look. Snake can feel he has done something wrong, even if he can't tell what.

The Lamia pulls herself back up onto the catwalk, a look of fear and concern on her face. _What was otherwise a typical hunt has suddenly become something awful; Lord Cravixs is here, Belmond is here, the temple guardians have been killed, and know the pups downstairs are practically unprotected. Can this week's hunt get any worse_?

The Lamia silently slithers along the catwalk, following the party to the back. They make their way down the stairs to the first basement. _Well, they're not sailing clear yet. Cravixs and the male Wolfins will still give them hell_. Not to mention the labyrinth of doors and halls before they get anywhere, anyway. The maze is well-known to normal visitors, but the strangers will have difficulty. The snakelike monster thinks, _If I survive this, I think I will go home and lay a lot of eggs and never come back to this place_. She hisses aloud to herself, "For now, I have to go tell everyone to hide."

The party gets down to the first basement, where the walls are cluttered with a painted representation of an epic battle between Heaven and Earth. The group is overtaken by the vastness of its splendor. A hall half a mile long, every inch covered with the landscapes of holy war. Hundreds of men are all identifiably different, with the horrible armies of God descending on them with divine fire. Given time to look, all the party members would be capable of finding likenesses to themselves in the mural.

Pistol shakes his head, awestricken. "Th-this," he stutters, "was not here an hour ago."

Snake looks back at him. "Are you sure this is where you were?" He spots his likeness as a shirtless man with a red sash drawing a bow with a dozen other men around him doing the same.

"Well," Pistol thinks, "there is only one stairwell going down."

Jacob removes his glasses and squints at his likeness, a man in a blue robe holding a staff overhead and calling down the flames of the sun itself through the thick clouds. Jacob notes how the painting seems to sink into the ground and resume below. As he kneels to examine it, the ground shakes.

Walls spit from the ground in some spots and other walls fall, creating new rooms and locking off the group members from one another. Pistol grabs Jacob's arm and pulls him out of the way of a wall shooting from another wall. Lacerti leaps over a rising partition and tackles El. Snake and Larry stand in shock as four walls enclose them. Spooky and Trash get pulled away from each other as a wall grows between them. Ashley yells for help, but everyone is lost....

"Dad!" Ashley calls. "Charlie!" Strange carnival-like music begins to play. "Trash!" The wall behind her falls out, revealing an evil-looking merry-go-round. Ashley whimpers, "Where is everyone...."
Chapter 9: Moses

A car rolls to a stop in front of me. It's a convertible; it looks like a sporty Mustang. Behind the wheel is a short, stocky man with a big grin. Half his teeth are gold, and he has a hair-thin mustache. His skin is a bronze tan and he is dressed in a relaxed-fitting, off-white overcoat with a matching fedora that has a red stripe and alligator's teeth in it. He looks ethnically confused.

"Amigo, ya'll catch the death out there," he says as he waves at me. "Come on, I'll drive you some." His accent is awful. Sounds like a Spanish Australian, or Eastern English, but he has offered me a ride, and a ride I need.

"Thank you."

I can feel something is not right here. My Aura Sight has fired up. I look around despairingly. I see myself; I'm glowing lightly blue with a flare of red as always. Blue is suggestive of sadness and/or loneliness, and the red adds just a taste of "pure" rage. The man in the car is yellow, a sign of happiness. This guy has no problems in the world. Something behind us, though, seems to be sucking our auras toward it, some black, empty thing. I dread to look, but I bet I already know.

As I reach for the car door, the metal crinkles away from me like a soda can in a fire bending in on itself and turning to ash. I see in the high polish of the door the sand behind me pouring into a hole, like into a vortex. This can't be right. I cover my eyes. It's just like before; something is inside my head driving me mad, controlling my thoughts. My power of the mind is all that's keeping me sane.

"Por favor," the man in the car says, "rápido. I need go." I nod and hop into the car with him. "Where to, boss, the titty club, Mexico, Columbia? I love it all." He can't see any of what I'm seeing.

I hold my head as I point forward. I can't find anything to say other than simply, "Go." As we roll down the street I retake control of my mind and things become clear again. Something is following me, that part is clear—who and why, I can't tell. It is not really important, I guess. What is is that I get rid of them, one way or another. "Comprenda el Inglés?" I ask him.

"Sí, my English is very well," he responds. I could have guessed.

I pull out my map and point. "Do you know where this is?"

He nods to me. "Yaw, I'll be going right by."

"Good, drop me off." I reach for my wallet. He shakes his hand at me as if offended by the notion. Apprehensive, I look in the mirror, watching for God only knows what.

My driver looks at my suitcase and then back at me. "Guitar?" he asks. He is a good man and I would like to tell him everything, but I don't know anything myself, really, and If I simply opened it and let him "meet the ladies," likely he would freak out and kick my ass to the street.

Well, if I say nothing, I'll insult him. If I say everything, I'll scare him. Maybe I can tell the truth and he'll laugh at it. "Nope, a shitload of guns."

Just as I thought, he laughs. "Son of the scorpions," he says. I don't understand, but I can play along. "Contract killer."

He laughs again, not believing a word of it. I think that's for the better, anyhow.

He holds his hand out to me and manages to slip out one word between his high belly laughs. "Moses," he tells me—his name. I hold my hand out to him.

"My name is Richard Blake."

"Blake, ha." He squints. "How do you, Mr. Blake, get out here with no cars or bikes or a horse?" he laughs. "I don't know how far you came, but it no short."

I don't really want to have to explain any more, so I try to lead him off the idea. "I walked. How about you, Moses? What are you doing out this way?"

He shrugs. "Work. I drive like a trucker; I go get something from one man and bring it to another man." A convertible is not an F-350 or an eighteen-wheel big rig, but I'm not going to protest.

After about in hour I note that Moses is taking the least direct route he could possibly have found. He takes a sharp left and detours to a different town entirely. I seek to inquire, and he simply shakes his head and asks me to relax. We stop at what looks to be a façade town—I doubt it even appears on any maps. It is only fifteen buildings long, all one story. I don't see any phone or power lines. This place looks like it belongs in a Jesse James flick. Moses buys me an egg salad sandwich from the rest stop and a bottle of brandy. I'm grateful. He gets himself something similar in a corn wrap.

I feel at ease. Moses's rambunctious idea of driving has shaken whatever I felt earlier—this man's good karma seems to override my bad. We sit at a dusty gas station eating our nibbles for half an hour, killing the time talking about the weather, sports, and whatever middle-aged men like, before my phone rings. I ask Moses to hold as I take the call.

"Blake!" It's Tail, and she sounds frantic. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, why?"

"Your signal started moving funny then stopped abruptly."

"I got picked up."

"Blake, you're way off target," she says, starting to calm down.

I think hard for a moment about our last conversation. "Tail, your mother helped produce INT-21 under the offices of Claw Company International. How are Claw Co. and the von Richtons related?"

"Blake, they're not related at all, to spite what Ms. von Richton seems to think. I'm not a Yagoloth; I'm no demon, and neither were any of my parents."

I feel the need to interrupt her. "Any?"

"Yes, Blake, I'm a Bio-organic computer S1 Alpha unit codenamed 'Tail.' I'm a strategic system—to my knowledge, the only operational one. One of the Watchers' spies must have stolen the vaccine."

"Why do you look like a Yagoloth?" I feel inclined to ask.

Tail exhales heavily in irritation. "Year to year, canines have faster and longer reproductive lives and shorter incubation periods, therefore are cheaper than humans to harvest and breed. And besides, the Right to Life Act of 1979 forbade human testing until a procedure has been tested and found safe on animal subjects."

"Thanks, Tail. One more thing, do you feel physically attracted to humans or dogs?"

"God damn it, Blake, get back to work before you get us killed!" She seems upset again.

"Has it been tested to see what you're compatible with?" I ask, and it's the final straw—she hangs up on me. Now I _know_ she wants me.

We jump back into Moses's car and make our way to the Lamia's Back bar. Moses drops me off and explains that he is going to be back in five hours. I can't help but wonder why....

As Moses is driving off, I look around. There are nine vehicles, some cars and some motorcycles. I decide it would be in my better interest to search them. I pull a slim jim from my bag—the tool the cops use to open locked doors when a battering ram is not an option.

First I search the sports car. In the front seat there is a pair of glasses with a broken lens and a photograph taken at some park. It shows two men at night. There is a juke box in the background, and the man with long hair is screaming into a microphone like a rock star. The other, a man with short hair, is firing a pair of prop guns. There is some lens flare, so it's hard to make out details. In the back there is a billfold with a money clip. There's an ID inside that reads "Larry Gekks, age 25, height 5'9'', weight 235 pounds, brown hair and brown eyes." In the trunk there is a box filled with gold bars.

Next I search the bikes. In the saddle bag of one there is an insurance card that reads, "Farm State motorcycle insurance registered to Charlie Belmond. Valid through 18 June 2008." There's also a notebook with pictures of animals, people, and people that look like animals—there's a several-page-long cartoon of a woman having sex with a man as he morphs into a wolf. It's signed by a girl named Lucia Wingate.

Finally to the big rig. The thing smells like lemon, the dashboard looks oiled, and the brake petal has recently been replaced. The driver must be the cleanest trucker in the world. Clipped to the visor on the passenger side is a picture. It is of eighteen soldiers outside of a base, sixteen of them posing for the camera, grinning, and two of them at attention. The sixteen posing all have Xs over their hearts—only the lieutenants standing at attention remain unmarked. The first unmarked man is a large man standing in the back. He is mildly out of focus, making it difficult to gage his stature. Even so, he stands as wide as two men and half again as tall—he is massive. The second stands alongside his men, hands folded before him. Completely ordinarily, the only identifying marks on him are his insignias. Flipping over the picture, there is a notation reading, "Dec. 14, 1968, Vietnam."

I approach the door to the joint. It's locked with an I-bar and I'm not strong enough to lift it, seeing that it weighs several hundred pounds. I lift my phone instead—it's time to make that call.

Tail answers, "Operator."

"Tail?"

"Yes?"

"I need help," I explain.

"You're the monster hunter, not me," Tail reminds me.

"I have a list of names and a picture. I need to know who they are."

"Why?" she asks.

"They're inside, and I can't get in."

"Shoot the damn door down," she commands. I shake the door, but it doesn't budge an inch.

"No good." The door is thicker than the lock by at least two inches. "Don't suppose you slipped any C-4 or an RPG in my bag?"

"What the hell is an RPG?" Tail asks.

"Rocket Propelled Grenade."

"No, Blake, the Watchers don't issue military-brand arsenal," Tail explains sarcastically.

"I guess I'll just have to find another way in, then," I say, and hang up the phone.
Chapter 10: Surrogate Mother

As Trash stumbles clumsily around the maze of walls, a strange music starts to play, like a sick music box. The sound pulls at her like a mystic rope. All at once, the trance is broken by the sound of Ashley's scream. Trash, in a maternal panic, runs down the endless halls, chasing the child's voice. Chains, ropes, and banners drop from the ceiling, obstructing her path. A faint of metal grinding chases her, like the hollow sound of a fan blade on an aluminum cylinder.

Fading from light to light is a man that moves like a living shadow, dancing down the chamber in a maddening fashion. The hall makes a sharp right, and Trash clashes with the wall. It seems to be wooden here, with faded flower wallpaper. There are numbered doors along it, but the numbers are backward. Trash, struck with nostalgia, stops her chase momentarily to regroup. This is her home, or at least a good resemblance.

She looks from side to side for the hall she had left, but it is nowhere around. The ground is soft and soggy, and there's water on the walls, creating a fall-like effect as it rushes down to fall through the cracks in the floor. She walks slowly, dazed by her surroundings. The sound of cars outside, people on the street, the smell of drugs burning in the apartment—all remind of her preteen years, before her father came into her life, before her mother left it.

_Thirty-three. This is my home_ , she thinks. She brings one hand up and touches a door. Her heart pounds hard. Something horrible is behind this door, she can feel it, but her hand goes for the handle nonetheless. The door opens, revealing a two-bedroom apartment. The smell of burnt food and cigarettes is pungent. There is a man asleep on the couch wearing cowboy boots; the TV is set to static, and an oily cracking sound can be heard. Trash turns to face the kitchen. In the kitchen, Trash's mother is standing over the stove in a red and white checkered dress. She is a tall, bony woman with thick, red hair. She is twitching in an inhuman way, head and shoulders and one arm jerking side to side.

"Ghost," she speaks in the high-pitched voice she always had, "you worthless cow, home already?" Trash backs toward the door; Trash's mother always called her Ghost when she was mad.

"Yes, Mother," her voice cracks fearfully.

Trash's mother turns slowly to face her. "And I'm sure you're bringing your needs and drama home with you." Her face is black and swollen, like a burning marshmallow. Her eyes are rolled up into her head and are filled with blood. She wisps across the room, as if a tape in fast-forward. Trash yelps and falls over backward in fear. "I told you to leave yesterday," she howls like a banshee. "Why are you back already?" The banshee-like mother flails her arms dramatically. "Do you want to hurt me?" She leans over Trash as the girl crawls away, half-paralyzed with panic.

"N-no, Mother," Trash stutters.

The banshee lifts Trash to her feet and shoves her to the wall. "You like to hurt me and your father, don't you?" She brings up one hand threateningly.

"No!" Trash cowers from the hideous apparition.

The banshee places one hand on the wall to pin Trash against it. "You have been hurting me since before you were born."

"Don't touch me, Mama!" Trash sniffles as she raises her courage.

The banshee brings her hand down to slap the child.

Trash aggressively thrusts herself at the banshee. " _Stop hitting me, Mama_!" Trash hits her surrogate mother with such rage that she stumbles partway across the room. Trash pants and cries as she marches toward the off-balance ghost. "You can't hurt me anymore, Mama!" She pushes the banshee over. "I called the police and they took you away." The girl turns her face from the nightmare image of her mother. "And they said you can't have me no more!" Trash crosses her arms and sobs.

Trash thinks back to her days with her mother. Her parent was neglectful and abusive. Her whole life was run by a drive to be with many men and live a life of flashing lights and music. Trash was an inconvenience to her and her life. Only a handful of months before meeting up with Pistol and his friends, Trash engaged in a fight with her mother. Her mother won. Trash, battered by her own mother with a rolling pin, called the cops. Trash's mother was thrown into prison for eight months for child abuse and six months for drug charges. She also lost all rights to her child.

As Trash struggles to overcome her emotions, the fake world of her dream fades back into the depths of her mind and she is faced instead with a room with six halls. The sound of the music box is becoming clearer.

"Trash!" Ashley's voice comes from the left. Her sense of urgency renewed, she begins to run.

A number of yards down, a new room comes into sight. It has gray stone walls and is filled by a functioning merry-go-round, from which the music is emanating. Apparently asleep atop one of the horses, Ashley is still clad in Pistol's biker jacket. Trash runs to jump the railing to reach Ashley, but she is frozen by the sight of the black-cloaked man she had seen in the hall. Now he is hanging like a monkey by one arm from a nearby horse looking dead at her with his vexing, purple eyes.

"Freak!" she yells. "Stay away from her!" Crow hungrily curls his lip revealing his viper-like teeth. He lets go of the bar and floats over to Trash.

"Such loveliness; mayhap your veins will quench my thirst." Crow smiles at her. "Have no fear, the child will suffer no more wickedness from me."

"You bastard, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing worse than I'm planning to do to you ..." Crow approaches slowly with a devilish grin on his face.
Chapter 11: Medal of Honor

El and Lacerti duck and jump the maze of walls until at last there is only one path left to follow. When the commotion finally stops, El slaps Lacerti on the arm and smiles appreciatively. The old partners go "dungeon happy" as they make their way down the halls armed and ready for action. "Lacerti, what sort of shit do you think we're in this time?" Lacerti gives a look of severity. El nods. "That's what I think, too."

The hall grows dark and vines begin to drop from the ceiling, creating a thick jumble to push through. A strange sense of familiarity follows. A hand stretches out at El. It is gloved, and a masked face comes into view next. It is a gas suit. It makes a groaning sound as it reaches to squeeze the life out of El. El grabs the hand, pivots around the soldier, throws it over his knee, then elbows it, snapping its spine. The soldier lets out a high-pitched scream, and ten more masked men reach out, seemingly from the walls.

"Lacerti!" El calls, but there is no answer. He swoops down and steals the Red9 off the belt of the soldier he just dropped, then he spins around to find himself surrounded. El shoots the nearest soldier in the knee and then round kicks it away. He twists around to find another at point-blank range, so he pistol-whips the adversary and adds a backhand to make it stumble. He blasts it in the head as it falls, only to find three more walking up to take its place. "You're like roaches; you're everywhere." El can clearly see now that his fancy karate moves and the sixteen bullets he has between his guns won't be enough to fight this accumulation.

El picks a direction and runs for it. He smashes his way through two men while making his break. The vines thin, and he finds himself outdoors. He is outside a farm community at dusk. There is a fire tower and two silos, three barns, and six farmhouses. Past that lies a seemingly endless rice field. Behind him, the now dozen apelike soldiers march out of the jungle.

El's heart sinks. He knows where he is now. Feelings better left forgotten flood into him; faces from a dead life fill his mind. Fear, hate, disarray—things a soldier learns to ignore come to remind him of his own humanity. The first and most significant memories are of his own men and of his commander, Edward Reeves.

El couldn't imagine for the life of him why a man like Reeves would join the armed forces. Clever, educated, and analytical, he was a mathematical theologian. El recalls a dozen times when he found himself whispering with Reeves about formula and rhythm. "Everything is a pattern," Reeves would say. "If you could find all the patterns in the world, nothing would be able hurt you." The concept fascinated him to no end.

"In the theological world, we find everything is made of numbers and variables. Isolation problem solving—this is the world we live in." El would always find Reeves and his puzzles captivating.

"Here is how mathematical theory works. Imagine two brothers, Elroy and Lee. They work together in a commerce kitchen. Elroy is a dishwasher, Lee a busboy. Every hour an identical load of dishes arrives for them to clean and sort. Elroy follows a pattern without fail; twice a minute, he places up a coffee cup out to be sorted. After ten cups he washes a plate, and every other plate he sets out a tray. With every other tray he cleans a pan, and seven times a day he is given a soup bowl to clean. Lee moves in harmony, sorting each dish as it is put up. The pattern is flawless. Due to each man's focus, they only see each other before and after their shifts. One day several hours into a shift, Elroy looks up from his work momentarily and sees on the drying table ninety-one cups, eight plates, four serving trays, two skillet pans, and one soup bowl. How long ago did Lee abandon his post?"

The answer leapt out at El, and that was the beginning a new passion. "Fifty-two and a half minutes," El recalls. "The bowl is an anomaly, the zero number. That's why there was an odd number of cups."

El shakes himself back into the now.

El dashes for the town, and as he runs, a woman with a cart full of manure drops her cart and shouts in a strange language. Suddenly a dozen more men come into sight and start to chase El. "This is simply unacceptable," he mutters.

El leaps through the window of one of the barns like Superman and rolls to his feet. A man with a pitchfork lunges at El and pins his left hand to the wall between the spokes. The man draws a cleaver from his belt and, holding it over his head, sprints to finish the job. El leans out of the way, and the knife gets buried in the wood. The bald veteran swings out his free hand and knocks his aggressor off his feet with a solid swing. He pulls the trident out of the wall just as some of the pursuing men come in through the broken window.

El rushes to open the door to the barn to escape, but a scythe cleaves the door inward when a woman swings it at him. El shoulders past her as trains of enemies form behind El while he rushes through town. He thinks to himself, _The silo_ , picking his next safe haven. So far this all seems frightfully familiar to him. Within the silo there is only one entrance to the upper floors, a ladder propped against the wall. El flies up the ladder.

At the top a dead soldier lies clutching to his combat knife. El takes the weapon from him as the crazed townsfolk pursue him. The first up is a man in a hemp hat and patchy overalls with a hoe. El kicks him back down the ladder, but he barely looks stunned by the fall. El tips the ladder over as four more begin to climb. They shout at El in their alien tongue. The American stands at the edge with his newly acquired Red9 and begins sniping them. His plan for dealing with the townsmen seems to work fine as he executes two flawlessly.

El's moment of victory is cut short, though, when the ape-men catch up and pull handguns as well. The ape-men are good shots—better than El would have given them credit for. The first shot splinters the wood just over El's head. El leaps to one side, diving behind a water bale. The monsters prop up the ladder again so they can climb to their victim.

From a crouched position, El runs across the loft to the third floor steps. Four more bullets fly and are deflected by the infrastructure. On the third floor, El piles up some wheat bags and awaits his pursuers. As they start up the steps, El pops up and fires three times at them, killing two and wounding one. The ape-men blast at the barricade. Noticing he is losing ground fast, El makes a break for the window.

The man springs through, crouched into a ball, and he glides gracefully out of the silo and into a second-floor window of a house across the way. He rolls to his feet and is met with the largest, most powerful looking man in the village—a six-foot-six man in a checkered shirt with a bag over his head, like the monster in some slasher movie. The large foe swings a hand axe at El, who ducks in time, but the man in the mask catches El with a jab.

El grunts as he stumbles back and falls onto the bed in the room. The masked man swings his axe down at El, but he leans to one side and the man's momentum carries him onto the bed as well. El rolls him over and whips out the combat knife. The masked man grabs El's arm, and the titans engage in a power struggle. The masked man has the power—he outweighs El by likely fifty or more pounds, but El has the experience. The masked man is young and doesn't know how to pick his punches.

El is thrown onto the ground as the men wrestle with one another. He allows his arms to get pinned. The masked man struggles to raise one hand to swing with his axe again, but El makes his attack, swinging his knee up into the masked man's groin. He falls forward and El knees him again, smashing him through the handrail and toppling him down the steps.

El leaps down the steps in chase. The masked man has just found his feet by the time El is point blank with him, nose to nose as El plunges his combat knife into the Vietnamese man's gut. The masked man gasps as blood starts running freely out his mouth and he slowly stumbles backward. El pulls his combat knife out of the man's stomach and slits his throat with it.

Suddenly there's a pounding at the door and the smashing of windows to both sides, and El feels he must think fast. With enemies on all sides, it is only a matter of time before he is overrun. He looks left—nothing—and he looks right, finding nothing as well. Behind him, a door, likely a storm shelter.

It's the Alamo, the last great chance for any gunfighter. It will be an uphill battle, which is bad, but it will be a narrow walkway through which they will have to fight him one on one and in an extended battle. Where one decides to fight plays a tremendous role in the outcome.

El swings open the cellar door and hustles down the steps. It is exactly what he thought, a stone chamber with two ninety-degree angles in it—one at top, the other at the bottom, no windows, and only one door....

Lacerti continues to watch in confusion. Several minutes ago, El seemed to just buckle over. He kneels in the dark hallway and snaps at him numerous times, but to no avail. Then he slaps him once, getting no reaction. "Hmm," he grunts.

Down the hall, he hears Trash scream, "Freak, stay away from her!" Lacerti knows exactly what he needs to do. He lifts El onto his back and swiftly runs through the labyrinth with exceptional speed and proficiency.

In a mess of organized chaos, the possessed townsmen and ape-men make their way into El's trap. His knife in one hand and his Red9 in the other, El hides around the second corner as the first townsman reaches the bottom. El smashes the man's nose with his elbow, turns the corner, and cuts the throat of a second. By the time the Vietnamese have figured out what has just happened, El has brought up the Red9 and started unloading on the next three.

The ape-men do El a favor by starting to discharge their weapons into their own people trying to reach El even while El locks knives with the townsmen. In this way they kill easily half their allies in a fruitless spray of bullets.

El was counting on all of them carrying Red9s like the one he found for this reason precisely. He remembered that the Red9 is a low-caliber handgun that was carried by naval officers in World War I and that its bullets would not pass through the human body under normal conditions. His plan of being able to hide behind a wall of his own enemies seems to have worked. El picks up a wounded townsman and charges up the steps using him as his shield. The ape-men waste their precious bullets firing upon the living shield. Once in close range, El's glory as a fighter shines through—a duck, a spin, a roll, and some calculated knife swings and he has the hapless ape-men fighting each other in the stairwell as they grope for their enemy.

As it comes to the last of the soldiers, they finally reorganize and retreat from the "would-be warlord." They had the numbers, but numbers don't win wars these days. El looks to the ground to count the bullet casings. _Two hundred and seventeen. There's not a bullet left between them_. El raises his head tauntingly. No one runs from El unless he wants them to, and he can see no reason to let these ones go....

El's nightmare begins to fade away. Early in the war, on December 19th, 1968 at 5:45 am, El and his men had made the decision to attack a nonmilitary target, a direct violation of their orders to avoid contact with civilians. El believed that they had been set up, and his first objective was to escort his men back to friendly soil. Seeing that he had no transportation and no radio, they would have to access a domestic channel, which meant marching into a town and making empty threats and ideal promises in spite of having inadequate resources to back up those words. To unarmed citizens, fifty-three soldiers with guns should have looked too imposing a force to contest. Even though El was worried, he knew that his troops were not combat ready, and any reasonable amount of resistance would have proven a threat to his team.

At 8:00 am the town seemed accommodating to them. For some unknown reason, the townspeople were sympathetic to their needs and purpose. They where hidden away in a community of underground shelters, and their interpreters where permitted to use the phone lines.

After the war on their return home, El and Lacerti's units became amongst the most decorated to leave Vietnam—Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Stars, Purple Hearts, and The Joint Service Commendation Medal were all awarded to nearly everyone. And as for El and Lacerti, they also returned home to the Medal of Honor with clusters.

***

When at last El awakes, he slaps Lacerti on the arm to alert him of his condition. Lacerti places El on the ground and they run together. In a matter of moments, seemingly all can hear the music box tune. Then they run into a dead end. Lacerti looks down at El for advice. El rubs the wall and looks to Lacerti. "Two and a quarter feet of sandstone." He steps to one side. "Break it," El states simply, waving to the wall. Lacerti lowers his shoulder and runs at the wall, which shatters apart under Lacerti's weight.

Trash and Ashley both lie atop the merry-go-round. El and Lacerti step into the room cautiously. Crow in his divine form drops from the ceiling without warning like a devil bat. He takes El by the head and launches him across the room into another wall, cracking the wall to pebbles. Lacerti spins to face the adversary. Crow swings one arm back smashing Lacerti along the jaw, and Lacerti falls over, twisting.

Crow flips down off the ceiling and leers at them with a grin. "If you want to run, now is the time," he taunts. Lacerti kick flips to his feet, landing with a mighty thump and shaking the room under his tremendous build. The titan points his gun-blades at Crow and fires relentlessly.

Crow glides up the walls and around the room. Black ripples of power emanate from within him, the lead passing through him as if he were mist. With dizzying speed he flies directly toward Lacerti's chest and fires a beam of lightning through the man. El staggers to his feet covered in dust and rubble and reaches for his Jackal. Crow divides his attention and with one hand triangulates the lightning beam between the two.

El is dragged into the air by Crow's godlike powers. Lacerti summons a stoic might, walking toward Crow in spite of the burning sensation of the magical attack. He brings down both hands as a hammer and clobbers Crow. Shocked by the idea that a mortal can even touch him, Crow laughs for a moment. He spits up some blood and rises to his feet as he suddenly understands the truth of Lacerti's heritage.

"A Demi," Crow hops back, hovering out of Lacerti's reach as he attempts to hit him again. "And here I had the folly to think I might be the last." Crow holds his arms out and a red sphere glows around him. El and Lacerti both make to run at the warlock.

"I'm curious, how far developed is your power?" the evil man asks. El stops dead in his tracks as the expanding wall of energy hits Lacerti's arm and instantly scorches it black. "Enough so to fight me, perhaps?" Lacerti stumbles away, cradling his arm.

El points at a large rock. "Lacerti!"

Lacerti nods. El runs around the diameter of the room to the girls. Lacerti lifts the indicated boulder and flings it at Crow, who is forced to drop his spell as the rock hurls toward him. The rock splinters as a reaper boomerangs into Crow's hands and he cuts it to pieces. Crow chuckles, lowering his eyes to his worthy enemies. As his eyes close, he vanishes, and a flock of ravens takes his place and scatters in a mocking cry.

The battered duo picks up the girls and the merry-go-round melts to dust, just as El's nightmare had, and Trash's before him. A troublesome idea presents itself to El. _That demon could have killed all of us easily, but it instead is playing with us, holding us by our tails and letting us believe we can get away, as a fiendish cat might. What is he? What power does he hold? And how the hell can we escape unless it's by his will? Lacerti and I are exceptional fighters, but with the exception of one lucky punch, we couldn't touch it._

Crow retires to the portal room at the base of the shrine. He draws a conjurer's seal on the ground, summoning nine spheres of energy. A gray light bathes the room as lighting hops from sphere to sphere. Within the center of the circle appears a Middle-Eastern-looking man in a deep blue traveler's robe made of silk and with the image of the Kirin on the back. His hair is tied in a bun on the right side of his head. As he overcomes summoning sickness, he locks eyes with Crow. "Fiend! I command you, why do you summon me?"

Crow raises his head and grins devilishly. "Job the Endless, forsaken by the slave's god, condemned to my servitude and by endless hunger, hear the voice of your savior."

Job snaps at Crow vengefully. "Damned servant of the dead gods, free me from my suffering that I my take my rightful place at God's right hand with my brethren."

Crow growls furiously and waves one hand at his defiant servant, whipping him with psionic energy. "Slave! Do my bidding, for only through me shall you ever know peace, if only for a moment!"

Job falls over, holding the sides of his head. "Come, my sheep," Crow says as he holds his hand down in a fatherly fashion, "for I am the way."

Job takes Crow's hand and is led up to his feet. The pain from the psionic assault stops instantly. Job lowers his head in defeat. It was foolish of him to disobey his lord's will, and he is blessed that his punishment was so mild. Job knows well what he will be commanded to do, and however painful it is to do so, if he should not perform for him, his lord's wrath will be eternal. More so, it will be without pity this time.
Chapter 12: Pure Souls

Calling, "Old man!" Pistol snags Jacob's arm and mightily yanks him from the path of a falling wall. Jacob falls to the ground and rolls along it, propelled by Pistol's strength. Pistol comes tumbling after shortly as the quaking earth shakes him from his feet. Pebbles and tiles crack and fall from the roof. Only half on his feet, Pistol dives again, throwing himself over Jacob's back while sheltering the old cleric from the shrapnel.

Jacob covers his head with his arms, holding his nonexistent hat as he lies on his stomach. He briefly looks up in bewilderment. Pistol chuckles as he often likes to do when uncomfortable. "It's like a ride, ain't it?" Jacob shakes his head disapprovingly once confident the event has ended.

Pistol shrugs and helps his company to his feet. Jacob walks with Pistol, resting on the younger man's arm for support, seeming to lack the strength to keep up pace. "Your name is Pistol, right?" he queries.

Playing the role of the good son, Pistol nods and in his high, fake, kiddy voice, answers, "Yes. No. Sometimes. What is the right answer?"

Jacob looks up with a look of seriousness. "A yes will work."

The unlikely partners carry on slowly, Jacob apparently unable to catch his breath after the last scare. He slaps Pistol on the back several times after another minute. Pistol looks to him and sees he is white in the face, lips squeezed tight as if to hold back vomit. Pistol looks frightened. "What is wrong, old man?"

Jacob swiftly pulls himself away from Pistol and throws himself at the wall face-first. He gags furiously until finally spitting up a cancerous-looking piece of rotten flesh. Pistol approaches him and reaches out to touch the old man. Jacob thrusts his arm back, barking at Pistol, "Keep away form me!" Pistol leaps back in shock then turns his back on Jacob disappointedly.

Nearly in tears, Jacob slides down the wall onto his knees, panting and wheezing from pain and exhaustion. Jacob composes himself. "I ... I'm sorry, Pistol." The ghost hunter is sitting at the wall behind him, knees up resting his arms over them. "I don't know what came over me." Jacob's voice has returned to its calming self. "It was a bestial rage."

Pistol lowers his head, listening. "Can I help you, Father?"

Jacob rolls over to sit. "No one can help me anymore." He exhales heavily. "Not you, not Snake, not even me."

Pistol raises one eye in concern. "What is ailing you?"

Weakly, Jacob's head falls to one side. "I'm becoming the maggot undead," he coughs, the whispers, "just like Larry."

Pistol leans in. "How? You don't have a scratch on you, and ... and, uh, you need to have been bitten to transform."

Jacob shakes his head. "Nope, not true. Lots of things can turn one into the maggot undead, not just bites."

"But my father told me—" Pistol stops himself mid-sentence, slapping his own mouth shut. Jacob snaps to attention, captivated by Pistol's sudden wealth of information.

"What did your father tell you, Pistol?" Jacob inquires.

Pistol spits up a rant before he can cover his mouth. "That no man can fall into darkness without falling whole-hearted. A drop of blood, the kiss of a demon, or the whisper of a hag can show one the way, but the damned cannot be damned without damning themselves first."

"Hmm." Jacob sits back, satisfied. "Your father is damn smart," Jacob sighs, "but I'm not confident that the ancient wisdom applies anymore."

"Ancient wisdom?" Pistol asks.

"I'm a parish, son. My old eyes have been privileged to see a lot of things that most others aren't. Such as holy books two thousand years old, ancient tools claimed to have been wielded by prophesized heroes. I even once held the Spear of Longinus," Jacob boasts. He pronounces it LON-gin-us.

A look of confusion overtakes Pistol as he goes to correct Jacob. "Isn't that the Lon-GINE-us Spear?"

"No, sir. Longinus was a man, not a place. He was the Roman that dragged Christ up the hills of Golgotha."

Pistol leans in. "The who?"

Jacob's head rolls side to side as he struggles to hold it up. "'The where?' would be the right question. Golgotha is the so-called Skull Mountain. The place of death overlooking the meadow of blood in Rome—the place of crucifixions." A thin, gray fog has risen as Jacob wipes his eyes.

Pistol drops his head back against the wall. Jacob can feel the presence of Crow. He is watching them, not in the flesh, but instead by some other means. Then like lighting it hits Jacob. Crow plans to harm Pistol in a way that medicine cannot heal; he is going to attack him from the ethereal world, just like he did to Jacob. Jacob was not capable of fighting Crow to protect himself, but maybe he can save Pistol nonetheless.

_But how? Crow is so strong, and has proven his dominance with his game of catch here. Why the hell not?_ Jacob thinks. _Insubordinate to the last_. Jacob throws himself over Pistol and starts reciting the Rights of the Dying from his book of prayers. Jacob grabs his holy symbol from around his neck and sets it to Pistol's forehead, chanting briskly.

The fog clears from Pistol's eyes. He finds himself lying on the ground in a dank backstreet alley. He is soaking wet and stinks of brandy. He can hear a girl shouting and panting in fear and pain, obviously struggling somewhere, against something. Pistol thinks hard for a moment; he knows where he is, and he bets he knows whose voice he is hearing, too.

Pistol follows the alley around to the back of the gentleman's club named Pink. Placed on top of a discarded pile of books and movies is Trash, pinned down by a greasy-looking street hoodlum who is giggling evilly as he cuts the shirt off her body.

Pistol whistles to the hoodlum. "Hey!" He drops his whip off his belt. "The lady, I don't think she likes you," he says in a fake a Spanish accent.

The hoodlum stands. "And who the hell are you?"

Pistol smiles. "I am Guy Fawkes."

Pistol has always had a fascination with history and its obscure heroes and villains. Guy Fawkes is both. As with many men that become legends, most of the facts behind Fawkes' life have been offered as a sacrifice to the myth. The facts are, Guy Fawkes lived in the late 1500s. He was honored as a war hero by Her Majesty and died as a traitor in1607, two years after failing to destroy the Houses of Parliament on November 5th, 1605, as the story is told.

The hoodlum turns to Pistol as his voice dramatically changes to that of Roman heritage and his eyes fade to a wicked red filled with hate and lust. Pistol stumbles in primeval fear. The man grows into the form of a grand inquisitor. Pistol has never come face-to-face with this man, but as if an inherited memory, he needs no introduction. "I've come for you son, Belmond." Pistol kicks over a trashcan as he less-than-gracefully falls back. "Your father, his father, and his father's father spent their lives waiting to meet me. Have you remembered to prepare for my arrival, as well?"

_The devil Nithies_ , Pistol thinks. _He found me, and so soon_.

Nithies glides over to Pistol. "You still have my whip; do you remember how to wield it?"

_Oh man did I make a wrong turn; I cant fight that, a Patriarch undead._ _I really blew it_ , Pistol thinks.

The demon senses his distress. "You aren't ready, are you, Belmond? You have been running thinking I would never come looking."

Trash stands up, eyes glowing red, just like Nithies's. She walks to him as if possessed by the monster. Pistol backs into the wall as the buildings around him seemingly stand and move to prevent his escape. "I want to play," she says in a snakelike voice. She runs her hands up her hips then leans in teasingly. "Love me, Pistol."

Pistol makes a valiant attack, lunging at the vampire and slashing with Soul Eater. Nithies pivots in too close to attack and lifts Pistol by one arm, interrupting his action. Pistol reaches for his knife, but Nithies takes his other arm. Trash throws herself at the man's feet, hugging his legs.

Nithies whispers into Pistol's ear, "For three thousand years man battled monsters, but after all the bloodshed ended what no one spoke of was that the monsters were the ones that had won." Nithies snaps out his fangs and sinks them deep into Pistol's chest. Trash bites his leg. Pistol yells as the vampiric pair start devouring him.

Jacob hastens his spell as Pistol starts convulsing. _I was right, Crow is killing him_. Jacob holds his holy symbol to Pistol's head and starts shouting the sacrament prayer. The symbol turns white-hot, burning into Jacob's hand. The priest howls in agony, forcing himself to carry on. Dark energy floods out of Jacob's body, dimming the room. In a polar response, the holy symbol starts shoving Jacob away. With an exertion of stone will, Jacob grabs the holy symbol with both hands and lays his weight onto it to hold himself still. The holy fire creeps up his arms, and Jacob starts one final prayer as he chants the ordainments....

The loss of blood quickly takes a toll on Pistol. He starts to fall as his eyes drop with a conceding weight. His vision fades until all he can do his hear the devils sucking and chewing of his life away.

A single echoing drop of water rings in Pistol's ear, and now life finds its way into his veins. A cross burns itself into Pistol's forehead. He flings his arms out, howling with mystic power. A flaming white cross explodes in a grand flash from within Pistol's body, levitating him into the air and blasting away his enemies. The two vampires vaporize within the divine light.

Such graces, such power. The symbols of the Belmond family, the hex, the whip, and the holy fire "Grand Cross," their immortal vengeance—no Belmond dies without his enemy. Pistol knows all the tales of the Belmonds. He has read every scrap of paper his father ever slid in front of him. He understood the truth of the war against the night from the start but has refused to take responsibility for his part in it all. He has seen half a dozen monsters before this, but they have all run away—except one, the one that scarred him, the one that attacked Trash last year.

Pistol thought he could outrun his fate, hide from destiny. He has moved from city to city, changed his name, and even tried to discard Soul Eater, but nothing seems to work. There are only two things left to try: giving up or giving in.

Pistol's eyes open. He is back in the hall with Jacob. The cleric is flush white and lying against the wall, apparently wavering on death's door. "Pistol," he beckons, "I need something from you now. I spared your life. Now...."
Chapter 13: Silent World and White Coat Fever

"Snake!" Larry yells at the wall that has sprung between them.

"Larry!" his brother yells as well.

"Snake!" Larry bellows again.

The brothers' efforts are fruitless; they can't hear each other "Larry I'm coming! Stand still," Snake calls before turning to the hall that is opening behind him. He pulls his revolver and cocks the hammer. He holds his revolver to his forehead as if it was a sword and quotes from his favorite series, _The Sword of Truth_ , "Blade be true this day." Snake runs down the hall in a blind search for his brother.

Snake finds himself in a hall with sculptures on the wall in the shape of heads. A triad of female voices comes from behind.

"What is that?" voice A says.

"It's a boy," responds voice B

"I want to play with it," intones voice C.

Snake looks back to see three nude women with fuzzy bat legs and matching wings. They seem hideously charming.

"Do you think he is lost?" the smallest of the three asks

"I think he is handsome," her tallest companion says.

"I don't think he knows what is going on," the third giggles. "I don't think he even knows this hall is booby trapped."

The three demon witches warp into leathery animal monsters. "And now he is, too!" they giggle diabolically.

With grace and luck on his side, Snake steeps backward as the floor springs up at a ninety-degree angle. He falls forward, sliding down it. Sixteen spears shoot out of the wall above him in a box shape, but Snake manages to crawl under them. A spiked ceiling falls toward him. He cartwheels out of the way, but one final set of spears juts from the opposite wall. He flattens against the far-side wall, and the spears fail to graze him. "Slick as grease," Snake applauds himself as he steps out of the hall unscratched, chuckling as he brushes himself off.

Snake rounds the bend. The three bat demons appear in front of him. They cackle like hyenas. "The master is away, time for the rats to play!" the tallest one hisses.

Snake scratches his head with his pistol. "How the hell did you get over there?" he says, looking baffled for a moment. The three bats flutter to him. One of the three slashes at him with the hooks on its wings. Snake takes a graze to the side of his face. Another smashes into him, and the thief hits the ground with a crash. The diabolic women laugh as they spin around for a second strike.

Snake punches the ground in frustration. He rolls left, then right as two of the hell-bats fly around him. The final flies directly into him, rending with its talons. Snake guards his face with his arms crossed over it. The first chance he gets, he swipes his arms at the demon, and she runs after her sisters, regrouping.

Snake climbs to his feet just as a fourth monster comes into sight. It is a gipsy-looking woman with a cow's head and a large mace that it is dragging behind itself. Snake squints at it as he tries to comprehend the monster. "This is getting to be a bit much," he groans.

The first hell-bat flies at him, but Snake ducks under it. The second dives in, and he twists fully around, backhanding the witch as it soars past him. The last in line hits him head-on, and they both fall to the ground as Snake wraps his arms around it. Snake rolls her onto her back as she shrieks angrily. The man head butts the beast several times until it stops screaming before finally dropping it to the ground.

The two remaining in the air swoop around again as Snake stands up. The bat women fly in; the one at point dives down, wrapping its arms and legs around Snake and trying to bite him. As its teeth touch his shoulder, Snake shoots it twice in the chest. It looks shocked as he thrusts it to the ground. The last of the bat women lands from its flight, understanding that Snake is now in control. Snake snaps open his revolver and pours out the empty rounds.

Enraged, the last diabolic sister runs at Snake. She fan kicks him and he stumbles, dropping his revolver She spins around and side kicks her enemy. The bat knee strikes and Snake falls to his knees, and finally an axe kick finishes the bat demon's flurry of attacks and drops Snake to his back.

The bat woman places one foot on Snake's chest, holding him down ."I'm going to enjoy making a slave out of you for my master. Your back will be my bed, and you will lick my ass on command, Dog."

Snake looks around and remembers where he is. "Well," he jokes, "I kinda just got out of a relationship like that, and however fun and sexy sadomasochism is, I'm just not ready for that kind of thing again so soon." Understanding the traps he saw earlier, he slaps the ground to his left and sets off the "guilty lances." Snake smiles as the spear trap activates and shoots into the last witch. He crawls out of the trap's path and props himself against the wall, wheezing for breath.

"You," a voice says from his right side.

_Shit_ , Snake thinks, _there were four of them, weren't there_?

"You're not one of Cravixs's legions," the cow-headed monster says as it places its mace on the ground.

"So what is it to you who I am?" Snake asks. "And why aren't you attacking me like every other monster down here?"

"For almost a hundred years now this has been a hideout for travelers like myself running from various things. A man from this world named Adam Crow has opened a gate for us to get here and told us he would protect it so long as we did what we were told."

"What do you mean 'this world?'"

"He demands sacrifices of blood and children as a tax."

"You didn't answer me," Snake says, annoyance entering his voice.

"Most of us are afraid of him and the things he makes us do."

"Ha?" Snake leads the monster on.

"He likes women; he wants us to have children in his name so we can then sell them to him."

"What?"

"He is scared of you and your friends. I hear he has summoned his warrior angel, Job, here to fight you if the Wolfins prove ineffective," the beast says.

Snake interrupts, "Stop—"

But the creature continues, "Cravixs is indestructible they say, but if you can crush his body, maybe he will leave us alone."

Snake grabs her by the arm. "OK," he shakes her, "whatever you want! But first I need to find my brother and the others. Can you help me?"

"Snake!" Larry yells, "Snake, Snake!" There's no answer. "Snake!" he yells one final time before giving up.

He steps back away from the wall, and as he does the room morphs, transforming into a gray-tiled room with a sink and an operating table. Silence overtakes him like the dread of night. The sink's faucet drips and a defining echo sounds when the water hits the aluminum of the sink.

Larry holds his ears and screams without sound. He jogs over to the sink and twists hard to stop it from dripping again, the sound of his feet on the hard stone floor being little softer.

The room is small and has chain-link windows and no doors. Larry sits on his knees waiting for his brother to show up and save him as he always has. A hard crash comes from the opposing end of the room. Larry looks to the source of the sound and sees that an ash-covered man has materialized. The man is clad in gray and looks lightly burned. He has no face—only a rubber, stretched head with no identifying features other than its inhumanity. A flicker of light reflects off a blade in its left hand. The phantom doctor slowly marches forward, not making a sound as it shuffles about the room.

Larry's ears sharpen. He can hear his heart beating in his chest and his lungs stretching. He stands, following the movement of the phantom stepping opposite him. Larry's every move makes a clapping sound. The phantom flashes the blade, leaping at Larry who side steps, bringing up his arm to absorb the shock. He suffers a deep gouge to the arm as the tiny blade cuts deep into flesh. Larry flinches back, clutching his arm. The phantom steps in to slash him again and Larry suffers another cut, this one down his neck and into his chest. He falls forward with a mighty thump, grabbing at his neck to hold the wound.

The phantom stands over Larry, holding the knife far over its head. Time slows down for the man; the air ripples around him, and the flapping of cloth can be heard clearly. Larry learns to pick apart the painful noise, and everything becomes clearer. Larry's wounds stop bleeding, his eyes fill with blood, and he growls a monstrous bellow. In an animalistic rage, Larry kicks up to his feet. The phantom tries to stab him as he stands, but the berserk man snatches his wrist with one hand and his neck with the other in a single swift movement. Larry snarls. He squeezes the phantom's wrist until it shatters, forcing the demon to drop the knife. Larry squeezes its esophagus, causing it to twitch painfully. Unrelenting, Larry lifts the figure into the air, holding strong until the last of the phantom's strength is gone.

As soon as the phantom stops moving, Larry barks, lashing his head at it as if to take a bite out of the monster's flesh, but he stops himself short. For a moment he looks around in a state of confusion. His arm grows numb. Larry is stronger than an average man, but he's not strong enough to lift a fully grown man into the air and hold him for any length of time. Let alone strong enough to break bones barehanded. He drops the phantom and paces about, trapped in a half-dreamlike state.

Crow pulls from his pocket a deck of mystical cards like the ones used by gypsies. He finds himself a chair near a table in one of the many guest rooms the planeshifters were nice enough to prepare. He places his cards on the table smugly, laughing internally. Today is a fine day to be a dark god; doing little more than whispering into the right man's ear, he was able to invoke mass confusion that over the course of the next several years will net him thousands of souls and leave an entire country in ruins. Next it's time for some after-dinner entertainment.

A meaningless fight would be terrific—maybe root out some less-than-worthy subjects to kill some would-be monster hunters and claim a new mortal toy to play with for a handful of years. The outcome of the fighting here means nothing in the long run, but if he can get rid of Job or Belmond tonight, it would save trouble later. Both of them had outlived their usefulness about a century ago.

But the Demi ... that interests him. Only three Demis have ever been recorded to exist in this world, two of which were martyred, as is the norm for the divine seed. He himself is only half Demi, not born into their ranks, but ascended by drinking holy blood.

Crow flips the top card from his deck revealing "the magician"— _all wisdom come unto me_. The second is "the devil"— _all things of the flesh bound to my flesh_. Third, "the fool"— _only I can lead man to the next century_. Fourth, "fortune"— _cast down from my brothers to balance the scales of purity and filth_. Fifth, "the queen of daggers." Crow squints as he reads his cards. _What a waste_ , he thinks as the future comes to light for him. _He should have played along with me_.
Chapter 14: Final Combat

The smoke clears from in front of Spooky's eyes. He coughs, waving his hand from side to side, trying to find fresh air. He kicks the bench before himself, accidentally stumbling over it. He feels light. He looks at himself and his surroundings. He is dressed in his Ken po gi from when he was a Thai boxer in his youth—blue baggy paints made of cotton, a tank top made of the same heavy cloth, and a badge with the kanji Chi on his back and over his heart.

Up to just over a decade ago, Spooky made a living as a Moiré-Te warrior and teacher in both America and the Middle East. He fought in the middleweight division for his whole career. He called it quits when his age started to catch up with him. He found that he was losing his staying power and having more and more trouble meeting the weight standard. One day he bet his career on a fight, he lost. His teacher, Onaga Honzo, told him he could keep fighting if he wanted to; he just would have to fight in the heavyweight divisions. This concept scared the hell out of Spooky. He knew that in heavyweight the rules were different, and barely making the cut, he could be killed on stage by a high-end fighter.

Spooky spins about. He appears to be in a locker room like the one he used during the World Fighter's Cup in Weihaiwei, China in 1991. He was the only African American to fight that year. That was back when he was still Mohamed, and before he went to work for a school as a gym instructor. Those were the good days, the hard days, before he went self-destructive and still cared what people thought about him, and when he cared about others in return.

Spooky has played this game. The bulletin on the wall states that it will be his turn to fight in five minutes. He tightens up his boots and slicks his hair down. Finally, he takes a kota from the wall and waits his turn to fight.

Passing the time is hard, as it always would be before a fight. When the time comes, the locker room door opens as if on its own. A strange light pours through the open door, and cheering can be heard from outside. Spooky passes though the light to an outdoor arena. There are seemingly hundreds of men dressed in ninja masks shouting in unison "Kon." Only a handful of the guests in the audience look familiar; Trash, Pistol, and Honzo are present. Trash and Pistol are in their biking gear, while Honzo looks like some divine entity in a white robe to match his long hair.

Far in the back of the arena, an Asian man in a black leather trench coat with the symbol of dueling dragons on it sits on a throne of gold and bone. The man's eyes burn with hateful emptiness like the devil's might. The man yells, "Kill him," pointing at Spooky. "Then bring me my prize, Kon."

An eight-foot-tall man with a monkeylike head and four arms walks into the ring. His hair is in a bun and he has only three fingers on each hand. His skin is a dark brown and his eyes have no retinas; his chest is giant and ripped tight.

Spooky stares up at the monster, his face turning white. Aside from Lacerti, Spooky has never seen anything that size. The monster leans in, howling like a dragon, and Spooky staggers back as he finds himself in momentary shock. The man yells again, "Finish him!"

"Puny man, you should feel honored that you face a High Belroge," the monster says, putting a classification to his large species. "Now before you die, try not to scream," he taunts. He brings up one hand and slaps Spooky once, knocking him to the floor of the gravel ring. Spooky is dazed; one hit and he is seeing spots. If it had hit him any harder, it may have knocked his head clean off.

"Get up, get up!" Pistol calls to him over the crowd as the Belroge stamps toward Spooky. The outsized man scampers to his feet. The Belroge throws one fist at Spooky, who raises one arm to protect his head, but the Belroge's tremendous weight shoves Spooky to one side.

Cheering continues as the bloody sport heats up. "Come on," Pistol calls, "hit 'im back!" Spooky rushes the Belroge, taking two swings at it. The towering monster catches both Spooky's fists.

"Give it up," the Belroge laughs, "I know all your moves." With its two free hands it hammers Spooky's chest then backhands him twice in a scissor-like fashion, dropping him.

Spooky hits the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He has never been pounded so hard in his life. This monster is going to kill him if it grabs him again. Spooky has to think fast. He does not want to know what the prize the man on the throne is talking about.

Trash yells, "Spooky! Do something!" Spooky lies still for several seconds, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

The Belroge picks up Spooky and throws him to the opposing side of the ring, heckling his miserable resistance. Spooky skids along the ground. "Up, Spooks, up," Pistol calls again to his battered friend.

Spooky starts to climb to his feet. The Belroge laughs, kicking him back onto his back. "Worm," the giant taunts as it throws him again, this time with only one arm. "Can't you get up?" It stomps over to him again and brutally punches his head into the dirt.

Honzo locks eyes with Spooky. Honzo whispers to him, "Mohammed, forget your weakness. Remember me, remember your strength." Spooky knows what his weakness is. His beers, his cigars, and his fear of the future. That's it, he was afraid—afraid of this sort of fight precisely, which made him quit. Pistol was there to help him pick up the pieces of his life afterward, but he lost a lot of weight and a lot of muscle and stopped taking care of himself for a while. Maybe now is a good time to start again.

Spooky finds his way up to his feet by kicking the Belroge in the stomach forcing it away. He then kick-flips up. "Yes!" Pistol yells, throwing his fist in the air. "Use the kicks!"

The two foes engage in mortal combat, throwing kick after kick and punch after punch, pushing each other in every which way. The Belroge well outsizes Spooky, but once Spooky has his wits about him he can easily outrun the monster. Blow for blow, Spooky finds himself well in the lead, but he just is not strong enough to do any lasting damage. The Belroge is not feeling a thing as it towers over him tauntingly. One, two, three hard blows to the stomach, but the monster refuses to flinch, like a child throwing punches at his father. Like a butterfly, Spooky flutters under two swift jabs, ducking and dodging with grace.

The Belroge stretches its four arms behind itself and withdraws a set of kitars. "I will grind your bones into flour to salt my breed," its bellows at him, gripping the punching knives tightly.

A flag flies out of the crowd, landing between the Belroge and Spooky. The human snatches up the long pole, spinning it around his body in preparation for the monster's impending assault. "Come on," he waves the beast forward, "let's dance." The staff and the claws clash several times before the Belroge smashes his enemy's weapon in two. Undeterred, Spooky slams the broken pieces of the flag into monster's neck. The monster kneels, and Spooky round kicks it in the head, dropping it to its side.

Spooky triumphantly dances in place, but the monster suddenly hops to its feet, enraged. Spooky makes a break for it, running through the crowd for the mountains beyond them. The Belroge lays chase on him, stampeding up the mountain. As he runs he can hear two voices echoing up the hill like a voice would echo on a stage. The first voice belongs to the devil on the throne, while the second is his master, Honzo's.

"Bold move, Laus-deu-O, but as you soon will see, utterly pointless," the demon speaks in a slow low tone.

"Filius-mammon, child of the earth, we will not tolerate you arrogance much longer. These shenanigans are not your purpose for being in this plane," Honzo commands.

"Laus, my dear brother, you are powerless. Two of your hunters are already mine, and in a matter of moments a third will be, too," the beast Honzo called Mammon responds. "The laws your ladies of fate placed on you, me, and the rest of our brothers clearly exclaims that you and I cannot directly interfere in each others' affairs. You can only act through your mortal servants. So as you can now see, you are without dominion."

"Silence yourself, serpent!" A crash of thunder shatters the air as Honzo yells. "My dominion is my concern alone!"

Mammon laughs to himself triumphantly. "It would seem, my dear brother, you have no choice but to watch your mortals battle my monsters. I'm in no doubt it is going to be very pleasurable for us all, sun god, Laus-deu-O."

There ends the dialogue on an unfriendly note. Spooky now finds he is running through nothing more than darkness on an endless street. Without the help of the others, this nightmare will never end.
Chapter 15: Heroes

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 Congressional Medal of Honor.

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 where 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 crimes, 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."

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 I end up killing her, then it's not to high a price, 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?

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, really.

"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."

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 cant 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....
Chapter 16: A Place to Rest

El, Lacerti, Trash, and Ashley have found themselves as traveling companions as they weave their way deeper into the trial of nightmares. Several hours have passed, and the girls still haven't awoken. It's like they're alive physically, but somehow not in their own bodies.

Another stairwell appears, and the party rushes down it. El stops and looks up. "That floor was at least three times the size of the one before it, Lacerti. What is going on?"

Lacerti sets Trash on the dusty stone floor then takes a seat himself, admiring yet more of the canvas from the floors above. Here the mural depicts monsters on top brandishing swords and spears crawling from beneath the ground, while nearer the bottom animal-like beasts are shown in various sexual poses defiling one another.

Lacerti whispers in a thunderous voice, "We are descending into hell, or at least into a monument made in tribute to the fall of man." El and Lacerti spend several moments lost in the vastness of the mural.

El passes down the hall, examining his new surroundings. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

Lacerti nods his head. "Greece, Rome, and Brazil are full of monuments like this, and most recently one was unearthed in Rhode Island."

El listens with intrigue. "Really?" He paces back to the others and as if by motor-response takes inventory of their equipment. "What is their function?"

"Various priesthoods perform ancient ceremonies in places like this one to invoke numerous hexes on the unfaithful, then ultimately they summon a god or instigate the end of the world."

El squints in noticeable distaste. "Nice that we have all grown into such sympathetic creatures. I would ask if there is any warrant to the superstition, but it would seem I have my answer already." El and Lacerti lock eyes for a moment as Trash stirs about. El slaps Lacerti on the arm. "Game face." The two partners lock and load. Now with their next goal in sight, the two partners wait for Trash and Ashley to awaken.

The wait is short and eventless. Ashley comes around after a few minutes, and Trash snaps to alertness only moments later, shouting, "Pistol!"

El turns his head and lowers his eyes to meet hers. "Not quite," he responds. Trash hysterically starts trying to explain the events of the past hour. She grabs El and shakes him. El pulls one arm back staring at her and threatening her with the back of his hand. Trash lets go of El and thrusts herself at Lacerti, sobbing. El wraps one hand around her face, grabbing her cheeks and forcing her to stare at him "That is a warning; where I'm from, there are punishments for such behaviors. Act slowly and deliberately at all times. Now start again and do it right this time," El scolds the young woman.

Trash collects herself. Her face fades slowly to a light pink, her eyes roll back dizzily. El squints, staring at her, studying her features. He whispers, "Shit ..." He stretches out an arm. Patting her on the sides of her face, he says, "Trash, on your feet, take off your clothes." Trash follows the directions in a dreamy haze.

Lacerti looks at El with a scornful look. El answers him without Lacerti needing to ask. "She is going hyperglycemic, and her blood pressure has dropped sharply. She needs her heart rate to stabilize or increase immediately or she may suffer cardiac arrest. Seeing that we can't pump her full of steroids right now, we will do it the hard way."

El tips his head, staring at Trash's breasts and noticing what appears to be the type of wound left by a leech between them, as well as a red mark on her neck in the shape of a hand.

"Lacerti, let's keep moving. I have no doubt the others will come this way, also."

A short distance back, a ghostly Lances Jacob finds his way to his feet. Pistol, overcome by fear and confusion, gasps, "What are you doing, old man?" Jacob marches forward, thrashing in a nearly inhuman way. A dragon-like face ripples outward in a spectral form, pushing its way out of his body.

Jacob growls devilishly as he fights the inner demons turning outward. "Serve your purpose. Fight the devils. Start with me," Jacob shouts at Pistol. Pistol stands in shock, mouth hanging open. Jacob thrashes about, the demons' features beginning to fuse with Jacob, morphing into a single visage.

The Soul Eater on Pistol's hip seems to whisper to its holder in a deep, heroic voice. "Jacob is a pure soul and we cannot harm him. But the foul beast corrupting him we can," Pistol speaks to himself as he lifts his holy whip. "Hell Spawn Bone-snatcher!" Pistol calls to Jacob. "Show yourself to me! And battle the millennium grudge. I, Charlie Belmond, the last of the warlocks of cursed blood, command you!"

Jacob stops struggling and slumps over. His head raises, and Jacob locks eyes with Pistol. As he speaks, his voice bounces back in an echo. His face has become hard, and bony thorns have grown around visible bone.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob, for what I'm about to do." Pistol shakes his head as he steadies himself for battle.

"I, Jacob, am now Nightmare. We see your challenge," the demonized man utters. The bone-snatcher compounds its body fully onto Jacob's, growing a monster's three-fingered hand over his left arm lined with multiple mouths and a giant eye over his shoulder. The former man's shirt rips off, and another fanged monster's mouth appears on his chest.

The bone-snatcher runs at Pistol. It swings its evil arm at him. Pistol pivots around the monster, slashing his whip down its back. The holy energy flows throughout the monster. The blow seems to weaken the evil demon greatly. It becomes partially invisible, revealing the real Jacob asleep inside it.

Pistol lays into the monster, skillfully lashing time and time again with his mighty Soul Eater. With each blow the monster weakens until finally relinquishing its hold over Jacob. The priest doubles over, vomiting up a slug-like monstrosity, which attempts to retreat, but is met with Pistol's indignation ... and boot.

Pistol places Jacob against a wall and awaits his regaining consciousness. The wait is short and sweet, as his head had barely hits the wall before Jacob's voice reaches Pistol's ears. "Charlie?" Jacob asks.

Pistol moans joyfully as he rests. "Yeah, old man?"

"Thank you."

"Any time, I love beating on senior citizens," Pistol chuckles.

"Charlie."

"What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of gangster?"

"I've been rolling with The Patriots for some time now."

"What are they?"

"'Hell's Angels for volunteers, firefighters, doctors, cops, soldiers, and other civil servants."

"What are you?"

Pistol replies, "I'm the director of environmental services for the Mississippi Grand School District."

"That's one long title to pin to a vest," the old man jokes.

The two partners chuckle with one another weakly as they rest.

Stumbling through the halls of the grand labyrinth, the Minotaur leads Snake along.

"What are you, anyway?" Snake asks, patting the beastie on the back.

"Herinis,"

"Hmm," Snake responds.

"Usha-una."

Snake shakes his head.

"Cow women, Minotaurs."

"Are there more of you?" Snake asks.

"Yes, hundreds," she responds.

"Here?" Snake asks, but she refuses to answer this time. The Minotaur maiden moves slow and slick through the labyrinth, guiding Snake. With her nose in the air, she snorts deeply and often. She pivots left, then right. Snake follows her curiously, trying to understand her seemingly sporadic thought process. "Do you know where we are going?" he finally asks after twenty minutes of seemingly going in circles.

"No," she whispers, "the seventh through tenth floors are the 'trial of nightmares.' The walls shift on cycles—some only several seconds long—occasionally isolating spots. When that happens, all you can do is wait for the next exit to appear."

Snake considers the phrasing. "But ... we are in the basement," he insists.

She stops and looks at him. "Only if you came in through the top floor entrances." She points down the hall. Snake watches in dazzled confusion as the hallway flips itself upside down, creating a new hallway to explore. "Much of the world is built on perception."

"Wow," Snake says, flabbergasted. She leads him into the newly formed hallway, and practically into the arms of the incapacitated Spooky. Without a word, the Minotaur picks him up and continues her quest.

"So, hunter, what do you do, anyhow?" she asks as they start down a flight of steps.

"Is this a sexual question?" Snake asks. "And shouldn't my brother be above us?"

"No," she responds, "and sometimes you need to fall to ascend."

Snake tips his head. "I don't get it at all; up _is_ up, and down _is_ down, and your big toe is always pointing in—things like that just don't change, so long as both feet are flat on the ground. They're rules of nature." The halls of the labyrinth are cold and quiet. A stale stink lingers everywhere, like dry sweat or mold.

Snake stops, suddenly noticing an anomaly in the endless paintings theme. A lone man standing within the pit of hell, monsters flee from him and his flashing, gold eyes and silver katana. Except one beast dares to approach him, a black-winged angel with deep, purple eyes and a scythe. Both wear black robes and have black hair. The human is tan; the angel's skin is grisly white. The man is young, strong, and beautiful; the angel looks to be somehow hiding a terrible ugliness beneath a clay mask. The man has chainmail woven into his clothing; the angel's clothes look to be made of darkness itself.

Snake slaps the wall then points at the painting. "Who the hell is that?" For unknown reasons, Snake finds this image to be of great importance.

"Who?" The Minotaur looks back.

Snake leans in closer, pointing more clearly. "Him."

She looks close. "He is called Sala-day-nam-O. 'Son of man' is what it means in the angel tongue. He is the dishonored god cast down to earth to become the champion of man and avatar to the slave god of hope, a true immortal like his brothers, Laus-deu-O and Filius-mammon, who are, respectively, the one god—he to which the gods pray, and child of earth—that which catalyses and balances all equations. Sun, moon, and stars is how we identify them."

Snake takes in the story. The Minotaur waves one hand onward. "If we stop, the maze with shift again," she urges.

"I would like to go on record saying I hate this place," Snake expresses as they continue.

Larry is still walled in by the hospital room. Larry has always hated hospitals. The smells, the creaking of metal, the whispered crying—it all seems so surreal. He used to get dizzy and weak any time his brother made him go, even to the eye clinic. He can't explain it, and he never could. This hell is finally starting to make sense to him; anything you hate or fear or even dread, this place makes real.

Larry paces to and fro, staring at his hands. His fingers are stained black, his nails long and dark. He rolls his hand; bulbs run up his veins under his skin. Larry feels nauseous at the sight. He laughs, then screams, incapable of resisting the paranoia given him by his inner demons.

Larry collapses on the hospital floor, hugging his head in his arms. Like as living dream, the voice of the snake fiend that bit him resonates in the room. "You don't have to struggle. You could just become like us."

"Leave me alone!" Larry cries out.

A far deeper voice comes next. "Take my hand, and I'll end your suffering." The voice is demonically soothing. A cool hand rests on his arm. "Come, and live forever."

He opens his eyes to see a face looming above him that looks to be made of melting wax. "No!" he shouts. A spread of feathers drowns the room for only in instance, and once again everything is normal. Cold, stone-hard floor—he's in the labyrinth again.

"Larry," Snake's voice echoes clearly. Instantly Larry leaps to his feet then throws himself at his brother's legs, clutching him like a lost child. "What's up? Are you hurt?" Snake asks.

"No," he responds, "not so much as I might be." Larry holds up his hands, allowing his brother to see them stretched and growing scales. Then he lowers his head, weeping. Snake slowly reaches into his coat, withdrawing his revolver. The dilemma of mice and men becomes clear. Larry is sick; that's what Lances had tried to say. Larry is sick and going to die. Or more terrible yet, he may change sides. Snake cocks the hammer. So what is he to do? Kill him now when it would be easier, or wait until he becomes a threat?
Chapter 17: Hunter's Sonata

El, Lacerti, and Ashley drag Trash along with them, rushing through the labyrinth. Some time into the escapade of attempting to re-raise her blood pressure, Trash's appearance begins returning to normal. Shortly up the hall, Snake, Larry, and Spooky come into sight, as well as an unknown entity that dematerializes upon their arrival. Snake has his revolver to his brother's forehead. Larry is on his knees, and Spooky lies on his side, facing away from the party.

Slowly Snake lowers the hammer on his revolver. He drops his arm to one side and shakes his head. _I'm a monster_ , he thinks, _but not that kind of monster_. "Larry, get up." Snake offers up one hand. "You're fine, I'm fine. We'll find a dermatologist to look at that when we get out of here; it's probably just a rash. We're all cool, OK?"

Larry stands and dries his eyes. He examines himself. "I don't know, this looks kinda bad," he mutters.

"You made the right choice," El explains as he approaches. "If life is still an option, you never accept death, unless living means betraying your country or disgracing your flag." El stops before him. "Death only before dishonor."

Larry pushes himself away from his brother, examining an engraving on the wall alongside him beneath a brazier. Snake looks down at him. "What the hell are you doing now?"

Larry runs his hand over the engraving, a three dimensional plate with the letter T carved into it sideways. He whispers, "There is writing down here." He snaps and points. "Snake, hand me that torch over there." Snake lifts a torch from its place on the wall, and a passageway opens in the wall behind them. Snake looks between his brother and the passage.

"Ah ..." Snake stutters, "La-La-Larry?"

"Damn it, Snake, give me some light," Larry says without noticing the change.

"Larry, I think you should come over here." The majority of the party follows Snake into the new corridor.

Larry fumbles around in his coat for a scrap of paper and a pen, mumbling to himself. "T left, one plus two plus one, absolute value of four ..." A gleam of recognition strikes Larry as he seams to understand the alien writings on the walls in some small part. "Snake, can I borrow your phone? ... Snake?" Larry comes to notice everyone has moved on.

The next passage is made of sandstone and lime. The party marvels at a diagram covering one side of it. "What the hell is this, now?" Snake asks, half-rhetorically.

"A time-space matrix feed with algorithm conversion. It's like a map," El answers.

Snake looks to El in shock and envy as the old soldier's eyes fly across the map. "Can you read it?"

El ponders the long list of geometric shapes and attempts to understand the correspondences. He bites the side of his lip, exhaling heavily as the solution evades him. "No," he responds, disappointed. "I understand what it is, but I can't read it without the cipher."

"What do you mean, cipher?" Snake asks.

"The cipher is the key that allows one to read a map. It's a means by which to decode the symbols." El points to beneath the symbols. "It would help to know what language that is, also."

Larry rushes after the group. He looks as if he is going to speak, but he becomes distracted by the images on the wall.

"Well, I'm pretty damn confident it's not a map of the bar. There are like two hundred rooms on this wall, so it probably doesn't, matter right?" Snake rambles.

"No, it's the same room twenty-one times, divided into twelve groups with four variations each," El speculates, analyzing.

Larry writes on his scratch paper, "Q = 2×2, (v = 4), L = 2×2×1, (v = 4?) I = 1x4 (4 again?) T = 1×2×1." Larry scratches his head. "I know those numbers," he says as he crumples the paper, shoving it back in his breast pocket.

The party, now only missing two members continues on their way.

Only a short distance ahead, Pistol and Jacob make their way onward as well. "Come on, old timer. We're getting the hell out of here, or we're gonna die trying" Pistol takes Jacob by the arm. "Ah ... chased by monsters, running through a labyrinth, this will be a great story for our kids when we get home, won't it?" He looks at Jacob, whose face has turned cold again. "Sorry," he says, realizing that one of the older man's kids won't need to hear the story from their dad, and the other is still painfully unaccounted for.

"Do you have a family, Charlie?" Jacob asks.

"Kinda ..." Jacob looks queryingly at this answer. Pistol goes on. "I have a son, haven't seen him in ten years, never been married. My girlfriend ran off to California shortly after he was born and got married to some banker. Never told me why."

"Were you abusive in any way?" Jacob inquires.

"Do I look like that kind of person?" Pistol pauses. "Don't answer that."

"Well," Jacob begins, "all things considered, that might have been for the best."

They come to a stairwell. As they walk down it, a strange echo engulfs them from all sides, a thunder beneath their feet. Whispers wrap around them. Pistol and Jacob look between each other and simultaneously suggest, "Run."

Inches outside the stairwell, a voice comes from behind, calling, "Hey!" Pistol and Jacob freeze in place. Jacob looks back to see Snake standing at the bottom step.

"Did you to just come from up there?" Snake looks baffled as he attempts to understand the physics of the trial of nightmares.

As if walking through a veil of smoke, the others all appear, as well. The world clears slightly, revealing a huge Dark age–like forge and armory with weapons lineing the walls... The group, all members reunited, circle around each other. Snake observes his companions and how many of them are injured. "Jacob, I think we need your magic again."

Ashley finds her way into Jacob's arms, and Trash into Pistol's. Jacob turns to Pistol. "I'll need your help, Charlie."

"What can I do, Lances?" Pistol asks.

Jacob hands his Book of Rituals (this is a special book of prayers owned only by those who are priest of the Melchizedek rite which is nearly exclusive to bishops cardinals and apostles) to Pistol and begins teaching him prayers. Nearly a dozen times the men round the group, casting spells of strength, purity, and healing.

"That's unbelievable," El whispers to Lacerti as the two work. Nearly an hour is spent as Jacob lays blessings with Pistol's aid. Slowly the fellowship is healed of all injuries, and they are restored to full power. As they make more prayers, Jacob seems to weaken, yet grow strong. His hair loses color, turning from gray to white, and his stomach tightens until he nearly looks as a new man transformed by the power of God burning within him.

Spooky sits up. "Holy shit," he states, rubbing himself up and down. "I dematerialized. Am I still here?" Pistol approaches him and slaps him on the arm. Spooky questions, "By any chance did you have the same nightmare as I did, old man?"

Pistol chuckles. "I think you're OK." He comfortingly rubs his companion's arm. "What happened to you two?" he asks, looking to Trash and Spooky.

Trash, with her strength returned, speaks in a hustle. "Pistol there are vampires down here, I fought with one—"

Snake interrupts, "They're not vampires, they're aliens. I spoke to one—"

"Bullshit," Larry hops into the discussion, "I think they're demons."

"How would you know!" the brothers start to yell amongst themselves.

Spooky starts again, "I heard voices—"

Trash speaks simultaneously, "I caught one fucking around with Ashley—"

Voices clash and turn from sound to noise, completely unrecognizable as speaking. Pistol struggles to try to hear, but fails.

"S _hut up_!" Jacob shouts in a mighty voice. Everyone complies, turning their attention on the old cleric. "All of you, look at yourselves, and look at the men and women with you. What do you see? Ten men lost and afraid? I don't. I see destiny, not happenstance. Vampires, demons, aliens—it shouldn't matter. We have a purpose, and we have power. Who are we? A witch, A warlock, and a cleric," Jacob points at Trash, Pistol, and himself. "A white knight and a giant," he points to El and Lacerti. "A marshal arts master, and two rogues," he points out Spooky and the Gekks brothers. "There is but one monster down here, and it is no man, it is a philosophy—the philosophy of hate and greed and lust. It poisons our hearts and our minds with its filth, killing us from the inside out. But we are the divine, we are chosen, to consecrate this place, this idea, this evil."

Ashley looks up at her father as he speaks; his voice is filled with fiery rage, his heart thundering with indignation. Envy fills the child, as thoughts and feelings of heavenly wrath fill the men. Never has Jacob been so powerful as in this moment.

Jacob grabs a torch from the wall and raises it over his head, shouting in a strange tongue, " _Primus que aqua exilis incendere_!" He spins the torch overhead. "First I baptize you with water, now fire! Come now men, bring weapons—knives, axes, swords, and hammers and come forth unto me. We shall slash and burn our way to victory, sanctifying all things with this!" He punches the air with his torch-bearing arm. "We shall leave the foul thing no place to hide!"

The men fall into ranks, accepting Jacob as their leader. They fan out, gathering from around the floor melee weapons to fortify themselves.with tools to meet their desires and presents them to Jacob in search of approval, Jacob grins with almost a malicious glee at what is yet to come.

Lances Jacob rallies his party, "Gentlemen, to glory!"

Crow grins evilly as he observes the actions of his playthings. He opens a psychic channel to speak with his subjects in the pyramid. "Ladies and gentlemen, it has come time to leave the relative safety of this place and enter the human world. Send your children away through the bottom floor gate if that is your wish, for today I destroy the dimensional door so no one may return home from this location any longer. Our home has been invaded, and your guardians decimated. Should any of you wish reparations, seek out humans, and take their flesh and blood as your reward and justice!"

The temple trembles as hundreds of angry Anthro-morphs howl vengefully.
Chapter 18: Indignation

Foraging the armory Jacob produces a large, wooden hammer and a bronze capped staff, Snake finds a set of long, thin knives (fantastical in nature similar to what one may imagine to be in Elven weapon or design), Larry a pair of hand axes, El a three-piece rod, Lacerti a gigantic claymore, and Trash finds a pike. Spooky, reawakened to the power of his fists, needs no weapon anymore. Any guns the party still has are bulletless or low on ammo, begging use only if absolutely necessary.

A howl ascends from the lower floors, echoing upward. The party enthusiastically clenches their new tools, excited by the prospect of combat. They form ranks with El, Lacerti, and Pistol taking point while Snake, Larry, and Spooky guard the back.  
Curious, Pistol looks over his shoulder to Trash and whispers, "Trash, is Jacob right? Are you a witch?"

Trash swivels from side to side, following the sounds of howls. "Not really, but I am a practicing Wicca with a passion for new-age and cult activity."

Pistol looks mildly disconcerted. "Does your mother know about this?" He stops. "No, never mind. Do you know any practical magic you can show me real quick?"

Trash looks baffled for a moment. "You mean like Rune of protection? Yeah, if you have a symbol on you that's aligned to any power, I can draw you a ruin that will repel its polar." She flips out a razor blade from her dress pocket. "You're not afraid of a little cut, are you?"

Pistol looks dumfounded as he steps out of his position to join her. Trash says, "Put your arms together in front of you, palms in, forearms touching." She begins sketching a spiral on the backs of his arms with a marker. She then cuts around the marks and draws them in, tattooing the image on his arms as Pistol shouts various curses. "In the name of the goddesses, call out to the elements of Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water and beset them to protect you. Place your arms before you and complete the image of the golden spire; the elements will only answer to the children of Gaia and to the warlocks to whom they are in debt."

"How will I know if I meet the criteria?"

"Well, if that whip of yours is magical and we see some fireworks when you activate this, we'll know someone owes you," Trash explains.

"What's the price of magic?"

"Either blood, time, or your soul, so be sparing."

Pistol says, "I'm going to pray for blood, I think."

Trash cuts her skirt and ties sections of it around Pistol's arms, covering the prison tattoo she carved into him.

"So they teach this shit in your school?" the man asks.

Trash giggles. "Liberal arts club. I've been a member for two years." She slides the blade and marker back into a hidden pocket.

"That means Jacob was absolutely right. We are together by design." Pistol comes to the shocking realization that, if not everyone, at least they have a purpose in this world.

The door to the room slides open, revealing to them the great temple in which they had been traveling. Everyone turns their attention on the door to observe the new terrors that have yet to come with anticipation. The walls seem to come alive as humanoid insects crawl along them. The beasts within have long, exaggerated fingers and arms, stretched bodies with skeletal tails, bony shells, and skin that glistens like metal. They creep toward the party, rattling and hissing, rolling like a swarm around the corridor as they approach. The party observes that these creatures lack eyes, ears, or noses—only a mouth exists, protruding from the tops of their ovular heads. They emanate a stench comparable only to petroleum gas. They are seemingly nothing more than thralls of men twisted beyond the point of return

El tucks his rod under his arm, taking a bladed stance. "They're coming," he announces.

Everyone snaps to attention, taking their proper places in the ranks. One humanized ant flips down from the ceiling, landing on all fours. It runs like a rabbit, hand over foot, and it whistles a bat-like shriek. Lacerti slams his giant blade into the ground through the Thrall, causing the creature to implode in a mess of green-blue goo. Half a dozen more pounce in to replace the leader of the pack.

Tails flail, jaws snap, claws rear. Steel and bone collide, crash through and through, blood-frenzy rages. Each warrior takes their turn smashing the Thralls to a sizzling mass. Thralls fall from the ceiling into the fray. Larry pulls Trash and Ashley out of the monsters' grasps as he steps forth himself. The nearest insect rears its claws, pointing at Larry. As if the bug was moving in slow motion, the man pivots around the beast and smashes it to the floor with his hand axe.

Larry laughs, proud of himself. A second Thrall jumps at him, taking advantage of his distraction. The Thrall lands on Larry's back with all four legs on him. Larry calls for help as it moves to bite him. "God damn son of a bitch!"

Spooky breaks formation to help Larry; he wraps his arms under the insect's midsection and lifts it into the air. Jacob brings his hammer down on the inhuman beast, shattering its skull. The three of them recognize each others' contributions to the combat then return to their posts.

El wraps his three-piece rod around another's head and shoulder throws it, crushing its neck and spine. Like Spartans fighting Persians, the party demonstrates overwhelming power. Even Trash has the opportunity to impale a monster and judo throw it before the monsters lose their nerve and turn tail.

Filled with wrath, the group storms the bottom floors of the pyramid, lighting fires as they go. Minotaurs, Harpies, and Nagas flee at their sight. Yagoloth and Belroges obstruct their path shortly, but quickly find themselves cowering before Jacob or at the mercy of Snake's and Lacerti's blades. All seems to go well as the humans charge headlong down two more flights of steps, slaughtering and burning anyone or anything in their path.

They proceed with ease until one lone warrior obstructs their path—a tall, thin man with narrow, dangerous eyes that shimmer evilly. Brilliantly feathered wings sprout from his back, and he flicks his long, dark hair away from his face.

Lacerti rushes the tiny-looking man, the others expecting him to score an easy kill. El calls for him to stop, but it's too late. A telekinetic wall freezes Lacerti in place, and projecting his will, the strange warrior flings Lacerti over his head and far across the large arena-like floor, smashing an obelisk along the way.

Larry whispers with Jacob as the others freeze at the bizarre sight of Lacerti flying. "Is that him ...?"
Chapter 19: Dread of Night

"Cravixs!" Jacob yells furiously, swinging his torch in the demon's direction.

"No," Snake calmly replies, "that is Job the Endless, Cravixs's warrior angel and general."

Job the Endless nods. "Yes, and I am deeply sorry for what I must do." He lowers his long, effeminate hand to his side. "I must kill you all, you see, and add your bodies to my own." He folds his hand and slowly paces toward them.

"Job?" Jacob looks questioningly. "The Hebrew high prophet?"

"Indeed," Job answers.

"But you were incorruptible; the devil took your wife, children, and home but could not taint you ..."

"Wrong," Job points out. "It was God, not the devil, who sent heretics and thieves to steal from and tempt me, for he was angered by my pride and vanity. I was his most perfect sheep, and the perfect sheep is sacrificed first. But I refused to yield, so God crushed my home and abandoned me in its waste; God sold me to The Cravixs in his anger, and I found a new master to serve."

"Warrior angel, seek out redemption at thy father's table ..." Jacob starts toward Job, holding forth his torch. El interrupts Jacob's path.

"Silence, cleric! I shall kneel to no more idols," Job cries out in frustration.

El's eyes narrow as he grins, eager for battle. "Allow me, Father." El loops his three-piece rod under one arm and makes his way over to Job, squaring off. The harddend warriors embrace the moment before the struggle, both confident in themselves and their own power.

"Watch yourself, El," Pistol calls over.

El flicks the rod out from under his arm, swinging it at in upward angle then snapping it down with only a flick of the wrist. Job twists and hops out of El's reach. The warrior spins forward, swishing horizontally at the rogue angel. Job lifts his knee, blocking the swing, then retaliates by stepping into a palm punch. El staggers back and Job steps into a second attack, but El takes his rod in two hands, twisting it around himself and snaring Job's arm. He spins in a one-eighty and tugs down on Job's arm, flipping the angel over his shoulder. As Job lands from the throw, he twirls around and grabs El by the neck, and he whips El across the room into the wall opposite from where Lacerti landed.

Snake howls a battle cry and dashes in, skinning knives drawn. He launches multiple rapid swings. Job needs little more than to lean left, then right to stay out the way of Snake's fiery swings. The mortal finds Job's knee in his stomach after overextending another swing, accompanied by a stunning side kick and a devastating round kick. Snake rolls along the ground, the wind knocked out of him by the lightning-fast kick combo.

Larry leaps into the air, raising his axe like a barbarian intent on smashing his foe with a flying cleave. Job closes one wing then thrusts it out, slamming Larry out of the air. Snake's brother rolls onto his back, panting as he looks to the ceiling. "OK, at what point did we lose control?" he queries out loud. As the battle rages, warrior after warrior steps up to do combat with the angel, and each in turn gets knocked down Job as easily as if he were just playing with his food.

Jacob charges in next and is flung away with a telepathic slap; Job flicks his wrist, sending Jacob flying.

Trash and Spooky take their turns. Job's hand turns as black as tar, and Trash stops herself and grabs Spooky midstride, remembering where else the name 'Job the Endless' appears. She says, "The Legion?"

Lacerti finds his feet and realizes that it is time to unlock his true power if they are to win this victory. _For hundreds of years I have hidden the shadows, sneaking silently throughout the ages, fearing myself and the titan's blood I house within myself. But now I, Whitewolf, Uncrowned King of the Barbarian Tribe the Arctic Dragon and also known as Hercules of Greece or the mighty Viking Norman the Red, must show my face once again_. With the blade he had acquired, he cuts his palm. He kneels, raising his cut hand to the sky, and chants, channeling his divine blood.

He thrusts his hand to the ground, drawing symbols: a crown to summon wisdom, an eye to invoke intellect, mountains of strength and courage, a serpent for speed and agility, the sun and gold chalice to empower the body, and the Ankh of power to draw them together in the seal of divinity.

"Unlock restriction of the Crown of Eternity," he calls, and invisible chains shatter from around his body, making a glasslike echo. "Unlock restriction of the All Seeing Eye!" His body grows, shredding his clothes. "Unlock power of earth and stone!" His muscles bulge out further, veins popping out, skin stretching with a rubbery, tearing sound. "Unlock the power of the raging beast of the earth!" Electricity seems to flow throughout him, creating a shell of energy. "I call forth the Blood of Titan's and power of Truth!"

His voice echoes louder with each seal breaking. He howls. His hair stands on end, each strand burning with light. The ground cracks at his feet as his influence admits pressure onto the world around him. "And the power to transcend time itself!" he calls as he slams his fist to the ground, creating a shockwave. The blood that had been dripping from his fist reabsorbs into his body. Lacerti stands, having become the vision of a primordial battle god, the dozen symbols arced across his back in a vestige of divinity.

Job turns his attention back on Lacerti and smirks. "Impressive, you really are a Demi after all. Tell me, why hide in that ridiculous human uniform?"

Lacerti pays no heed to the words of the dark angel. Instead the transformed Entity that was Lacerti delivers him a flying knee to the stomach, throwing the dark angel into the air. Lacerti chases him up and thrusts two hammering hands into his back, flinging him back down. He finishes his devastating attack by flying back down and catching the monster in one hand, then discarding him with a fling off to one side in a fashion that would have snapped most any other creature in two.

"What the hell did we just witness?" Snake asks the crew, dumbfounded.

Larry answers, "What we just saw was Hulk Hogan transforming into the Incredible Hulk."

"Lacerti," Trash calls, "don't let your guard down. Job isn't human, and he can't be hurt so easily." Lacerti faces back over his shoulder and sees Job floating back up to his feet. The others watch with no small amount of amusement as the superpowered Lacerti smashes Job repeatedly into the ground. Job rises to his knees, and with a single, crushing, blow Lacerti pushes him down again. This continues until Job begins laughing at their attempts to harm him, a trickle of blood running down one side of his face.

"Don't touch him again! Job is an energy eater; he will devourer you. He is 'The Legion,' a man with the power of an army, and just as many souls at his command." It is Trash who gives this warning.

However, Lacerti has gone blood-drunk. He kicks Job to his feet and pushes him over, captivated by the idea of an opponent that simply does not die. Job snatches Lacerti's hand on another attack string. The evil angel's body becomes as a dark, gray-brown sludge crawling over Lacerti's body: arms, to shoulders, to chest, to head. The sludge creeps, drinking the power from Lacerti's body. The inhuman beast continues its unholy feast of life and flesh, hoping to add the power of a god to its own.

Job's form fades, its body becomes bubbles, stretching, expanding, becoming a tarlike rubber. Soon all that is identifiable as human is a single face, but then more faces float to the surface until Job is little more than a mass of thousands of levitating heads glued together.

As Lacerti begins sinking into the blackness of the new form of Job, Jacob leaps in, shouting, " _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_ , All hail be unto Thee one true Lord who art in heaven...."

Enraged by the sound of Jacob's voice, Job loses his concentration on absorbing Lacerti's power. The man-turned-god conjures the last of his strength and leaps out of Job's body in a magnificent flash, then out of Job's reach.

The angel's golden glow fades and he returns to his normal size and appearance, disappointed. He howls, conjuring a beam of souls to wield as a whip, and attacks Jacob as his new target.

The priest chants, "We are strong in the lord and the power of his might; by the power of Christ we command you return into the darkness of your own hell, _Iehovah_ , god-king compels you!"

Dozens of hands reach out through Job's spectral weapon, grabbing at Jacob, slowly overbearing him. Jacob's prayers give him power, but the spiteful souls of a million evil dead warriors are simply too strong for the armor of faith to deflect. The darkened mass of energy reaches for the cleric.

Spooky takes the hunting knife from Pistol and flings it, piercing one of the numerous heads that make up the semi-divine dark angel. Angered, Job flings Jacob at the group; El catches the man and the two go tumbling across the floor.

"It flinched?" El whispers. "It's not indestructible."

The monster vomits, creating thousands of gray-skinned, featureless, humanoid monstrosities. "Oh shit ..." the group calls in unison.

"That's the creature from my nightmare," Larry mumbles.

"Stairs!" Pistol points out, bouncing almost joyously. Pistol pauses a moment as a brief glimpse of recognition overtakes him as his eye catches the face of one of the ashy dead.

El nods. "The Roman chalice strategy, he's right—the stairs, we fight on the stairs." Jacob and Ashley are pushed up at the end of the group, followed by Spooky and Larry. Trash and Lacerti go up next; Pistol, El and Snake bring up the final ranks. Job summons more hordes to his side of his fallen slayers.

Larry pipes in, "I'm telling you, I've seen one of those things in my nightmare!"

The party holds their ground as three by three the monsters start up the steeps and are met with stabs, thrusts, and smashes from the hunters' artillery. Three are knocked away, and three more rush up to fight.

"Snake, I figured out how the map works," Larry explains as Trash stabs a monster with her spear over his head.

"A bit late," Snake says, slashing a beast four times before stabbing it to finish it off.

"No, it's a grid, we can control it."

"I don't see how that helps right now."

"Ten by one hundred Tetris grid."

"Larry, shut up and pull out your gun and shoot that giant floating head, will you?" Snake says, losing his patience.

"El!" Larry takes a step left to talk to El instead. "Are you any good with numbers?"

El freezes, captivated. "It so happens that I'm exceptional," he slowly and quietly explains as he kills.

"Listen, under each brazier there is a letter, and each letter has a numerical value of four, which relates to a series of ceiling panels. They're connected to moving walls from one floor to another."

El focuses, spellbound by Larry's sudden genius. "Show me."

Larry leans over his brother. "I'm taking your phone," he says, grabbing the instrument. He opens the phone and shows El a video game based on the same principles and a scrap of paper: "Q = 2×2, (v = 4), L = 2×2×1, (v = 4?) I = 1×4, T = 1×2×1." He explains, "If you arrange the pieces to give you a value of thirty-six then add in a I, giving yourself a value of forty, all the pieces get deleted."

"What if your values exceeded one hundred in a column?" El asks.

"Game over," the other man simply states.

"Can I have this?" El holds up the phone. Larry shrugs. "Tetris. Snake, give me your gun, too."

"What is this, a stickup?" Snake jokes while throwing a knife, impaling another monster, before giving his revolver to El. "What do you have planned, anyhow?"

El calmly responds, "100÷5 = 20, 4×6 = 24 = game over."

The warrior/mathematician crouches beside Lacerti, leaning over to aim between Lacerti and Snake. The defensive line holds strong. El takes his time, squinting hard to hold his focus. His target is far and tiny, and he can afford few mistakes. Time slows for El. He squeezes the trigger, and his first shot flies. El watches as it passes under two of the thousands of Job's underlings and past the heads of dozens behind them. El's hands sweat—the shot looks good, but then it is interrupted by a monster's chest, harmlessly flattening against its skin. "Damn it," El whispers.

Larry looks down at El. "What's up? I wasn't wrong about the code, was I?"

"No, I think you're right, but the shot is to tough for me to make. I need to find a straighter angle."

Pistol glances over his shoulder. "You mean a cleaner kill zone? I think big stuff, and I can handle that, aye." Lacerti nods at Pistol. The two burly men heftily push against the line of monster warriors, flinging them back. The monsters all fall down the steps into the open corridor. Lacerti slashes his sword in a tremendous arc, clearing space for Pistol to move in. hordes leap at Lacerti, attempting to pull him down, but the giant represses them with a constant swishing of his blade. El slides on his knees under Lacerti.

Pistol lays his whip at his feet. He brings his arms up, revealing the image of the gold spiral on his forearms. The air darkens as he slowly pushes the symbols together, lighting arcs between him, his arms, and his whip. "In the name of Gaia, Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, I beseech you!" Multicolored rings of energy encircle Pistol, burning, freezing, and flinging away monsters caught in the aura. "Protect me!" he shouts. His arms lock together, and the multi-rings become one blue circle orbiting him. Pistol's hair slowly flaps up and down in the holy aura. He is entranced by its power. Monsters stare, helplessly mesmerized by the field of magic that the Belmond has conjured.

El sees his opportunity. He takes aim again and fires, the bullet striking the far wall. A T-shaped wall smashes down from the ceiling, splattering a number of monsters under it. Next another, identical wall lands across the room with similar results, then three, four, five—the room begins to fill. El throws Snake his gun and pulls out his Jackal for the last shot, destroying the brazier in the process, and the room begins to crumble.

Pistol runs out of strength, slouching forward, his mana expired. The giant, floating head that is now Job spits a spectral beam at the spent warlock, who takes the blow, lacking the energy to defend himself or move. He flies back into Lacerti's arms. El takes his last shot and the room shakes. Tiles fall as the whole room begins to collapse entirely. Once Job is buried, all his ash-like minions vanish. The party, battered and exhausted, makes its way weakly back up the steps, away from the sight of their finest battle yet.

Lacerti carries Pistol at the back of the group. Ashley is with Jacob next, with Snake and Larry before them, and El leads the way alone, Trash and Spooky just behind. The way back through the deserted underground pyramid is disturbingly silent, as no one wishes to speak any further.

Snake alone is distracted, and for only a moment as out of the corner of his eye he meets his Minotaur friend's gaze. She nods at him approvingly then vanishes into the depths again, both knowing as if by instinct everything the other had to say ... Job the Endless is dead, and Cravixs will flee into the night, not to be seen again until he has another warrior angel to do his fighting.

Crow stands over the wreckage of the battlefield, looking down at his faithless soldier Job the Endless. "Pity, what a waste of souls. Job, my slave, you did good works when you were young and submissive. But then your head swelled with pride and thoughts of rebellion; you thought yourself omnipotent, compared yourself to gods rather than workers. You belonged to me, and this is your punishment. You loved God and feared the devil, but never did you think what the loss of all divinity would do to one like you, one meant only to serve and obey—one without the almighty sword of Agency. You suffered the will of a tyrant before next you shall suffer the unending emptiness, as you are now without master. This will be your hell."

Job has been forced back into his human mask. His eyes drop. The emptiness Crow promised fills him already—the pain of nothing, the pain of silence, the pain of loneliness. The rocks are heavy, and Job knows now that without a master to give him strength, soon only the screams of the souls he has stolen will be his comfort, and he will remain buriedforever in undying sleep.
Chapter 20: Light of Day

It feels like days have passed since the fighting began, but it has indeed been only hours. Back in the Lamia's Back, Snake runs at the door. Latching onto it, he shouts in frustration as he shakes it furiously. He falls off the door and kicks it once more for good measure. "Come on!"

The party fans out, everyone finding a place to relax in the bar. El looks at Snake. "Didn't I already explain why that won't work?" El rests against the pool table.

"Well," Snake throws his hands in the air, "what do we do now?"

Spooky pours some beer from the tap. "We drink free beer and eat peanuts until someone comes looking for us," he says.

"What the fuck kind of plan is that!" Snake yells.

El's head drops, disappointed. "It's a better one than any I got."

"We didn't find the other bikers or a back door," Pistol adds.

"Likely Job ate them," Trash guesses.

"Lizzet is missing still, too," Jacob adds, a look of pain on his face.

"I might have said this already, but Lacerti and I saw her being drug out the front," El pops in.

"How are you, Larry? Fine, thank you, just a little mutated. And yourself? Oh, great. I kinda wanted to go to a hotel last night, but a friend of mine said we should check this place out instead," Larry says to himself.

"Hey, Larry, how did you figure out that code, anyway?" Snake asks, approaching his brother.

"A talent seven hours of video games a day will give you."

"Talking about games," El looks at Larry, "can I keep your phone?"

Snake's head snaps left. "You can keep the phone, but I want my gun, come to think of it."

"Deal."

Time passes hard as the air becomes warm and heavy. Pistol racks up a game of pool. Trash, Spooky, and Jacob join in; Ashley watches and listens, strangely calm. "Jacob, have you always been able to use magic?" Pistol asks.

"Not to my knowledge," the old man admits.

"So how did you do it?"

"I opened my mouth and the 'Architect' spoke. That was an awful impressive display of power on your end, as well."

"Maybe it is time for me to stop running," he says, cryptically.

"Where will you go next, Charlie?" Ashley pipes in.

"I'm going home to find out the rest of my family's history. From there, I don't know," he explains. "Well, Trash, it looks like your COP worked like a watch."

"Don't you mean charm?" the girl sorceress asks.

"I haven't had many charms work, but I've had a lot of watches, though," Pistol jokes. "You didn't really learn that in school, did you?"

"Are you kidding? Circles of Protection and Runes of Protection are just the beginning of what Mr. Jack Jules has in the school's hidden library."

A shadow creeps along the barroom floor. Ever slowly, ever softly, light seeps in through a hole in the ceiling barely larger than a silver dollar. A pounding noise echoes through the room, and a voice follows. "Hey ... anyone home?"

Snake runs to the door. "Moses!"

"What the hell is going on?" the man on the outsides asks.

"Moses, we are locked in here; can you open the door from your side?"

The door shakes futilely. "Yeah ... just let me go get my tank."

El looks at Snake, then at the hole in the roof only now in the light of day visible. "Do you know that man?" he asks.

Snake nods. "Yes, it's Moses, the man we came here to meet."

El pushes Snake to one side and places his ear to the door. "Moses, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, what is going on?"

"Moses, this door is locked with an I-bar, the same kind as is commonly used in the construction of commercial buildings. Do you see it?" Moses makes a sound indicating understanding. El continues, "Steal beams like that are designed to offer deflection in the mathematical sense; they absorb top-down pressures but are relatively soft in the center, fitted to one another to hold loosely in strings, making buildings in essence aerodynamic. Pushing from this side, we are pushing with the grade of the metal, so it will not budge. I have some steel cable and a zip clasp in my truck. If you tie it around the center of the lock and slowly pull it, it will likely pull the door straight out of the wall. Do you understand?"

Moses pauses as he looks about then exclaims, "Yes!"

El finds the crossbow from the bar's storeroom and ties his keys around an arrow. "What is the weather out there like right now?" he shouts through the door.

"Partly cloudy, no wind, about a hundred degrees."

"Keep your head down; I'll send you my keys." El ties his keys to an arrow and lifts the bow over his head, El takes his shot straight, clean anr true as always into the hole in the roof, then bounces out atop it moments later. Shortly they hear the sounds of a diesel engine revving. The backup siren squeals, followed by the twisting of metal, the locking of the clasp, the warping of steel, the bending of the door, and then they witness the door falling off the wall altogether.

Cool, dry air fills the bar, and rays of sun bathe the party. Covered in blood, sweat, and dust, they all file out, returning to the beautiful daytime world. Moses steps down from the truck and laughs at the horrid sight of the battle-worn party. Snake stiffens his lip and harshness floods into his eyes as he briskly moves to Moses. He slaps his tiny friend, hurling him to the ground.

" _What the fuck, Moses_! How the hell did you find this place? Were you playing darts with Satan? Did you use the psychic hotline? Draw it out of a hat? How the _hell_ did you come up with this?"

Moses stands up, rubbing his jaw. "What's the matter? _Santa pinocha_ looks like _santa vaca_ , or what?"

" _As a matter of fact_ , Moses," Snake calms down as he looks back at the pub, "it kind of did." Moses's accent is a muddle of a dozen or so dialects, but Snake is pretty confident Moses just compared a pussy to a cow.

Once outside, everyone pairs off to share words—everyone but El and Lacerti, who approach their truck, El stopping for only a moment to whisper with Moses and collect his keys. El stands alongside him, refusing to make eye contact. "Hello again, client. I know you know me, and yes, I remember you, so if you know what's good for you, you will do as I say and not react to me in any way—I am a ghost. Give me my keys, and say nothing of us." El takes his keys and he and Lacerti are off into the sands without another word.

The driver looks in his mirror and reflects for a moment longer on the men that were his team for a day. He cracks a smile, knowing that though not everything is OK, they will cross paths again. This isn't the end of a journey, it's the beginning, and they all have a part to play in this game, even if they don't understand it.

As they begin their trek, Lacerti crosses his arms, lying back in his seat. "You're still thinking about them," he says lazily.

"They're good people."

"Your father wouldn't approve."

"Maybe some tunes?" El says, changing the subject.

"You never listen to the radio."

"I think now is a good time to start."

Lacerti chuckles a little at El as his heartless facade fades away, revealing, momentarily, his loneliness. El reaches for the radio and turns the dial, looking for a working station. A woman's voice comes on. "You are listening to KOTOR. Next up we have Iron Maiden and 'The Long Distance Runner' ..." Time is long, and things are not going to improve. The next adventure rests just on the other side of the valley.

***

As Snake and Moses discuss the value of gold, a hand takes Larry's shoulder. He spins about, catching a glimpse of a man in the door to the bar fifty feet away grasping a duffle bag and vintage revolver. The strange man then vanishes into the blackened depths of the Lamia's Back. Larry watches a moment, trying to decide whether or not he believes his own eyes.

"OK," Moses nods after several minutes of arguing, "I'll pay it, but I'm not happy."

"I don't give a shit; do you have any idea how hard this much gold is to get a hold of? Besides, supply and demand; I have the supply on hand, and I want cash."

Moses laughs at Snake and his clever crime savvy. "Snake, you piece of shit, you have more lives than a cat and are just as cunning. Follow me home and I'll get you the rest of the money."

"Good." Snake nods and retires his gun to its holster in his overcoat. He calls over, "Lances, kid, come on. I'll give you a ride to the next town down. You're on your own from there, though. Larry, let's go. Moses is taking us to his place."

The group of them gathers into Snake's car and begins their journey, Snake driving, Jacob in the passenger's seat, Larry and Ashley in the back. "Lances, I just noticed you're wearing a ring." Jacob looks down at his hand as Snake talks. "Opal stone for the back, set gold, diamond-shaped, etched, inscribed with the letter G. You're a knight, aren't you?"

Jacob nods. "Snake, it's not a man's past that makes him who he is. It's his future."

Snake nods. "I know, Father. The circumstances of one's birth are not so significant to his life as the choices one makes and the path he carves through history."

Jacob nods, dumbfounded by the seeming clairsentience of the other man's words.

"So, Father, where will the future take you?"

"The Church of Jesuit. I will tell them my story and take my rightful place amongst them in my fight against evil."

"The warrior priests of the first Masonic right organized 400 CE, right?"

"Yes, that is absolutely right; how did you know that?"

"I read James G. Robinson's book _The Legion_ ," Snake explains. "So, Father, do you like Dio?" Snake holds up a CD.

"Who?" Jacob responds.

"Rodney James Dio, former bassist for Black Sabbath. 'Holy Diver,'" Larry adds. Snake puts in the CD and they cruise down the road.

Snake holds true to his word, dropping off Jacob and Ashley out front a church in a nearby town. Then he calls the sheriff's department, spinning tail of a massive drug ring operating out of the Lamia's Back bar before he and Larry make their way out of town without further ado.

***

As everyone else makes their ways to their vehicles, Pistol, Spooky, and Trash are left alone in the parking lot. "Spooky, I want you to take Trash and go back to Mississippi," Pistol says, slapping Spooky on the arm and holding him momentarily. "I'll catch up."

"I don't understand," Spooky pipes up, "what are you going to do?"

Pistol smiles as he walks backward away and points over his shoulder. "I'm going to make sure there wasn't a back door."

Trash tries to argue with Pistol, but Spooky holds her back. Spooky understands and knows that there's no point. Pistol knows what he has to do, and Trash would just make things harder on him. The former fighter digs through the saddle bags and moves Trash's things to his bike. He says, "Trash, it's time to go; Pistol will catch up."

Pistol walks around the outside of the building after watching his friends ride off. His whip glows bluish white as he finds his way to a sudden, steep drop-off in the ground. He looks down to see half of the pyramid exposed and a death pit of thousands of wrecked cars and trucks that have been pushed in. His eyes widen and he gasps for air. Out of the wrecked cars come groups of monkeylike monsters that seem to have been pulled inside-out. They are covered in metallic shells and lack eyes, and they sniff the air and instinctually as the move slowly toward Pistol. They leap at the walls of the pit and start swiftly jumping. Charlie "Pistol" Belmond pulls his whip from his waist and leaps in, whip flashing a golden blue, to meet destiny head-on....
Chapter 21: The Slayer

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.

I took from Larry's mind the key to the map, and I use it. Tap the brazier, and suddenly doors start appearing. The first five rooms are empty; the sixth reveals five Wolfins: three cubs, a girl that looks sickly, and a large, powerful male that hurls himself at me on sight. It's fast, but not as fast as me. I thrust my hand and project force at it; my spell reverses its flight, hurling it back from where it leapt. It leaps again, but I sidestep and pull my revolver. Without a thought I shoot it in the back. It falls to its knees and seems to cry; not the monster cry I've heard so many times before, but a more human cry I'm not used to hearing. It falls onto its side, and its tongue flops out of its mouth. It pants several more times, trying to breathe, but I had punctured its lungs. It's futilely struggling to hold onto its last breath.

I look back at the cubs and the sick girl. One of the cubs has a taste for vengeance, but is being held down by the larger female. I lower my sword and raise the hammer on the Jesse James. The cubs crowd around the girl, seeking shelter. My god, they're children, nothing more—dog-faced, winged children covered in pastel fur, but children.

"Go." I nod my head at the exit, and they stare at me in confusion—can't say I blame them; to them I must look like a monster. This is their home, not mine; I picked their lock and entered their sanctuary. I raise my gun into the air. "God damn it, run!" I yell. I fire twice into the air—they seem to understand that just fine; the cubs run, the girl limps, but they make their way out nonetheless. I killed someone that was defending their family. Family—that is a very universal concept, isn't it? To kill a man's father—has there ever been a more hell-worthy sin?

Down I must descend, ever further from the grace-giving sun. Only two more floors and another monster obstructs my passage—a Lamia, heavily bandaged, slithering at me. I stand, bladed sword in my back hand, revolver in my front.

"Slayer," she calls to me, "I know what you're thinking, and your wrong; we're not all the same." I know, I can see that, but I feel no need to say it. She says, "Yes, we have killed, but we kill to eat and to breed. Is that so evil?"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me; I know what you did and why. I don't pass judgment on everyone." The color of her skin has faded. I touch her face, and I can feel her pain. "Been a rough night, hasn't it?" She has been shot a dozen times, and someone has been magically feeding off her. She isn't much better off than the Wolfin I whacked upstairs. "Go to the top floor and hide in the restroom. I'll come back for you soon."

I make my way around her and continue down. I can feel only three life-forms left on the lower floors, myself included. One other is Job the Endless.

On the bottom floor, according to the memories of the hunters that came before me, I find myself undoing what El did and freeing Job from his stone grave. "Leave me," he commands.

"No."

"Why?"

"It's not your turn to die."

"I can never die, but what am I to do with no master?"

"Forge your own fate."

"Richard 'Dick' Blake, you are a kind man; those like you may free us all."

"Well ... let's say you owe me," I say. Job stands and becomes spectral he fades away, no doubt into another world.

"Thank you, generous host, I shall not forget you," the spirit whispers to me from whatever world he fled to.

I feel a scream. I run to the upper floor and just as I thought, England in all his hideousness stands in the doorway to the outside, his hands morphed into something like a monstrous rake, blocking the exit. The Wolfin family hides behind the bar. The demon laughs at us all. He slouches, hiding his bestial size and shape. His body waves slowly, his fingers stretch, and he scrapes his hand against the wall, showing off one of his many inhuman gifts.

"I've been expecting you," I taunt him. One long, diabolic finger points at me. "Blake, you're a traitor." His hand stretches far to grab the Wolfin girl. "Letting untamed freaks run free," he chides. He sticks out his tongue and wraps it around the girl's muzzle, slurping her.

"Put her down, England."

"Her?" He rolls her from side to side in his hand. "Don't you mean 'it'?" One hand transforms into a scissor. He laughs devilishly as he swings the scissor at the defenseless girl.

I cast a Psionic Crush in England's direction, and he drops the girl, gripping his head. "You little monster!"

The girl runs out of sight, and England regains his balance. He flings one arm at me, transforming it into a spire. I try to lean away, but he hits my side, taking my shirt off and ripping a gash along my ribs. I dash at him and swing my sword. He grabs the blade and twists it from my hand. I project force again, and he is knocked onto his back. Next we both find ourselves on the ground, rolling about. He slices up my arms pretty good and he catches a bullet to the kidney, I eat dirt and he eats my fist. We're on the ground for some time pounding the shit out of each other. England loves it, and I'm pretty sure I'm dead before sirens in the deep call England off. "They're playing your tone, Blake," he whispers in my ear, then melts into darkness, leaving me beaten half to death on the ground.

The world is spinning. I see the Wolfin children running for the door before my lights go out. I'm in and out for some time. I see the tan pants of a state sheriff. Next thing I know, I'm in the back of a car. I see the Lamia alongside me. I feel her smiling at me. By the time I'm fully aware of myself again, I'm in a hospital. I'm barely on my feet before six men are on me like flies on shit shouting about cult murder, and within the hour I'm under lock and key and covered in stitches at the county penitentiary.

I spend the night within the hospitality of the state before Wright von Richton shows up and pays my bail. Or at least I think that's how it went....

It's September 14th now, and I'm stitched up and have a new set of duds—black and gray sports jacket with candy cane lining and copper buttons; too rich for my taste, but if von Richton is footing the bill, I'll wear whatever she tells me to. It itches a bit; it might be lanolin, but I haven't looked at the tags.

Ms. von Richton directs me to a rich restaurant with two fellow Watchers as my guides. The floor is made of white linoleum, almost like marble. Red velvet carpets line the path to each table. The restaurant is two stories, and there's a chandelier hanging by four chains suspended between the floors. I've never seen such a lavish waste in my life as this billion-dollar designer nightmare.

I'm escorted to von Richton's table. She is in a red dress—strapless, form-fitting, and one legged with a blue sash slung down her exposed leg. Her hands are crossed in front of her mouth, just like back at her office. Her hair is pulled over her breasts; her glasses dangle in one hand, clenched softly. She smiles at me as I approach. I feel my stomach twist; she is hauntingly gorgeous.

Over her shoulder there is a painting six feet by ten feet wide, mostly earth toned. It depicts a woman in a white gown with rosy skin and golden hair lying on a canopy-style bed illuminated by a single candle, loomed over by a pair of gray green imps watching her sleep. A face hides in the shadows—a flash red hair, combed and parted neatly, soft cheeks, pale skin, smooth like a child's, but with radiant, yellow eyes like a predator's narrowly gleaming in the dark. This figure is almost spectral, with two hands hugging invisible arms around her and an animistic smile spread across her lips. It is as if she wishes to be seen while remaining unseen, or seen only by some. I can almost feel her watching me through the echoes of time.

"Hello, Richard. On time this time?"

Of course I'm on time, she sent men to dress me and drag me here. I might have been on time kicking and screaming. "Hi ... um ... yes?" I notice that my partner has seemingly failed to make it. "Why isn't Tail here?"

"Because freaks don't dine at the same table as men. It's simply not orthodox." She forces a soothing grin.

"But she is my partner." And I'm almost insulted by that statement, by the by.

"And England is mine; he is not here, either. Now sit. I've taken the liberty of ordering already—chili-fried lobster with lemon glaze, feta garnish, and broiled potato wedges and a six-cheese sampler. Do you like champagne, Absal (A rich brand of dark liquor) perhaps, black mountain grape?" I still feel in shock at the surroundings and can barely grasp von Richton's words, so I simply nod and do as told. "I saw your mission report. More than a little impressive—forty-nine confirmed kills? That's more than most of my agents score in their lifetimes, and here you pull it of in a single evening."

That doesn't add up; I only recall firing a single shot and a single kill, unless ... England lied for me? He was the other agent, after all; he must have been the one to do the report. But why help me?

"So, Richard, you look well. How was prison?"

I shake my head. "Easy time."

"I hope I got there before you got sodomized." Why does everyone associate prison with anal sex?

"Yes, I'm fine, as far as I know. How did you get me out of there, anyhow?"

"A small agreement that we have with the armed forces and Interpol basically stating that the Watchers enforce their own laws."

I'll remember that next time I'm looking at a DWI.

The food comes, and von Richton pours herself a drink. She holds it in front of her face, nothing more—never even sipping from her glass in the hour or more we sit together thereafter. I gorge myself on all the fish and bread I can eat as she touches nothing at all. She simply stares at me with a half-smile on one lip. I feel the need to inquire, remembering her words about dining. "Are you—?"

"Don't ask if you can't handle the answer I may give," she says. I knew it—she is a freak herself. Why the anger? Why the hate? There's still so much I just don't understand.

"Where do they come from?"

"The freaks, you mean? They're the results of the multi-verse. Most are reasonable, give or take. War refugees make up the greater body of the legal planeshifters. If we know who they are and where they came from, they're far simpler to handle; and if they misbehave, we send them back. It's always been the unlicensed ones that have worried me most. The ones we can't track, the ones we can't predict and have nothing to lose. In short, Blake, we don't know. In the beginning, during our father, Abraham von Richton's, time, ten or twelve unknowns would enter our world, and finding them was easy—just look for dead livestock and angry farmers, and you're likely on the right track. Now it takes a network of thousands to track the cheeky bastards."

"What do you mean licensed, anyhow? And how do they get here?"

"On any plane where dimensional travel is not prohibited, one may acquire a travel pass, much like a passport—granted certain guidelines are adhered to and both housing and work are readily available. If one can meet all restrictions for extra-dimensional travel, you board the next convenient Gate and move quietly from stop to stop until you reach your destination. It's kind of like a bus. There are of course Gates that are illegally owned and operated, and that's where our prey comes from, like the Wolfin nest."

"What risk do they pose?"

"You should know that already. As I said, in the past traffic was slow, but now unregistered freaks are more violent and appearing in hundreds. They bring violence, plague, terror, and a black market that demands things I dare not repeat."

"Terror?"

"Blake, how different do you think the worlds are?"

It's an interesting question; I haven't taken the time to think about the possibilities. There's certainly room for insane alteration based of what diversity I've already seen.

"What do you think is more significant, the past hundred years or the thousand before it? Whose life was more meaningful, Socrates or Kane of Babylonia? You don't have to answer, only think. In your life, what was more important, your mother's drug habit, or the fact that your teacher Bethany Rogers never missed a day of work? If not every instant of life were as it is, what might have happened? Do you know? I don't." She baffles me with philosophy. "Do you know why Travelers call us Red Twilight?" she queries.

"No." I don't know any of that, to be honest.

"Look to the sky at 6:55 atomic time any given day and watch as the sky fades from blue to purple and finally to red. You have seen this hundreds of times and so you will barely notice it, but on any other world you will notice that that change will not happen."

Wright von Richton is a mystery to me like no other. It is as if she seems so foul, but acts so fair. She is a wolf hiding in a woman's skin. My quest has just begun; I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings in this world called Red Twilight....

After the meal, von Richton leads me outside. I feel this is my last chance to talk with her in this nearly calm atmosphere as we make our way to her car. "Heaven and Hell?" I spout.

She looks at me strangely. "Was that a question of some sort, Mr. Blake?"

I nod, trying desperately to organize my thoughts. "You mentioned them earlier. What are they?"

She almost laughs at the poorly thought out statement. "Sub-planes, and the universe's idea of irony, at that. I have no doubt that the Christian mythos has shared their narrow-minded point of view with you allready. But I find the Sylph version far more entertaining, and closer to the truth, at that.

"The goddess Chaos had many children that grow into philosophies. The eldest two were order and anarchy—Jazirian and Ahriman; the two powerful dragons simply cooed not coexist. They took each other by the tails and spun until they ripped off their tails and flew off into space. To protect them from further harm, Chaos buried Jazirian at the center of one of her worlds, Baator, and chained Ahriman to a cloud, Cilestia, where the two must await their final judgment. Heaven is the land of orderly chaos and infinite freedom at the price of control, while at the same time hell enjoys the repetitious and overabundance of inescapable law. So in short, the spirit of order is chained into the land of otherwise chaos, and the spirit of chaos in shackled to the land of otherwise bliss. A paradox, if it hadn't been so ironic."

At last I get home to Tail. It feels so long since I've seen her; it's as if I never have. She is asleep on the bed in front of me, asleep in a pair of cotton panties, one knee up, one arm draped over her head, her mouth wide open. I can't remember having ever seen her in person; she has always been a voice to me. Thanks to those damn drugs, the apartment is a mess—empty food boxes sit out, a shirt's sprawled over the couch with a pair of jeans. I take off my coat and throw it down. I sit down on the floor and stare at Tail as she sleeps, so restful, so pure, so loving. I find myself reaching out to touch her but stop short. Instead I simply watch and admire her fine fur, her sexy body, and her teasing tails as they twitch beneath her. I could never do anything to hurt her....
Epilogue

Fox's car comes to a stop outside the Lamia's Back. Dozens of cops and sheriffs are walking about, surveying the area. Fox quickly hides his medicine under the seat of his car and pulls out his camera. Fox is a middle-aged man with light brown hair and a frozen expression of boredom on his face—one of the effects of his medicine—and a thin build—part of his illness. Fox steps out of his car and walks toward his old friend, Sheriff Scott House.

Scott removes his glasses and spits out his gum. House is far older than Fox, but a great deal stronger. He rubs his gritty facial hair. "God damn it, Fox," he exclaims, "what in fuck's sake are you doing here? You're not a cop anymore!"

Fox looks down at his old Polaroid. "Morning, boss. What is the scoop?"

Scott shakes his head at Fox. "Didn't you hear me? I told you eight months ago to get married, have a kid, and enjoy your government pension. Any cop that finds himself on suicide watch is too sick to be a cop, now go home before I put you back in the lockup for obstruction of justice."

Fox raises his head with a glint of defiance in his eyes. "According to the Freelancer Act of 1880 and to the Second Amendment center, as a private contractor and inspiring journalist I have the right to visit any place at any time with an escort to exercise freedom of the press or speech. Not having an escort, though, I believe I still have the right to take up to fourteen days to secure publication and/or copy rights on any work without abridgment—"

Scott cuts him off. "Shut it, Giovanni! I don't need this from you. I already have fifty John Does I have to answer for, and twice as many abandoned vehicles I need to call in on. Plus within the hour I'll have the FBI shouting questions at me! And I don't have any answers. And you ..." he exhales heavily, "do whatever you need to do and get out of my hair while I still have some!" Scott waves Fox on.

Fox lowers his head in a nod and rolls the film on his camera, checking its exposures. "Thanks, boss."

As Fox makes his way to the front door of the bar, House calls out to him, "And for God's sake don't touch anything!" Fox nods and heaves a sigh. He steps into the bar and looks around, taking a handful of photographs before one man near his feet coughs, spitting up blood.

"Hey!" Fox calls. "This one is still breathing." House and three more sheriffs run in and begin trying to revive the man in the tan sports coat. His eyes are wide and dilated. His breath struggles to escape him; it looks as if his ribs may be broken, and there is severe bruising around the stomach, chest, and arms. It's little more than luck that he is in as stable condition as he is. Internal bleeding could have killed him at any time.

Another voice comes from the bathrooms. "I have another in here!" As more officers come in from outside to assist the two found survivors, a door opens near the stage. Fox finds himself strangely drawn to it. He slowly walks to it and looks over his left shoulder. Everyone is wholly engulfed in their work, acting as if they can't see him or the door. An ominous wind howls from the lower levels, calling out to Fox.

The smell of a tomb rolls out from below; it leaves a harsh, burning sensation like that of old death, distilled and lingering. Fox walks down the cold, damp steps and into the subterranean castle. The mural that lights itself before him at the bottom is gigantic in comparison to any other painting he has ever seen. It must be over a hundred feet in length with human repaginations as is not more detailed than police interpretive art Fox can image that of he were to take every visage every image and pit it against reality he may just find in eerie number or resemblances. .

Far in the background there are two sister spires burning in a magnificent red hue. This is alluring to him—it seems to depict the very tragedy he narrowly evaded just yesterday at the Twin Towers in New York. He goes to take a picture and notices that his hands are shaking. A light pain begins in the back of his head. _Oh no_ , Fox thinks, _I just took my medicine_. Fox knows well what's about to happen—it happens most every day at least once if he forgets to take his drugs.

The painting before him comes to life. The warriors dance on the canvas; several of them suddenly look like people he has seen before as they come into perfect focus. A terrible sound echoes in Fox's ears, like metal ripping metal or electricity arcing, maybe even static in high acoustics. The sound is deafening. Fox begins to collapse, holding his head. He knows the sound is only in his head, but he screams anyway. Soon only the pain resides, but it's completely overpowering.

Fox holds out his camera and starts rapidly taking pictures. The Polaroid spits out the photos. Fox scampers for his pen; hastily he takes down notes for himself. He stops for a moment, watching a photo come clean. The pain stops as a man with glowing, golden eyes appears with a katana strapped to his hip. "James?" Fox questions, recognizing the face as that of a close friend.

The pain intensifies five-fold and Fox falls on his back, twisting and flopping like a fish out of water. He starts to calm and sees a girl standing over him. She is in a Chinese priestess gown, white in color with a red ribbon around her waist. Her skin is lightly yellow, like an Asian child's. Her face is warm-looking and smooth; she is a lovely ghost to him with fiery hair pulled into a tight ponytail and one side of her head.

She reaches down and rubs Fox's face with one long, cold hand. Her fingernails are filed into short, sharp blades. She whispers to him, "My love." Her eyes are narrow and dangerous. They flash from brown to yellow as she speaks. "Look what trouble you're in now."

Fox is paralyzed at her feet. She kneels and lifts him into a sitting position. She rubs her nose into his neck. "Fear not, for I shall take you away from all this death."

She kisses Fox, and Fox blacks out.

End of part one. The story continues with book two of _Red Twilight_ .

