Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 2

ONE

Gary’s Cleveland had changed little—that seedy underworld he and those who shared his lack of values liked to haunt. A few places he used to frequent were boarded up and abandoned, but the good ones were still open for business. He checked around first before planning his route for the evening. 

There were four spots left where he could get a feel for how the town was moving these days. Marty’s on Fifth, run by a cold-hearted bitch whose name actually was Marty; Black’s Tavern on South Hampton, where heroin was the prime commodity; Phil’s, affectionately called Phil’s knife and gun club due to all the fights, shootings, and stabbings; and Street Glides, a little hole in the wall biker bar under the Seventh Street overpass. His plan was to make the rounds and toss out a couple of names of old associates to see if they still pulled any weight. Maybe some of those contacts would still be around? To get back into business, he would definitely need connections.

There was, however, the minor issue of cash. He couldn’t very well walk into any of these bars cold with no money and leave a terrible first impression. That’s where the Glock came in. Shove that fucker in a few faces, demand some money, receive the requested currency, and on to the next. A couple hundred ought to do it. He’d buy a few drinks, make some new friends, and bam! Business was off and running. 

And Cleveland wouldn’t disappoint either. This town had no short supply of suckers, just begging to be picked off. He decided he’d need to loosen up his chops first and find somebody old who wouldn’t give him any shit. And where might one find seniors at 8:30 P.M. on a Friday night who had money? Church Bingo! There was an old Catholic church around here somewhere he remembered. Those geriatric fuckers always carried cash! Gary smiled. Business was about to begin.

TWO

“B-24,” the man at the microphone said. His voice was as shaky as his hands. He looked like he had just escaped from a two-hundred-year-old crypt, burial suit and all.

“Come on, you son-of-a-bitch,” Amelia Vance said in a low voice, but still loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. She huddled over four Bingo cards, staring intensely at one square, trying to use her mind to make the guy calling out numbers call the last one she needed. This was the final round for the big jackpot. One thousand dollars cash. Amelia had never come this close before. She had the entire row of “G” except for one number. If the creepy old man up there (who looked like a dead funeral director) called G-14, she was going to flip her lid right in front of all these people. It had been her dream for the past twenty years of coming to Friday night bingo at St. Leonards to hit that big sucker. Someone nailed it every week—a few of these folks had even hit it multiple times—but never Amelia Vance. This had to be her time. She could almost feel it in her bones.

“G-11”

Amelia’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the “G” called. So damn close. “Come on, come on, come on!”

“Amelia, calm down,” Violet Cantrell said. She was seated next to her. “It’s just Bingo. You’re getting too worked up over it.”

“Just Bingo?” Amelia said, looking at her friend with contempt. “I’ve been coming to this damn church social hall every Friday Night for twenty years trying to hit this thing. It’s not just Bingo!”

“Let her go, Violet,” Lily Owens said. She sat across the table. “She’s excited.”

Amelia, Violet, and Lily—three lovely ladies, all in their late seventies—had been coming to the Friday Night St. Leonard Bingo game for over twenty years now. (None of their husbands seemed to care. They all had their beer drinking poker games; why couldn’t the ladies have a night of their own?). Lily was the lucky one. She had hit the big jackpot five times since they started coming here. Violet had hit it twice. Amelia, zero. And Amelia was the most competitive of the group. She came for blood, but always left dry.

“B-16”

It was getting to be about the time when someone was going to hit. You could feel the rising tension in the room as more people got down to needing only a few numbers. Amelia only needed one. She looked around and saw a woman a couple tables over with some of her friends surrounding her, cheering her on. “What do you think?” Amelia said, nodding in that direction.

Violet and Lily looked over. Lily turned back to Amelia with a concerned look on her face. “Yeah, looks like she might be close.”

“Want me to go rub her out?” Violet said. She and Lily laughed.

“Careful,” Amelia said. “I might take you up on that.” She didn’t laugh. 

“I-27”

The woman at the other table was about to stand up and cheer, but stopped herself when she realized the number wasn’t the exact one she needed. A false alarm. 

Amelia’s heart pounded even harder.

Lily pushed a cup of water across the table. “Take a drink, Amelia. You’re getting too worked up.”

“I’m fine,” Amelia said.

“G-14”

“If you two would pay attention to your own cards and quit worrying about me…”

“Amelia…” Violet said.

“… maybe you’d have better luck.”

“Emelia!” Violet yelled.

“What!”

“Look at the board!” Violet shouted, grabbing her arm and shaking her. “Look! Look!”

Amelia looked up at the sign on the wall behind the old man at the front of the social hall and saw her dreams come true, right before her eyes. The last number called was lit in bright white on the board. G-14, the final number she needed to hit the jackpot.

Violet and Lily’s faces lit up, and they both laughed and clapped. Amelia just stared at the board with her mouth open. She probably wasn’t breathing.

“Amelia,” Lily said. “Call it! Call Bingo! You’ve won!”

Amelia stood up from the table, faced the Bingo caller at the front, arched her back, then pushed forward, using all the air she could fit in her lungs to vibrate her vocal cords. “BINGO!” she bellowed. “Bingo! Bingo! BINGO!” She danced around the table and Violet and Lily got up and danced with their friend, so happy she had finally won after all these years. 

The rest of the room collectively said, “Awe, shit!”

Everyone in the social hall quickly packed up their Bingo chips, good luck charms, and whatever else they had brought as part of their Friday night ritual, and headed for the parking lot. The building emptied faster than a fire drill. 

Violet and Lily had ridden with Amelia and had to wait with her while the church volunteers counted out the jackpot money from the evening’s take. One thousand dollars, cold hard cash.

“What are you going to spend it on?” Violet asked. “I know you’ve been thinking about it since we started coming here.”

“Honesty, I don’t really know,” Amelia said. “I’ll probably take the grandkids to Cedar Point or something nice like that. You know, spend it on spoiling the kids.”

Lily touched Amelia’s arm. “I’m so happy for you! After all these years, you deserve this.”

After Amelia got paid, the three ladies headed to the parking lot. They had arrived late this evening—Violet was having bathroom issues—and had to park at the very back of the lot. The front part, closer to the church, was well lit, but if you got stuck parking in the back, good luck finding your keys in the dark. 

As they drew closer to the car and away from the light of the church, they heard a rustling in the wild bushes that grew around the back part of the lot. It wasn’t a loud noise, but enough to stop all three of them in mid-stride.

“Come on,” Amelia said. “Nothin’ to get spooked at here.”

Fifty feet from the car, Amelia started digging for her keys, somewhere underneath the nice stack of money she had just won. As she rooted through her purse, she didn’t notice what had made Violet and Lily stop dead in their tracks and gasp. She almost walked right into him.

“Don’t move, and don’t make a fucking sound,” the dark shape in front of the three ladies said. 

Amelia looked up and saw what the other two had gasped about: a figure standing five feet away from her. Though this part of the lot was dark, Amelia could still make out that the shape had a gun pointed right at her face.

“Give me the purses. Now! All three of you.”

Violet and Lily didn’t hesitate. They set their purses at their feet and slowly stepped a few feet away. Amelia, on the other hand, did more than hesitate; she made a stand.

“No,” Amelia said. “Not a chance!”

Lily raised her hands to her face in shock. “Honey, give him the purse! It’s not worth it!”

“Yeah, Amelia,” Violet chimed in. “Just give it to him!”

“Give me the purse, bitch, or I swear I’ll splatter your brains all over this parking lot!” The dark figure positioned the gun within an inch of Amelia’s right eye. “Now drop the fuckin’ thing!”

Amelia stared at the gun barrel, and her brain analyzed the voice. There was no insecurity in it. This man did not care about human life. He did not have empathy or compassion. And the worst part was that he almost seemed to enjoy the fear coming out of the three of them. He would kill her over this purse; she knew it.

Her brain wanted so badly to continue the standoff, but Amelia’s body made the final decision instead. Her arm slowly lowered the purse to the ground. The first jackpot she had won in twenty years seemed to let out a muffled cry from inside the black leather bag. 

The figure wasted no time. He grabbed the three purses without hesitation, then headed into the bushes and quickly disappeared. 

Lily and Violet hugged each other and let out a deep sigh of relief. They had lived through the event without harm. Amelia stood staring at the ground. She did not speak. The only thing on her mind was the loss of something she had waited so long to win. It wasn’t the money—her and Bill had retired comfortably. It was the spoils of victory that were snatched from her, taken by an unscrupulous dirtbag, in a church parking lot of all places. Little did Amelia know, but next week’s jackpot winner would donate the prize to her. It still didn’t ease the sting of losing her first actual win.

THREE

Of the four bars Gary considered for his opening night back in action, he ended up choosing Street Glides for his first stop. Bikers were good business. He liked them. They had a certain swagger he appreciated. Nobody fucked with them. And though he wasn’t a member of a club—he didn’t even know how to ride a motorcycle—he felt if he was in tight with them, they’d maybe have his back, like a kind of honorary thing. We know you didn’t attend our university, but we like your politics, so here’s an honorary degree. 

He felt pretty good when he walked out of prison earlier. The air smelled nice; the weather was pleasant; he had gotten away with murder just a week ago. But now, after hitting those three old ladies in the church parking lot, he was walking on clouds. Who the hell carries that much money on them? The first purse netted $237, the second $279. But the third… Damn! $1,243! He made one grab, right out of the gate, and brought down $1,759 total. Tonight, the world belonged to Gary Elmer.

As for the poor ladies’ purses and the rest of the crap inside of them (keys, cell phones, family pictures), he chucked them all in a sewer grate and laughed. The thought of their personal stuff heading into the Cleveland sewer system gave him a chuckle. Who cares! People like that had mattresses stuffed full of cash; they’d replace their shit in a week. He did keep a little green disposable lighter he had found in one bag, though. You could always use a lighter.

That old chick had moxie! For a minute there, he thought she was going to go the distance. Lucky for her, she knew when to back down. Gary would have had no problem cracking her skull with the side of his pistol. The memory of it would have left his mind mere minutes after it was over, like it had never happened at all, and he would have slept tonight with a clear conscience.

Now, on to Street Glides.

Another stroke of luck came Gary’s way. There were seventeen Harley-Davidsons parked in a row, right in front of the dingy little bar. Lots of business prospects awaited him on the other side of those neon beer signed windows. Time to get back in the game, full throttle (motorcycle pun intended).

Street Glides was the quintessential, stereotype, seedy biker hang out. First off, you could already smell stale beer at fifteen feet from the front door—they probably spilled more on the floor than they drank every night. The place had been tucked away under this Interstate overpass for decades, even before the overpass was constructed. That was part of city engineering—they wanted new construction to be built around existing structures whenever possible. Why they left a shit-hole like Street Glides standing was a mystery, even to the guy who owned the place. Inside, the light was dim, perfect for making quick identification difficult. And the underworld liked it dark, just like rats or anything else that scurries away when the lights come on. A long bar made of old wood on the left ran the length of the front room, there was a backroom through an archway with two pool tables, a dartboard, and cigarette machine (the recreation area), and a far back room with a closed steel door. Everyone knew what went on behind the door to a room like that. That’s where the real business took place, out of sight, out of earshot, only for those who needed to know what was going down. 

There were twenty or so hard looking guys of various ages and sizes and a couple sleazy, strung-out chicks hanging around them. Some of the older ones had a few extra pounds clinging to their mid-sections, but the younger guys—mid-20s to mid-30s—were cut like they had just come out of Marine Corps boot camp. Make no mistake, though, tall, short, fat, or cut, every one of these fuckers looked like they could tear you in half and eat your insides for a late-night snack. 

The music echoing from the backroom jukebox did not stop when Gary walked through the door—like in every biker movie he’d ever seen—but everything else did. All eyes collectively focused on him before he had fully crossed the threshold, sizing him up and down. He felt the same icy stares when he entered prison for the first time and made the walk of shame to his new cell. These men had the look, same as the convicts he’d met back then.

Gary wasn’t scared. He understood these places, and these people. They were his element. Soon he’d break the ice, make a few buddies, and everything would be copasetic. Degenerates have a way of relating to each other. 

He took a seat at the bar and nodded to a couple of guys who sat close by. They stared but didn’t return the nod. 

“You ain’t from around here,” the bartender said. He had an amazing head of wavy silver hair and a thick gray mustache. The guy had to be well into his 60s, but didn’t look like he had lost a single follicle up top.

“I’m Gary Elmer,” Gary said, holding out his hand for a shake. 

The bartender didn’t move. “That name supposed to mean something?”

“I’ve been around here before. Last time was probably about ten years back. I used to run with Pete Kendall and Bobby Jewel.” Gary sounded nervous and didn’t know why. This guy actually made him feel small. Maybe it was the stare; his eyes never wavered from Gary’s.

“Did you say Pete Kendall?” the bartender said.

“Yeah, Pete. You know him?”

The bartender tightened his stare, making Gary feel even more uncomfortable. “When’s the last time you saw Pete?” he asked.

Gary tried his best not to sound nervous. “Well, I guess probably around the last time I came in here. Maybe ten years ago.”

The bartender continued his stare for several moments, then smiled, raising the corners of his thick mustache to his shiny red cheeks. “What are you drinkin’?”

Gary breathed a sigh of relief. “Guess I’ll have a Bud for now, thanks.”

The man gave him the beer and Gary dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change,” he said.

The bartender picked up the twenty and looked at it inquisitively for a moment. “Tell you what, buddy,” he said. “Go in the backroom over there by the pool tables and find a guy named Milo. Tell Milo you're a friend of Pete Kendall.”

“Ok,” Gary said. “Milo. Right.” He set off for the backroom, excited.

The bartender smiled again, watching Gary walk through the bar. He looked down at the twenty again before putting it in his tip jar. 

Gary leaned against the side of the archway that led into the backroom and sipped his beer. There were about eight guys, all in standard biker attire—blue jeans, leather jackets, biker boots, patches, lots of ink—playing pool and sitting at the tables. They glanced at him, but didn’t pay him much mind. It seemed since he had made it through the first screening—meeting the approval of the bartender—he wasn’t anything to worry about. These guys had a cool way of doing things, of protecting their place and their people. Gary started feeling good about being here. 

“Hey, man,” Gary said to a guy sitting at a table close to him. “I’m lookin’ for Milo.”

“Oh, yeah?” the guy said. 

“Yeah. Is he around?”

The guy looked Gary over, then nodded toward the back corner, past the pool tables. 

The man he nodded toward looked mean as fuck, like a pro wrestler who had been banned from wrestling for killing someone with his bare hands. Arms, chest, shoulders, legs, all cut like small boulders. This dude had to work out at least two hours a day. Gary had seen these bulked up types in prison—the ones who did nothing but lift all day. This Milo guy looked like he could eat those chumps and shit them out on the floor.

After taking a deep swig of his beer, Gary got himself psyched up to hold court with the gladiator. He walked through the room, careful not to interrupt the guys playing pool, and approached Milo. 

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his chest. A smaller man—well, smaller than Milo, but still ripped—who was sitting next to the big guy, got off his stool and stopped Gary from getting any closer. 

“Where do you think you’re goin’, slick?” the guy asked. He had long black hair, a black scruffy beard, and wore dark aviator sunglasses inside at night. 

“I was just comin’ over to say hello,” Gary said.

“To who?” Sunglasses asked. 

“Milo,” Gary said, gesturing to the man in the corner a few feet away. 

“Milo doesn’t know you,” Sunglasses said.

“How do you know,” Gary said. He was becoming agitated.

“Because I don’t know you. And if I don’t know you, Milo doesn’t know you. See how it works?”

Gary held out his hand. “I’m Gary Elmer.”

Sunglasses looked at his hand but did not shake it. “Why you lookin’ for Milo?”

Milo, though only a few feet away, was not paying attention to this exchange at all. He continued looking down at his phone, occasionally sipping from his beer. 

Gary put his hand back in his pocket. “Your bartender over there told me to come in here and introduce myself.”

“Yeah? Why would he do that?” Sunglasses asked. 

“Because I told him I was a friend of Pete Kendall and Bobby Jewel,” Gary said. His attitude showing in his tone now. 

Milo cleared his throat but did not look up from his phone. Sunglasses took the signal and stepped aside, gesturing with his hand toward the big man in the corner. 

Gary stared at Sunglasses for a moment longer, then stepped by him and stood at Milo’s table. 

“My name is—”

“Yeah, I heard,” the big man said. “What do you want?” He didn’t look up from his phone.

Gary took a moment to gather his thoughts. This Milo person didn’t pull any punches. “I’m just back in town, lookin’ to make some new acquaintances.”

“Why me? You think I’m sexy or somethin’?” Milo said. Sunglasses laughed.

“The bartender told me to come over and introduce myself.”

“I imagine he did,” Milo said. “Do you know why he did that?”

Gary thought for a few seconds but couldn’t come up with an answer. The only phrase he could conjure was: “Maybe he thought you might be lookin’ for some new people to do business with?”

Milo finally took his eyes off of his phone and stared at Gary. He laughed. Sunglasses and a few others seated close by laughed with him. Abruptly, he stopped and looked deadly serious. “He sent you over her because you're tossing around the name Pete Kendall.”

“Yeah, Pete,” Gary said. “I used to run with him a few years back.”

“Is that so?” Milo asked. “Well, Pete Kendall is a snitch! And there’s four of us in this very room, myself included, that got sent up for three years because of Pete Kendall. So, it would lead one to believe that if you’re a friend of that fuck-head, you’re probably a snitch, too.”

“N—N—No, I’m nothin’ like that. I swear!” Gary said quickly.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Milo said.

Four men, including sunglasses, circled behind Gary. Three others in the room got up and went down a back hallway and opened a metal door that led outside. Gary had seen this happen many times in prison, but had successfully avoided it during his time there. Tonight, he saw no way out; he was screwed in every sense of the word.

Milo nodded and the four guys behind Gary grabbed him then drug him through the backroom, down the long hall, and out into the alley. He struggled and protested the entire way, but his pleas fell on def ears. Their master had given a command and there was nothing Gary could do to stop them. 

They tossed him into the dark alley where three other bikers were waiting. Gary caught his balance after they had shoved him out the door and managed to stay on his feet. He looked around for a fast escape, but the men waiting in the alley had every way out covered. 

“Ok, guys,” Gary said, holding up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take-off, no problem, and you’ll never see my face around here again. I’m cool.”

The rest of the guys from inside had filtered out the door and formed a complete circle around Gary. They were all smiling fiendish grins through unkept facial hair and more than a few missing teeth. 

Milo stepped into the center of the circle and before Gary could say a word, Milo began pounding on his face with the rock hard fists attached to his enormous arms. 

The beating was merciless. Gary had absorbed three direct blows to the head from Milo before hitting the ground. He took the rest of the battering in a fog. Flashes of boots kicking him all over from every direction came and went. He heard laughter. He had even felt some of them spitting in his face. Gary didn’t think Milo dealt out more than the initial three blows to his head. It was like he got in his licks, then threw the rest of the bone to the dogs to fight over. 

When the pummeling ceased, Gary felt the men lift him into the air. They held him for a perilous moment, then dropped him into a shallow pool of muck water in the bottom of an empty metal dumpster. The metal rang out when he hit the bottom and thundered through his ears like cymbals being crashed together. Another loud metallic sound followed as they slammed the metal lid shut. He heard muffled laughter and even the horrible sound of someone kicking the side of the dumpster from the outside. 

Gary faded into blackness.

FOUR

When man harnessed atomic power and weaponized it for the military, they had conducted many tests, each time filming the results for further analysis. Brilliant shock waves emanating from the blast of that infernal thing were visually ominous, reaching unimaginable levels of destruction in front of the camera lens. They captured this power on film for all the world to see—and fear. Children from the 1950s on were shown these films for educational purposes, but the result mainly struck terror in their young minds; fear of a world where this power could be unleashed on them at any moment. Duck and cover, kids (like that would do anything to save your ass). The shock, the mushroom cloud, the devastation… sheer horror. Gary thought of those images as he lay in the darkness of an empty, wet dumpster behind a dive bar in a shady part of Cleveland. The explosion images were the only thing his mind could associate with the pain he was now feeling over every inch of his body. One atomic blast after another, bursting to life in his head as agony throbbed its relentless rhythm throughout every nerve ending inside of him. 

He could not move without being attacked by shocking pain. It was there, always, but the second he tried to move, the voltage ramped up to eleven. Even the slightest twitch of his fingers or toes would send jolts of demonic anguish rushing throughout. He was at its mercy. Pain ruled his life now.

Those guys went bad, quick! One minute he was having a fantastic day, the next he was being decimated. If he ever saw Pete Kendall again, he would kill that prick. 

Gary tasted blood, but not from the beating his face took. This taste was coming from within. It had to be internal. Fuck! That meant hospital, no doubt about it. First, he was going to have to get the hell out of here somehow, but it didn’t seem like his body had planned to help. 

The stench inside of this wretched metal tomb was atrocious, but Gary hardly noticed. Pain had taken over all of his senses and screamed at him like a ruthless banshee. There was no more smell, no more taste, only pain.

I’m dead, he thought. This is how it ends. “Fuck my life!”

“Such a poor attitude, young man,” a voice said from somewhere close. “You should approach life with more fortitude, more determination.”

“Whose there?” Gary said. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. The voice was right in front of him. It actually echoed off the metal walls. Was someone in here with him?

“Ah, yes,” the voice said. “I am here, with you.”

There was probably some homeless junkie living in this dumpster and those asshole bikers tossed him right on top of the fucker. “Dude, I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you get me out of this thing. I can’t move.”

“Indeed, young sir, I would love to help you out of your situation,” the voice said. “And I am more than capable of doing so. But your money is of no use to me. We must negotiate for something more… nonmaterial.”

“I’m not gonna suck your dick, so don’t even start that shit.”

“No, no, no, I meant nothing of the sort,” the voice said. “Before we proceed further, let’s present to each other. My name is Zlo.”

“Zlo?” Gary questioned. “What the fuck kind of name is Zlo?”

“A Croatian man gave me this name many years ago. To keep a long story short, I liked it, so I kept it. And you are?”

Gary somehow found the strength to move his arm and slide his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He had a cheap cigarette lighter he had kept from one of those old ladies’ purses. Fighting the excruciating pain following every minuscule move he made, he found the lighter with his fingertips and pulled it out. After three flicks of the flint wheel, the lighter produced a flame. Gary almost dropped it into the water at the bottom of the dumpster when he saw what was in front of him: Nothing, not a single thing. The dumpster was completely empty, save for the inch of muck water he lay in, and a few plastic shopping bags and papers stuck to the sides.

“What the… Where are you?” Gary called out. His voice echoing off the metal. 

“I am here, with you,” the voice said. 

“Here? With me?” Gary said. His hand shook, causing the flame from the lighter to dance and create macabre shadows on the rusted metal interior.

He thought quietly for a moment. This voice had to be coming from outside. Those assholes! “It’s bad enough you guys kicked the shit out of me,” Gary yelled. “You don’t have to fuck with me, too!”

“There is no one outside of this container, young sir. That, I can assure you.”

“Well, there’s nobody in here with me either,” Gary said. 

“Yet, you hear my voice. Do you not?” The voice asked. 

The flame from the lighter flickered and threatened to go out. No telling how long it was at the bottom of that woman’s purse. She probably had it in there since she quit smoking back in the 1980s or something.

Gary tried to move, searching for at least a small level of comfort. But electric pain, hot and unforgiving, took over, causing him to cry out. He couldn’t move an inch without punishing himself. 

“Do you wish for this suffering to end, young sir?”

“What? Do you have an Ibuprofen?” Gary snapped back.

“I have more than you can or could ever comprehend,” the voice said. “Tell me your name, and I’ll give you a sample of what I can provide.”

Gary struggled against the anguish in his body. Pain owned him now. Pain called the shots. Pain was in control. Pain was a motherfucker!

“Fine,” Gary said, struggling. “Gary Elmer.”

“Ah, Gary Elmer!” the voice said. “What a robust and stalwart name!”

They fucked up my head. That has to be it. I’m about to die in this shit-can, and now I’m hearing voices giving me compliments. That’s perfect!

“No, Mr. Elmer, your head is just fine,” the voice said. “As is the rest of you.”

Gary’s next breath didn’t hurt, neither did the one after that, nor any breath after. It didn’t hurt to breathe anymore. Something else had disappeared: the throbbing. That dull, pulsing, horrible ache had lifted. He moved his arm. No pain. He sat up, crunching his ab muscles. No pain. He poked at his stomach and felt around his face and head. No pain. Not only was the pain gone, but Gary felt revived, like he hadn’t felt in years. He felt young and vibrant and new. He laughed like a child, which echoed throughout the dumpster. This was amazing, beyond anything he could describe.

Then a different sensation slowly came on, filtering into his bloodstream, distributing out to all his muscles and extremities. This was more than simple healing; it was strength, stamina, agility, intelligence, wisdom… power. He had the strength of a god now. It rushed through his veins and turned him into Hercules, Thor, Zeus! He could rule mankind if he so desired. The world would bend to his will if he wished it, and they couldn’t do a thing to stop him. He had become power. Nothing could get in his way of ruling the world and every living thing on the planet. All will bow, all will live in service to their new god, all will love and adore him. 

In a split second, it was over. Gary was lying on his back again in an inch of muck water, feeling worse than he did just seconds before. The feeling had gone, replaced with ten times the agony he had suffered since the beating. 

“No,” Gary said, softly. His voice so weak he barely heard it himself. He cried. There was no strength left in him now, only sorrow and debility. 

That feeling of power… how did it happen? His life long desire was to be a powerful force, to have people fear and respect him for his supremacy. He had always wished it, dreamed of it, even had a small taste of it when he had killed Jenna and Fat Ken the Ditch Head. But this was unworldly. Whatever had just happened had given him the power of a Norse or Greek god. That was much more than merely being stronger than others. It was the power to rule.

“I know all about your desire for power, Mr. Elmer,” the voice said. 

Gary worked up the strength to speak. “How?”

“It’s quite simple, actually. Every one of you primates give off an energy—an essence, as it is often called. It’s part of you. All your fears and desires—and many, many other things about you that make up who you are—exist inside of this essence. I simply read into it and pick out certain things you long for, then I create a special reward, custom made only for you. Did you enjoy the brief sample I gave you, Mr. Elmer? It was but a taste.”

“That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced,” Gary said. He coughed and a mouthful of fresh, warm blood came up and ran down his chin.

“Of course it was, young sir. It was everything you have ever wanted. Would you like to have more?” the voice asked.

“Yes,” Gary said, gurgling his own blood, now nearly choking.

“Would you like to have it anytime you wish? Whenever the mood strikes you?”

“[Choking] Yes!”

“Excellent! Let’s proceed, shall we?” Zlo said. “First, we need to form a bond, a partnership, if you will. It’s quite simple. Once that is complete, we will become traveling companions, as I like to call it.”

Gary listened. The voice made little sense to him, but it had given him a glimpse of something that was surreal and wonderful. Not only did it take away his pain for a moment, but it gave him a sensation that had fulfilled his every known desire. It was glorious! It didn’t matter what this thing wanted him to do, Gary was all in.

“All that is needed now is for you to open your heart and welcome me freely into your life.”

Gary spit out another mouthful of blood, and most of it went onto his shirt. He coughed. Pain attacked him like a nest of pissed off hornets. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to get out of this mess, even if it meant making a deal with an imaginary voice at the bottom of a wet dumpster. 

“Whatever you want,” Gary said.

“Very good,” the voice replied. 

A warm, refreshing sensation washed over Gary. He smiled and almost giggled like a child.

“What do you want, Mr. Elmer?”

Gary didn’t hesitate. “I want more!”

“Are you willing?” the voice asked.

The feeling became more intense and Gary was now in ecstasy. “I’ll do anything!”

“Speak the words, Gary, and mean them from your heart.”

“I’ll say anything!” Gary shouted. “I’ll do anything!” His mind and body were raging with joy and pleasure.

“Speak aloud: Zlo, I freely welcome you into my mind, body, and spirit.”

“Zlo, I freely welcome you into my mind, body, and spirit.” 

Like flicking off a light switch, the pleasure disappeared, vanished like it had never existed at all. Gary felt fear. Was this entire incident a trick of the mind? Was his brain damaged from the fierce beating, causing him to imagine all of this? But it was so real, so tangible! He felt those things. It was not a glitch in his head. It couldn’t be!

A subtle vibration began inside of his chest and grew throughout his body. The vibration suddenly became a voice, ringing through his entire system. “Are you ready to begin, Mr. Elmer?” Zlo’s voice vibrated.

FIVE

The Science Chanel was showing another one of their “Mysteries of the Unexplained” type shows. In this episode, a team of so-called experts were doing their best to recreate a paranormal event that was caught on a security camera at a hotel somewhere. By the conclusion of the show, the evidence would be inconclusive, leading the viewer to believe a ghostly encounter was the viable explanation.

Ward didn’t believe in such things. To him, the paranormal was nothing more than a cheap way out of explaining something a better investigator could easily figure out. Ghosts, Bigfoot, UFOs… these people were wasting their time. Well, not if you count the money they brought in off of these shows; that was another story all together. But for Agent Henry Ward, everything had an explanation, end of story. 

For instance, the voice he had heard on the recording today. It had to be bullshit. Ward had racked his brain on it all day and into the evening. They sounded like multiple voices, speaking all at once with unique tones and pitches. And they were directed at him, specifically, or so it had seemed. It was weird—he had to admit—but there had to be a logical explanation.

While there was a small amount of levity among his fellow agents at the bureau, there was no chance anyone would play a prank on an agent during a case. No chance at all. An FBI investigation was sacred. Anyone who valued their job would never joke around with an investigating officer on a case. So that theory was off the table, right off the bat. 

What about a paranormal theory? Could that have been a ghostly voice speaking to him? Not even an option. Ward would believe the Queen of England was Jack the Ripper before he opted to believe something paranormal. 

That left only two possibilities Ward could accept: First, there was radio interference from an outside source, and the hidden surveillance microphone picked up the frequency. He’d check that with the tech guy in the morning. The second option (which pissed him off just thinking about it) was that someone had tipped off Micarelli that Henry Ward was the investigating officer, and Micarelli was fucking with him. The thought sent his blood boiling. 

An internal practical joke from other agents? No! Something paranormal? Not even up for discussion! Radio interference? Highly probable. Micarelli targeting Ward? It fucking better not be!

He’d hand the recording and his notes off to the tech guy in the morning, then get back to the review. There were hours upon hours of surveillance left to analyze; he didn’t have time to chase ghosts. 

SIX

“Ok, you two, it’s time to set the table for dinner,” Vickie Crawford yelled up the stairs. She could hear the kids wrestling on the floor in Brandon’s room. Sarah was laughing hysterically. Vickie couldn’t help but smile. “I’m coming up there…” The wrestling and laughter continued.

Vickie headed up the steps and stood at the entrance to Brandon’s room. He was lying on the floor, pretending to be helpless, and Sarah was standing on his bed like a wrestler on the top rope, preparing to leap onto her opponent. Vickie cleared her throat, and both kids looked up at her. Sarah had her arms in the air as she was just about to jump.

“I’ve been calling you guys to set the table. Didn’t you hear me?”

Sarah put her arms down slowly. “I’m sorry, mom,” she said. “I was just about to fly off the top rope.”

“I can see that,” Vickie said. She reached up, pretending to ring an imaginary bell. “Ding, ding… uh-oh, the wrestling match is over. It’s time to set the table.”

Brandon made a funny face at his sister from the floor.

“Can I finish my Flying Apocalypse move?” Sarah asked.

“You mean you want to jump off the bed onto your brother?” Vickie said. 

“Well… yeah. Can I?”

“After dinner,” Vickie said. “Your father will probably want to see that, anyway. And where did you learn that word?”

Sarah looked down at Brandon, who was still making faces at her.

“Brandon,” Vickie said. “Don’t teach your sister words like that.” She couldn’t help but laugh as she spoke. Her kids were adorable. “I want you both downstairs this minute to set the table. We’re eating on the patio, so use the paper plates. They’re on the breakfast nook table.”

Brandon continued to instigate his sister, but she climbed down off the bed as her mother had asked. 

Glen was on the patio, standing at the grill, flipping hamburgers and hot dogs. He was very comfortable in his cargo shorts and flip-flops.

“Your kids are out of control,” Vickie said, smiling as she walked out onto the patio.

“My kids?” Glen replied. “Those two take after you more than they do me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Vickie said and hugged Glen from behind. “The burgers look good; you kinda know your way around a grill there, Chief.”

“Give me some charcoal and barbecue sauce, and I’ll give you a masterpiece!” Glen said. He put his arm around his wife and kissed her. “I heard the racket up there.” He nodded at the open window to Brandon’s room. “Sounded like a real Battle Royal.”

“Ha, yeah. They have his room completely tore up,” Vickie said. “I’ll break the news to them after dinner that they're cleaning it up tonight.”

“You’re quite the enforcer.”

Vickie pinched Glen’s side, then went into the kitchen to bring more things out to the patio table. 

Dinner was simple, quick, and fantastic! Hamburgers and hotdogs, grilled on a warm spring evening. The smell had permeated the neighborhood and within no time, five or six other grills on the street were firing up. There’s just something about that smell. It’s impossible to deny or resist. A good ole hamburger or hotdog cooked over red-hot charcoal will melt the soul. The fresh air might have something to do with the taste. Cooking the same food inside on a skillet just doesn’t warrant the adoration. Those are nothing more than hollow calories, but put it on a grill… magic!

The kids ate it up, too. 

“All that wrestling worked up an appetite for you guys, huh?” Glen asked. 

They giggled with their mouths full.

Vickie chimed in: “Hope you both have enough energy to clean that room tonight, like right after dinner.”

“It’s his room,” Sarah said. “Why do I have to clean it?”

Vickie looked at her daughter. “When I went up there, it was you, young lady, about to jump off the bed onto your brother. I believe you are just as much to blame for the state of that room as he is. Besides, I asked you to. That’s all the reason you need.”

“The sooner you guys finish cleaning, the sooner we can all watch a movie,” Glen said.

“My Birthday is coming up this weekend,” Brandon said.

“What’s that have to do with cleaning your room?” Vickie replied.

“Nothing, really,” Brandon said. “Can we talk about my gift?”

Vickie held up her hand. “Whoa, young man. What makes you think you're getting anything with your room in the condition it’s in right now?”

“I Know, I know,” Brandon said. “I promise I’ll clean it tonight—spotless. But first, can we talk about my gift?”

“Not if you’re going to ask for what I think you’re going to ask for,” Vickie said.

“Hold on, Vic,” Glen said. “Let’s hear the boy out.”

“He wants a crossbow,” Vickie said to her husband.

Brandon’s face changed from excited to anxious. Mom was about to shut him down before he could make his point. She was going to sway dad over to her side and Brandon wouldn’t have a chance after that. “Mom, wait,” he said. “I’m going to be fifteen on Friday. I’m very responsible. Dad already takes me hunting and I know how to shoot, responsibly. This is something I want so much!”

Brandon looked at his father, who was smiling. 

“Tell me you're not considering this,” Vickie said to her husband.

Glen put his hands on the table. “Ok, here’s what I’ll say on the matter. Right now, the answer is not yes… but the answer is not no, either. Your mother and I will discuss the subject together and make our decision. And when we make our decision, that’s final, whether or not you like the outcome. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Brandon said. He was so excited he couldn’t sit still. They didn’t outright say no. He still had a chance. He still had time to plead his case if he could get his father alone. There was no way mom was going to go for this, but dad understood these things. He knew what a boy of fifteen needed and could handle. The door was still open.

“You’re not getting anything until that room is clean, mister,” Vickie said. 

Before she could finish the sentence, Brandon was off and running into the house and up the stairs.

“He’s gonna shoot the cat with that thing,” Sarah said.

Glen looked at his daughter. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs helping your brother, young lady?”

Sarah got up and went into the house, not nearly as fast as her brother did.

SEVEN

Brandon and Sarah cleaned his room as fast as possible, just barely passing Vickie’s inspection. It wasn’t really a cleaning, per se, but more of a tidying up. This teenager’s nest certainly needed a good cleaning, but for now the best Vickie could hope for was to get the clothes off the floor and into the laundry and the toys put away.

In the family room, Glen had a movie ready to go and a big bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. The kids got comfortable on the floor, close to the TV, and Glen and Vickie curled up on the couch. The movie was The Goonies, something from Glen and Vickie’s childhood the kids also loved. Sarah particularly liked Sloth. She would walk around the house yelling, “Hey you guys!” for the next several days. 

After the movie, Glen wrestled with the kids on the floor for about a half hour, with Vickie acting as referee. Sarah showed off her Flying Apocalypse move, jumping off the couch onto her brother. Everyone laughed and ganged up on Brandon, tickling him until he screamed.

At around 9:00 PM, Vickie sent the kids to bed. About an hour later, she and Glen did the same.

“I don’t like the idea of this crossbow Brandon keeps talking about,” Vickie said. She was sitting up in bed in her nightgown, flipping through a magazine. 

Glen was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. “I know,” he said through a mouthful of foam.

“What does he need something like that for?” she asked. Her face showed a look of concern.

Glen had a mouthful of mouthwash and didn’t answer.

Vickie continued: “You know he’s going to shoot something with it, probably the cat.”

Glen came out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with a towel. “Honey, I take Brandon hunting all the time. He’s very careful. I’ve never seen him anything less than responsible when he has a gun in his hand. A crossbow is the same responsibility.”

Vickie took a deep breath and let it out. “But, why, Glen? Why does he need this?”

Glen got into bed with his wife. “I can’t explain it, babe, but boys enjoy this stuff. When I was a kid, I was really into knights and castles and archers, so I begged my parents for a longbow. I was probably Brandon’s age, come to think of it. Anyway, I got it for Christmas and it was the coolest thing ever! I got really good with it, too. And it was hours upon hours of fun.”

“Are you talking about that old bow and arrow set that’s up in the attic?” Vickie asked.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Glen said. “I’ll never get rid of it. The thing meant the world to me.” He sat quietly, staring off at nothing for a moment, reflecting on a memory. “If we agree to let him have this, I’ll probably dig out my old bow and shoot with him. You know, something we could share together.”

Vickie looked at her husband. “You don’t think he’s going to shoot the cat or something else, do you?”

Glen laughed. “Honestly, no, I don’t. The kid has a good head on his shoulders, just like his mother.” 

Vickie stared at Glen. “So your vote is yes for the crossbow?”

Glen didn’t have to think about his answer. “Yeah, my vote is yes.”

Glen and Vickie had an excellent way of making decisions about life: they had to be unanimous. They would discuss both opinions thoroughly, but if a common ground couldn’t be reached, they wouldn’t proceed further, no matter what it was. Both knew when to give a little, though; they had become masters of compromise. 

She looked back at her magazine. “I’m not casting my vote yet. I need more time to think about it. Is there anything else he wants in case we decide not to allow it?”

“Naw, his heart is set on the bow.”

“Of course it is,” Vickie said.

EIGHT

“I don’t know how he sleeps like that,” Ronnie Miller said. He and Devon Harris were sitting at the small circular table in the ambulance station lounge during the late shift. “He’s way too big for that little couch!” They both laughed.

Ed Martin was curled up on the couch (which was more like a loveseat), his face toward the back cushions, his ass facing Devon and Ronnie, with thirty percent of his crack sticking out the top of his blue pants. It wasn’t a pleasant sight by any means. He slept that way every night shift. Some nights, if there were no emergency calls, Ed slept all night and got paid for it. Everyone who worked for city services knew—including Ed himself—that if it weren’t for his brother-in-law on the town council, Ed Martin would not have this job, or any other city job for that matter. 

Devon unwrapped a plastic drinking straw and used the paper wrapping to make a spit-ball. He loaded the straw and aimed it at Ed’s ass crack. “How much if I hit the target?”

Ronnie laughed, trying his best to keep quiet. He grabbed another straw and made his own pea-shooter. “It has to go in the crack, cheek doesn’t count.”

“Ten shots a piece,” Devon said. “Twenty bucks to whoever gets the most in before he wakes up.”

Ronnie snickered. “Make it ten; I’m kinda broke this week.”

“Ok, ten,” Devon said. “We’ll switch off one for one. You go first.” 

They cracked-up, trying very hard to keep their voices low, not wanting to wake the target.

Doing his best to control his hand and not laugh, Ronnie lined up his shot. When he was satisfied with his aim, he spit the paper projectile through the straw. It shot out straight toward his aim and stuck on Ed’s exposed skin, about six centimeters North of the target. Ed didn’t flinch.

Devon and Ronnie almost lost it all together. They laughed like Junior High kids into their hands, doing their best to keep quiet.

It was now Devon’s turn to fire off a shot. He took his time, lined up the straw, inhaled and exhaled slowly to calm his body and steady his hand. He fired and scored a direct hit! The tiny white spitball lodged itself in the center of Ed Martin’s ass crack, about an inch from the top of his pants. Devon and Ronnie couldn’t contain themselves any longer. They burst into hysterical laughter, almost falling off of their chairs.

“Shut up, you idiots,” Ed said, his muffled voice filtered through the couch cushions where he had buried his face. “I’m trying to sleep!” 

He didn’t move, nor did he feel the little paper wad lodged in his ass. Ronnie took out his phone and snapped a close-up picture of it. He almost dropped the phone from laughing so hard. 

The overhead speaker squelched as 911 dispatch brought everyone back to reality. A possible heart attack at 214 Leigh Street. Immediate emergency assistance requested.

Devon and Ronnie sprung into action. Ed slowly rose from the couch, yawning. “Do I have time to take a piss first?” Ed said.

“Get in the fucking truck, Ed,” Devon yelled.

Ed reluctantly lumbered off the couch and headed for the ambulance.

 When the ambulance came to a stop in front of 214 Leigh Street, Devon and Ronnie jumped out of the back and got right to work. Ed stayed in the driver’s seat and lit a cigarette. It was rare to see him without a smoke attached to his lips under that furry, outdated Fu Manchu mustache.

Inside the house, an older woman with short silver hair was lying on the couch in the living room, her husband by her side. Ronnie recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove, both retired teachers from Cumberland Springs Elementary. Ronnie had had Mrs. Hargrove for First Grade and Mr. Hargrove for Fifth, quite a few years ago. He remembered both of them being very nice teachers. 

“What happened, Mr. Hargrove?” Ronnie said. 

“She grabbed her chest and collapsed in the kitchen,” Mr. Hargrove said. He was nervous and jittery. “I was making a late-night snack, and she came down to sit with me at the kitchen table, then boom! It just happened.”

Devon had already begun working on Mrs. Hargrove, checking her blood pressure and looking into her eyes with a small flashlight. “Can you hear me, Mrs. Hargrove?” He said. 

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was soft and frail.

Holding a stethoscope against her chest, Devon listened and timed her heart beats. He looked up at Ronnie and Mr. Hargrove. “We’re going to take her to Cumberland Springs Memorial, Mr. Hargrove. Can you drive and meet us there?”

“I’ll get my keys,” he said, shakily, about to cry.

“You can follow us, Mr. Hargrove. Just be careful, please,” Ronnie said.

Devon and Ronnie strapped Mrs. Hargrove to the gurney and loaded her into the back of the ambulance with no help from Ed.

“Lights and siren?” Ed asked from the front, yawning.

“Yes,” Devon said. 

Ronnie radioed ahead to the hospital and gave an initial assessment. The ER doctor returned her instructions for transport care.

Devon looked down at Mrs. Hargrove. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’re going to get you to the hospital, quickly.”

“Like you did with Philip Taylor?” the old woman said. “You sure did a number on that kid.”

Devon stared at her. What the hell did she just say? Philip Taylor? He hadn’t heard that name since Iraq. Philip Taylor was a Marine who took a sniper round to the chest in Fallujah and died in Devon’s arms as he tried to save the poor kid. How in the world would she know about that? Phil was from Arkansas, far away from Cumberland Springs. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hargrove, but what did you just say?”

“Come now, Devon, you remember Philip Taylor,” she said. Her voice sounded raspy and deep, like a heavy smoker. “The southern boy you let die in the desert sand like road-kill. You’re not going to do me like that, are you?”

Devon looked into her eyes, staring in shock. His mouth hung open.

“Don’t just stare at me like some naïve child, like you did when you let Philip die,” the old woman scolded. Her mouth shaped into a menacing, predatory grin. “Grow a pair, you little fuck!”

Devon had no words, no thoughts, no actions. He was completely blank with bewilderment, unable to form an expression.

“This is just great!” Mrs. Hargrove exclaimed. “The minute I need help, I get stuck with this bumbling idiot. Say, moron, what was your final body count over there while you were attempting to serve your country? Was it thirty-two? Huh? Thirty-two Marines you let die because some other dip-shit thought it would be a good idea to let you play medic. You’re not even qualified to make fucking toast, let alone slap a bandaid on a person. How you ended up a combat medic defies reason.”

Devon’s mind started working again, but it didn’t help him with the situation at all. Images flashed before his eyes—men dying, bullet wounds, missing limbs, burns, horror and gore, the likes of which no one should ever have to witness. He knew them all—Marines gasping their last breaths through mouthfuls of blood, each looking up at him with eyes that said, “Save me!” He felt the helplessness again, the terror of trying to hold someone together who had just been blown to pieces but was somehow clinging to a few more precious seconds of life. It jolted through him like an electric shock treatment. His mind had pulled back the sheet of memories which he had worked so hard to cover and thrown them right back into his face.

Tears streamed down Devon’s cheeks from both eyes. He looked at the woman on the gurney. She was laughing. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

“Tell me you’re shitting me!” Mrs. Hargrove said. “Are you crying, you little faggot? Are you getting emotional right now? Holy shit! What piece of work you turned out to be!”

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed.

In a flash, the woman reached up and grabbed Devon by the throat. Her grip was intense and stronger than he could have ever thought possible. He couldn’t breathe. His head felt like a balloon full of blood, ready to pop at any second. His eyes bulged and felt like they might also explode. He gagged.

“You sniveling fuck!” the old woman said in a harsh, sinister voice. “Your days are numbered, so relish what you have left. Soon you will beg for scraps from the master’s table and beg to lick from the sole of his boot. You will feel anguish, the likes of which your feeble mind could never comprehend!”

Devon grabbed the woman’s wrist with both hands and tried to pry her loose. She did not budge. Her grip was like an iron vise around his throat that continued to squeeze harder and harder.

“And that supple whore wife of yours will be there as well,” Mrs. Hargrove growled. “But her fate will be much more grueling than yours, as she services the pleasures of the master’s legions.” She erupted in sadistic laughter, so loud it distorted in Devon’s ears. 

Suddenly, a disgusting, sticky black liquid spewed from her mouth and splashed all over Devon’s face. The smell was vile, like sludge scrapped from the bottom of a septic tank. It made Devon sick. She laughed even harder through lips and teeth now stained black with slime.

Devon pulled against her grip with all his strength, finally gaining enough leverage to break free. He fell back and cracked his head against the wall of the ambulance. He gasped a huge breath of air, as much as his lungs could hold, then another, and another. The woman on the gurney was still laughing at him. He heard a distant voice that sounded familiar. It called his name, far-off at first, then closer, and closer.

“DEVON!” Ronnie shouted.

Devon looked up and saw his partner yelling at him over the top of the patient. 

“Snap out of it!” Ronnie commanded. 

Sweat and tears rolled down Devon’s face in streams. He worked hard to catch his breath. His throat was in control now and only allowed so much air in at a time, causing him to wheeze in and out. 

“Get it together, Dev!”

Devon stared at Ronnie. It didn’t look like he was phased by, or had even seen what had just happened. That old lady had attacked him, taunted him; there was no way Ronnie didn’t see it.

What Devon noticed next, as he looked down at the woman, shocked him so badly he almost fell back against the wall again: she was still tucked under the blanket and safety straps, like she hadn’t moved at all. And her face was clean, no black muck anywhere in sight, not even on him. It appeared the incident hadn’t happened at all. She looked peaceful and frail, not at all like the beastly person who had just attacked him and said those horrible things.

“Hey,” Ronnie said, low but stern. He continued to stare at Devon with a serious look (a look that said, “Get your shit together, now!”)

Devon glanced back and forth from Ronnie to the woman on the gurney several times.

“What’s our ETA, Ed?” Ronnie said without taking his eyes off of Devon. 

“Two minutes,” Ed said.

“Two minutes, Dev,” Ronnie said. “Stay calm, buddy.” His look grew more concerning by the second. His mind had flashed back to the incident in the ambulance last November with Devon and the John Doe patient. Devon had the same look about him now as he did the night he went crazy in the back of this very same ambulance. “Are you good?”

Breathing heavily, but relaxing a bit, Devon shook his head up and down. “I’m good, Ronnie. No worries.”

Ronnie didn’t take his eyes off of Devon until the ambulance came to a full stop under the canopy at the Emergency Room entrance. They both got out and pulled the gurney from the back. Mrs. Hargrove seemed calm. Devon stared at her face the entire way into the ER, and for a moment after the hospital staff took her from them. A light thump on his chest from Ronnie’s backhand knocked him out of his trance. 

“Dude,” Ronnie said. “What’s up?”

Devon looked at Ronnie. “Nothing,” he said. 

“Bullshit! You’re all freaked out again. What gives?”

“Let’s grab a coffee,” Devon said, and headed out of the ER toward the hospital coffee shop. He stopped at the large plate-glass window for one last look at the old woman before they took her out of sight. She still looked peaceful.

NINE

An hour had passed since Milo and his gang of miscreants had put their fists and boots to Gary Elmer in the back alley. They had all gone back into the bar afterward, out of breath, like they had just worked out at the gym for an hour. One of them even had a swollen hand from pounding on Gary so hard. In their minds, they had done nothing wrong. In fact, they had done the world a service. Dude comes in here tossing around a snitch’s name like he’s an old pal. Fuck that guy! One less potential problem for the organization. Gary Elmer wasn’t the first person Milo and his group had tuned up like that, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

“Hey, bro,” Sunglasses said to Milo. They were sitting at their usual corner table on high stools by the pool tables. “Think it’s time to finish that thing we started out back?” He hitched his thumb toward the back door. 

Milo looked up at Sunglasses then back down to his phone. “Yeah. Grab Bear and JJ and finish it. Take the body over to Stanley’s garage and toss it in the incinerator. Stan’s out of town, but the key to the back door is under the floor mat of an old 72 Dodge on blocks. It’s in the back lot.”

Sunglasses got off his stool and grabbed the other two guys as instructed. They headed outside, letting the metal back door slam shut behind them. 

In the alley, Bear and JJ stood by the dumpster and waited for Sunglasses, who had taken the dark shades off (it was way too dark back there to continue looking cool). The group’s leader was Milo, no question, but when he wasn’t around, Sunglasses—his name was actually Eddie—called the shots. 

“Let’s see how our new friend is these days,” Sunglasses said, laughing.

Bear flipped the lid on the dumpster and peered inside. He had a strange look on his face. 

JJ pulled out his phone and activated its flashlight, then handed it to Bear. 

“He’s gone,” Bear said.

Sunglasses pushed Bear out of the way, took the phone, and shined the light inside. “What the fuck!” he said, his voice echoing inside the dumpster. 

“Oh shit! Look!” JJ said. He was looking further up the alley. 

Sunglasses pulled his head out of the dumpster and focused on the area where Bear and JJ were staring. There was a figure walking toward them from twenty yards away. He couldn’t make out a face, only a dark silhouette, walking slowly, confidently in their direction. “Shit!”

The three men stood still and watched as the figure approached. After a few moments, it finally came into view under the dim light above the backdoor. It was him, the guy they had beaten nearly to death less than an hour ago. But How? They had beaten down others before with far less ferocity, who didn’t survive, let alone ever walk again, but this guy was strolling around like nothing had happened. The only evidence of their assault came from his blood-soaked clothes and face. In fact, there wasn’t much of him that wasn’t covered in deep crimson. He stopped in the light cast by the fixture above the back door of the bar and smiled a large, toothy grin. 

“Aren’t you a tough motherfucker?” Sunglasses said.

The blood covered figure did not move or change his devilish grin. There was even blood in his long stringy hair. He took in deep, heavy breaths and exhaled them through a soft wheeze. 

“I guess you didn’t get enough ass-whoopin’ the first time?” Sunglasses said. “I can fix that real easy!” He charged at the figure, cocked back his right arm, and plowed his fist into the guy’s face with all his might, connecting dead-on with his nose and mouth. The dude’s head turned, but he never lost his balance or composure, and his face still wore that same sinister grin. 

Sunglasses lost his balance from the inertia of the attack and fell to one knee. He thought for sure with a shot like that, he would have dropped the fucker, hard. But when he looked back after standing up, he couldn’t believe the sight. The guy hadn’t budged. He stood stone cold like a granite monument in an ancient cemetery. 

Bear and JJ didn’t waste any time. Bear pulled out a switchblade from his leather jacket pocket and JJ slid his fingers inside of a pair of brass knuckles. Both men charged at the figure with a full head of steam.

The blood-soaked man with the half-crazed smile on his face let out a scream that sounded more animal than human. He rushed at Bear and JJ, unleashing a fury on each of them that neither could defend against. They screamed and yelled in agony as the stringy-haired man tore at their skin and bit into their flesh like a rabid animal. He didn’t fight like a man. Everything about him from the moment of his attack was purely primal. A fierce creature full of blood lust, enjoying his rage, reveling in the suffering he dealt out. 

The skirmish took place in front of the backdoor, so Sunglasses couldn’t get back into the bar without getting involved. He was horrified at what he saw; there was no way he wanted any part of it. Without regard for his two friends, who were being torn to pieces by this lunatic, Sunglasses took off up the alley as fast as his legs and heavy motorcycle boots would allow. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this kind of fear.

Seconds after he began running, he heard it: footsteps, chasing him down from behind. He gave his legs every ounce of energy he had, but the footsteps kept gaining, louder, closer, faster. His heart raced in terror.

Sunglasses hit the ground. The predator had caught up with him and drove him into the wet pavement of the alley. Pain shot throughout his body, not so much from hitting the pavement, but from the flurry of blows that came from the man on his back. It was barbaric, primal. This person was an animal attacking him with the ferocity of the deranged. He tried to scream, but his lungs had gone empty from the impact of the ground and never recovered. There was no fighting back. He was completely under the control of his attacker, who brutally mauled at him without the slightest hint of mercy. Finally, the misery stopped as a blow to the back of the head sent Sunglasses into a deep, cold darkness. There was no feeling here, no pain, no agony. Only the black surrounded him now, and the black was indifferent.

A day later, after the police had discovered the scene inside the bar, a news crew came to film what the media had dubbed “The Biker Bar Massacre.” Twenty-one bodies, each mutilated almost beyond recognition. There were no survivors or witnesses. Cleveland Metro Police, in a statement given at the scene, said they believed the massacre was gang related. 

TEN

The clock on the upper right-hand side of Reverend Allen’s laptop screen let him know it was 11:45 PM. The day had fifteen minutes until it was recorded history. He pondered that thought for a moment. History was made and recorded every day, from the beginning when early humans learned to draw on cave walls, right up to these phones we carry wherever we go. All over the world, events happened on this day that impacted millions of lives. For most, nothing happened—folks ate breakfast, went to work or school, came home, ate dinner, watched a movie and went to bed, ending the day without a hitch. In contrast, other people were having life altering moments that changed the course of their lives forever. Some people were born. Some people died. Some lost loved ones, while others fell in love. It all happened in one revolution of this giant blue ball we inhabit. The ball that is indifferent to us and keeps spinning no matter what we do. Even if we hit the button tomorrow and blow the whole place to shit, the giant blue ball will spin on without us. It always has.

Damn, he wanted a glass of Jameson. Deep thoughts like this just called out for a rocks glass and two ounces of the good stuff. The subtle burn on the tongue as the first sip passes the lips, before the ice has softened its potency; the flavor that is unmatched by any other spirit humankind has ever created; the feeling of joy and relaxation that comes about halfway through the first glass. It is a reward. You’ve finished the day and lived to tell about it, now you can let yourself unwind and wash your troubles away. Cheers!

That simply wouldn’t do right now. He was supposed to be writing an uplifting sermon, something that brought joy and peace to his congregation. He had promised them. Their intervention this morning had shined a light on something he was unaware of, and had brought him back into the fold (besides, the little church lady, Martha, had dumped the rest of his last bottle down the drain). After all, he wasn’t preaching for himself; it was all for them. His job was to strengthen the congregation and keep them on the righteous path. He had warned them enough over the last six months about the devil and evil lurking around every corner. He had shared his experience over and over and just about scared the living shit out of each one of them every Sunday. Now it was time to tone it back and talk about the cheerful things—love, friendship, community, fellowship and so on and so forth…

He had some ideas jotted down, a couple of Bible verses to expand upon, which dealt with happier subjects. But he couldn’t seem to get his head into it tonight. The laptop screen kept calling him to research other things, evil things.

Yes, evil. It had attacked him and changed his life forever. On that day, millions of people around the world were having a normal, mundane day, but Reverend Paul Allen was getting the crap kicked out of him by the devil and his minions. A life altering kind of day. A day that affected him just as much as the day he lost Mary Ann, if not more. He couldn’t get it out of his head—those sounds, the smell, the taunting, the beating. That thing hated him and wanted him to suffer. Of course, he never wanted to face it again, but part of him just needed to know what had actually happened. 

Staring into the computer screen, hypnotized by the blank page, he struggled with the choice: write a happy, peaceful sermon, or do more research in another attempt to satisfy his curiosity. The answer to the latter was out there somewhere, he was sure of it. It ate at him day and night. 

The sermon could wait another day. Besides, it was early in the week; he had time.

Through the months of research he’d already compiled since the attack, he had surmised several key points he needed to elaborate upon further. At the end of all this study, he planned to write a book detailing his brush with evil, not so much for profit, but as more of a guide to defending against the powers of darkness. If any money came his way, fine. He would just give it all away, anyway. 

The main point that kept coming up in his research, and what he wanted to follow up on tonight, was that the Catholics seemed to be the most open about the subject. Demonic possession, daemons, the devil… every religion warned against these things, but the Catholic Church had actual doctrine on the subject. They had rules in place on how to deal with evil. There were entire sections of the church with priests devoted to certain rites and rituals created to cast out dark forces. Reverend Allen had no intention of switching over to Catholicism. His idea was perhaps to unite for a time in the Lord’s work, if they would be interested (though he wasn’t sure how they felt about Baptists). Perhaps they could share knowledge? Maybe they would think he was just another tent revival nut trying to make a buck? Whatever the case, it was worth an email or two, or even a phone call.

Cumberland Springs was almost directly between Pittsburgh and Harrisburg, the two closest places that had a large Catholic Dioceses. He figured he’d try his luck first with the Dioceses of Southwest Pennsylvania, located just south of Pittsburgh. And why not go straight to the top? The Office of the Diocesan Bishop. That sounded important. Surely someone with that kind of title could point him in the right direction.

In a separate document, Reverend Allen drafted his email. He gave all of his credentials as a Baptist Minister, a brief resume of his work and missionary service, then got to the meat of matter—the day he was attacked by evil. He detailed his story, as he had so many times to his own congregation, then asked if he could meet with someone personally who might shed another perspective on his ordeal. Also, where should he go from here? 

The advice he’d received from his own “higher-ups” at the Baptist Convention was to pray harder and focus more on keeping the evil out of his thoughts. They didn’t seem to want to touch the issue, leaving him to sort it out for himself. He’d had a feeling that’s how the conversation would go before he even opened his mouth. It didn’t jade him, though. You can say you believe in ghosts, but when you actually see one, it’s unbelievable. 

So Reverend Allen decided to reach across party lines. And why not? Both religions believe in the same God, same Savior, and the same Bible. Surely a bit of bipartisan work wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.

ELEVEN

“Hi, Lisa,” Lauren said. She handed Lisa a large cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso she had picked up in the hospital coffee shop. Even though Lauren despised the taste of coffee, she knew what Lisa’s favorite order was from hearing her talk about it so much. They had worked the same shifts together on the ICU Ward for three years now. Lauren felt bad since she hadn’t been herself lately (she’d been distant to just about everyone). A cup of coffee was a small gesture, but at least it started the healing process.

Lisa looked at the cup, surprised. “What’s this for?” 

Lauren smiled. “I was thinking about you on my way to work tonight and just thought you could use a treat.”

“How sweet!” Lisa said. She got up from her seat at the nurse’s station and hugged Lauren. “You look cheery tonight. It’s a good look for you.”

“Thanks. I am in a good mood.”

“Any particular reason?” Lisa asked.

“Let’s just call it a good mood and leave it at that,” Lauren said. 

“Deal.”

Lauren sat down behind the computer at the nurse’s station and started checking the records for the current ICU patients. “Oh, my goodness!” 

“What is it?” Lisa asked. 

“Mrs. Hargrove,” Lauren said. “She was my first grade school teacher. I loved her!”

“Yeah, she’s just across the hall,” Lisa said and nodded toward room 337.

Lauren looked at the doorway to 337. She could only see a few feet inside from her vantage point, plus the light in the room was dim. Yes, that was the room where it had all happened six months ago, but she had been in there a hundred times since then to check on patients; there was no reason to be intimidated now. Yet she was. 

“Have you checked in on her yet?” Lauren asked.

“I haven’t,” Lisa said. “You’re welcome to do first rounds if you’d like. It would give me the chance to drink this lovely cappuccino while it’s still hot.” She held the warm cup to her face and smiled as if she was hugging it.

“Sure, I’ll do first rounds.”

Lauren grabbed the nurse’s cart and pushed it into the hallway. She checked on Mrs. Hargrove in Room 337 first, since she was on her mind. 

The woman looked peaceful and relaxed, tucked in bed. She was sound asleep. Her monitoring equipment kept steady track of her heart rhythms and everything seemed to be ok. She was scheduled to have a stint procedure in the morning, which was pretty routine these days. Her heart attack must not have been a bad one. Lauren made a mental note to reconnect with Mrs. Hargrove in a few weeks after she recovered from all this. It would be nice to sit and talk with her again. 

There wasn’t anything on the list to administer to the patient at this hour, so after Lauren was satisfied that everything was ok, she turned to leave the room.

“WHORE!” a voice shouted from behind her, just as she reached the doorway. The voice was cruel, and it cut her to the bone. A brief, sinister laugh followed it.

Lauren slowly turned, fully expecting to see something horrible laying in the bed, but nothing had changed. Mrs. Hardgrove was still resting peacefully. Ice cold shivers jutted over Lauren’s skin, leaving her covered in gooseflesh. Memories raged through her mind of John Doe and the thing that surrounded him during his time in this room. Was it back? She couldn’t handle that again, never in her lifetime.

She rushed out of the room, back to the nurse’s station, and sat behind the computer, breathing heavily. 

“What’s wrong, Lauren?” Lisa asked. 

Lauren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Nothing,” she said.

TWELVE

The hospital coffee shop had a vibe. It said, “Come on in, relax, we’re just chillin’ here, letting the world pass by without a care.” Cool jazz—probably Miles or Coltrane—seeped out from the open door into the lobby and carried with it the smell of dark, rich heaven. Dim lights, a few plants, and teakwood accents made you want to spend time in this place. The smell, the music, the decor… life’s troubles didn’t stand a chance here. The coffee shop was like a gentle summer rain to wash the soul.

At 1:00 AM the room was empty, except for Marsha the barista. The shop stayed open 24/7, but this late at night, the seating area saw little traffic, if any. Not that Marsha didn’t have her work cut out for her, though. Orders came in a steady stream from the late shift hospital staff, doing their best to stay awake and sharp with well-made espresso drinks. But the room itself belonged to anyone who wanted it.

Devon and Ronnie frequented the shop on late night emergency calls, enough that Marsha knew their orders before they even approached the counter: one cinnamon latte, one wet cappuccino with two espresso shots. She got to work on their orders before they even approached the counter. 

“Are you okay, buddy?” Ronnie asked after they had grabbed their coffees and headed to a table in the far back.

Devon sat down and took the plastic lid off of his cup, unleashing steam and rich aroma into his face. The act seemed to calm his nerves a bit, but his face still looked deeply troubled. 

“Devon?” Ronnie said. “What’s going on, man?”

He paused for several moments, staring into his cup. “Did you hear Mrs. Hargrove say anything in the ambulance on the way over here?” Devon finally asked. 

Ronnie thought for a few seconds, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t think she did. No. In fact, I’m sure she said nothing. I remember telling her that everything was going to be ok, but she didn’t answer me. What made you ask that?”

Devon looked down at his cup. “No reason. Never mind.”

“There has to be some reason or you wouldn’t have asked.” Ronnie said.

Hesitating, Devon finally said, “I’m losing my fucking mind.”

Ronnie sat back in his chair, looking at his friend. “Did you hear her say something?”

Devon laughed under his breath. He stared at his cup, then took a nervous sip. The cup shook slightly in his hand. It was happening again. He could feel it like a long, sharp blade slowly sliding into his back. The incident in the ambulance wasn’t in his head, he was sure of that. His throat still hurt from where the woman had choked him. He had heard those vile, hateful words echo throughout the ambulance and had felt her boney, ice cold hand around his neck, cutting off his airway. No, none of that was imagination. But what was it? 

“You didn’t hear her say a word or see her make a move?” Devon asked. 

“Dude, I swear, the woman never moved, and she never said a word. I was actually worried about how quiet she was.” Ronnie leaned forward. “You’re not flipping out again, are you?”

Devon looked at his friend, studying him. Ronnie was telling the truth. He rubbed his throat where Mrs. Hargrove had grabbed him. The spot was still sore. Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with me? “What did you see, Ronnie?” Devon asked. “From the time we loaded the patient into the back until we made it here. Tell me what you saw.”

“Alright, buddy, calm down. You have that crazy look in your eyes again and you’re spooking me.”

“Sorry, Ronnie,” Devon said. “But tell me what you saw.”

Ronnie stared at Devon, trying to figure him out. This came on without warning, just like the episode he’d had back in November. At least this time he didn’t jump out the back of a moving ambulance and run off into the night, screaming his lungs out. But that same look in his eye was there again. Ronnie thought carefully about what to say next. He didn’t want to set Devon off, but there was only one question on his mind: “Did you visit that new counselor yet?”

Devon’s face changed to frustration and disappointment. “I’m not a nutcase, Ronnie! Just answer my question.”

“Okay, fine,” Ronnie said. “But forgive me if this seems a little weird.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t see anything,” Ronnie snapped. “We picked up a patient and brought her to the hospital. That’s it! Nothing happened. And she didn’t say a word the whole trip, so if you saw or heard something else, I don’t know what to tell you.”

It was back. Devon had done a pretty good job of facing his anxiety and keeping it at bay for the last several months, but here it was again, about to scream in his face like a drill sergeant full of hot air. He had to maintain control this time—his job, his wife, his friendships, and his general sanity all depended on it. He took slow, deep breaths and ran through the focus exercises he’d learned from his various counselors—they all seemed to teach from the same book. It worked well enough at the moment.

Ronnie could see his friend was struggling. He chose not to push the issue further. Devon needed space, and Ronnie knew when to give it to him.