Black Tide Rising - eARC (32 page)

“Behold, brothers and sisters, the Lord has delivered to us one of the wicked!” Taylor recognized Buford as he and another man dragged a violently thrashing and shirtless form up on the dais

“Holy shit, that’s Leyva.”

The pudgy corrections officer appeared to have resisted heavily—both of his captors had bloody gashes on their face, and Buford was sporting a fresh bandage on his arm. By the way Leyva’s legs were flopping behind him, it appeared that Buford and company had taken out some of their aggression on him. With tire irons.

“Damn,” Taylor said with a wince, “That looks painful.”

“Yeah,” Pasco replied, “but he doesn’t seem to notice. Probably has multiple compound fractures at this point.” Sure enough, Leyva was still trying to get his feet under him, only to have them collapse.

Buford and his friend wrestled Leyva to the cross, forcing him onto it. After he was secure, The preacher reached under his pulpit. A mechanism above him hummed as the cross rose.

“What the hell are they doing?”

“They’re crucifying him.” Taylor swallowed hard, lips forming a snarl. His voice was harsh. “The sons of bitches are crucifying him.”

“What the fuck is wrong with these people?”

“Cult of personality. Strong leader with a Messiah Complex. Trusting, somewhat isolated group of faithful, but no other teacher. Makes me sick.”

“Really? Wouldn’t have figured this would bother you that much.”

“Look man, I’m probably going to hell for things I’ve done.” He watched as Leyva thrashed ineffectively against his bonds. “But I also believe in forgiveness. Way I see it, that’s between me and the Lord to figure out when the time comes. At least I’ve never perverted the teachings, and I’ve never claimed the evil I’ve done has been in His name.”

“You’re a very complex man.”

* * *

Taylor snorted.

The preacher reached under the podium and withdrew a clay chalice. “The wicked must suffer, brothers and sisters, before they can repent. This man has been found lacking in God’s eyes, and has been afflicted. His faith has been discarded, he has given himself over to Satan.” He approached the base of the cross, eyes level with Leyva’s knees, and nodded to Buford.

The bearded redneck crossed the stage and entered a small alcove. He returned shortly, carrying a wooden pole topped with an iron blade.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Pascoe breathed, turning pale.

The preacher raised the chalice, stretching his arms until it was next to Leyva’s ribcage. At his nod, Buford stepped forward, extended the spear, and carefully inserted the tip between the second and third rib, piercing the skin slightly. A stream of blood flowed down the bound man’s side, into the waiting cup.

After a minute, the preacher lowered his arms, placing the chalice gently on the altar in front of him. He raised his hands in benediction, once again inclining his head and closing his eyes.

“O mighty God, bless this, the blood of your fallen child, so that the penitent and faithful may live.”

Taylor tore his eyes away from the scene below and studied his companion.

Pascoe sat quiet, eyes wide. The shudder running through him a sign of either abject terror or barely suppressed rage. Taylor hoped for fear. Rage was all well and good, but could be an issue if Pascoe got the idea to wade into the crowd and fight his way to the podium. No, in this case the fear could be channeled into will to live. Or at least to get the hell out of here. As long as it doesn’t paralyze him, that is.

“Come, my children, let us partake of God’s blessing. The possessed can only be cured with Faith! By taking of his body into ourselves, we can cast the demon out!” He raised the cup, took a small sip, and set it down again.”God has given us a test, we would be less than worthy in His eyes if we did not accept it.” He smiled, lips stained deep red. “Come forward and receive God’s blessing.”

The parishioners slowly approached the altar single file. The preacher blessed each person as they took a small sip from the chalice, in a surreal perversion of Communion. “What Man hath wrought, God may tear asunder.”

Taylor leaned forward, risking a look further into the gallery below. The balcony’s drywall, cracked and stained from years of neglect, gave way as he shifted his weight, landing on the row of pews in the back of the room with a loud thud.

The canvas of his shirt cut into his neck as Pascoe pulled him back, saving him from falling into the crowd below. The preacher snapped his head up at the noise, his initial surprise disappearing as his face clouded over.

Taylor landed on his butt just as the congregation looked in his direction.

“Hey folks, don’t mind us, just enjoying the cannibalistic ritual.” He made a “get on with it” gesture. “Please, carry on. I’m sure God has been missing the human sacrifice aspect of worship.”

Taylor pointed at Buford, slowly drew his middle finger across his neck, and finished the gesture by extending it.

The preacher’s frown deepened as he shot a glance at Buford and the other goon. The two lugs nodded, turned abruptly, and left the way they came.

“Looks like it’s time to go.” Taylor said, “And this time I mean it.”

The preacher turned back to his flock. “Friends, we can see here that Satan is ever vigilant in corrupting the faithful. The Criminal and the Oppressor working hand in hand to infiltrate our congregation. They are the ones that brought this evil into our midst.” He gestured at Leyva, howling through the gag and thrashing against his bonds. “This is their vessel, of demonic influence! They are trying to keep us from healing the wretch, undermining our efforts to purify the Fallen!”

The crowd’s vibe turned, going from quietly reverential to a murmuring hostility. Several parishioners had turned to glare at the pair on the balcony, pushing and shoving those around them in an effort to make their way forward.

“Boss.” No reaction. “Pascoe!” The officer snapped out of his daze. “Seriously, time to go.”

A heavy tread on the stairs behind them alerted them to the approaching goons.

“Shit. We’re trapped.” Pascoe looked at the busted drywall. “Bout fifteen foot drop. Think we can jump?”

“Psh. Doubtful we’d make it five feet after we landed, if we don’t break both legs in the fall.” Taylor moved towards the stairs. “We gotta hit ’em head on. Let’s go.” He picked up speed as he approached the stairwell.

Rounding the corner, he paused briefly at the top step, just long enough to shift into a crouch. Buford, leading his partner as they climbed the stairs, clearly hadn’t expected a confrontation so soon—his eyes widened as he saw Taylor.

Capitalizing on their hesitation, Taylor sprang. His shoulder slammed into Buford’s chest, taking both men down the stairs in a heap. He regained his feet, snapping a vicious kick at the second goon’s temple. The man’s eyes rolled back as he slumped, unconscious.

Buford recovered somewhat faster, attempting to bring the shotgun around. Taylor slammed one foot down on the bearded man’s hand, holding it and the gun, immobile.

“Taylor!” The inmate looked up at Pascoe’s voice.

Taylor caught Buford’s movement just as the man’s pistol cleared the holster. He drew back his free leg, bringing it down hard on Buford’s throat.

Buford dropped the gun to clutch at his crushed windpipe. His lips moved, but produced only wet, gurgling sounds.

Pascoe reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped over the unconscious man, approaching Buford as Taylor lifted his foot. “Don’t do it, inmate.”

Taylor shifted, lowering his foot to the hardwood floor. “Wasn’t. Piece of shit can die slow.” He bent down and retrieved the pistol and shotgun, handing them to Pascoe. He took them, eyes questioning.

Taylor shrugged. “I figure you’d feel more comfortable with ’em.” He turned back to the dying man, staring him in the eyes. “I was wrong, you redneck piece of shit. Looks like I am more Marcellus than Butch. Tell St. Peter I sent you.” He searched Buford’s pockets and belt, coming up with a folding knife and spare magazines. He passed these over as well.

“I get this guy’s stuff.” After another kick, he stripped the unconscious man of his gear. “Ready when you are, Boss.”

* * *

Taylor busted through the door, stopping short to squint in the evening sun.

The church sat slightly forward of the trailer park he had seen from the Stop n’ Sip, the various single and double wides forming a rough circle around a central parking area about fifty yards away. Trucks, cars, and other vehicles were arranged in neat groups all facing the road.

It seemed that the parishioners had learned a lesson from the events in Waco- keep the units separate, don’t group everything together in an easy to assault fire trap, and allow for a quick dispersal of many people in an evacuation situation.

“What’s the plan?” Pascoe was leaning against the door, doing what little he could to secure the rear.

“We need to find a vehicle. I’m guessing they got rid of your van as soon as they got us underground, just in case.” He started for the trailers. “I really don’t want to be standing in the open when they decide to come find us, though.” He stopped, turning to look at the church. “Wonder why they haven’t—”

The sound of the crowd came suddenly, cutting off the rest of his question. What had been almost reverential silence erupted into a cacophony of voices—shouting punctuated with screams.

Not screams. Howls, like Leyva’s.

“Oh, shit.” Taylor glanced at Pascoe, and as one they ran for the nearest trailer. Their meager luck held—it was unlocked. He and Pascoe ducked in, slamming the door behind them.

The stench was overpowering, like the aftermath of an IED without the reek of burning plastic and metal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pascoe shift into high alert, bringing Buford’s Mossberg into ready position. Taylor drew his pistol, looked at the other man, and nodded.

The trailer was a standard doublewide, kitchen and dining area in the front, separated from the living area by a short bar. Beyond that, a hallway led back into what he assumed were the bedrooms.

The immediate vicinity was clear, and fairly clean. No signs of forced entry or that anyone had put up a fight. Pascoe, motioning with the shotgun, indicated that he’d take the right. They moved forward.

Taylor’s first door was closer to the front, he carefully turned the knob and opened it inwards. Inside, a workbench covered in reloading equipment monopolized the space in the center of the small room. Surrounding it, boxes of ammo shared the floor space with rifles, shotguns and large crates.

Taylor gave a low whistle. “This guy was ready for everything short of secession.”

Pascoe nodded, and turned to his door. He opened it, revealing a bathroom decorated in a baseball motif. Neatly folded towels, sheets and other items occupied the closet just inside. The empty shower’s curtain hung bunched against the back wall.

The smell grew steadily stronger as they approached the end of the hallway. Taylor choked back a gag as they approached his next door.

The scene inside could have been direct from any slasher flick. Blood, collected in black pools, lay everywhere, with what looked like strips of muscle tissue and skin floating in them.

“Jesus.” Taylor forced himself to distance the horror in his mind, compartmentalizing it so he could observe the scene objectively. Boy’s room, approximately eight to twelve years old, as indicated by the robot toys and dinosaur posters. Fresh kill, no more than a few hours old. The sickly sweet odor of rotting carcass hadn’t had time to set in. He shook his head, closing the door and turning to the one across the hall.

This seemed to be a girl’s room, late teens. Posters of boy bands and pop groups decorated the walls, some torn to shreds. The smell of excrement and urine assaulted them, coming from the bed. No blood in here, just filth. They closed the door on the empty room and moved to the last one.

The stench hit them like a ton of bricks. Blood, open intestines, urine and shit mixed into an unholy miasma. What was left of the mother lay on her bed, eyes wide, throat torn out. The remains of the boy were there as well, most of the torso poking out from under the frame. At least one arm was conspicuously absent, while the other had been stripped to the bone.

Taylor heard Pascoe retch behind him, the sour vomit adding to the overall stench. He turned to see the cop bent at the waist, voiding what little had been in his stomach.

Taylor moved towards him, stopping as the other man raised his hand.

“I’m fine,” Pascoe said, “Just give me—”

A howl from the bedroom cut him off. Taylor spun in time to see the girl charge, clawed hands caked in her family’s blood. His pistol struck the doorjamb as he snapped it up, the unexpected shock causing it to drop from his hand. He backpedaled into the hallway, catching a heel on the ruined carpet in his haste. He hit the floor.

The Mossberg’s roar in close quarters was deafening—the girl’s chest blossomed into a bloody mess as the pellets tore into her. She dropped, showing Taylor the destruction to her back. The buckshot had blown open her ribs, bloody bones poking through in several places. She twitched weakly for a few more seconds, finally becoming still.

“Holy shit that was close.” Taylor stood up. “Thanks, Boss, I owe you another one.” He looked at Pascoe. “Boss?”

The TDC officer stared at the body of the girl, eyes wide and jaw slack. He dropped the shotgun as he sank to his knees.

“I just killed a kid.”

“You had to.” Tayor hunkered down next to him. “You gotta block it out. You didn’t have a choice. You had to do it.”

“No, no. She was just a kid, man. God, I killed a kid!” Pascoe was shaking as the realization hit him full force. “I’m supposed to be the good guy. This is so fucked. I’m so fucked.”

“C’mon Boss, I need you with me here. We ain’t out of this mess yet. Get your game face on.”

“I can’t…it’s too much…” Pasco sat back, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking slightly. “Fucked. So fucked.”

Taylor took a step back and considered his options. Not good. Solo in unknown hostile territory doesn’t end well most of the time. Fuck.