Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (77 page)

Let it rot to hell
, he thought.
Nothing
but cesspools of so-called humanity. Millions of poor, destitute souls
soiling each other for an opportunity to buy yet one more piece of plastic
garbage.

Commander Byron ripped the silver crucifix
from his chest and threw it to the ground. With a steel-toed boot, he
crushed the soft metal into the cold asphalt. He pulled a yellowed journal from
an inside pocket and moved a finger over the faded handwriting.

God is profane. A loving God does
not punish his creations.
He does not send war,
pestilence, and disease. He does not ravage the faithful. God is for
fools and the weak, those unable to think for themselves
.

He hoped Father was buying the ruse and
that he could finish his life with a shred of peace and dignity. Byron
lit another cigar. He stepped on the sidewalk and pulled the collar of the wool
coat around his neck. The awakening spirit of the winter solstice opened an eye
from its deep slumber. December would bring the beast
completely out of the receding autumn.

A plastic bag danced down the middle of the road. It spun and twisted as if part of a silent ballet. Commander
Byron lifted his hand and curled his finger inward, a gesture summoning his
hovering guards.

“Yes, sir!” they said.

Both men snapped to attention. Byron tried
to avoid gazing at the two silver crucifixes hanging from their necks. He
shuddered and pulled his coat together at the neck.

“The woman is secure. I will need to
update command on our situation. Move into the ground floor of
the building across the street. Put your crosshairs on the door of this
shop. If anyone but me tries coming in or out, shoot them dead.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

He watched the men trot across the street and step into the
yawning hole of the front door. Byron pulled the satellite
phone from his breast pocket. He dialed the number and waited for a
series of clicks and beeps to pass from the earpiece to his head. A groggy, disconnected voice crackled through on the other end.

“What do you have to report?” it asked.

“I’ve found her,” he replied.

“Bring her to me,” the voice said.

Chapter
29

The morning broke over drifting snow and barren trees. Alex fumbled through his bag in search of soggy cigarettes. John
stood in the frame of the window, a single silhouette in the exterior wall of
the factory. He blew smoke into the frigid air, sending a puff of nicotine
toward the low, gray ceiling.

“I hate November in Cleveland,” said Alex.

John turned and offered a battered pack of cigarettes to his
partner. Alex’s eyes lit up. He reached for a smoke
while pulling a lighter from his pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I’d do to you for a large chai
latte,” said John.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t involve getting to
second base.”

“I dunno know, you’re kinda hot.”

The joke fell on near-deaf ears, as Alex was preoccupied now
by thirst. John hitched his pants up and straightened his
jacket.

“When do you want to move out, Alex?”

“Soon. This place smells like death.
You got any more soda?”

“Yeah, three cans left.”

Alex walked back into the gloom.

***

Streaks of powder blue slipped from underneath the heavy
canopy. Crystal flakes tussled and spun their way to the frozen asphalt. Alex and John abandoned the factory and scurried like roaches
through the urban wreckage, hiding from their pursuers. They decided to
move back toward John and Jana’s house on foot. Walking six miles might prove
to be difficult, but it would keep them concealed better than a vehicle. John hid the keys of the truck under a sewer lid a block from the
factory.

John led the way through the remains of Little Italy. Mayfield
Road ran through the immigrant community and proceeded up Murray Hill into
Cleveland Heights. During the festive summer month of August,
the Church held a carnival for the Feast of the Assumption. Restaurants
and bakeries pulled tables onto the sidewalk and sold their wares to smiling
and hungry pedestrians.

With the Holy Covenant in control, John and Alex avoided the
blocks surrounding the parish on Mayfield. They stopped for a
moment behind a two-story apartment building. The bell tower of the
church loomed over the top of the building, keeping a watchful eye on their
movements.

John ran through the parking lot and
entered the back of a playground, as Alex followed his lead. The swings
moved back and forth, as if propelled by the spirits of children who used to
ride them. Snow accumulated at the bottom of the shiny, metal slides.

“Let’s take a breather,” Alex said.

John nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag.

“We’re really in the open here,” said John.
“How about we move towards Murray Hill? If we can get to the top, we’ll
be about halfway there.”

Alex looked around, surveying the area.

“Not trying to creep you out, but maybe we
should climb through Lakeview Cemetery rather than going up Murray Hill. The
rock on one side and the condos on the other create a nice little tunnel where
we could end up being fish in a barrel.”

John nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

The two men set off from the park, navigating through back
alleys until they came to a black, wrought-iron fence. It
stood seven feet high, with a three-inch space between bars.

“Now what?” said Alex.

“Follow me.”

John led the way through heavy underbrush
to a break in the fence. Amidst a slew of empty beer cans and plastic
bags that littered the area, the fence stood mostly intact. Delinquent
teenagers had dug a hole underneath it, allowing unauthorized access to the
graveyard. Though an easy opportunity for vandalism, most
Goths used it only as a location for midnight readings of H.P. Lovecraft.

John crawled underneath the fence first, coming out the
other side with uneven brushstrokes of dark mud on his clothes. Alex followed, wearing a look of disdain on his face.

The headstones inside the fence crumbled under the weight of
time. John ran his hand over a couple. The ravages of
the elements ate away the carvings of an ancient undertaker. An
“R” or an “S” stuck out, but most of the granite looked scarred with acid.

Alex followed John through the cemetery, through clumped
rows of gravesites and expensive monuments to the wealthy and elite. The
cemetery held the body of a US President, as well as other famous and important
people of the twentieth century. A number of crows flew to an ominous tree on
top of the hill. Their fluttering and cawing grabbed John’s
attention.

“What are they up to?” he asked Alex.

“Don’t know.”

“Aren’t you the vet?”

“Yes, and I can’t tell you how many crows
I’ve treated.” Alex delivered the sarcasm with grace.

“Let’s keep moving, Alex. I’ll feel
better when we get to the top of the hill. That means we should be out of
Little Italy and moving towards Cleveland Heights.”

John saw the puff of stone before he
realized what had happened. Four more clouds of dust burst from the
headstone before he threw his body to the ground. The attack
came in dead silence. John saw Alex hit the ground and pull up behind
another headstone. John felt the fatal spirit of each bullet
whiz past his head, and the shattered stone chips dropped into his hair like
the early winter snow.

An explosion brought the assault out of silent slow motion
and into brutal real time. A moment later, Alex’s screams began to break
through the surreal attack.

Orgiastic flashes of bright red and orange
appeared everywhere, as though programmed by an erratic DJ at some nightmare
rave. Clumps of frozen mud, rocks, and stone rained down on the men,
while still more explosions rocked the ground beneath them.

John reached over and grabbed Alex by the
arm. He dragged Alex’s inert frame toward a towering mausoleum. John saw
the name “Wilson” inscribed above the main door as he pulled Alex inside. The
gun fire roared as bullets grabbed chunks of earth and spit them back into the
air, covering the men with debris. John covered Alex’s body with his own and asked
for protection from the remains of the Wilson clan.

Chapter
30

Sickly candlelight danced on the yellow brick of the church.
Father walked around and inspected each votive. Lay
members of the Holy Covenant took up positions of responsibility in the new
hierarchy of the diocese. Children swept and dusted like duty-bound Dickensian
urchins, while young adults helped move food and supplies into the basement.

Father thought back to the earliest days of
the Faith. He saw his new flock functioning much the same way as
villages did in medieval Europe. Entire communities gathered together and lived
their lives in God’s services. Spiraling cathedrals and stone deities rose
purely on pre-industrial muscle. Generations of Masons
committed their lifetimes to erecting an eternal house of worship. Father
felt the connection across time and space, overjoyed to have permanent
residents in the basement of St. Michael’s. The cavernous space encompassed and
protected those of the Covenant, the new Masons of His word. Like their ninth-
and tenth-century counterparts, they would construct a return to the old ways
of unwavering faith and dedication to the Lord.

A young boy startled Father from his
reverie with a question.

“Father. The candle. It’s already
lit.”

He reached down and ruffled the boy’s wild, blond hair.

“So it is my young servant. What is
your name?”

“I’m Joey.”

“Nice to meet you, Joey. What is your job
here today?”

Joey pulled on the man’s robe, trying to monopolize Father’s
attention.

“I’m helping my mom. She’s
downstairs, making sure everyone has a place to sleep.”

“You are an obedient son. God will
show favor on you and your mother. You should probably go back
downstairs and make sure she has all the help she needs.”

“I will. See ya!”

The boy ran toward the steps and disappeared down the
staircase before Father could respond.

A cloaked member of the clergy stepped from the shadows in
the back of the church. Father looked at the doors, certain
they had not recently opened.

“Father, may I have a word?”

“Please, follow me behind the altar where
we can talk in private.”

The hooded monk kept even strides behind Father, managing to
preserve a respectful distance. They entered the back room on
the other side of the altar, where young boys stood washing towels in the sink.
With a wave of his hand, Father dispersed them from the room, and
assumed the role of good host.

“Sit. May I get you a beverage?”

“No, I won’t be staying long. My
name is Brother Cyrus and I’m from the Internal Order.”

He paused, waiting for Father to confirm
his knowledge of the Order – or show his ignorance of it.

“I do not know of you.”

“Ah, but I know about you, Father.”

Brother Cyrus raised both hands, and
dropped his hood onto his back. His brown, wool robe thinned at the
elbows and frayed at the edges. Cyrus’ bushy eyebrows sat upon
a haggard face. Although in his early forties, premature baldness stole
any semblance of his youth. Cobalt-blue eyes sat deep in his
skull and held Father with a tight grip.

“I have intelligence for you.”

“On the Revelator?”

Cyrus nodded.

Father stood and walked to a miniature refrigerator, like
one might find in a dorm room. He took a cold bottle of iced tea and tilted the
top toward Cyrus, who held up the palm of one hand in polite refusal.

“We have been able to tap into the
government’s databases and extract records. Power is still spotty, and
many servers are still running on generators, so it’s not a complete picture.”

Father raised his eyebrows and took a quick
swig from his tea.

“This is information you have mined yourself?” he asked.

“I should hope. I’m the Church’s main
systems analyst. I can say that the Catholics protect their information much
better than the Federalists.”

The terms used by Cyrus stunned Father. He
looked at the man, trying to read his eyes.

“Please continue, Brother.”

Cyrus removed a manila folder from under his garments. The
stained and torn envelope protected gleaming, pristine papers. He placed each item on the table with a precise and even motion. With
the pages spread out, Cyrus spun each document one-hundred-eighty degrees,
facing Father.

“John Burgoyne. DOB, 03-24-74. He
lives at 2913 Plainfield Road in South Euclid. Last year he earned fifty-seven
thousand dollars as a website designer. At least that’s what
he reported to the IRS. He is married to one Jana Burgoyne, age
twenty-three. She is, or was, a nurse at the Cleveland
Clinic.”

Father sat back and studied the man in the robe. He sighed, tugged at the hair on his chin, and pulled out a fresh
cigar wrapped in plastic.

“You say you hacked into the government’s database for this
info?”

The way Cyrus smiled chilled Father to the
core.

“Hacked. Yes, we hacked until we got this
information.”

“Would you like a cigar, Brother Cyrus? My
supply of Cubans is dwindling. This could be the last one you see for a
very long time.”

Cyrus kept both hands on the table, evenly
spaced from his precise documents.

“What else do you want to know, Father?”

Father put the cigar back in his pocket and
slid to the edge of his seat. He stared into Cyrus’ eyes, becoming lost
in the dark vortex.

“Extended family? Friends, and so
on?”

“That is not information typically kept in governmental
records.”