Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 (4 page)

There hasn’t been a day over the last couple of years that I haven’t been chasing the points in search of Emily. Since I began, people close to me have speculated about her death. Early on, Cooper told me she could have been a Dreamer. One of the million or so people who checked out instead of sticking around to see what happened. Others told me the Freaks could have gotten her. I couldn’t confirm any of these theories, so I refused to accept them. When family is at stake you never give up until you know.

My relationship with Emily had a very inauspicious beginning. What 15-year-old girl, who’s used to the life of an only child, suddenly wants to share the limelight with a twelve-year-old stranger? Moreover, this decision had been made without the benefit of her inclusion. Nothing was asked of her or even insinuated to her that this was about happen. The Prescotts are a wealthy family, and Emily was not about to share her key to the vault.

Over time, however, we began to build an understanding. A begrudging trust arrived through heated discussions about who belonged there and who didn’t. After those details were ironed out and I was accepted, we graduated to many late night question and answer sessions about each other’s lives leading up to my arrival at Prescott Manor. Emily had questions about my time in the Forrest where I had had nothing. I, of course, had questions for the girl who had everything.

“Not everything,” she would say.

Emily wanted love. The Prescotts had money; that was never in doubt. What they didn’t seem to have was time for their daughter. They were always in business meetings. When Emily would ask about these meetings, her father would always tell her, “It’s none of your concern right now dear. When you’re older, we’ll discuss it.”

While Emily was blindsided by my arrival, she was secretly thrilled. Finally! Someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with. Cry with. A potential advocate and possible protector. It didn’t matter that I was younger because Emily had no male presence in her life. She alleged that her friends liked her for her status and any boy that liked her never bothered to
know
her. My relationship with Emily was a process.

The next three years were shared in commiseration as my relationship with my
parents
continued to degrade. When I turned 18, I’d had enough. While money, power, and status were what drove them, they meant nothing to me. I chose to believe it was the influence of my natural family. My mother and father steering me away from the cold, heartless influences likes those of the Prescotts. Emily begged me to stay. She needed me. She said I was the only person she trusted. To turn my back on her would be a betrayal of the highest magnitude.

I did leave, though. For several years our relationship was fractured. When I returned from Iraq, we reunited. The time I spent over there changed my life. I learned to fight. I learned to survive. I learned to kill. With a gun, a knife, and with my hands, I could take life. I was also able, through rigorous training, to hone my skills at tracking. When I was on the hunt there was no escaping me.

The most significant thing I learned in the year I served was that there is no bond stronger than family. Family can mean The Marine Corps, your unit, your friends, your sister a thousand miles away. I resolved once my tour was up to get home and be the presence in Emily’s life she needed me to be.

We reconciled in a very short time. Emily couldn’t ever stay mad at me long. It was then that we decided on regular breakfast meetings. Over these meetings we decided that we were all the family we needed. She used to sing that old song by Bill Withers:

“Just the two of us! We can make it if we try. Just the two of us!”

“Uh, Em, you know that song’s about a couple, right?” And we would laugh.

I never thought the day would come that I wouldn’t be there for her.

NOW

“Where is she?” I say through gritted teeth.

“That has always been your problem boy,” Mr. Prescott says. “You have never had the instinct to look around you and understand the bigger picture.”

“What are you saying?

“She made you weak.”

“Made me weak? I’m sorry sir, I still don’t understand.”

“The Black Hand was your destiny, boy. You were to replace me when the time was right. But the more time you spent with her, the more distracted you became. You wouldn’t commit to your lessons. You became…soft.”

“The Black Hand! Death, destruction, madness?
That
was my destiny? ” I screamed.

“The Black Hand exists to serve The 88! Chaos chose you!
My
son! It was the happiest day of my life. All the work I had done in service to The 88 had been rewarded. You were to be my greatest achievement. But no, you failed to see the points right in front of you. You missed the connection and never registered it as being within your grasp. You failed so completely you were never told of The Black Hand. You were never told of our family’s legacy.”

“Where is she?”

He laughs, bitter. “Emily made sure that you would never be anything more than a common citizen. There is no greater disappointment in the eyes of The Black Hand than to be without the influence of Chaos. As your relationship grew stronger you were more unwilling to listen. Emily’s influence on your social development was something I never anticipated. She kept introducing you to subjects outside the spectrum of your development within our objective.

“To punish me for my greatest failure, and especially to torture you, Chaos chose to take her for his own needs. Of course, it really wasn’t a punishment to me. I hardly cared. Emily was good for appearances. Family and all. My life belongs solely to facilitating the agenda of The 88 through the all powerful Chaos.

“It was you he was really hurting. He knew you’d want to find her. Chaos also thought he could repurpose you to assist The Black Hand in its search for foot soldiers.” As he explained this, he made his way across the room and stood directly in front of me.

“Please. Tell me where she is. I’ve looked for her for since the Collapse. Emily is lost,” I said. “I can’t find her. I admit this to you.”

“For something that you seemed to cherish, how did you manage to take so little care of it that you lost it?”

His words slam into me and it feels like my heart has been ripped from my chest.

“I need to know,” I stammer.

“She’s dead, boy,” he says, dripping with spite. “The term for her status would be Patient Zero: Deceased. Now please go back to whatever miserable hole you came from and stay out of our lives forever.”

I never anticipated that this would be the end game. Dropping to my knees, I feel her loss with every fiber of my being. I look at him with incredulity.

“You killed your own daughter for this
Black Hand
? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I did it because there is nothing greater than pleasing our master. Chaos is the one truth, and destruction is his eternal message. The Descent, as you foolish people call it, is his Masterpiece! Everyone within The Black Hand understands the significance. Nothing comes before our servitude. In keeping with the previously stated principles I feel there is no other recourse than to terminate you immediately. Pollock will you do the honors?”

“With pleasure,” he says.

Renewed by rage, I rise to my feet and turn to face Pollock as he rushes towards me with a lunging jab. I sidestep his jab, slip behind him, and bring my arm around his neck in a tight choke. He knows he’s in trouble but there’s little he can do about it.

“What the fuck man?” I rasp into his ear. “I loved you like a brother!”

“You don’t fucking get it. You’re still making this about you and your bullshit. You don’t mean shit to me. Glory to The Black Hand and the coming of The 88!”

My adrenaline says he’s simply outmatched. I tighten the hold on my former friend and with tears in my eyes I give his head a violent jerk, feeling the snap of his neck, and drop him to the floor.

“Fuck you, whatever your name was.”

Rick, who had understood his place and backed away when Pollock rushed me, now stood with his mouth agape at Pollock’s dead body.

“You’ll pay for that with your life, Prescott!”

He screams and charges me with a large knife from amidst the poker chips and guns on the poker table. He swings it at me, misses wildly and falls to the floor. Getting up, he roars with rage. He has now engaged in a full on break.

First his eyes completely cloud over in the classic blood red. As he glares at me, blood begins to seep from the pores over his face, arms and back. This is one of the most frightening things I have ever seen.

“You’re a fucking dead man, Prescott!”

He rushes me with the knife held high. As the bloody half-breed creature brings the knife down towards my chest I meet his thrust halfway with both my hands. The violence of his motion is more than my strength can handle and the blade continues toward my chest. I’m barely able to deflect it to the right side as the blade plunges through my shirt and about an inch into my chest.

Simultaneously, I bring my foot up with all the strength I have left and kick him in the balls. Fuck fair play. As he reacts to his newfound pain, I drop a calculated bone breaking shot with my elbow to his knife holding wrist. He screams again and drops the knife. The knife falls handle down into my left hand and in a fluid movement I thrust it straight up under his chin, through his mouth and into his skull. He falls to the ground in a heaping pile of death.

The room is in shock. I have just killed two ranking soldiers in The Black Hand in a matter of minutes. The remaining Freaks in the room emerge from the shadows. I’m ten or more feet from the table where, among other guns, I see my Glocks. I kneel down and, using my boot as leverage, pull the knife from Rick’s face.

“All right, everybody! Listen up. You do not have to die tonight! I just took out a couple of your guys, OK. That was personal. Family business. There is no need to add your name to the count. Walk away. I’m telling you guys, walk away.”

After a brief pause one of the Freaks shoots his hands into the air and heads for the closed metal door. He pulls on it vigorously and the door rolls to the right, whining until it reaches the end of its track.

“Yes!” I say to myself.

“OK. That’s one guy that wants to live. Anyone else?” I ask.

A voice emerges from the shadows, along with a face. “It’s actually you that’s gonna die tonight, Prescott. Kill him!”

I break towards the table as fast as I can. Throwing the knife, I put down the Freak closest to me with a blade to the throat. Continuing my sprint towards the table, I slide headfirst across it in a dive, taking all of its contents with me over the side. Thankfully, the table falls the way I need it to, so I have a thin layer of cover—and guns.

I can hear and feel the small table begin taking heavy fire. I have to move or die. I reach up and fire several rounds in every direction and look quickly at the battlefield. My Glocks were fully loaded when I came in here tonight, and I’ve only fired a few rounds. I pick up another couple of guns, check the clips, and put them in my waistband.

Taking only a second, I rise up from behind the table and begin firing at everything I can see moving. A Freak goes down, but most of the others run for cover as I race for the open metal door. Bullets fly past me as the wall, tables, chairs, and lights get shot to hell.

Barely making it through the door, I head for the bar. This is where I’ll make my stand. One against three. Where I’ve been, what I’ve done, that’s a fair fight. At a dead sprint, I dive over the bar and crash into the wall of glasses behind me before hitting the ground.

Taking a quick inventory, it appears I’ve been grazed by a shot to the arm and I have a deep cut above my knee from the glass. I still have all four of my guns and I am still of sound mind and body. Without a thought, I reach up and put both of the Glocks on the bar. I don’t think I’m going to be reloading when this thing starts so I want to kick it off with two fully loaded weapons.

Looking around, I pick up an unbroken glass out of a pile of shards. I put the glass under the tap of the Argus Ironhorse Lager and pull. No shit. If I’m going to die, I want the taste of the finest beer I’ve ever had on my tongue. I’m not being funny. I’m trying not to become hysterical. This has all been little much for me.

I down the half glass, stand up, and throw it in the direction of the Freaks. They’ve already started to come out from their cover and shoot at me. The flying glass and its subsequent shattering distracts them.

In the seconds that the glass is in the air and before it shatters I’ve already drawn my guns and have begun firing. I kill two Freaks immediately with headshots. In turn, I am shot again in the same arm and receive copious cuts as the mirror shatters behind me. I keep shooting until the last creature is dead.

I’d like to say I stand in silence for a moment but lights, mirrors, glasses, and shells continued to crash and clink to the floor. I drop the hot weapons to the bar and take a deep breath, using the smoking weapons as a poor man’s smelling salts to bring myself back around.

My father is nowhere to be seen. I semi-limp hastily out the front door and into the freezing night. The cold hits me in every one of the individual injuries from the last several hours. Turning 360 degrees I don’t see him anywhere. Panic and anger attempt to make their way towards my heart but I won’t let them. Not this time.
Not ever again
.