The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  “It’s probably just a wild goose chase,” she said, “Maybe we should just turn around and go home.”

  Graves her another look. This time, one that implied she had lost her marbles. Maybe she had. Suddenly she didn't want to go Reaper hunting anymore. Let the fibbies handle it. The stump of her leg burned. She scratched the spot where prosthetic met flesh and blood. She couldn't afford to lose any more body parts. So far the Reaper hadn't lost anything that personal. Not that she knew of. He'd lost his Carlson Savoy identity. But he'd probably been ready to jettison that for ages. Was he sad to lose his chilly mansion? Probably not. There wasn't anything there that suggested he thought of it as a home. It was just a base. A place to put his head when he needed to rest.

  And what was this place they were heading to?

  Graves’ phone rang. He punched a button on the steering wheel. “Graves here,” he said.

  “Graves, is Ms. Harley with you?”

  Parker. His voice came out from the SUV’s speakers. He didn't sound happy. Which wasn’t anything new. And apparently she had been demoted. There was no longer an Agent in front of her name when he spoke of her.

  “Yes sir,” Graves said. Harley could see the tension rise in the set of Grave’s shoulders.

  “I need you both back to the office right now,” Parker said, “The Reaper just sent us the location of the clones.”

  “What!” Graves said.

  The SUV swayed a bit as it hurtled down the road. Harley watched the lane ahead of them. Clear, fortunately. She had no desire to die a horrible, mangled death on the way to her death match.

  “Are you sure, sir?” Graves asked, “What about the farm?”

  Harley settled back in her seat. Of course. Always playing games. Had the Reaper been watching her? Waiting for her to come out to the mansion and find the message? Then drop the mother lode on them. Divide their resources. Distract them.

  “Fuck the farm,” Parker said, “The clones aren’t there. We can send a team there later. Right now I need every available agent in here. The clones are isolated in an entire apartment building. We need everyone to bust them.”

  “But sir–”

  “That’s an order,” Parker said, “And Ms. Harley?”

  "Yes, your majesty?" she asked.

  There was a pause. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she heard teeth clacking against each other.

  “Ms. Harley, I want you in here for consolation if we need it,” Parker said.

  Translation: I want you where I can see you, bitch, so you don’t fuck up my mega bust.

  “I’ll consider it,” she said.

  “That’s an order,” Parker said. His voice was a growl.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Harley said.

  Graves gave her an exasperated look. She smiled. She used to get looks like that out of him all the time.

  “We’re turning around now, sir,” Graves said, “We’ll be in as soon as possible.”

  He punched another button on the steering wheel and the hiss of the phone line went away. Along with Parker. He tapped his fingers on the wheel. The two-lane country road continued to rush under the hood.

  “So what are we doing?” he asked.

  “Keep driving,” she said.

  She had a date with the Reaper. And she wasn’t going to miss it.

  Fifty-Six

  Carlson Savoy savored the chaos. Gazing down from the 8th floor of the hotel across the street, he watched FBI agents pour out of their building like it was on fire. He felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t thought of setting it on fire. That would have been even better.

  He sipped from the flute of champagne he’d taken from beside table. The people in the room had been celebrating something. He hadn’t asked them what. The champagne wasn’t bad, as far as champagne went. How appropriate that he should happen upon it on this particular day. A day of celebration.

  Of course Carlson Senior wouldn’t approve of champagne. But he didn’t approve of very much.

  Carlson searched his memories–which were Senior’s memories. Had the man ever had fun in his entire life? Glancing back at his childhood–dull, except when punctuated with moments of parental terror–then adulthood–more dullness, punctuated by murder–Carlson didn’t see any joy in his progenitor’s life.

  Mostly there was anger, resentment. Loneliness. Underneath it all was a white hot rage. And a lust for vengeance.

  Had Senior ever taken the time to examine the building blocks of his psyche? Had he ever wondered why he was a monster? At least by the definition of normal society.

  Carlson couldn't find any memories of such introspection. Just the anger, the loneliness and the lust for blood. And a sureness that mankind must be punished. For what exactly was unclear, but the need to punish, to hurt was very, very clear.

  Maybe once this was over, Carlson would take the time to seek some psychiatric consulting. He didn’t feel a need to fix anything about himself, but it might be amusing to open up the hood, so to speak, and see what made things tick.

  He’d have to kill the psychiatrist afterwards, of course. But others would take his place. In reality, Carlson was providing a valuable service. By thinning the ranks of the employed, he was opening up more opportunities for younger people to find valuable jobs. And when he killed homeless people or drug dealers, he was helping to reduce crime and public blight.

  Really, they should be giving him medals instead of chasing him with their silly little cop cars.

  Black SUVs and drab sedans raced out of the FBI building’s underground garage. There weren’t any sirens, which was a little disappointing.

  “Woo, woo, woo, woo,” Carlson said, “Calling all units, calling all units, etc. etc.”

  He took another sip of the champagne. It was a little flat now, and losing its chill. He set it back on the nightstand and pulled the bottle out of the plastic ice bucket. He examined the label. A domestic brand. Inexpensive as he recalled. He glanced at the naked corpses on the bed. The sheets were soaked red with their blood. Their death was a rich smell in the air. Blood and feces and sex, with a tang of alcohol.

  He dropped the champagne bottle back in the bucket, then pulled his katana out of the corpses. He wiped the blade on the sheets. They hadn't had time to react. There had just been a delicious look of terror in the woman's eyes as she saw him raise the shining blade. Her mouth was still open in an ‘O' of shock, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

  He returned the short blade to its sheath under his long, brown coat. Senior favored black for his death work, but Carlson was more into earth tones for some reason. He didn’t feel the need to be so dramatic.

  Carlson adjusted the pistol holster hanging from his shoulder. The holster and the gun were quite discrete. He justified having the gun as necessary in case of close range work. Especially now that there were so many armed agents of the law after him. A pistol evened the odds. Senior wouldn’t have approved, but then Carlson knew the old man didn’t mind bending some of his own rules now and then.

  He cast one last look over the hotel room. Nothing valuable was being left behind. His DNA and fingerprints were already compromised. Nothing could change that. It didn’t matter. He could use it to spread fear. The hotel room lovers would be found and the police would be summoned. They would collect evidence and eventually learn that the Reaper had been here, watching the FBI scramble to catch his brothers.

  And the police and FBI would gnash their teeth and pull their hair because once again, the Reaper had eluded them.

  Carlson pulled the cell phone from an inner coat pocket and typed out a message. It had been a chore to convince Senior to use a cell phone. Like getting any senior citizen to accept new technology, Carlson supposed. Senior had whined about security and tracking. Carlson had shown him how the phones could be easily purchased without identification. Disposable. Drug dealers and common criminals use them all the time to communicate without the authorities tracking them.

&nbs
p; One had to know how to work the system. Senior had spent his entire life been coddled and isolated from the system. He wanted to destroy it. The old man failed to see the beauty in it. All he wanted was to make it burn.

  On their way to the nest, Carlson texted to Senior. He sent the message and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He contemplated going up to the farm to assist Senior. The old man would resent it though. Senior felt he needed to face down Detective Harley on his own.

  Carlson shivered. The memory of the old man's deep-seated–and much denied–fear of Detective Harley still gave him a ghostly tremor inside. Which was beyond silly. Detective Harley hardly had any superpowers. She was just determined. And hardy.

  Hopefully Senior would find her easier to kill this time.

  Fifty-Seven

  The wretched cell phone buzzed against Carlson’s thigh. His heart skipped a beat and his skin twitched. Technology. He hated these modern things. The stupid clone had been very insistent and explained the phone’s necessity with great, condescending patience.

  Like Carlson was a child. Or a dotty old relative.

  The clone had been the smartest of the lot, but he still didn’t compare to Carlson’s intellect. Hopefully the idiot wouldn’t screw anything up.

  He took the cell phone from his pocket and fumbled with the buttons. The screen finally lit up and showed him the message. On their way to the nest.

  The FBI had been alerted and were at this very moment rushing toward the apartment building where all the other clones were waiting to be captured. If everything went according to plan, that is.

  With any luck, the clones would resist and the FBI would shoot them. Carlson was resigned to the fact that at least a few of them would be captured alive. It pained him to think that the FBI’s psychologists might have the opportunity to probe the clones’ minds. Carlson’s memories were his and he now regretted ever letting them escape the confines of his skull.

  Perhaps there was a way to get to the clones, once they were in custody. Poison their food or something.

  He’d have to contemplate it.

  Carlson took the battery out of the phone then threw the phone and battery out the open window of his Buick. He and the clone were done now. They had agreed to part ways once the final plan was set into motion. If the clone was to be trusted, he was on his way to the dock where he would take passage on a container ship heading for China. It was hardly luxury accommodations, but the clone didn’t seem to mind. The clone would start his own life in a country so populous, they wouldn’t possibly notice the reduction in people the clone caused.

  And Carlson got the western hemisphere.

  He started the engine. The big V8 rumbled and burbled. A reassuring sound, even if it was spewing poison into the air. Ah, well. There was a bit of hypocrite in everyone, wasn’t there?

  The sun was low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the hilly countryside. Down in the valley below lay the farm. It was nothing fancy. Just a two story house and a spacious red barn with some stately maple trees sprinkled around them. A graveled road lead to the house. How many times had he rolled down that road, the cool night air coming through his window? Smelling the fresh grasses and clean air and feeling the tightness leave his shoulders.

  How sad that he wouldn’t be returning after this night.

  But it was time to put this problem to rest. His grand ambitions had blown up in his face and now he needed to pay the price for his arrogance. He and detective Harley would have one final showdown. It would be a neat little coda to the whole affair.

  After tonight, she would cease to be a problem. No longer would she haunt his dreams. No longer would his hands tremble when he thought of her.

  He put the car in gear and released the brake. The big sedan eased forward, the engine thumping like drum beats in the jungle. Or maybe the thumps were coming from the trunk.

  It was hard to tell.

  Fifty-Eight

  The sun sat in the V of the valley, casting blood red light over the narrow, two-story farmhouse and the nearby barn. Harley's eye went to the sturdy structure. It sat by itself, away from the house and the arching maple trees. It was as old fashioned as the house, shaped like the traditional barns she'd see on the stupid TV. And red, of course, trimmed with white. In the dying light of the day, the red barn seemed to glow. Like radioactive blood. Like it contained a power within it, glowing with evil.

  Or maybe that was just her imagination running away with her.

  Graves pulled the SUV to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway. The cloud of dust that trailed them kept moving, engulfing the SUV, sparkling in the light before settling to the ground.

  “Which one?” Graves asked.

  “Barn,” Harley said. It wasn’t even a question. She’d known instantly that the barn was the Reaper’s playground. There was a solid presence to the building, like it sank the roots of its foundation deep into the earth. Maybe all the way to the molten hell of the planet’s core.

  She shivered. A trickle of dread and excitement. This was it. He was in there. She could feel it.

  “We should wait for backup,” Graves said.

  “There won’t be any,” she said, “he made sure of that.”

  “This is a bad idea,” Graves said, “This is his territory. He knows everything about this place and we know nothing.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, “He’s so arrogant that he won’t take advantage of it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do,” she said, “Now, are you going to give me a gun?”

  They locked eyes for a few seconds. Graves was obviously wrestling with his inner schoolmarm, telling him to follow the rules. She waited. He was already breaking the rules just by being here. He’d figure out the rest of the rules weren’t worth it soon enough.

  Finally, he sighed, looking away. He twisted his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes were on the barn. The sun was below the horizon now. The glow on the barn faded. The red deepened, darkened to the color of fresh blood.

  “Glove box,” he said.

  She popped the glove box door open. A 9mm Beretta sat on top of folded papers. Her favorite. She put her fingers around the handle. The metal was warm. The heft of it felt right in hand. The tang of gun oil touched her nostrils. Her heart sped up. It’d been so long since she’d used a real weapon.

  She turned the gun over, saw the scratches on the barrel, and let out a small gasp.

  “Mine,” she said, “How’d you get it?”

  Graves shrugged, giving her a lopsided grin. “Snuck it out of the armory after the chief sacked you. Figured you’d need it someday.”

  For a moment all she could do was stare at him with her jaw hanging open. Finally she managed to get some words out. “Shit, Walt, you stole a gun from the cops?”

  “Technically it was your property,” he said, “I just held it for you.”

  She tried to keep the grin off her face, but she couldn’t. The narrow assed jerk actually did love her. In his own stick necked way. She turned her head, her cheeks getting hot. She popped the clip, then pulled the slide and checked the action. No catches. Smooth as silk. He’d kept it clean for her.

  “Got any more clips?” she said, her voice going husky.

  “Under the papers,” he said.

  She lifted the papers, sure enough there were three more clips. Something on the paper caught her eye. She unfolded it and read the top line. Last Will and Testament. She scanned down. Her chest tightened.

  “What is this, Walt?” she asked.

  “It’s for just in case,” Graves said.

  “But why?”

  He looked away, hunching his shoulders. He stared at the barn, bulking out of the bluing twilight. “I just have a feeling,” he said, “I want to be prepared for…you know, whatever.”

  She threw the papers back in the glove box and grabbed his arm. Yanked him toward her. "Damn you, don't walk in there expecting that," she said, "You don't eve
r walk into a situation with that kind of attitude."

  He gave her a sad look. He pointed out the window to the barn. “Kam, I’ve been dreaming about barns for years,” he said, “Barns that look a lot like that one. I go in them. I have my gun in my hand. Something is waiting for me. I don’t know what, but I know it gets me. I feel it creeping up behind me, and I turn around. I’m trying to bring my gun up, but it’s like weighs a million pounds. I can’t see what the thing is, but I know it’s coming at me. It’s faster than me. I know it gets me.”

  She punched him in the arm. “God damnit, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, “You’re not going to die in that barn, Walt, you hear me?”

  “I’d prefer not to,” he said, “But like I said, I’m prepared.”

  “Then you’re not coming in,” she said, “You stay in this damned truck and wait for me. It shouldn’t take me long.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” he said, “You know I’m not letting you go in alone.”

  She slammed the clip into her Beretta and jacked a round in the chamber. Then she pointed the barrel at him.

  “Fine, I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with,” she said.

  He just shook his head sadly. “No you won’t,” he said.

  “You think I won’t shoot you in the leg?” she said, “That’ll make you stay put.”

  "No, it wouldn't. The only thing that would stop me would be if you killed me," he said.

  He gave her an even stare. Damned idiot was daring her to shoot him. She was more than half tempted to put a bullet in his leg just to show him.

  But the jerk was right. She couldn’t. She growled and put the gun down. “If you die in there, I’m going to kick your ass, you hear me?”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” he said.

  She gave him a withering glare. Which seemed to affect him not at all. There was a tightness in her chest that wouldn’t go away. Her eye was stinging too. She wasn’t going to cry, god damnit. Crying was for sissies. And for sad, romantic movies watched all alone with the door locked and the blinds closed. All alone except for the box of tissues and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s finest.