The Storm of Garmr

by Bo Luellen

  He paused for a moment and then patted Moss on the shoulder, “You’re right. You’re coming with me.”

  Moss let out a laugh then realized he was serious, “Wait, what? No! John! We’re not cops, man! You’re just as civilian as I am!”

  John felt the Oxys finally kick in as he reasoned, “I just want you there to be my eyes. My night vision is awful. Besides, I just want a closer look. If we see something, I’ll snap a photo of it, then call the cops. We’ll be in and out.”

  His friend put up his hands, “Are you crazy? What am I supposed to use if things turn ugly? I don’t have a gun, and the police don’t like me much, man.”

  John reached under his seat and pulled out his old back up 9-mm from its hiding spot. The serial number had been filed off long ago by David. The pair always kept one around in case something outside of the law needed to be done.

  He pushed it against his friend’s chest, “Here!”

  The tension began to affect Moss’s stutter, “N-no, John! I’ll come with you, b-but I’m not going to carry a g-gun.”

  He shrugged and clipped the pistol onto his back belt loop, “Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

  He pulled his cane from the back seat and stuffed the pearl-handled UCC pistol into his front waistband. As he hobbled his way down the street, he found the painkillers had made the soreness manageable. However, he still moved forward like some lumbering dinosaur looking for a watering hole. Moss appeared at his side and laced his arm inside John’s for support.

  He looked over at his friend, “Thanks.”

  Moss whispered a bland, “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  John’s cane wasn’t meant for stealth and made a “clomp” sound with every step. As they approached the edge of Ms. Powell’s security fence, they heard a pair of muffled voices from inside the house. The pair froze and crouched down a little. He could make out that it was two males, but they couldn’t tell what they were saying. John lumbered towards the side window of the house, as Moss reached out to stop him.

  He yanked his arm from his friend, and slowly John crept up to the home. The metal cane made a “clomp... clomp.... clomp” noise in the tall cold grass, as Moss begrudgingly followed close behind. They both made it to the house and leaned their backs against opposite sides of a window. The white drapes were pulled closed, but they could discern what was being said through the double plane glass.

  A deep voice barked, “You think I’m playing, vato! You promised 500 gallons! Do you think the Brotherhood will...”

  John shot a wide-eyed look to his companion and mouthed, “The Brotherhood!”

  The sound stopped abruptly as Moss whispered, “T-T-That’s W-w-wicked. I know that v-v-voice.”

  From the back of the house came the sound of a door opening. The two immediately turned in the direction of the noise. They pressed their bodies as close to the red brick of the home as humanly possible. John inched along the wall as Moss whispered protests.

  He felt the Oxy begin to work and the pain lessen, If I can bring Wicked in, I would be the first person to capture two members of the Crimson Brotherhood alive. John Utterson – 2, Chief of Police Kelly – 0.

  Moss froze at the sound of a man clearing his throat from the backyard. The backyard security light snapped on, and a thin black man in his early 20s strolled out towards the security fence. He was a teenager with a black leather vest that was similar to the one worn by Wicked. The young man stopped short of the barrier and took a wide stance. He heard a zipping sound, and then heard the man relieving himself. A thin vapor came from a line of urine as it splattered onto a post.

  John pulled out the pearl-handled 9-mm from his belt and inched forward. The excitement of the moment drew him into the old feelings of being on the force. He leaned on his cane and did his best to creep towards the black man.

  He noticed that he didn’t hear his friend’s terrified breathing and turned to check on him. He found him with a terrified expression on his face and standing like a trembling statue. Wicked stepped out from the shadows, racked a 12-gauge shotgun, and leveled the barrel at the side of Moss’s head.

  The Hispanic man commanded, “Drop it or he dies, puta!”

  Moss put up his hands, and John dropped his silver 9-mm on the cold ground, “Look, I can help you. The cops are already on their way. I don’t want you getting caught. I can make you a wealthy man. I need information on the Crimson Brotherhood.”

  Wicked’s eyes narrowed, “Hey, I know you.”

  John shuffled sideways into the light, “Yes. Probably from TV. I’m John Utterson, General of the UCC in Tulsa. The Crusaders can give you protection and a new identity in exchange for...”

  Wicked poked the side of Moss’s temple, “Not you, cabrón! Him!”

  Moss gulped and then stuttered, “I-I-I don’t want any t-t...”

  Wicked pressed the barrel closer and shouted, “I remember you! Moss Vickers. A nobody. You’re helping those UCC maricón’s! You fucking rat! You led him here!”

  Moss shook his head, “N-n-n-no, W-w-w-icked! I w-w-w-would never…”

  The shotgun blast made John’s ears ring when it went off. He felt the concussive force pulse against his face and an odd warm sensation on his skin. The left side of John’s body was plastered in his friends brains and blood. Moss’s body bounced off the wall and dropped down on top of his bad ankle. He screamed in pain and fell back onto the thick, freezing grass. John grabbed his bad leg in agony and looked over at the billowing vapor coming from the hole the buckshot made in the man’s head.

  The Hispanic man pumped the shotgun and yelled down at Moss, “Besa mi culo, puto!”

  Wicked went into a rage and put two more rounds into the dead man’s chest. Utterson instinctively started scooting backward on the ground with his good leg and searched for his back up pistol. When Wicked put a third shot into the shredded chest of Moss Vickers, John drew his gun and fired. The 9-mm muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness. John put four rounds into the Brotherhood man’s chest before he could use the shotgun. The Hispanic dropped his weapon and staggered back against the brick wall of the house. Wicked spit blood and reached back, drawing out a .38 revolver. Before he could use it, John put a fifth shot between the man’s eyes. The dead man bounced off the side of the house and landed face up next to Moss.

  John rolled onto his belly and aimed his pistol towards the backyard. The young black man was gone, leaving only a steaming puddle of piss in his wake. He pulled himself to a sitting position and looked at the lifeless face of Wicked as blood trickled from the hole in his forehead. John glanced over at Moss, whose chest had been minced up by the repeated applications of buckshot, and the left side of his head was absent. Porch lights owned by the surrounding houses lit up in a cascade of alarm.

  John picked up his cane and forced himself to his feet, Fuck! I don’t have much time!

  He reached inside Moss’s bloody vest, he pulled out the man’s cell phone. The face of the device was cracked from the impact of the shotgun blasts. He pocketed the phone and wiped his prints clean from the backup gun he had used to kill Wicked.

  He put his pistol in his friend’s hand and patted his wrist when he was done, “Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I’m going to need a little more help.”

  He stood back up and picked up his pearl-handled UCC pistol from the grass. A tiny piece of metal poking out from Wicked’s jacket caught his eye. Lifting a portion of the coat with a pen, he saw a small notebook tucked halfway inside the vest pocket. It was leather-bound and had a silver pen attached to the edge. The expensive journal seemed out of place, considering the owner’s persona.

  With his thumb and forefinger, John removed it from the blood-soaked jacket, stepped into the light, and opened it. One of his 9-mm bullet holes had penetrated the left corner. He forced it open and scanned the pages. It was a list of shipments, the order’s received, dollar amounts, and banking account numbers. Each shipment had abbreviations for guns, dru
gs, explosives, food, and equipment, with a list of addresses. He thumbed to the front of the book and saw the symbol of Cthulhu on the inside cover.

  The ringing in his ear was starting to subside as he could make out the barking dog once more. Pain in his ankle was overwhelming, but he knew he was on a deadline. A flash of light from the backyard caught his eye, and he heard someone slam a door. Snapping the book shut, he put it in his inside coat pocket and noticed a neighbor in a bathrobe standing just outside of Ms. Powell’s yard. John knew he had precious little time, or everything he worked for would become muddled in unnecessary confusion.

  He worked his way over to the stranger, “Hello, Brother. Do you recognize me? I’m John Utterson from the UCC”

  The man was in his fifties and squinted at him, “Yeah. Hey, yeah! I know you. Brother Greyson talks about you on The Eastland Worship Hour!”

  He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Brother Greyson is a great man of God. I’m glad to have your support in this fight. Listen, I need your help, Brother. We got a tip about this house, and I’ve just discovered it’s a Crimson Brotherhood hideout.”

  The neighbor pursed his lips together and said, “I knew it! I’m the one that made the call to the UCC hotline! Laura has been my neighbor and friend for years. I’ve never seen her act like this. The house lights come on at all hours, people I’ve never seen before show up and …”

  John held up his hand, “Well, you were right. I’ve just found two dead members of the Brotherhood on the lawn over there.”

  The man’s jaw dropped open, “I thought I heard gunshots!”

  He motioned the neighbor back towards his house, “I believe Ms. Powell might be in danger. I want you to go back to your house and call the UCC hotline. Tell them, General John Utterson is at the Powell residence, and we have a Phase 2 situation for Project: Trust but Verify. Do you got that?”

  The balding man nodded, “Phase 2… Trust but Verify. I got it.”

  He turned the man by the elbow, “Now hurry. God needs me to help Ms. Powell.”

  The neighbor gave an enthusiastic, “God bless you, General Utterson! God bless you!”

  The man sprinted back to his house, and John’s heart sank as he heard the sounds of police sirens in the distance, They pick tonight to have a good response time!

  John double-timed it to the back yard, as the security light illuminated its posh wooden lawn furniture and intricate flower beds. The back door was open, and the glass screen door ajar. In the front of the house, he heard a vehicle rumble to life in the garage and the automatic door open.

  He hobbled over to the back door and pondered, That would be our mystery pisser looking to make a fast exit.

  The sounds of the U-Haul peeling out on the smooth concrete floor sent a squeal out into the night. John shouldered the back door open, and held his pistol out, as he found himself in a messy kitchen. Instantly, he was assaulted with fumes of ammonia hitting his nose like a brick. In the corner of the room was a handcuffed, blindfolded, and gagged Ms. Powell. Her face had fresh lacerations, and dried blood was coming down her forehead.

  John scanned the room as he worked his way over to her. He pulled on the handkerchief that was tied between her teeth. The countertop had mountains of old pizza boxes and beer cans. The floor was littered with boot tracks of all shapes and sizes. His eyes watered at the chemical smell, and he pulled his shirt up over his nose.

  As the gag was removed, he put his hand over her mouth and whispered, “Shhhh… is there anyone else in the house?”

  She shook her head, and tears dripped from her wrinkled cheeks. He pulled out a key and unlocked the handcuffs. Ms. Powell rubbed the bruises on her wrists and let John help her up off the dirty hardwood floor. Flashing red and blue lights of a patrol car beamed against the front window drapes and filled the house in amber.

  He held her hand, “It’s okay. I’m John Utterson with the Crusaders. You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you anymore.”

  A look of recognition came over her face, “Oh, thank the Lord. These men… they just showed up one day. They threatened to kill my daughter and …”

  She burst into tears as John grabbed her by the shoulders, “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you have to tell me, what were they doing here?”

  She pointed towards the living room, “They brought in some kind of chemicals. They kept them in there.”

  John pulled his 9-mm high and told her, “Stay here, I’m just going to take a look. You’ll be able to see me the entire time.”

  He worked his way around the wall that led into the living room and poked his head around the corner. The pungent smell of ammonia penetrated his shirt with ease and almost gagged him. He lowered his weapon at the transformation that had taken place in the house since he last saw it through the body camera of his fake UPS driver.

  The walls, ceiling, and floor were covered in thick transparent plastic. A metalwork table was set up in the far corner of the room, and three large white barrels were stacked side-by-side next to it. One of the drum’s clear contents was still sloshing about, and a long red wire was coming out of the top of the container. John’s eyes followed the crimson lines to a black box with a series of red flashing lights that sat on the top of the table.

  On the front was a red digital readout that counted down, “2:34... 2:33... 2:32...”

  John turned to Ms. Powell and ordered, “Get out, now! The police are around the front, tell them there is a bomb in here, and they need to evacuate the block!”

  The elderly woman took off like a woman half her age out the back door. He heard her scream the warning to the officers in the yard. John calmly holstered his gun and took out his cell phone. As the clock worked its way down, he took pictures of everything in the room with his camera.

  A red-headed patrol officer burst in the back door and screamed, “Get down on the ground!”

  Utterson kept taking photos, “I’m former Police Detective John Utterson of the United Christian Crusaders. I’ve just rescued the owner of this house, Ms. Powell, from the Crimson Brotherhood. They’ve left behind three large barrels of an unknown chemical, and as you can see, there is a detonator attached. The timer has less than two minutes before it goes off. You need to get as many people to a safe distance as possible, Officer.”

  The cop froze in shock and fear, as John snapped him out of it, “Officer! Now!”

  The man ran out of the house, yelling into the radio on his shoulder. John glanced down at the timer that ticked down, “1:54... 1:53... 1:52.” He took a picture of the manufacturer’s label on the drum. It read “Hoondo Limited Manufacturing.” John took one more glance at the time and started a mental countdown. He pocketed his phone and hobbled on his cane out the back door. As he passed by the body of Moss, he gave his friend one last look and kept moving.

  Several officers were banging on neighbors’ doors, as the red-headed patrolmen were blasting away on his car’s loudspeaker. People were running in their robes and pajamas down the street away from the Powell house. John pushed past the pain in his ankle until he made it to his car.

  He put the car in drive and did a U-turn, :23...: 22...: 21…

  Slamming the pedal to the floor, the Lexus’s engine roared at the sudden acceleration on a cold engine. John flipped open his phone and dialed, Davis Private Investigations, a number he hadn’t used in over a year. As a woman picked up, his car shook with the force of the explosion. Even with two blocks of distance, the shockwave cracked his back window and knocked the phone from his hand. A massive plume of fire burst up from the street behind him, turning night into day.

  He picked up the phone and heard Chloe Davis yelling, “Jesus, John, what was that noise? Are you okay?”

  He straightened his car back onto the road, “Sorry, Chloe. A half a city block just went up in flames, I think.”

  She paused, then asked, “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  He pulled over and started cycling through his phone,
“I have a picture I’m sending you. It’s hot, so don’t let anyone catch you with it.”

  Chloe spat, “You’d better not get me into any shit. There was a reason I didn’t like hanging around with you and David when I was on the force. I enjoy staying out of jail!”

  He sent the images to her via text, “How about triple your usual fee and a thousand dollar bonus if you can get this to me within the next two hours?”

  She snapped up the offer, “Okay, now we’re talking. What do you need?”

  John got the car moving again, “I just sent you several images of barrels with a shipping receipt on the top. I want to know what was in them, who ordered them, when they were delivered, the works.”

  He heard her tapping on a keyboard, “Do you want me to text you the results?”

  He thought for a moment, “No. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours. I’ve got to go make a police report in the meantime, and Chloe...”

  She stopped typing, “Yeah?”

  John looked at the pillar of flame in his rearview mirror, “Impress me.”

  Tulsa, Oklahoma – Tuesday, November 13th, 2018 – 1:52 a.m. CST

  In the station, TV’s were blasting out the news coverage of the bombing of the Garden District. Below the reporter, a banner read, “15 DEAD 8 INJURED IN BROTHERHOOD TERRORIST BOMBING.” A room full of tired-looking cops stood in silence, as images of the fire department attempting to get the blaze under control filled the screens.

  In an office, three UCC lawyers were surrounding John as he wrote his statement. Sitting across from him was his old Captain, Angel Andino. He had already gone over his account several times, with his lawyers overseeing the process.

  He signed the document and slid it over to Captain Andino, who remarked, “So let me get this straight. You developed a series of teams that checked out tips the public phoned in regarding possible Brotherhood activity. Knock up job, John. Guess you found one, and the result was a city block leveled. You do realize there will be obstruction of justice charges, not to mention civil lawsuits from the families of those poor souls who died in their beds.”