Dajjal wandered alone for a time, taking in the vista in its desolate glory – much like he had done on his initial cross country ride from Tennessee to the Peak. His views had changed from then, but only slightly. He still could not deny that the Earth was a beautiful place, but to him it was still one of all the worlds that were made to suffer by his hand.
Just then, a loud horn blew from behind. A Peterbilt was speeding northbound up the highway, a faded green wreath mounted to its grill while an oversized red bow flopped round wildly.
Feigning a limp, Dajjal raised his thumb and to his surprise, the driver slowed his rig and pulled off onto the shoulder ahead, waiting for Dajjal to catch up.
Why would the driver stop for a complete stranger? Dajjal pondered as he walked through the cloud of dust that had been kicked up. Especially someone that would obviously cause him an inconvenience.
Upon reaching the cab, the husky trucker leaned across and opened the door, Dajjal pulling himself inside as Christmas tunes blaring from the radio assaulted his senses.
The trucker turned down the music before pushing up his red hat to get a better view. “I know introductions should be done and out of the way before I say this, but brother, ya look like shit took a shit after downin’ a bottle of laxative.” His eyes surveyed the entirety of Dajjal. “Yup, that assessment is pretty much right, but ya know, sure as shit that is some of the best damn ink I've ever seen. Obviously ya didn't get those from around here. Lookin’ at ya too, lemme guess: you're one of those bodybuilding fellows?”
“Something like that,” Dajjal replied as he settled into the seat; it was more comfortable than it looked.
The trucker then carried on an entire conversation with himself – vague jokes about bottle lifting and kegs instead of six packs reaching Dajjal's uncaring ears. He was more interested in the cab, scrutinizing every square inch of the tight and personalized space before laying eyes on the trucker himself. A walking stereotype for sure – from the feed hat covering his messy hair, to a white tee worn under a red flannel shirt with cut off sleeves.
“Name’s Mack,” the driver said, holding out a hand attached to his gorilla-like arm.
“Dajjal,” the demon replied, briefly shaking it.
“Well that's a… unique name, ain't it? So Deejowl, where are ya headed to my bald, inked, brother?”
Dajjal just pointed straight ahead. “Anywhere out there – maybe somewhere where hum… I mean people gather?”
The puzzled look on Mack’s face quickly faded. “There's a hole-in-the-wall place for eats about ten miles up the road. Could take ya there?”
“That will be perfect,” Dajjal said with a wry smile as they pulled back onto the highway. He glanced over as the cab bounced. “By the way, I like your shirt…”
THE ROADSIDE HOLE-in-the-wall sat alone along the dusty trail, its towering sign worn out with age. Serving a dual purpose in its former life just shy of three years ago, the place was both a restaurant and gas station until the two pumps died and its owner, Billy Matheson, never had them repaired due to financial woes. The desert quickly laid claim, encasing the units in a thick coating of rust and grime.
The disheveled façade of the diner and its attached (but no longer operating) convenience store wasn't much different from those derelict pumps. Yet, despite all of the worn out appeal, no amount of muck covered windows nor flaking paint could take away from the food – which was somehow unquestionably amazing.
The front door chimed and Dajjal walked into the establishment, met by the sounds of sputtering grease and the smell of rich buttermilk biscuits and gravy. He had entered by himself, Mack nowhere to be seen other than his flannel shirt, which Dajjal wore unbuttoned. To his immediate left was a row of freestanding candy and bubble gum dispensers, their nauseating array of colors going well with the rest of the interior, decorated with chintzy holiday flair. Miniature trees and half-working lights were distributed between blobs of plastic that were supposed to be wise men and other nativity icons – all desperately trying to be noticed.
“Feel free to sit anywhere you like, sir,” the waitress said as she cleared away some used dishes from customers that had recently departed, wiping down the countertop thoroughly. “Also, as nice as your body looks, I'm afraid you're going to have to button that shirt up before you take that seat.” She gave him a little smile to soften the blow. “I'll be with you in a few.”
Dajjal did as she said, buttoning up his shirt (the first couple anyway) before moving over to an empty booth situated away from everyone else. All he wanted to do was observe, perhaps learning something about humanity in the process. So, after settling down on the squeaky red vinyl of the booth, he watched.
Over in the far corner there was a very animated and bubbly blonde tending to her hyperactive son. He was likely close to overdosing on a sugar rush and Dajjal found himself tempted to snap his fingers and smite the little kid, but despite all of the runt’s annoying noises and bratty actions, the mother remained calm and collected. Before long and much to the demon’s surprise, she managed to get her child back under control and he ate the rest of his grilled cheese sandwich without so much as a peep.
His eyes moved over to Richelle, who was taking down an order from some burly bikers that had been sitting up at the counter when he entered. He was reminded of their smoky odor, something he found pleasant, as all of them were laughing and smiling. They were quite happy in their blissful ignorance that an apocalypse was just around the corner. Dajjal might have felt the smallest twinge of culpability, keeping humanity unaware of their upcoming demise. That might change in the near future once things were back on track and he was fully recovered, but for the time being he tried to banish those thoughts into the deep recesses of his mind.
Yet, all it took was an elderly couple to catch his attention and bring all of those untoward thoughts of sympathy back to the forefront. The wrinkled pair were staring at each other lovingly across their booth, slow in action yet having grown old together for over five decades in each other's company, they weren’t irritated nor bothered by the delays. It was a concept that Dajjal didn't understand, being mortal with limited time as he measured his life in ages. He continued to think on it, even after Richelle had brought him his order. As she set down the steaming mug of coffee, it tipped and some spilled across the tabletop and into his lap. The scalding liquid burned but he was unfazed.
“Oh I am so sorry!” Richelle said regretfully, returning to the counter to get a rag to wipe up the mess. “Ugh, I’m only human,” she cursed as he took a swig of what was left of the pungent black liquid.
“It’s no bother,” he said reassuringly, even yielding a faint grin.
“Well, I’m a klutz today. Let me top that up for you and it’s on the house.”
He really didn’t want more coffee; it was disgusting to his taste but he took the complementary top up and sipped again, realizing what she said.
I’m only human.
Even they were aware of their own faults and vulnerabilities, yet it seemed that mortality could possibly be humanity’s greatest weapon against the Noctis, even all paranormal things. It didn’t mean they had a weakness, in fact it gave them strength of purpose and the drive to finish things for the ones they loved.
Love.
That was another concept that evaded Dajjal in all aspects, except how it could also bring pain, a weapon that he used to his advantage multiple times – most recently stealing away that child Joey Mosely from the likes of the infallible Gage Crosse.
Dajjal watched for another quarter hour at least, taking in human behaviors, quirks, and fallacies. By the end of his observations, Dajjal seemed to be swayed. Perhaps there was more to humans than met the eye. Did they deserve a little more than just suffering? He seemed driven towards that being a ‘yes’ and perhaps he would be more compassionate toward these complex beings and their lives. The great demon Dajjal might even have been redeemed.
Yet, as the old saying goes: all go
od things must come to an end. So it was that Dajjal’s razor emerged from his pocket once more, shining beneath the fluorescent lights he threw it across the diner.
“GOT TO LOVE this Alabama weather,” whispered Gabriel Shepard as he adjusted his black cap in the darkness. Standing on the the rooftop of a government contractor’s headquarters, an icy drizzle fell as he eyed the walls of a dark office building half a mile to the north. The three story structure didn't look any different than the countless others in the expansive research park, but something about it certainly felt off – even from that far away.
Just then, something moved from behind an HVAC unit, Gabriel's brown eyes catching it without needing to turn his head. He prepared to defend himself, hand resting coolly by his holstered Sig 1911, but thankfully a monster wasn’t approaching, so there was no need to draw his weapon.
Instead he was met by Nathaniel Cole, who settled in next to him, dressed in a solid black special ops uniform. The only hint of color was a small strip of blue on his right shoulder, indicating his squad. Gabriel had a gold one on his, along with a HK416 strapped to his back.
Once again, the two of them had been assigned as squad leaders for a covert mission and though they both got along well enough, Nathaniel didn't appear too happy.
Gabriel noticed, realizing that the mage was far less talkative than usual. “Got a burr in your saddle or somethin’?” he asked.
“Huh?” Nathaniel replied, puzzled. “What’s that –”
“I’m askin’ if you’re okay,” Gabriel clarified.
“Oh, yeah; I was just mulling over some news I got earlier tonight.”
“Mulling ain’t normally a good indicator of things,” Gabriel said. “Is all good?”
Nathaniel exhaled, leaning up on the tall concrete walls with his elbows. “Honestly, not really. Do you remember my partner Ralph? He was the gruff dude from the UK that lead the squad of vampires back in Seattle.”
Gabriel nodded, scratching the side of his nose. “Sure do; it hasn’t been all that long.”
“Well, he was on assignment in the Faroe Islands,” Nathaniel continued, his unhappiness growing. “I don't know what the mission was, but apparently he and his partner Kuro sustained some grave injuries. They’re in a Scottish hospital as we speak.”
“Ah shit,” Gabriel stated. “I liked that guy. Kuro was that cat lady, right; the one he was adamantly not banging? Do ya know what’s up with them, or if there’s a chance of recovery?”
Nathaniel shook his head worriedly. “I have no clue; you now know as much as I do. The injuries being ‘grave’ gives me chills though. After we finish the job here I'm going to head that way and see what I can find out.”
Gabriel bobbed his head. “Well buddy, when we finish this job I’ll head there with ya; it's been years since I’ve crossed the Atlantic. But before that, we have business to tend to. Can ya give me a sitrep?”
Nathaniel recomposed himself, coughing briefly in the wet air before pushing off the wall. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a tiny disc with a red LED in the center. He pressed it and the device hummed as thin blue lines danced in the air, displaying a schematic of the facility.
“Black Dragons have completed their surveillance of the property and report a dozen red-eyes in the facility.” Twelve dots appeared on the diagram, showing the demon’s last known positions. Nathaniel continued. “As you can see, none are outside the building. There are a couple big guys on the first floor, three patrolling the second, and the rest up on the third. Spectral sweeps are indicating some other activity going on in there too, but the wards they have in place are scattering the signals, likely giving us a ton of false hits. Here, look.”
A moment later the floating image shimmered and popped with static, vague colored dots popping all around the place.
“Are ya sure these hits are false?” Gabriel questioned, not buying that they were glitches. “See, these right there look like they could be other entities. I’d hate to be steppin’ into a shitstorm without an umbrella.”
Gabriel’s drawl was getting notably heavier as Nathaniel shrugged. “Honestly your guess is as good as mine there,” the mage said. “I mean, the returns are weak enough to just be anomalies from the wards, or on the other hand, like you said, there could be more things in there. Gabe, I never took much stock in divination, so there's really only one way for us to know for sure…”
“And that would be us goin’ in…” Gabriel moaned. “Jesus, I know tomorrow's Christmas Eve but that's not the kind of gift I wanna be receiving tonight.”
“We’ll we have to go in either way, so Merry Christmas! The primary objective is on the third floor – in the Director’s office. This would be a hell of a lot easier if we could just swoop in, get the shit, then swoop right back out.”
“I agree with ya Nate,” Gabriel said, followed by a huge grin that threatened to give away their position with its brightness. It was Nathaniel’s turn to grumble, Gabriel knowing how much he hated being called Nate, but he was growing used to it since that minor triviality was hardly a deterrent. “The field brass insists that this be a clearing,” Gabriel continued, his tone displeased. “God knows why. Now out of respect, I would never tell this to their faces, except for Sinclair – I swear he couldn't find his ass with both hands in his back pockets. Anyway, they’ve all lost a part of their souls sittin’ behind those great big desks, while you and I continue to put some mileage on ours out here, fightin’ the good fight. Yet, they're the ones tellin’ our squads who, what, and when to hit – and in this case it’s everything in the place.”
Nathaniel was perplexed, talking to himself about why they would have been ordered to clear the whole building instead of just extracting the data. The last two sorties since Seattle proved successful without all the extra killing.
As if telling them it was to move, the wind picked up and the rain did as well.
“Well, my stumpy friend, we ain't gonna get shit done stayin’ on this rooftop,” Gabriel said, curling the brim of his cap. “Blue good to go?”
“Always!” Nathaniel said, pumping his fist.
“Us too,” Gabriel replied, touching his earpiece then taking the disc Nathaniel had been holding. He pressed a couple of buttons along the outer edge before continuing. “Okay ladies and gents, listen up. We’re going to jump to the coordinates I’m sending you now. Blues with Nathaniel: you’re taking out the pair on the first floor. Golds: you’re coming with me to take down the trio on the second. From there our teams will regroup near the south stairwell and advance to the third floor where we’ll take out the rest and claim the prize.”
Gabriel tossed the device back to Nathaniel, its light now green before he put it away. Joining his hands together, sigils swirled out from beneath the mage’s fingers, slowly at first then faster.
“A word of warning,” Gabriel concluded, removing a transportation stone from his pocket. “Be vigilant and on the lookout, just in case our readings are fucked by these wards. Until we find out otherwise though, focus on taking out these demons however you see fit… quietly.”
Throwing down the stone, Gabriel disappeared with a subtle pop quicker than a blink. Nathaniel pulled his hands apart at the same time and the sigils expanded until they had engulfed him, disappearing a second later with a whoosh of air.
The rooftop was now empty, except for heavy sheets of rain continuing to drench everything in sight.
NATHANIEL APPEARED IN the glum foyer of the office building. Corporate carpet with arresting patterns met bland gray walls rising up to low slung ceilings replete with stained tiles. It all worked to perpetuate a sense of unease, especially with the faint odor of sulfur, and something that was hopefully hamburger meat, blowing out of the air vents. There was no light inside the room, other than the unsettling orange of the sodium lamps in the parking lot that filtered in through the front doors.
He was not alone; with him in Blue Squadron were two other decked out mages. Elena Constantin was one
feisty woman who hailed from Romania, carrying an exorcism stone in one of her clenched fists while the other bore a warded dagger.
Standing beside her, rivaling Gage Crosse in size, was Mikhail Ivanov. From the dark underbelly of Moscow and the bare knuckle fight clubs there, his large, tattooed hands were primed to lob close quartered magic – or to beat the shit out of anything that managed to get too close.
Nathaniel looked at each of them, then ahead to the empty receptionist’s station which was adjacent to a single elevator. Further to either side were archways leading to cube farms, offices, and a break room. “So Elena, what're you feeling: left or right?” he asked quietly.
“Right,” she answered and the three of them proceeded without delay into the sea of cubicles.
Meanwhile, Gabriel had materialized on the second floor outside the southern elevator shaft. This floor was just as grim as the first, but the smell of brimstone was much stronger than what Blue Squadron was wading through. Off to the right was a wooden door leading to a flight of stairs – their rendezvous point once they had cleared all the threats on these lower two floors – and to his left was the way he planned to go.
“Brynolf, Eldrolf,” Gabriel said to two large werewolves at each side, “let’s roll.”
On command, the tall beasts finished placing iron braces over their sharp teeth. Brynolf bit down hard to secure his since they were a little loose, while Eldrolf – more stocky with light brown fur – fell in lockstep with Gabriel, her claws bared.
Back downstairs, Nathaniel and his team made their way through the dense forest of partitions, hideous and gray in all their repetitive blandness. They breezed by vacant cubicles, sparsely decorated with personal effects, and manager offices shut with doors the doors securely locked. Met only by the silence of the dark, the team advanced until a loud noise broke the quiet.
The Devil's Highway (Journeyman Book 4) Page 6
