by Milam,Vince
Alright, I’m officially weirded out. Job well done, Bishop. As an anchor, a piece of firmament, Nick produced his DHS badge and told the young woman, “Agent Capellas. Department of Homeland Security.”
She threw back her head and laughed, a horse-like whinny, and removed her hands from her pockets to clap them in front of her with scorn and delight.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. This young lady gave off a sick vibe.
Her dark aura eddied through the drifting fog. “Preparing,” she replied, eyes lit with malice.
“Preparing for what?”
She again threw back her head and laughed, more through her nostrils than her mouth, clapping again.
“The power of great God Almighty through his son Jesus Christ!” bellowed from the wall of fog. The bishop, not far. “Show yourself, nasty creature!”
Branches rustled and snapped as Luke moved. Something was happening, and this girl presented no immediate threat. Nick pulled his pistol and headed into the fog, calling, “Bishop! Bishop Sikes! Where are you?”
More rustling of tree branches, quick footfalls on grass, and a brief glimpse of the bishop as he slammed to a stop and turned to seek.
Nick strode up and alerted Luke of his presence. “It’s me, Bishop. Me. What’s going on? Who were you calling to?”
A breeze cleared the immediate area of fog, an area thick with trees, then covered them again. Luke breathed hard through his nose, a bull prepared to charge. “What is it?” Nick asked, using one hand to rest on the bishop’s shoulder. “What did you see?”
“The coward. The deceiver,” Luke said into the fog. He turned to Nick and locked eyes, his face full of fight and frustration. “Fled. Gone.”
“What fled? What, exactly, did you see?” he asked.
The bishop turned toward him and stared over his head at the graveyard. “The girl. She has been filled with the Enemy. Come.” Luke dashed back toward the young lady’s location among the headstones, the fog thick and moving. Nick ran with him. A puff of breeze cleared the air for a moment, the girl’s location clearly visible. She was gone.
Chapter 20
“Here,” Francois said. “Oui. Here.”
“Here?” Cole asked. “This is the edge of Baytown. Nothing but refineries and chemical plants.”
“Here,” Francois repeated.
Cole exited the interstate and looped back to miles of steel columns belching steam, massive storage tanks, and ribbons of transmission pipes suspended in the air. Cole drove alongside petrochemical production on a scale almost unimaginable. Production that provided the feedstock for a multitude of commercial products: polyester fleece clothing, nail polish, computers, shoes, heart valves, cell phones, crayons, and lipstick—the list was endless.
Painted pipes were suspended on racks, mile after mile as ribbons of colored taffy, dipping and running through pumps and compressors and heaters, to elevate again and continue their journey. Most held petrochemical product, others contained superheated steam used in the manufacturing process. A warm asphalt road ran through the center of the vast industrial complex. Oyster-shell slopes shouldered down to ditches that handled the often-heavy rain. The smell of petrochemical-laden salt air blanketed the area.
“You sure about this, bud?”
Francois didn’t reply as he tossed his smoke and sat erect, head swiveling. The Frenchman hunted, sought evil. He searched for one of them.
They drove for thirty minutes as Francois requested turns here and there among the industrial facilities until, out of nowhere, he slammed his fists on the passenger dashboard and yelled, “Assez! Enough!”
Cole pulled off the road onto the sloped shoulder. Before the vehicle stopped, Francois jumped out, lit a smoke, and paced back and forth along the side of the car.
Cole joined him and scuffled the oyster-shell surface with the toe of his boot. Sorry, Francois. I wish I could help. A flock of pelicans, flying formation, passed overhead. The waters of Trinity Bay glistened in the distance and large ships, guided by tugboats, worked their way to massive industrial piers. A ship’s horn echoed across the water.
Cole’s heart told him this adventure—this quest—advanced on unplowed ground. It held more subterfuge, misdirection. There’s bad, bad stuff fixing to happen, and here we stand in the midst of nowhere, industry-land, fiddle-farting around chasing terrorists or demons or who-the-hell knows.
A pipe rack twenty feet away rattled and drew his attention. The large twenty-four-inch diameter pipe nearest them on the eye-level pipe rack read Superheated Steam in stenciled scarlet letters. The asphalt road remained empty, clearly used only by the occasional maintenance teams. Cole crossed his arms, kicked more oyster shells, and leaned against the car.
“It has fled.” Francois stomped out his Gauloises cigarette, settled against the car, and faced the pipe rack, shoulder to shoulder with Cole.
Another metallic pop indicated something amiss. A rumble along the cluster of pipes followed the popping sound.
“It has fled and hidden and proves itself, once again, a coward and deceiver,” Francois muttered.
A steel-on-steel squeal put Cole on high alert. He knew the sound—a high-pressure relief valve ready to blow. But this wasn’t compressed air at the tire shop or a car’s radiator valve blowing. This was high-pressure superheated steam. It would peel the flesh right off a person from a considerable distance.
“I have asked for guidance,” Francois said, his voice rising over the noise. “Struggled, mon ami. I have struggled.”
The metallic squeal leapt to an ear-splitting higher octave. Gonna blow! Gonna blow! He grabbed Francois by his dark red Houston Astros windbreaker and flung his friend like a giant sack of flour. Francois flew in the air, bounced once on the hood, and disappeared on the opposite side of the car. Cole followed suit, landing on Francois. The percussion blast of a relief valve blowing off boomed through the air. The stream of superheated steam drove against the side of the car they had just occupied and flowed over the hood. Cole held Francois down and looked up. Hood paint peeled and bubbled above his head.
“Mon Dieu!” Francois cried, struggling beneath him. “Are you mad?”
Cole scrambled on hands and knees, opened the driver’s door, lay flat across the seat, and started the engine.
“Get in!” Cole yelled. “The back seat! Move!”
The hyper-hot steam continued to buffet the front of the vehicle. Francois paused to ascertain the danger, then rolled on his side to the back door, opened it, and slid onto the floor.
Cole, his lower body still extended out of the door as he continued to lie flat on the seat, slipped the vehicle into reverse. It began to roll backward and left the torrent of steam to blow across the road.
Cole crawled inside, slammed the door, and accelerated backward until clear of the present danger. He stopped the car, hands shaking. The sound of Francois lighting a smoke came from the floor of the back seat.
“A most dangerous situation, to be sure,” Francois said.
The large stream of high pressure superheated steam cut across the road where they had parked. It turned the surface into a wide swath of bubbling, burning asphalt. Loud squeals began to rise in volume and frequency behind them, a deadly chain of warnings from both sides of the road.
“Hold on!” Cole yelled and accelerated the car in reverse, spun the wheel, and performed a one-eighty turn on the narrow road. He kept the gas pedal floored as he slammed the rental car into Drive, the vehicle’s transmission grinding a protest. The high-pitched squeals ahead and alongside the road became louder as he flew along.
Francois’s head popped up from the backseat, near Cole’s shoulder. “The Enemy. Be most assured,” he said matter-of-factly.
Another relief valve blew and spewed superheated steam across the road as they approached. Cole drove into the opposite ditch and fishtailed down the oyster-shell slope, protected from the steam blast. He threw the wheel back toward the road, gas pedal to the floor. The
car gained a grip on asphalt, only to have another fierce flow of steam blow across the road from the opposite side. Cole repeated the ditch maneuver, almost lost control, and then climbed back to the road, wheels spitting oyster-shell dust as they gained traction.
“Bien fait!” Francois said, patting his shoulder. “Well done, mon ami!”
Three more times he drove into the ditch at sixty miles per hour to avoid the gauntlet of deadly steam blasts, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle. They approached an intersection—another refinery road—and Cole pulled a sideways drift to the left, tires screaming, and flew along the road away from his previous path. They roared by storage tanks, pipes, pumps. In half a mile the road dead-ended at a patch of weeds, and Cole tore through the vegetation, down a grassy hill, and thumped over the curb of a regular Baytown street.
A nearby gas station/convenience store parking lot provided a stopping place. He turned off the car, and they both exited and shared wide-eyed realization. Francois approached him and sandwiched his head with both palms. “Tres bon, my dear Cole. Tres bon. You have proven, once again, a master of such situations. Magnifique!”
Cole gripped his friend’s shoulders and shook his head. “I’m not feeling all that magnificent, bud. My heart is still pounding.”
“A most natural emotion. Most natural. Observe!” Francis said and pointed to their vehicle. The area where the initial steam blast hit now showed melted panels and blistered paint along the entire side and across the hood. The frenetic ditch-driving had loosened a front bumper, which hung at an angle. Somewhere along the line a rear wheel well had been caved in.
Cole absorbed the damage and shook his head. “Rental car company is going to be pissed.”
“They shall recover.”
“And I will, too, Francois. But that was aimed at us. Every bit of it. Someone—some thing—tried to parboil us.”
“Oui. This is so.”
They walked, dazed, toward a massive old oak tree at the corner of the small lot. They sheltered under its limbs, seeking recovery. They took to the weathered trunk and attempted to regain a solid foothold on the world they occupied, separate and distinct from all those around them.
“Have we bitten off more than we can chew?” Cole asked. Nothing—absolutely nothing—in their past adventures had displayed such power: bizarre and supernatural and deadly.
Traffic rumbled by and the occasional pickup turned to park in front of the convenience store. Drivers slid from front seats, tired after a long shift. Muscular forearms pulled the doors open as others exited, cold six-packs in hand.
Francois used a thumb and forefinger to stroke his bushy mustache until he shook his head and said, “No. No, mon ami. It is not more than we can chew. We are at war. And we shall not fail.”
War. War against the seen and unseen. Into the breach. A battlefield of terror and pain, washed in the supernatural. He rubbed the old oak’s trunk, relished the rough bark. Real, solid, stable.
Cole took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Then we’d best watch our ass, compadre. Twenty-four seven.”
“Oui. This is so. Now, let us enter this market. I shall purchase a Diet Coke for you. Do you suppose they might have these available?” Francois pulled a close-to-empty pack of Gauloises cigarettes from his pocket and presented it to Cole.
“No. Be most assured, my friend. Most assured.”
They both laughed. Relief flooded through Cole, the adrenaline rush abated, and a semblance of confidence returned. Battle-hardened by past experiences, they shared a commitment to move forward—always forward.
They made purchases—Francois settled on a pack of Marlboros—and hit the road. Cole figured they were through for the day and began to ease through traffic toward the interstate.
“That direction, s’il vous plaît.” Francois pointed toward Baytown and lit a smoke.
“Really?”
“Oui.”
“Your radar going off? Really? After all we just went through?”
The priest adjusted his sunglasses, ran his hands through his long brushed-back hair, and chopped the air with his cigarette hand. “Allez. Forward.”
They drove away from the refinery area and into town. As they drove by Baytown’s community college, a crosswalk filled with college-aged kids caused Cole to stop. The young adults chatted, texted, and talked on phones as they moved between classes, enjoying the fine spring day.
“Here,” Francois said, quiet and with conviction. “Oui. Here.”
“At the school?”
“No. Here, mon ami. A trail. Un vestige. A remnant.”
The last of the students passed by on the crosswalk, coinciding with the quick beep of a horn from the car behind them.
“Don’t have the foggiest notion what you mean, Francois.” Cole swiveled his head left and right, attempting to capture something—anything—out of place. The car behind him honked again.
“It passed. Assurément. It passed this way.”
Cole pulled alongside the curb and allowed the car behind him to continue. “What passed?”
Francois slammed his fists onto the dashboard. His frustrated face and fiery eyes turned to Cole. “This I cannot know! I cannot define! Que voulez-vous de plus? What more do you want!”
As Cole absorbed Francois’s outburst and hard glare, a movement from the rear of the car caught his attention. A young man—his head covered by a hoodie—approached the vehicle and stopped at the rear bumper. Cole turned enough in the seat to lock eyes with the young man. The shadowed face radiated hatred and an unfathomable malice. Neither man blinked as Cole’s blood rose. The young man leaned his head back and spit a wad of phlegm, sending it to the back window where it slowly rolled down. Cole flung his body around, opened the door, and stood up in time to see the young man running, blazing, into the sea of students and buildings.
Cole, fists clenched, pursuit futile, watched him disappear. An aura of evil, pure and hot, had emanated from the hooded man. But he wasn’t a supernatural being, or demon, or manifestation that wouldn’t react to a bullet. Seen his kind before. And they damn sure bleed.
He settled back into the driver’s seat and checked the rear window. The spittle continued to drool down.
“Que s’est-il passé?” Francois asked, turning to gaze toward the campus buildings and back at Cole. “What has happened?”
“A man. A dangerous man who sensed us.”
Francois jerked his windbreaker to adjust it, grumbled in French, and said, “I must become more aware. More engaged. We are being challenged in this war. Most assuredly. My apologies, mon ami.”
Daylight and small town normalcy permeated the area. There were no serious signs of horror or imminent danger to cast the scene as anything but a typical spring day. Surreal in their isolation from the immediate environment, Cole turned and patted his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Francois. You did well. You did just fine.”
“No.” Francois rubbed his scalp with both hands, then slammed his fist against the door. “No. Unacceptable.”
Cole started the car and they pulled away from the campus. The day’s events had painted a menacing picture, intense and random.
“A dangerous man,” Francois said. “Aligned with the Enemy. To be sure.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” Cole headed toward the interstate and remained on high alert. “Aligned. Influenced. But human.”
Cole, Francois, and Nadine met over dinner and drinks that night and conference-called the others. Francois, Jude, and Luke spoke with excitement and wonder of the day’s events. Jean and Nick remained silent. Cole and Nadine joined the silence and shared knowing looks.
They’re coming, Cole thought. Coming right at us, one way or the other.
Chapter 21
That morning, the Telling came pure and clear, spoke to him. Bismillah. In the name of Allah. Let it begin
Masih cradled the one-time-use cell phone and contemplated the wonders he would soon release. It was now afternoon in
Raqqa, early morning in America. The power and remarkable scale of his next action caused him to shudder.
Bismillah. In the name of Allah. Let it begin, the text message read. Twenty-one phone numbers, each with a singular message, entered with care. Each person—each holy warrior—prepared and anxious to receive the message.
He tapped the first send button. Twenty more times he tapped send. Uday Masih triggered jihad against America.
***
Saif received the message at 4:00 a.m. And so it starts. Glory and terror.
Random killings—murder and move and keep moving. He would begin in Portland. And then move, drive. Meander through Oregon and California, killing one apostate—one of the enemy—each day. He planned to sleep in his car or fleabag motels that required no identification. He would pay cash. Always moving. Pay for everything with cash—gas, food, clothes. Always killing.
Saif waited for the daily bustle of Portland to begin. Midmorning he drove to a popular part of town, a section populated by offices, restaurants, and bars. He parked and strolled through alleyways, confident and sure. Beneath his jacket he carried a janbiya—an Arab curved dagger, its design and function unchanged for centuries. A light mist fell, the day was cool, and his footfalls splashed among collected rain puddles.
A restaurant worker, Hispanic, moved empty cardboard boxes from an alleyway door into the adjacent dumpster. Saif nodded a greeting as he walked, smiling. The worker smiled back and turned again to the doorway to collect more boxes. As he turned his back, Saif drew the blade and drove it into the man’s back, clamping his other hand over the victim’s mouth. Twice more he struck and the man collapsed in the dirt and filth and grime of the alley. Saif sheathed his weapon after wiping it on his victim’s pants, checked his clothing for blood splatters, and moved on. He grinned and raised one clenched hand in exultation. And so it starts.
***
Rima waited for nightfall. The Houston bars would soon fill, the hustle and sway offering ample opportunity for her to move among crowds, unnoticed. She had been anointed and had received the text message to begin. She would strike, kill, and continue. Each day a new opportunity, a new blessing.
