Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1

by Bob Williams

  “The woman I’m looking for, where is she?” I say in a voice I barely recognize.

  His asshole vibe vanishes and his posture becomes perfect. I blink a few times and focus on Rick as he practically stares through me. All six of the barflies shift, as if awakening, and look at me.

  “Now Mr. Prescott… What makes you think I would tell you? I can’t rightly say he wants you to know,” says Rick mockingly.

  “What? Who is He?”

  “Like I would te...” I grab his shirt, jerk him over the counter and push him hard to the floor. His head connects with a sharp crack and his eyes roll back for a second before returning. My first inclination is to beat a fucking hole in this guy’s face, but that won’t help me find her. I need information. I can feel it; I’m close.

  “Where. Is. She?” I say in a guttural whisper, the spittle falling from my mouth onto the man’s steely face.

  Before he can answer, I feel a number of fists and boots connecting with multiple parts of my body. I take the beating, it goes with the territory. This was not supposed to go down like this.

  BEFORE

  My name is Prescott. With two T’s. Don’t fuck that up. I don’t do many things well, in fact, I do most things poorly. There is one thing I do exceptionally well, though. I find things. Whatever it is you lost, for whatever reason, I will find it.

  That used to work well for me, before The Descent. Now, mostly what I do is connect people who’ve been separated by the collapse. Before, yeah, I made good money but none of that matters now. While there are still factions of society left in the safe zones, I can’t turn my back on those who need me. Like I said, I’ve been doing this a long time. What else would I do?

  I used to get asked all the time, “How did you end up in the finding business?” It can be an odd question to ask. It started when I was twelve when I lost my pocketknife. It was one of the first possessions I could truly call mine. It was included in a box of things that belonged to my parents before they died. I was angry, as angry as any kid would be after losing such a sentimental possession. It was like I had lost a piece of myself.

  I spent two weeks looking for it. I questioned the Prescotts, all of them. My sister, Emily, claimed I was an idiot and could find my own knife. My adoptive mother did her best to placate me, but her valuable time could not be used looking for my “toy” as she called it.

  My adoptive father was a different story. He sat me down in his study and we talked about it. Trust me, I get it. In all of those stories you read growing up, it always seems like the protagonist has some well-to-do father who dispenses wisdom from his study. Well, this was no different. He did. The first thing he told me was he wasn’t going to help me look for it. He would, however assist me in finding it.

  “Possessions rule the world. It’s elementary. What you possess is truly the sum of your person.” He explained. “The possessions on which you place the greatest value dictate to the rest of us what matters most to you. Right now at a very young and naïve age you have chosen to place great value on an insignificant pocket knife.”

  “It’s not just a pocket knife. If I can use your word Mr. Prescott, that knife is my first possession,” I said with passion.

  “Very well then, let me provide you with some tools to find it,” Mr. Prescott offered.

  We talked about points. My father told me that in between the time a possession is lost until the time it is found, there are points. He explained that, “Time makes no difference. If something is lost for a day or 100 years,” he coached, “link the points together from beginning to end and there will be a connection. There, at the connection, you will have found what you are looking for.”

  “How do you know you’re beginning at the right point?”

  He laughed heartily. “Any point where you begin that leads to a connection is the right one.”

  He rose from his brown leather chair, put his right arm lightly on my back, and with his left he gestured toward the door as he questioned me, “For something that you seemed to cherish, how did you manage to take so little care of it that you lost it?” I’ve never forgotten that. One sentence can be a man’s legacy. Twenty-two words that over twenty years later would still cut deep into my heart, stealing a part of my spirit and soul like a thief in the night.

  The pursuit of my pocketknife moved me to neighbors, friends, classmates, and teachers. Rather quickly connecting point after point. I never stopped looking.

  The information I had gathered led me to Billy Summers. He had stolen the knife from my backpack when I had set it down to go through the lunch line. I had spoken with the shy kid nobody else talks to, and he had suspected Billy of several cafeteria thefts. He suggested I speak to R.D. the janitor because, “He sees everything.” I followed up with R.D. and he indeed had seen Summers take my knife.

  I spied Billy Summers with it at recess that same day. What a satisfying feeling. I had found the knife. But I needed to get it back. This is how it happened:

  Me: Hey jerk-face! Give me back my knife.

  Billy: Screw off!”

  I punched him in the face. That was my first “connection.”

  NOW

  Slowly, the room appears out of the darkness. My entire body is a resounding beacon of pain. My head…Fuck…it’s pounding. I hear talking, but the words are more like echoes. The first thing I notice is that my hands are tied uncomfortably behind my back to a cool metal chair. Both of my hands have gone numb while I was out, and I struggle to regain any feeling.

  What else is going on here? The group that put the beat down on me is gathered around a table playing poker and taking no notice of me. I’m brimming with rage at what happened earlier. How could I have let this happen? Think, Prescott, what are you missing? What are the points?

  I close my eyes, lower my head, and play it all back. Practically empty parking lot, the fire, nobody at the door, and not a single person noticed when I walked in. Each point by itself doesn’t say much but together…they knew. They were waiting for me. How could I be so careless?

  “Hey! Pardon the interruption,” I growl. “I’m sure it’s a real meeting of the minds over there, but can I get a drink of water?”

  Rick turns and shows me a glare, revealing his eyes are completely red. He takes a rag from his pocket and wipes a bloody tear as it escapes his eye. Oh shit, I’m so fucked! Wait a second. This guy is a Freak and he broke. How can he be acting so...calm?

  There are five Freaks sitting at that table, playing poker. All the players are covered in blood. I have never seen anything like this before. All of my knowledge and experience since The Descent says, once a Freak breaks, they are mindless psychopaths. I have to laugh at the complete disaster this has turned into, at how little I apparently knew going in.

  In spite of the immediate danger, there are a couple of important questions that creep into my head. Is there an evolutionary aspect to BH-2014? Somebody surely would have seen this before and we would know, right? Or is there someone with the talent and ability to train these creatures?

  Rick stands and makes his way towards the bar. He fills a glass with water and saunters over toward me, a smug look on his face. He walks up and throws the water in my face, while letting out a cackle similar to Cesar Romero’s Joker from the classic Batman show.

  “You’re really in the shit now Mr. Prescott!” he declares, putting an emphasis on the T with complete disdain.

  “What makes you say that? I’ve been in worse spots than this,” I say, not believing a word of it myself.

  “Because I say so motherfucker!” he spits. “He told me you’d come. He wasn’t quite sure when, but he knew you would. What did he say? Sounded so stupid…oh yeah. He said you would follow the points.”

  His words are a gunshot to the gut. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me asshole,” he says. He steps forward and belts me across the jaw with a right hook. My head snaps back and I taste fresh blood from the cut inside my mouth.

 
“That all you got, friend?” I toss out to his back as he walks away. “If you’re trying to tell me something maybe you should speak up.”

  “Is that right?” he croaks and turns to me again.

  I still find his swagger misplaced, until he rocks me with a vicious head butt to the forehead just over my right eye. It’s a massive jolt, and it hurts, but it sends him back several steps as well.

  “GLORY TO THE 88,” he screams. “AND SERENITY TO THE BLACK HAND, WHICH LIVES TO SERVE!”

  “The 88? Did you say Black Hand? What the fuck is going on?” I demand.

  His face is a mask of total hatred. His emotion? Sure. Anybody can hate. I have plenty of hate. But hatred is a fierce concept. With hatred you don’t just HATE somebody. No, you have to strip away all the layers of humanity to get to the base of hatred. You have to know that person. There needs to be a reason.

  Blood is flowing into my eye and down my face as Rick cuts the rope securing me to the chair and I pitch forward to the ground. I’m fading out. Lying in a fetal position in blood-soaked pain, I make the decision that will either save my life or end it.

  I gingerly shift from my side to a praying position. The right side of my face is bloodied and my sight is clouded from swelling while I suffer excruciating pain. I force my left leg out, reach my right hand back for the chair, and pull myself up.

  I hope the chair will stabilize me, instead it falls over from my weight and sends me flailing toward the wall. I wish it had been the wall. Instead it is a large metal garage door that makes a resounding crash when I topple into it. Rick turns quickly to see what the commotion is and notices I’ve made it to my feet. This appears to piss him off.

  He turns to his half-breed pals, who are now glaring at me from the poker table and begins to stoke the fire. These Freaks are frothing for a kill. I don’t know what or who “trained” the fuckers but they’re primed for destruction

  “This asshole still needs a little more religion,” says Rick. “Any preachers in the room?”

  A Freak stands slowly as his chair slides backwards and falls over. He’s about 6’5”, at least 300 pounds. He crushes his knuckles together in a chorus of pops and makes his way toward me. I don’t want to think about the damage this monster could do to me. Fighting a Freak one-on-one is doable, but not good. This man is equal to three. His biceps are bulging, flexing in preparation for the “religion” he intends to baptize me with.

  Hands regaining sensation, I push off the cool metallic door and take a stance. This menacing motherfucker needs to understand I intend to fight. I shrug off my overcoat and wrestle the bloodstained tie from around my neck. I may be about to take a beating but believe this, he’s going to hurt too. I came here for Emily and I’m not leaving without her. Not alive anyhow.

  “AND THE 88 SHALL VISIT UPON THE EARTH!” Rick begins to preach at the top of his lungs. “AND THE WORTHY WILL BE TRANSFORMED INTO THE BLACK HAND, WHO ARE THEIR SERVANTS AND SOLDIERS!” He’s damn near gone crazy with delight. I don’t have words for what I’m seeing. I wish Pollock was here and had my back.

  The remaining members of the posse float over to the space we inhabit and form a circle. They have all transformed into bloodthirsty jackals that mean to see death. I feel like I’m standing in the last moments of my life.

  “Let’s get it on,” I say as I throw the hardest punch I can manage toward the giant. He catches the punch in his fist, engulfing my hand, and twists upward until it feels like my arm will break at the elbow. At the same time he violently launches a knee square into my gut, expelling all the air from my body.

  The blow knocks me to the ground, and I give myself over to the agony as the giant kneels down and clubs me in the back. Just then, Rick is back in the mix, kicking and punching me in a berserk attack from the side. I’m able to protect my face and body well enough to roll to my back and thrust a two-legged kick toward his chest. It does no damage but separates us enough that I can get to my feet and stagger backwards.

  I stare at Rick, continuing my attempt to discover an ounce of recognition for the hatred he holds. Finally I ask, arms extended in an exasperated display. “What gives man? Who the fuck am I to you? I don’t get it.”

  “You never have, Prescott.”

  “What does that mean?” I manage to say.

  “They didn’t want you. You weren’t receptive. They loathed you!” he barks out.

  “Who didn’t want…” I lock eyes with him. My mouth is agape, blood trickling from my lip.

  “WE HAVE A WINNER!”

  “You’re, you’re talking about the Prescotts.” Emotion grips my throat as I stutter the name.

  “Yes, I’m talking about the Prescotts. That name means honor and glory to The 88!”

  I rush him in a blind rage and take him to the ground. In a primal state, I beat Rick into submission.

  “You don’t know anything about the Prescotts!” I scream. I don’t know where this is going.

  Lost in the background while I am committing a violent attack on Rick, the large metal door slides open with an egregious wail. Two men step into the room. They are both impeccably dressed and wear a look of thorough disgust on their faces.

  One is younger and clearly a subordinate, albeit a respected one. The other appears to be approaching sixty and most assuredly carries with him great power and influence.

  The Freaks cower from the older man. His presence has sent them scurrying to the darkened corners like rats, and terrified whispers gain volume over the hostilities taking place in the center of the room. Even the big guy who almost killed me is cowed.

  “That will be all, son,” the voice booms.

  That voice. I haven’t heard it in two decades, but I know it as well as I know my own. It’s the voice of the man who plucked me from obscurity at the age of 12 and turned me into the man I am today. It is the voice of my father.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Prescott,” says Rick.

  “What are you two doing here?” I can’t hide the shock and confusion on my face.

  If there are two people I would’ve never thought I’d see stand side by side it’s Pollock and Mr. Prescott.

  “What the hell is going on? Who is he?” I ask, gesturing towards Rick.

  He shakes his head in disappointment. “Language, young man. You were always a bit of a savage. We…I did what I could for you but you never really were a good fit.”

  “A good fit? I loved you!”

  “Yes, well, I can’t say we felt the same Mr., uh?”

  “Prescott! My name is Prescott!” At this Pollock laughs.

  “If you insist. I suppose it’s high time you heard this. You were selected from a rather small group of candidates from the Forrester Home for Boys. We are always scouting for young men to join our ranks as apprentices. That is how we came to find Pollock. Pollock, as you call him, was already in my care and in place at the Forrest before your arrival. He surveyed the lot, determined you were the pick of the litter, and informed me. Everything he told you then about himself and in regards to your search has been a carefully crafted lie. Bringing you into our home was to be a glorious day for The Black Hand. Alas, it was a catastrophic failure.”

  “…What?” It is literally all I can muster. My entire world is collapsing to its foundation.

  “I am, or should I say, we are, part of a large but private group of individuals.” He extends his arms out wide in an encompassing manner that includes himself, Pollock, me, and Rick.

  I have never felt more alone in my entire life. The range of emotions that are crashing down on me vary from hurt to confusion to rage. Trying to process what he is telling me, this man who I consider my father, is damn near impossible in my current physical and emotional state.

  “You see...boy, we have people everywhere. We are The Black Hand. We are the human servants of The 88. It is time you learned what you walked away from. Demons exist, boy! They have for a very long time. The stories I told you when you were younger were not stories at all, but tr
uths, legends of our history. But you wouldn’t listen. Our family, the Prescott family is a conduit to this collection of demons. We are, for lack of a better term, The First Family.”

  “In order to serve The 88 in a more fitting manner, the demon known as Chaos came to our plane and gave my family a small sample of his essence. I was able to take his essence and deliver it to several Black Hand agents in pivotal positions within our construct,” he continued.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” I asked, “Demons?”

  “Look around boy! See what we created and maybe the big picture will develop for you.”

  I’m trying to focus. To process all that he’s dropped on me in the last few minutes. Looking around the room again I see the Freaks, and then I continue to scan in search of whatever he wants me to see. I don’t get it. All I see are…are...the Freaks!

  “No! Father please don’t tell me you had a hand in this! The Freaks? They broke the world!”

  “YES boy! They did! BH-2014! It practically had our name on it! Because, what Chaos wants, Chaos will always get! So sayeth The Black Hand!”

  “The Collapse! The Descent! It was you?”

  “No boy it was us! You have played your part all along. How is it that you think you came to be on our radar? It was Chaos.” My Father’s eyes begin to glow an unbelievable red. But it isn’t blood; it’s more like light. His voice drops to a deep bass and he speaks again.

  “It was I, boy, that chose you. Your mother and father were eliminated so that you would end up in the cradle of The Black Hand. It was what I wished, so it was. You have performed excellently for us since we assumed control of this world. “Safe Zones”, as you call them do not exist. It is merely the will of The 88 that your world believe it is so. Every person you have delivered to a safe zone since Chaos has come to reign has been converted to a Black Hand soldier.”

  “NO! That can’t be,” I scream in horror. But I can see it on his face. The truth.