City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  Crowe burped and looked up at him and said, “Thanks for the water.”

  He nodded. “No sweat, man, no problem. How you feeling, bro?”

  “All things considered…” Crowe shrugged.

  Murke frowned, and Crowe realized Murke didn’t know what he meant.

  Not a bright boy, Peter Murke.

  He sat up and looked around the room. The old plastic jug that Welling had knocked out of his hands was still there, in the corner. The towel he’d used to clean himself up was also still there, stiff and disgusting, in the middle of the room. The only thing different was the light in the ceiling-- it was off now, replaced by gray daylight.

  Crowe thought about standing up but couldn’t muster the energy. He said, “How long do you folks plan on keeping me here?”

  Murke said, “I don’t really know. Sorry. I think Mr. Welling is figuring out what to do with you or something.”

  “Deciding whether or not to kill me?”

  He shrugged. “I reckon so.”

  “And what are you doing here, Peter?”

  Murke said, “Well… I asked Mr. Welling if it would be okay if I talked to you, like.”

  “About what?”

  He shrugged again. “I dunno. Stuff. You know. Is that okay? I mean, is it okay if we talk?”

  Crowe sighed. “Sure. Talk away.”

  Murke licked his thick wet lips, scratched his belly. “I kinda wanted to ask you, Mr. Crowe. I wanted to ask you why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you… why you want me? I mean, what do you want with me? Mr. Welling told me you came here for me. Is it because of your girlfriend?”

  “Why do you think, Peter?”

  “I’m sorry about her, I really am. I just got… I got carried away. But it’s okay, you know. She’s with Jesus now. I did a good thing, when you really think about it, right?”

  Crowe didn’t know how to respond to that one, so he didn’t.

  Murke said, “Our world is a veil of sorrows, right? That’s what the Bible says. I think. Or that’s what Mr. Welling says the Bible says. I don’t really know, but I believe him.”

  Crowe said, “I don’t know either. Sounds about right, though.”

  He perked up a little, hope gleaming in his bulging eyes. “So… so you aren’t mad at me, then? For killing her? You understand, don’t you? I mean, I had to do it. The… the Holy Ghost took over my body and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop cutting.”

  Crowe’s stomach twisted and he had to look away from him.

  He could hear the disappointment in Murke’s whiny voice when he spoke again. “You are mad at me, aren’t you? Please, please don’t be mad.”

  Crowe made himself look at him again. Tears glittered in Murke’s eyes. Crowe said, “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I don’t see any reason you and I can’t be friends, Peter.”

  Murke’s face lit up. “Wow, that’s so cool of you. I really, really appreciate it.”

  Crowe forced a grin. “So what’s next, Peter? Is Welling going to have you kill me now?”

  Murke turned red, looked away. “I… I dunno, Mr. Crowe. I surely hope not. I wouldn’t wanna kill you.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Well… cuz. Well. I sorta… you know, I sorta admire you. I always have.”

  Crowe felt his grin drop away. “What?” he said.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way, Mr. Crowe. I’m just saying, you know? I mean, I knew all about you, from the people I… from the people I ran into, you know? I heard about you and everything.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?”

  Murke took a step toward the cot, his hands out in a sort of pleading gesture. “I know it sounds stupid. Ha. I just mean that… well, when I was… what you call, researching, before Mrs. Vitower and everything, I heard a lot about you. How you were so cool, right? And how you could hurt people just as much as you wanted and no more, and how you could even kill people sometimes and get away clean. You had, like, a reputation and everything.”

  “Jesus,” Crowe said.

  “And I remember thinking, right,” he said, stumbling over his words now, “I remember thinking, ha. Wow, that Crowe guy, what a bad-ass, right? What a cool customer. I wish I could be that cool, right?”

  Crowe couldn‘t meet his gaze anymore. Again, he looked away.

  Murke said, “Stupid, right? I know it sounds retarded. But it’s not, like, gay or nothing. I don’t want you to think I’m a fag or something. I’m just saying--”

  “Shut up,” Crowe said.

  “I just mean--”

  Crowe stood up and screamed at him, “Shut the fuck up! Just shut up! Get out!”

  Murke jerked away, startled, but didn’t move for the door. Crowe said again, “Get out!” and Murke started shakily for the door, saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowe, I didn’t mean to offend you,” and then he was out and Crowe fell back on the bed, holding his aching head in his hands.

  Crowe slept for a while. When he woke up, the room was just going dim and the ceiling light snapped on, cold yellow light pushing against the gray.

  He sat up in the cot, feeling cold and miserable. The jug of water was still there. He took a long sip of it, and the feel of it sloshing around in his stomach reminded him of how hungry he was. Did they plan on starving him into submission?

  For a long time he only sat there, shivering and thinking. When the sliver of sky outside the casement window had gone completely black, he stood up and stretched.

  Everything hurt. Not just the wounds in his back and shoulder, but his head and every muscle in his body. The pain killers would’ve been extremely welcome right then.

  He started examining the room. Aside from the cot and the wooden chair, it was completely bare. He picked up the chair, examined it. It would make a decent weapon if the room was a little bigger and he actually had room to swing it around. As it was, though, it wouldn’t do him much good. He set it back down and started pacing around.

  He went to the door and gently tried the knob. Locked. From the other side he could hear someone moving.

  The ceiling light was recessed. He looked up at it. Conceivably, it could be yanked out and… he don’t know… thrown at someone.

  Yeah, that would help.

  He climbed up on the cot and examined the casement window. It was locked tight, but even if it had been open it was way too small to get through. No escape option there.

  Another drink of water, another tight stroll around the room. No ideas. He sat on the wooden chair and looked at the casement window.

  He stood up again, walked around some more, sat back down.

  After what seemed about two hours, he climbed back in the cot and went to sleep again.

  The next time he woke, it had all come clear.

  He got up and went as stealthily as he could to the door and put his ear against it. Someone was snoring, very lightly, which meant that there was only one guard. If there had been two, one of them would surely have kept the other awake.

  The disgusting towel still lay there in the middle of the little room, getting stiffer and more disgusting all the time. Crowe was almost glad it was so cold in the room, otherwise the thing would be smelling pretty bad by now. He picked it up, unmindful of the vomit smeared all over it. He bundled it up over his fist as well as he could so that his knuckles were well-padded.

  He climbed up on the cot and faced the casement window. Tentatively, he pushed his towel-padded fist against it.

  Took a deep breath. Slammed his fist as hard as he could against the glass.

  It shattered, and jagged edges of glass fell to the cot and the floor. A couple pieces shattered loudly, loud enough to wake up the guard outside the door.

  Crowe heard his sudden commotion, heard him fumbling with keys, heard him sliding one into the door lock. Crowe jumped down off the cot, found one vicious-looking piece of glass about the length of his hand. He grabbed it up, unmi
ndful of it slicing into his palm.

  The door burst open and the Russian guy with the metal mask, Kondrashev, came rushing in. He had a .45 in one hand, Crowe’s .45, it looked like, and keys in the other. The fucker was also wearing Crowe’s overcoat.

  Crowe came at him. Kondrashev dropped the keys, started to grip the gun in both hands and get a bead. Crowe threw the towel at his face and even though it was only a towel he reacted as if Crowe had sicced a mad ferret on him and took a split second to swipe it away.

  In that split second Crowe stepped in close, slicing with the piece of glass. It tore open Kondrashev’s throat and blood sprayed out thickly, making a sound almost like a solid object as it hit the floor and the wall.

  Choking, the freak dropped the gun and stumbled backwards, clutching his throat. Crowe wasn’t ready to take chances. He slashed at him again as he half-turned, and cut open a gash along Kondrashev’s neck that opened up and spilled blood everywhere. The freak fell into the open doorway, gurgled, and died.

  Crowe dropped the piece of glass and snatched up the .45, backing up into the room quickly in case there were more coming and checking the clip.

  The clip was full, and no one else showed up.

  After a few seconds, he came out, gun ready. He was in what looked like a long basement room, with a churning furnace going at half-power in one corner and exposed pipes overhead. At the far end of the room, stairs led up.

  He bent over Kondrashev, examined him. He was pretty dead. Roughly, Crowe picked him up enough to peel the coat off him. Then, while he was at it, he yanked off his pants. They looked roughly the same size.

  Crowe pulled on the pants. They were maybe an inch too short, but he wasn’t complaining. The overcoat felt great after having spent the last who-knew-how-long freezing his ass off. Crowe looked at his shoes, but could tell at a glance they were too small. He’d have to barefoot it.

  He started toward the stairs, but on a sudden whim stopped. Bending over the freak again, he worked at the straps on his mask and pulled it off.

  It wasn’t the face of Freddy Krueger or Michael Meyers. It was just a face. Boyish, a little. Normal. Crowe felt oddly disappointed, as if he’d expected some sort of monster under there.

  But no worries, there were still plenty of monsters to be dealt with.

  Up the stairs, cautiously, and into a short hallway. He could already tell it was the church-- there’s something about the atmosphere of a church, even a Protestant one, that’s unmistakable. They feel like elementary schools, thick with the smell of floor wax and oppression. And he felt reasonably certain that they wouldn’t have locked him up in the basement of an elementary school.

  The short hall opened up into the church proper, where a few modest rows of wooden pews were lined up facing the podium. A gigantic portrait of Jesus standing in front of a shimmering waterfall dominated the room.

  The wide double doors that led out were opposite Jesus. Crowe headed for them. Shutting the doors behind him, he heard the lock click.

  Outside, it was as cold as ever, and his bare feet against the gravel started aching immediately. He tried to ignore the pain, headed around to the row of shrubs where he’d hidden the gas can earlier. It was still there.

  He started through the woods, heading in what he hoped was the direction of the motel. There was no sense in staying here now, trying to take them on. The only chance he had was to get away, re-group, come after them later. It was disappointing, but there was no other option.

  He stumbled and tripped through the cold and dark, fell once or twice. Branches and stones cut his feet, and he could feel the blood seeping cold through his toes. He pushed on.

  At last, he came out on the two-lane highway, spotted the motel on the other side, about a hundred feet to the right. Not bad. He could see his car still in the parking lot, under the soft glow of the motel’s security light.

  He started toward it, gun ready, trying not to let the wellspring of hope get out of control, trying not to let himself get sloppy this close to escaping.

  When he got closer, he saw another car in the gravel lot, a dark BMW sedan.

  Two of the killers stood at the trunk—the guy in the yellow parka and Stone.

  Damnit.

  They watched him, smiling, as he walked slowly toward them. Nathan the Parka Man held a shotgun.

  The door to Crowe’s shoddy little room opened, spilling out yellow light across the gravel, and there was Larry the cowboy, also with a shotgun.

  Stone said, “Hello again, Mr. Crowe,” and he actually sounded friendly, not at all threatening. “I’m going to assume you killed Kondrashev?”

  Crowe stopped a few feet away, the gun in his hand. It was happening now, and he’d be lucky to take out two of them before they got him. The shotguns were trump cards.

  Two more figures came out of his room. Welling first, smiling, and then Murke. Welling had a revolver in his hand. Murke was unarmed.

  They all stood there looking at each other for a long moment, fingers tensed on triggers, bodies rigid.

  Welling broke the tension with an easy laugh. He said, “You see how it is, Crowe? This could end pretty badly for you, you realize that, yes? But it doesn’t have to. Honestly.”

  Stone said, “Mr. Welling had ideas about you, Crowe. Larry and I have made known our opposition to them, but… opinions are varied.”

  “To say the least,” Welling said. “But we’ve all come to an agreement. And this is the last time I’ll make this offer to you. If you put down your gun right now and listen to the Word, you could very well live through the night. If you don’t, well… you’ve already been sanctified.”

  Crowe smiled at that. “Sanctified,” he said. “Such a pretty word.”

  Welling said, “Yes, I suppose. But being sanctified isn’t pretty at all, I promise you that. The Lord’s work isn’t always pleasant. So many Christians today, they forget that it isn’t all love and peace. That’s not what the Good Book is about. God makes His judgments, Crowe, and His wrath is horrible to behold.”

  At Welling’s side and slightly behind, Murke stared at Crowe with his googly eyes. His mouth was wet, face slack.

  Crowe said, “Give me Murke and no one else has to die.”

  “You mean, let you kill him? Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Welling looked at Murke, and Murke started, stared back at him as if unsure what Welling was going to say. Murke took a step back, fear flashing across his narrow face.

  Then Welling laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peter,” he said. And to Crowe, “I told you before, Crowe, Peter is protected. And let’s be honest. You’re hardly in a position to offer deals, are you?”

  Larry said, “Damnit, we should just kill the sonofabitch. You know he ain’t gonna listen to reason. He killed Eckstein already, and Nick too. And he got Percy captured over in Memphis. He ain’t gonna listen. We should just kill him.”

  Stone said, “I agree with Larry, Mr. Welling.” Parka Man didn’t say anything.

  Welling shook his head. “You boys need to have more faith. If you just gave up like that every time you were faced with a disappointment, where would you be now? Of all—“

  Larry cut him off, “I’d still be on the road, hitchhiking, killing pretty young girls whenever I felt like it, instead of being stuck here, listening to all kinds of stupid rules and regulations. That’s where I’d be now.”

  Welling looked at him. “You don’t mean that, Larry.”

  Larry grumbled, looked at the gravel.

  “Besides,” Welling said. “We haven’t exhausted all our options yet.” He motioned to Stone and Parka Man. “Open the trunk.”

  Stone fished keys out of his jacket pocket, inserted one into the trunk lock, and popped it open. Inside, someone moaned, and a shadow thrashed weakly. Stone jerked his head at Crowe to come closer, have a look.

  Crowe did, making sure his gun was clear and keeping a watchful eye on Stone and
Parka Man. As Stone laughed softly to himself, Crowe glanced in the trunk.

  Vitower’s hands and feet were hog-tied behind him. His good suit was rumpled and bloody, and a big gash ran across his forehead. A ball was stuffed in his mouth, held in place by a dirty brown scarf. He looked up at Crowe, eyes wide with mystified fear. He made a muffled noise that could have been Crowe’s name.

  Crowe stepped back, away from the trunk.

  Welling said, “Nathan,” and Parka Man shifted the aim of his shotgun from Crowe to Vitower. He cocked it, and the loud ka-shunk sound made Vitower writhe and groan behind the ball in his mouth.

  Smiling, Crowe said, “So this is what you have? If I don’t hook up with your fucked-up church, you’re going to kill Vitower?”

  Welling frowned. “I don’t really see what’s funny about that. Do you think we won’t do it?”

  “I don’t care. Kill him. Knock yourself out. He was next on my list anyway.”

  Stone glared at Welling, said, “You stupid… didn’t I tell you? A complete waste of time.”

  Welling looked at a loss for words. All eyes were on him now, waiting to see what he would do, and Crowe got the distinct impression that his days as leader were fast coming to an end. Palpable hatred rolled off Stone and Larry, Nathan the Parka Man looked ready to swing his shotgun barrel in Welling’s direction at any provocation now.

  The only one still showing signs of loyalty to Welling was Murke. He stood very close to him, like a whipped dog.

  Then Welling made his decision, probably based more on self-preservation than anything else.

  He said, “Fine. Kill Crowe.”

  Stone’s machete was suddenly in his hand. Nathan the Parka Man’s shotgun swung back around in Crowe’s direction. And things started happening fast.

  Crowe was already moving, diving to the right when the shotgun went off and gravel exploded at his feet. Crowe hit the ground with a painful thud, rolled, aimed blind and got off a shot that ricocheted off the BMW’s fender.

  Another ka-shunk, another round shredding the ground inches from his torso. He rolled again, scrambled to his feet, making for the cover of his car. Welling was firing, and shots bounced into the Saturn, shattering the windows and punching holes in the metal.