HARBINGER Deliver Us to Evil

by Ralston, Duncan

  Contents

  HARBINGER

  Copyright

  PART 2: DELIVER US TO EVIL

  1 – WAKE UP FROM THE AMERICAN DREAM

  2 – AN HONEST DAY'S WORK

  3 – EAT THE RICH

  4 – MAGIC WORDS

  5 – THE BROTHERHOOD OF KEK

  6 – THE GREAT GOD MOLOCH

  STAY TUNED FOR PART 2

  MORE FROM SWP

  HARBINGER

  Duncan Ralston

  SHADOW WORK PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2017 by Duncan Ralston

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Also by Duncan Ralston

  Salvage (novel)

  Gristle & Bone (collection)

  Wildfire (novel)

  Woom (Black Cover novel)

  Where the Monsters Live (novella)

  The Method (novel)

  Get this FREE thriller when you join www.duncanralston.com!

  PART ONE:

  Deliver Us to Evil

  1 – WAKE UP FROM

  THE AMERICAN DREAM

  "AFTERNOON, TOWER. THIS is Morning Skies 83E, holding on runway 18 Right. We are ready for takeoff—"

  Captain Marcus Mills's words caught in his throat. He tried to cry out but something squeezed his larynx, choking him. Gasping for breath, he blinked at the runway ahead through the windscreen, stars flooding his vision. The panels of buttons and knobs and switches and monitors seemed suddenly alien to him, their function just out of grasp, as the end of the tarmac loomed ever closer, the great rumbling beast roaring forward.

  "Clear for take-off, 83E," the tower controller said, oblivious to Marcus's silent agony. "Looks like sunny skies ahead…"

  The yoke pulled back on its own, although he'd never relied on autopilot even at cruising altitude, and the great rumbling beast left the ground, roaring up and up before banking right into the wide blue empty.

  Fingers scrabbling at his tie, Marcus Mills turned to his copilot, mouth opening in a voiceless plea.

  The overpowering stench of burning flesh struck his nostrils. The woman in the copilot's seat was on fire, but it wasn't First Officer Smyth. It was Felicia, and in some surreal, cruel twist of the knife, Felicia wore her wedding dress.

  "You killed us, Marcus," his ex-wife croaked, breathing fire, her limbs charred, white lace in blackened tatters. Flaming strands of hair floated, crackling around her pustulating scalp like Chinese lanterns. "You killed us all…"

  He wanted to argue, to tell her she was still alive, they were all still alive but even if he could speak he knew it wasn't true. Everyone on this flight was already dead: the passengers, the crew. The pall of death hung in the recycled air as thickly as the stench of her cremation. Captain Marcus Mills was the sole survivor, piloting Morning Skies Flight 83E into oblivion.

  Alarms began to blare, drawing his attention to their pilotless flight, angry red and blue lights flashing, their meaning utterly foreign. The plane swung into a sudden, sharp descent, throwing him against the yoke. Felicia's charred remains sprung violently from her seat and exploded against the instrument panel in a burst of sparks and black ash.

  As the ash settled, a wide, flat mountain broke free of the clouds. Marcus squinted into the sun, trying to get a better look at what appeared to be their destination. The black peak continued to widen, as if it continued to rise above the cloud cover despite the clouds remaining at the same height.

  Either it was an optical illusion or the mountain was moving.

  Marcus gripped his tie, pulling on it like a parachute's ripcord, desperate for air. As they hurtled closer he saw black stalks like bare, limbless trees jutting up from the top of the mountain. When the stalks swirled and squirmed, thrashing at the clouds, he understood what they really were.

  They were tentacles.

  Mind reeling from the realization, he snapped awake.

  Back to reality.

  Back on the ground.

  But the pain of that goddamned, godawful Dream with a capital D lingered even as he opened his eyes to see a blurry black shape towering over him, and he grasped weakly at it, desperate to breathe.

  "Wakey wakey, nigger," a man softly cooed.

  For a moment he wasn't sure he'd actually woken but he clutched the boot, smooth and toed by American steel. Hard, corrugated rubber pushed harder on his throat. Boot polish and chewing gum stung his nostrils.

  The man standing on his throat wore a rent-a-cop's uniform, the shirt as white as his clenched teeth and just barely whiter than his pallor, some security company's logo—an octopus or squid, of all things—sewn onto the lapel. Steroid-muscled neck and arms red from the sun, pale head shaved bald. With his single earring, he looked like Mr. Clean. Vicious, close-set blue eyes stared down with pure malice over a nose mashed by previous violence.

  Marcus tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled squawk. He felt his tongue squirm in his mouth, useless as a worm drying on pavement.

  Don't fight it, a voice whispered in his ear. Just let it happen. You want this. You deserve it.

  He wasn't at all surprised the voice was his own.

  "Sounds like he's trying to say his life matters," a woman beyond Marcus's line of sight joked, and laughed like a hyena.

  The boot stamped harder as its musclebound owner leaned toward him. "Is that what you were trying to say? Huh?"

  Marcus shook his head as best he could with minimal mobility, vision graying.

  "Get off him!"

  Ernie Reyes's voice snatched Marcus back from the sweet bliss of oblivion, bringing the world back into sharp focus. "We've got rights, man!" This was classic Reyes, a man who in the three years he'd been Marcus's street brother had always seemed to care more about the rights of others than he did his own life.

  Mr. Clean's grin widened, eyes flashing with glee. He gave one final thrust before releasing the boot from Marcus's neck.

  Marcus rolled away from his musty sleeping bag onto the wet pavement, coughing and gasping for air.

  "Let that be a lesson to you, ya stinking shitbags." The head guard stepped back from Marcus's squalid sleeping area. "Consider yourselves evicted."

  "Says who?"

  Marcus didn't see Buck, but he recognized his friend's cracking voice.

  Mr. Clean turned toward the mouth of the alley, cold eyes gleaming with delight. "Well, well, well, what have we got here? The jig, the spic, and Victor-fucking-Victoria."

  His throat raw, Marcus raised himself up on an elbow to get a look at their assailants: three guards in all, including the woman, her dull, frizzy blonde hair tied in a bun, her eyes as vicious as her partner's.

  Marcus caught the eye of Mr. Clean's other partner, thinking the man who looked like Thomas Magnum if Tom Selleck was a black man might at least have something to say about the racial slurs. But the guard's face remained passive, even as he grabbed Reyes in an armlock and Reyes squirmed and whimpered.

  "I said, says who?" Buck asked again.

  Got to admire the kid's courage, Marcus thought. Stupid as it is.

  "Says Mr. Fox Wentworth, that's who," Mr. Clean snarled. "As of today, this alley belongs to him. And that means you cock-a-roaches need to scatter."

  The other guards snickered as Mr. Clean swaggered toward Buck. To his credit the young trans kid, barely out of his teens, didn't flinch until the security guard chest-thumped him back
a good three feet into the wet trash bins, and his breath exploded from his lungs in a startled cry. Trash bags went scattering, and Buck sprawled over them before leaping back to his feet, bits of rotting vegetables and small bones sticking to his clothes.

  "Fuck you, bro!"

  Mr. Clean laughed in his face.

  "Forget it, Buck. It's not worth it," Reyes grunted, still struggling against Black Magnum's arm lock. The mustached guard pushed him forward, and Reyes stumbled toward Mr. Clean, staggering out of the cruel guard's reach before he could receive further abuse. He smoothed his dusty flannel shirt. Marcus had always admired his friend's eagerness to maintain decency and order even as the world disintegrated around him.

  Mr. Clean pointed the index and pinky finger of his right hand at each of them in turn. "You fucksticks better not be here when we get back. Or I'll scrape you off my boot like dog shit."

  He laughed uproariously at his attempt at wit and turned to saunter toward the street. His cronies fell in line behind him, stepping through grimy puddles from last night's rain.

  When they were gone, Buck held out a hand and helped Marcus to his feet. Marcus rubbed his throat but it did nothing to subside the pain in his trachea. Reyes had already started gathering his things.

  Buck looked incredulous. "You're not actually leaving, are you?"

  "You heard the guy." Kneeling on the wet pavement, Reyes began rolling up his dusty sleeping bag. "You wanna stick around, act like a big man, that's your business."

  "What do you mean 'act like'?" Buck snapped. "You got something to say to me, bro?"

  "You know I didn't mean it like that." Reyes spoke softly with his eyes downcast, in a tone he'd most likely used with troubled students. "Don't take your frustration out on me."

  Marcus's throat was still raw when he spoke. "What's this shit all about?"

  Buck shrugged, seemingly calmed. "Must be a rally or something."

  "Since when does the Klan venture out this far west?" Marcus sat up and rummaged through his dusty denim knapsack for the bottle of mouthwash he hoped he hadn't finished last night. His mouth tasted like a cloaca.

  "It's ain't the Klan but it might as well be," Buck said with narrowed eyes. "That rich motherfucker Wentworth is running for President, didn't you hear? Says he's gonna run out all the Muslims and illegal Mexicans if he gets elected. First they came for the 'M's, and then they came for the LGBTQs…"

  Marcus found the bottle of green, spearmint flavored liquid and swallowed the last two gulps. The cooling menthol soothed the pain in his throat; the alcohol slaked a bit of his craving. He'd have to scrounge up enough change for something stronger today. The damned Dream felt so much closer this morning, like an alternate Earth barely obscured by a flimsy curtain. Enough alcohol would thicken the barrier. Or so he hoped.

  Weird seeing Felicia this time, he thought. Maybe I should call. See if she's okay.

  But he knew he wouldn't do that. Shouldn't. Couldn't. The last time he'd called, she'd threatened him with a restraining order scant moments before her new husband—an N.Y.P.D. Sergeant, of all goddamn things—had taken the phone from her, calmly told Marcus to seek alcohol counselling—if not for himself for his daughter, Katrina—and hung up.

  Reyes had rolled up the blue tarp they used to cover their sleeping area, and was trying to stuff it into a frayed garbage bag. Even Buck had given up, packing his few belongings into a small duffel.Marcus couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, who'd likely been pushed around his whole life.

  Behind Marcus, someone cleared their throat. All three men living in the alley behind the Allen's Rub Convention Center turned, and Marcus was sure he wasn't the only one expecting further trouble.

  "I hope I'm not interrupting."

  A well-dressed Hispanic man in his mid- to late-fifties stood near them, his salt and pepper hair tousled by a warm breeze from the bay. He held a shiny leather briefcase and wore a sharp, pinstriped suit above a pair of sneakers, a combination only the extremely wealthy seemed permitted. Even the high-priced attorneys Morning Skies had sicced on Marcus wouldn't have had the cache to pull off such a fashion faux pas. The man practically reeked of money.

  Buck threw his bag over his scrawny shoulder. "We're leaving, okay? You don't have to rub it in."

  "I'm not here to ask you to leave. In fact, I could use your help."

  "I suppose you're looking for day laborers," Reyes quipped.

  Buck smirked. "Yeah, or some spare change."

  The rich man laughed gregariously, holding out his hands amiably. "I come in peace, gentlemen. I'm looking for three good men to stand in the audience for Fox Wentworth's rally. You fellas are a little rougher around the edges than much of our crowd, but all we need are asses in seats."

  "Not interested," Buck snapped, but Marcus figured the kid had already been won over when the man had called him a "gentleman."

  "I'm paying fifty dollars a head." His gaze fell on each of them in turn. When he reached Marcus he held his eyes a moment before moving on, as if knowing Marcus would be a hard sell.

  "Why didn't you say so? I'm Buck." Buck approached the rich man and stuck out a hand. The man in the suit surprised Marcus by accepting Buck's hand and shaking it vigorously.

  "Pleasure."

  Marcus thought the smile the man gave Buck looked like a politician's.

  Reyes leaped up from his stuffed trash bags to get in line behind Buck. "I want fifty dollars."

  The man turned his baby-kisser's smile on Marcus. "What about you?"

  "No thanks."

  "No?"

  "How about hell no? Wentworth's a lying, bigoted trash heap. I wouldn't stand for that piece of shit if he was singing 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'"

  The man eyed him a moment longer as if hoping he'd break, before turning to the others. "Here you are, gentlemen." He reached into his pocket, brought out a billfold, and Marcus watched him count out five Jacksons. "You'll have to break it yourself, all I've got are twenties and hundreds."

  Guy's gotta be nuts flashing his money around like that, Marcus thought.

  Reyes and Buck both reached for the cash. Buck squinted sideways, and Reyes backed down. Buck was small, but a scrapper. Marcus and Reyes had seen him fight guys twice his size and win, back when Buck could still afford to stack his hormones with anabolics.

  "We'll get some loosies." Buck took the money, counted out two bills, and handed them to Reyes. "Make change."

  The well-dressed man handed them passes in clear plastic sleeves attached to lanyards. "If they give you any trouble at the gate, tell them Americo Morales sent you."

  The name meant nothing to Marcus, but Reyes looked like the man shit solid gold. "Are you serious? The Americo Morales? It's an honor, sir!"

  Reyes stuck out a hand and Morales shook it vigorously without hesitation.

  "I used to be a science teacher," Reyes told him.

  "Thank you for your service."

  Reyes looked over at Marcus. "Mr. Morales has been funding aerospace and environmental programs since, what? The mid-'80s?"

  "Late-'80s," Morales corrected him. "I didn't make my first million until I was twenty-one."

  "Ah, the Reagan Era." Marcus leaned back against the damp concrete wall. "How many working folk did you exploit to make all that money? In today's numbers, I mean. One laborer per thousand, you think?"

  Morales scrutinized Marcus. "God loves a cynic."

  Both Buck and Reyes shook their heads at Marcus, the treacherous fucks so eager to suck up now that they'd been paid.

  "Mr. Morales is a philanthropist, Marcus," Reyes said.

  Marcus had seen his share of moneyed people patting themselves on the back for their rare charitable contributions when he'd lived in New York, and when he'd flown private Lears for the rich and famous before landing a more stable but lower-paid gig with Morning Skies. "Philanthropists are the Born Agains of the ultra-rich. So what sins are you atoning for, Mister Morales?"

  "What sin are you punishing yo
urself for?" the rich man countered with a sardonic twinkle in his dark eyes.

  Marcus's jaw tightened.

  Morales approached him. "Sir, I've been fortunate enough to be wealthy when a lot of Americans—hell, most of the world—live under unconscionable conditions. Now much of my wealth came down to hard work, but I'll be first to admit a lot of it was dumb luck. I had the right idea at the right time. It's my duty—no, my honor—to give back to people like you." He turned to the others. "Like you. So you can get back on your feet, dust yourself off, and maybe make a lucky moment of your own."

  Buck actually fucking clapped, the rat bastard.

  Reyes beamed at the man. "If you ever decide to run for President, Mr. Morales, you got my vote."

  "I'm no politician. But thank you. I appreciate that. Now you'd better hurry up, the rally is about to begin."

  Morales clapped the two of them on their backs, ushering them along. He stood there watching them go, his back to Marcus, until they'd disappeared beyond the corner, where workers set up wooden barriers and pylons, and a crowd had gathered.

  Marcus looked at the briefcase at the rich man's feet and wondered what was inside. Business papers? Political pamphlets? Stacks of cash?

  "So you're in bed with Wentworth? How does that work?"

  The rich man turned back to him, eyebrows raised quizzically. "Excuse me?"

  "You, a Hispanic American. Working with Fox Wentworth, textbook racist."

  "Politics makes strange bedfellows."

  "What does that mean?"

  Morales indicated Marcus's rumpled sleeping bag. "May I?"

  "It's a free country. For now," he added darkly.

  The rich man sat cross-legged on the blanket. Marcus thought of how many bedfarts it had absorbed since he'd gotten it from the Mission, and how many it must have endured before that, and grinned.

  "Fox Wentworth and I share… certain political values."

  "You mean he's giving you a big fat tax break."

  "Well, there is that. Which will enable me to create more jobs, and give more money to worthy causes—"