by Alan Spencer
Turf saw the battle axe coming in the rearview mirror "Get down!"
Turf forced a response-less Mandy down against the seat. She was forced into Freddy's lap. Turf felt the rush of air. He thought the blade had sliced down the side of his body. Warm blood sprayed everywhere. Freddy's head was sheared from his neck. Arteries spewed generously for three seconds before the flow became a steady hot burble. The head was severed so hard it smashed through the driver's side window and was struck by a utility truck driving in the opposite direction of traffic.
Freddy's arm stayed on the wheel, keeping them steady, until his arms went dead. The car was going seventy miles an hour when it swerved off-road. Turf reached for the wheel. Mandy's body blocked him from getting a good grip.
"Mandy, snap out of it!"
Mandy wasn't reacting.
She was frozen.
Before Turf could try anything else to help the situation, the Hummer crashed into a tree. The axe was punching the top of the roof. Triangles and half moons of light filtered into the vehicle with each puncture. It wouldn't be long before that axe tore through and chopped them into an assortment of pieces.
Turf couldn't start the vehicle.
There was only one thing to do.
He picked up Mandy and forced her out of the vehicle. Turf thought if they ran hard, they might find shelter, and a place to hide from the cruel blade.
Mandy couldn't walk on her own. Turf carried her in his arms and stormed away from the Hummer. He only got so many yards out before the axe raised itself up in the sky. It stayed in place for seconds, as if watching them.
Then axe the spun towards them.
The cruel edge was lightening quick.
The cruel edge would be the last thing Turf would ever seen in this world.
A Better Savior
Turf imagined in that split second moment of facing death what type of thinking processes did the battle axe own. Did it chose a part of the body to slice and sever before it scored its killing blow? Or maybe the steel didn't own any capacity of cognitive function? Could it simply kill whoever was in its way like a mindless savage?
"Hit the deck!"
Turf saw the man who was standing in front of a parked Land Rover. Turf did as he was told, shoving Mandy down with him.
Turf glanced up and noticed the man in a low-rent brown leisure suit clutch onto a Mossberg pump action shotgun. The suit beheld the axe suspended in the air for a moment before raising up the shotgun and taking aim.
"Hey you, BATTLE AXE! Fuck you!"
The shotgun barked its fury. The axe took every hit. Ping. Ping. Ping. The battle axe was thrown back in a flurry of sparks. The bullets forced the axe to spin right into a live power line. Jolts of blue electricity jolted the weapon. The axe vibrated against the surge of voltage. Then the axe was thrown from the sky and landed blade-first in the dirt.
The axe didn't move.
"In the car now," the stranger commanded. "We've got minutes, tops, before the battle axe awakens. We need to get some distance between us and them. I know who's caused this, and I know how to end this mess. But you're going to have to come with me and ask questions on the way, and only on the way. Scoot your feet, kids."
Turf thanked God someone knew what was happening.
He thanked God someone could save them.
Turf forced Mandy back onto her feet. This time Mandy reacted. She could finally run on her own. Everybody piled into the Land Rover.
Turf watched in the side mirror the axe half-buried in the dirt.
It still didn't move.
How long that would last, he didn't know.
Little Time to Explain
Turf asked the white-haired man who could've doubled for an English professor every question in the book about the axe, not to mention how the man had miraculously appeared out of nowhere to save their asses. Answers would soon be coming. Turf remained in the back seat of the Land Rover with Mandy, and held her close. They both needed every comfort they could get, while learning the truth about the battle axe.
"My name's Paul Whitman. Most people just call me Whitman. I teach history at Longview Community College. My team and I, from the campus, have been tracking this battle axe for many years now. Like me, they know the truth. Most think the battle axe is a legend. Today has proven the battle axe is very real. It's killed before, only in lesser numbers. Nobody has used it to its full potential, until Dalton Parker came along.
"Your boss, or I should say, ex-boss, is into some kinky shit. The Parker family, and many of Shady Glenn's members, to put it simply, are Satanists. Well-funded Satanists, to make things worse. They slaughter animals, draw pentagrams in blood, and dance around naked and enjoy orgies on the golf course late at night on the first and third Thursdays of the month. I've seen Dalton and his followers wear goat heads, sacrifice virgins, and preach their dark gospels. There's things you can't un-see in this life, and Dalton's cult are one of them.
"Dalton's thing is collecting memorabilia from murders throughout history. Don't ask me how he got a hold of them, but he's got the barrels Jeffrey Dahmer used to stuff corpses in when he cannibalized those poor people. The weirdo owns a pair of Lizzie Borden's panties. It's nothing to get excited about, because they're granny panties. He's got teeth impressions of the Donner Party. Supposedly, he has one of Jack the Ripper's killing blades. Authenticating those items must be a bitch. He pays top dollar for real life dark memorabilia.
"Somewhere down the line, he somehow got a hold of that battle axe that's been chasing you. I've had colleagues from abroad, who've been keeping constant tabs on the battle axe's movements. We've tried to get it back for safe keeping, but some bat shit crazy asshole always manages to come along and take it first. Long story short, our collective intelligence pointed as Dalton Parker being the new owner of this battle axe.
"This battle axe would be the ultimate piece for his murderous collection. The axe has a long history of killing. Steel present in our battle axe was used by the Greeks and Romans for their executions. Commoners were beheaded by Nordic countries with steel present in that battle axe. Anne Boleyn was decapitated by some of that steel. Ethiopian emperors used the same steel in their executions. Some say the steel was present in the weapon used to kill Saint Paul in 1887. Up to the 17th century in England, steel in the guillotines used in beheadings are in that battle axe. Bayonets, cannons, muskets, machine guns, this steel is very well traveled. The steel has been melted down, re-forged, recreated, re-crafted, and utilized for hundreds and thousands of killings. Any executions early-on in our world's history, that steel has survived it all.
"If you wants facts, or hard science, on what I'm about to say next, forget it. Trust your eyes, and use your common sense. Whatever's in that axe is pure evil, and it knows how to get around. It only wants to keep on killing. The steel has spilled so much blood over the centuries, it has gained certain powers. It craves blood, death, and carnage. With so many deaths under its belt, the axe craves blood. Many have died playing with such dark forces. It's all magic and evil.
"Dalton is playing with such dark forces. When he smears a person's blood on the axe blades, the axe comes to life, compelled by this energy, magic, bloodlust, whatever you wish to call it, to slaughter that person. It will stop at nothing to do so. Dalton is the battle axe's master. It will protect him at any cost. It will obey him at any cost. There are two ways to stop the axe. One, you will have to die, Mandy."
Turf broke from his job as listener to voice his outrage. "How do you know about my sister?"
"I've been watching Dalton. I saw what happened this morning, and I did whatever I could to intervene, but it was too late."
"You son-of-a-bitch. Jenny died this morning! You telling me she didn't have to?"
Whitman did his best to calm him.
"Hear me out! I tried to save that poor woman. It wasn't possible. Look, your sister doesn't have to die. That's the good news. The other option, the one I much prefer, is to take out the mas
ter. If we kill Dalton, we stop the axe. Your sister gets to live. And if we get the battle axe back, we can hide it from the wrong people so no more blood has to be shed. That's a goal we can both share."
Several cars had sped up to them. From each side, flat-bed trucks and jeeps threatened to drive them off the road.
"It's Dalton, and his band of assholes!" Whitman announced. "I have guns under the front seats. Grab them, and wait. If they threaten to shoot us, we have to be able to return the favor."
Turf was taking in the four vehicles. Each were packed with golf club regulars. Upper class rich golfers. They weren't adorned in their club jackets anymore. They wore robes with satanic symbols drawn in blood. Many wore goat and boar heads, each featuring thick and twisted horns. The ugly woman at the wheel of one of the jeeps wore a mask made of stitched together flesh. Others were clad in black leather and chains. Along the sides of each vehicle, "666" and pentagrams were drawn in dark brown blood.
"I don't understand," Whitman said, venting his frustration. "They're not trying to kill us. I don't see that Dalton prick. And look, a few of them are filming. That must mean..."
"Look, the battle axe!" Mandy shouted. "It's back. It's coming right for us!"
Up from the sky, the battle axe was a implement of steel and speed.
"Hold on! I'm plowing through that truck up ahead of us. I don't care. I'll crush whoever falls off that truck bed under my tires. Goddamn Satanists!"
Whenever Whitman tried to speed up, two goat-headed, bare-breasted women unloaded AK-47's in their direction. Another set of men, one wearing a pig head, blasted a giant .357 Magnum, and another guy, in a leather mask, shot arrows. The Land Rover was taking the punishment.
"Shit! They got us where they want us. If they unload anymore bullets, the Land Rover will be done. It doesn't matter what we do."
Turf watched Whitman turn over ideas and choices in his mind. The man's eyes were stone cold serious. Turf imagined the guy's history class at the community college must be a fucking trip.
Whitman had a walkie. He barked into it, "Need back-up. We're on Old Shady Road. Soon, we'll be approaching...wait, wait a minute!"
"What is it?" Turf and Mandy demanded.
"I see what these "666" bozos are up to. They're making me go a certain direction. I see their game. Until I come up with something else, I can't fight against them."
"It doesn't help that axe is right on our asses," Turf said. "They hold the cards."
"Dalton Parker holds the cards," Whitman corrected. "If he wanted that axe to strike us down, it would've already happened. That battle axe can move at the speed of light."
Mandy kept shaking her head. "Then what is that bastard doing to us?"
Whitman couldn't say it too loud.
Turf caught the words under his breath.
"They're forcing us in the direction of the interstate. Dalton wants to see his prized battle axe in action."
Blood on the Interstate
Whitman was correct. The four cars boxing them were trying to force them onto the interstate. Fifteen minutes of nervous driving later, they couldn't do anything but turn onto the interstate. Turf thought it over, and realized Dalton had planned this right down to the fine detail. It was the lunch hour. The interstate would be busy with cars.
I-291 was going to be a bloodbath.
Whitman did his best to steer. His white-knuckled approach was working, so far. He sped up, launching ahead of the four vehicles.
Police sirens blared in the near distance.
"I guess truck loads of goat head-wearing idiots raised some alarms," Whitman said. "Great. More people for the battle axe."
Turf did his best to keep his wits. Dalton's cult were filming with cameras in several of the vehicles behind them. When those trucks veered close enough to them, Turf could hear their unholy chants.
"O' holy axe anoint us with the blood of the innocent. Anoint Mother Earth with the blood of fools. O' holy axe, SPREAD YOUR DEATH TO THE MASSES!"
Whitman's eyes bulged. "Here comes the axe! Strap on your seat belts. It's going to be a bloody ride!"
The Land Rover leaped to eighty-seven miles an hour. The axe was already slashing, stabbing, and viscously mutilating. The battle axe popped tires and caused fast-moving vehicles to do forward flips, smashing into neighboring cars, and landing back down onto the interstate in flaming, crunched up pieces. The battle axe hacked up a semi-truck in twenty seconds flat, sending hundreds of pieces up into the air.
Police cars by the dozens were incoming. The axe made short work of them. Smashing through back windows, officers were decapitated and relieved of their extremities. Windows were blasted with red. Glass was shattered by high-flying extremities gushing and bursting with crimson. Engines were torn asunder. Hoods erupted in orange and black balls of explosions. Steel and flesh slammed into the pavement.
A bold helicopter from News Channel 8 hovered over the wreckage. Anchorwoman Casey Jenkins was hanging from the edge of the helicopter with a microphone.
"Dumb bitch," Mandy said. "You're only going to get yourself killed."
"No!" Whitman shouted. "That'll only bring more people to the scene. This is all going to hell. I didn't want more people to die."
"Too late, buddy," Turf growled. "Just what were you exactly planning on doing to stop this axe? Drive away from it until we fall off the edge of the earth?"
The battle axe bolted upwards, as if magnetized to the chopper, and sliced off the propellers in one lunge. The propellers flew into a nearby retirement home complex. Turf couldn't watch the end result of that collision.
Before the helicopter crashed down into a car lot north of the interstate, anchorwoman Casey Jenkins got the axe right between the legs. Everything between her pubis and head turned into a broken piñata exploded with C-4.
Two breasts and a spleen smacked against their window.
"Gawd-damn," Whitman grunted in disgust. He turned on the window wipers. "Good thing the bitch was flat, or else her tits would still be blocking my view."
"What?" Mandy gasped. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry! Things aren't going the way I wanted. That was wrong. I'm not in my right mind."
It was in that moment Turf didn't think Whitman, and his supposed group of community college anti-Satanists, were the real deal.
"I asked you a good question earlier," Turf said. "What was your plan in dealing with this battle axe?"
"Fine, yes, the plan," Whitman blathered. "Getting you to a secluded spot, first, then myself and my colleagues would put all of our powers to fight it and try to keep Mandy alive in the process."
"Well, seclusion isn't an option on the interstate. People are dead, and they're going to keep dying. But I have an idea. How fast can you get your people together? And I seriously hope they're not a bunch of bumbling jackasses."
"They're not. We have many powers at our disposal."
"You're talking like you're some kind of cult."
Whitman smiled. "We are a cult. We use the power of white magic to--"
"Sounds like we're nice and fucked, aren't we? White magic? Seriously. You going to rub some stones together and pray to mother earth to protect us?"
Turf didn't trust this man one bit. Paul Whitman was a joke. He might as well be wearing a goat head and chanting bullshit songs, like Dalton's crew. This was his chance to save his sister's life. If what Paul was saying was true, and if they killed Dalton, and they hid the battle axe, this could stop, and Mandy could survive. Turf didn't need a fancy degree, or any magic, to survive the battle axe.
Turf grabbed the 9mm under the front seat. He put it to Whitman's head. "You're going to take the first exit, and hang a right."
"Teddy!" Mandy screamed. "What are you doing? He's trying to help us."
"Then he can help us, while we help ourselves. If we can get one of those goons to tell us where Dalton's hiding, we can track him down, kill him, and end this. No more car chases with an axe. I don't want a
nybody else to die today, but that isn't up to us. The more we drive, the more people will die. If we stop driving, we force those cult people to handle this on our terms."
Whitman thought it over. "Put the gun down, friend. You're right. It's too late to keep this situation contained. It's time for a new plan."
Whitman scrambled for his walkie on the passenger side seat. "Everybody, change of plan. We're on 35th Street. Our plan hasn't exactly gone down the way we intended. A friend of mine has a better idea. We make a stand," Whitman looked around, and his face writhed with intensity, "at Steele's Hardware Supply! Everybody come down with everything you got! Let's save some lives."
Turf put the gun down.
Whitman made the right exits and turns and eventually sped into the parking lot of Steele's Hardware Supply.
The battle would soon begin.
White Magic
Whitman steered into Steele's Hardware Store. The parking lot was half-full of cars. A worker was helping someone load a truckload of 2x4's at one entrance. Another customer was piling heaps of sod into a pick-up. Nobody had any clue as to what was coming, nor did Turf. Once the Land Rover parked in the middle of the lot, Whitman demanded them to get out.
"Hurry! The battle axe is right behind us. Dalton's cult will be right on us too. I have a feeling Dalton will be joining his fellows. Those who practice the dark arts hate us."
Turf was confused. "Why is that? Don't they hate everybody?"
"They hate us, especially because we practice white magic. Whenever one of them sets an evil spell on the world, we know it. We can feel it in our souls, in our bones, and we can sense it on the air. We throw out spells to counter their evil. That's why the world hasn't turned into a living hell. Without us, we'd all be some sacrifice to their gods. Every town, every corner, would be a boiling pot of evil."
