Black Creek

by Dan Kemp

  Minutes later, he arrived at the front gate of Black Creek, his motorcycle rumbling beneath him. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the dark clouds overhead still threatened. Ten other men on bikes awaited him, Kristof among them. Two armored vans roared to life as he approached, and Kristof hopped off his motorcycle.

  "Boss," he said. He wore his usual green bandanna and black eyepatch.

  "Kristof," Dorian answered.

  "Just finished reviewing the plan with the men. We hitting this compound for ourselves, or is this another favor for the Disciples?" The eyebrow over Kristof's one good eye raised slightly.

  "Yeah. We'll meet them half a mile from the place. Something in it for us, too. You ever herd cattle?"

  Kristof laughed. "No."

  Dorian shrugged and revved his engine. "We'll figure it out." He whistled and waved at the guards atop the gate, which soon began to slide open. Dorian led the party out through the gates with a whoop.

  They found the Disciples on the side of the road after a brief ride. There were five of them, each wearing the same dinosaur skin leather. At least one seemed to be a woman, he noted with some interest.

  Dorian came to a stop nearby, settling his feet on the pavement as his bike continued to hum. The light rain fell, rustling and splashing on the trees all around him. The man at the head of the group came over to meet him. It was the same one he had spoken to in town a week before.

  "Dorian," the man who called himself James said, an unnerving smile, as ever, on his face.

  "Alright," Dorian said. "Ready?"

  "We are," he replied. "James has learned even more of the heresy of these ones." His smile did not falter, but his eyes were burning with a fury. "Dorian and his men will get us inside, and he will let us punish their leaders personally."

  "Fine by me. As long as I get the cows. People gotta eat."

  "As promised. And more, for your friendship." He reached inside his robe and produced a slip of paper. "A blessed message, this one. He will return very soon."

  Dorian took the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "Thanks. Let's go."

  The compound, sitting on the bank of the same river which flowed past Black Creek, was larger than he had expected. Most of the buildings inside looked like normal suburban homes. The perversion of it all struck him, and Dorian wondered if any of the original occupants were even still alive, and if they knew what had become of their homes.

  Fencing made of scavenged chain link and intertwined bits of tin sheeting encircled the whole place, and two enormous circular tents stood out like a couple of swollen boils—otherwise you might mistake all of this for a peaceful neighborhood from a simpler time.

  Dorian and his men idled on the side of the road, just out of sight of the gate. Kristof lowered his binoculars and turned to him. "Three guards at the gate. Automatic rifles. Can't see anybody else yet."

  Dorian turned, catching the eye of the driver of one of the armored vans. He pointed toward the gate and the man nodded before pulling out onto the road and speeding forward out of sight. Dorian waited a moment before following, and the rest fell in behind him.

  He watched as the van tore through the thin metal gate and slid forward on the dirt, its wheels now locked up on the torn metal beneath it. The roar of all the engines around him obscured any other sound. Dorian slid his bike to a stop against the fence and stepped off, taking hold of the rifle hanging at his side.

  Bullets were bouncing off the side of the van, which sat in place spinning its wheels. Dorian took aim and fired a short burst at the first person he saw, a woman with chains hanging from her wrists. She went down, and the two men near her spun toward him in surprise. More gunfire rang out from behind him, and one of the guards managed to get a shot off. Both guards hit the ground, as did one of the men behind Dorian.

  Church members were spilling from the various shacks and other buildings in the area as his men spread out. Screams and gunshots echoed through the air. Dorian fired a few bursts from his rifle and hit a young man in rags in a small crowd coming from a nearby brick house. The others scrambled away and he fired after them, his shots off target this time.

  He jogged up onto the porch and peeked through the screen door. It was dark inside. Dorian pulled open the door and slipped inside, scanning first left with his rifle. As he turned to the right there was a noise, and he dropped to the floor on his hands and knees. His rifle strap slipped off his neck and the gun tumbled a few feet away on the floor just as a shotgun blast went over his head and tore the wall behind him to shreds. He pushed with his legs to launch himself forward and threw an elbow into his attacker's gut. The man, who had long, knotted hair and wore crimson rags, bent double from the blow.

  Dorian grappled with him and the man fought, clawing at Dorian's chest and neck. He was stronger than Dorian expected, perhaps he even had some training. The ragged man strained against him and landed a few heavy hits on Dorian’s kidney and ribs. One particularly well-placed strike allowed the man to slip both his arms around Dorian and pin his arms to his sides.

  Dorian grunted and put a foot back, lifting his hip and driving a knee into the man's groin. The man yelped and retched. Dorian freed his arms and planted one hand against the man's throat, pinning him to the wall. With his other hand he reached for the revolver, then planted it at the man’s forehead. His eyes went wide and then blank when Dorian pulled the trigger.

  Dorian let him go and wiped a few spots of blood from his face as the man slumped to the floor. He pressed a hand to his ribs, which still ached. Outside, he could hear the sounds of an ongoing battle. This house, which apparently had been repurposed as some sort of dormitory, was empty. He retrieved his rifle once again and went back outside.

  There was no fighting happening here, though a handful of bodies littered the dirt. He followed the gunshots, which led him to the entrance to the closest circular tent. He ran beneath the low-hanging entryway just as the shooting stopped.

  He was surprised to discover that the tent actually surrounded a large circular metal building. The tent served merely to form a covered walkway around the perimeter. A short distance around this path, he found a few of his men.

  Kristof was there, rifle trained on two kneeling men. One, a massive, muscular man with no shirt, wore chains at his wrists and stared at his captors with furious eyes. The other, a smaller man who wore a crimson robe, had a more impassive but observant look. As Dorian rounded the corner, the man's eyes, which were an unnatural neon green, glanced over at him.

  "Looks like we've got their leader here, boss," Kristof said, taking notice of his arrival.

  "Good, I've got a couple questions," Dorian said, stopping in front of them. He reached down and took hold of one of the big man's chains. "What's the deal with this shit?"

  The man didn't respond, only glowered back at him, so Dorian thew his hand back on the dirt and stomped on it. He let out a howl and tried to get to his feet, but Kristof hit him with the butt of his rifle.

  The robed man, judging by his expression, still didn't appear to have much of an opinion on the situation. "He doesn't talk much," he said. "The chains are a symbol of his breaking free from the shackles of our former lives, and the literal bonds placed upon him at his initiation."

  Dorian turned to him. "And what are you?"

  "Where he and his like are the hands of the Church, we are its mouth. It is we who receive James's word, and spread it."

  Dorian crouched down to the man's eye level, then yanked back his hood, exposing his thinning gray hair. "So you're telling me you know James himself?"

  "Of course," the man said, with a smug smile.

  "You don't know shit. And you better fucking hope the real James doesn't get to the rest of you before I do."

  There was no break in the priest's assured smirk, not even a hint of doubt. "Drag them outside. Let the Disciples deal with them." A few of his men did as he said. The robed man followed quietly, while the larger man struggled until Kristof struck aga
in him with his rifle.

  "Look at this shit," Kristof said after the two were gone, indicating a small metal flap in the wall of the building, which looked like a mail slot. Kristof lifted the flap. "Look inside."

  Dorian knelt and put his face to the slot. It was a single round room, with beds positioned all around the perimeter. There were what seemed to be about two dozen people inside, men and women, young and old. All wore gray rags. Some sat on their beds, while most were huddled together in the center of the room. As his eyes came into view through the hole every other set of eyes inside was fixed on his.

  He stood back up. "The fuck is that?"

  "Some sort of jail, maybe. There's a door over there, big metal door locked tight."

  "Anybody find a key?"

  "Not yet. I'll look,” Kristof said.

  Dorian made his way to the exit and ducked back under the awning. A light rain still continued to fall, and the dirt was becoming muddy in spots. Near the gate, the two captives were still being held at gunpoint. The Disciples were just entering the compound. Dorian walked around the outside of the tent, rifle at the ready, but there was no-one else to be seen.

  The other tent was much the same, and a peek inside one of the slots showed a similar number of captives inside.

  Fucking hell.

  Dorian exited this tent and worked his way around. On this, the far side of the tents, there were another four or five brick homes, and a strange square shaped structure which had metal steps leading up to its top. Curious, Dorian headed toward the stairs. He hadn't taken more than three steps when he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel against the back of his neck. Dorian froze in place, lifting his hands up.

  "Ah, slowly," came a woman's voice from behind him. "Good. Now turn around. Drop that rifle behind you." He did as she said.

  She was tall, only an inch or two shorter than Dorian, who stood at 6'3", and rusting iron chains dangled from her wrists. There was a man behind her who wore crimson rags like most of the others. She wore tan cargo pants and a black and silver belt, with a tight white tucked-in T-shirt which accentuated her chest. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A layer of sweat and dirt covered what was still a recognizably very attractive face.

  She looked familiar, in fact. Where did he know her from? Then the realization hit him.

  "I remember you," he said with a smile. "Channel 10 evening news. The hot anchor. I thought I knew you from somewhere." She was frowning fiercely now. "What was your name? Sunny something?"

  "Skye," she shot at him, anger on her face mixed with a measure of something else. Fear? Vulnerability? Whatever it was intrigued him.

  "Oh, that is you," the ragged man said. "I remember too."

  "Quiet!" she shouted, wheeling toward the man, who cowered away from her raised fist. It was only a brief moment, but Dorian took it, leaping forward and tackling the woman to the ground. He made sure to pin her right hand, which held the pistol. They hit the ground hard and she grunted, the gun bouncing a few feet away.

  She was strong, but he was stronger. As he held her to the ground he raised his eyes to watch for the other man, but saw the back of him disappearing into the distance already. Dorian mounted her, controlling her hips and able to easily avoid her swatting hands. He drew his revolver and leveled it at her.

  "Ah," he said. She let her swinging fists fall back to her sides. "Don't move." Dorian stood, keeping the gun trained on her.

  "I've got a dozen men with me," he said. "Were you going to kill us all?"

  "No," she said. "Just you for now."

  He laughed. "I do appreciate your spirit. I'm Dorian Black."

  There was some hint of recognition in her eyes as well, but she didn't say anything.

  "I'm in a bit of a situation now, Skye. Because I should really kill you, but I don't particularly want to."

  "You do what you want. Won't change what I do next."

  Dorian laughed and offered her a hand. She swatted it away and stood up on her own. He watched her go, slipping out through a gap in the fence, without a word. Slipping his gun back in its holster, Dorian had the distinct feeling he’d made a mistake.

  Oh well.

  He set about what he had previously been doing, taking the steps two at a time. Just as he reached the top, he heard the distinct chirping call of a raptor. He hunkered down slightly, out of habit, drawing his revolver, but no attack came.

  It took him a moment before he saw. The noises came from below, inside the structure he had just climbed. It was a cage, and inside it were three raptors. Down on the grass with them was the apparently freshly-killed body of a young man.

  "Well ain't that some shit," Dorian said to himself, standing back up and leveling his rifle at the creatures. He put them down in three short bursts before descending the stairs once again.

  The man who called himself James stood before the two prisoners as he returned to the front of the camp. His followers stood behind him, hoods down at their shoulders. He wielded a long knife.

  The man caught Dorian's eye, his eerie smile ever-present, as he approached. He was leaning in and whispering to the robed man. He stood back up and ran the knife smoothly across the man's neck. He quickly did the same with the man's burly partner, then raised his hands up high and shouted while their bodies twitched and drained their blood onto the grass.

  He found Kristof suddenly standing at his side. "Don't like working with these maniacs," he said.

  "Neither do I. And I won't, once I don't need them anymore," Dorian replied.

  Kristof took a drag off his cigarette. "Yeah. Anyway, found the cows. Separate corral over that way. Twenty five of them. Chickens too. Gonna go check it out."

  The cultist approached him now. "It is good," he said, smiling.

  "Whatever you say. Got what I came for."

  "There is the matter of the prisoners. Fifty men and women. Innocents. We have already begun to question them."

  "You know the drill. I'll take anyone useful. The rest are your problem," Dorian said.

  The man allowed himself a slight scowl, but Dorian paid it no mind.

  "Did you find anything interesting over this way?" Kristof asked as the two made their way across the compound, toward the pasture.

  "Not really. Looks to just be dormitories and a couple holding cells for captives."

  "Well. One more camp down."

  "Yeah," Dorian agreed. "Many to go."

  The pasture was small, two dozen cows stuffed inside with hardly any room to roam. A large chicken coop ran along one side of the fence, attached to a small building.

  "Check this out," Kristof said, standing at the door of this building. He pointed to a padlock, which he quickly hammered several times with the butt of his rifle until it cracked and fell away. With a nudge from his boot Kristof swung the door open.

  "Don't shoot!" came a woman's frail cry from inside.

  "Hands up!" Dorian shouted, advancing inside with his rifle raised.

  She did, her thin arms raised overhead as she cowered on a bed along the far wall. She was probably in her thirties, but the filth and bruises across her face seemed to add another couple decades. She wore gray rags, like the prisoners had, and unlike the crimson rags worn by most of the cultists.

  "Who are you?" Dorian asked.

  "Veronica!" she said, her voice still somewhat frantic. "Veronica Holmes! I'm a goddamn veterinarian, not a soldier!"

  "Were you working with these people?" Kristof asked.

  "Not by choice! They tried to get me to join but I wouldn't. But they needed me, so they kept me locked up and forced me to work at gunpoint."

  Dorian and Kristof exchanged a glance.

  "Well," Dorian said, lowering his gun. "We killed all of them. And we're taking the cows back with us. We've got walls, electricity, and nobody will force you to stay. You coming or not?"

  ***

  The mood in town that evening was jovial.

  The sun had just begun to set and the streetlight
s flashed on. Up on a small wooden platform, an improvised band of two guitarists and a man with three little drums played while a woman sang. A couple dozen people stood watching, clapping, and dancing.

  On the grass nearby, Tom Hackett manned a big propane grill, flipping beef burgers and filling the air with an intoxicating smoke. Three children, the only three in Black Creek, chased each other in circles. Dorian had never wanted kids allowed in, at least not yet. But when you found a physician in a world like this, you let him in whether he came with one kid or a dozen.

  A few onlookers cheered as the first patties came off the grill, just as applause signaled the end of a song. The singer was saying something which Dorian couldn't hear, and somehow the attention shifted to him. The crowd's eyes were all on him, and the singer was beckoning him up to the stage.