by Anthony Izzo
Someone stepped up next to Frank. It was Digger. “He’s leaving.”
Roddy came around the desk, maybe six-three or six-four of him, whip thin. The skin on his face was leathered and cracked. He had done long hours in the sun.
“Who are you?”
“Reverend Frank Heatly. And you have something of mine.”
Roddy turned, looked at the stone. Then he faced Frank.
“That? That’s gonna make me a fortune. Damn thing’s magic. Genuine magic.”
Digger said, “Just let him go.”
Frank turned to Digger. “You know how important it is.”
From the corner, the redhead said, “He walked in on us. I say cut the sumbitch open.”
Roddy rolled his eyes. “Will you please shut the hell up, you skank?”
The woman in the corner lowered her eyes. She had bruises on her upper arm, just below the sleeve. Three guesses who put them there.
“No, you aren’t leaving. You walked in on private property.” Roddy leaned in close. He adjusted his crotch. Frank smelled cigar smoke on him. “Some sort of minister, huh? Jesus saves, and all?”
“Even people like you,” Frank said.
The slap caught him on the right cheek and the side of his face immediately felt like it had blistered. His cap fell to the floor.
“Grab him,” Roddy said.
Two of the bikers grabbed Frank’s arms. Their body odor assaulted his nostrils. From his back pocket, Roddy pulled out a large folding knife. He clicked the blade open.
The woman in the corner said, “Yeah, cut him open, do it.”
Roddy turned around and said, “Get the fuck out of here, will you?”
The redhead gave Roddy a dirty look, but complied with his request. As she strutted past Frank she said, “You’re in a world of it now, aren’t you?”
Charming woman, Frank thought. She left the room. He heard her footsteps echo down the stairs.
Roddy turned his attention back to Frank. He held the blade up, the tip an inch from Frank’s nose. He might not even have to worry about the Enemy killing him. The bikers would be more than happy to oblige. Frank gave Digger a sideways glance. Digger looked ready to pounce.
“Hey, leave him be. You scared his ass, right?” Digger said.
“Shut up, Dig,” Nitro said. “Let Roddy go to work.”
With one quick stroke, Roddy whipped the knife downward, slicing a vertical cut in Frank’s chest, right over the breastbone. Frank winced and sucked in a breath. Dear Lord, that hurt. There had to be a way out of this without hurting them. He had only one way to defend himself, and he didn’t want to resort to it.
Digger grabbed Roddy’s knife hand and Roddy looked at him with a measure of surprise and disgust. With his free hand, Roddy snapped a punch, catching Digger in the nose. Digger’s head snapped back, and he staggered into the wall. Blood ran from his nose, and he knelt down, hands over his face.
“That’s enough,” Frank said. “Give me the stone if you want to live.”
“I’m gonna give you a cross all your own, Reverend,” Roddy said, and slashed a horizontal cut across the vertical, making a cross. Pain shot through Frank’s chest.
Frank strained against his captors. He pulled one arm free, threw a wild elbow that missed. A sledgehammer blow caught him in the ribs and he doubled over. A boot shoved his rear end and he stumbled forward into the nearly empty hotel room. He crawled on the floor, sucking air hard. He heard the door slam.
“I’m going to cut you,” Roddy said. “And when you think I can’t cut anymore, I’m going to keep going.”
Frank looked over his shoulder. Roddy stood there, blood-tinged blade in hand, looking like one of Satan’s own imps. A group of dirty, tattered bikers stood behind him. Digger remained slumped against the wall. He covered his nose, blood dripping from under his hands.
Frank’s chest hitched. The air began to return to his lungs, and he sucked in hard.
“Let’s give the Reverend a Warlords welcome,” Roddy said.
The bikers closed in around him. One kicked him in the leg. He grunted. Another rained punches on him. Frank managed to get his arm up. Some of the blows got past him, peppering his head and ear.
Roddy knelt down. Frank was on his hands and knees. Roddy held the knife in front of Frank’s face.
They’re going to kill me if I don’t do something.
“You gonna die, ’cause I ain’t afraid to kill someone, ’specially a preacher,” Roddy said.
One of the bikers kicked him hard in the tailbone. The pain shooting up his spine was excruciating. He yelled. The bikers laughed.
“Why don’t you say a little prayer for us?” Roddy asked.
“Yeah, preacher man, how about a prayer?” Nitro added.
“Let me go. Give me the stone. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Let you go? After we just kicked the hell out of you? I don’t think so. I don’t need the Staties coming up round here.”
Frank, still on hands and knees, looked at the ground under his torso. Droplets of blood had collected on the floor from his chest wound.
“I think I’ll cut you now,” Roddy said.
Frank looked up, scanned the room. He saw Roddy, Nitro, and four others surrounding him. Behind Roddy, Digger was staggering to his feet. Lord, please do not make me do this, Frank prayed.
“Don’t make me do it!” Frank said.
“Do what, bleed on the fucking floor?” Roddy asked.
“They’ll die horribly,” Frank said.
Roddy pressed the tip of the knife to the side of Frank’s neck. Frank saw Digger approaching. Digger, like all Guardians, would not be harmed by a stray bolt of light.
“God gonna save you, preacher?”
“No. This is.”
Frank looked at Roddy. In one motion, Frank rocked back on his knees, threw up his arms. A flash of light sizzled from his fingertips and slammed into Roddy’s right shoulder. The knife flew from Roddy’s hand. He stumbled backward. On his back, he looked at his shoulder, which was now a mass of blackened flesh and tattered fabric that had fused to the skin. He started to howl, then rolled back and forth on the floor, yelling, “What did you do to me? What did you do?”
Frank got to his feet. The other bikers in the circle stared, mouths open. That gave him a window. Digger, seeing what had transpired, grabbed the stone from the desk. Frank bounded over Roddy, outstretched on the floor. Digger went through the door first. Frank followed and slammed the door behind him.
From inside the room, he heard a muffled voice say, “Get his ass!”
Frank tore down the stairs with Digger at his side. He pressed his hand to his chest. The blood felt sticky and warm. His ass ached from being kicked and he considered himself lucky not to have a broken tailbone. As they ran down the steps, Frank jammed the stone in his pocket.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, then ran through the lobby and out the front door.
“Get in the truck, it’ll be quicker.”
“I’m not leaving my bike.”
He stepped on to the blacktop, the truck in sight. From behind, he heard the thud of boots on the steps. If he could make it to the truck, they might outrun them to the armory. Frank heard the pop of rifle fire, and the truck’s grille exploded. Water splashed from the radiator. Two more shots popped through the truck’s hood with a thunk. So much for that, he thought.
Now, Frank turned and saw the bikers charge from the door. He spotted the rifle barrel sticking out from a second-floor window. The next—and last—sound would be a bullet exploding his skull.
Digger had stopped and was looking at the window. Digger raised his hand and fired a blast of light at the window. Glass exploded. The unseen gunman shrieked, and the rifle fell to the ground and bounced end over end. Small flames engulfed the window frame.
Frank looked at him. “Good shot.”
The bikers came down the porch steps. In the doorway, Roddy staggered out, holding his wounded
shoulder.
“Get back here, preacher. I’m gonna kill you,” Roddy said in a pain-soaked voice.
Digger looked at Frank. “Don’t like the odds. Take the stone and run for the woods.”
Frank heard the rumble of motorcycles coming up the road. Their engines blatted and hummed. The cavalry was on the way, and unfortunately, the cavalry wasn’t on Frank’s side.
The bikers on the porch moved closer. Digger raised his arms over his head. Light crackled from one hand to another. The bikers began to back up. Behind him, Frank heard the engines cut out.
“They’re backing off,” Frank said. “Don’t.”
The light engulfed Digger’s hands. The wide-eyed bikers continued to back onto the porch.
“Get to the woods.”
The light fanned out in an arc from Digger’s hands. Like a giant scythe, it slashed across the front of the porch, knocking the bikers backward. Frank heard a high-pitched scream. He saw Roddy fall backward through the doorway.
He turned and ran. Looking at the parking lot, he saw four more bikers approaching. One had a knife in his hand. Another drew a long-barreled revolver and aimed at Digger. Frank was about to shout a warning when the gun cracked and Digger’s back exploded in blood. He flopped to the ground.
Frank whipped a blast of light at the four bikers in the lot. His shot went wide. It slammed into the asphalt like a mortar round and kicked up blacktop. The bikers instinctively ducked, covering their heads. Frank took the opportunity to run. If they came for him in the woods, he hoped for the advantage of an ambush.
He found a dirt trail and scampered down it. He raced through the woods. The rocks on the trail pounded the soles of his feet. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. The front of his shirt was matted and sticky and his chest burned like hell.
Up ahead, Frank heard water gurgling. A stream?
Voices came from behind, maybe a few hundred feet back. His initial blast with the light would have stunned them, left them perplexed. It had bought him time.
He came to a narrow stream. A shot cracked in the woods and Frank ducked. Another blast came from the gun, and Frank threw himself to the ground on the bank of the stream. He rolled over to see the stone dribble from his pocket and hit the water with a plop.
The stone settled to the bottom. It glowed yellow in the water. Not hard to find, but it would cost him time. He rolled into the water, flopped on his belly. The icy water was like knives jabbing him. He got on his hands and knees. A sharp rock poked him in the leg.
The stone was three feet from him. He jammed his hand into the water and picked up the stone. Then he shoved it in his pocket.
“Well, look what we got here,” a voice said.
Frank straightened up so he was on his knees, hands resting on his thighs. The four bikers stood on the bank of the stream. They were a collection of denim and beards and strong body odor. The one in the front held the large revolver on Frank.
“What the hell are you up to?” the one with the revolver asked.
Instead of answering, Frank unleashed a beam of light. It hit the biker in the chest and blew him backward. The others jumped back. Two of them ran back down the trail. Their supposed leader was dead on his back, his chest looking like burnt spaghetti. One biker remained behind. He looked down at his dead friend, then at Frank.
“I don’t know what you done to him, but you’re going to pay.”
The biker started down the bank.
“Stay back or you’ll wind up like him.”
“I’m gonna hurt you, bad. Maybe drown you in that stream.”
Frank looked at the fallen one. The stench of burned flesh filled his nostrils. He had never meant to kill anyone. I violated everything I stand for. Everything I preach on Sundays, I just did the opposite.
The biker grinned, showing a row of greenish teeth. He moved down the stream bank. Frank readied himself, muscles tensing. The biker charged. Frank pushed up, driving his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. They toppled sideways, the biker landing on top of Frank. Water splashed in his ears.
The other man wrapped his hands around Frank’s throat. The water lapped against Frank’s cheeks and he felt panic setting in. He wheezed, gasped for air, and clawed at the hands locked on his throat.
He would have to use the light one more time, no matter what the consequences. With his left hand, he conjured a ball of light. Then he swung it out of the water and bashed the biker in the head, the light and Frank’s fist striking the skull. The biker’s head exploded, the stump jetting blood and the torso slumping backward. Frank sat up, shoved the body off him.
He stood up, then looked down at the ruined body. He promptly spun around and vomited into the stream. When he was done puking, and his stomach continued to heave, he sat on the bank of the stream and wept.
The Light was never intended to be wielded against a human enemy, and the biker’s corpse bore the horrible evidence of that fact. Frank walked downstream, knelt down, and washed his face with some handfuls of water. Shivers racked his body, and his chest felt raw. But he had the stone, and that was important.
He was ready to head back. A shot cracked. He ducked his head. He glanced down the trail and saw a denim-clad figure staggering down the trail. It was Roddy, apparently well enough to come and look for payback. Frank got to his feet, started up the bank. His foot caught a slick spot on the bank and he went down. Frank’s head struck something hard, the world spun, and blackness took over.
CHAPTER 15
Sara watched out the front window. The shadows had lengthened across Charles Pennington’s front lawn. There had been no sign of her pursuers, and although she was grateful for that, her nerves were still on edge.
“What are you looking at?” Laura said.
“Nothing.”
“Where the hell are you, Dad?” Laura wondered aloud.
Sara turned around. Laura sat on the couch flipping through a leather address book.
“We tried the golf course, The Red Brick, his pal Eddie’s, nothing. I’m getting worried.”
“What’s with the address book?” Sara asked.
“Thinking maybe there’s another place I missed.”
“I’m sure he’ll show up. At least he left a spare key, right?”
“I suppose that’s something.”
“Mind if I turn on the TV?” Sara asked.
Laura shook her head.
Sara looked at the clock. It was five o’clock and there probably wasn’t anything else on, so she would settle for the news. The television was a flat screen, mounted on a wall over a rich oak mantle. Sara turned it on, flipped to Channel 7.
A breaking-news graphic crawled across the bottom of the screen. The camera showed an industrial complex, maybe a steel mill, and over it, a black cloud that seemed to stretch for miles. The cloud swirled over the mill buildings. It appeared to be thick and covered the grounds of the mill in shadow.
“Laura, look at this.”
Laura looked at the screen. “Holy crap.”
A reporter’s voice broke in, “You’re looking at a live shot of the former Bethlehem Steel plant. A strange cloud appeared over the mill shortly after four o’clock. Weather Team 7 is currently tracking the cloud on Doppler radar. It does not appear to be a tornado-forming cloud. More on this breaking development as it happens.”
The screen switched back to a pretty blond anchor, who went into a story about a man who stabbed his wife and three children.
A heavy feeling of dread settled in Sara’s chest. The cloud was similar to the ones her pursuers had used for cover. Could it be they hadn’t attacked her because a larger attack was about to happen?
“We have to get out of the city,” Sara said.
“Because of some funky cloud?”
“Bad things are going to happen.”
“We’re not going to get a tornado, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s worse than a tornado.” She tugged on Laura’s sleeve. “Let
’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. If it storms, we’ll take shelter somewhere.”
“It’s no storm.”
“You’re acting weird,” Laura said. “Cut it out.”
How can I convince her? “It is weird, but it’s no storm.”
“Then what is it? Alien invasion?”
That wasn’t too far from the truth. “Not aliens, but not a storm.”
“Sara, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Should she tell Laura what happened? Maybe she wouldn’t entirely believe the story, but hopefully she would recognize its urgency. Sara suddenly wanted to be back home, maybe sitting in the front row of the Royal, holding Robbie’s hand. Away from all this. “I think a lot of people are going to die.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s things in the cloud, things that tried to kill me. Let’s find your dad and get the hell out. Go far away.”
“Things in the cloud?”
“They killed a woman. I was at her house.”
Laura placed her hands on Sara’s shoulders. “Honey, are you okay? I understand you’re scared, but c’mon.”
Sara took a deep breath. She told Laura about the bus trip, the stop at the gas station, and the creatures tracking her down at Joanne’s house. She left out the part about her firing beams of light at them.
“If someone was killed, we need to call the police.”
“Not if. Was.”
“Why didn’t you call for help? It was probably guys in masks.”
“Yeah, and a whole Hollywood special-effects crew?”
“You don’t have to make things up. I believe something bad happened.”
“I’m not making shit up, Laura.”
“Watch your language.”
Sara felt her face get hot. “I’m sorry. We’re wasting time.”
“We’re not going anywhere without me finding my dad. Besides, we’re probably safer indoors, anyway. No telling what that storm will bring.”
“If only you knew,” Sara said.
Enclosed in the darkness of the mill, Engel waited. The cloud had risen. When night fell, the cloud would descend, and the city would know pain.
