Southern Watch
Books 1-3
Robert J. Crane
Called, Southern Watch, Book 1 - Copyright © 2013 Reikonos Press
Depths, Southern Watch, Book 2 - Copyright © 2013 Reikonos Press
Corrupted, Southern Watch, Book 3 - Copyright © 2014 Reikonos Press
All Rights Reserved.
1st Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Called 1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
Depths 1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
Corrupted Prologue
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
Author's Note
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
Called
Southern Watch, Book 1
1.
He came to town riding the wind; when he left, he reckoned he’d do it just about the same way. The thing was, Lafayette Jackson Hendricks had been in the wind a long damned time, and he’d had just about enough of that shit to last a lifetime. In his current occupation, though, that life expectancy was not terribly long compared to most. But that was nothing new. It never had been, not in either of the occupations he’d chosen in his life.
He reflected on all this as he stepped off the running board of the big Mack truck, the engine brake squealing as he jumped down, an old Marine duffel slung over his back, the strap running over his long black drover coat. It was summer, it was night, and it was raining. The drover coat was a duster that helped keep the rain off him. The black cowboy hat he wore helped even more, but it was still coming down bad enough that his jeans were soaked at the bottom almost as soon as his boots hit the ground. The boots were old and leather and faded from landing in puddles just like this all over the U.S.
Hendricks could hear the subtle click of his heels against the blacktop over the rain as it started to slacken up a little. The semi that had carried him pulled down the ramp back onto the interstate, rumbling out of sight. He pulled up the sleeve of his coat to take a peek at his watch. It was just after ten o’clock.
The smell of the rain was fresh, but the heat was pervasive, even at this time of night, making the rain seem like a warm shower. It was summer, after all, and damned humid, something even the downpour hadn’t been able to alleviate. The taste of dinner from the restaurant where he’d met the trucker who had given him the ride was still lingering on Hendricks’s tongue, and he’d forgotten to buy a pack of gum to replace the one he’d finished somewhere in Kentucky. The mint was sorely missed right now, and he rubbed his tongue uncomfortably against the top of his mouth.
His boots clicked against the pavement, carrying him ahead, and the headlights of a passing car caught a green sign in the distance just enough for him to see it even in the dark of the Tennessee night.
Entering Calhoun County.
***
Archibald “Arch” Stan turned his patrol car around just before the county line, his headlights illuminating a figure walking along the side of the road. It was a guy, a duffel on his back and a black cowboy hat and drover coat keeping the rain off him. The rain was letting up, at least to Arch’s eyes, after a deuce of a downpour only a few minutes earlier. A real frog-strangler, his mother would have said. Gully washer, he’d have called it. In either case, he felt bad for the cowboy who was in it now. He started to pull over to say something to the guy when his radio crackled to life.
“Fifteen, this is Dispatch, come back.”
He hesitated for only a second and he thumbed the mike. “Fifteen here, go ahead.”
“Fifteen, sheriff asks that you return to the station.”
Arch felt a faint swirl of amusement before he clicked the mike on again. “I know, I know, I’m getting perilously close to overtime.”
He could hear laughter in the voice of the dispatcher at the other end of the radio, Erin Harris. “You know the boss likes to pinch those pennies until he can hear Abe Lincoln scream as they're leaving his hand.”
Arch sighed. “Tell him I’ll be clocking out in five. Wouldn’t want to make hard work a habit around here, after all.”
“Damned right. Save that crap for when you’re off the clock,” Harris said, her drawl especially conspicuous over the radio. “Channel it into making your wife happy around the house; it’ll do you more good than trying to bleed overtime dollars out of—” There was a subtle hiss as Harris paused, and when she came back on her tone was more formal. “Uh, we’ll see you in five, Fifteen. Dispatch out.”
Arch grinned. No doubt the sheriff had just popped his head out of his office. “Right you are, Dispatch. Over and out.”
He had been driving steadily the entire time he’d been talking, the black surface of County Highway 12 carrying him east, back toward the town of Midian. He was less than a mile away now, and he gave one last glance behind him to the figure walking along the side of the road. The guy had probably been let off at the interstate bridge by a trucker and was headed toward Midian or parts beyond. Any other quiet night, Arch might have had him get in the back, behind the security grill that kept him separated from arrestees, and given the guy a ride to town. The rain spotted his windshield as he drove, and the faint lights of Midian were just ahead, over the hill. He sighed and watched the drifter disappear behind him as he went down into a dip in the road. No room in the budget for being a nice guy, not in this economy, anyway. He was lucky to still have a law enforcement job, especially in Calhoun County.
“Good luck, Cowboy,” he whispered and put the pedal down on the accelerator. He had to be back at the station in less than five minutes, after all.
***
They called him Hollywood when they thought he wasn’t listening. For the locals, “the city” meant Chattanooga, or Knoxville, maybe Atlanta, the small town hicks. No, when the man they called Hollywood said “the city,” they figured out pretty quickly he was talking about L.A., and his nickname, well, it came pretty shortly after.
In their culture—not southern culture, but their true
one, the demon culture—names were power, so you didn’t exchange names, and you damned fucking sure didn’t ask for one, not until one was offered to you. Even these hicks knew better than that, and for just that little bit of etiquette, Hollywood was grateful.
He’d hired four of them, flashing a wad of cash around and doling it out a little at a time. The first hundred was a good start, and the roll he’d carried promised more if he was kept happy with their services. They were all small time, not used to people from Atlanta coming through, he figured, let alone some big-shot big shit from L.A. They all kind of marveled at it, marveled at him, deferred to him. And why shouldn’t they? He was gonna be paying the bills, after all.
“I love it,” Hollywood whispered. He pushed the ponytail off his shoulder, feeling the smooth texture of his pricey suit. The rain had stopped, thankfully, and the quiet of the night was punctuated by the occasional sound of dripping, water making its way down the drainpipes of the metal barn not fifteen feet from where he was standing.
They were just inside a fence, one that the four of them had opened for him, stepping and fetching like he was some kind of royalty. In reality, he was the man with money, which made him royalty around here. Calhoun County offered damned little work for their kind, Hollywood suspected. A patron for them was probably something long-desired. One that drew water like he did … well, that was a bonus, surely. “Seriously,” Hollywood breathed. “I love it.”
One of them had the balls to say it. “Umm … it’s a fucking cow pasture, man.” He quieted down after that, though.
It was a cow pasture. A few acres of fenced-in ground, green in the daylight but barely visible in the night. The smell of manure wafted faintly, suppressed by the recent rain but still there and pungent. The night air was stifling. The rain hadn’t eased the humidity at all; it had just trapped it there, like a prisoner awaiting a release that wasn’t coming anytime soon. It was the sort of shit that caused even Hollywood to sweat, and he wasn’t the kind to sweat easily.
“You know what your problem is?” Hollywood said after a moment’s silence. His Gucci loafers squished in the wet grass. Squished. He grimaced inside, but actor that he was, didn’t let it show. “You lack vision,” he told his enthusiastically waiting audience. These backwoods hicks hung on his every word. And why wouldn’t they? “Exterior—night!” He said, walking forward slowly, almost stalking, his hands held out in front of him forming a square with his fingers and thumbs, as though he were filming something. “A group of demons prepare to bring forth an ancient evil, one that will consume the entirety of the world, ridding it of the plague of those fucking humans—” He said it like a curse, meant it like a curse, like he was talking about the vilest thing ever made, which he was, “—and restore it to the righteous, tipping the scales and …” He stopped and looked back at the four of them, these sad-sack locals, these meth-taking hillbillies who probably didn’t even make enough in a lifetime to afford one Gucci loafer, let alone a pair. “You’re not seeing it, are you?”
There was a pause before the answer, the same ballsy one as before. “It’s a cow pasture, man. You just stepped in a pie.”
“A … pie?” Hollywood hesitated, then the smell hit him and he felt a little ooze in the shoe. He forced a smile. Acting. He should have been an actor; he would have been genius at it. “Local flavor. That’s what that is.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and regretted it. “Whatever.” He shrugged it off, then opened his eyes and looked for the one with the flannel shirt that was cut off at the shoulders. “You. Bring me my book.”
It took the local just a second to react, then he came running forward with the book, a heavy, leather-bound tome that was absolutely unlike anything they made nowadays. It wasn’t cheap or flimsy. It was … it was like organic produce, dammit, not the factory shit you picked up in the big-box bookstores. Hollywood took it, felt the weight of it in his hands, and opened it up. “It’s probably too much to hope for that any of you boys speak Latin, isn’t it?” He looked at the semi-circle still standing back and then at the one closest to him. “Never mind.” He put on his best ingratiating smile. “Now … where’s the farmer?” There was a pause from the little circle, and he waited for the answer. It didn’t come. “Where’s the fucking farmer?” Hollywood asked again, this time annoyed. Stupid hicks.
“In his house?” came the suggestion a moment later.
“Well, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Hollywood said, finally letting out a little of the anger he’d been holding back. It was good to let it out, let these losers see something beneath the veneer. Maybe that was the kind of management style they related to, something more emotion-based. “I said we’d need the farmer, didn’t I?” He thought about hitting the sleeveless wonder who’d handed him the book, because, hey, he was closest, but he decided against it. That was for later. It would probably have to happen eventually, just to let them know not to fuck with him, but it didn’t have to happen yet. They were probably like dogs and could be yelled into better results. “Go get the farmer.” He paused as three of them made to turn around. “You,” he said to the one in the sleeveless flannel shirt, “you stay with me.” He lowered his voice, talking to himself, the only intelligent one here. “I said we’d need the farmer, didn’t I? Did I not say it? For fuck’s sake.”
“Uh huh,” the sleeveless one said, “you did.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.”
After a moment’s silence, after the footsteps of the other three had a chance to fade, Sleeveless turned to him again. “So … are we making a movie here?”
Hollywood stared at him like he was the dumbest fuck to walk the face of the earth. “Hell, no. I’d never hire you to shoot a movie.” He paused. “You’re non-union.”
The other boys came back a few minutes later, hustling along in the dark. He could see them coming and turned away. It was better not to look at them right now, not let them think he was reliant on them, or that he approved of them in any way. That would be for later, if they managed to do this next bit without screwing up. This shit coming up was for all the marbles, after all.
“Uh, Hollywood?” one of them started off as he approached, and Hollywood turned back to see there were five of them coming, his three boys and two more being shoved along in front of them. “He had his wife there with him …” He wanted to sigh but didn’t because this was actually good. Better two than one, right?
“Fine, fine,” Hollywood said. Better not to give them too much encouragement, but he also didn’t want them to miss this important lesson. “Good initiative. Better to have her here than not.” The lone lamp hanging off the barn revealed the two new folks as they got closer. He gave them only the barest moment’s study and took in old, lined faces. Old was really all he saw. “This’ll do.” He turned away from them and looked back, back to the pasture, where a— something had wandered right into the middle of the field since last he’d looked. “Is that—” He squinted. “Is there a fucking cow in the middle of my fucking ritual?”
“No,” said the farmer in a southern accent, “but there’s one in the middle of my goddamned cow pasture, you Yankee jackass!”
Hollywood blinked after looking at the animal then turned back to the ballsy farmer and smiled his fake, laying-on-the-bullshit-with-a-shovel smile. It had helped him seal a few deals. “I like the energy that you’re bringing to this. You’ve got real personality.” Hollywood took a step closer and put an arm around the farmer’s shoulder. The man’s hands were restrained by one of the demons, and it looked like the enthusiasm might have wrenched the old man’s shoulder out of joint. That was good, too, so far as Hollywood was concerned. “I bet you tried to fight these boys off,” he said, gesturing at his new employees.
“Damned right,” the farmer said through gritted teeth. He looked ready to spit at Hollywood.
“He went for a shotgun,” one of the lessers said, a dark-haired, mustached fellow with a Metallica t-shirt on. “He almost lost the arm for that one.”
&n
bsp; “Shotgun wouldn’t do much on these boys,” Hollywood said, tightening his grasp around the farmer’s shoulders. “But I admire your spirit.” He grinned, and the shovel got bigger. “Really, I do. I admire it so much … that I’m going to sacrifice it.”
“Beg pardon?” the farmer said with an air of disbelief. The man smelled of cowshit.
Hollywood withdrew his arm and the smell came with it. It was in the air, all around, but he knew—just knew—that it was on his suitcoat now, like it was seeping into his pores. He shook his head in disbelief before he caught hold of himself and restored the grin, the image—the acting—and put the ingratiating smile back on. “So …” he gestured to the cow that had wandered into the middle of the field. “… does the cow have a name, or are they all just thoughtless beasts to you?”
“Her name’s Creampuff,” the farmer said after a moment’s pause and a look at the men surrounding him.
“Really?” Hollywood said. “Creampuff? Do you hate it or something?” This elicited a laugh from the new employees, but the farmer started to say something. “Doesn’t matter, don’t answer. Time?” he asked the sleeveless one again.
“Uh …” He didn’t have a watch, the sleeveless one, but he managed to shuffle the book around to one hand and pull out his cell phone. The screen flared and lit up the angular lines of his face. “11:59.”
“Right,” Hollywood said, and clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this underway, shall we?” He wanted to pick his teeth, to take a shower—preferably in blood, but water would help, too—to get this stink off him. But there were certain sacrifices that one had to make to gain power, to be a broker, to bring about BIG THINGS.
And he was all for bringing about BIG THINGS. The biggest, really.
“Normally, I’d have some of you chanting in Latin for background noise,” he said as he strode back over to the sleeveless one, “but that’s just because it was the way I came up on these rituals, not because it’s important. All that really matters are the key components.” He pointed his thumbs delicately toward himself, “The vessel,” he pointed toward the book, “the words,” and finally he pointed toward the farmer, who was looking at the whole scene as though he was about ready to make good on spitting in Hollywood’s face, though that wouldn’t do much for anyone, least of all the farmer, “and finally the sacrifice.” He halted for a second. “Sacrifices, if necessary.”
The Southern Watch Series, Books 1-3: Called, Depths and Corrupted Page 1
