The Southern Watch Series, Books 1-3: Called, Depths and Corrupted

by Robert J. Crane

  “I’ll manage,” Hendricks came back.

  They rode along toward Kilner Road in silence, Arch not really wanting to say much of anything, on account of how pissed and suspicious he still was, and Hendricks staying quiet, Arch assumed, because he was still hung over. Arch didn’t know that he’d ever been as hungover as Hendricks was now, and he reckoned he’d be pretty okay with going to his grave without ever knowing how it felt, thank you very much.

  “It’s down here,” Arch said as they turned on Kilner Road. “Got a plan?”

  Hendricks sat up in interest. “Where there’s three, there’s a possibility of more.”

  Arch watched Hendricks unbuckle his seat belt and lean forward to look down the road. “How many can you take at once?”

  Hendricks appeared to consider this for a moment, while still staring down the road. “Three, maybe, depending on what kind they are. While I’m fighting two of them, though, the third will probably be killing you, since you don’t really have a good way to hold them at bay.”

  “Bad plan,” Arch pronounced. “I veto that one.”

  “Agreed,” Hendricks said, and motioned for Arch to stop the car. “It’s pretty sub-optimal. Anything head-on is, really. I think we should make this a reconnaissance mission, take a look around, see what we can see, and be ready to hoof it on back to the car at the first sign of trouble.” Arch had drawn the car to a stop on the side of the road and Hendricks opened the door, letting the summer heat seep in, humidity and all. “I doubt they’re gonna be going anywhere, and it ain’t like they’re up to much here. It’s a dairy farm, after all, not a chemical weapons factory.” The cowboy sniffed and then made a face. “Well, maybe …“

  “They’re up to murder, in all likelihood,” Arch said tightly, and his hand went to his pistol. He ejected the magazine and checked to make sure it was topped off again. He carried spare bullets in a gym bag in the hatch back of the Explorer, and he’d filled it up before picking up Hendricks at the motel. He listened to the satisfying click as he pushed the magazine back into the Glock and then opened the back of the car and pulled out a shotgun, too. When Hendricks gave him the What-the-hell-is-that-for look he just said, “it may not kill them, but it seems like it hurts them, and it for sure puts ’em down for a few seconds.”

  “True enough,” Hendricks said, and they were heading for the fence.

  “Careful,” Arch said, pointing at the low wire. “It’s electrified.”

  “I suspected as much,” Hendricks said, easing over it after using the second wire as a brace to land his big cowboy boot. “Being from Wisconsin, I’ve been in a cow pasture or two.” He gave Arch a grin, this one pretty real.

  “Y’all ain’t got much else for entertainment up there, huh?” Arch pondered what to do about the shotgun before finally just handing it over to Hendricks and keeping an eye on the man until he got over the fence and got it handed back to him.

  “I think that’s the North’s joke for the South.” Hendricks squinted. “Actually, that’s mostly our joke for Iowa. We don’t think of much south of that or Illinois.”

  They made their way through a copse of trees just past the fence. It was a grove of pines, tall ones, with rough patches of bark that made it look like each tree was patterned like a turtle shell. The thick smell of them in the heat wasn’t quite overwhelming, but it did make Arch long for a nap. By the look of him, Hendricks was feeling the same, though for different reasons. Instead, they were sneaking up on a passel of demons that were hiding out in a dairy farmer’s house. A thought occurred to Arch. “Do you think Old Man MacGruder is still alive?”

  Hendricks didn’t halt his walk, but he did look back from where he was leading the way. “That the guy that owns the place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s dead,” Hendricks said, his voice flat. “Demons aren’t big on hostages or prisoners.” He waited a second then spoke again. “I shouldn’t say that—there are some species of demons that are big on prisoners, but only because they like their food fresh. Like, really fresh. Basically live and still squirming while they eat it.”

  Arch felt his grip tighten on the shotgun. “These things … they eat people?”

  “Some of them, yeah.” Hendricks kept on going, kept his stride. “Sometimes only certain parts, depending on what kind of demon they are—you know, eyes, noses, butt cheeks. Sometimes it’s a specific cut of meat, like the human version of the sirloin or some shit like that. Some will just eat the intangibles, like your soul.” He looked back and Arch knew by the dark look on Hendricks’s face he wasn’t bullshitting. “Some don’t eat people, and they’re peaceable enough, integrated into human society without a hitch. I don’t run across many of those, but there’s probably a reason for that.”

  Arch chewed on that thought as they came upon a slight rise. “The house is just up over there.” He pointed the shotgun up over the hill and Hendricks stopped. “We might ought to creep low, just in case they’re watching out the windows.”

  “These guys seem like the cautious type to you?” Hendricks was asking sort of seriously, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

  “They’re pretty dumb as humans, but now that I know they’re demons, I’m a little more concerned.”

  “Fair enough,” Hendricks said and crouched down, the long trail of his drover coat dipping to the ground with him. Arch squatted next to him. “Let’s get up over there and—”

  Hendricks didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Arch felt the shotgun being ripped from his grasp. It hit him squarely across the nose and he saw stars, then the hard metal barrel was pressed tight against his neck, squeezing the breath out of him. He struggled for breath, and as his eyes fell on Hendricks, he saw the cowboy with Kellen’s hairy forearm across his neck, choking him out exactly the same as was happening to him. He started to pass out, the bright sunny sky fading as he felt his strength drain, sagging against the strong arms that were holding him so tightly that even Arch couldn’t seem to find a way to fight back.

  5.

  Hendricks didn’t love the smell of the demon that had grabbed him and couldn’t see much of him other than a hairy arm that had him around the neck in a way that locked his throat. He could see that Arch was getting it even worse, being choked out by some fucker in a button-up shirt that had grease smudged all over it. The smell of the dairy farm was thick in the air around him, and a lone fly buzzed past Hendricks’s face as the son of a bitch who had him around the neck started dragging him.

  “You’re … choking him … to death,” Hendricks managed, catching the attention of the grubby fuck who had Arch, shotgun across his neck.

  The guy with the button-up readjusted, letting the shotgun loose from around Arch’s neck and grabbing him one-armed, holding him about like the other guy had Hendricks. It wasn’t pretty, but demons had the strength to keep a human down with only one arm in the fight. Hendricks hadn’t really expected his warning about choking Arch to death to do much more than produce a guffaw and was surprised when it actually stopped the guy. He even looked concerned, or his human facade did, anyway. That made Hendricks curious, because the idea of a demon concerned with a human’s welfare was laughable, at least on the surface. His mind immediately ran to the idea that something else was going on, something that they needed the two of them for—alive. Which was worrisome.

  “You okay?” he asked Arch, whose eyes were rolling back in his head. There was a coughing fit from the big man, and it would have been surreal to see the six-foot-two mountain of a deputy manhandled by some scrub fuck who looked like he’d stumbled out from between the gears of a machine—if not for the fact that the one who was manhandling him was a demon. Hendricks wasn’t sure what kind, though, because he’d yet to see the real face of the thing.

  “Still breathing,” Arch answered him after a horrendous coughing fit. The grubby bastard who was dragging him along had the shotgun, and was paying no attention to Arch’s hands. Probably wasn’t very
concerned he’d do something untoward, because presently Arch was doing everything he could just to keep from having his head pulled off as he was dragged along. That might change, though. Hendricks was in much the same boat, trying to keep up with the hairy bastard that was pulling him along headfirst. He didn’t want to go for his sword until he knew the demon was well and truly distracted, though, because even if he pulled it and struck true before the bastard could rip his head off—which was iffy—it was almost certain that Arch’s demon would kill him plenty dead before Hendricks could get the man free.

  They were pulled along unwillingly over the hill. The flies were thicker now, and Hendricks saw the pastureland with the wide open fields from their slightly elevated perch. He tried to ignore the pain in his neck from being dragged along by the fucker who had him, but it was hard to dismiss. Harder still to resist pulling his sword and shoving it right up the bastard’s ass. He was pretty well positioned for that, anyway.

  “Hey, Kellen,” the one dragging Arch said, “ain’t this supposed to be a dairy farm, man?”

  “Yeah,” the hairy one who had the back of Hendricks’s neck buried in his armpit replied, “so what?”

  “Well, why ain’t there any cows, man?”

  Kellen paused, letting Hendricks brush up against his hairy side. “Well, there’s one.” He pointed, but Hendricks couldn’t see it very well, since he was doing it with the other hand, the one that wasn’t currently jammed against Hendricks’s windpipe.

  There was a pause, and the one holding Arch seemed to think about this. “Isn’t that the same one we saw last night?”

  “Yep,” Kellen agreed.

  “So,” the other said, “shouldn’t there be more than one around here?”

  “I dunno,” Kellen said, plainly uninterested in the affairs of dairy farming. “Who cares? They’re cows. They’re probably here somewhere.”

  Hendricks might have given that some more thought, but it wasn’t a pressing concern for him, waiting as he was for a fine opportunity to turn the tables on the two stooges without getting Arch killed. He was all about saving his own neck, but he thought he’d feel more than a little poorly about it if his bid for freedom cost the life of the deputy. There was something to be said for not throwing your comrades to the wolves, metaphorically speaking, and Arch was as close as he had to one of those. Hell, Arch was one of the few people who’d actually had a conversation with him in the last few years. It was probably bad when you could count the number of people you talked to for more than thirty seconds in any given month on one hand.

  “We need to take these boys to Hollywood,” Kellen said.

  “No, thanks,” Hendricks gasped, struggling for air, “I hate California.”

  “Look,” the hairy one said, grinding his wrist into Hendricks’s neck. This time Hendricks saw what he was pointing at. It was a sedan, kinda fancy, pulling in the driveway. They got dragged down the hill as someone wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt came running around the side and opened the back door to allow a man to step out. If Hendricks thought the car was fancy, it was nothing compared to the guy riding in the back.

  He was medium sized, with a ponytail and slicked back hair. He wore an earring, an opulent little thing that Hendricks could see sparkle with diamonds. He was a white guy, wearing a grey suit that reeked of money. Hendricks had heard someone say one time that you couldn’t always tell when a suit was expensive, but he was pretty sure this one was because it seemed to fit its wearer just about perfectly. He wore sunglasses, too, one of the more expensive types. All the fancy accouterments aside, Hendricks got the sense that this guy, Hollywood, was a full-flow douchenozzle, an impression that was confirmed the minute the bastard opened his mouth.

  “What the fuck is this?” Hollywood asked as Hendricks and Arch were dragged into view. “Where did you find these peckerwoods?”

  “Up over the hill,” Kellen said. “Heard ’em parking the car down the road a ways when we were out in the woods for a smoke.”

  Hendricks didn’t smell cigarettes on either one of them, and Hollywood looked at them funny for a moment but let it pass. “Well,” Hollywood said and broke into a smile, “I guess that saves us the trouble of looking for sacrifices for tonight.” He pulled the sleeve of his suit up and looked at a glittering gold watch beneath. “Now we just have to figure out what to do with them for the next few hours.”

  “So you’re Hollywood?” Hendricks said, causing his handler to try and adjust his chokehold again to shut him up. “Let me guess … you’re a big fan of Hulk Hogan during the NWO years?”

  Hollywood didn’t blink, just looked at him over the sunglasses for about a quarter second before shifting his gaze away. “Can you put them in the farmer’s cellar?”

  “I don’t like the deputy,” the sleeveless one called out, keeping his distance from Arch and Hendricks. Which was good. It meant he couldn’t react immediately when Hendricks started some shit in a minute. Hendricks’ coat was dragging on the ground, billowing around him, which was also good. Plainly none of them had seen his sword yet.

  “I don’t like you, either, Munson,” Arch said, struggling to get the words out.

  Hollywood looked over his shades between Arch and Munson. “Little animosity here?”

  “I had to let him arrest me last year,” Munson said, rubbing one of his tan, sleeveless arms. The red and black flannel shirt looked ridiculous, all the more so because of how damned hot it was outside. “Wasn’t gentle about it.”

  “He arrested all of us last year, dumbass,” Kellen said. “McGuire and I,” he nodded to the one holding Hendricks, “spent six months in the lockup in Ferguson together after that little debacle.”

  “Boys shoulda kept to your parole,” Arch said, not struggling to do anything but remain upright against the hold of a demon-man that looked like he weighed a hundred and twenty at most, compared to Arch’s easy two-twenty. If he’d been a man and not a demon, Hendricks would have bet the deputy could have beat the fuck out of him and twelve others like him at the same time.

  “Can we kill him when it comes time?” Kellen asked Hollywood. He wore a stupid grin, and Hendricks did not like the look of it. Not at all. It reeked of impatience, and made him think that maybe Arch wouldn’t make it to whenever this ritual sacrifice was going to happen.

  “No,” Hollywood said simply, and all the air went right out of that discussion. Hendricks paid a little attention to the subtle nuance of the reactions that showed; even though these demons only wore veneers of humanity, they were complete. Emotion definitely showed through on the faces, which was just another thing Hendricks didn’t understand about how these fuckers managed to look human even on the surface. Mostly. “I need them alive, and I need to do the sacrificing.”

  “Well, can we rough him up some?” The sleeveless one—Munson—asked.

  Hollywood seemed to ponder this question, and he took his time. About ten seconds later, he said, “No. I don’t need them flawless, but I don’t trust you boys to know human beings enough to keep from killing them in your enthusiasm.” He gave a light shrug and let the sunglasses drop back over his eyes. “You can eat them when I’m done, though.”

  “Well,” Hendricks said, drawing their attention to him, “I think I’ve heard just about all I need to hear of this.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Hollywood said with dark amusement. “Is that so?”

  “It’s so,” Hendricks said.

  Hollywood adopted an air of true interest in what Hendricks was saying, even over the distance between them. Hendricks could practically feel the condescending fake concern from the demon, and it pissed him off even more. “What are you going to do about it?” Like Hendricks was the most inconsequential insect to ever cross his path.

  “Quite a bit, actually,” Hendricks said.

  “Oh?” Hollywood said, with a snicker. “How?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed this,” Hendricks said, not bothering to squirm, just letting Kellen hold him tight arou
nd the neck, “but you didn’t exactly hire the most capable cowhands on the ranch—metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  Hollywood glared at him from behind the sunglasses, and Hendricks saw a little bit of the demon fire within. It didn’t stop him, though. Hollywood started to say something smartass back, but Hendricks bucked his head down, dropping his cowboy hat down and catching it with his left hand while dragging his right into his belt and snagging the hilt of his sword. He drew it and lobbed it, slow, hilt first, right at Arch, who was watching him.

  The minute Hendricks had his right hand free of the sword, he thrust it into his cowboy hat, like he was going to pull a rabbit out of it. Which he was—again, metaphorically speaking. His hand caught the handle of the switchblade hidden in the brim for emergencies just such as this and he flipped the blade open as he pulled it clear of the hat. He felt Kellen snugging his grip tighter in preparation to hurt him, but he thrust the knife up and into the base of Kellen’s neck, dragging forth an unearthly scream that was cut short as a hot wind blew Hendricks a step forward.

  The whole area was quiet, just for a second as Hendricks saw the demon gripping Arch dissolve into his own burst of blackness and fire. The big lawman staggered back to his feet across from Hendricks, the weight of the demon off his back, sword gripped tightly in one hand and shotgun back in the other.

  “That’s what I was gonna do,” Hendricks said to Hollywood, who just stood glaring at him quietly, Munson at his shoulder looking ready to jump the two of them. Hendricks just put the cowboy hat back on his head and clutched the switchblade tighter in his hand, keeping it pointed at the two of them that were remaining.

  Hollywood didn’t say anything for a minute, then calmly took off his glasses and folded them up, slipping them into the breast pocket of his suit. “You boys are in over your head here,” Hollywood said then cringed and looked to Arch almost apologetically. “I didn’t mean ‘boy’ in an offensive way, in your case.” He glared back at Hendricks. “In yours, I hope offense was taken.”