by Jake Bible
“I’d ask you to find condoms, as well as books, but again, just like batteries, it’s been six years since any were manufactured,” Hannah said. “They’d do more harm than good by giving the horny devils false confidence.”
“Careful saying horny devil in a cathedral,” Morty chuckled. “You never know what you’ll conjure.”
Hannah gave him a polite smile and waited.
“Fine,” Morty said. “I’ll do what I can. Maybe I can find some magazines. They’re more compact than books. Or a stash of paperbacks. Might as well stock up in case we end up under siege.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and Morty cursed himself.
“You didn’t know about the siege,” Morty said and held up his hands. “Hey, it’s not for certain, okay? Keep that news between us. Last thing anyone wants is for some of the less-than-stable wards to start panicking.”
“Get me some books to hand out and my lips are sealed,” Hannah said.
“Dammit, really? Blackmail, Hannah?” Morty responded, shaking his head. “I’ll do my absolute best.”
“Promise?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, for the love of. . . . Yes, I promise I will do my best,” Morty replied. “You know that promise probably just cost me the cargo space my cigars were going to take up.”
“Coins has been pilfering your stash,” Hannah said. “I know where he keeps the stolen cigars. If you can’t get more on your own, I’ll tell you the spot.”
“That little punk,” Morty grumbled. “Okay, deal. Books. I’ll get some books.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said and patted Morty’s arm. “You are a good man, Mordecai.”
“Not a man,” Morty said. “But thanks.”
“All right, not a man. But a good soul,” Hannah said. “Good night, Morty. Rest well.”
“You too, Hannah,” Morty said.
The woman turned and left, giving a grateful wave as she went. Morty waited until she was for sure gone before stepping into his vestibule. A latticed window was set into the wall of his vestibule, but the darkness outside, and the couple of torches burning in the avenue behind him, only allowed Morty to see his reflection, and not the usually great view of Margaret’s Patch.
Morty flinched as he stared. The reality of the situation was reflected back at him by the uncertainty in his own eyes. He knew bad odds when he saw them. Everything since Valac’s arrival that morning had confirmed the odds were bad. But for now, he could do nothing except rest. And hope.
He sighed as his body went rigid and his stone creaked into solidity. His eyes glazed over and Morty slipped into blissful nothingness while the granite’s magic recharged from the power of the sanctuary and the energy of the earth that it was built upon.
5
THE FEW POSSESSED stationed in the immediate area surrounding the sanctuary grounds—sloppily hidden in amongst the rhododendrons and locust saplings—took their usual potshots with heavy-caliber rifles. Morty easily swerved to avoid the volleys. Not that anyone expected the bullets to hit him. The possessed were bored and shooting at a flying creature made of stone was one way to relieve that boredom.
Morty took almost zero notice of the attacks. Even if the bullets had hit him, the damage would have been minimal. He was made of granite, yes, and granite could be chipped or cracked, sure, but short of highly specialized explosive rounds, there wasn’t a whole lot the possessed could do to him with rifles.
He was a creature of magic, after all.
Which was why a thing weighing half a ton could even fly at all. Morty might have had wings, but wings were not an automatic override of the laws of physics. To propel his bulk through the air, his wings would have needed to be ten times their size. And he’d need a jet engine strapped to his back.
Again, creature of magic.
Morty dwelled on the subject as he left the land around Margaret’s Patch and crossed over a low ridge, diving low into the empty holler beyond. A creature of magic. A magic creature. A grotesque made of granite, given life by the blood of the Stonecutter that had carved the G. No words needed to be said during the creation; only blood was needed to bind the magic of protection to the creature.
But the magic was far from consistent.
The grotesques and gargoyle of the cathedral on Margaret’s Patch had awoken one day with the simple knowledge that they must defend their sanctuary, and all that were in its boundaries, at all costs. Some of them had memories of their old, inanimate lives; some didn’t. Some had extensive knowledge of who and what they were, like Artus, while some didn’t.
Each of the Gs had a unique power and skill set. Morty could fly. And he was big. Crushing and smashing things with his huge, granite fists proved to be part of his skill set. Although, he doubted the crushing and smashing were part of any magical gift. That particular gift came from the Stonecutter who gave him those big fists and muscle definition.
Below in the holler sitting on the porch of a rambling log cabin, two of the possessed lifted their hands high, extending only a single finger on each hand. Morty didn’t need to look closely at the gestures to know which fingers they were. He was used to the profanity and insults flung at him every time he had to venture away from the sanctuary and out into the demon-possessed world.
Morty had never known the world beyond the sanctuary in the before. He wasn’t one of the Gs who had woken to find he had secret knowledge of the rules of the magic that governed him, the reasons for the Gates of Hell opening, or what the world was like as he had slumbered in solidity. His eyes had popped open. He’d known the Gates of Hell had finally fallen; he’d known he had to protect the sanctuary from the soon to arrive hordes of demon-possessed vessels, and he knew what he was and the rules of his existence. But that was the extent of his awareness. Everything else he’d learned from Artus and the others.
Artus. Roan was right: magic was not infinite. Artus, poor G, wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. Even with the red dragon siphoning off some of his own strength and giving it to Artus.
Morty shook the thought from his head as he swerved to avoid hitting a rusting radio tower that topped a ridge. The crisscross of metal was dead, had been for years, but in the beginning, when there were still humans possessed of souls and free will instead of demon puppeteers, the radio tower top had blinked red as it transmitted waves across the region. Men and women took shifts, calling to other survivors, whose numbers grew less and less with every passing day, telling them there was hope in the Appalachian Mountains.
Then the power went out and that was that.
Some in the sanctuary said that a crew had been sent to the power plant on the Pigeon River, but they never came back. The possessed had been waiting for them.
Slowly, as local survivors realized their homes were going to become their tombs, people began to leave their neighborhoods and towns. The very lucky few found the sanctuary of Margaret’s Patch. The not quite as lucky, but still lucky considering, found death. The rest found an unwanted intruder digging into their souls, taking control of their bodies.
Morty glanced down at the intersection of two dirt roads below him and shook his head as a group of possessed waited for him to pass over, asses bared and aimed up at him. They were communicating, tracking him, telling other groups which direction he was going. If timed correctly, demons could jump from one possessed body to another over short distances and pass on information then jump back to their original vessel. Grapevine of the damned.
Not that it was easy. Having two demons in one vessel was dangerous. Morty had witnessed heads exploding, stomachs bursting open, mouths wide and vomiting pea-green sick everywhere until the body was nothing but an empty husk. They must have seriously wanted to mess with him bad to risk breaking their vessels.
Their dangerous mischief worried Morty. Demons got bored, as all creatures did, magic or non-magic, bu
t the risk was not worth it to simply alleviate boredom. Valac appearing was proof of that. Hell’s bureaucracy was sending out some important memos, and one of those was to track Morty. He grumbled at the added attention, but there was nothing he could do about it except wait and see what they had up their demonic sleeves.
Onward, Morty flew until the density of trees began to thin and the dirt and gravel roads became cracked pavement, then faded blacktop. Morty followed one of the blacktop paths until he reached the edge of the former town known as Bryson City. As he landed by a burned-out husk of a gas station, Morty ratcheted up his senses, taking in every sound, smell, taste, and movement. He waited for the attack, but it didn’t come.
Morty wasn’t stupid. He knew the possessed would be on him any minute. No matter where he went to scavenge, a mob soon arrived. Sometimes the mob was easy to handle, sometimes it wasn’t. Morty didn’t know what type of mob the day would bring, only that there would be a mob. Always was. He’d told Roan that Bryson City should be clear, but he didn’t believe that to be true; a comforting lie was so much simpler than the truth.
On his back was a large duffel bag, empty and deflated, ready to be filled with necessities. Morty didn’t waste any time. He jogged his stone ass over to a dark and dirt-coated pharmacy. It had once been part of a national chain. Banners announcing that week’s sales, a week that was long in the past, could be seen through the grimy windows. The banners were moving.
Morty grumbled and walked around the back of the pharmacy, finding a door wide open. Well, not so much wide open as ripped off its hinges and thrown against a Dumpster. Morty grumbled again. Took some strength to rip a steel door off and toss it like a beanbag. He wasn’t happy to think of one of the vessels not only being possessed by a demon, but possessed of that kind of muscle power. Usually, the possessed were limited to their mortal abilities. Yes, the bodies could be pushed to the limits since the demons inside cared little about the non-fatal pain and damage they caused to their vessel half the time. Still, the vessel that tore the door off had to have been huge.
Morty gave the door a quick glance and stepped into the gloom of the pharmacy’s back storeroom. He’d been to the pharmacy plenty of times, so he knew he was not going to find any drugs, antibiotics, or other helpful medicines. All of that had been pilfered as soon as the populace of Bryson City knew things were going severely sour. No problem. He was after other items.
He strode past the crushed and broken pill bottles that littered the floor around the counter where once a pharmacist had given free advice about heartburn and high blood pressure medications. Morty didn’t glance at the ubiquitous rack of reading glasses that lay on its side, its contents strewn about. Demons could see in the pitch dark, look across chasms that bridged Hell below and Earth above without going mad (more than they already were), and detect magical spectrums that even the Gs couldn’t see. Reading glasses weren’t exactly needed. The frames and lenses cracked and crunched under his stone feet.
Morty studied the signs that hung above the looted aisles until he found what he was looking for. All of the tampons and pads were long gone, but the pregnancy tests were untouched, or at least not pilfered as boxes sat askew on their shelves. Morty didn’t know which brand was better than the other, so he grabbed a couple of each and threw them into his duffel bag.
Next on his list were condoms, despite Hannah’s skepticism of their value. He searched the entire store before seeing them in a broken display case set directly under the pharmacy counter. Only a few boxes were left and he grabbed all that he could. He chuckled at the idea that even when the Gates of Hell were wide open, some folks worried about safe sex. Humans were weird.
Taking the time to do a quick scan of the rest of the store once his main objectives had been accomplished, Morty picked up some stray candy bars, a few bloated and forgotten cans of diet soda, and as many old magazines as he could stuff into his duffel without taking up too much space.
Not that Morty expected to fit all the supplies needed into his one duffel bag. He had a system when it was time for a big run. Fill what he could into the duffel and leave the rest in a convenient pile in some secure location. Then, under the relative cover of night, he would fly in with extra bags, fill them, deliver them to the sanctuary grounds, and return for more supplies, making as many trips as necessary. Usually, he could complete three trips before the night shift of the possessed caught on and began sending up flares and calling others to the position of his cache.
Three trips was better than no trips.
With the wards’ requested items stowed in his duffel, Morty gave the pharmacy a last glance then retraced his steps back through the ransacked shelves and out the back storeroom.
He stopped when he reached the open doorway. It had taken the possessed longer than he’d expected, but they finally made an appearance.
“Hello,” Morty said to the two dozen possessed that stood on the cracked pavement of the employee parking area behind the pharmacy. “Lovely day, don’t you think?”
By the look of their weapons—aluminum baseball bats, sledgehammers, pickaxes, lengths of rebar, metal pipes—Morty surmised the dregs of the area’s low-level possessed had been sent to gum up his day. If there’d been any important demons inside the vessels, they would have held firearms. Demons followed a bureaucratic hierarchy where seniority mattered. Low on the totem pole meant crude melee weapons. The higher a demon rated, the more sophisticated the weapons. With human manufacturing at an end, and the demons’ inability to master even the simplest of electronics without frying them, resources were finite, especially munitions like explosives, so the demons weren’t going to risk losing precious grenades to some schmuck that had just stepped foot inside his new vessel. The schmuck had to prove himself first.
Unfortunately for the couple of dozen possessed that stared hard at Morty, all they were going to prove with their bats and pipes and sledgehammers was how well, or not, they could take a serious beating by a creature made of stone and powered by ancient magics.
Except Morty was not in the mood. His time being solid had helped recharge his energy levels, but he had a forced sense of urgency due to the looming nightmare Artus feared. It was a weight on his stone shoulders. One he didn’t need or want. What he wanted was to get the stuff on his list piled up, hopefully find some cigars for himself, and head back to the sanctuary grounds where he could rest up for a couple hours before dark.
Dealing with a mob of possessed would seriously cut into his rest time.
“Listen, I know you all are following orders, but is there any way we could pretend we had ourselves a little row and maybe, just maybe, skip the actual fighting?” Morty asked. “I’d appreciate it and I know the vessels you are desecrating will appreciate it. This won’t go well for them if you come at me.”
There were a couple of laughs and a few hisses. Morty shrugged.
“I thought I’d try,” Morty said right before a broken beer bottle came flying at his head.
He didn’t flinch or move, just let the bottle shatter across his left cheek. He reached up and flicked shards of glass from his shoulder then focused on the group.
“Okay, who threw that?” he asked. “Be a man, or woman, and admit it.”
No one admitted to the act of violence. Instead, the mob closed on him, weapons held high, teeth bared, eyes black as the darkest night.
6
“YOU BASTARDS NEVER learn,” Morty muttered as he assessed the mob, his eyes hunting for the strongest and weakest amongst the possessed. “This is going to be a long day if I have to deal with this crap at every stop.”
The first possessed vessel reached him, a two-foot iron pipe held in each hand, and the rest of the group stopped to let him take on Morty by himself. The guy must have been good if the others were willing to wait their turns.
Morty lashed out with a lightning-quick
haymaker from the right and shattered the possessed’s entire face. Blood and bits of bone went flying in every direction. Skin tore and flapped down onto the possessed’s neck. The broken man screamed then coughed as his throat filled with blood and teeth.
Morty hit him again with a left before he could fall and what remained of the possessed man’s head tore right off, tumbling across the pavement, coming to rest next to the broken door and the Dumpster against the pharmacy’s back wall. The decapitated body stood still for a half second then crumpled into a heap of useless flesh.
Then the crappy part happened, the part Morty hated and could never get used to no matter how many times he witnessed it.
The demon inside burst free from the broken body’s chest, sending more blood and bone splattering everywhere. It was nothing but an amorphous blob of black smoke. That wasn’t the bad part. The bad part was the ear-splitting screech of rage and anger the demon made as it floated for a brief moment then protested being sucked down into the ground, the smoke disappearing through cracks in the pavement—the demon forced to return to the netherworld below and possibly an eternity in the pits until a new position on Earth became available.
It was a bureaucracy, after all, and rules and protocols must be followed. One could say a lot of things about a demon-possessed apocalypse, but to call it unorganized would be woefully incorrect.
“Guys, I have a big day ahead of me, so if we could avoid the one-on-one attacks, that would be great,” Morty said. He gave the mob “come at me” gestures with both hands and waited.
They didn’t come at him. Half were staring down at the broken body, the other half were glaring at Morty so hard he thought a couple of them might pop their eyeballs out right there on the pavement.
