Stone Cold Bastards

by Jake Bible

  “Fly faster? Are you joking?” Morty yelled. “I’m flying as fast as I can!”

  Another explosion, but well above him, shut both grotesques up as they angled their descent toward the sanctuary grounds.

  Morty could see torches lighting the entire cathedral, inside and out, which was strange. The torches were never lit like that. No need, when none of the wards ever left the safety of the cathedral. Especially since that much light could afford eye-to-eye contact with one of the stronger possessed. The magic protecting the sanctuary stopped any risk of possession within the grounds, but Morty had seen a man go insane after locking eyes with a vessel that was filled with one of the higher-ranking demons. It wasn’t pretty.

  Still puzzled by the amount of torch light, Morty was next distracted by the sounds of angry shouts and panicked voices. At first, he thought it was the possessed from below, but he quickly realized that some of the wards were running away from the cathedral and they were the ones shouting. Morty saw arms being waved up at him and he wanted to dive down fast and see what was going on, but he couldn’t risk harming Desiree. Slow and steady was all that kept the last Stonecutter from being emptied of her blood supply. A blood supply that was busily dripping down and across Morty’s arms.

  “Your wards are fighting,” Tom yelled.

  Morty was about to argue, since that was pretty stupid, but then he saw a man run at a woman and club her with a length of metal. Confusion led to shock that led to rage when he realized that the woman on the ground was Hannah and the man with the metal was a complete stranger.

  “He’s not ours,” Morty shouted.

  “Well, he’s protected,” Tom shouted back. “You can see the magic about him!”

  Tom was right—the mark of the sanctuary was definitely on the man. He must have arrived while Morty was gone and requested sanctuary. How he got through the mob of possessed, and why he was attacking Hannah, were only two of the hundreds of questions that flooded Morty’s mind.

  “I will stop him,” Tom yelled as he folded his wings and dove.

  Before Morty could say anything, a bright flash exploded underneath the huge grotesque, sending Tom spinning and falling straight to the ground, well short of the sanctuary grounds and any protection from the possessed mob it could afford.

  “Tom,” Morty yelled. “Tom!”

  But the grotesque did not respond. He was a limp hunk of stone that plummeted with all the grace of a falling meteor. He was lost from sight in the trees surrounding Margaret’s Patch in a blink of Morty’s stone eyes.

  “Crap,” Morty said as he risked another glance down at Desiree. Her eyes were closed and face ashen-gray, more than it had ever been. “More crap.”

  Morty was almost to the invisible border of the sanctuary grounds when he saw the mortar coming up at him. The explosive was going to reach him before he reached the grounds. Only one thing to do.

  “You better be worth this,” Morty said as he spun his body around, aiming his back at the ground and at the incoming mortar round. “If you aren’t then I swear I’ll—”

  He didn’t get to finish the sentence as the round exploded across his back, turning him into a way better likeness of a falling meteor than Tom. Morty stared up at the sky, wings and arms wrapped about Desiree as they fell. He saw familiar stars and knew instantly where he was going to crash. He could navigate the entire sanctuary by those stars.

  Then the sky lit up as he passed the barrier. It was brief. It was bright. Then it was over. A flash of purple and then a faint sizzling sound.

  “Oh come on,” Morty cried right before his back hit the ground.

  PART TWO

  The Wards & Sanctuary

  1

  HIGHLANDER HIKED for six days, sleeping for ten-minute stretches at a time, ready to get up and bolt at the slightest snap of a twig. Six days of a steady march before he felt he was far enough away from humanity that he could set up camp and feel somewhat safe.

  It took all of four hours before he was discovered.

  Turned out the possessed might not have been fans of overnight camping, but they were certainly all about sport hunting for empty vessels. Highlander had watched a million episodes of medical dramas; he hadn’t watched a single survival drama or thriller. His campfire was as good as a neon sign blinking bright above the oaks and pines.

  Campsite abandoned, gear left behind, only the clothes on his back and soggy boots on his feet, Highlander ran. He ran, and ran, and kept running, certain that the possessed were only a few yards behind him. He was right.

  The second he broke from the tree line and saw the iron fence that surrounded the cathedral on Margaret’s Patch, Highlander had thought he was safe. His mind buzzed with the magic that resonated off the sanctuary grounds. He didn’t doubt or question the magic’s existence or validity. There were hordes of demon-possessed humans, so it stood to reason there would be a magical cathedral with a talking face set in the middle of the gates.

  Jack greeted Highlander warmly, but before he could reply in kind, his chest exploded outward as the 30-30 round tore into his back and out through his front, splattering Jack’s face with bright red blood.

  The rest was a blur as Highlander fell to the ground. He would later remember being picked up as more shots rang out. Voices that didn’t sound right roared in the air around him, matching the volume of the rifle fire. None of that mattered. All that mattered to Highlander was the gaping hole in his chest and the fact that he had calculated approximately thirty-seven minutes of life left in him if he didn’t operate immediately.

  Crazy voices and rifle fire be damned; Highlander needed medical supplies and four mirrors or he would die.

  He expressed that to the thing that carried him up to the cathedral and received a grunt in reply. An old woman appeared in his vision once he was inside and he told her what he needed. She blinked at him a few times then nodded and barked orders.

  The supplies that were brought to him were sorely lacking, but there were the basics and that’s what he’d needed. Highlander ignored the shocked faces watching him perform self-surgery. Jaws hung slack as he tied off blood vessels and sutured the wound. In front. He couldn’t reach the back on his own.

  Using the four mirrors, he talked the old woman through the procedure until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t bleed to death in the night. Then Highlander promptly passed out.

  He slept for four days straight. The old woman kept his wounds clean, kept his body clean, and was there when he woke up.

  “I’m Hannah,” she said.

  “Highlander,” he whispered.

  She didn’t question the name, simply nodded.

  Highlander studied his surroundings and announced, “This is the infirmary.”

  “Yes, we’ve used it for that,” Hannah replied.

  “No,” Highlander stated. “This is the infirmary.”

  TWO DISTURBANCES interrupted his thoughts and remembrances simultaneously. Highlander didn’t do well with concurrent stimuli, so he chose the more familiar to deal with first.

  A grotesque-shaped shadow passed by one of the stained-glass windows, and he hurried over and waved. He knew Morty didn’t see him. But, he always waved when Morty flew off on a supply run. Morty had saved him, carried him into the cathedral. Highlander liked Morty.

  Highlander also liked the source of the other disturbance, but he didn’t know how to express those feelings. It wasn’t that the feelings were romantic, it was that Highlander wasn’t good with people. People confused him and gave him levels of anxiety that at times bordered on debilitating and at other times stepped right over that border.

  “Hi, Highlander,” a teen girl said as she stopped knocking on the wall and walked through the infirmary’s open door. “Was that Morty leaving?”

  “Yes,” Highlander replied, his voice
formal and guarded.

  The girl had fiery red hair and freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was pretty, but in a way that would eventually fade as life took its toll, like it had with her Scotch-Irish ancestors who had helped populate the Blue Ridge mountains and most of Appalachia. She stood by the doorway, watching Highlander as he went about busying himself with tasks that kept him from looking over at her.

  “You’re not going to say hello?” the girl asked.

  Highlander stopped what he was doing and took a few deep breaths, then turned and looked at her.

  “Hello, Kimmy,” Highlander said. “Are you sick?”

  “Yeah,” Kimmy said. She shifted, looking almost as uncomfortable as Highlander. “I keep throwing up each morning.”

  “That would be consistent with your situation,” Highlander said. “Nausea is part of being pregnant.”

  He shuffled, extremely uncomfortable with the subject. Then he took a couple of more deep breaths and steeled himself for the conversation. It was part of the job, and Highlander took his job very seriously.

  “But we don’t know yet, right? Not until we do tests?” Kimmy asked. She crossed from the doorway and Highlander took a couple of steps back, bumping into a small table that held stainless steel medical instruments. They clattered loudly, and Kimmy laughed. “Gil thinks you’re retarded, but you aren’t, are you? Just awkward.”

  “No, not retarded,” Highlander said. “And don’t use that word. It’s not very nice.”

  “Sorry,” Kimmy said. “So . . . can we do tests?”

  “I have autism,” Highlander continued as if Kimmy hadn’t asked about the tests. “I was diagnosed in elementary school. My parents did not appreciate the diagnosis; it upset them.”

  “Oh,” Kimmy said. She shuffled her feet, a look of confusion dominating her features. “Okay . . .”

  “My father was a very important man,” Highlander said. “Very important. A lawyer. High-powered. Mother called him that. High-powered.”

  “So you were rich?” Kimmy asked. “I wasn’t.”

  “Rich, yes,” Highlander replied. “Sad, too. Mother drank. A lot. She preferred wine at night and whiskey during the day. She hated me.”

  “I, um, was hoping maybe you could do a blood test?” Kimmy asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  Highlander paused in his spontaneous confession. He tilted his head as if he’d noticed Kimmy for the first time.

  “A blood test? I don’t have the materials,” Highlander said and pointed at the stained-glass window. “Morty is going to get the materials. A urine test. Simpler and as reliable. Elisa asked him to get the test. I couldn’t.”

  “You couldn’t get it?”

  “I couldn’t ask,” Highlander paused, eyes cast down. “Embarrassing.”

  “You’re embarrassed to ask for a pregnancy test?” Kimmy asked, looking even more confused than usual. “But you aren’t embarrassed to talk to me about it. Why?”

  “This is medical,” Highlander pointed back and forth from himself and Kimmy. “A private medical discussion. Between us. Medical. That’s my job.”

  “Oh, right.” Kimmy nodded. “That doctor/patient confident thing.”

  “Doctor/patient confidentiality,” Highlander agreed. “But I’m not a doctor.”

  “Yeah, you are. Everyone says you are.”

  “I don’t have a degree I didn’t go to school. Homeschooled.”

  “You can homeschool to be a doctor? Cool.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” Highlander said. “No, I’m confusing you. Not saying what I mean.”

  Kimmy moved closer and reached out to touch his arm, but Highlander shrunk back.

  “I had a tutor,” Highlander blurted, bumping into the table again. Kimmy smiled and Highlander’s cheeks went bright red. “He was a doctor. Mother hired him because I liked watching medical dramas on Netflix.”

  “Oh, like Grey’s Anatomy?” Kimmy asked. “I loved that show.”

  “Yes, like Grey’s Anatomy. And all of the others. There are a lot of medical dramas.”

  “You learned to be a doctor from watching TV?”

  “No, no, I learned from my tutor,” Highlander snapped. “You aren’t listening. Please listen.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Kimmy said, her face falling.

  “I apologize.” Highlander snuck a glance at Kimmy and saw her distress. “That was rude. I can be rude.”

  “But you aren’t mean,” Kimmy said.

  Highlander smiled at the compliment. Or tried to. He knew his smiles were always a little lopsided and unnatural-looking on his usually serious face.

  “My tutor was Mother’s lover,” Highlander continued. “He was a doctor, but lost his job because of an addiction to painkillers. My father represented him in court. He lost. The doctor would come over and teach me medicine since Mother knew that would keep me happy and she made a deal with me that if he taught me about medicine then I had to never tell Father that she was being unfaithful. I didn’t like the deal, but I did like learning. I stayed quiet.”

  “But you can stitch and fix broken bones,” Kimmy said. “He taught you that?”

  “Animals.”

  “Like a vet?”

  “Sort of.” Highlander didn’t elaborate.

  The two stood there in silence for a full minute before Highlander motioned at one of the tables. “Sit down.”

  “But you can’t do anything,” Kimmy said. “You don’t have the materials, right?”

  “I’ll take your vital statistics. Make sure your blood pressure is within healthy parameters.”

  “Okay.” Her face lit up as she hopped onto the table. “Are you going to use a stethoscope? If you do, will you warm it? Those things are cold. You want me to unbutton my shirt?”

  Highlander had picked up the stethoscope from another small table. He instantly fumbled it and it fell onto the floor as Kimmy started to unbutton her shirt.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell is going on here?” a voice said from the doorway. “I know Kimmy puts out, ask Brian, but I didn’t think she’d put out for a retard like you, Gaylander.”

  “He’s not retarded, Gil,” Kimmy snapped. “He’s artistic.”

  “God, you’re dumb,” the teenager, Gil, said as he came walking into the infirmary, a smug look on his face, a short length of pipe in his hand.

  “That’s rude,” Highlander said.

  Kimmy’s eyes were on the pipe. “It’s okay, Highlander. Let it go.”

  “Highlander.” Gil laughed. “What kind of name is that? Talk about dumb.”

  “It is my favorite movie,” Highlander said. “I like the name.”

  “Oh, shit, well that explains it,” Gil exclaimed. He smacked the pipe against his palm, making Highlander and Kimmy jump. “From now on, I want to be called Pulp Fiction.”

  “Is that your favorite movie?” Kimmy asked.

  “Jesus, you’re hopeless,” Gil said. “Why are you even in here?”

  “You know why,” Kimmy said, her head down and voice quiet.

  “No, Kimmy, I don’t,” Gil replied. “Even if you are pregnant, there’s no way you’re going to have a baby with the amount of drugs you take. If you do, it’ll end up like one of those circus freaks with the pointy heads and webbed feet.”

  He snorted, pleased with his joke, and took a couple of steps toward Highlander.

  “Hey, Gaylander, speaking of drugs,” Gil said, “I’m gonna need some party supplies.”

  “No,” Highlander said and turned his back on the teen. He bent over and picked up the stethoscope. “Go away, Gil. I have work to do.”

  Highlander was tall and gangly, having never put any muscle on his lean frame even as he’d left adolescence and
entered his twenties. Lack of sufficient food supply did that to a growing body.

  Gil, on the other hand, was Highlander’s complete opposite. Only five feet eight, Gil was a typical stout and muscular farm boy. His face was covered in a patchy auburn beard, his eyebrow one long caterpillar running along the protruding ridge that supported his wide, pronounced forehead. If Highlander had had the courage, he would have mentioned words like “Neanderthal” and “caveman” to describe Gil.

  But that wouldn’t be a good idea, evidenced by how Gil moved toward Highlander, the short pipe raised.

  “Kimmy?” Gil said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get the fuck out,” Gil stated, eyes on Highlander.

  “What? Highlander was going to take my vital statistics,” Kimmy protested.

  “You won’t have any if I put this pipe through your head,” Gil said.

  Highlander took a step toward Gil, but the teenager lifted the pipe higher and shook it.

  “You want to come at me?” Gil asked. “That what you want to do?”

  “It’s okay, I’ll leave,” Kimmy said, hopping off the table. “Chill out.”

  “I’ll chill out when you get out,” Gil said.

  Kimmy sighed and smiled at Highlander. “Can I come back later?”

  “Yes, of course,” Highlander said. “That would be good.”

  “She won’t be coming back later,” Gil said. “She’ll be busy.”

  “I will?” Kimmy asked.

  “Shut up and get out,” Gil snarled.

  Kimmy flinched and hurried around the teenager, staying well clear of the menacing pipe.

  Gil watched her go then turned back to Highlander and gave him a wink.

  “Too bad that ass is going to get fat,” Gil said. “I see why Brian taps it.” He pointed the pipe at his temple. “Nothing going on up top, but she’s got everything going on below.”