Outlaws of Babylon

by Eugene W. Cundiff

  "Ungh. What the Hell..."

  Ric suddenly felt a burning coldness in the small of his back, followed by a warm wetness. His head swam and his knees buckled, and bringing t him to the ground. Looking down, he saw the spreading pool of blood surrounding him. He realized his powers were faltering, feeling the familiar hum of power fading from his head, and finally his mind registered the thunderous crack of a gunshot. He heard Ronnie call out from behind him.

  “Over here! It’s the demons’ leader! I got him!”

  Ric cursed himself, fighting to keep a cool head as he felt his body going into shock. He needed to fade, to focus his thoughts and disappear, but the more he tried the more his head throbbed. Despite his inability to use the power he had come to take for granted Ric kept trying, both out of an increasingly vain hope of success and the fact the pain his attempts brought served as an excellent way to keep his mind focused.

  “Curse your... sudden but inevitable… betrayal.”

  The Californian laughed, watching as the Sixes gathered in around him. Hearing their shouts of recognition as Ronnie waved them over, Ric shook his head and laughed again, deeply and maniacally. Ronnie circled to the front of him, scowling.

  “What’s so damned funny, you freak?”

  Ric shook his head, slowly glancing up to look Ronnie in the eyes. He kept laughing, madly, as the boy fumbled fearfully with the stolen gun.

  “Oh put it away Ralphie. You’re a… shitty shot. But to quote a great… great man you’ve never heard… never heard of...”

  Ric drew a deep, rattling breath. Ronnie aimed the pistol at him unsteadily, the boy's grip on the weapon white-knuckled.

  "What' are you talkin' about? Tell me!"

  The Californian shook his head. “Tis enough... t’will... t’will serve. Ask for me tomorrow... and you’ll find me... a grave man.

  Ric grinned, weakly.

  "For once in… my life… anyhow.”

  Ronnie was soon flanked by the Sixes as they finally reached the pair. All of them had their guns drawn and aimed at Ric. He shook his head as he looked to them, still chuckling.

  “Damned if you bastards… don’t want to make sure! But that’s the joke, my last damned joke… and my best.

  The Californian could feel his body going down. He could feel his vision swimming, and feel his mind fogging despite the sharpening influence of the now-shrieking pain in his head. But he kept laughing, spitting a foamy mouthful of blood and saliva as he began to sum up all the will he had left.

  “You’ve killed a… man .Hah! Not even a man! But you’ve done more than I… than I ever could. You’ve turned me from a man... into… into... a legend. Into... into a goddamned... a goddamned... icon! The love child of... Jim Morrison... and... Joan of Arc! You idiots have made... have made me immortal!

  Ric still continued to laugh through rasping breaths and burning lungs, watching the Sixes as they stood about him in fearful uncertainty. Even now, even as he was dying, he knew they feared him. That heartened the Californian, and he pulled every bit of strength he had left, rising defiantly to his feet. His eyes blazed with fire as he grinned at the Sixes and at Ronnie, and they stepped back from him as he did. Ric's eyes locked with Ronnie's, and his voice became clear and focused.

  “If you’re going to kill a man, have the balls to look him in the eyes when you do it you little shit. And if you’re going to kill a man?

  Ric shook his head and spat blood at Ronnie's feet in contempt, throwing back his head and spreading his arms wide.

  “Learn to fucking shoot!”

  The Sixes opened fire on him then, and Richard Marion Lee howled a final defiant laugh to the sky as the hail of bullets tore him down.

  30

  Kurt groaned as the ringing in his skull faded. He fought down his nausea, struggling to find his bearings with only one working eye. He slowly took stock of his situation as his senses returned, and in his haze he could hear the shriek of a comm speaker. The voice on the other end unfamiliar.

  “High Paladin! High Paladin Whitechapel, do you copy?”

  Grunting almost soundlessly, Kurt let the voice’s words bring him back to the present. He had been fighting with Mory's father, the leader of the invading force. The Paladin had been in cover behind a van, and Kurt vaguely recalled having thrown an explosion at. That had not been a bad trick, but he noted that next time he should aim for a target a bit further from his own position. He began to rise when he heard a voice answer the man on the radio.

  “Whitechapel here, over. Report your situation.”

  The older man’s voice was pained, but not nearly as much so as Kurt would have liked. Not quite prepared to face another round of conflict with Whitechapel, Kurt chose to play at being dead. He hoped the ruse would buy him enough time to figure out a new plan of attack.

  “We have your son, High Paladin. He is unharmed, and has aided in the purging of the demon's leader. We’re sending him to you now.”

  Kurt felt a cold chill go down his spine at the man's words, but he forced himself to focus on the situation at hand. He could not allow himself another frenzied assault on this enemy, no matter how much he craved the bloody satisfaction such would bring.

  “Negative, Brother. See my son from this battlefield and returned to the rendezvous point. Any sign of my daughter?”

  “Negative sir, I’m sorry.”

  “Affirmative. I’ll continue searching personally once I have a confirmed kill on the demon that assaulted us at the gates.”

  Hearing Whitechapel's words, Kurt desperately began marshalling his energy for another round. He hoping it would be enough to see this battle through and see him out the other side of it, but in truth he doubted that the second still remained possible. He took a low, deep breath and held it, waiting for the sound of footfalls. If he died here, he would die freeing Mory and the others from the shadow of her father.

  "Finish the fight. Time to...finish the fight..."Kurt groaned as he pushed himself up from the ground, preparing to renew his assault on Whitechapel. The bloodied, dust-coated old Vet growled as he saw Kurt rise, lifting his shotgun.

  "This is your end, demon."

  Kurt smiled tiredly, his fists clenched and his shoulders squared. "Yeah. Yours too, old man."

  Both men prepared to attack, but their confrontation was interrupted by the shrieking roar of a car engine and the thundering squeal of tires. The Sheriff’s vehicle careened through the gates, skidding to a stop between the two and sending both diving to the ground. The car door opened, and a quiet voice filled with a calm, serene authority spoke from within the vehicle.

  “No more running.”

  Through the haze of pain and lost blood, Kurt could only see the vague outline of a radiant female form as it emerged from the car, cast in sharp relief against the dark body of the vehicle. He watched the form approach him in silence, then he felt a soft pressure on his chest as a gentle hand was laid upon it.

  “Rest now. Let this dose do its work while I do mine.”

  Kurt tried to fight the warm, soothing wave of peaceful exhaustion that swept through him, but he simply did not have the will left. He felt himself slipping away from the world around him as the comforting warmth blanketed his broken body. He was so tired, so lost in the comforting power that filled him that he barely registered the sounds of tires and the unloading of booted feet from arriving vehicles as he slipped downward into the blissful release of unconsciousness.

  ◆◆◆

  The Paladin's reinforcements flanked him as they arrived, and the first on the scene helped him fully to his feet. The aging Vet glared at the first car that had arrived.

  “Damn it Isabela I know you are a pitiful excuse for a driver, but you could have at least managed to hit the demon and not come so close to plowing into me.”

  The Six beside him shook his head, pointing to the car's driver. The Sheriff's eyes were wide, and her muscles taut. She was plainly afflicted by some outside force.

  “Si
r, it’s not her! The Sheriff's been compromised, look! “

  The panicked Six's warning faded into silence in his throat as Mory slipped softly around the front of the car. Her fingers traced along the hood as she did.

  “Morgan!”

  The elder Whitechapel spoke the name in stunned awe. Mory smiled thinly.

  “Yes. Hello Father.”

  “Thank God they –“

  Whitechapel rushed forward, but stopped in his tracks as Mory willed blazing white light to fill her pale eyes.

  “Thank God that they took me in, and sheltered me from the man who would have not settled at beating me merely half to death had he known what I was?”As she spoke, the Sixes behind Whitechapel turned their guns on her, ready to fire. Mory continued smiling, both her face and her voice calm “And here I thought this was going to be special daddy-daughter time.”

  Whitechapel raised a halting hand toward his men. “Morgan, no! Christ, no! I was too late, they’ve... we’ll get the demon out, I swear! An exorcism, something! We’ll manage somehow! “

  Mory shook her head, her eyes solemn. “For God so loved the world He gave his only begotten son. Yet you balk at putting down your own child despite having murdered so many others?

  The pale woman's eyes met her father's, and her soft voice grew pained.

  “Just thinking of what Mother must feel, to see you like this now? It breaks my heart.”

  The nearest Six to the Paladin grabbed his arm, tugging it sharply. “Sir, she’s not your daughter anymore!”

  Mory's eyes turned to the Six, and she smiled softly. “What was that old saying I remember of Mother’s from when I was little? Something about a stopped clock, I think?

  She shook her head, and looking back to Whitechapel.

  “He is right. I am no longer your daughter, for you are no longer my father. You are the thing that murdered him, the hateful, hollow thing that tore apart a good man with claws of bitterness and poisonous liquor, the thing that filled him with hatred and blasphemy. The sins of the father are not mine to bear, and I will suffer for them no longer.

  Mory's eyes flared even brighter, and their light grew until it enveloped her. A pair of radiant white wings billowed out behind her, and her voice rang out with clarity and purpose.

  “Leave this place and do not return. It has seen enough bloodshed in the name of those who would pervert the love of God to fuel their own hatred. The people who take refuge in this blessed Sanctuary are more family to me now than you have been since the death of the woman who loved you, the woman whose memory you’ve defiled.

  The angelic vision raised her hand, pointing to the battered gates.

  "Go now, and sin no more.”

  The illuminated young woman turned in serene silence, moving to depart. Whitechapel bellowed in heartbroken rage.

  “Kill it, kill that thing that took my daughter from me! Damn it back to Hell and damn me for failing her! Kill it now!”

  The Sixes raised their guns, and Mory stopped in her steps. She did not move to seek cover, nor did she attempt to go prone. She did not even turn to face the Sixes as the hail of gunfire they unleashed ripped through her and made a red ruin of her dress, staining the snow before her with her blood. They fired on her without mercy or relent, but to the horror of her would-be murderers the young woman did not fall. She showed not even the slightest sign of pain as the bullets tore into her body, and the burning bright aura about her did not so much as flicker. She made no noise, no plea of mercy or exclamation of suffering as they emptied their guns into her. Only when the last Six stopped firing did she turned toward them again. Her head was bowed and her hands folded, her long, blood-matted hair preserving her modesty despite the devastation of her clothes. The men stood watching in silent, terrified awe for a moment before they hastily began to reload their guns. It was only then that Mory spoke, softly and quietly. Her voice was filled with remorse.

  "Forgive me, Father.”

  Behind his men, the Paladin snarled darkly and aimed his shotgun at her. All hesitation was gone from him, and all mercy and love was gone from his voice. “There can be no forgiveness for demons, whore of Satan. Only castigation.”

  A soft, sad smile came to her lips as Mory looked up, her eyes closed and her visage beatific. “With all respect, Paladin, I was not speaking to you.”

  Her eyes snapped open with a blinding light, and behind him Whitechapel could hear his men screaming, collapsing, shuddering on the ground. He prepared to fire on his lost child, but he found had his body gone rigid. His finger was frozen halfway to the trigger, and his muscles were unresponsive. His bloodied but seemingly-unhurt daughter stepped softly toward him, locking her blazing eyes with his own. He found himself powerless to do anything but meet her gaze, watching her as she murmured a soft question.

  “Saul, why do you persecute me?”

  The last thing that Paladin Alistair Whitechapel saw were the tears of sorrow and pain that gunshots had failed to bring glistening on his daughter’s angelic face. Then the radiant glory of her gaze turned impossibly bright, blazing white before fading into the deep and burning darkness of abject and total blindness.

  31

  Isabela Jackson groaned as feeling and sensation returned to her limbs. Her memory of what had happened since she left the Zero with her goddaughter was foggy and distant. She remembered an argument with Mory. After that she could only recall feeling a numbing fear unlike any she had ever experienced, and then only blackness. She glanced about as she regained her awareness. She was seated in the driver's seat of her car. Beside her, the unconscious form of Alistair Whitechapel was buckled securely into the passenger seat. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw that the back seat was filled by a large number Alistair's men, all of them out cold like their leader.

  "You're awake, then."

  The Sheriff turned to face the voice, and she found herself looking upon a bone-white, blood-soaked Morgan Whitechapel. Her goddaughter was covered in blood and wearing only the ruined tatters of what had once been a dress, but it was neither the gore nor the destroyed clothing that was most striking to Isabela Jackson. It was the distant, quiet serenity in her goddaughter’s eyes, and the poise and certainty of her stance.

  “As I said, I see you’re awake now.”

  Aces groaned and shook her head, eyes bleary and voice uncertain. “My men?”

  “Those who survived left already. They didn’t argue too much when I told them to leave without you.”

  The Sheriff groaned again. Her voice was dry. “That’s loyalty for you.”

  “About as much as you showed, it seems. According to your men, you didn’t get Big Jerry’s blessing for this attack. In fact, turns out you got told 'no.'”

  “He was being sentimental. Showing weakness. The city would have torn itself apart.”

  “I suppose that's for you and him to discuss, when you get back to the bar. Take care of the Paladin, would you? He’s not seeing so clearly at the moment, and you seemed the best option for caring for him.”

  Aces glanced at the elder Whitechapel before looking back to his daughter. “What did you do to your father, Morgan?”

  “I did nothing to the Paladin that he had not done to himself long, long ago." There was sadness in Mory's voice and regret in her eyes, but both were swiftly replaced by cold authority. "Now if it’s all the same to you Sheriff, would you kindly escort yourself, the Paladin, and his men out of the Heirs' territory and never come back again?”

  “If I say 'no'?”

  Mory shook her head, and her eyes flashed bright with power. The Sheriff nodded, tiredly.

  “Fair enough, Miss Whitechapel. Merry Christmas to you and yours.”

  “And unto you and yours as well, Sheriff.”

  Aces nodded, at that, watching as Mory slipped away. The older woman closed the door of her car and started the engine. She pulled out from the ravaged gates of Sanctuary with haste, leaving the ravaged young woman standing alone. Mory lingered th
ere, watching the Sheriff's vehicle grow smaller in the distance until she heard the sounds of Kurt rousing himself. She slipped over to him with a quiet grace that could not fully hide her exhaustion. Behind them, the harried champions of the second battle of Sanctuary began making their way toward the gates, looking upon the ruination of their home in shock and horror. Kurt rose to stand on weary legs with Mory's help, and Mory smiled as the pair noticed the small gathering. She chuckled through her pain and tears.

  “Anybody… anybody got something... to eat?”

  She toppled toward the ground before Kurt could answer, and he lunged forward to catch her.

  “Damn it Mor, don’t just... come on then. Let’s see if the storehouse is still standing.”

  Mory shook her head, her eyes unfocused. “Need to... need to find the others first. Find Ronnie… and... and Ric, we’ll need Ric to…”

  A memory stirred in Kurt's mind, and he swallowed the lump that it formed in his throat.

  “Mor, the Paladin's men... one on a radio said something… may have been a mistake, but, he said Ric was...“

  Mory looked to him weakly as they reached the edge of the crowd. "Ric was what, Kurt?"

  The one-eyed preserve exile began to answer, but was interrupted by T.J.'s weary, aching voice, the younger man slipping through the parting crowd with a notable limp. A battered Jo was helping support him.

  “It wasn’t a mistake, Boss…”

  “Boss? What? I'm not... what do you mean, T?”

  T.J. was about to answer, but it was his turn to be interrupted. A familiar car roared through the gates and sent the crowd scattering toward cover. The bloodied people of Sanctuary readied weapons and prepared to defend against this new assault, but they lowered them the car's door shot open and the harried form of Jennifer Motosuwa dove out. She held her guns at the ready, and her eyes were wide with panic.