Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection

by J. Thorn

  “Shit. That place must piss off the holy rollers.”

  John smirked and leaned toward Alex to catch a glimpse out of the driver’s side window.

  Alex turned the vehicle left on to East Ninth and slammed on the brakes. The steel-blue water of Lake Erie cut a sharp line into the early winter sky, as lonely birds circled high above the wind-whipped whitetops. Drawing back from the lake, a smoldering pile of ruins stood where the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame used to be. Barren fingers reached high into the sky, twisted by explosion and heat. An oversized guitar sculpture stood upright in front of the wreckage, the only recognizable part of the building. Fire had seared it black, but had not been hot enough to melt the guitar like other structures nearby. Smoke chased the birds high into the sky, originating from dozens of pockets of smoldering ruin below.

  “Holy fuck,” said John.

  “When do you think this happened?”

  “Don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I think it does. What if the Holy Covenant has plans to start demolishing parts of the city? I would think this place would be one of the first targets, followed by maybe the strip clubs and banks downtown.”

  “Yeah, the root of all evil; titties.”

  John winked at Alex.

  “Well, I don’t see what we can do about.”

  “Uh huh. If they have the entire US military at their disposal, we’d better be prepared to bend over….”

  Alex inched the Humvee down East Ninth. Both men had their machine-gun muzzles out the windows, but neither found a suitable target. Loose dogs and a pig ran through the desolate streets. They would not have been surprised to see gorillas from the zoo swinging from the power lines.

  He stopped the vehicle between Superior and Rockwell on East Ninth.

  “Something’s not right,” Alex said.

  “No kidding.”

  “No, I mean, I think we’re being watched.”

  “I haven’t seen anybody since we left the ‘Saw.”

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t see you.”

  “How do you know, Doc? They give you survivalist lessons in veterinary school?”

  “No asshole, but they do teach it in USMC Basic Training.”

  John sat with his mouth open.

  “You were a fucking Marine?”

  “Semper Fi, bitch.”

  Before John could respond, two Humvees appeared from an alley and sped toward them. The remaining glass on their Humvee shattered as muzzle flashes exploded from the back of both vehicles.

  “Get your head down!” Alex screamed.

  He shoved the Humvee into reverse and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The wheels bit into the asphalt, lurching the vehicle backward. John could feel the impact of bullets hitting the outside of the Humvee. Alex ducked his head below the dash and did his best to keep the wheel straight.

  The back of the Humvee smashed into a pizza shop. Daylight vanished as the vehicle plunged deep into the dining room. It crashed into the brick oven and came to a halt.

  “Get out, hurry,” John yelled.

  Alex sported a rising welt on his forehead and a bloody nose. He stumbled from the vehicle and dropped to one knee. John hooked him under the armpit and pulled Alex to his feet.

  They climbed through the remnants of brick and drywall. John grabbed his bag and tossed it over one shoulder. He did the same for Alex, who stumbled like a heavyweight boxer after nine rounds. John placed Alex’s gun in his hand. The front of both Humvees appeared on the street outside. They stopped. Combat boots slapped the hard surface as the soldiers sprinted toward them.

  John pushed past a tire that came loose and found its way into the kitchen. He climbed over it and past a stainless-steel prep table. Alex stumbled behind him. John reached a door in the back of the restaurant and stood in virtual darkness. John threw all of his weight into the steel push bar. Blinding sunlight exploded when the door burst open into the alley. John reached back and yanked Alex over the threshold. Alex stopped and bent over. He vomited and covered his eyes while they adjusted.

  “Over here. Help me block the door.”

  John motioned for Alex to grab the other end of the dumpster, overflowing with ripe garbage. The old, rusted wheels resisted at first, but gave away under the men’s muscle. A split second before the troops could fly through the door, John and Alex positioned the dumpster against the wall. They heard shouts of frustration and pounding, but the stubborn dumpster did not budge.

  “This way,” John said.

  Alex grabbed his gear and gun and followed John down the end of the alley. They ran past open bags of garbage, stacks of milk crates, and other dumpsters, until the alley opened up on to East 12th Street.

  Bullets sliced the air just above their heads. John waved his hand at them like annoying insects. Soldiers crouched and attacked from Superior. John spun and returned fire. His spray of bullets crawled up the office building behind the soldiers, shattering windows as it climbed. The powerful gun rattled his teeth and shook his bones. Alex appeared next to John. He had his rifle tucked inside his shoulder and his right eye over the sight. When he fired, his bullets followed a trajectory toward the target. Two soldiers dropped like ragdolls to the pavement. The others took cover behind their vehicle, which was parked in the middle of Superior.

  With their pursuers dodging fire, John and Alex ran north on East 12th Street toward Lake Erie. John turned at the first alley on his right and sprinted down it.

  “Make sure it’s open at the other end,” Alex said, a step or two behind John.

  Two blocks down the alley, it opened up behind the Greyhound bus depot. They ran as fast as they could through the narrow alley. When they got to the end, still more deadly insects buzzed the air above their heads. John turned to see their pursuers entering the alley at the other end.

  John found a door into the bus depot and threw his shoulder into it, to no avail. Alex crouched down and fired back at the attackers. They stopped advancing and returned fire from behind dumpsters and stacks of pallets. John looked down the block and saw a door hanging open.

  “This way,” he shouted to Alex.

  Both men’s ears rang from the exchange of gunfire.

  They swung the door open and jumped inside. John sprinted through a mechanic’s garage where a tow truck sat in the opposite corner. A garage door faced Superior, and old windows bordered it on each side, allowing sufficient light to illuminate the garage. John ran to the truck while Alex moved as many fifty-five gallon drums as he could in front of the door. Alex wiped the greasy residue from his hands, casting a hopeful glance at the wall of drums.

  John pulled the door of the tow truck open and spotted a filthy keychain dangling from the ignition. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. At first the engine coughed and protested, refusing to awaken from its comfortable slumber. John tried it two more times, spewing fumes into the air. He hesitated, fearful of flooding the carburetor. On the final attempt, the truck came to life. John revved the engine. He turned on the headlights, nearly blinding Alex as he sprinted toward the passenger side. The gas-gauge needle vibrated along with the powerful engine, hovering near the quarter-tank mark.

  Alex jumped in the passenger seat. Light appeared around the edges of the back door as the soldiers pushed the drums of oil back into the garage. John pushed the clutch to the floor and threw the stick into first gear. The torque of the transmission in low gear startled the men. John drove forward, pushing the barrels of oil hard into the door.

  John looked over his shoulder as he put the truck in reverse. He swung it around and slammed the accelerator to the floor, heading right for the garage door. Alex ducked below the dash as John drove the truck straight through the flimsy, rolling garage door. He turned a hard left on to what he hoped was Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, the detached garage door still covering the windshield. It slid down toward the front like a sheet of snow melting off the roof. The truck rumbled and shook as it chewed over the d
oor and spat it out behind the rear wheels. Soldiers scrambled into Euclid Avenue, firing their guns at the fleeing tow truck. John put a hundred yards between them and the soldiers as bullets kissed the exterior of the truck, but none found their mortal mark.

  Alex sat up and looked out the passenger window. They heard it before they saw it. A military helicopter circled high above Lake Erie. It fell into a beeline toward their newfound transportation.

  “They see us,” Alex said.

  John shifted from second to third gear, pushing the truck toward fifty miles per hour. Although it was not designed as a getaway vehicle, the tow truck handled well. It raced down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, through the Cleveland State campus, and into Midtown. Several deserted and dilapidated buildings towered over the area, a tribute to the once-mighty industrial power of the Rust Belt. Before the copter could zero in on their exact location, John jumped the curb and shoved the truck down into first gear, the transmission of the vehicle crying in pain. He drove it through the open garage bay of one of the towering brick dinosaurs. John killed the engine. Both men sat in silence. Looking over their shoulders and through the back window, they heard the copter overhead.

  John climbed out first. He crouched down and slithered toward the open garage bay. The helicopter circled back over Euclid Avenue, searching like a bird of prey.

  “They didn’t see us duck in here,” he said to Alex.

  Alex appeared next to John, his rifle pointing out toward the street.

  “We gotta roll the dice. Do we wait here or keep moving?”

  “If they didn’t see us, we might be safe here temporarily. But, it’s a matter of time before they canvass the area.”

  “True, but it would take them a helluva long time to search every one of these abandoned factories.”

  They stopped talking and listened as the copter’s blades echoed off in the distance, fading away from their hidden location. Several Humvees raced down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard toward East Cleveland, past the wounded buildings.

  John set his gun up against the wall and pulled a bottle of water from his bag.

  “How’s your head?” he asked Alex.

  “I’ll be fine. Nice job with the driving, man.”

  “Thanks. You going to show me how to shoot like that?”

  “Not unless you want to invite all of those fuckers to watch.”

  John smiled.

  “I guess that wouldn’t be a good idea, would it Rambo?”

  “Rambo was a Green Beret, asshole.”

  Alex sighed and the men shared a quick laugh. They heard water dripping in the distance, pooling on the cement floor.

  “Oh, and by the way,” John said, “how come you were asking me back at the Jigsaw about how to shoot a goddamn gun?”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t know exactly how much I could trust you yet, to be honest, John. I wanted to know how much you knew about weapons. I apologize.”

  “Yeah, alright. Forget it. As long as you keep knocking those fuckers over like shooting-gallery ducks.”

  Alex nodded.

  After a few minutes, John’s adrenaline subsided. He closed his eyes, and thought about his city.

  Cleveland, along with Buffalo and Pittsburgh, had once been a crown jewel in America’s industrial corridor. Millions of dollars of manufactured goods crossed Lake Erie or floated down the Ohio River. Raw materials flowed west, headed to the Big Three automakers in Detroit. Although a dirty, cutthroat, and dangerous industry, the citizens of the Rust Belt prospered. A solid middle class established the classic suburban lifestyle, complete with a car and disposable income.

  The decline of the domestic steel industry changed all that. Japanese factories processed the resources twice as fast, at half the cost. The effect over the next fifteen years proved to be deadly. Shipping lanes dried up, factories shut their doors, and families fell into poverty.

  The stretch of rotting buildings along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard became a sore reminder of bygone days of prosperity. Spray-painted tags covered the walls of an industrial giant. Weeds and junk trees climbed through the brick, reclaiming the land like the overgrown temples of the ancient Maya. The smokestacks and chemical dumps stopped polluting the environment years ago, but they continued to pollute the minds and memory of the citizens of the dying metropolis.

  John sat on the floor, staring through the broken windows of a fallen king.

  Chapter 24

  The cold stone of the church could not keep the warmth contained. Generators provided electricity, but the boiler broke down every hour. As more people took their seats in the pews, the temperature climbed, one degree at a time. A mix of white robes, camouflage, field gear, and civilians filled St. Michael’s on the first Sunday since the beginning of the First Cleansing.

  Father peered out, from the back room behind the altar, across the sea of pious faces. He smiled and turned to make the final adjustments on his vestments.

  A murmur brewed before the start of Mass, but dissipated when the altar boys took their positions at the back of the church. The organist, high in the mezzanine, struck a bellowing chord and began the processional hymn. Father appeared and stood between two altar boys. A third held the crucifix high above his shoulders and began the steady march toward the altar.

  The congregation sang along with the organ, bellowing the hymns of the Book. The faithful beamed at Father as he proceeded toward the altar. Aware of the attention, he took a luxurious pace to his destination.

  The boy holding the crucifix stood at attention, riveted to the stone floor. Father and the servers flanking him bent at the waist in reverence of the crucifix hanging above the altar. They walked to the right and turned to face the church members. All four stood in front of their designated chairs.

  Once the Mass began, Father fell into an ingrained routine of song, prayer, and reflection. His fingers caressed worn rosary beads as the words fell mindlessly from his lips. A young woman performed the first reading and led the church in the responsorial psalm.

  Father climbed to the pulpit. It rose four feet from the altar in a turret of red-veined marble. Latin phrases in golden borders lined the top and spread in an arch above the altar. St. Michael, the archangel, sat atop the marble canopy, ready to battle Satan’s minions. Built in the late 1800s, with Cleveland a burgeoning industrial giant of the Midwest, St. Michael’s proved to be the most populated and profitable of all the local churches. It stretched majestically into the air, overlooking the main railroad line leading to the Erie Canal. However, in the past three decades, the church and its parishioners fell into destitution and despair. Population loss and unemployment forced the diocese to consolidate many parishes. St. Michael’s held out the longest, but could not stem the tide of the economic downturn. By 1995, the number of parishioners dropped below one hundred, a staggering decline from over four thousand in the 1940s.

  A vision took Father back to a time when men removed their hats and placed them in the clips on the back of each pew. In his mind, Father heard the rumbling freight train as it passed through the valley.

  Father looked up and realized he had been standing silently in front of the congregation. He finished the gospel reading and the members of the church waited for the sermon. Nobody shuffled or moved, as if awaiting their shepherd’s command.

  “God created all things. Through the agency of your parents He created you. Thus, you came from God. You hope by living a decent life to return to God. From birth unto death, or from God to God, you travel through this world over a path known as God's will. Thus, in all the eventualities of life — misfortune, war, disappointment, disillusionment, sickness, and death – you hear God-fearing people exclaim: ‘Thy will be done.’ No matter what your vocation or job; whether you are a professional man, tradesman, defense worker, soldier, sailor, aviator, or nurse, the same way must be traveled, and that is the way of God's will.

  “Therefore, we intend to present the lives of Saints who happened to be servicem
en, soldiers, to show that even they, amid all the perils, and despite all the temptations they met as soldiers, could, with their eyes on God and His will, live good, moral lives, even to the extent of becoming perfect.

  “We are all soldiers in this fight against the Infidels. Every one of us can rise up and beat Satan’s forces to Hell. Many evils will tempt you from His perfection. Remember, ‘Thy will be done.’ The Holy Covenant will prevail. The First Cleansing required the Holy Spirit to guide God’s hand in the same way the Spirit guided the waters of the Great Flood. Before we can heal, we must excise our sickness.

  “I call on each and every one of you to serve His will. Whether it be with gun or Bible, volunteer work or prayer, you must all do your part. Satan will not surrender. He will not lay down in front of the glory of the Lord. And he will not provide mercy. Continue to alert our soldiers, the chosen Warriors of Christ, of the location of any Infidel. They may be your neighbor or your brother, but they are also the concubine of Lucifer. God before all, so: ‘Thy will be done.’ Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.”

  Father sat and leaned back on his chair while the congregation held his gaze in rapture. He read the visions of an Earthly garden in their eyes, and heard their hearts banishing the serpent and sin. The thought of the Thousand Year Peace allowed him to sleepwalk through the rest of the Mass.

  As was custom, the parishioners shook his hand as they filed out the back doors of St. Michael’s. Many commented on the beautiful, holy sermon just delivered, and they spoke of the richness of a full church. Father shook hands with men. He hugged women, and lifted little children in the air.

  God’s love will triumph, he thought.

  ***

  “Just us?” asked Commander Byron.

  “Is my conversation alone not adequate?” asked Father.

  The general laughed. He arranged his beret to cover a receding hairline. The medals on his chest clinked together with every movement. Commander Byron’s olive-green jacket had pressure on the lower buttons. His cane sat across his lap, and an eye patch hung in place.