by J. Thorn
“I don’t care what they say. I think it’s so romantic. I wish I had a guy that would do that for me.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know nothing about it.”
“I think I do, sweetheart. So many times, the last thing I’ve said to my man as he walked out the door was something stupid, like ‘and don’t be late, asshole’. Or, ‘don’t forget cigarettes on the way home’. That eats me up inside. I’ve lost men after that and I’ve had to live with those words forever. With you, I think you got something like that going on. I think you need to talk to her, clear the air before your spirit can rest. It almost don’t matter if she lives or not; it’s for you, ain’t it?”
John stood and kicked his milk crate into the wall.
“What gives you the right, bitch?”
The woman smiled and exhaled a blue cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. She stood and stepped right up to John. He tasted the tobacco and beer on her breath and felt the soft cushion of her breasts on his chest. John’s breath lodged in his chest.
“Because I know men, honey. She doesn’t need you anymore than she needs a vibrator. I can see the guilt in your eyes and I can feel it in your heart.”
“You don’t know me,” John replied. But his knees buckled, and he thought the floor shifted under his feet.
“I think I do. There are certain things we’re privy to that you’re not. We’ve been pushed to the margins of society for so long that we’ve developed sensitivities to things you blindly walk past. My great-grandmother came here from the heart of Romania. I’ve received just an echo of her Sight, but it’s enough for me to smoke you out.”
“I need air.”
John left the odd biker chick standing by the milk crate. He looked over his shoulder at her as he walked toward the back exit.
Chapter 35
“They are at the corner of Mayfield and Plainfield, sergeant.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
The sergeant turned and sent the cryptic hand motions to the others. He saw the light reflect off of the scopes as the men turned toward their anticipated targets.
“Do not, I repeat, do not engage except on my command. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
The young soldier stood back and removed the safety from his weapon.
***
The morning brought an unusual snow squall. While not uncommon for lake-effect precipitation to douse the region with a chilling rain, a major November snowstorm was rare.
Jana picked up her walking pace. She’d kept well behind the two soldiers leading the way, and in front of Commander Byron. The old soldier would never admit it to a woman, but Jana knew the march was taking its toll on his withered muscles. Byron’s head lolled, and he spent a good deal of time staring at the ground four feet ahead. His arm tensed and shook at the end of the cane, straining to provide equilibrium to a bent frame.
“This is it,” Jana declared.
Jana stopped walking. She stood in the middle of Mayfield Road, facing the road sign attached to the telephone pole at the corner. Bullet holes punctuated ‘Plainfield Road’ in odd and profane ways.
The two soldiers stopped and turned toward Byron, awaiting a command from him.
“How far down to take us to your house?”
Jana ignored the awkward turn of phrase.
“We’re on the right, where the road also bends to the right. I’m guessing ten or twelve houses.”
“Sit.”
Commander Byron moved past Jana as she sat down on the curb. Her long legs spread out over the edge of the road, collecting dozens of dying snowflakes on her denim. The two soldiers moved closer and stood on each side of Byron. He did most of the talking while the two soldiers stood and nodded in agreement. Byron addressed Jana again.
“The street under yours, Winston. Which is the house that sits on you?” Byron’s eccentric word combination confused Jana.
“You mean the street behind mine? Yes, that’s Winston. Not sure what you mean about the sitting part.”
Byron’s English and use of vernacular dissipated with his ability to walk without a limp. He slouched on his cane and pushed words at Jana, as if the physical ordeal had left him little energy to continue Americanizing his speech.
“I will not wait to strike you in blood. Answer me.”
Jana shook her head, expelling snowflakes in every direction. She stood and pointed to the row of houses that backed up to her street.
“That is Winston and it runs parallel to Plainfield. If we head down Winston, you should be able to see the back of my house. I will recognize it when we’re close.”
She threw a knowing look at the guard who’d watched her urinate, then continued.
“I want to know what happens to me before I take you there, Commander.”
“Let’s go,” said Byron to the guards, ignoring Jana’s question.
“Wait!” she shouted.
The two soldiers moved beside her, ready to grab and secure each arm if she refused to cooperate with the plan.
“I am to get you there,” said Byron. “What happens to you after that is not for my concern.”
Jana stomped a foot into the fluffy snow pile; the soldiers grabbed her wrists.
“You told me I would be turned over to Father and that no harm would come.”
Byron ignored her yet again and hobbled down the sidewalk toward Winston, with the guards pulling Jana along behind.
***
“They’re moving back down Mayfield towards Winston.”
The sergeant looked through his binoculars and confirmed the message from his men in the field.
What fools, he thought. Do they really think we won’t notice them coming in the back door?
“Make yourselves known, but don’t engage.”
***
Two soldiers stepped into the barren street. Dead leaves and random trash hugged the corner of the fences. Electrical lines spread out across sidewalks and lawns like dead serpents after a flood. No more than fifty yards away, the marksmen pointed their weapons toward the approaching party.
Byron halted the two guards and continued, moving closer to the armed soldiers. He saw the youth in their eyes and the glaze inspired by the Warriors of Christ. Commander Byron held up both hands and called out to them.
“Brothers of the Holy Covenant! How I am happy to see you! I am Commander Byron, soldier of God and servant to Father. I have a delivery for him.”
Neither soldier moved. They stood with legs apart, ready to fire at the slightest indication of trouble.
“Please contact your superior officer and let him know of my arrival. The delivery is behind me.”
Byron swung his arm around to where the soldiers and Jana stopped in the middle of the road.
“If you come closer, we will engage,” said one of the soldiers to Byron. “Wait until we can verify your identity and mission.”
The other marksman turned and marched back down Winston.
Byron sighed, then dug a crumpled cigar from his pocket. The continuing snow accumulated everywhere, turning the old warrior into a vision of the Yeti. The bright-blue flame of his lighter chased the falling snow away and lit the tobacco. Byron drew in his breath, pulsing the orange glow on the end.
The first soldier returned. He whispered into the ear of the other, who nodded, then spoke.
“Drop your weapons to the ground. Walk backwards towards us.”
Byron nodded to the two soldiers holding Jana. They let go of her, and she swung her arms down in defiance and disgust. The cold clink of metal rang up from the frozen asphalt as automatic weapons hit the ground. Byron and his guards turned their backs to the men, and commenced pacing backward. Within minutes, the Warriors of Christ had snapped the plastic zip ties on their wrists. One of the marksmen grabbed Jana by the arm and led her ahead of the others, but did not secure her.
***
“He has arrived with the girl.”
“Secure them al
l in the house and get your soldiers off the street as quickly as possible.”
Father’s voice snapped through the tinny speaker of the two-way radio.
“When can we expect you?” the sergeant asked his absent superior.
“Two hours. If Commander Byron does anything but smoke, shoot him dead.”
“Yes sir.”
The sergeant set the radio on the table and looked up into the barrel of a gun. The blast knocked him through a picture window and into the driveway of the next-door neighbor, his dead body sliding across the ice and into the grass. Other blasts rang out. Jana found herself balled up on the hardwood floor of her living room while a close-range gunfight ensued around her. She heard screaming and more shouts, broken glass, and the pulsing repetition of machine-gun fire. Jana crawled toward the front door, coughing and spitting as suffocating, acrid smoke filled the room. She reached forward across the threshold until a black boot crushed her wrist on the marble tile of the foyer. Jana heard the fine bones break as the pain raced to her brain.
Chapter 36
“C’mon, man, we gotta go.”
Sully stood over John, holding a green military jacket and double-barreled shotgun.
John struggled to meet the day. He swam through the fading current of a dream that refused to be summoned by his conscious thoughts. For some reason, John recalled the gaze of the biker chick from the night before.
Sully bent down and helped John to his feet. The massive biker threw the jacket over John’s shoulders and held the weapon six inches from his face.
“Snow is picking up. You’re going to want to wear this.”
John pulled the coat around and felt a sticky substance on the right shoulder. Cold blood soaked the coat. He fought the urge to vomit and put his arm into the left shoulder as well.
“How’s Alex?” John asked. His voice sounded distant and faded.
“Still healing. He’s gonna need to stay here.”
“Okay then,” John said. “I think I’m ready.”
John pulled his thoughts together and went through the back door of the stage. The swirling wall of snow blinded him. The inviting warmth and darkness of the Keeper’s lair became a fleeting memory. Confronted by a sudden urge, John relieved himself on the carcass of an old Camry as several bikers emerged from the back door. Sully stood in front of them all.
“If we move and don’t stop to eat the yellow snow, we should be at your place by nightfall. Word from brothers in the field is that there’s someone in your old house. Don’t know who or how many, but it could be your old lady.”
John shook the remaining wisps of the night from his head.
Sully led the renegade group down a snow-covered street. Without the city services of plows and salt trucks, the entire landscape glared like a blank canvas. Each member of the Keepers of the Wormwood wore their leather vest on top of whatever else they could find. Most of the men wrapped scarves around their neck and face, giving them the look of Muslim extremists.
John slipped into the middle of the group. They hemmed him in on all sides like a squad of police cars bringing a chase to a peaceful and manageable end. John heard Sully’s loud laugh or curse when he twisted an ankle on a covered curb.
They wound their way through dead and cursed neighborhoods. The blood-red Sign painted on many doors and walls stuck out, intensified by the power of the pure snow. John put his head down and watched the tip of his boots strike the powder with every step.
For hours they marched, through empty streets and deserted parking lots, past graveyards, gas stations, and churches. Suddenly John recognized a block of Mayfield near Belvoir, where the downward spiral had begun for him. The party at Reggie’s now felt like a past life, like someone else’s life. He pushed the memory of Sarah, of his coerced betrayal, from his mind. John thought of his Camaro, loud guitars, and flicking a lit cigarette out the car window on a sultry summer evening. He caught glimpses of his beautiful, naked Jana underneath him. He could almost smell her hair.
John rejoined the group, and on they went, block after block, but his mind remained elsewhere the entire time; John was oblivious to the cold, to sights, sounds, everything.
“This is it,” Sully said.
In John’s daydreaming state, he did not notice that they’d stopped and that Sully addressed him directly.
“Yeah. Plainfield Road.”
Sully turned his back to John. He moved a closed hand to his ear. Sully’s head bobbed up and down, followed by an audible click.
“The lighthouse is pulling us into the harbor. Let’s go.”
The Keepers of the Wormwood surrounded John and helped him toward his house like a rushing creek carrying a lone leaf over the falls.
Chapter 37
The pain bit through Jana’s fragile state of mind. She looked up at Byron through shimmering tears and blue smoke... until his boot slammed into the side of her head and brought darkness.
Commander Byron lost a man in the fight, but his small force had managed to eliminate all of Father’s other soldiers. Hidden daggers had allowed Byron and his men to cut the zip ties, pull handguns from strategic holsters, and open fire on Father’s unprepared men.
The surviving guard gathered the automatic weapons and placed them inside a closet at the bottom of the stairs. For better or worse, the cache would be theirs. He pulled bodies to the side of the house, and placed them behind the drooping evergreens.
Byron dragged Jana by the heels, pausing on the mudroom floor to make sure her slack arms did not snag on the bullnose of the steps. Her head created a dull thud as it slid further down toward the basement. The Commander yanked hard on her leg as his breathing labored, his heart pounding through the exertion.
At the bottom, she murmured, low and incoherent. A closet door sat open to his left. Byron switched on the rifle-mounted flashlight, and the beam showed a heating unit complete with shiny ductwork. Behind that he saw another door, much older, composed of unpainted, wooden planks. Judging from the fireplace chute in the wall, Byron guessed the door led into the coal room.
The coal room spanned four feet by ten feet, brick on all sides, with floorboards above. The frigid air nipped at his nose but was not quite as cold as the bitter snow squall outside. Remnants of mold and abandoned spiderwebs caused Byron to cover his mouth. He tasted the dust of ages on his dry, cracked lips.
Byron pulled Jana through the first closet, past the furnace, and into the brick room he thought of as “the dungeon”. He grabbed zip ties from his pocket and secured her ankles together. Using rusted S hooks lodged in the mortar, he fastened each wrist to one, struggling to get one zip tie around Jana’s swollen wrist. Byron stood back and looked at his work. Jana’s legs shot out perpendicular to the wall, sealed shut at the ankles. Her head lolled to one side, resting on her chest, with each arm raised at a forty-five-degree angle and secured at the wrists on the S hooks. Before he backed out of the room, brushing decades of cobwebs from his face, Byron spotted a roll of duct tape on top of the furnace. He tore a strip from the brittle roll and spread it across Jana’s mouth.
He shut the old door and slid cardboard boxes in front of it. It would not fool a military team searching the place, but it would keep her concealed from the untrained eye.
Byron hobbled back up the steps and sat down in the kitchen on a wooden chair. His remaining guard handed him the phone the dead sergeant had used to communicate with Father. Byron scrolled through a menu and determined that the number had received no calls after the sergeant made his fateful final one.
The commander tossed it on the kitchen counter. A moment later, he felt a vibrating ring, and pulled another phone from his vest. He pressed it tight to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Do you have her secure?”
“Yes. Are you bringing him?”
“Yes. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line clicked and delivered silence.
Byron shut the phone and put it back in his vest.<
br />
“Watch the front door and make sure the asshole doesn’t try anything stupid. If he does, shoot him right in the face.”
The soldier nodded to Commander Byron and stood sentry by the front door.
Chapter 38
They marched to within four houses of John’s, and yet the blasting snow made it difficult to see it. The slate clouds held the sky close, suffocating the warm visions of seasons past.
“You won’t need this anymore,” said Sully.
He yanked the shotgun from John’s hand and tossed it to another faceless biker, the Keepers of the Wormwood hidden beneath the scarves.
John replayed the one-sided telephone conversation in his mind. He looked at Sully, who lost the bounce in his step.
“Why not?” John asked.
“C’mon dude. You tellin’ me you haven’t figured it out yet?”
John shook his head and brushed the accumulating snow from his face.
“Which one is it?” asked Sully.
Too confused to lie, John pointed down the street, to a house on the right. The group saw a vague outline through the swirling whiteout. Snow accumulated on the ground, covering most distinguishable landmarks.
As they turned up the driveway, John saw himself mowing the lawn. He saw Jana in her white tank top and jean shorts, weeding the flower beds. Other memories surfaced and collided, morphed and separated, like broken seashells tossed by the surf. Tears stung his face, brought to fruition by his recollections and the driving snow.
The Sign stood out from the falling white wall. It glared red, accusing and menacing. Sully stood back as the others aimed their weapons. After a second, the door swung open and the soldier appeared, pointing his weapon back at them.
