Aldrich looked up, big smile, wide eyes, holding back a chuckle. “Breadcrumbs, Azazel. He may not be the best Order you’ve been kind enough to hire, but he does take notice. When that weapon is fired it leaves Dusts, which are paralyzed by its effects. Don’t you see? That gun would leave a trail that you could easily follow. Quite funny, indeed.”
The devil flared his teeth with a grin and leaned closer towards Aldrich. “Ya see, now I get it. And,” his eyes flashed with joy, or a sinister excitement. “I can now track him better.” He stepped over to Coldin, “Using both of you.”
“Hell. No.” said Coldin in a brave voice. “No way, not doing it.”
“Sorry, Officer, but no choices here,” he replied while walking toward Usra, then standing side by side with her. The parallel between light and dark. “Do not forget my punishments,” he pointed towards Aldrich. “Besides, he would not be able to fire on either of ya! Gives me a little more leverage. Now, get started. I know where he’s headed.”
A beam of light appeared much like the one by Ayres body, and the one when Ayres had first returned. Beside it a thick puff of black smoke. The two stepped inside their respective portals and disappeared with one final word from Usra.
“Bring... The Arm.”
“Come on, guy, it was a job! A simple job! Ya should be dead!” said the slender figure in the tan suit, his hands raised and back against the wall. He had barely aged at all.
This little townhouse-turned-corner store reeked of cigarettes and liquor. It was as if it seeped through the brick walls and held onto them for dear life. This was one of the slums that New Ashton had a surplus of, where dogs barked all throughout the day and night, police sirens cut through the air like a hot knife through cold butter, and the community rallied together to protect their own. Yet, no one seemed to notice this man, or come to his aid. He was not one of them, and they knew it. Outside a car alarm sounded in the distance, kids rode by on bicycles, and no one heard Jackson inside beginning his interrogation.
The gun was held high, only feet from the man’s face. Jackson's arm was stiff as he approached slowly, limping over the stained gray carpet that was spotted in old food and cigarette filters. This place was no home or store; it was a hideout. When he first entered the building there was a shabby counter with lottery tickets and cigarettes, just enough room for a customer to stand and a door straight ahead that lead into the rest of the home. An empty living room with nothing but two mismatched couches; one a torn artificial leather, brown and slightly off balance, the other a worn-in beige with different colored stains along its surface like an old painting at an art museum. Jackson kicked blankets and towels out of his path and snarled as he got closer.
The anger was nearly blinding, it throbbed through him. The tan suit, the accent, his very face, all brought back haunting memories of Jackson's last night as the real him. Not this gritty old man who kills, no, the naive boy who was planning a wedding and waiting for his takeout. He pulled back the hammer with his thumb and heard the familiar click.
“What job? Who hired you?” Jackson clenched his teeth in frustration. “You said it was personal…”
Unlike that night, this time the assailant did not smile. “Ay, a damn job. I was mad at ya, gotta understand that part first. I died, ya see, and took over some poor fuck who was nearby. Royally pissed, I was, wanted ya hung by yer fuckin’ balls, but wasn’t fixin’ to kill ya. Then this guy…”
Jackson was right in front of him now and he swung the gun upward, lashing Kinsley/Michael in his strike. The man clenched his jaw and spit bloody saliva from his mouth. Now he was mad, and he showed it with a smile.
“What guy, Kinsley? Tell me, or I’ll drop you right now, with Michael’s body,” Jackson growled and pushed the gun up under his chin.
“Urgh,” grunted Kinsley at the pain in his jaw, “slick guy, black hair, black suit, has a funny way of talkin’, he does. Girl with ’em was an odd one, pretty thing but dressed like she was headin’ out to the crusades. Big ol’ knife on her.”
“Carter.” Jackson said.
His mind raced with confusion as he tried to assemble the pieces. Carter had thought they never met, he made it sound like he knew nothing about Jackson before their encounter. Yet he had come to this man and wanted to end his life, well before he ever became the Order. Jackson removed his focus for just a moment and that’s when Kinsley made his move.
Kinsley reached inside of his suit jacket and pulled out a gun of his own. His face morphed with a smile and piercing eyes; the same face Jackson had seen all those years ago. A flash of Jennie on the floor, bleeding and lifeless, beside him went to his brain. Jackson screamed in anger and fired his weapon.
The crackle of the gun, the explosion of light and gunpowder. It happened so fast yet for Jackson it could have been a lifetime between the pull of the trigger and the release of the bullet. When all was said and done the man was on the floor beneath Jackson, completely still and bleeding from the head. Jackson reached down and put his fingers on the man's neck.
No pulse.
It was in the evening hours that the pair found their way to the dump of a house. Aldrich stood on the top step, the door was cracked open and he did not want to enter. Behind him was Coldin, waiting on the sidewalk, much too large to share the small steps with another person. On his hip was a standard issue Glock 19 handgun he received from his work a long time ago; it was a dull black and luckily had never seen any action at the prison since they were not allowed inside the cell blocks. In Aldrich's small, pale hand sat the Arm of the Savior.
“Do you not believe an officer of the law should go in before a small child?” Aldrich whispered down to him. “After all, I did break into your home for your weapon. Correct?”
“Nah uh,” Coldin replied shaking his head. “You know more about all of this shit than I do, I’m just here as back up, little man.”
“Coward,” Aldrich said as he slowly pushed the door open.
“Coward my ass…” Coldin said under his breath following him in.
The pair looked around but it was difficult to see at this time of night and there was no lighting on to guide them. Coldin held up a cell phone and used the flashlight feature which did not help much. They wandered through the living room, careful with their steps. Aldrich complained about the smell over and over again while Coldin continuously told him to be quiet. They both heard a squish as someone stepped in something rotting and sticky.
Aldrich had.
Coldin shined the light towards him, then down at the ground. Aldrich’s little shoe was in a pool of congealed blood, and beside him a body where it had come from. He pulled his foot up to back away and the blood stuck to his shoe, stringing like gum as he tugged it up.
“Jackson has been a little busy I see, or else there was another who held a grudge enough to blow the man’s brains clean out,” Aldrich stated, and took his place beside Coldin to examine the body.
“Nah, this was him,” Coldin said. “Hasn’t been long, body is barely cold… must’ve come straight here. No idea where he is now.”
“Coldin, are you saying that the Order simply walked all of this way with a damaged leg and blood-soaked jacket?”
“I’m sayin’ I don’t think a cab is going to pick a guy like that up,” Coldin said then continued to examine the room.
“Well, it looks like our dear boy has got the revenge he has searched for,” Aldrich stated, heading out toward the front door. “Means he can only be looking for one other person, although finding him may be hard.”
“You are a ghost, do you understand me?” said Azazel to a stranger in the darkness.
The wind howled and breathed a cold chill on the two of them, although neither felt it. They stood face-to-face at the top of an old building overlooking the cityscape. Flickering lights twinkled beneath them from apartment windows and rushing cars, as if they were looking down on outer space itself. The man before Azazel was not very old, clean shaven with styled, brown
hair. Pale blue eyes that seemed to see through someone rather than see them, and an athletic body hidden under a t-shirt and well-fitting jeans. His arms were crossed and he tapped nervously.
“I brought you back for one job, got it? No time for you to go around killin’ people for no reason. We need focus. You must find him before the other pair does.”
“Shouldn’t have sent them then,” retorted the man with a familiar grin.
“Had to make it seem authentic, seem like we needed him back safely. You know the job?”
“Find Jackson, kill him, leave. Boom,” the man reported back.
“Precisely,” Azazel said as he began to summon the black smoke for his exit. “Do not force me to regret bringing you back here. Make me proud, Clyde.”
For Humans, For Demons:
Volume II: Wing-Clipper
Coming soon!
Acknowledgments
For my daughters, Bailee Autumn, Logan Melody, and Ivy Moon. - Thank you for being my inspiration behind all that I do, and for always making we want to do more and be more.
For my wife, Scarlet - You encouraged my work, supported my writing, and believed in every word on the page. Thank you.
To my family - I will always appreciate the support and motivation.
To my friends - You know. That's it.
To The Parliament House - The teamwork, the communication, and the overall experience of working on this together has made this process more rewarding than I can put into words. I am very appreciative of the hard work of everyone involved, and I look forward to future endeavors together. Thank you.
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About the Author
Nicholas J Evans
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Nicholas J Evans is a writer from Newburgh, NY who currently resides in southern Maine with his wife and three daughters. Formerly, he was a touring musician with the post-hardcore band NoraStone, and after releasing three albums he parted ways and left New York for career opportunities. During this time he won the Blue Rose Award for Horror with his short story, Body & Spirit, as well as a short story competition for Godzilla fan-fiction, then began to work on his debut novel series, For Humans, For Demons. He sites inspiration ranging from musical artists, to graphic novel and manga authors. These include Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore, Clive Barker and Philip K Dick, as well as Yasuhiro Nightow.
Instagram: @NickEvansWrites
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Order of Dust Page 20
