Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2

by James MacGhil

  “Say hello to my furry little friend!”

  Digging its claws into the infernal beast, the fat ass frigg’n feline proceeded to spit in Rooster’s face before sinking its fang-like teeth into his neck causing him to let out an ear splitting scream. Staggering backward like he was piss drunk, the mind blowing creature then simply collapsed to the ground and went instantly limp.

  At a complete and utter loss as to what just happened, I stood there in disbelief as Owen said, “How’s that for a paw-some plot twist? I mean like fur reals. Purrfect, right? Right? Am I right?”

  When I just stood there speechless, he said, “What? Too soon for cat puns?”

  “What the frig did you do to him?” I asked, watching Rooster flop around the street like a beached whale.

  “Chillax, monkey man. Johnny’ll be fine. He should be back to normal in about three — two — one.”

  And sure as shit, within a quick second Rooster began to slowly shift back to his human form as Owen’s creepy cat casually strolled past me and melted into the shadows.

  Stunned, I simply said, “How?”

  “Simple, whistlebritches, Asshole ain’t just your average everyday feline. He’s a mau.”

  “A frigg’n what?”

  “A mau.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Sort of like an ancient cat god … that spits venom … and’s really flipping badass.”

  And when I just stood there gawking at him, he said, “Back in the early days when Johnny and his fugly bros were running wild in the streets — the Sumerians figured out that mau venom was the only thing that neutralized lidercs. So they weaponized it. And then they went to town on those jokers.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Well, after me and Johnny had our little scuffle in medieval France, I sorta zipped back to 3,102 B.C. and made friends with some liderc hunters that called themselves—”

  “The Knights of Uruk,” I muttered, putting two and two together.

  “That’s right. You know of them?”

  “Yeah, I hear they’re a little short handed nowadays.”

  “Hmmmm. That’s too bad. They were some cool operators. Anywho, that’s where I got Asshole. Figured if I ever ran into John Boy’s alter ego again, having a mau would square things up. And he’s, like, super fuzzy and cuddly. Although he does drink too much and sorta stinks like ass most of the time.”

  As I did my damnedest to wrap my head around the latest uncanny act of Owen anti-heroism, Rooster completed the transformation from unnatural beastie to lanky ginger and clumsily rose to his feet looking like three bags of shit.

  And, unfortunately, he was frigg’n naked.

  “How you feeling, buddy boy?” Double OT asked, as he reached into his satchel and pulled out some clothes that he tossed at Rooster with a satisfied smile.

  “Better,” he sincerely replied, gazing at us with distended eyes. “Thank you.”

  More than relieved that he was back to normal, I said, “You ready to get back to work?”

  “Yes. Yes I am,” he replied, slowly putting on the black fatigues. “And, ah, sorry about trying to rip your head off.”

  “Back at ya,” I muttered.

  “Hell yeah!” Owen interjected. “Are we having a broment here, guys? I, for one, am totally feeling it. Bring it in you crazy sons of bitches. Group hug! I mean after Johnny puts some pants on, of course—”

  “Shut up,” Rooster and I grumbled in unison.

  Shaking his head in defeat, Owen sheepishly muttered, “Good feelings gone.”

  Gazing at the horrific scene laid out around the monument in the not so far distance, Rooster’s eyes flashed red as he said, “We need to stop Lucifer.”

  “Yes we do,” I muttered.

  “You got a plan?”

  “I fucking hope so,” said Roy MacCawill as he fluidly stepped from a portal that flared to life and snapped shut behind him in the literal blink of an eye.

  Taking note of the sizable gash running down his face, I asked, “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Sons of bitches were waiting for me in Uruguay. Got here as soon as I could, after hearing your transmission. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Wondering the same thing,” I muttered.

  Glaring at Rooster, he grunted, “Why the fuck doesn’t O’Dargan have any pants on? Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.”

  With a snarky grin, Double OT said, “What’s shaking, bacon?”

  “Thought you would’ve pulled your usual disappearing act by now. What the hell are you still doing here, Trask?”

  “Just sitting on a cornflake. Waiting for the van to come.”

  And it was right about then when two headlights came barreling toward us from the side street to our immediate left and the Magic Bus pulled to a screeching halt, inches from mowing us down.

  Somewhat taken aback, MacCawill asked, “How’d you know that was gonna happen?”

  “The Beatles are totally prophetic, brah. And I may have skipped ahead a couple pages. I have a very short attention span.”

  As we all stood there wondering just what in the hell that meant, the driver’s side door of the vintage Volkswagen van swung open and a familiar country boy jumped out.

  “Coop,” I said, as the arcane archer joined our impromptu huddle in the lingering shadows of the bombed out Smithsonian Castle. “Good to see you.”

  “It’s good to be seen, hoss,” he replied, curiously glancing at Rooster who was frantically trying to pull up his trousers. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Stoner let you drive the Bus?”

  “Let’s just say I drove it like I stole it.”

  “Where’s Mr. Wizard?”

  “Getting patched up. We ran into a dagum buzzsaw in London. Barely made it back to the QM after your transmission came through.”

  “Stoner okay?”

  “He’ll be a’ight. Can’t say the same for his hairline though. And he may have a permanent limp.”

  “And Doc?”

  “Wounded clerics are coming back from the field in droves. She agreed to stay at the Quartermaster and get the infirmary spun up.”

  Still awkwardly looking at Rooster, he asked, “Ah, red, why ain’t you wearing pants?”

  “Long story,” Rooster grumbled, now fully clothed and seemingly ready for business. “What’s the word from Big A?”

  “Last I heard, he and Tango were in Third Heaven assembling the remaining Deacons.”

  “What’s their time on target?” I grunted.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, hoss. They’ve been dark since the comms went tits up.”

  “What about Caveman and Duncan?”

  “No telling.”

  “Fuck,” I muttered, as my gaze drifted toward the unnatural gateway steadily burrowing a hole in the sky above the apex of the Washington Monument. “We have any other backup inbound?”

  “You mean besides me?”

  Following my gaze, MacCawill said, “Looks like Tartarus is within minutes of pairing with the Earth. We need to do something. Now.”

  Thinking out loud, I muttered, “Lew’s too strong to take head on — but, we can distract the son of a bitch. Buy some time for Abernethy to get here with the cavalry. “

  “Channeling the power of the Ark requires Lucifer’s full focus,” Rooster said, with his gears clearly turning. “If we can break that focus it’ll weaken the tether. It may even slam the door on Tartarus altogether.”

  Stuffing a wad of tobacco in his cheek as he peered at the surreal barricade of hulking giants and apocalyptic carnage standing between us and the objective, Coop asked, “How we gonna get past the biggins?”

  Turning to me, MacCawill said, “Can’t you pull some Deacon shit, mancho? Rumor has it you took down a whole goddamn realm’s worth of anakim — by yourself.”

  “Bad idea,” I replied. “We’re trying to stop a global cataclysmic event. Not cause one.”

  “Come again
?”

  Chiming in, Rooster said, “Dean did take down a whole realm’s worth of anakim, but he also kind of reduced the entire realm to infinitesimal pieces of cosmic dust in the process.”

  “Christ,” MacCawill muttered, regretting he asked. “Bad idea then.”

  Looking at Rooster, I asked, “Can you whip up a sticky pad portal? Jump us close to the monument?”

  “The Ark’s generating too much spectral radiation. Trying to port anywhere near it would be bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Like having your molecular structure reduced to pork rinds kind of bad.”

  “Johnny’s got a point,” Double OT agreed. “Although I do like me some pork rinds. They’re delectably crunchalicious while surprisingly low in carbs.”

  Covering my hands in argent metal gauntlets and willing the shotgun and spatha into being, I said, “We’ll do it the old fashioned way then. Brute force and ignorance.”

  Skeptically, Owen said, “You out your monkey man mind? We can’t go charging in there on foot like flipping Braveheart.”

  “Relax. We’re not going to charge in there on foot.”

  To which he happily replied, “Hashtag — Groovy.”

  “We’re gonna drive.”

  To which he defeatedly mumbled, “Shit fire and save the matches.”

  Glancing at Stoner’s yellow mirth mobile, I muttered, “The Magic Bus doesn’t happen to be fit out with any mystical machine guns that I’m not aware of, does it?”

  “Nossir,” Coop replied. “But I’m pretty sure Stoner has a few toys in the back that go boom.”

  Making the mental note that that could be interesting, I said, “Then gear up. Unless anyone plans on pulling a frigg’n army out of their ass in the next thirty seconds, it looks like we’re going in alone.”

  And much to my surprise, Cyrus Kruger casually emerged from the shadows decked out in his ridiculous fur coat and skinny jeans motif.

  With a shit eating grin, he said, “Already told you, Deano, an entire army’s a stretch. But I’m good for a legion.”

  “Who the frak is this guy?” Owen asked. “And what the hell’s he doing walking around with a legion in his ass?”

  “Kruger,” I barked, instinctively ripping the shotgun from its holster and swinging the muzzle at his smiling face.

  “Whoa, easy there, big guy,” he acquiesced, throwing his hands in the air.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “To help. Figure I owe you a serious solid after that minor misunderstanding in Tennessee. Tell him, Roy.”

  Shooting MacCawill a ‘What the fuck’ glare, I asked, “What’s this about? You guys are working together again?”

  “We made nice,” he grumbled. “It’s a complicated relationship.”

  “Ah, guys,” Double OT piped in, “For those of us not really paying attention. What the flip are y’all jokers talking about?”

  “The plan,” I muttered, holstering the shotgun. “We’re about to crash Lucifer’s apocalypse party with six guys, a hippie van, and a give ‘em hell attitude.”

  “Party?” he scoffed, pointing at the hellish defensive barricade in the not so far distance. “That ain’t a party, monkey man. That’s a grade A shit show. I’m talking like Shitty Shitterson and the Turdettes opening for Bruce flipping Shitsteen on a random Monday night in Shittsburgh kind of shit show.”

  “Come on, cuz,” Coop jested. “It’ll be fun. Just like the old days.”

  “I don’t do fun, Cooper Trooper. Fun does me. Dig?”

  Reaching into his duster and tossing Owen a bottle of dark whiskey, MacCawill said, “Here. You in or what?”

  Happily uncorking the booze and jumping into the driver’s seat of the Magic Bus, he replied, “I am now, Roytard.”

  Taking a healthy gulp while revving the engine a couple times, he then yelled, “Everybody in. Time to mow down some giant asshats. Let’s ride, bitchatchos.”

  As the unlikely strike force piled into the obscure, canary yellow van to undertake perhaps the most audacious frontal assault since Pickett’s Charge, Owen popped in an eight track cassette of Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits and started blaring ‘Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon’ through the speakers mounted on the roof.

  And just as I was about the hop in, I felt the ground begin to quake and heard the distinct guttural snort of a certain war pig looming somewhere in the depths of the darkness.

  Exchanging glances with Rooster, he asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Rhino time,” I muttered, as my face curled into a dark grin. “Game on.”

  Chapter 34

  With a spirited “Hell Yeah!” Owen threw the Bus into gear and the magical mystery assault vehicle roared to life.

  Busting out of the dark shadows like a bat out of hell, we crossed Jefferson Street in a blur of motion and jumped the curb onto the smoldering, ashen lawn of the National Mall.

  Already driving at break neck speed, Double OT laid on the brakes and power slid the eclectic van into a Tron’esque ninety degree turn, putting us on a determined beeline toward the Washington Monument located about a mile out.

  “Damn, cuz,” Coop said, grabbing the dashboard to keep from getting launched out the passenger side window. “Where’d you learn to drive like that?”

  “Reruns of Knight Rider. Don’t hassle the Hoff!”

  As the van began to bounce around like we were driving through an earthquake, I slid the side door open to find Duncan galloping alongside us in all his great, white war pig glory. With a furry, muscle clad rider perched on his mighty back like a supernatural John Wayne, the dynamic duo were covered with streaks of blood and looked exceptionally worse for the wear.

  “Hey, Mick!” I yelled, more than happy to see my favorite mansquatch.

  “What up, bromando!” he yelled back.

  “We were starting to get worried about you guys.”

  As Duncan let out a harrowing snarl and reared his unnatural tusks, Caveman said, “Yeah, man. Rome was a bitch. Lil’ D says sorry we’re late.”

  “You’re actually right on time.”

  “Sweet. We got a plan?”

  Holding on for dear life as the Magic Bus rapidly approached the speed of a low flying aircraft, I pointed at the monument and the ridiculous array of anakim surrounding it.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “Charge?”

  “Yeah, okay,” he nodded. “We can get onboard with that.”

  Tossing him a bandolier of tricked out grenades that MacCawill dug out of Stoner’s stash, I asked, “Think you guys can punch a hole through the roadblock?”

  Slinging the frags over his shoulder as Duncan snorted plumes of unnatural smoke from his oversized nostrils, Caveman said, “It would be our esteemed pleasure.”

  And then the terrifying twosome simply kicked it into overdrive and pulled out in front of the Bus like a pissed off battering ram.

  “Stay on Duncan’s ass,” I yelled to Owen, who stomped on the gas and pegged the speedometer as the van’s engine whined in protest.

  “Weapons,” Rooster grunted, suddenly realizing that his unanticipated hiatus in raging infernal beastie mode left him unarmed. “I need weapons.”

  Casually puffing on his cigar like we were taking a leisurely Sunday drive and not speeding toward a certain death, MacCawill reached into his enigmatic duster. Producing a ridiculous assortment of guns and knives, he began to nonchalantly flip them at Rooster, like he was a walking arms room.

  “I’m gonna want those back,” he grumbled.

  Quickly decking himself out with his newfound arsenal, Rooster begrudgingly nodded his appreciation and clutched two old school Walther P38 semi-automatics in his hands, now apparently ready for business.

  Making the mental note to figure out what the hell MacCawill’s deal was at some point down the road, I asked, “Stoner have anything else we can put to use?”

  Rummaging through the wooden munitions crate in the back of the cargo bay, Kruger pulle
d out what looked like an archaic rocket launcher etched with several concentric rows of Enochian script.

  “This looks fun,” he said, holding it up and tossing it to MacCawill. “World War II era?”

  “Goddamn right,” Roy grinned, rubbing the olive drab vintage weapon like it was a swim suit model. “This, boys, is a genuine M1A1 bazooka. Four and a half feet of recoilless, tank snuffing goodness. Made back when folks knew how to reach out and pop a cap in somebody’s ass.”

  “Can you operate it?” I asked.

  “You trying to insult me, slick? I could hit a gnat’s ass from three hundred meters with one of these bad boys. How many rounds we got?”

  “One,” Kruger replied, producing a chunky warhead from the crate and quickly studying it as a mischievous smile curled across his face. “But I’m thinking that’ll be enough.”

  Glancing at the peculiar rocket that looked more like an arcane torpedo, I said, “What the hell is that thing?”

  “That, Deano, is a genuine Gomorrah Flare. Weaponized bad mojo forged in the ancient realms of the dark magi. Guaranteed to ruin somebody’s day in truly spectacular fashion.”

  “What’ll it do to a juiced up fallen angel with a serious God complex?”

  “At the very least, it should give him a nasty headache.”

  “That’ll do,” I muttered.

  “Get ready, y’all,” Coop bellowed, pulling his seatbelt tightly around his torso as we rapidly approached the unnatural barricade. “It’s about to get interesting.”

  “And, just as a minor point of clarification,” Owen yelled, “What happens after we literally drive the van into the army of beasties?”

  Bracing for the impending collision of epic proportion, I barked, “Once we get through, follow my lead. Kruger, you spin up the dirt doppelgänger brigade and keep the anakim busy. The rest of you stay close to me. We have one frigg’n objective — locate Lucifer so MacCawill can get a clear shot at him with the Gomorrah thing. Everybody good?”

  As the team collectively nodded in the affirmative, Owen locked his arms on the steering wheel and asked, “And, should we happen to die a horrible death before that happens?”