The Order of Brigid's Cross - The Wild Hunt (Book 1): The Wild Hunt

by Terri Reid

  He stopped and really looked at the woman before him, the woman who had been more mother than grandmother throughout his whole life. The woman who had cared for him, taught him, lectured him, and held him when the world was too hard and his fears too great. He looked at her coarse gray hair, frizzy and uncontrollable, sticking out of the sides of her head. Her skin was lined, and there were age spots on her cheeks. Her frame was bent and she walked slower now. She would be no match for a young, tough, gang member. He had seen what they had done to other old women, and he couldn’t have that happen to his grandmother.

  “Grandma, I ain’t done nothing that would disrespect you,” he said honestly.

  She searched his eyes for a moment, not satisfied with his answer, but he returned her gaze with a steady one of his own. “Fine then,” she finally said. “You go get washed up. Supper’s done. I’ll put it on the table.”

  He hurried to his room, pulled the gun out of his waistband, stuck it underneath the mattress of his bed and then ran to the bathroom to wash up. In just a few minutes he was seated across from his grandmother with his head bowed, waiting for grace to be said. He felt his grandmother’s hand in his and he suddenly realized how thin and fragile she had become.

  “Father, we thank thee for our daily bread,” the old woman’s voice shook, but she spoke with conviction and familiarity. “We thank thee for our safety in this frightening world. We ask for a blessing on this food. We ask for thy continued guidance and grace. We ask for thy watchful eye on Jamal. In Jesus name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” he repeated and gently squeezed her hand before letting it go. Even if something happened to him, even if he died, now that he was a member, the gang would look out for his grandmother. He could be grateful for that.

  With trembling hands, she carefully spooned the macaroni and cheese onto his plate while he took a piece of bread from the plastic bag and spread margarine across it.

  After helping herself to some food, she paused, her fork in mid-air, and looked at him. “You need to stay in tonight,” she said.

  “Ain’t nothing gonna happen tonight,” he said.

  “I just got a whisper,” she said. “And you know my whispers, they ain’t never wrong.”

  His stomach twisted into a knot and he struggled for a moment to keep his voice calm. She spoke the truth. Her whispers had never been wrong. Her whispers had warned her the night her daughter, Jamal’s mother, had been killed. Her whispers had kept them safe all these years in the projects. He didn’t know how she did it or who she was connected to, but he couldn’t deny the power of her whispers.

  “I’ll stay in Grandma,” he said. “I’ll just go in my room and do my homework.”

  She smiled and nodded. “You’re a good boy, Jamal,” she said.

  I sure hope your whispers are wrong tonight, he thought, ‘cause I don’t have a choice this time.

  Chapter Two

  At 8:40, Jamal opened his bedroom window, leaned out and looked around. The street light behind the apartment shone on the collection of garbage containers and refuse scattered on the ground below. He studied the fire escape that hung outside the living room window. It was about three feet away from him, and if he used the ledge just below his window, he could climb over to it. Problem was, would Grandma see him climbing down? If that old fire escape made a lot of noise, she would go to the window for sure. He pulled himself back in and walked over to his closet. Sliding open the wood laminate door, he bent over, picked up his baseball bat and went back to the window.

  Leaning out as far as he could, he pushed the top of the bat against the ironwork of the fire escape. Nothing happened. He tried it again, this time pushing the bat with all his might. The escape jiggled and screeched against the motion. He pulled himself back inside just as the living room window slid open and his grandmother poked her head out. “Who’s out there?” she called, her voice shrill in the night air.

  Sighing, he quietly slid his window closed and bolted it securely. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he wondered how he was going to slip out of the house without her knowledge. He looked at the red digital numbers on his alarm clock. 8:45. Even if he ran he was going to be late. With a sigh, he pulled the gun out from beneath his mattress, stuck it back into his waistband and pulled his shirt over the bump. Grabbing his jacket, he held it behind his back and went to his bedroom door.

  Clasping his doorknob, he slowly twisted it, noiselessly sliding the latch from the faceplate, and then peered around the door to the living room. Had she gone into her bedroom? Could he sneak out without her seeing?

  The answer to both questions was no. His grandmother was in her favorite chair watching a program on the Christian channel and slowly nodding off. But as soon as he stepped into the living room, she’d know.

  “Hey, Grandma,” he called to her. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’m going to call it a night.”

  She turned from the television to him, and grasping both arms of her chair, she pushed herself into a standing position. “You going to bed already?” she asked, worry creasing her already wrinkled brow. “You sick or something?”

  He shook his head quickly. “No,” he said. “I have a big test tomorrow, and I thought I’d get up early and study for it.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she agreed, nodding approvingly. She started to lower herself into her chair when her breath caught and she started to cough.

  “Grandma, you okay?” he asked, dropping his jacket and hurrying to her side.

  She nodded, but the coughing continued. He could see she was having trouble breathing. She’d had these spells before, but it seemed to him that they were getting more frequent and more severe. He panicked when he noticed that her coloring around her mouth was getting grayish, a sign the doctor had told him meant she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. “Where’s your medicine?” he demanded, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life.

  She weakly raised her arm and pointed to the cabinet over the stove. Rushing over, he pulled the dark bottle off the shelf and yanked the silverware drawer out, picking up a spoon. Running back to her, he opened the bottle and poured some of the dark brown elixir on the spoon.

  “Okay, Grandma, you gotta hold still, just for a second.”

  She tried to muffle the coughing, but her body still shook with small spasms. Holding her chin like the doctor had shown him, he steadied her mouth and poured the spoonful down. Then he put the spoon down and held her frail body in his arms. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You just have to take those deep breaths the doctor showed you.”

  He felt her tremble in his arms, and he held her tighter. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and the coughing stopped. Slowly lowering her back into the chair, he settled her down and then stepped back to get a good look at her. The greyish coloring seemed to be receding and her breathing was steady. “You okay?”

  She nodded and smiled, although tear tracks still stained her cheeks. “I’m better,” she wheezed. “Don’t know what I woulda done if you hadn’t been here.”

  He thought about the window, and his stomach knotted. But he looked at her and smiled. “Guess those whispers of yours are watching over you,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll roll the television in there, and you can watch it until you fall asleep.”

  “Now, boy, I don’t cotton with those people what got TVs in every room of their house,” she said. “Ain’t natural to have those boxes speaking to you wherever you go.”

  He put his arm around her and helped her from her chair. “Well, I think we can do it this one time. Just so you can watch your show and rest,” he suggested. “That okay?”

  She stepped forward and was surprised she had to lean on him. “I suppose for one night it ain’t going to do no harm,” she agreed.

  He walked her to her room. “Do you need any help?” he asked.

  “At the point I need you to help me get ready for bed, that’s just about when you can pack me up and send me to an old folks’ home,” she said
, grabbing on to the edge of her dresser for support. “You just give me a few minutes to wash up, and I’ll call you when I’m ready for the television.”

  Backing out of her room, he nodded. “Yeah, you just call me when you’re ready.”

  He walked over to the television cart and rolled it away from the wall. Unplugging the old television, he wondered if there would ever be a time when they had a new, thin screen that could be mounted on the wall. He shrugged. It didn’t really make a difference since they couldn’t afford cable.

  He pushed the cart across the old, shag carpeting and stopped outside her bedroom, then perched on the arm of a chair until she called. Glancing over, he saw that it was already nine o’clock. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, he thought, a throw down should last at least an hour. I’ll be there. I’ll just be the reinforcements.

  “Jamal,” his grandmother’s voice came from behind the door. “I’m ready now.”

  He opened her door and pushed the television in so it sat alongside her bed. Then he bent and plugged it in. “This a good place for it?” he asked.

  She nodded as she aimed the remote at the television and it turned on. “Works just fine,” she said.

  He looked at her. Lying against the pillows, her face seemed so little and delicate. “I love you, Grandma,” he said, leaning over and giving her a kiss on her cheek.

  She hugged him. “I love you too, Jamal,” she said with a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight Grandma.”

  Chapter Three

  The streets were deserted as Jamal jogged towards the park. He figured people were either hiding inside or actually at the park by now. A throw down in this neighborhood usually meant semi-automatic guns with stray bullets that could easily pierce a door, window or even a wall. Usually, when the word spread, people took to an interior room in their home. Even though the park was two miles away, the fight often spread to the surrounding area where no one was safe. Jamal was glad his grandma’s room had no windows. Because gun fire was so common, she would probably just sleep through the noise, and if there were any sirens, they would be far enough away she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  He was about a block away from the park, and he could see the cars and vans pulled up onto the grass, forming a circle around the middle of the park. Suddenly, an explosion of gunshots rent the air and echoed down the street. Screams followed, but they were drowned out by an even more explosive round of gunfire.

  He stepped into an overhang of a closed grocery store and pulled the gun from beneath his jacket. He held it in both hands, feeling the cold metal against his palms. It felt heavier than he had imagined. He had never fired a gun before. He didn’t even know if it was loaded. But, he had to trust Devonte. He had no choice.

  With the gun palmed in his hand and the sleeve of his jacket hiding it, he slipped out onto the sidewalk again and slowly made his way towards the park, using the backdrop of the boarded up stores for protection. Sliding along the front of each store, he would pause and peer up the gangway between buildings to make sure no one else was hiding there, waiting for an easy kill of an unsuspecting member of their rival gang. The going was slow, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Finally, he reached the corner of the block. He hid behind a newsstand, locked and closed up for the night, and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart. The gun war hadn’t slowed, and there were no sirens in the distance indicated cops coming. “You got no choice, Jamal. You got to do this,” he whispered to himself. “You gotta go now.”

  He started to run out to the street when the ground rolled beneath his feet, and he was thrown backwards to the curb, his gun skidding across the asphalt. He scrambled after his gun but stayed down low. The ground rumbled again, and Jamal could hear a thundering sound in the distance. What the hell?

  He glanced up, but the sky was clear and the moon was full. Except… He watched a gray cloud race across the sky, dark and rolling, moving in his direction. He crawled backwards, his eyes still on the sky, his hands scraping against concrete, as he moved as quickly as he could. Finally, he hit against something solid and he forced himself to look away from the sky and over his shoulder for a moment. He was up against the smooth metal surface of the newsstand. He should be safe here.

  Then he looked up again, and his heart jumped to his throat as the rotating cloud covered the moon and angled its descent towards earth. “It’s a tornado,” he cried, struggling to his feet. “I gotta get inside.”

  He jumped up and dashed back to the first vacant storefront. The former plate glass door was now boarded up with various-sized pieces of plywood that crossed over each other in several layers. The large, showcase windows had also been boarded over, and gangs from the area had spray painted them with ugly, black marks.

  Jamal reached out and yanked on the metal pull bar on the door, hoping to snap the lock and get in. The door jiggled slightly as Jamal desperately fought against the lock, but the metal held, and the door stayed closed.

  Suddenly, the wind increased, and trash cans and cardboard flew down the street in front of him. The wailing sound of wind rushing through the buildings reminded him of a video he had seen on the news when a hurricane had hit the east coast. This tornado was coming fast and hard. Desperate, he threw his shoulder against the door, cracking one of the pieces of plywood. He ran against it again, and it split in the middle. Prying his fingers into the crack, he pulled on the wood, trying to increase the six-inch gap, but the wood was too thick.

  He dashed away from the door and out of the overhang, frantically looking up and down the street for anything he could use to pry off the plywood. All of a sudden, the wind seemed to change direction. Instead of between the buildings it was howling down the street, creating a wind tunnel down the sidewalk. Jamal’s body was shoved by the gust, and he rammed his head on the brick façade. Then, the wind twisted and came from the other direction, bringing with it an assortment of debris relentlessly pelting his body. Aluminum cans, newspapers, paper cups, pebbles and garbage hit his back, pounded his body, and smacked against his arms as he protected his head from the onslaught.

  Struggling against the wind, he stumbled back towards the door and the slight shelter the overhang provided. The wind hit again, nearly lifting him off his feet. He pushed forward against the gust, trying to reach the door, his heart pounding as the wind pulled him back towards the street. For a moment, he was paralyzed, the force of the wind equaling the power of his limbs. He dug deep and forced himself to push harder. Finally, he slapped his body against the brick façade and like a rock climber, dug his fingertips into the gaps between the bricks for grip, trying to find a solid hold. Inch by painful inch, he fought to move closer to the doorway, fingertips scraped and bruised as he pulled himself forward, fighting the drag of the maelstrom.

  Finally, he reached the boarded door, shoved his hands back into the small gap in the plywood and held on for dear life. The wind screamed against the building, almost sounding human, and his body was shoved sideways. Squeezing his fingers tighter, he held on as his legs were lifted off the ground and pulled. Shoving his hand farther in for more grip, he felt the jagged plywood slice through his hands, but he still held tight. “Oh, Lord, please help me hold on,” he cried.

  Suddenly there was quiet. His body smashed against the door, ripping his hands out of the gap and cutting them deeply. His stomach turned when he looked down and saw the damage; skin, muscles and tendons had been severed to the bone. The pain was immense. He breathed in, ready to scream, but the sound died in his mouth when he saw a movement out of the side of his eye. He reached for the gun that was no longer there.

  Jamal faced the street to meet his enemy, but what he saw was not what he expected. The cloud, the tornado was at street level now. But it wasn’t a cloud, it was an army, and they were walking out of the cloud. There were at least a hundred of them marching towards the park. The leader was tall—over ten feet. His body was thick, an
d on his head he wore the skull of some kind of giant deer. The antlers extended for yards in either direction. He was riding on a giant, gray horse that breathed steam through its wide nostrils while its sharp, stone hooves destroyed the asphalt beneath it.

  Other creatures followed, some riding and some on foot. They were tall and thin, just like their leader, and their clothes looked like ragged shrouds. Moss and tree bark hung on the sharpened angles of their bodies. Their limbs, long and sinewy, reminded Jamal of willow tree limbs. But instead of soft leaves and tender branches, these limbs ended with twisted hands and fingers. Elongated and spindly, their hands dragged against the ground as they walked, and their sharp fingernails kindled sparks on the pavement.

  They were monsters, monster soldiers, he realized as he noticed the weapons they bore. Nothing like the weapons of today, but Jamal knew they would be deadly. Both sword and bow, cast in bronzed metal, glimmered softly against the streetlights.

  Then he heard the shrill howl and his blood ran cold. Peering between the soldiers and the horses, Jamal could see wolf-like creatures prowling, snapping at each other with their overlong canines dripping with pus-like drool. Their eyes glowed red in the dark night, and their claws clattered against the pavement.

  Then their scent hit him, and he nearly vomited. Death. They smelled like death. He had smelled it before, finding a dead cat back behind the projects, its body almost too far gone to recognize what it was. But that was a smell you never forgot, and it was heavy in the air around him.

  Jamal bit his lip until it bled. He sat in horrified silence as the legion marched past him and into the park. He prayed they wouldn’t look his way. He prayed he would be safe. Then he heard the screams. Horrified human screams. The soldiers had found their prey.