…and around him he could see the forces that would not release, the souls so deeply moored in their rage and pain that it had come to define them entirely. The ghost riders — and the slaves locked in conflict with them — appeared within the storm, a great whipping force that blew across the estate, escaping from the boundaries of the plantation. And heading straight for town.
The storm blew past and disappeared down the road as Jackson roared to a stop and grabbed the handset, frantically calling it in. His hands were shaking. There was no code for this. As the dispatcher’s voice squawked over the static Jackson bellowed. “Just shut it down! The whole strip! Now!”
There was another blast of static. Jackson yelled his orders again, then jumped out of the car. He was so panicked and consumed in the chaos of the moment that at first he did not register the sound behind him. Then instinct kicked in and Jackson turned, reaching for his gun. Just a moment too late.
“Officer?” Silas Custis said.
And thrust his hand into Jackson’s heart.
44
Friday, August 29th. Stillson Beach, VA. 9:55 p.m.
The police car was easy to steal, by comparison. In the chaos surrounding his kingdom's demise, it was barely noticed. Silas commanded Duke’s body to drive, and drive it did, heading to the edge of Stillson Beach, then ditching the vehicle and taking off on foot, heading to the heart of the boardwalk.
The bars and clubs all up and down the beach were being shut down, as Chief Jackson’s message had quickly translated into virtual martial law. All in a vain effort to keep the lid on.
The orders were vigorously, zealously enforced. Tempers flared as young blacks and whites alike were herded out of bars and nightspots and into streets by police, then ordered to go to their hotels, go home, or go to jail.
At Titillations, Clifton Webb looked the wrong way at his evicting officer and took one last defiant swig of beer. The officer attempted to arrest him. Clifton fought back. Two officers joined in. Clifton started swinging. His friends came to the rescue. Two more cops joined in. Nightsticks flashed. Skulls cracked. More friends, more fists. A free-for-all ensued. Someone pulled a knife as the ill wind blew.
And the ghost riders hit town.
The melee became a riot, and the riot spread like wildfire: a centuries-old reservoir of violent energy touching off already-charged emotions like match to powder keg. On Pacific Avenue, a free-wheeling cadre of baseball bat-wielding skinheads in a pickup truck took off on a terror spree, viciously beating a mixed-race couple and carving swastikas in their victims' squirming flesh. Shops were trashed and looted, cars overturned and burned. The war clashed and fused on both planes, amplifying the frenzy. There was simply no stopping it.
Silas stood in Duke's body, trying not to be seen. But he was covered with mud and blood from his trek through the swamp. And he was stuck with Duke’s instantly recognizable, media-saturated racist face.
He didn't make it half a block.
In the mob of rampaging black youth that descended upon him, Clifton Webb was the one closest to Silas's face. And as the mob proceeded to literally tear his host-body limb from limb, Silas made one last-ditch leap for survival.
It took every last ounce of spirit strength he had to invade and possess Clifton Webb in the seconds before Duke gave up the ghost forever.
Silas reeled down the boardwalk, surrounded by hatred and chaos. Before him stood the massive bronze heads of an anonymous man and woman, their blank eyes staring implacably inland. Silas collapsed against the monument and turned to see the spirit storm raging past him, sweeping across the boardwalk and beach, then blowing out across the vast and indifferent sea. The surf crashed upon the shore and swept back again, taking with it the increasingly distant sounds of horses and sabers and unearthly screams.
And there in the middle of it all was Silas Custis, now forced to take refuge in the body of a black man, less a different race than a different species to his way of thinking: a subhuman, the likes of which he'd worked like beasts, the likes of which he'd put to death, over and over again.
But those days were gone forever. His power was broken, his empire in ruins. So when he saw the group of white men advancing, he momentarily forgot and let out a sob of gratitude as he staggered toward them.
It wasn't until he saw the terrible cold in their eyes that he realized the magnitude of his error.
But…! he screamed as the first truncheon came.
But…! as he sagged to the concrete, felt his ribs crack and shatter beneath the assault.
BUT…! he cried through bleeding, punctured lungs.
And then the Great Night winked out forever, leaving behind a legacy of hatred as old and as vast as the nation itself. Leaving behind its blight, its stain.
Leaving behind just another dead black man.
On the streets of America.
45
Custis Manor. Underworld.
Justin lay dying on the ruptured ground. Above and around them, the spirit-fire raged. And Mia was there by his side.
We can't make it back, he said weakly, and she knew that it was true. He was too far gone, and the way was forever closed.
It’s okay, she told him. They gazed out at the shining pillar of light, felt its inexorable pull. It was not easy to trust after all they'd been through. It was not easy to trust in a Creator who could sanction such horror. But the lines could not have been much more clearly drawn.
I love you, he said. I'll love you forever. Mia nodded and kissed him one last time.
Then, together, they surrendered. Releasing all ties, except to one another…
…and as their soul fire began to glow deep within them, they gripped each other a little tighter. There was no pain, only sensation. Their clothing began to smolder, then burn. As they clung to each other, their flesh ran like tallow, flowing together as the fire consumed them. The flame glowed bright, as their spirits merged and melded.
Then together they flew upward.
Into forever night.
Other eBooks by Craig Spector available now from Crossroad Press
A Question of Will
Paul Kelly is a good man: a firefighter and paramedic facing death and danger daily, risking his own safety for the sake of strangers. Paul has seen tragedy a thousand times, but it has never been his own. Until now…
A shocking crime. A loved one, brutally murdered. Paul’s life is suddenly invaded by police, reporters, the harsh glare of spotlights on a family’s private sorrow. The killer shows no sorrow, no remorse – a teen sociopath whose dead eyes stare in sullen silence. Paul does not want blood or vengeance. He wants to know why.
Paul Kelly was a good man. But his obsession is drawing him into the darkest depths of the human soul. Where a terrible truth lurks in the shadows of lies. And a price must be paid to answer…
Turnaround
Eric Best's world is changing… not just a piece here or there, really changing.
His monotonous day job working for an Internet search engine company leaves him unfulfilled, so he starts writing an exciting screenplay.
His wife isn't happy with all of his time being monopolized, and their marriage is already a little rocky, but Eric is determined to finish what he started.
He's becoming more and more invested in his work. He's even having lucid dreams of his scripted universe… but more real.
Then he notices the changes.
Changes in his life that are impossible, wonderful, and even horrific…
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