The Hammer Commission
Published by John Van Stry
Copyright 2013 John Van Stry
Copyright John Van Stry 2013
Cover Credits: eBook Launch (http://ebooklaunch.com/)
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Any resemblance between characters in this story and people living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction created by the author and the author retains all rights to the material in this story.
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The Hammer Commission
“Ah my beloved city,” Jake said to him turning down a narrow street between two large buildings. “And all this trash! This strike is an outrage! The Unions have no pride!”
“Jake,” Mark laughed, “You haven’t lived here in nearly two decades; it’s not your city anymore.”
He snorted, “And you left New York many years ago and swore never to return yet you still call it home. As for me, I plan to return!”
Mark sighed, it was an old argument, Jake's family had had to leave Paris when he was a teenager and forever he had wanted to return and retire here. Mark had left New York because Mark wanted to and had sworn never to live there again, yet was often forced to work there and each time Mark chaffed for the moment he could leave.
But each was home to them in the way that the place you grew up in always was, just Mark hated New York while Jake loved Paris.
Jake checked the address and pulled over to the side. The street had narrowed further here and the buildings become more decrepit.
“Why do these guys always have to live in the shitty part of town,” Mark sighed.
“Because they watch too many of those cheap horror flicks your countrymen write!” Jake laughed.
Mark shook his head and smiled, “Well at least they don’t watch South Park!” and laughed with him. Pulling their coats up they put on their hats. It was raining and cold out, Paris was miserable in the winter Mark thought. Getting out of the car they met at the trunk.
“Standard kits or the heavy artillery?” Mark joked.
“Hmmm, let us see, a twenty-three year old college dropout who has been cooking your so-called ‘free-ench Fur-eyes’ at the local McDonalds. Oh the heavy artillery for sure!” Jake rasped in an exaggerated accent. “If this kid got more than a pocket demon I owe you a dinner at Marseille’s.”
Mark handed him the bag and grabbed the companion one for himself. “As much as I want to eat there, I suspect you won’t be taking me this trip, this idiot is probably using frozen burger patties instead of fresh meat.”
Jake snickered at that and Mark followed him over to the building, it was dark on the street, the rain wasn’t heavy but it made everything slick and the clouds didn’t help with the lighting. There was a staircase down the left side of the building; the entrance they wanted was down there.
“How did the Commission tip to this guy anyways?” Mark asked. He had been skiing on a two day vacation when the report came in. Jake had worked the details while Mark had flown in from Switzerland, so Mark only had the short brief Jake had prepared for him.
“They didn’t say. Just that it was a reliable source.”
“Oh, right!” Mark nodded and smiled to himself, Confessionals were wonderful things.
“Well, might as well get started.” Jake said pulling out a lock gun as Mark pulled out a cross. There was some holy water in the bag too, a few other things useful for dealing with the smaller minor demons. Mark looked up as Jake opened the door and the whole world exploded.
The door blew up into tiny pieces of wooden shrapnel as soon as it was cracked. The blast of heat and ruddy light coming through it was like Dante’s Inferno come to life. And then out strode the biggest devil Mark had ever seen in his life. Seen in person that is. He’d seen the pictures, drawings rather, and he was scared; the pictures did not do it justice, they didn’t convey the all consuming aura of fear, the unnatural way its body bent as it moved, the putrid ichors dripping off its body, and the smell! Nothing could prepare you for that smell.
It grabbed Jake by the body, sinking its six inch long claws in as Jake screamed. Jake sprayed it with holy water, which evaporated like it had hit a plate of white hot steel, hissing as it turned to steam. That only pissed the devil off greater and it grabbed his other side with its other arm, digging it’s claws in further as Mark watched in horror; Jake’s blood already running down its arms and mixing with the rainwater dribbling onto the floor.
“Be gone Devil!” Mark yelled thrusting the cross out at it. “Return to the gates of Hell!”
The cross burned in his hand, and the devil looked at him and snarled. Ripping a chunk out of Jake the devil back handed Mark with a gnarled paw like hand.
Mark flew up into the air and crashed down on to the stairs stunned. The cross was on the ground burning. Crosses were like handguns. If you brought too weak a one to fight the battle, you were dead. But something that needed a more powerful cross than the one Mark had been holding in his hand wasn’t supposed to be possible; they weren’t supposed to be able to get here anymore. Those gates couldn’t be opened now, the pathways couldn’t be made, and something this big could not be pulled through!
Jake stopped screaming and Mark looked up then, the devil had ripped Jake’s head off and was tearing his body to pieces rather single mindedly. The holy water must have really pissed it off.
His wits came back then and Mark realized he would soon be next if he didn’t do something. He started to scramble up the stairs with a groan, feeling like half of his ribs were cracked from the blow, his arm dangerously numb.
He made it to the top of the stairs when he heard it bellow and come after him, its claws clicking on the concrete steps. Mark turned and sprayed the holy water right in its face and it bellowed again, striking him with an open hand, the claws ripping through his trench coat and deep into his skin. Mark flew across the street and slammed into the car, breaking the windows and setting off the alarm. He fell to the ground, stunned.
The devil roared and attacked the car; Mark realized suddenly that it didn’t know what it was, the blinking lights, the siren. Crawling to the back of the car he pushed open the trunk and reached inside for the heavy artillery that he and Jake always carried: The Cross of Saint John.
Mark pulled it out as the demon grabbed him, sinking its claws in as it did, feeling them burn with a terrible pain that seared through his body and deep into his soul. Mark screamed and turning to face the devil he thrust the cross into the thing’s face. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit! Be gone! Go back into the hell that spawned you!”
The devil screamed then, screamed in what sounded like serious pain and it was just like the old timers had said: The cross lit up with a warm comforting light, the clouds parted and a beam of light came from the heavens. He heard a trumpet and a choral of singing voices and the devil evaporated from the outside in, pinned in place in the center of the bright streaming light as it dropped him to the pavement.
Then it was gone, he felt a brief touch at his side and warmth spread through his body as he fell to the ground and passed out.
Mark came to with the harsh smell of smelling salts under his nose, coughing and gasping for breath. It took h
im a minute to gather his wits about himself as he finally noticed the Gendarmerie standing before him.
“Damn, I didn’t know they still used that stuff,” he protested weakly and pushing the police officer’s hand away.
“What’s going on here?” The inspector beside him demanded in French.
“Interpol,” Mark gasped and then coughed again. He could feel his ribs grating a little when he did.
“Interpol? Let me see your ID.”
Mark pulled out the badge carefully and showed him his papers. He wasn’t really with Interpol, but they covered for the Commission members these days.
“Call Head Inspector Greaux,” Mark said carefully, his French wasn’t the best, and the broken ribs were making it worse. “And seal the crime scene. Do not let anyone else in, and do not let any of these people go out.” He pointed to the small group of officers one of whom was examining what was left of Jake.
“Do not think to tell me how to run my investigation.” He frowned. “Inspector Greaux? He is aware of this?”
“Just tell him my name...” Mark said and forestalled further conversation by passing out again.
% % % % %
He kicked in the door and pulled the trigger on his carbine, by the time the door was fully open, he’d have a target, but if he didn’t start shooting now, he’d be dead by then, they moved incredibly fast. It was freaky, to put it mildly, and he was scared shitless, literally. Anything that moved, you shot, and you shot it before it attacked you. He wished he had a sub machine gun, he wished he had more ammo, but the carbine on auto was doing the trick, he’d cleaned out a dozen or so rooms so far and a clip seemed to be enough for a room.
There in the corner, a movement. He turned his gun in that direction and the blossoms of red from his hail of fire, along with bits of bone and brain, showed he had gotten his target. He swept back quickly, hitting the other corner before his clip ran out. Then he quickly reloaded. He didn't have many left now. The next room was empty. So was the one after that. Then he was at the end of the hallway. Up the ladder to the roof they'd entered by, there was no one around, he dropped his pants and shook out the worst of it, lit a signal flare, and prayed.
They almost threw him out of the chopper, when they smelled him, until he put the barrel of his rifle in the mouth of the crew member bitching at him and yelled to get him the hell out of here or he’d kill them all. After that, they were a lot nicer to him, noticing that the gun barrel was hot, and he was covered in blood and gore. When they got back to base he collapsed and was hauled off to the med unit. To say he had completely lost it, would have been an understatement.
Six months later he was holding a medical discharge in his hands, a bunch of medals were pinned to his uniform and no one believed a word that he said. He wasn't so sure he believed it himself.
% % % % %
When Mark woke up next he was in a hospital, and was rather happy to see a cross on the wall and a nun changing his bandages.
"Where am I Sister?" He groaned, he hadn't had that particular nightmare in a very long time.
"Saint-Étienne-du-Mont," She said in French. "You appear to have lost a lot of blood, though we were unable to find any fresh wounds on you."
Mark nodded, "How long have I been here?"
"Twelve hours. I am to get you ready for mass. They are laying your partner to rest here rather soon."
"Do you know what happened?"
"Sister Ellis-Clark, your doctor, told me it would be best for me not to ask, just that you are in service to the Church and that something went very wrong."
"Wise words." Mark sighed and lay back in the bed as she removed the IV and finished with him.
Giscard, who managed the Paris offices for the Commission came in just as she had finished up.
“Are you ready Mark?”
Mark nodded and turned slowly to get out of the bed. Giscard helped him dress slowly, his body was covered in bruises and his ribs were still taped up.
“They healed all the cuts and left the broken ribs and the bruises. I can’t figure that out, can you?” Mark said to Giscard.
Giscard laughed, “You’re too worldly I bet. If you came out untouched you’d lose any humility that the incident had inspired.”
Mark shivered, “Trust me Giscard, that isn’t going to be happening until long after these bruises have faded, if ever.”
Giscard led Mark from the hospital wing of the Church. People didn’t realize that most Cathedrals and the larger Churches still had small hospitals inside them; people forget there are a lot of really old priests, and those kinds of men can wield a lot of spiritual power. No Church would ever think to have a man like that leave hollowed ground, which is also why so many nuns are trained as nurses and doctors. He was amazed that people just don’t realize what goes on in the Church anymore, did they really think an organization that was the heart of the renaissance and the enlightenment had just faded away?
"What can you tell me about the crime scene?" Mark asked Giscard as he helped him hobble down the corridor.
"They have it sealed now; some regular Church investigators and Inspector Greaux are going over it."
"Our summoner?"
"Very messily dead."
"Figures," Mark sighed as they came to a doorway.
“Here we are,” Giscard said and escorted Mark into the Church from up in the side wings.
Mark looked around as they entered the Church, it was a rather nice one, he'd never been here before. He did what he could to avoid looking at the casket just yet. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t even want to hear it. Because once he heard it, saw it, and was here for it he’d have to admit that Jake was dead. He’d have to admit that he saw him get ripped to shreds by a devil that wasn’t even supposed to be able to be summoned anymore.
He’d have to remember that for the last one of these to be summoned Hitler had to sacrifice ten thousand people’s lives under very painful circumstances. And the tens of thousands it had helped kill too. Over a dozen of Jake’s and his predecessors had died trying to slay that thing. If they hadn’t thought to bring the cross...
Mark shivered a bit and finally turned to look at the closed casket sitting on the altar as Giscard steered him into a seat. They had rolled out all the stops for Jake. There was a Cardinal leading two Bishops in the mass. One good thing about the job, the after death benefits were second to none.
And for once he really appreciated it.
"How did we end up with a cardinal and extra bishop at the mass?" Mark asked Giscard softly. "I thought there was only one bishop in Paris?"
"Some sort of conference over at Sorbonne, when they heard what had happened they asked Bishop Santos if they could help."
“What did they say about Jake’s soul?”
“According to Bishop Santos, he’s currently in purgatory, after the mass however he should ascend.”
Mark nodded, Jake was a bit of a partier, to put it politely, but then none of them were very holy men or women, it was a nasty job and sometimes it took hard people to do it. But as long as they were faithful to the job and the Church, and of course didn’t defect to the other side, they were guaranteed one thing: they would not burn in Hell. When you consider what they did, that was a major on the job benefit. Just like they don’t send cops to jail to do hard time.
But they’d still punish you a bit first if you’d earned it. Mark felt Jake was getting off rather lightly considering his preferences for drinking and his occasionally wild behavior.
“Just one day? Jake once told me he thought he was up to a couple hundred years.”
“Well, maybe normally. But when the devil killed Jake, he sent him to Hell. The devil had to be dismissed, and Jake’s remains blessed just to pull him out of there. Fortunately you took care of the dismissing.”
Mark gulped audibly and his head suddenly felt a little dizzy. He almost fell out of the pew but Giscard caught his arm. “How long did they have him?�
��
“Five or six hours. The Bishop said that Purgatory in this case was more of cooling off period.
Mark thought about that. Hell was a nasty place, souls dissolved there, and he was sure that many of its denizens were just waiting to get their hands on the likes of one of them. Even if for just a couple of hours. He shivered again and turned his attention back to the Mass.
It ran about forty five minutes. There would be another memorial with homilies and all that later back at headquarters, he was sure, where people actually knew him. Very few of the people here really knew what was going on beyond someone apparently special had died. Even in this they still kept a low profile.
The Mass ended then and a stray beam of sunlight hit the casket and Mark saw Jake.
He rose up from it, or rather an image of him did, Mark wouldn’t say ghostly because it was clear, distinct, and in full color. Just somewhat transparent. Jake’s image smiled and looked around and found him. Mark gave a small wave, stunned. Jake waved back and shot him a thumbs up followed by a rather familiar, if rude, gesture and a silent laugh at the expression on Mark’s face. He disappeared then and Mark just couldn’t deal with it anymore and passed out.
He woke up stretched out in one of the pews, a nun and Giscard, as well as the two Bishops and the Cardinal looking over him. He tried to sit up but Bishop Santos waved him back, “Relax my son, no need to stand on ceremony. Are you feeling okay?”
Mark nodded, “Still a little weak, but I wasn’t prepared for that. I didn’t exactly expect to see him. I thought the dead weren’t allowed to make final appearances.”
Cardinal Richards smiled, “Normally no, once you’re in Heaven or Hell you stay there. The only exception is someone who is pulled from Hell. Until they enter Heaven they’re back at square one. Your partner did that on purpose of course.”
The Hammer Commission Page 1
