by Ren Hamilton
The back slider opened and five figures stepped out onto the deck. Patrick adjusted his binoculars. He immediately saw Margol and Allisto. They were wearing long black capes. He panned the binoculars, his sight falling on two men he didn’t know. They wore Mohawks, bright pink. He panned a little to the right and his sight landed on Shep, who was pushing the others into a line. To his dismay, Patrick felt a stab of affection at the sight of his former friend. Of course, he wasn’t trapped in a cave now watching Shep slaughter old men.
The slider opened again and another figure stepped out, swaying and carrying a bottle. He stood taller than the rest. It took Patrick a moment to realize this was Joey. As the others, he was wearing a black cape, with the hood drawn casually back around his shoulders. He looked like some sparkling prince from a fairytale. Patrick’s binoculars fogged up and he had to wipe them with his shirt. He refocused, only to see that the deck was now empty.
“What the…” He scanned the surrounding area, finally locating the company of six making their way through the back yard into the woods. They’d put their hoods on and Patrick could only identify Joey because he stood taller than the rest. They had him wedged between them as they proceeded on like a band of Grim Reapers.
Patrick lowered the binoculars as he realized they were headed straight for him. He pressed behind his concealing rock. Shep’s voice could be picked out as the company moved closer. It was an eerie sight, the six of them moving up the hill through the fog. Patrick’s temples began to throb violently and he had to drop the binoculars and rub them. The company passed within ten feet of the boulder where Patrick hid. His head swam with dizziness and he had to cling to the rock for support. A cool sweat broke out on his forehead.
He peered over the top of the boulder, just in time to see Joey stop short. Whoever it was that was walking behind him slammed right into Joey’s back, uttering an “ugh!”
Shep turned around at the sound. “Joey!” he hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Joey pulled his hood back and shook his head. He stood swaying. “I don’t know. I feel funny. I’m kind of dizzy all of a sudden.” Joey placed his hands on his head, just as Patrick’s temples began to throb furiously. He held his breath and struggled to make himself invisible. He could hear Shep’s frustrated sigh.
“You feel funny because you drank half a bottle of rum, you hamster brain. You wanted to go out, and you nagged me for an hour! Don’t tell me you want to turn back now!”
“No, no. I guess I’ll be all right. Let’s just keep moving.”
Patrick heard the pairs of feet continue on, snapping twigs along the way. The farther on they moved, the more his dizziness subsided. When he was sure they were out of range, he lifted his head and looked on after them. He pondered Joey’s reaction to coming within close range of him. With all of the strange dreams and psychic impressions he’d been getting of Joey, it had never occurred to him that Joey may be experiencing the same things. The thought made Patrick’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. What the hell had Shep done to him? What had he done to all of them?
Perhaps Joey could still be saved from whatever unsavory fate Shep had cut out for him. Then there was the matter of the crops, and his promise to Agent Litner. Get the crop sample, and get the hell out. How hard could that be? He could fake a friendship for a couple of days. After all, Shep had done it for ten years. He took a deep breath and made his way quietly on through the woods.
****
The night air came off the water in gentle gusts, transforming the sticky heat to a slightly cooler temperature. The dense fog moved in like a herd of scattered ghosts. Forest Bluffs had its wealth like other coastal towns, but closer to the end of the peninsula the atmosphere began to change. The scrubbed landscape and churches gave way to a honky-tonk section of town, dawning amusement parks, water slides, clam shacks, and video arcades. Pedestrians were freer with their dress, and their attitude. Live music spilled out onto the street from the bevy of clubs and restaurants.
Perhaps it was this liberal décor, or perhaps it was the fog, that allowed six figures clad in black hooded cloaks to drift virtually unnoticed up the crowded street. Unnoticed that is, until they were within three feet of reaching the Island Hut’s front door. A random gust of wind blew Joey’s hood back, exposing his face to a young couple passing along the sidewalk. The woman recognized him. Much to her male companion’s fury, she flung herself at Joey. “Joey! Joey, touch me!” she screamed. “Put your hands on me!”
“Michelle! Stop it! What are you doing?” her confused boyfriend pleaded. The brothers stepped in and blocked her path to Joey as best they could. Carlos and Devin seemed too stunned to move. It took Allisto and Margol’s action to snap them into shape, and they followed by pulling the woman back away from Joey. Drunk and awkward, Joey fumbled to replace his hood.
The woman broke free of Devin’s grip and managed to de-cloak Joey once again, taking a few strands of hair off his head this time. “Joey!” she screeched.
Her screaming drew attention from the street and the word spread in seconds. Joey Duvaine, the reluctant prophet, was on the street. They came running from all sides. Some came out of curiosity to see this new celebrity. Others were simply drawn in by the sight of him. A dozen voices shouted, and Shep felt the swell of panic oozing its way up his tightened throat.
“Joey, what did the apparition say?” someone yelled.
“Joey, when will the world end?”
“Joey, let me touch you!”
“Touch my baby.”
Not all of the shouts were of a friendly nature. He also heard a male voice scream out, “You bunch of fucking freaks!” and another female voice screech, “Burn in hell, you Godless phony!” Oh well, Shep thought amidst his brewing panic. Can’t win em all. Didn’t need em all. Forty percent would do.
The wind kicked up off the water bringing the first peltings of rain, making it difficult for them to hear each other. Shep raised his voice over the crowd and the wind, directing his cohorts and waving his arms. “Inside!” he yelled. “Get him inside, damn it!” They struggled to do just that but every time they attempted to shove Joey toward the front doors of the Island Hut, another three people would jump in front of him, asking to be touched, enlightened, or in a couple of cases, fucked.
Suddenly the doors to the Island Hut swung outward and two muscular men broke through the crowd. One of them looked directly at Shep. “You Shepherd?”
“Yes,” he yelled to be heard over the rain.
“I’m Sully. We spoke on the phone. You need some help here?”
“Yes! Yes! Help us get him inside!”
The two burly men ran to the aid of the others. They boxed Joey in and pushed him through the crowd like a tank. Once they were all inside, they shoved out the arms and legs that threatened to break through from the street crowd, and slammed the doors closed. The one called Sully threw the dead bolt.
Shep removed his hood and gave Joey a toxic stare. “Should I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?”
Joey shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse.”
“Oh, yes. It could have been worse if one of them popped a couple of slugs into you, Joey. I ought to—” Shep had forgotten that Sully and the other brawny man were still standing there, staring at them. Shep smiled at them. “How you doing? My name’s Shepherd.”
Sully stuck his hand out and Shep shook it. “Yes Mr. Shepherd, we spoke on the phone. I own this place. This is Stu,” he said, pointing to the other man, who was a pile of swollen muscles with a head. “Come in. Please,” Sully said. “Make yourself at home. It’s mostly locals here tonight. And don’t worry. We won’t let anyone hurt him in here. We’re honored that you all wanted to come down and hear the band.”
Shep thanked Sully, but he was a bit put off by his comments. Won’t let anyone hurt him? Shep was aware that his own methods were overly cautious, but he didn’t truly believe that any significant number of people were out to
get Joey. Most of the voices on social media sang his praises.
The place was in full swing but nobody inside seemed to have noticed them yet. Stu strongly suggested that they leave their ‘coats’ in the coatroom. They all handed him their capes, which he examined with raised eyebrows, then disappeared to hang them. Unlike Sully who was all open arms and friendly smiles, the muscle-bound Stu seemed uneasy. He stole sideways glances at Joey, who narcissistically smoothed the sleeves of his silk shirt.
The band was playing a jumpy dance number as they proceeded into the main section of the nightclub. It was a large open space with a stage to the front and a circular bar set up in the center. The high wood ceiling was strung with tiny white lights, giving place a warm cozy glow. A crowd of people danced merrily in front of the stage.
They all found stools at the bar, and soon Shep saw the familiar looks of awe and fascination on the faces of the patrons as they saw Joey. They seemed to catch a whiff of Joey first, pausing before their eyes followed the scent and finally fell upon him.
To Shep’s surprise and relief, none of the patrons approached them. When he mentioned this to Joey, a young man sitting next to them overheard. He explained to Shep that Sully had made an announcement at the bar earlier that Joey Duvaine was coming down. He warned that anyone who bothered Joey or his companions would be tossed headfirst out of the bar, regardless of age or gender. Shep was beginning to like Sully.
Shep watched the patrons huddle at the bar to stare at Joey. Oh come let us adore him, Shep thought, and smiled. He was pleased with the results of his creation.
He was still on alert, but soon even he began to feel at ease. The conversations did not cease because Joey was there, nor did the music and the dancing stop. People kept a respectable distance. The brothers were sitting at the bar, laughing and joking with Devin and Carlos, all of them drinking chocolate liqueur like it was water. Shep warned them to slow down, but they didn’t listen. He was worried about their ability to protect Joey, should the need arise. Margol and Allisto had the strength of ten men, but a strong drunk was a drunk nonetheless.
Joey took Shep’s arm suddenly. “Hey, look at that guy over there,” he said. Shep followed Joey’s pointed finger and gasped when he saw the man sitting alone at the tiny table five feet from the bar. “Isn’t that the hermit who lives in the house up on the hill next door to us?” Joey asked.
Shep glared toward the table. It was the veteran with the long graying hair and the cold leathery face. The man slid his glance their way. He was dressed in desert print fatigues with a white tank top, a brown bandana tying back his salt and pepper hair. Deep lines surrounded the coldest eyes Shep had ever seen on a human. The man’s eyes tightened when he looked at Joey, and Shep saw a seething hatred behind them.
“Holy crap,” Joey whispered. “I think he hates me!”
“Don’t go near that guy. Don’t even look at him,” Shep warned. “I think he’s the one that shot you.”
“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not certain.”
“He’s looking at me like I’m the plague or something.”
“Just stay away from him. He’s dangerous.”
Joey continued to stare at the man. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “He’s completely unaffected by me.”
“I know,” Shep said.
Joey looked quizzically at Shep. “Why doesn’t the blood work on him?”
“He’s a veteran of war,” Shep said, taking a long sip of his beer. “War changes people. It rips their souls out.”
Shep glanced over at the empty stools where the brothers had been sitting with Carlos and Devin. They were gone. Great. Just when he might need them, they disappear. He caught sight of the bright pink Mohawks bouncing around up on the dance floor, along with Margol and Allisto’s jostling curls. “Useless!” Shep hissed. He was about to go drag them off the dance floor and reprimand them, but when he turned to tell Joey, Joey wasn’t there.
Shep was horrified to see that Joey had taken a seat across the table from their gray-haired neighbor. Shep darted to the table and grabbed Joey by the shoulder. “Joey! What are you doing? Come back to the bar. Now.”
Joey pushed Shep’s hand off his shoulder. “So as I was saying, I think we’re neighbors. I’m from the Forest Bluffs Church, right down the hill from you.”
“Joey, let’s go,” Shep warned. “I mean it, leave it alone.”
“I know who you are,” the man said with a gravelly snarl.
“Sir, your eyes speak a thousand curses when you look at me,” Joey said, using his practiced sermon voice. “May I ask why?”
The man chuckled coldly. Shep tried to make eye contact with the brothers, but they were fully engrossed in their simulated dance thrashings. He looked around for Sully and Stu, but Stu was busy behind the bar and Sully was nowhere in sight. His only choice was to disarm the situation himself. He grabbed Joey by the arm. “We were just leaving,” Shep said to the vet.
“I don’t mind telling him what I think of him,” the veteran said, his black eyes pinned to Joey’s pale ones. “As long as you asked, you make me sick.”
Joey shook Shep’s arm off. He was obsessed with wooing this man, who he seemed to view as some sort of personal challenge. Shep was ready to kill Joey himself. He leaned in close. “Joseph, I am not going to fight this gorilla for you. Back off, and let’s go back up to the bar.”
Joey defiantly ignored him. “So I make you sick,” he said to the man across the table. “Fair enough. But tell me this, my brother. Why, exactly, do I make you sick?”
The man leaned closer, placing his palms on the table. “I am not your brother.”
“Still,” Joey pressed on, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the side of his chin, “that doesn’t explain your ill feelings toward me. Is it because I’ve been chosen by God?”
The man laughed loudly, throwing his head back and slamming a fist on the table. “I fought for my country, boy. I put my very life on the line. I have seen horrors that your stunted little mind can’t even imagine.”
“That doesn’t explain why you hate me,” Joey said with a coldness of his own. They looked across the table at each other, and Shep felt the calm before the storm. “I’m just another American citizen,” Joey said, “trying to spread spiritual awareness. I’m trying to contribute some good to society.”
Shep almost laughed at the prophetic bullshit Joey was spewing. Their neighbor remained still. “Son, you have about as much spiritual awareness as Adolph Hitler, with only half the balls.”
“So you think I’m a madman?” Joey asked, twitching his eyebrows in an effort to look maniacal.
The neighbor leaned forward. “No, I think you’re a pretentious little prep school faggot, sitting out there on your dead daddy’s land, planting seeds and playing with your little faggot friends. You concocted this church so you could drop out of productive society, not so you could contribute to it. You are a cowardly, deceitful, unproductive waste of air that needs a few dozen mindless morons stroking your dick every day just so you can feel good about yourself. When I was in the wars, I saw men so afraid that they would freeze up and shit themselves right there on the battlefield. But in my entire life, I have never seen a man as scared, and pathetic, as you.”
No one spoke for several seconds. Joey pursed his lips, and nodded. He looked up at Shep. “That probably would have hurt my feelings if I had any. Huh Shep?”
Shep stifled a grin. “Definitely.”
Joey looked back at the man and smiled. Shep saw blind rage pass through the veteran’s eyes. He grabbed Joey’s wrist, pinning it to the table. With his other hand he pulled a dagger from out of his boot and held it up. “You want to feel something, pretty boy? I’ll help you feel something! Die, false prophet!” he screamed and brought the knife down swiftly toward Joey’s chest.
Shep was about to stop the blade with his hand when a large arm shot out and grabbed the neighbor’s wrist. Shep looked up at its
owner, and his jaw dropped with surprise. The muscular redhead pulled the veteran up out of his seat, twisting his wrist until the knife clattered to the floor. The man struggled as Patrick forced him into an iron headlock. “Are you okay?” Patrick asked, looking down at Joey.
Joey was too stunned to speak, rubbing the place on his chest where the knife would have gone in. Sully and Stu, now seeing the commotion, ran over.
“What happened?” Sully asked.
“This piece of shit tried to stab Joey,” Patrick answered.
“I’ll call the police,” Stu said.
“No!” Shepherd stood. “No police. Please. We’ll just leave.”
Stu looked confused, but he nodded. “All right. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. No police.”
Patrick gave the neighbor to Sully and Stu, who ceremoniously tossed him out the back door of the club. Patrick turned to Shep. “Are you crazy bringing Joey here? What were you thinking? Come on. We have to get him out of here.”
A sly, satisfied grin curved Shep’s lips. “Nice to see you, Obrien.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Another hairline scratch appeared on Juris’s cheek and began to bleed. He shrieked wildly, ducking his head to dodge his unseen attacker. Father Carbone looked on helplessly, shifting from one foot to the other in a nervous jig. “Please, Juris! Whatever is happening, tell me how to stop it!”
Juris persisted in behaving as though he was under attack from some invisible force, and his distress seemed genuine. Carbone winced at the razor thin cuts that now decorated Juris’s fair skin. It looked like a cat scratched his cheeks, yet the priest saw nothing visible strike him, and his hands were still restrained with wire. Yet the cuts continued to appear like magic. Father Carbone knew it was not unheard of for wounds to mysteriously appear on untouched skin. That was most likely a psychological affliction though. This was something completely different…he knew because he could feel it himself.
