by J. Thorn
Chapter 19
The floor rumbled underfoot. The generators in the basement roared as electricity spread to the rest of the building. Black spray paint covered the windows, keeping the light out. John and Alex followed the men into the Jigsaw Saloon.
They wore black leather biker jackets. Each one had a stitched patch covering the back. In a gothic script, the words “Keepers of the Wormwood” arched around the outer edge and a white circle held two lightning bolts crossing over the top of a barren tree. Underneath the tree, “Cleveland Chapter” filled a rectangle on the bottom.
Wallet chains swung low and rattled off the hunting knives the men wore on their hips. One man wore a tight buzz cut while the other let a frazzled, braided ponytail dangle in the middle of his back. Their dirty jeans met scuffed, black riding boots.
“Where are we headed?” John asked.
“Shut up and follow us,” the man with the ponytail said.
They passed through a dark hallway and into the main club area of the Jigsaw. A bar ran parallel to the street with glass blocks running from the floor to the ceiling. Stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to every surface. A pair of pool tables sat at the bottom of four steps that led to the main floor. On the raised stage, monitors sat in silence by piles of tangled cables.
The four men passed by the soundboard. A door blocked their access to the backstage area. The man with the buzz cut pulled a cache of keys from his pocket. He fumbled through three or four before he found the one he wanted. The man opened the door for John and Alex.
Electric lamps buzzed while heavy rock grumbled at low volume like fog clinging to moors. Several other men, all sporting the same leather jacket, sat around a table playing poker. Others drank beer while women crawled on their laps. John glanced at a stack of metal filing cabinets and an ancient desk in one corner. The windowless room provided a buffer for the noise and light.
The biggest man in the room stood up.
“They’re all yours, Sully,” one of the armed escorts said.
Sully drained a mug of beer with one swig. His red beard, covering most of his face, glistened with foam. He stood more than six feet tall and a jet fighter could land on his shoulders. In his other hand he held a roach clip. The distinct aroma of burning marijuana filled the room. Sully put the joint to his lips and inhaled. A fiery, red ember glowed on the end as he held the toke and released it with a steady breath. John and Alex stood still, mouths shut and ears open.
“Which one of you is the Sleep fan?” Sully asked.
“I am. Seen Wino with the Obsessed back in ’90,” John said.
Sully nodded and the mass of hair kicked back and forth in unison with his head.
“How about you, brother?” he asked Alex.
“Sleep is cool but I’m still holding out for the Kyuss reunion.”
“Right on, man, right on. Come over here and have a beer.”
The two burly men, part of Sully’s gang, set their assault rifles against a chair. John sat on Sully’s left and Alex sat on his right. A cooler of beer was in the middle of the circle. Alex spied the ice cubes inside and raised an eyebrow toward John.
“I know. The ice and coolers are an indulgence. How did you find us?” Sully asked.
“We heard the radio message,” John said.
Alex took a sip of beer.
“You’re the only two who have figured it out and responded. We shot the other assholes that showed up because they were here to pillage.”
“We came all the way from the east side,” Alex said.
“We saw you once you got off of 480. You almost got served Molotov cocktails driving around in that JLTV. Are you fucking stupid or something?”
Sully put an emphasis on “stupid” in a brotherly, joking way.
“That vehicle is what got us here. If we had been in anything else, we’d be dead. Sorry to give you a scare with the JLTV and camo.”
Sully laughed and the whole building shook.
“Scare us? You didn’t scare us, little man. We didn’t want to waste precious ammo on you. That was my main concern.”
“Where did you guys come from?” John asked.
“From our mama’s pussy,” Sully said.
The other bikers around the cooler chuckled and nudged each other with their elbows. The card game paused and the slithering women turned to face the conversation.
“Yeah, I would hope.” John’s voice cracked and stuck in his throat.
“Just fuckin’ wit’ ya, my man. We’re the ‘Keepers of the Wormwood’, or ‘The Keepers’ as we like to call ourselves. We ride out of Cleveland, mainly Parma. Most biker gangs get into selling whores or drugs, but not us. We usually end up buying them from other gangs.”
Another round of robust laughter filled the smoky room.
“We do our best to uphold the outlaw lifestyle of the Old West. We steal from banks and businesses and then party our asses off until the money runs out. Then we do it again. Simple as that, my friends, simple as that.”
“How many Keepers are there?” Alex asked.
“In Cleveland, a hundred or so. The dozen you see here are the only ones we know still alive. There are other chapters nationwide, but…”
Sully let his words trail off while waving his hand in the air.
“But you have no idea what’s happened to them,” Alex said.
“Does anyone? We haven’t fired up our bikes in days. Been holding out here, drinkin’, smokin’ and fuckin’. Ain’t much else to be done.”
The women smiled and resumed the lustful dance.
“Have you checked out the neighborhood yet?” John asked.
“I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for now. We still have no idea who the fuck you two are. Believe me, dudes are here who would like to slice your neck. Get on with your bad selves.”
John and Alex took turns telling their respective stories, starting with their introduction to the First Cleansing. The bikers listened and nodded, occasionally asking questions for clarification. Sully interjected, repeating names and jargon mentioned only once in the story as he catalogued everything in his head.
“The Holy Fucking Covenant. Doesn’t surprise me at all. Those churchgoers have been plotting for years. We claim separation of church and state but those motherfuckers outsmarted us all.”
John looked at Alex and the realization smacked them hard.
“Why do you say that, Sully?” Alex asked.
“If this shit has gone down the way you say it has, who else could’ve organized it? Listen. You got soldiers breaking into homes and fucking shooting people on their sofas. JLTVs, APCs and tanks rolling down the streets. You think they randomly coordinated all of this on their own?”
Alex and John leaned back until their shoulders brushed the wall. They each downed the rest of their beer and then accepted another.
“How in the hell are we supposed to fight off the whole U.S. Army?” Alex asked.
“I have no plans on fighting the entire army. I plan on maintaining my lifestyle for me and my buds. If we can forage enough beer, dope and women to keep us happy, the fuck with everything else. Like always.”
John sat up straight and searched into Sully’s eyes.
“Are you telling me you don’t care what happens?”
“Why should I? Nobody gives a fuck about us. We’ve lived as outsiders our entire lives. We’ve stood against the standards of ‘moral citizens.’ I say, fuck ’em all. As long as they don’t raid the ‘Saw, they can have this godforsaken place. Their religion fucked it all up and it’s about to kill ’em too.”
“John and me, we have family we need to find,” Alex said.
“My family is in this room. You’re more than welcome to party with us for as long as you like, but don’t go lookin’ for us to join your fuckin’ renegade brigade.” Sully stood up and shouted, “Someone roll me another joint.”
“Then why bother with the radio broadcast at all?” John asked.
“That was a call to o
ur brothers, nothing else,” Sully said.
The other bikers got up, grabbed beers and went their ways. Two men shuffled over to a Marshall JCM marred by gashes and cigarette burns. A ragged instrument cable ran from it to a black Les Paul leaning against overflowing cardboard boxes. The men hit the standby switch on the head, and jammed on the guitar with tunes on the boom box.
Alex looked at John.
“What should we do?”
“For now, I think we hang here and regroup. Let’s give the Covenant time to forget about us. Once they do, we won’t have such a hard time getting around the city.”
“Then what?”
“I have no clue. Hand me another beer, would ya?”
The Keepers fed John and Alex beer but kept their distance. Conversations between the bikers materialized out of whispers and hand gestures.
The Cleveland Chapter of the Keepers of the Wormwood consisted of more than a hundred outlaws. They came from various neighborhoods, backgrounds and ethnicities, which was unusual for most biker gangs in the Midwest. True to Scully’s description, the Keepers avoided many of the illicit activities other criminals loved. They did not organize prostitution rings, run guns, operate underground casinos or sell drugs. Every so often, they would make the local news since they were notorious for finding ways to steal ATM machines outfitted with internal security cameras. The ATM’s grainy, drop-frame video often showed longhairs on bikes, middle fingers in the air as a tow truck ripped the machine from the wall of a bank. Months would go by without a mention of the theft or gang until the next surprise strike.
Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as they helped to keep the peace. The heavy metal bands that graced the stage of the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved the music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the back alley.
Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn. By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took the President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong party and then it was business as usual but with a new leader.
The Keepers, along with their new acquaintances, partied through most of the night. When they smoked enough dope and drank enough beer, Sully approached John and Alex. They found a table in the corner by the bar, sitting at an angle as if the room slid into a sinkhole. Sully wore two ladies over his vest and was not ready to call it a night.
“Boys. We’ve got cardboard boxes and moving blankets over there behind the bar. It ain’t the fucking Hilton but you’ll be able to get some sleep.”
The women giggled and continued to stroke Sully’s hair.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” John asked.
“The plan? I told you guys. Let society fucking die. We live on the fringes and this shit don’t affect us. The more of our brothers we can get to return to the ‘Saw, the better. But that’s all we’re about. We’ve got enough to keep us stoned for a long time. We’ve got enough pussy to keep our dicks wet and we’ve got enough guns to blow those motherfuckin’ Bible freaks to hell. I’ve got a couple of prospect vests at my pad. If you’d like to take a shot at being a Keeper, we’ll give ya a fair shake.”
The women kissed each other while winking at the men.
“Thanks for the offer, Sully,” Alex said. “We don’t need cuts. We need to figure out what to do.”
“Suit yourself, boys. I’ve got ladies to service.”
Sully and the two women walked off toward the back of the stage. Alex and John looked at each other and laughed.
“I’ll bet he passes out before they unzip his fly,” John said.
“Doesn’t look like it’ll stop their good time if he does,” Alex said.
“What are we doing, man?” John said. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to be talking. Ya know, after a night of drinkin’ and all. But what should we do? Do you think they’re alive, anywhere?”
Alex took the last swig from his bottle of beer. The warm hops stuck in his throat. Alex closed his eyes to a spinning room and opened them again to ward off the ride.
“I’m sure pockets of survivors are all over the city. That’s not the challenge. The hard part is going to be finding them and communicating with them. Your wife could be holed up in a basement two blocks from here and you’d never know it. You could spend weeks, months, looking and never find each other. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do. But part of me can’t give up on Jana. I know she’s alive and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my power to find her.”
“I haven’t given up hope, but I think the prospects of me finding my family alive are very low. I see those fucking blasts of light every time I close my eyes. I can hear their screams and the pops of the rifles over and over. I plan on stabbing Father in the throat with a fucking crucifix. That’s what’s keeping me going. I can’t even deal with the grief yet.”
Both men stood up. They stumbled to the bar and walked around behind it. The moon lit the glass block with a low, grey light. As Sully promised, a stack of cardboard boxes stood beneath the taps and tattered moving blankets lay in a heap opposite the boxes. Alex and John pulled them out and placed them on the plastic floor mat. The bar reeked of piss and cigarette smoke. The stress of the day and the alcohol pushed both men into an instant sleep.
Chapter 20
John took a deep breath. The leaves grabbed at his ankles as the soft breeze pulled them across the forest floor. The maples remained a vibrant orange, fighting the encroaching winter with all their might. John sat up and pushed his hair from his face. The moss underneath him covered most of the exposed rock creating a lush and natural sleeping mat. The midafternoon sun peeked over the barren branches of the tallest tree struggling to get to the height of a few months ago. The golden rays warmed him from the inside out.
He stood and walked toward the sound of moving water. The dry leaves crackled under his boots, throwing the smell of pine needles and earthy decay into the air. John ducked underneath low-hanging branches and came to a rocky outcrop. He looked straight down eighty feet to Euclid Creek. The water rushed over limestone steps, cutting a thirty-foot path in the ancient rock. High above the creek on the opposite shore, John saw graffiti tags on the rock face. He stared at the words “fuck” and “pussy” surrounded by juvenile drawings of cock. The symbols intruded on the natural surroundings.
John looked downstream and saw the creek disappear around a bend. Upstream, he watched it emerge from another. He picked up a rock and tossed it into the water below. The stone fell and tumbled for five seconds before bouncing off the rock just below the surface. It skipped down another piece of limestone and came to rest under the water. The creek, shallow at this time of year, would be raging with snow melt in early spring. John thought his could be the last human hand to touch the rock for thousands or possibly millions of years.
He turned and walked back toward the moss bed to discover a six-pack of soda, bag of snack chips and a can of chewing tobacco. He devoured the chips and chased them with three cans of soda. Although he gave up dipping twenty years ago, he shoved the can into a pocket.
When he set the soda down, John noticed an MP3 player next to it. He surveyed the empty woods, then placed the buds in his ears and pushed the power button. A woodcut from the twelfth century appeared on the display. John recognized the figure seated at the banquet table. Vlad the Impaler, the historical Dracula, wore a long beard and robes with his head thrown back in laughter. On the other side of the banquet table stood tall, wooden spikes. Each spike held a writhing, naked figure that was impaled from the anus to the mouth. Above the woodcut he saw “Killer of the Sult
an” in a gothic script. An ominous bass guitar growled followed by distant cymbals. The song lurched into a hypnotic riff.
When he looked up, a figure stood before him in a white robe. Father held a Bible in one hand and an incense burner in another, the kind Catholic priests used for the Stations of the Cross or funerals. As the flame leapt from the burner, John recognized the unique smell of pine, lemon and wood. It overpowered the natural, earthy smell of the forest in autumn.
He pulled the buds from his ears and dropped the MP3 player to the ground. The leaves swallowed it whole. John stood and faced Father from five feet away. Father had not moved since John first noticed him. His fierce eyes penetrated John’s. Father’s mouth remained closed but the corners tilted up.
John looked down and noticed he’d shrunk. A child now, his jeans and T-shirt were replaced with a white robe tied at the waist. He stood with both hands holding the crucifix and the forest blinked out of existence. A blinding light filled John’s vision. When it subsided, he stood in the vestibule of St. Bernadette’s Church as the twelve-year-old altar boy at Sunday Mass. Father took a step toward John and placed his hand on John’s right shoulder.
“She is alive.”
“Who?” John asked.
“Jana. She needs you in this difficult time. Do not abandon her.”
“How do you know?” John’s voice broke.
“He has provided the Holy Covenant with all the tools and weapons necessary to prepare the way for the return of His son.”
John looked out across a sea of blank stares. The parishioners sat in the pews of 1983. He saw Brett and Chris from his seventh-grade class. Next to them sat Jacquie, the first girl to make his stomach flutter. He saw neighbors and friends from childhood, his parents, and little brother and sister. The entire congregation moved their mouths in unison to a hymn, yet the church remained silent except for the conversation between John and Father.
“Why am I here?”
“To remind you, John, we are a part of you. You cannot forsake your faith. You cannot forsake your past. All sheep wander from the path but God is still shepherding you. Come back to us, John. You are the Revelator. He needs your help.”
