It wasn’t Susan. Not even someone Scott knew. Chained to the floor lay a brown-haired woman, roughly forty, with cuts on her face and bruises covering her arms.
“Who are you?” she asked in a quivering voice. “Why did you kick me?”
Scott began to speak but Father Glick held an index finger to his mouth, indicating silence.
“Who are you?” the woman screamed. “Where are the men in hoods?”
As a flicker of recognition crossed her face as she looked up at the priest, only to fade in a wave of pain. Scott understood how Martin found it so easy to kill. This nameless person at his feet felt like an object. No family, friends, or reason to live. Just a thing on the floor, whimpering stupid questions.
Father Glick bent down and laughed at the woman, “Your hero will be here soon, Nicole.”
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine
The fires roared in the woods around Crenson. Giant black plumes of smoke billowed upwards. The violent winds of an approaching storm sucked them sideways. Birds flew in all directions, seeking shelter from the rain and fire.
The mid-summer foliage, mostly dry now from the previous storm two days ago, ignited with ease. Great trees, hundreds of years old, were consumed by the hungry flames in minutes, leaving nothing but blackened branches and cracked bark. The approaching rains did nothing to defuse the fire—the drops merely hissed and evaporated. Deer bounded through the forest, their minds confused by this trifecta of terror—fire, lightning, and the man with the knife.
Wind ripped through the trees, sending sparks tumbling down the trail and into the dead grass, catching and blazing and igniting more flame. The forest was an organism in the midst of mutiny, each function rebelling against the next. A perverse state of nature, where black smoke ruled the morning and the sun never rose.
More would die today. The events of the day would crystallize Crenson’s infamy. The fire swallowed the forest at every turn, and yet, no one responded to the destruction. The cult of Crenson had corrupted every municipality, and the area functioned under anarchy. Police radios bleated in empty rooms. A fire lookout sent frantic messages to the local responders. The chief of the Crenson Fire department picked up his walkie-talkie, assured a prompt response, thought about what Glick had done to his family the last time he’d disobeyed, and did nothing.
The sheriff had been pulled into something much larger than himself, and if he survived, he would change for the better. But the chances of him surviving this bloody morning were small.
He was searching for a woman he loved. Although he hoped to God he would not find her where he searched. If he did, she would probably be dead.
He was also escorting a girl to safety. A young blonde girl who took a simple camping trip with her friends and had her world ripped apart. She had discovered that the man she thought she knew was unknowable. The two were looking for a way out, but the woods were a labyrinth of dead ends and deadly turns.
Not far from them, a crumbling shack was currently occupied by three people, none of whom were its owner.
A young man sat on the dirty floorboards, wondering about his future, and if he had any. The camping trip had revealed many secrets to him about human nature—mostly his own nature. He had discovered, or perhaps rediscovered, that a killer lived inside of him. He’d managed to coexist with his second self, and even forge a successful life, but the events in the woods made it clear to him that the killer was taking over his personality and steadily consuming his soul.
The second was a woman. A woman waiting for a hero, at a time in her life when she believed heroes didn’t exist anymore.
The third in the shack was the priest who had begun working towards this day of death years ago, when he returned from the West coast filled with prophecies of Armageddon. Now the time was near, and the smoke was a welcome scent to his nostrils.
He had envisioned the end many times. He had studied cults. Jonestown. Waco. He knew this sort of adventure only offered one-way tickets. There would be no return trip. His moment of glory and transcendence was quickly approaching, and he smiled at the blood red morning that crept through the dirty cabin windows.
Judgment Day was here. And he was ready.
Chapter One Hundred Thirty
Sheriff Adams looked down at the mangled remains of Susan’s friend Alex. The entire sternum was ripped inside out, like a package that exploded.
Adams glanced over at Susan, silently searching her face for signs of remorse. Nothing. No tears. No sobbing.
Something had changed inside of her during the last hour, during the last wave of flame and death. She’d hardened in some way. He’d seen this in others while serving on the force. After a traumatic event, people often encased themselves in a protective shell. Some atrophied in this shell and became weaker. Others grew stronger.
Susan was growing stronger.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, the sheriff thought.
They hiked again. Searching. Stumbling. Grasping. Reaching. They were lost in the smoke, doubling back, and losing themselves again. Lost and reborn in the fire and flame.
They hiked for what felt like hours, until Adams saw it: a tree with an upside down crucifix carved in its bark. The sheriff suddenly recognized the area. He stopped, grabbed the box of ammo he’d taken from Tucker’s Store, and reloaded his gun. He knew where he was, and what he needed to do. He turned and marched down the trail with determined strides.
As they hiked, thick clouds, heavy with gloom, took ownership of the sky. The morning had dawned only an hour ago, filled with promise and light. Now the murky clouds, combined with the increasing black smoke, turned this hour into a non-morning, a stifling darkness that sent the opening of the day backwards.
Through the black smoke he saw the shack.
“Okay, Susan, listen. That’s Martin Levy’s shack. The guy with the knife.”
Susan stared flatly.
“Martin may be in there. Scott, too.”
“Scott?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’ve taken him hostage. Maybe they’re using him as bait to lure us here,” said the sheriff, shuddering at the thought of the other possible “bait” inside the shack.
Susan stared in his eyes.
“The truth is, Susan, I don’t know what’s inside the shack. I know where we are now, and I know the path to the parking lot. But it’s not safe. We’re being hunted. We can run and hide, continue hiking in these goddamn woods, and wait to be stalked again. Or we can go in there, strike first, and maybe kill our attackers. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s kill them.”
Sheriff Adams put his finger on the trigger and approached the shack. Susan trailed behind. The fire roared in the woods, inching closer to the cabin. When they reached the door she put her ear against the wood and heard the mumble of voices. A male. Maybe two. And a female, whimpering in pain. Sheriff Adams looked at her, as if searching her face for one final sign of commitment. Susan nodded.
Adams kicked open the door. Susan followed him in. Her brain absorbed many things in the half second she scanned the room. A middle-aged woman was chained to the floor in a dark corner of the room, bleeding. A priest, or someone dressed up as a priest, stood next to her, holding a long blade. A third figure in another corner was obscured by the increasing haze of smoke corrupting the room.
Scott? Scott! Susan’s mind reeled. He was not chained, not captured. He’s with this priest. His ally.
A gunshot ripped through the smoke toward Susan. The priest hid in the shadows. Another gunshot. Susan dropped to the ground and crawled toward the woman. Scott emerged from the smoke and pointed a shotgun at Susan.
“You never loved me!” he yelled, then pulled the trigger.
Sheriff Adams dove in front of Susan. The bullet smashed into his chest. He fell beside Susan, groaning.
Martin plunged through the doorway, framed by fire.
Susan grabbed the sheriff’s fallen gun. “No, Scott,” she screamed. �
�� You never loved me!”
She raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded against the back wall. She shot again and the top of Scott’s head slid backwards. Blood splashed against the cabin wall. He fell to the floor.
A black shadow swallowed her. The gun was jarred out of her hand. The priest landed atop her, his robes smothering and rank. He grabbed her chin and yanked her head up hard. He swiped the razor at her throat—and Martin Levy kicked the knife away.
The priest climbed to his feet and laughed. “What are you doing, Martin? You stupid idiot!”
Martin glared. He gripped his hunting knife with the dull green handle and charged. The priest sidestepped the attack, but Martin spun and was on him again, the knife leading the way.
“Martin!” the priest screamed, but his protest did little to stop the raging beast. Martin raced through the smoked, grabbed the priest by his veiny throat, and thrashed the old man up against the wall. He readied the knife.
“Martin! You don’t want to do this!” sputtered the priest, kicking now, as his feet lifted off the ground, the iron grip around his neck tightening. “Martin!”
Suddenly Susan heard demonic laughter coming from the priest’s crushed larynx, a ghastly wheeze that filled the shack.
Martin cocked his head, stared at the priest, then drove the knife through Glick’s heart. The priest lurched, as the lifeblood drained from his face. Martin dropped him with a crash. Susan saw that the blade had gone clean through, and the tip glinted between the priest’s shoulder blades.
Martin Levy rolled the dead man over, extracted the knife, and turned to face Susan and Nicole. Susan eyed the sheriff’s gun in the corner of the shack. Too far away.
Martin studied them both, seemingly debating. His eyes settled on Susan and he raised his knife. Susan turned her head, bracing for the deathblow. She heard a metal clank against the floor. Martin had tossed the knife away. He stood above her, curly hair, open eyes, smile. He extended his hand to Susan.
She reached out-
Crack! The support beam of the shack crumbled—weakened by angry flames. The room swayed, and debris came clattering to the floor—wood, pots, soot, and Martin’s collection of knives. He looked up and saw the swinging blades. Then he looked at Susan.
Three knives dislodged and torpedoed tip first toward Martin. The one grazed his arm, but the second caught him full in the shoulder. Martin tipped backward, and a third slammed deep into his throat. He froze, reached out, and crashed sideways into a table. Jars of liquid toppled down and shattered across his body.
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One
Susan watched as Sheriff Adams used his last bit of strength to crawl next to Nicole.
Susan heard the sheriff whisper, “You were my favorite waitress.”
Nicole smiled.
“I love you,” he continued, “I wish I was brave for you”
“You are brave,” she responded. “You’re very brave. You’re a hero.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. The sheriff shut his eyes. Smiled. And died.
The fire roared, sucking out every last pocket of oxygen and replacing it with poisonous black smoke. Susan staggered to her feet, but the smoke brought her back to her knees. She heard the shouting of men outside. The cult? She hacked and gagged and fell to the floor.
In seconds she was unconscious.
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two
Ken Johnson, the fire chief of Cross Valley, a neighboring town, had received a call from a nervous man, who claimed the woods south of Crenson were on fire and that people were trapped inside a hunting shack. The man declined to give his name, only describing himself as a “reformed member,” but he did provide the chief with directions to the shack. When Johnson arrived, the damage was catastrophic. Flames were starting to tear the structure apart. His crew worked on the fire, gradually beating the blaze back, and preserving most of the cabin. A support beam had collapsed.
He put his helmet on and entered the burned-out door frame. The bodies did not have the usual look of death caused by fire or smoke inhalation, the curled-up fetal position, like dreaming in hell. Rather, these were violent deaths. Murders. Two stabbed. One shot. He was startled, but not completely surprised. The things that happened in Crenson never surprised him.
Then he heard the chains in the back room. A body moved. A woman. Blackened with smoke and cinder, but not burned. He saw the whites of her eyes. She would survive.
He heard a groan behind him, and turned to see a second woman on the floor. She was younger. And covered with extinguisher foam. He cleared her face and looked into her eyes. She was sickened by smoke, but relatively unharmed. Both women would survive.
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three
A paramedic in the first ambulance noticed a piece of paper on the ambulance floor. He picked it up and began to read.
Nicole,
I’m sorry I had to do this. There was no other way. I was too afraid to say anything about what Martin and Father Glick did to me. I can’t live with it any longer, and I can’t talk about it. I’m a coward.
Avoid the cult of Crenson. Never join. Their power is based on fear and sin. I’m sorry about our child. He was sickly and deformed because of me. Because I was too weak to resist the evil. Leo died as a punishment for my mistakes.
Marry someone, Nicole. Find someone brave. Find someone unlike me. Find a hero.
I’m sorry,
John
The paramedic put down the note, shaking his head. He didn’t know what it all meant.
* * * *
As the second ambulance started, the blonde girl on the stretcher ripped off her oxygen mask and sprang up in terror. She looked out of the window at the green Ford Explorer and the trail head parking lot receding in the distance. The paramedic eased her back down.
* * * *
Susan stared at the ambulance ceiling and thought of Scott, Kim, and Jack. Mostly of Jack. She reached down and felt her bruises and wounds. She would heal. She would get better. She would live through this. She felt her belly.
In the coming months it would grow large with child. Her child. Jack’s child. Their child.
Mom.
About the Author:
Brian Francis has written feature articles, reviews, and humor pieces for various publications. He currently resides in Glenside, Pennsylvania, with his family and boxer dog, Annie. This is his first novel.
Visit Brian at www.brianfrancis.info
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