Mer Rouge (Part 40)

Through strained breath, Fornier shouted to the old man. “Yur that priest they lookin for ain’t ye?”

“There’s no time to talk,” the priest told the deputies. “Now’s the time to do what’s right!”

Simpson froze and the fire raged on. It spread to the porch and was threatening to overtake the whole precinct along with the adjoining cellblock. The priest cocked the pistol. “What’s it gonna be?” he said.

The two deputies were juxtaposed against an endless black void with their faces illuminated by a burgeoning orange glow. Simpson, transfixed and petrified by the hellish priest before him, slowly reached for the keys. “By god, if you toss em them keys, we might as well both be dead!” Fornier warned his partner.

“Make your choice,” the priest advised.

Simpson reached for his belt with the keys dangling next to his holstered service pistol. The priest watched closely. As the deputy rested his hand above the key set, the priest nodded. Then came the critical error. Simpson reached for his pistol and drew it. The priest fired a single round into his skull and both him and Fornier fell into the grass. In a last ditch effort, Fornier attempted to draw his pistol. “It won’t do ya no good,” the priest told him.

The deputy knew that. He laid there pathetically with his hands in the air.

The priest approached Simpson’s body and ripped the keys from his belt. Then he turned his gun towards Fornier. “Did he drink of the water?” the priest asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll kill you later.”

Him and Oren retreated back into the precinct. The fire had already overwhelmed the entry way and kitchen and was swiftly working its way back. The priest fumbled with the set of a dozen keys before reaching the correct one. With the jailhouse unlocked, inmates were frantically shouting as the smoke billowed in.

“Are you in here Hutch?!” Oren cried out.

“Down here!” a voice called.

Oren sprinted to the end of the cellblock where he found his brother and Moses clinging to the bars. The priest stopped at the first cell and opened it and the freed men rushed for the back exit. “Down here!” Oren shouted.

“For fuck’s sake! We have to free everyone here!”

Four cells were opened before the fire roared into the jailhouse. On the fifth and final one, the priest unlocked it and Hutch jumped out and embraced his brother. “Not now!” the priest interrupted and the remaining four men ran at the rear. Outside, they found the back gate trampled down by the escaped prisoners and they crossed over it. After running several hundred yards, they turned around to watch the precinct collapse underneath the flames.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 39)

The force of the explosion rattled the ground and the brother disappeared into the fire. After getting knocked to their asses, the two deputies stood up in the doorway and gawked at the raging inferno. When the debris settled, Simpson stepped forward to survey the damage. “Goddamn! I think we got em!” he beamed.

“Don’t be so sure!” Fornier yelled. “Keep your eyes peeled!”

Before Fornier could move through the entryway, the surviving brother hurled a switchblade into his calf. The deputy screamed out and collapsed to the ground. As he reached for the blade, he saw the brother crawling on the floor with a trail of blood following him. Machete still plowed through his chest. Scrambling through the pain, Fornier unleashed the shotgun into the brother’s face, blowing off bits of hair and flesh and leaving the wall behind him awash with blood. Hearing the gun blasts, Simpson rushed back through the entrance and pumped his shotgun into the brother until he was seemingly nothing but a pile of gore. He helped Fornier to his feet and they retreated to the back of the office.

The Priest and Oren watched the explosion unfold from the outside. Befuddled by what just happened, the priest turned to his companion. “C’mon! This might be our only chance!”. As they rounded the corner, they found the shrapnel riddled brother standing up and removing the machete from his chest. Before he could see them, the two men backtracked behind the corner. To their astonishment, the other brother emerged from the fire on his elbows, heavily charred with legs and right hand missing. A patchwork of fire still consumed him. With his last bit of strength, he reached out his left hand for his brother. But the brother stood there, powerless to stop burgeoning flames. The priest gazed upon this hauntingly tranquil farewell. If they weren’t his sworn enemies, he might’ve wept for them. But after his own blood laid there as nothing more than a pile of blackened ash, the last surviving member of the Nine vanished into the night like a hellish wraith.

But the fire raged on and was threatening to overtake the sheriff’s station. Oren and the priest rushed in through the front. Expecting an exchange with the deputies, they found them retreating through the rear entrance and towards a squad car. The priest fired a round into the air. Simpson, with Fornier’s arm around his shoulder, swiftly turned around with his service revolver drawn only to find himself staring down the barrel of the Priest’s .38. “Give us the keys!” he ordered.

The deputy paused. Beads of sweat streamed down his face. “Why?!”

“You’re not gonna let those prisoners burn up are ya?!!”

There was a long pause. “What’s it to you old man?!” the deputy posed.

“Give us the keys and I’ll let you live!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 38)

Fornier was white as a clam as he watched the brothers stroll up to the porch. He was in the kitchen glancing out the window. He was clutching a shotgun. The lights were off. One brother stepped forth and buzzed the doorbell and then knocked. Simpson approached Fornier from the back. “What the hell did you get us into?” he whispered. “Wasn’t a daisy chain supposed to go off?”

“Get back there and guard the entrance to the cell block,” he spat back. “We’re onto plan B.”

Simpson lightly jogged back down the darkened corridor toward the locked cell. Fornier stood watch. He saw one brother remain on the porch while the other walked the perimeter of the sheriff’s office. As he started glancing through the windows, Fornier ducked. “Shit,” he whispered to himself.

The buzzing continued. A few moments later, the deputy climbed back to his feet and peered through the window. The two men were standing on the porch. One lifted a small caliber pistol and fired it at the lock. There was a kicking sound and the door crashed open. Sweat streamed down Fornier’s face. As the clanking of leather boots echoed through the entry hall, the deputy knew that the first room they’d look at would be the kitchen. He picked up a large machete he found in the tool crib. He waited silently hidden, planked up against the wall by the threshold where he couldn’t be seen. A shadow loomed large over the threshold. And as the brother crossed it into the kitchen, Fornier lifted the machete and plowed it into the brother’s chest. The man collapsed to the ground and sprayed blood across the tile and cabinets. With him on the ground, the deputy stepped into the hallway and opened fire on the other. The remaining brother was caught off guard and took some shrapnel to the right shoulder. Rounding the corner came Simpson ripping bullet after bullet. The brother was outmanned and outgunned and began retreating towards the entrance.

Outside, where the floodlights shone brightly, Oren and the priest heard the exchange of fire. They halted where they stood, a sitting duck. The priest rushed to the far side of the building and away from the entrance. Oren followed closely. He peeked around the corner to see the brother firing a shotgun into the entrance and backing away down the porch and toward the squad car. The deputies returned fire. Once to the vehicle, the brother opened the driver’s side door and squatted down. The windshield glass shattered into a million pieces. He reached for a frag grenade and pulled out the pin. And as the deputies reloaded, the brother stood up from the driver’s side door to hurl the object. Yet the deputies were faster on the drawl. Simpson had his shotgun fully reloaded when he lifted it and fired at the brother’s throwing hand. Bits of finger and bone exploded and the grenade dropped to the gravel. The brother leapt over the hood and the device detonated, igniting a daisy chain of improvised explosives.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 37)

A meager fog drifted across the field as midnight struck. The priest and Oren crouched in the dew ridden thicket no more than a hundred yards from the sheriff’s station. Inside the brush, they swatted away at the legions of mosquitoes and ants pecking at their extremities. The priest held the binoculars to his eyes. While the flood lights illuminated the station and adjoining jailhouse, there was no sign of anyone. “Might as well get comfortable,” the priest said, handing the whiskey flask to Oren. “We’re fixin to be here all night.”

Oren took the flask and downed half of it. He handed it back to the priest and the priest cursed. “Goddamn son, are you nervous?”

“I’ve never shot at anyone,” said Oren.

“You shot me.”

“That was different.”

“Then I’ll handle the shootin’.”

“I’ve seen you in a firefight. You’re no better shot than I am.”

“Well I ain’t died yet. So I must be doing sumthin right.”

The priest peered back through the binoculars and Oren put a cigarette to his lips. “No smoking,” warned the priest. “I don’t want them to see the light.”

“There ain’t no one out here.”

“None that you see.”

Oren sat silently with his ass planted in the wet grass and shotgun at his feet. The priest pulled out a full carrot from his smock and placed one end between his teeth. Headlights pierced through the fog and were moving in the direction of the jailhouse. The priest took a bit of the carrot. “Someone’s coming,” he said as he loudly munched.

Oren picked up the shotgun and leapt to his feet. “Hold on now!” the priest whispered cautiously. “Let’s see what happens.”

The vehicle rolled up to the gravel pit and parked by the front entrance. The priest took a closer look at the vehicle. It was a squad car of some sort. He could barely make out the words. Two men stepped out. Police officers. “Is it sheriff’s department?” Oren asked.

“Dont think so. City police of some sort. They might pickin up or dropping off a prisoner.”

He watched the two officers saunter up to the entrance. The darkness was too thick at first. But as the officers came closer, the bright flood lights illuminated their faces. “So just regular PD then?” asked Oren.

The priest reached into his smock and pulled out the .38. “No,” he said. “It ain’t regular PD at all.” He climbed to his feet and did the best he could to knock the wet grass from his smock. Then, with the carrot still dangling from his mouth, he looked to Oren. “Get your shotgun,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 36)

Sound asleep in his bottom bunk, Moses shook him awake. “Sumthin’s happenin,” he whispered. Hutch lifted his head groggy eyed. “Sumthin’s always happenin’,” he told his bunk mate. Moses slapped him across the face. “No fool! This is serious! Simpson and Fornier are running around like a bunch of crackheads!”

Hutch threw the covers off him and approached the bars to see what Moses was bitching about. He could hear some commotion towards the front office as other inmates were waking up to listen. “Is this unusual?” he asked Moses.

“Shhh! Shut the fuck up! I can’t hear!”

A minute or two later, Fornier busted the door open into the cellblock. He was drenched in sweat with stains around his pits and man tits and he was carrying a shotgun. “Alright everyone, listen up,” he announced cordially, “any minute now you might hear a ruckus. Like some gunshots and whatnot. I assure you that it’s nuthin to worry about it and the situation is under control. If a fire breaks out, just sit tight. It’ll get taken care of shortly. Get some rest and we’re gonna have a good day tomorrow. It’ll be Sunday morning. The chaplain will be here and we’ll get extra pudding. Alright, sleep tight fellas.” Then the office door slammed shut.

“What the fuck man!” another inmate shouted down the hall.

Moses scratched his head and furrowed his brow. “Oh lord, this is bad,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked.

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? Did you not hear what he said?!”

“He said it was under control.”

“You can’t be that dense.”

“What? A few gunshots? They’re probably shooting at some criminals. We’re criminals too! Relax! We’re safe!”

“I should beat some sense into you. Not just gunshots but fires too! Mother fucker, if this place catches on fire, we’re trapped behind these bars! They ain’t comin to rescue us!”

Hutch brushed it off. “Ehh,” he said. “He was just being hyperbolic.”

“I don’t know how the hell you know what that word means. But a fire ain’t nuthin to take lightly. Especially round here.”

“Why? Fires start a lot around here?”

“You’re goddamn right they do!”

Meanwhile, about five hundred yards behind the sheriff’s department, there was a parish road running east to west. Only the intermittent glow of fireflies provided any light. Oren and the Priest cut off the lights to their stolen Toyota Selica Supra. It was dark brown and wasn’t easily seen from the road. Oren was driving. The Priest was looking through a pair of binoculars at the large barren field separating them and the sheriff’s station. “See anything?” asked Oren.

“Nah. Not even a deer turd.”

Oren kept his hands clasped around the steering wheel. He took in the smell of the brand new upholstery. “How did you find this beauty?” he asked the priest.

“You don’t live as long as I do without learning a thing or two,” he told Oren without taking his eyes off the binoculars.

“So what do we do now?”

The priest panned the binoculars off to a thicket of wood just off to the left. “I reckon we outta hide the car,” he said. “Then we hunker down over in that thicket.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 35)

The priest tossed the cigarette butt into the grass. Only the faded blue hues of the night sky lingered above. It was a bright crescent moon. “I reckon we outta head out soon,” the priest said.

“Tonight?” asked Oren.

“Yup.”

“Well what’s the plan, Jack?”

He looked up to the sky to see the stars speckled against the black void as he stroked his beard. “I don’t suppose I have much of one,” the priest said. “Them two boys are slippery as a snake. It don’t do to make a plan. Just stay one step ahead of em’”

“Any ideas?”

“Just one. We scope out the sheriff’s department. That’s where you’re brother and Fornier probably are. The Nine certainly know that. If there’s a time to strike, it would be tonight.”

Oren nodded. “You think we can get him outta there?”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“Well, if them boys fuck enough shit up, we could probably bust him out without anyone noticing.”

“Will he be a fugitive?”

“Dunno. He’ll be either that or presumed dead, especially if they burn the place down. Either way, he’ll be better out here than in there.”

“What are you gonna do after you kill em?”

“They ain’t whom I’m after.”

“Castor?”

“Yup.”

The sound of crickets filled the long pause. Oren was still holding the .38 in his hand. He held it up and looked at it. “I ain’t never killed anyone,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” the priest told him. “They haven’t been alive for a long time. They’ve only been delaying the inevitable.”

“And what about you?”

The priest said nothing to that. He checked his 12 gauge Mossberg and slung a satchel of ammunition over his shoulder. Oren didn’t know what to do with the .38. “So I’ve been wondering,” he said. “If I shot you, you wouldn’t die?”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about all day?” the priest asked him.

Oren only replied with a smirk.

“There’s only one way to find out for sure,” the priest said. He faced Oren head on and spread his arms out like an open target. Oren froze. “If you want to know what it’s like to shoot someone, here’s your chance,” the priest taunted.

Oren lifted and aimed the pistol. He squeezed the trigger the bullet whizzed past the Priest’s head. It was exhilarating. The priest checked himself to make sure he wasn’t hit. “You know what,” he said, “maybe you should take the shotgun.”

They exchanged weapons and as the priest turned around and walked back towards the church, Oren lifted the shotgun and blasted one round in his direction. The priest winced and grabbed the back of his neck where a few pieces of shrapnel hit him. “Jesus Christ!” he screeched. Oren was momentarily stunned. He ran up to the priest. “Oh fuck! I’m sorry!”. But the priest looked at his blood covered hand and cursed. “Bullets can’t kill me but they certainly hurt like shit, you fuckin asshole!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 34)

At the abandoned St. Chyrsostom Church, the Priest witnessed the sun descend below the thicket of trees which were aligned along the bayou horizon. Behind the church, Oren held the .38 service revolver and aimed it at a full can of baked beans resting on top of a tree stump roughly 20 yards in front of him. He squinted his right eye and pulled the trigger. The bullet nicked the right side and tomato beans oozed out of the can. He adjusted and tried again. The next bullet struck the top surface of the stump and ricocheted onto the can and knocked it into the weeds. Oren nodded. “I’m not such a bad shot after all.”

“It’s gonna take more than bullets to kill the Nine,” the priest said as he rounded the corner.

“You mean those two guys?”

“Precisely. A gun might stop them momentarily. But it will take the harnessing of flames to defeat them.”

“So, you mean fire?”

“Yes. They’re an ancient breed—made immortal by the unholy water of a forsaken god. Water is indeed a powerful and sacred force. But its only rival is the flame, tapped into and harnessed by mankind as an affront to the spirit realm. This triggered a holy war between man and the gods. A war which persists to this day.”

“So you’re saying I need to light them on fire?”

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

“With great difficulty I must say. But it has been done. There’s a reason why there’s only two of them left, ya know? Though these two have persisted for a long time. A long, long time.”

“Since you know all of this, have you partaken in the drinking of this so-called unholy water?”

The priest smirked and looked away from Oren. “I was hopin you wouldn’t ask that,” he said.

“It was the only logical question, sir, whatever your name is.”

The priest gazed off to that deep sunset like gazing off into a faded memory. Then he dug into his fourth pack of cigarettes for the day and put one to his lips. “Shit’s gettin’ old,” he said as a plume of smoke rose before his eyes. “Supposedly mankind is to evolve into a higher state of being, like angels walking the earth. That’s what history has told us. But insofar as I can tell, man has been cursed and wretched since the day I first met one many years ago. Ain’t nothing changed. We’re just trading one field of shit for another. You see, the thing they don’t tell you about forever is that forever is a lonely place. You see one generation pass only to be replaced by another doomed cohort. It kinda makes you wonder what we’re clinging onto. But the worst part is the days pass into seconds and your friends become nothing more to your memory than a stranger passing in the night.”

“Sorry I asked,” Oren said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 33)

Lines formed on his forehead as he chewed on his thumbnail. “Uh, when did this happen?”

“A couple of days ago. In downtown Vicksburg. Since you haven’t been by the house in a few days, I hadn’t had the chance to tell ya.”

“Okay, well, did they catch the guy who did it?”

“No. It was two men apparently.”

“Two men? No mention of a priest?”

“No. Why would a priest be involved?”

“Forget it. I don’t suppose they got a good look at the two men, did they?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shit.”

“Also Jerry, a couple of Oak Ridge officers stopped by the house looking for you.”

It was all beginning to click. His heart sank to his feet and he struggled to get out his words. “Oak Ridge, eh? So uh, what do they want with me?”

“They said they was just needin to talk to ya.”

“What did you tell em?”

“I said I hadn’t seen you in a couple of days. I told em you’re usually at the jail on Saturday nights.”

Fornier’s hands began to shake. He opened the flask and emptied it into his mouth. Then he cleared his throat and attempted to end the conversation. “Alright, thanks Ma. Talk to you later..”

“Wait! Your father wanted me to tell you…,” but the phone was already nestled in its cradle. The deputy jumped to his feet, took out his keys, and unlocked the line of shotguns aligned along the office backwall. He took one out, dug through the cabinets, and loaded it with buckshots. Then he called Deputy Simpson in. “Take one of these,” he said to him, offering a shotgun.

“What the hell is going on?!” Simpson yelled.

“I just received a uh, terroristic threat to the jailhouse.”

“Well shouldn’t we call Dirk?”

“No!” Fornier shouted with an unexpected ferocity. Seeing the shocked expression on his partner’s face, Fornier took a breather. “It’s alright Simpson,” he explained calmly, “I can effectively neutralize the situation on my own. I just need you to sit up and be on the lookout.”

“For what exactly?”

“Anything suspicious. Radio me if you see sumthin. I’m gonna head out to the tool crib for a few minutes, okay? I won’t be long.”

Fornier bolted for the rear entrance, past the basketball court, and out towards the shed just beyond the gate. Once inside, he looked for anything flammable and threw all he could find into an undersized wheelbarrow. When he was finished, he rushed the wheelbarrow to the front of the jailhouse and as he did, crap would occasionally fall out of it. But once on the front porch, he dug through his gatherings. He attempted to recall some tricks he learned from his ordinance days in Vietnam. Simpson stepped out onto the porch, shotgun in hand, and watched his fellow deputy move manically. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked him.

“Go back inside!” ordered Fornier. “Get me whatever munitions you can find!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 32)

As evening settled in, Moses laid in his top bunk, hands clasped over his stomach and eyes closed. Below him, Hutch tossed and turned. Tears quietly flooded down his cheeks. Moses could feel his bunk mate’s anguish and tried to disregard it. Hutch watched the sun slowly settle through the barred windows that aligned the top wall and wiped away the tears on his sleeve. When the light completely faded, he called for his bunk mate. “Moses, you awake?” he softly called.

“Yeah.”

“What happened to you today?”

“Same ol bullshit.”

“They fuckin tortured me.”

“I know.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Mer Rouge?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit naw man.”

“Where do you come from?”

“All over.”

“Well where do you come from originally?”

Moses unclasped his hands and rubbed his face. “West Africa,” he said.

“West Africa? How the hell did you get to the states?”

“It’s a long goddamn story.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Why you asking so many questions man?”

Hutch rolled over to his side and placed his pillow under his head. “I’m just trying to forget where I am. That’s all.”

Regretting his tone, Moses took a deep breath. “I’ve wandered all over,” he said. “Egypt. The Middle East. Now how the hell did you make it to this shithole?”

“Well first, I clogged a shitter in Arkansas…”

Hutch’s explanation was rudely interrupted by a loud clanging from Deputy Fornier’s baton against the cell bars. “It’s dark out ladies!” he shouted. “You know what that means?! Lights out! So shut yur goddamn face hole and go to sleep!”. Hutch and Moses lifted the blankets over their heads and Fornier raised a flask to his lips as he wandered out of the cell block. Back in his office, he sat his fat ass down in the rolling chair. As he leaned back, he lowered his Stetson over his eyes. But right before he nodded off, the phone loudly sounded and he cursed as he lifted the hat back on his head. “Hello? Who the hell is this?” he shouted into the receiver.

The voice on the other end shouted back with equal fervor. “Jerry! This is your mother!”

“Ma! Why are you calling me here?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last couple of days! Your cousin is dead, Jerry! They shot him all to hell and burned him up!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 31)

His arms were outstretched like the crucified Christ. Wrists and ankles tied by leather straps. A single wash rag, dampened by torrents of water, was draped over his face. Sheriff Dirk reached for the faucet above the prison’s head and opened it wide. Water splashed onto the rag and the prisoner wiggled and gagged to no avail. Off to the brightened corner of this colorless and soiled cellar, Deputy Simpson protested. “Well shit Dirk! Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

Dirk looked the deputy dead in the eyes and opened the faucet again. The prisoner resumed the squealing and gagging and Simpson shook his head and looked to the floor. The sheriff cut off the water and the prisoner cursed. “What would you know about that?” he asked his deputy.

“I just know in the year of our lord, 1983, this seems a little — I dunno —inhumane!”

“Some techniques stand the test of time,” the sheriff said. And then he removed the rag from the prisoner’s face and leaned forward. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the man.

“I told you! I don’t know shit about the priest!” Hutch screamed.

“Nothing huh?”

“All he said was he wasn’t Catholic!”

“Shit,” Dirk uttered. He draped the rag back over Hutch’s face and put his hand on the faucet. Before it could be turned, Deputy Simpson stepped in. “Why don’t we give it a break, yeah?” he suggested to Dirk.

“What would that do?”

“It might give the man some time to, ya know, think things over.”

Dirk chuckled at the suggestion and nodded. He approached the deputy in a somewhat minacious manner and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Take him back to his cell,” the sheriff ordered. Then he patted Simpson on the cheek. Once when his superior was out of earshot, he removed the wet rag from Hutch’s face, undid the straps, and helped the prisoner to his feet.

“Thank you for that,” Hutch said.

“Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”

The deputy took him by the elbow and marched him up the stairs to the main cell block. First they stopped by a linen closet. The deputy gave him a stack of dry clothes and they continued their march, which ended in front of Hutch’s cell. Moses was already in his bunk. Simpson unlocked the cell and nudged Hutch inside. When he closed it and locked it, he rested his elbows on the bars and gave Hutch a stern glare. “You better tell him what he wants to hear,” the deputy warned. “Cuz I can almost promise you that something worse is coming down the pike.”

TO BE CONTINUED…