Mer Rouge (part 7)

Oren floored it northbound, or possibly westbound, out of the Mer Rouge outskirts and onto the moonlit delta bayou. The road signs were riddled with bullet holes and graffiti and failed to provide any sense of direction. Despite this, to the best of his knowledge, he was making a beeline towards the Arkansas border. Yet the priest, noticing the futility of this path as the breeze swept back his greying hair, used the barrel of his .38 to tap on the rearview glass. Keeping his eyes on the road, Oren reached back to slide open the window. “In about 8 miles,” the priest shouted over the wind, “you’ll see a dirt road on the right! Kurtzy Road!”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“I’m here to save you buddy!”

Behind them, down the straight and narrow road, a gaggle of lights began to flicker. The priest’s eyes narrowed. “If you can get this piece of shit to move any faster, I’d do it!” he told Oren.

“It’s topped out!”

Then Oren looked in the rearview mirror and saw the lights zero in. There was no outgaining them. From the bed of the Honcho, seeing what they saw, Hutch grabbed the priest’s cassock. “Do you have another gun?!” he begged the holy man.

“No, but we have the upper hand,” he bullshitted Hutch. “If they try to board us, just kick them off!”

But bullets began ricocheting off the bed and the thunderous roar of a legion of motorcycles overwhelmed the cool night air. Hutch and the priest fell flat on the bed and the priest reloaded the .38 chamber. As the bikes drew closer, the hell riders drew their clubs and chains to begin their assault.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 6)

Dirk furrowed his brow and glared at the holy man. Since the priest had him dead to rights and he failed to securely cuff Hutch’s wrists, he knew he couldn’t reach for the concealed .44. It was hidden underneath his leather vest. Reaching for it would have risked Hutch escaping, or worse, the priest getting off the first shot. Not having the upper hand, the sheriff flashed his dimples and well manicured teeth. “Forgive me for saying so,” said Dirk, “but I think you’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”

All eyes shifted to the priest and the priest stood motionless and steadfast. The pistol was held firmly in his right hand. “You’re wrong, sheriff,” he softly spoke. “God has jurisdiction everywhere. Even in this godforsaken state of Louisiana.”

Dirk chuckled and thought. “It’s hard to argue with that, preacher man,” he said. Then he released Hutch’s wrists and placed the cuffs in his back pocket. Hutch was puzzled. Not knowing what to do, the out-of-towner turned around to face the sheriff. “Go on now,” Dirk instructed him.

The priest stepped towards Hutch, still gripping the pistol, and took him by the elbow. “Come on, young man,” he said. Then the two marched past the crowd and towards the exit. When they had one foot out the door, the sheriff called out. “And Jesus said ‘get thee behind me Satan’…”, he ominously proclaimed. Hutch and the priest turned around. The bar was dead silent.

“…so watch your back,” the sheriff finally warned.

The two dismissed him and departed the tavern. Outside, Hutch saw the Honcho parked across the street with the engine running and Oren still inside. As he headed in its direction, the priest gave him some last bit of advice. “Young man, you need to haul ass out of here and never come back, you understand?!”. Before Hutch could respond, the harrowing sound of Magnum .44 echoed through the town square. The bullet whizzed past them and blew the priest’s skoufia clear off his head. While Inside the Honcho, Oren jumped out of his seat and looked in the rear view mirror. Hutch and the priest were lying flat on the ground while the sheriff was charging out of the tavern and pumping bullets in their direction.

“Well shit!” the priest yelled. “Do you have a ride out of this shithole?!”

“We gotta make it to that Honcho! The engine’s running!”

“Then get going!”

“But bullets are flying padre!”

“Goddamnit, for the last time! I ain’t Catholic!”. Then he reached into his cassock and pulled out the .38. “Now go! God will cover us!”

Hutch leapt up and bolted towards the truck. Next was the priest, who stood straight up and emptied the revolver at the sheriff. But the sheriff dropped behind the rows of Harleys and dodged every round. Other patrons poured out of the bar with their firearms ready. Hutch and the priest hopped into the bed of the Honcho and Hutch ordered his brother to step on it. Tires squealed and they went rolling out of the town square going 7-0. Meanwhile, legions of guns sounded off from tavern patrons. They fired indiscriminately in the direction of the Honcho until it was out of sight. The sheriff reholstered his .44.

“On your bikes!” he ordered.

Then the army of roughians and hellions mounted their Harleys and riproared out of the square like a gathering storm.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 5)

Hutch’s eyes shifted downward and he clutched his beer glass. Dirk, towering six inches above all the patrons, sauntered over to his side of the bar and laid his large, bigoted hand next to the outsider. Hutch fixated on it. Tattooed just below his pinky was the unmistakable blood cross of the Ku Klux Klan. Dirk greeted the bouncer. “Good evening Sam,” he said. “How the hell have you been?”

“Oh you know me,” explained Sam, “been in the hospital for a few days. My rectum got all blowed up from that firecracker I shoved up there. Been having to shit standing up. Other than that, things have been good. How the hell have you been?”

Hutch was sweating bullets.

“Well you know,” began Dirk, “just been up to things. What can I do for ya?”

“This fella right here,” Sam said, laying his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “He claims some fellers stole some vacuum cleaners from the back of his truck. Can you believe that shit? What kind of sicko would do such a thing?”

“Yeah that doesn’t sound like somethin folks around here would do,” he said. Dirk lifted his hand from the bar and swiveled Hutch around on his stool. He was petrified by fear. The sheriff rubbed his hand across his chin and looked this outsider up and down. “Say, you weren’t that feller who came ridin in here in that fancy Jeep Honcho was you?”

Hutch shook his head.

“Yeah, I know it was you,” Dirk continued. “Thought you was a couple of badasses rollin down the square.”

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else sir.”

“Bullshit,” the sheriff laughed. “Where’s that other fella you was with? The one drivin. The colored fella.”

Hutch tried to disguise his hands as they trembled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Well I can’t get to the bottom of this matter if I don’t talk to all the witnesses involved. You understand that I’ll need to bring this man into questioning.”

Hutch smiled and sat his beer on the bar. Then he reached into his pockets to pull out all the money on his person, which totaled $2.27 and then waved the cash in front of the sheriff. “Gentlemen, this is all one big misunderstanding,” he explained. “I was just pulling the bartender’s leg, ya see? Now why don’t you take my cash here and buy yourself a drink and let’s forget this matter.”

He shoved the money into the sheriff’s vest pocket and stood up. Dirk looked at his pocket. As Hutch tried to barrel past him, he placed his hand on his chest. “Now wait just one goddamn minute,” the sheriff said. “In the state of Louisiana, it’s a crime to bribe an officer of the law. You’re under arrest.”

Hutch was perplexed. “Would you take a check?” he asked.

“Turn around!” Dirk ordered as he reached for his cuffs. Hutch was thrown face first into the bar and the sheriff clasped his wrists. The bar patrons stopped their revelry to gawk at the unfolding spectacle.

“I’m an innocent man!” protested Hutch.

“You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch!”

Hutch wiggled and squirmed as the sheriff apprehended him and a slight commotion was erupting in the bar. Then punches were thrown. As Hutch fought for his escape, an all out brawl broke out. “Christ! I’m gonna need back up!” Dirk yelled. But before the scene crumbled into a complete war zone, a gunshot silenced the crowd. Eyes turned to the back of the bar and they saw a lone figure holding up a .38 service revolver. When he had the crowd’s attention, he lowered the pistol and stepped forward. Patrons moved aside, creating a direct path to the front of the bar. Seconds later, a bearded fellow in a black cassock and a black skoufia presented himself to the Sheriff and Hutch. A crucifix hung around his neck with the .38 by his side. “Let him go,” he ordered the sheriff.

“This ain’t your fight padre,” Dirk retorted.

“Padre?” the priest asked. “I’m Greek Orthadox. Not Catholic.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 4)

Oren hopped back into the pick up and immediately cut on the engine. He watched the rear view mirror as Hutch sauntered over to Kal’s Kountry Katina with hands in his pockets and one shoe untied. After he disappeared into the thicket of bikers and roughnecks, Oren slumped in the driver’s seat with his hood up. As he approached the bar, the locals looked Hutch up and down. He simply flashed his aw-shucks smile and trudged past them. When he swung open the door, clouds of cigarette smoke bellowed out and the sounds of roaring Harleys outside were replaced with riotous laughter and clanking beer bottles. Above all the noise was the cracking of billiard balls bouncing into one another. Hutch simply shrugged and approached the bar. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he repeated as he snaked past the towering leatherbound patrons. When he reached the bar, he slammed his hand onto the sticky wood and called for the bartender.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the faded blond barmaid asked him. She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“A beer,” Hutch said. “AND some information.” Then he held up two $1 bills and he slid the money across the bar. The barmaid didn’t react. “Four assholes stole some vacuum cleaners out of the back of a red 81’ Honcho,” he continued. “I wanna know who did it.”

“Honey, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Gonna play hardball eh?” Hutch dug into his pocket and rolled out a few more dimes. “Now tell me what you do know.”

“Sam!” the barmaid yelled. A stout fella with a leather vest and beer belly waddled towards the bar and hovered behind Hutch and crossed his arms. “What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked the barmaid.

“This fella here is acting like a dumbass,” she explained.

“Excuse me,” Hutch protested. “But a crime has been committed here and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it!”

“That’s what the police are for,” the barmaid said.

“The sheriff is right over there,” offered Sam.

Hutch looked across the bar towards the sheriff. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a tall, clean cut fella, also shirtless and donning only a leather vest. Curiously, the man sported numerous tattoos. Two of them stood out: an iron cross over his chest and a Nazi SS emblem on his forearm. Hutch nodded. “I think I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll leave and drop this matter altogether.”

“You sure?” asked Sam. “He’s a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help.”

“I’m quite sure. Thanks.”

“Just a second, I’ll call him over. Hey Dirk!” Sam yelled out.

Dirk turned around. His eyes narrowed and he glared in Sam’s direction. When he saw this, Hutch swallowed hard. He knew that if he hadn’t clogged the toilet earlier in the night that he would have shat his pants right then and there. His mind raced. He contemplated making a beeline towards the exit. Then the barmaid returned. “Here’s your beer!” she said to Hutch.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 3)

Oren threw open the passenger’s side door and his brother nearly fell out. “What the hell?!” Hutch cried out.

“You had ONE job, Hutch! ONE job!,” Oren yelled. “You couldn’t stay awake for three minutes?!”

“I was tired!”

“And now all of the vacuums are gone!”

Hutch raised an eyebrow and strained his neck trying to look out the rear view window. When he saw that the bed was empty, he furrowed his brow and faced his brother. “No worries,” he calmly explained. “We’ll just go to the police.”

“The police ain’t gonna do shit!”

Oren restrained himself from swinging at his brother. Since there was nothing to be done, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But Hutch, in a rare moment of self awareness, was embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. He unbuckled himself from the passenger’s seat and stepped out. While Oren was busy choking back tears of rage, he looked around the town square. It was a Friday night and the square was poppin’. The engines of Harley’s and Dodge Ram’s roared up and down the road and they all migrated around the local tavern like moths to a light. Figuring he had to do something, he consoled his brother.

“There there,” Hutch said as he patted Oren’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in a grown man crying. I would never cry in front of another man but it’s okay if you do. So why don’t you sit in the truck while I wander over to the watering hole. Surely someone over there saw something.”

Oren wiped his eyes and nose and looked towards the tavern. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Kal’s Komfy Kantina the sign read in gothic lettering. As if that wasn’t enough, a prominent flaming cross was the finishing touch. To Oren, this wasn’t a promising start. But before Hutch marched in its direction, he grabbed his brother by the elbow. “If you get in trouble there,” explained Oren, “I can’t help you.”

Hutch shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 25

Telas tepidly approached the Shepherd’s bedside. With glazed eyes focused muddily towards the heavens, the old man was as motionless as death. The high priest pondered. Whatever was left within this cold vessel was a perpetual hostage suspended in the spaces between the living and the dead.. then monitors and machines beeped and dinged wildly as nurses rushed to his aid. There was a faint gagging. The mush that counted as the old man’s sustenance was lodged in his throat. While alarming to witness, Telas hoped that this was the sweet relief that the comatose man was looking for. But they pried open his mouth. Suction tubes were shoved in. Bill Wilcox stood calmly, almost disinterestedly, as the calamity unfolded. The suctioning screeched a loud scraping sound and the Shepherd jostled lightly as if to cling on to the last vestiges of life. But then the machines resumed their usual sounds. The obstruction was cleared and the old man glossed up at the ceiling as he did before. Then Wilcox continued his briefing.

“If this is a bad time, we can do this another…,” Telas began to say.

“Nonsense,” Wilcox interrupted. “The Shepherd wants you to know that he admired Jonny, and he is very thankful for your support.”

“Thank you. And you can tell the Shepherd that I’m thankful for his hospitality.”

“No need to tell me,” said Wilcox. “The Shepherd is perfectly capable of hearing your gratitude.”

Telas looked awkwardly at the old man and nodded. “Thank you sir,” he greeted.

“Now onto more pressing matters,” Wilcox continued. “The temple at Nisan will need to be dismantled. Once when the city’s population has been relocated to the south, you will be permitted to reestablish it with certain caveats.”

“Such as?”

“The followers of Jonny and others within the Alcain religion must not be granted pilgrimage to the Nain. That region will be off limits.”

The high priest shook his head. “The Nain has been a part of our religion for generations. While pilgrimages can be prohibited by temple decree, it will be impossible to stop them entirely…”

“That may be true,” Wilcox warned, “but by the end of the year, any trespassers in the region will be executed.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 24

Telas gawked at the old man as mounds of apple sauce were shoved into his mouth while nurses shuffled in and out of the sterile and cold penthouse overlooking the sprawling megalopolis. It was nestled safely thousands of miles away from the war ravaged Nain. Bill Wilcox, the aide de camp, was at the Shepherd’s beside. Hundreds of tubes and wires were connected to the old man’s decrepit body and they interpreted signals from his brain. Bill was there to elucidate every word to Telas, who along with the commandant of the Nain territory, Brigadier Hilas Philemon, was there to receive the latest decree from the Shepherd. Wilcox looked up from his interface to receive them.

“The Shepherd would like to thank you for being here,” the aide de camp explained. The old man looked motionless and infirm towards the high plafond seemingly unaware of the bustle surrounding him. Wilcox continued. “The Shepherd and the Chancellor commend you both for your service. You have both performed remarkably.”

“Thank you, sir,” the stern Brigadier responded. But the High Priest said nothing.

“The good news is the lands south of the Sianna have been cleared,” Wilcox declared. “But General, have you made any progress in clearing the Yorkin Pass?”

“It’s rough terrain sir,” Hilas explained. “The group occupying the pass have been harassing the operating posts south of Nisan and then retreating back into the Urbanas. It will take some time to flush them out.”

“You need to do it quickly,” Wilcox warned. “Contractors will be in the Nain basin within a month.”

“Aye sir.”

“The political situation with the Chancellor has changed. While his constituency might find a degree of loss of life acceptable, too much may be unbearable. Please handle this situation delicately and discreetly. The people of Nain must find safe passage to the south.”

“Of course sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

The general bowed his head and departed the penthouse then Wilcox turned towards Telas. “The Shepherd would like to speak with you alone,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 19

At the citadel, the preacher was hastily questioned by police and stowed away in the stockades overlooking the marching grounds outside along with the common thieves and the revolutionaries. In the yard surrounding them rested bones and rotted flesh and the black flies and vultures of death. Stephanos prayed to the god that be for his safe passage into the next world as men were dragged out by chromed guards and were summarily beaten and bound. Some were shot and bodies left where they fell. The revolutionaries were tied up and bayoneted and their leaders stripped and humiliated and the prisoners were called to attention to witness the execution of the latest ringleader who appeared before them bound and naked to the bone. He was buggered by the barrel of a rifle and his genitalia cut off and when it was over he was whipped and clubbed and he took it all with the serene power from a god the Preacher could never fathom. But bloodied and battered, the condemned man stood almost defiantly on his feet with his ankles and wrists bound and a noose around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a motored vehicle and the engine roared and the dirt kicked up beneath the wheels. The driver roared off and the prisoner flew forward behind him and his body was dragged and tossed through the mud before the vehicle swiftly turned and flung the prisoner’s body away from his head.

Stephanos wept at the horror. He clung to his sacred texts and hopes in a desperate cry for a reprieve and in the dead of night, he was whisked away to the watchman. He was brought to his knees and the watchman looked him over and questioned him. “You’re not a revolutionary, are you?” he asked the preacher.

“No. I’m a messenger of Jonny.”

“There seems to be a lot of those these days,” the watchman mocked. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from the steppe.”

“Then I suggest you return to the steppe. We can’t have large gatherings on the streets. I hope you understand.”

The preacher reluctantly nodded. They unbounded him and marched him down the hill and to the city streets and the watchman warned him that if he saw him again, he will be shot.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 17

Wade and the girl reached the southern slopes into the Siana River valley under a cloudless and sullen moon. They crossed the rocky rivulets back into the abandoned village of Khiva and when they reached the tavern, the girl took clothes for life in the new world and they held refuge there for two days. Wade plundered through Sheridan’s belongings searching for anything of worth but he found only a few shekels of silver and whiskey bottles and nothing else. He stashed them in his satchel and in the morning they marched several miles eastward toward the river’s edge and when they saw Harar on the southern shore, the ferryman saw them and took them across. The old man remarked on Wade’s silent companion and then informed them of nighthawks screaming southbound days earlier. “I’d watch yourself with a pretty young thing in tow,” the ferryman warned. But Wade dismissed him and headed into town.

Despite coldness drifting from the west, Harar was largely vacant of trappers and prospectors that populated its streets during the wintry months and the Agency office too was deserted. Only the innkeeper kept business afloat and when Wade saw him take respite under the awning, he called out to him.

“If you see Gomez, tell him I’m looking for him!” Wade shouted.

But the innkeeper lifted a pipe to his lips and said nothing. They pushed south. In a day’s travel they reached Tollum’s land and the town was raised and smoldering and the fields of phlox burned. The smoke from the depleted inferno still polluted the air and it followed them down into Milner’s Promised Land where a fresh hell of flames awaited them. The courthouse, the town, families and homes were gone. Only the cratering and mounds of earth remained. Wade wept and furied at the destruction and the girl could not console him.

He took his rifle and marched back to Harar.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 15

And she kept returning. When the day’s festivities drew to a close and the crisp air bit down she came into his chamber bearing goat meat and olives and wines for Sheridan. The older man drank of the wine and when he was fast asleep the two beloveds undertook their wordless dalliance first by a caress of the hand then a stroke of the cheek. And when he kissed her, she entered behind his chamber and he took from her what could not be given back. In the nights thereafter she took him out of the chamber and away from the prying eyes of the community and in an enclave nestled high in the mountains he would lay with her and look down to the Nain below and consider his escape. He could not convey to her the need for his Remington and buck knife nor plead on behalf of Sheridan. He would return to his prison each night.

They had been in the Yorkin Pass for a fortnight when the priest came to them. The holy man blessed them and told them that the time to take the Nain was near. “You will be a blood sacrifice,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” begged Wade. “I told you before that they have guns. You will need us.”

“And you have been told before that you must be washed of the blood to enter the Nain.”

“Then wash me goddamnit!”

“Your moment has passed. You have been sanctified.”

“I want to speak with Josea!”

“Not even the great prophet can change the will of God.”

“I will speak with him anyway. Give him my last testimony.”

But the priest only blessed them then departed. The next morning Wade was taken out his chamber and escorted to the temple and placed at the feet of Josea. The prophet held open his palm as was the symbol of Jonny and ordered the prisoner to speak.

“You’re making a mistake,” Wade shouted.

“It’s a decree of God. There are no mistakes,” Josea stated without interest.

“You will be slaughtered.”

“So be it.”

“Then why speak with me?”

Josea leaned forward and placed his hand on the head of the prisoner. He closed his eyes as if to receive a message from God and then he revealed to Wade his great revelation.

“Seia,” spoke the prophet.

TO BE CONTINUED…