Mer Rouge (Part 47)

Alone in the cave, he took the flask out and emptied it in his mouth. Then he patted on his leg to test the pain. Feeling content, he stood up and hopped up and down thrice. With his leg fully healed, he sat back down and rested his back against the cavern wall and rested his eyes. Then the mayor strolled down the stairs and side eyed him. Dirk wasn’t far behind. The sheriff reached to his belt and pulled out his 9mm. With his eyes shut, Fornier hardly noticed the men.

“How’s your leg feeling?” Dirk asked him.

“Much better,” the deputy said without looking up.

Dirk aimed the firearm and fired a single round into Fornier’s thigh. The deputy screeched and writhed on the cave floor. “Goddamnit Dirk!” he cried and cried.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” the sheriff said. “One officer is dead and every inmate escaped! How the hell does that happen?!”

“I did the best I could!”

“Who was it?! The priest?”

“Yes!”

“And who else? He couldn’t have acted alone.”

“I didnt see anyone else!”

Dirk shot him again, this time blowing his ear clean off. Fornier’s screams were horrid and intolerable as they echoed down the cavernous halls. The sheriff lowered his gun. “Ahhhgghh for fucks sake Dirk!” the deputy cried while blood squirted from his head.

“I’m not stupid!” Dirk yelled. “The precinct was torched! There had to be someone else!”

“Alright alright! The Nine! It was the fucking Nine!”

“Those two assholes?! Were they with the priest?!”

“I dont know! I think I got one of them killed!”

“No shit?”

“No shit!”

Dirk reholstered the pistol. “Well shit,” he said. Then he stood with hands on his hips. “How did they find you?”

“How the hell would I know Dirk!”

The mayor interjected. “Your cousin was killed over in Vicksburg a few days ago. In a fire no less. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“It was a coincidence!”

“In a fire? Like hell it was,” Dirk said. “I’ve always wondered about you Fornier. Was you moonlighting?”

“What do you mean sheriff?!”

“I mean was you dealin? Like profiting off the spring?”

“God no! You know I’d never do something like that!”

Dirk faced the mayor. The mayor shrugged. The sheriff rubbed his face and scratched his head. “So you’re telling me you killed one of the Nine. There’s only one left?” he asked Fornier.

“Dirk, I’m almost certain I killed him dead. That fire got him good.”

“And what about the other one?”

“We got a few good licks on him but I can’t be certain if we got him.”

“The last surviving member of the nine,” the Mayor said. “We’d be better off facing the entire legion of them. Those men have been around for close to two thousand years, Dirk.”

“I know that.”

“And the last one won’t go down without turning this place into a pit of hell.”

“To say nothing of the priest.”

“So we don’t have long to prepare,” suggested the Mayor. Dirk nodded. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small cloth. He tossed it at the blood soaked deputy and spat. “Get yourself healed and cleaned up,” he told Fornier. “We don’t have long.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 44)

He dragged his dangling foot through brush and shallow swamps before resting on a downed southern pine. Ahead of him, he could hear the soft humming of passing vehicles. He took his canteen and poured the remaining few drops down his throat and then threw it on the ground. Then, after hearing some shimmering beneath the needles, a squirrel popped up beneath the deadened brush and he shot it. He skinned and roasted it over a piddly fire while the black night above morphed into a faint blue. The meat made him sick. He vomited and passed out and the rising dew put the fire out. He awoke thirty minutes later and found his foot semi reattached. Some of the gunshot blasts to the neck and chest partially healed. The recovery process was working faster than expected but not fast enough. After spewing the remaining bits of rat meat from his throat, he reached for a tree branch from the downed pine and used it to lift himself. He marched in the direction of the street hum.

It was a couple in a burnt orange Volkswagen van that saw him first. He was limping southbound in the direction of Monroe when the tires squealed. The man hopped out of the vehicle and approached the broken figure in a stricken panic. The man nearly heaved. The figure’s eyes were swollen shut and his scalp half burned and his clothes charred and bloodied. “Oh my god sir! Are you okay?!!” the man yelled.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Get the fuck out of my way,” the brother told him.

“Darlene! This man is in shock! Help me carry him to the van!”

“No goddamnit! I said I’m fine!”

The woman sprinted in their direction and grabbed the brother by the legs. The man slid his hands under his armpits and despite his protest, they carried him to the back of the van. “Don’t worry sir! We’re gonna get you to a hospital!” the man said as he jumped into the driver’s seat.

“Fuck you! Just let me out!”

“Darlene! Give him some water!”

Darlene opened a canteen of water and the brother kept pushing it away and it spilled all over the floorboards. “Just stop the fucking car!” the brother demanded.

The driver turned around momentarily to assure the injured man that he was in good hands. But the van drifted into the northbound lane and smacked a large Peterbilt head on. Hours later, the brother woke up in a hospital in Monroe. He looked under the covers and realized the gunshot wounds and numerous broken bones were fully healed. Even his burnt scalp returned to normal. He would have got up and left if it weren’t for two large Monroe PD officers flanking him on both sides. Then the doctor came in.

“Glad to see that you’re awake,” the doc said. “You were the sole survivor of a horrific car accident and we have a lot of questions for you.”

“Is it still Sunday?” the brother asked.

“Yes it is.”

“Thank Christ,” he said and began pulling out IVs.

“Lay back down sir.”

“Why?”

The large burly officer to the right laid his hand on the brother’s chest and pushed him back on the bed. “First off,” the doctor said, “who are you? We found no identification on your person.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Because you came in here with multiple gunshot blasts to the chest and neck. Your lungs were punctured and filled with blood. You had multiple fractured and broken bones consistent with a car accident. And your brain was swelling to the point where it was oozing from your ear holes. And now look at you. It’s just hours later and you’re good enough to walk out. That doesn’t seem unusual to you?”

“Good genes I guess, doc. What can I say?”

“You were also carrying a .380 ACP, a few shotgun shells, and we’re burned all to hell,” a Monroe officer spoke up.

“It’s Louisiana, sir. Is that a crime down here?”

“We’re gonna be keeping you overnight,” the other officer said. “Until we get to the bottom of this.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 42)

At dawn’s twilight, the four men were laying low at the shack behind St. John Chyrsostom Church. The priest was doing his damndest to boil coffee by the fire out back. Moses retreated out of his prison uniform, now sporting a plain white t-shirt and a wrinkled pair of khakis. Hutch meanwhile still donned his black and white striped uniform, with the top pulled down and the arms twisted around his waste. The priest came in delighted with himself over the coffee and gave each man a tin mug. He happily splashed the brown sludge into each of their cups. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we should rest up for a few hours. But we gotta move fast. The Morehouse sheriff’s department is probably already pissing themselves.”

Moses protested. “I don’t know what y’all have planned but leave me out of it.”

“How long were you locked up in there for?” Hutch asked. “I was only there for two nights and I wanna kill every sonava bitch there!”

“Fuck that!” Moses barked.

Oren took his brother aside. They stepped out to the front. Out of earshot from the priest. Oren put his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “Look, I have a car. We can just hop in it and get the hell outta here. There’s shit going on here that has nothing to do with us!”

“And go where?!” retorted Hutch. “Hell, I’m probably already a fugitive! I gotta clear my name!”

“But you’re gonna die! You’re going up against an entire police department! They have guns! We ain’t got shit!”

Hutch nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But what the hell happened in there? How did you get us out?”

“There is shit here that goes against god, Hutch. I’m tellin ya. We didn’t set the fire. A couple of really bad dudes did. They just blew the whole place right to shit. I think one was killed.”

“Did you guys kill him?”

“No. But the priest did shoot one of the deputies.”

“The fat one?”

“No. The other one.”

“Damn,” Hutch mourned. “That was a good dude.”

“I’m sorry but we got lucky this time. I doubt we will again.”

Hutch looked back into the shack and saw the Priest and Moses chatting over their shitty coffee. He reached back to scratch his head. “Alright,” he said. “Lemme think through this. I gotta go piss first.”

Hutch marched off out of view while Oren returned to the shack. When he arrived at a lone tree facing the road, he dropped his prison outfit lower and took out his member. He took a deep breath mid piss. Then a clicking sound was heard. He turned to his right to see Sheriff DuPont aiming his service pistol at him. “Pull up your trousers, son,” the lawman ordered.

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…

kingdom of god 13

Wade returned to the cage and women brought them meats and furred blankets for the nights ahead. Sheridan remained cowed under the coverings and caked in dried blood with his hands shaking at the faintest echo of chanting monks and the hollering of warriors. Not wanting to stay silent, Wade informed Sheridan of his visit to the prophet.

“Will he let us go?” asked the older man.

“I don’t know,” said Wade.

“Then what will happen to us?”

“I can’t say.”

Sheridan gnawed on charred deer meat and drank water while Wade stayed seated with back towards his fellow prisoner. “What is this place? What are they doing here?” Sheridan asked.

“I reckon they’re hiding from the nighthawks.”

“And what of Josea?”

“He’s a charlatan.”

“Of course he’s a charlatan! I mean what’s his angle?”

“What’s the angle of any charlatan? He claims he sees visions of Jonny. That’s what brought him up here.”

“But we can’t be far from the Nain.”

“We ain’t. It can be seen from Josea’s temple.”

“Is that what you’re aiming for? An escape?”

“What other option we got?”

Another young woman of browned skin and dark hair flowing over her exposed breasts brought the night’s food wrapped in hide cloth and she handed it to Wade. Wade took it and asked her her name but the girl meekly looked down and didn’t answer. Before she left, Wade called for her. The girl turned around and he reached into his pocket to pull out the ring taken from the hermit and he offered it to her. She cautiously approached the cage and reached out her hand. Wade placed it into her palm and he clasped her fingers into a fist and he held it. “Thank you for the food,” he told her. She briefly made eye contact and flashed a faint smile then departed.

“Where do you think she came from?” asked Wade.

“I can’t say for certain,” said Sheridan. “Possibly from the Sanalands to the west.”

“Think she speaks English?”

“Not a chance.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part VII)

“I didn’t know there were jungles around Juarez,” Jack said as he swatted away mosquitoes.

“Si Senor,” responded Jose. “Mexico is nothing but jungle.”

The darkness of night provided the perfect cover for Jack and Jose, along with their motley crew of biker vigilantes. The gang passed around a bottle of tequila as they watched and waited several hundred yards away from the cartel’s compound. “Are you sure my father is being held here?” Jack asked Jose.

“Sí. We’ve been watching this place for several days.”

“I know Pablo Santora is behind this,” Jack added. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”

One of the bikers whispered over to Jose. “no reconozco a esta persona,” Jack heard.

Jose gazed through the binoculars towards the compound. “Jack, come here,” Jose said, “do you recognize this woman?”

Jack took the binoculars and scratched his head. “I don’t know who that is,” he replied, “but goddamn she’s tall.” He continued watching this mysterious woman through the window as she handed a large metal briefcase to none other than Pablo Santora. “I knew it!” Jack uttered to himself. The exchange lasted no more than a few minutes before the woman departed in a stretched limousine.

“Now’s a good time to launch the attack,” Jose said. Jack nodded and readied his .38. “Let’s go,” he declared.

The group marched through the muggy jungle until they were right on the perimeter. Without hesitation, a biker launched a flare into the air while another unleashed hell with a 50 cal. Suddenly the compound was lit up with explosions and tracer rounds.

“This is a little much, wouldn’t you say?” Jack shouted to Jose. Then the watchtower exploded from an RPG. Shattered glass and smoldering debris fell onto the men below. “I think it’s the right amount,” Jose retorted.

With the compound covered in fire like it’s the coming apocalypse, the gang marched through the gates and fired on anything that moved. Jack kicked open every door and looked under every pile of rubble looking for his father. Jose found a critically injured member of the cartel whose skin was smoldering and guts splayed out over the ground.

“Donde esta Rod Hardcock?!” Jose shouted to the dying man. But all the poor bastard could utter was “agua…agua.” So Jose emptied his .45 into him.

“No luck so far,” Jose told Jack. Then one of the bikers shouted “lo encontré!” Jack rushed to the portly biker and beside him was a tipped over porter john. And inside the porter john was a shit-caked Rod Hardcock.

“Jack, goddamn you, why did you come?!” Senor Hardcock told his son.

“Don’t worry Dad, I’m gonna make Pablo pay for this!”

Jose inquisitively look around him. “Has anyone found Pablo?”

Suddenly Hueys began whooshing overhead. Before Jack could react, he felt a bullet cut clean through his abdomen.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IV)

The border crossing station stuck out against the barren desert. The two guards laughed as they contemplated their easy assignments. “Lo tenemos hecho,” one said to the other.

Suddenly a lone figure barged in. The guards stared in awe at the ominous character. “Passport, please?” one asked in broken English.

The mysterious figure pulled out his .38.

“Jack Hardcock,” a guard gasped.

“Which way to Juarez?” Jack asked.

The guards silently pointed to the west.

“Gracias,” he said.

As Jack walked away, the guards watched as marched towards the horizon. “Dios ayudanos,” they uttered.

Gunshots and Mariachi music echoed through the streets of Juarez. Jack feared no evil as he walked through the valley of death. He knew the city would face the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; God’s vengeance would soon reign.

If he himself was the one to deliver this vengeance, Jack did not know.

“I’m looking for La Casa de La Muerte,” Jack said to a random street vendor.

“Que?” the vendor replied.

“I’m an American,” Jack stated, “it’s my right to not speak Spanish. So you better answer me or answer to my .38!”

“sé lo que estás diciendo,” the vendor said, “pero no conozco este lugar.”

Jack pistol whipped the vendor and prepared to empty his revolver into the poor bastard. But Heaven granted the man a reprieve: at that moment, an angelic voice appeared. “Jack, no!” it ordered.

Jack’s hand began to shiver as he aimed the .38. He knew this voice.

“Maria,” he uttered.

Jack slowly turned around. Maria was as radiant as a bluebonnet under the Texas sun. He thought he’d never see her face again. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’ve been in Juarez for sometime,” she said, “why did you not respond to my letters?”

“Maria,” he pleaded, “I’m so sorry. I…”

That moment, Pablo Santora came marching up in his Wrangler jeans and snakeskin boots. He put his arm around Maria. “Jack,” Pablo smiled from underneath his mustache, “so pleasant to see you again.”

“Pablo,” Jack simply said. He had to restrain himself.

Pablo lifted a cigar to his mouth. “Jack, old friend,” he continued, “I am the proprietor of La Casa de La Muerte. Please, stop by and see us, yeah?”

“Thank you for the invitation, Pablo,” Jack said.

“Mi amigo,” Pablo chuckled, and he slowly strolled away.

Jack and Maria continued to lock eyes.

“Why Maria?” Jack asked, “Why Pablo?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part III)

“I can’t thank you enough for shooting me in the shoulder,” Brother Joses said, “sometimes all it takes is a bullet from the Lord to help one see the light.”

“Amen brother,” Jack replied, “Jesus wants you to know that I ain’t no puss. So don’t ever accuse me of that again. Or next time I’ll shoot you in the face.”

The sun beat down on the Preacher and Jack like a hellish balefire as they ate their afternoon brunch under the Utah sky. The two were conversing a lot in those days; they knew the plight of modern times represented the mark of the beast. They both trembled and reveled at the pending onslaught of blood and glory from the Lord.

“Tell me,” Joses spoke as he slapped down his napkin, “what’s this business with Johnson? He must know the Lord’s vengeance is near.”

“Oh yes, Brother Joses, he is well aware,” Jack retorted, “but there remains this business with our father.”

“Your father? I thought Rod Hardcock was dead.”

Jack looked out to the deserted horizon, wishing he could push the many years of pain off the edge of the earth. “I believed he was too,” Jack lamented, “unfortunately he was only in Mexico.”

“Mexico? Why the devil would he be sent to such a castoff corner of hell?”

“Drugs,” Jack replied, “and churros. But mostly drugs. He presumably shoves them up his ass and smuggles them into the United States.”

“A mule, in other words.”

“Precisely.”

“So your father has never heard the Good News of Jesus Christ and the impending destruction of earth and the violent demise of all unbelievers in His Name?”

Jack chugged his beer and spat on the ground. “I’m afraid not,” he said, “moreover, the cartel is holding him ransom for unknown reasons.”

“My word,” Joses gasped.

A haunting silence fell between the two as they pondered this unspeakable predicament. “Then you must go to Mexico,” Joses finally spoke, “deliver the Word to your father…and rescue him from the clutches of Satan…before it’s too late.”

Jack pulled out his .38 and looked down the sights as he pointed it in the direction of Mexico.

“I know,” he uttered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part I)

Brother Joses stood over his parish like a specter from the past. He was no mere preacher; he was a prophet of things to come.

“The Lord is not a Lord of peace,” he proclaimed to his captive audience, “as Isaiah told us: See, the day of the Lord is coming — a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger. . . . I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty. . . . Their infants will be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses will be looted and their wives violated. I shout to the world with the power of a thousand trumpets: repent! For the Lord shall have His vengeance!”

The parishioners nodded, too awestruck to proclaim their faith with revelry.

In the front pew sat Jack Hardcock, his hands trembling. He had seen the wrath that Joses spoke of, for he was It’s one instrument. And Jack’s own instrument of Death was none other than the Smith & Wesson .38 special. It was holstered securely underneath his jacket. But the fiery message of Brother Joses was speaking to his God-given urge to kill.

Jack quietly stood up, buttoned his jacket, and proceeded to exit the chapel. Halfway to the door, with his back turned toward Brother Joses, the preacher shouted: “Brother Jack, the Lord does not call upon the faint of heart!”

Jack turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out the .38. The parishioners sat silently as he unloaded the revolver, leaving one in the chamber. “Do you trust the Lord?” asked Jack.

Joses said nothing as beads of sweat poured down his face. Jack spun the revolver and placed the stubbed barrel up to his chin. “I certainly do,” he said.

Then he pulled the trigger.

A few screams echoed through the chapel, but there was no gunfire. Jack stood there, barrel still to his chin, laughing at the weakhearted parishioners.

But Joses didn’t flinch.

“It appears as though I am one of God’s chosen,” Jack said to Joses. Then he pointed the .38 at the preacher.

“Are you?” he asked.

Jack pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet that went clean through Joses’ shoulder. Blood splattered all over the Christian flag. Pandemonium broke out as parishioners rushed to their preacher’s aid.

“Faint of heart?” Jack chuckled to himself. He shook his head and walked out the front doors. As he proceeded down the steps, Jack looked out into the barren Utah landscape. He noticed a lone figure standing in the dusty wind.

Jack squinted.

“Could it be?” he thought.

It was his own flesh and blood; his brother. It was Peter Hardcock.

“Don’t you know that Mormons are godless heathens?” Peter asked.

“Peter,” Jack said, “I’m so sorry. After my last case, I had to go somewhere. The Mormons were the only ones that would take me in. I’m sorry that I never reached out.”

“Nevermind that,” Peter replied, “our father is missing.”

“Our father?”

“Yes. Our father is missing and he needs your help. Rod Hardcock has been taken prisoner by Mexican cartels.”

TO BE CONTINUED…