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 45)

The priest gave everyone a cup of boiled peanuts and a shot of bourbon. Hutch took one look at it and passed. “I ain’t touching this crap,” he said. Moses dug his fork around in the cup and shrugged. “Better than the shit we ate on the inside.”

Sheriff DuPont raised an eyebrow and glanced at the priest. “You know that no one likes this shit down here, right?”

“More for me then,” the priest said.

Oren sloshed his fork around in the cup and gave up. “I’m gonna go take a nap guys,” he announced. He excused himself from the table and found a shaded corner of the yard. DuPont lifted his bourbon glass and sipped. “So uh, where do you come from priest?”

Peanut juice dripped down his beard and he wiped it away with a cheap napkin. “I’m not sure you’re ready to have that conversation yet, Sheriff.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he doesn’t remember where he comes from,” Moses spoke up.

The priest looked up and glared at Moses. The sheriff’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two men. “You don’t remember?” he asked.

The priest sat down his cup and picked up the bourbon. “What do you know about Judge Castor, Sheriff?”

“Almost nuthin. Except he’s been around forever and he’s always trouble.”

The priest nodded. “That sounds about right. What say you, Mo?”

“How the hell would I know?” Moses spat.

“You seem to be a man that’s been around a while,” the priest said. He casually sipped on his drink. “You never crossed paths with this devil?”

“I only know what the sheriff knows.”

“Uh huh,” the priest shrugged. He downed the bourbon and slapped the glass on the table. “Well Sheriff, to answer your question, the judge and I go way back,” he continued. “At times we was allies. But not no more. And that’s all I can say about that.”

The sheriff drowned his shot of bourbon and then smirked. “Gimme another shot of that, will ya?” he said. He stood up and straightened himself out. “I gotta piss,” he announced. And he excused himself from the room.

Out of earshot, the priest began replenishing everyone’s drinks. Then he looked at Moses. “So I guess Mount Hebron wasn’t the end of your story, huh?”

“The hell you talkin about old fool?”

“C’mon. You’re amongst your own here. How old are you? Two thousand? Three thousand years old?”

Moses guffawed. “Well first off father. You should know the good book better than that. It wasn’t Hebron. It was Mount Nebo.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what it was. Just who the hell are you and why was ya in Mer Rouge?”

“I ain’t nobody, preacher man. A better question is just who the hell are you?”

The priest drowned another shot and then he poured another. “Drink up,” he ordered Moses. “We’re fixin to find some truths this mornin’.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 43)

DuPont let Hutch finish pissing and then he made the escapee hug the tree. The sheriff handcuffed both of his wrists and ordered the prisoner to not make a sound. A few feet away, three bundled cylinders just barely a foot in length were laid in the grass. DuPont reholstered his revolver and strapped the cylinders to his back. Hutch grew concerned. “Uhh, watchu got there officer?” he asked. But the sheriff twisted a few valves along the hose connected to a firing mechanism held in his right hand and a small flame popped up at the end of the hose. “Don’t go nowheres,” DuPont told Hutch. Then he marched toward the shack.

Inside, the Priest was relentlessly cackling over Moses’ comments. All seemed to be at ease until the sheriff gently pushed open the door. Every eyeball turned to that small flame at the end of the hose. After a few moments, the priest looked into the eyes of the man holding the hose. “Sheriff DuPont,” he said. “Glad you could join us for Sunday service.”

“Do you usually invite escape convicts to your services?”

“We’re all children of God ain’t we?”

The sheriff twisted the valve further and the flame grew larger. “I know what you are,” DuPont said.

“I don’t know what this is about but I’m sure there’s a more civilized way to handle it.”

“Old folks used to talk about you,” DuPont continued. “They said that Methuselahs still walked among us. That some kind of holy water meant for consumption from the gods can turn men immortal. They said they can only be stopped by the power of the flame. I used to say bullshit. And that whatever happens in that godforsaken Morehouse Parish was none of my business until it spills over into my parish. And now it has. I know you was behind that motel fire. And you was most certainly behind that explosion off Kurtzy Road. And it was you at the Morehouse Jail fire this mornin’.

The priest nodded. “Yes, Sheriff. You are correct. You are correct in more ways than one.”

“I know I am.”

“Good. Then you should know that there’s something in Mer Rouge that needs to be stopped. You can arrest all of us and handle the matter yourself. Or we can all take care of this problem right now. Of course, your third option is you can light us all on fire.”

“I think I’d rather be arrested,” Moses interrupted.

“I just gotta know one thing,” DuPont said. “Are you one of them?”

“I am.”

“Then we all head out to Judge Castor’s this morning.”

“Even me?” asked Moses.

“Do I have to go too?” chimed Oren.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 41)

It was nearly 4am when the call came. Half asleep, DuPont reached for the phone on the nightstand. He pulled it under the covers and struggled to speak. “Uh huh,” he said.

“Sorry to wake you this early,” the deputy said. “But we got a call from Mrs. Ames. Apparently she woke up in the middle of the night to find her son Humphrey asleep on the couch. Now normally, this wouldn’t be much of a problem except that Humphrey got busted a few months back for cruisin up and down Interstate 20 and takin advantage of numerous hitchhikers of the female type, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, the boys in Bastrup caught up with him first. Of course, everything went to trial and Humphrey was found guilty and while he was awaiting a spot in Angola, they were holding him in Morehouse Parish. Evidently, he got out.”

“Well I’m sure you upheld your sworn duties and apprehended the man.”

“Yessir. He’s being booked as we speak.”

“So what’s the point of this story, Pete?”

“Well, after we apprehended him, Humphrey swore up and down that he didn’t escape from Morehouse. He’s tellin us that there was a fire and that a man of the cloth came through and opened the jail cell for him. He made all the way to his momma’s house in West Carroll before she called him in.”

DuPont immediately cut on the lamp and sat up in bed. “A man of the cloth?” he asked.

“Yessir. I tried calling Dirk but I can’t reach anyone over there. Do you want me to head out that way?”

The Sheriff threw off the covers. “No!” he said. “Don’t no one head out that way. I’m heading out there myself.”

“But sheriff, if there was a fire, it might be pretty dangerous. At least let me alert Chaz and the fire department.”

DuPont already had his khakis and button up on. He shook his head a moment and thought. “Yeah. Yeah Pete. Call up the fire department. Before I head out to Morehouse, I want to check on something first.”

“Do you want someone to come with you?”

“No. There will be no paperwork on this if you catch my drift. It’s Morehouse Parish’s problem technically. I’m just headed that way out of curiosity.”

“I catch your drift sheriff but should I be concerned?”

DuPont reached for his Stetson off the dresser and placed it on his head. “Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you don’t hear from me by nine A.M., you’ll have your answer.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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 24)

The priest put his ear to the frail wood panel wall and focused. After one of the brothers spoke, a muffled voice responded. “Who the fuck are you guys?”. Given the clarity of the brother’s voice, it indicated that they were facing the back wall the priest hid behind. The exchange continued.

“We’re looking for the spring. Where is it?”

“What fucking spring?”

“We’re not stupid, Mr. Fornier.”

“I don’t know of any goddamn spring.”

“And the water you sell?”

“Look, if you want any of that snake oil piss, I’m a little busy right now…”

A gunshot rang out followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the floor and the Fornier man cried out. “You dun shot my knee!” he yelped. Shaken, the priest holstered the Smith & Wesson and readied the 12 gauge Mossberg hidden under his smock. By now, voices were so heightened that there was no need to put an ear to the wall. The priest quietly mumbled his prayers.

“Who provides you with the water?” he heard a brother ask.

“I…I…it’s my cousin!”

“Where is he?”

“He’s a deputy with the Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department!”

“In Louisiana?”

“Yes!”

Another shot was fired and Fornier’s whimpering stopped. The priest kicked open the back door with the shotgun ready. In the brief flash of time before shots were fired, the priest noticed Fornier’s body draped in a barber’s cape with his jaw half covered in shaving cream while the panic stricken barber stood off to the side with his hands in the air. Thankfully, the priest was correct in where the brothers were standing. Without a second to spare, he unloaded the shotgun towards the brother standing on the right and the glass shattered behind him. It was apparent he missed the kill shot, yet the brother stumbled backwards and the other began ripping bullets from what appeared to be a Tommy gun. The priest leapt back behind the wall and the bullets tore through the wood. When he attempted to return fire, the brothers were already outside of the barbershop and one dispatched a Molotov cocktail. The flames roared through the shop, across Fornier’s body, and cutting off the main entrance. While the barber himself was on the floor desperately trying to escape the smoke, the priest reached out a hand. “Here!” he shouted. Yet another gun shot rang out and struck the barber in the back. The priest, now laying low to the ground, crawled back towards the rear entrance. Once outside, as smoke billowed from the building, he ran down the back alley and towards the front. When he got there, the brothers and their bike were long gone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 22)

The putrid and rank possum’s corpse laid on the southbound lane headed into Vicksburg. For three days it festered under the sweltering August heat, with red guts spattered on both sides of the road before spoiling and flattening into a pancake with a few scant shit flies picking at its remains. On the northbound side, Deputy Gene Ricketts rested his squad car underneath the large sweetgum lined up on the left side entrance to the old Hopper farm by the lonesome highway. With the driver’s side door open, he spat countless sunflower seed hulls into the unkempt grass while Don Williams softly played. But when the sunflower seeds couldn’t keep his mind off the spittin tobacco, he turned to the 100 proof Jack in the concealed thermos on the passenger’s side floor. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat ratcheted up ten degrees every hour. As the time slowly passed, the deputy would dab a rag across his forehead. Eventually, the song faded out and the radio station transitioned to the latest country hit. And as it did, the deputy looked down the road towards the north. A mile or two ahead, through the unbearable Mississippi heat and mirage waves, a small motor vehicle came barreling towards him—an easy speeding ticket, likely his only for the day. He squinted his eyes. It was a motorcycle clearly, but with something peculiar. It had a sidecar. The deputy closed the door and cut on the engine and waited for the bike to roar past him. And when it did, the siren blared and the Warren County squad car sped away from the dirt patch on the side of the road and left a cloud of red dust lingering behind.

The bike didn’t put up much of a fight. Upon noticing the deputy behind, the driver pulled over and braked. The squad car stopped two or three meters away. Deputy Ricketts climbed out, shades concealing his eyes, and he slowly sauntered towards the offending vehicle. There were two men—one on the bike and one in the side car. Neither turned around. Neither made a sound. “Well boys,” the deputy said, “that’s one helluva knucklehead ya got there. Not sure if the sidecar is street legal. But I might let it slide.”

The two men—decked out in black leather, mud washed denim, and wearing German-made half helmets—remained silent. The deputy looked at the license plate. “Ontario?” the deputy beamed. “Canadian, eh?”

They said nothing.

The deputy strolled up to the front of the bike to gander at their faces. His brow furrowed. Like him, the two men had their eyes concealed behind reflecting shades. Their faces looked cut from stone, each sporting a dark chevron mustache. If the deputy had to have guessed, he would have reckoned they were twins. “My my,” Ricketts spoke, “don’t you two make quite a pair.”

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 23

Stephanos puzzled at the strange man sitting across the fire. The boy snuggled up to him and the man reached into his duster for a canteen. “I’m sorry,” the preacher said. “I’ve seen so many faces. Forgive me if I don’t recognize you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the drifter told him. “I’ve seen hundreds of your kind. All with different faces but the same prying eyes. None of you know Jonny from a hole in the ground.”

“That’s not true,” Stephanos protested.

“It’s not? Do you know who that fellow over there is?”

“He was of the agency.”

“Yes. He was Javier Gomez.”

“And how do you know him?”

“I know an enemy when I see one. That’s the difference between you and me.”

“But there are no enemies in the eyes of God.”

“God? Do you think his kingdom dwells in the heavens? Or does it dwell down here, with flesh and blood?”

“As equal creatures in the eyes of God, we will all be relieved of the burden of flesh and blood once we enter his kingdom in heaven.”

The drifter smiled and picked his teeth. His scars flashed as malicious augury against the flames. “You have some funny ideas, preacher,” he said. “Your kind is always searching for the unexplainable in the mystical. It’s indistinguishable from the nonexistent. While tales of magic inspire awe, it prevents you from seeing what’s right in front of you. Evil is real and it sits right next to us. God is not a god of unseen power but is force is itself. To extinguish evil, it takes power. It takes force. You don’t believe in god. You believe in vanity. There is no future for you, only the complacency of an ever cursed present.”

The preacher didn’t reply. He considered reaching for the Colt but the drifter already had fingers on the shotgun. “I don’t want any problems,” Stephanos told him.

“I don’t either,” said the drifter. Then he lifted the shotgun and blew a hole in the preacher’s chest. After emptying the shells, he approached Stephanos’ corpse and took his pistol and placed it under his duster. Then he took the child by the hand and they resumed their path down the king’s road.

TO BE CONTINUED…