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…

kingdom of god 23

The preacher lifted Gomez over his shoulders and carried him down king’s road. Passersby only glared at the men as sweat drenched down Stephanos’ face. Blood trickled down his smock. Urgency coursed through his veins as the midday sun beat down upon him. “I’m a dead man,” said Gomez. “Just leave me here.” But the preacher ignored him. Miles ahead and his knees began to buckle. He saw a thicket of trees yards off to the right and headed towards it. In a small clearing, he laid down Gomez’s whitening body and tended to his bleeding. “Thank you for your help preacher,” the dying man said, “but there’s nothing more to be done.” Blood puddled into the grass and Gomez grew cold. Before nightfall, he was dead.

Stephanos sat silently beneath the trees for several hours while Gomez’s body rested peacefully against the oak. The nighttime prairie glowed from a full moon and the preacher figured he would bury him in the morning. Numbed by the day’s pain, he struggled to make his bed. Against his better instincts, he dug through the deceased man’s remains and made a fire. He didn’t eat and he didn’t drink. His eyes remained fixed on the smoldering flame.

The hours passed. The preacher’s eyes grew heavy. Then there was a cracking at the edge of the meadow. He turned around to find a hunched over man walking hand in hand with a small boy. As they approached, the fire illuminated the man’s face. He was scared and bundled up in a charcoaled duster. What appeared to be a cane holding him up was actually a long range shotgun. Staphanos thought of reaching for the pistol but the small boy threw him off. The boy was five or six years old and said nothing.

“Excuse me sir,” the man said. “Mind if we rest by your fire?”

The preacher drew a sigh of relief and welcomed them in. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry but I have to food or water to give you.”

“What about that fellow over there?”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I found him wounded on the side of the road. I couldn’t save him.”

The man straightened out his coat and sat next to the fire. The boy sat with him. He sat the shotgun off to the side and held his hands over the fire. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Jonny,” the preacher said. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes I know who you are,” the man said.

“You’ve seen me before?”

“In Cessa in fact. You claim to have received the word directly from Jonny.”

“That is true. I have received the word.”

“Then tell me preacher. If you’ve received the word from Jonny, why don’t you recognize me?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 22

And with Cessa gone, the preacher wondered senselessly toward the bountiful vista. He thought that when the king’s road ended he might journey further into the marauding lands. But as thoughts of an unknown future conjured, he held the pistol and considered burying it under a stone or tossing it into a passing creek. The path was lonely. Only an occasional drifter came coursing along towards the beleaguered south. No words were exchanged between the parties. They both knew fate had them marching towards perdition. But a little deeper into the steppe, Stephanos happened across a traveler beaten and battered behind a small sandstone deposit. He was unconscious. The preacher dabbled water onto his lips and when he came to, he noticed the traveler was stabbed and his leg broken. He rested him against the rock and tended to his bleeding. They rested there for several hours and at sundown, the preacher made a fire and gave him what little substance he could provide. Afterward, he stood watch throughout the night while on the lookout for returning marauders.

He thought about the pistol. He took it from the holster and held it firmly.

By morning, the bleeding had stopped. The traveler awoke and asked for water and the preacher provided. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Johnny,” he told the traveler.

The man lowered the canteen from his lips. “I’m Javier Gomez, a representative from the Agency,” he said.

“How did this happen to you?”

Gomez struggled to recall. “I was attacked on my HUV returning to Nisan. I don’t know. They must have taken it.”

“The vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Were they going south?”

“Yes.”

Stephanos stood up and stared down the path towards the horizon. The sun was climbing towards its zenith and the nearest inn was miles away. He knew he would have to carry Gomez the entire way and that they wouldn’t make it before sundown. “I suspect you were followed,” he told Gomez. “You’re from the agency. Why were you traveling alone?”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“What happened to the others?”

“I don’t know. I was returning from Cessa.”

“Why?”

“Because the Shepherd had called for me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 21

Stephanos left the temple before dusk and trekked north from the city center past the beggars and the guards through the morning dew and back towards the northern steppe. Outside of the walls where the sheep herders and common traders were gathered, he attracted a small flock led by Jena and she accosted him while men gathered stones and small arms. The preacher threw up his hood and held his head low but Jena spat and cursed upon him. A stone struck his back and knocked him to the ground, but before the crowd could descend upon him, the woman fought back the agitators and permitted him safe passage. With the city behind him, he prayed to the god which had forsakened him for the forgiveness of his transgressors and for the soul of Nisan. The preacher never returned.

He traversed the king’s road past the sandstone barriers which marked the northerly entrance of the Nisan province and the road gently sloped downward into a sea of green and gold grasses. The prairie flattened. As the sun lingered in the sky, Stephanos could make out specks floating along the deep blue horizon. While the wild horses were long gone, the preacher presumed them to be travelers or a caravan of light vehicles that once dominated the steppe. But as they drew nigh, it was apparent that they were indeed men with horses. With caution entering his mind, Stephanos threw up his hands with his left showing the sign of Jonny. They came closer. He could see they had faces painted like those of marauders with spears of scalps and bones, and when they were in earshot, he greeted them in the Saranian tongue.

The leader returned his greet. “I speak your tongue,” he told the preacher.

“Then you should know I hold no weapon,” Stephanos said. “I am an emissary of Jonny and I’m returning to Cessa.”

“I can see that,” the marauder informed him. “I do not intend you harm but you must surrender your gold and silver.”

“But I don’t carry much.”

“Then give us what you have.”

The preacher lowered his hands and surrendered his satchel. A marauder climbed off his horse to gather it and slung it around his body. Pitying the dispossessed, the leader reached into his saddle and tossed Stephanos a Colt revolver pistol sheathed in a leather holster. “Cessa has been destroyed by Nighthawks,” he informed the preacher. “You will need that weapon on the road ahead. I suggest you use it.”

TO BE CONTINUED…