by Noah Harris
“Now what?” Richard whispered.
Georgios pointed upstairs with the tire iron.
“You serious?”
“We get them by surprise. We leave the lantern here so they no see the light.”
“Two of them have guns.”
“Then walk quiet, faggot.”
That proved difficult. The stairs creaked under them with every step they took. They tried sticking to the edges where the treads met the risers and gave less under their weight, but the steps still made a frightening amount of noise.
They paused when they reached the top and listened carefully. To Richard’s surprise and immense relief, no sound came from beyond the door.
They eased it open.
The door led into the kitchen, and they could see the outlines of the furniture fairly well, thanks to a bit of moonlight filtering through the long window over the counter. Beyond, out of sight, lay the living room. To their left were two more doors, both of which were closed.
“Where are they?” Georgios whispered.
He was right by Richard’s ear. The warmth of his breath tickled him and sent pleasant shivers up and down Richard’s spine.
Focus, idiot, Richard reminded himself.
“In bed, I guess. Probably upstairs.”
“Let us kill them while they sleep.”
“No, let’s just get out of here. We’ll go through the front door so as not to wake the dogs.”
“Too late, faggots.” David’s voice came from behind them.
Richard almost leapt out of his skin. He spun around and the flare of a gun blinded him. Blinking, he heard a struggle, the sound of a fist hitting flesh, then a heavy thud that shook the floor.
“Help me!”
That was Georgios’ voice. Trying to see through the afterimage of the gun flash hovering before his eyes, Richard could make out Georgios and David wrestling on the floor but, while he stood right above them with his baseball bat, he still couldn’t make out who was who. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear the sound of shouting and running feet from up above.
Richard felt around the wrestling pair. A foot lashed out and hit him in the thigh. He grabbed it with his free hand and twisted.
“Not me, faggot, him!” Georgios shouted.
Richard’s eyes cleared enough to see the pistol lying on the white tile of the kitchen floor. Both men were struggling for it, grabbing each other’s hands and punching each other so that neither managed to grab it. Richard reached for it.
A hand batted the weapon out of reach before he could get a grip on it. It slid across the floor and disappeared into the shadows.
A door opened behind them. Richard didn’t have time to take aim, he swung his baseball bat and caught someone in the face. The man groaned and toppled backwards.
Georgios struggled to his feet and gave David a kick. Then he gave him another one.
“Where is the gun?” he asked Richard.
“I don’t know. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The sound of running feet came from the front of the house. They bolted through the kitchen to the sliding glass door where Richard wasted an agonizing few seconds fumbling with the latch in the dark before he finally got it open, they ran onto the back porch and leapt onto the grass.
In that instant, Richard looked behind him and saw David loom large at the opening of the sliding door. He had found his gun. It gleamed in the moonlight as he pointed it at them.
Richard froze, caught between running, surrendering, or trying literally to dodge a bullet. David raised his pistol and aimed it right at Richard’s face.
It was at that moment that the dogs began to bark.
“Stop!” David shouted, clamping his hands to his ears and screwing his eyes shut.
Richard and Georgios ran.
“This way!” Richard shouted, pointing in the direction of the house he thought he had seen when they had first arrived.
There was a flare of light from an upstairs window, accompanied by the crack of a pistol. Richard and Georgios picked up their speed as the shots chased them into the tree line.
“You okay?” Richard asked as they finally reached the shelter of the trees. Branches slashed at their hands and faces, and they kept stumbling over roots but neither of them dared to slow down.
“I am not hit,” Georgios gasped.
They found themselves heading down a slope then crossing a little stream, barely two feet wide. After passing through a marshy area where they had to make an effort to pull their feet out from the mire, they found firmer ground and began to ascend the other side of the valley.
All this time, the dogs had been barking in the background. Now they changed their tune. They let out a long howl and fell silent.
“They send the dogs after us!” Georgios cried.
Richard didn’t need to be told. He only hoped that the house he thought he saw, would have someone in it.
As if in response to his wish, the light from a window flicked on ahead of them, through the trees. It only looked to be about a hundred yards away.
“Come on!” Richard gasped.
They hurriedly made for the light. The silhouette of a man appeared in the window. Richard hoped the neighbor at least heard the shots and had called the cops.
Although, how long would it take for the cops to come all the way out here in the sticks?
Too long. They had to find their own way to escape.
They burst onto the front lawn of the house and noticed two things almost at once.
Firstly, they could now hear the panting of the dogs behind them.
Secondly, they saw an Oldsmobile station wagon parked in the driveway right in front of them.
“The car!” Georgios shouted.
“There won’t be any keys!”
“No worry about that!”
They hurried towards the car and Richard thought he heard a shout from the man at the window. Richard went for the driver’s side but Georgios pushed him out of the way so he had to run around the long vehicle to the passenger side door.
Luck was finally smiling on them, the car was unlocked and they both clambered inside, slamming the doors behind them.
As soon as the doors closed a Doberman leapt up at the window, gnashing its teeth. Richard jumped and shrank away.
“We’re trapped!” he cried.
“But at least we are safe,” Georgios said.
The front porch light came on, bathing the car in an eerie yellow glow.
“The owner has seen us,” Richard said.
“It is no matter. This light helps,” Georgios said in a cheerful tone as the three dogs barked and slavered around the car. He took the crowbar he was still holding and used it to pry the housing off the steering column.
“You know how to hotwire a car?” Richard asked.
“What is hotwire?” Georgios asked, fiddling with the wires near the ignition.
“What you’re doing right now.”
“Then yes, I know how to make a wire hot.”
The car roared to life.
“You’re a handy guy to have around,” Richard commented.
“You save me from the Devil, faggot, so now I save you. We even, yes?”
Georgios grinned as he did a 180 on the homeowner’s lawn, grinding up the grass as he did so, and shot down the driveway.
Cliff appeared in the rearview mirror, the gun in his hand.
“Duck!” Richard shouted, pushing Georgios’ head down.
A pistol shot took out the back and front windshield.
“Shit!” they both said in unison.
A crash and a jerk of the vehicle made them peek through the shattered windshield. A mailbox, made in the shape of an English thatched roof cottage and stuck on a white wooden pole, now rested on the hood of the car.
“Too bad you didn’t get Cliff’s lawn jockey,” Richard said.
“Lawn jockey? What is this?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain. I have a f
riend in the city who can tell you all about them.”
“We go to the city?”
“Where else?”
Georgios shrugged. “Which way?”
Richard had no idea. After almost an hour driving around many winding two-lane roads through the woods, worried that at any moment they would come across a cop car or worse, the cultists, they finally found the highway—Interstate 684 heading south to the city.
Driving along the highway in the darkness was a surreal experience. There were no functioning streetlights, no lit billboards, and the rest areas and roadside restaurants were all plunged into darkness. There were no cars on their side of the highway either, but on the other side, leaving the city, there was a steady stream of vehicles.
The sun came up as they crossed the Hudson and entered Manhattan.
They entered a city that looked more like a warzone.
Richard had grown up seeing the Vietnam War on television. What he saw now reminded him of the fall of Saigon.
Trash littered the streets. Georgios had to weave the car in and out of broken liquor bottles, smashed televisions, and heaps of smoldering refuse. Papers fluttered about in the morning breeze, and the passing of the station wagon made them fly up in its wake. On each city block they saw either a burnt-out storefront or a torched car. On some blocks, there were several of both. Smoke hung in the air and rose from various, still smouldering, locations around the city. Few people were about, except for cops protecting the banks and major intersections, and firemen dousing the remaining fires.
“This look like Athens during the democracy demonstration,” Georgios said, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Things haven’t gotten better since you got rid of the junta?” Richard asked.
Georgios shook his head, turning the wheel to avoid a shopping cart lying on its side in the middle of the road. “Not so much. At least we have freedom, but there is no work, no money. I love my country but no life for me there.”
“What would you like to do here?”
“Open restaurant, like my father. I great cook. He teach me everything.”
“Maybe you can cook me some Greek food sometime.”
Georgios grinned and elbowed him. “In Greece the man cook. Woman clean. I make you nice meal and you clean the house, eh?”
Richard rolled his eyes. At least he didn’t call him a faggot again.
Richard directed him to his neighborhood and they parked the car near his apartment building. Georgios pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed the steering wheel, the dashboard, and the doors.
“We no want to leave finger marks.”
“Fingerprints?” Richard laughed. “A hundred cars get stolen a day in this town. No one is going to dust it for fingerprints.”
“It good to be careful.”
“Says the man who snuck into the country illegally and fought a demonic cult,” Richard said with a chuckle.
Georgios sat up a little straighter. “Greek men are brave people.”
“Hey, you didn’t fight them alone.”
Georgios looked at him and smiled. “You brave man too, faggot. Now where we go?”
“To my house. Grab some stuff. We can’t stay, though. They might come looking for us there. We’ll go get changed and hide out in a park or something until we can get in touch with my friends.”
“We must stop them, Richard. The Devil worshippers,” Georgios said, his voice low and determined.
“We will. I’ve been fighting them for two months now.”
As they walked up to Richard’s apartment he told Georgios all about his time with Anton Black—the initial photo shoot, the encounter at the Everard, the fight in Untermyer Park, and all the later struggles in the demon realm.
Georgios listened to it all in silence. They found that Richard’s building remained intact. No one had broken through the street door. His own door, of course, hung ajar, its shattered lock an open invitation to enter, but none of his neighbors had taken the opportunity to steal anything. They had probably all been too scared to leave their own homes. Nevertheless, he put the bolt and chain on the door just in case today was to become a repeat of yesterday.
“Nice place,” Georgios said, looking around as Richard opened all the windows to let in the morning breeze. “You say a man die here?”
“He disappeared. Anton probably killed him or the demons took him.”
Georgios hesitated in front of the bolted door to the summoning room.
“This the Devil place?”
“Yes.”
“How you live here with this door to Hell?”
Richard came and stood by his side. “Because I need to watch it. From the little I know about this stuff it’s difficult to make one of these summoning rooms. A lot of rituals and sacrifices have to be done, so it’s valuable to them. I need to guard it so they don’t get to use it.”
And I also want to use it myself, Richard thought.
No more. I’m done with that.
Richard wondered if that was really true.
Georgios put a hand on his shoulder. “You brave man, Richard. A girly little faggot, but a brave man as well.”
“I really wish you would stop calling me faggot.”
Georgios laughed. “Stop being faggot, I stop calling you faggot. This good city when not burning. We find lots of women, eh? I make man out of you.”
“Whatever you say, Georgios.”
Richard went to the bathroom to run some water over his face, only to find, of course, that the water wasn’t running. In the light of the open window he looked at himself in the mirror. Dark circles framed his eyes, and he had several bruises and cuts from when his old high school “pals” had gay bashed him a few days before. Added to those were several new scrapes from running through the woods last night. His hair was messed up, his clothes stank, his shoes were muddy, and he was in serious need of a shower.
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He trudged back into the hallway, utterly exhausted. Perhaps he’d take a nap on the sofa.
Just then, the lights came back on.
Richard dived for the phone and called Tyrone, only to find the line busy. He put down the receiver and paced for a minute. Just as he was about to dial again, the phone rang.
Tyrone’s familiar voice came over the line. “Country? That you?”
Richard could have wept with joy.
“Are you alright? How’s your mother?”
“Everything is fine here, Country. A couple of buildings burned the next block over but we’re fine. And you?”
Richard paused. Should he tell him? Suddenly he felt guilty, like he had cheated on Tyrone, even though they had an open relationship.
Richard took a deep breath. “Anton broke into my apartment, or maybe one of his cult did.”
“Damn, did you shoot them?”
“I wish. No, they had already left when I got here. But they, well, they spiked my drink.”
“Aw, shit.”
An old woman’s voice squawked in the background. “Watch your mouth, Tyrone!”
“Sorry momma!” Tyrone lowered his voice. “So Country, what happened? Did you, I mean, did you end up there?”
“Yeah,” Richard replied, his voice dry.
“Is he here now?”
“No, but I think they found another way. They almost got another virgin sacrifice. I saved him but Anton and his pals are going to come after us. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m coming.”
Tyrone hung up. Richard smiled and cradled the phone to his chest. Here was someone he could rely on. Someone who cared. What was he doing messing around with demons who only wanted to use him and enslave him? He’d found a community, found a boyfriend, maybe even found true love, and here he was endangering it all just for the sake of physical pleasure.
Richard put the phone back on the cradle and sat down on the couch, rubbing his weary eyes. The temptation he felt wasn’t just for the physical. Like it or not th
e demons gave him something that humans couldn’t give. It was a dominance, and a sense of the forbidden. Why was that so compelling for him?
It reminded him of a joke his friends Adam and Steve had made when they first met him. They said he had Catholic Schoolgirl Syndrome. They’d explained that since Catholic girls are told that committing even the smallest sin meant they would go to hell, if they then committed that first little sin, they figured they might as well do anything they wanted, and so they went crazy.
He didn’t know much about Catholicism, his hometown in Missouri didn’t have any Catholics, but it made sense. He’d been raised to think that doing anything physical with another man made you a homo and irredeemable for all time. So he had come to New York City, made out with a guy on the very first day, and then had gone off the deep end. His subconscious had figured that if he was going to be a misfit, an outsider, he might as well do absolutely anything he wanted—drugs, random partners, weird sexual stunts in front of crowds of people.
He wasn’t going to Hell; he was having orgies in it.
Where did all this come from? Why was he tempted by all this stuff in the first place? He knew lots of horny guys, but he doubted any of them would get up to the things he’d been doing, and he’d been doing it since the first week he had come out of the closet. Anton said he was like a bridge, that he had a natural talent to link the two worlds, but why him? Did it make him more susceptible to the allure of the demon realm?
He sat up on the couch, suddenly noticing Georgios was gone.
“Hey Georgios, where are you?”
“Here, faggot.”
The Greek appeared from the kitchen, drinking from a carton of milk that Richard remembered had been left open.
“Stop! Don’t drink that!”
Georgios stared at him. “Why not?”
“Did you drink from that?”
“Most of it, yes. What is the problem?”
By the time Tyrone rang the buzzer to Richard’s apartment, Georgios was tripping hard. He lay on the sofa waving his hands in the air like he was swimming, his glazed eyes looking at something only he could see.
Richard ignored him for the moment and hurried to the door. His eagerness to see his boyfriend didn’t make him forget caution though. He peeked through the view hole to make sure it was him.