The Devil's Due

by TJ Vargo

  Walking out onto the front porch he lifted the buckle up in the light and looked it over. This would remind him. He'd never hurt someone like he'd been hurt, no matter what. He'd never hate anyone, if he could help it. If he ever did, he knew he might not be able to stop hating. That would be when he'd get violent, like his father. It would be better to never start.

  He looked out from the porch, listening to the quiet laying thick over this cold night. So this was it - running from a man that haunted his dreams with nothing but a belt buckle to ward off evil. And that man had to be real. No way would the old man have talked about him, admitted how the man in black knew he screwed the livestock. There was a strange gaggy feeling in his throat. He swallowed it down and rolled his eyes, kicking at the wooden slats underfoot. The old man had done the dirty with horses or goats or who the hell knew what. One sick, crazy bastard. Not much luck in being a son to that kind of sicko. Nope, not at all.

  He slipped the buckle into his pocket. Yeah, that about summed it up, that and the two people that were dead and cold back in the barn. Somehow (how could this be possible?) Jackson had the intuition that his luck was about to make a turn for the worse. It was there, hanging on him like a wet sheepskin, heavy and stifling. Smothering him. Something even worse than bad, waiting for him to stop for a long enough time to wrap him up completely and keep him. He got a sudden chill and jumped off the porch and ran into the dark, a cold spot surfacing between his shoulder blades where he imagined the dead bodies of Tina and his old man were watching him from the window of the barn. They were part of it too, right now shuffling down the ladder, trying to get to him. Hold him down. Keep him in one place until whatever it was that was after him caught up to him. Hours later he couldn't even remember getting onto his motorcycle. The only thing he could hold onto was a panicked urge to get as far away as possible. Just trying to keep moving baby, the feel of a heavy hand on his shoulder the whole time.

  Chapter Three

  Leaves crunched underfoot as Nathaniel Thorne walked on the roadside into the town of Bethel. He was a giant of a man at six and a half feet with the intense eyes of a ferret - never blinking and hard as polished black stones. His black hair curled over his collar and his beard hung long. Wearing a black outfit, with long pants, a long black coat, and a wide-brimmed hat, his darkness was complete. He was not like people from Bethel. Not like people anywhere, really. He kicked a stone, watching it roll and jump down the deserted street. Smiled as he walked. People didn't walk much anymore. They used to walk everywhere. It was either that or ride a horse. Didn't see much of people riding horses either these days. He caught up to the stone with his long-legged stride and kicked it again, grinning. People were too soft these days.

  His eyes followed the progress of the stone, watching it hop from the roadtop down a grassy slope filled with empty beer cans and plastic soda bottles. The stone came to rest next to a green plastic bottle with a sun-bleached Mountain Dew label. His eyes pierced the night's darkness to find that stone. Can't roll away from me little stone, he thought. You're mine now, just like the young man Jackson Lewis.

  He walked down the road and bent down to pick up the stone. Finding Jackson had been hard. Twenty-one years of hard. Now came the easy part of bringing him back into the fold. He chuckled to himself and closed his hand over the stone he'd picked up, continuing down the road. After all this time, having followed up on so many rumors, the fact that this boy was the one gave him a heady feeling. He'd found the boy all because the old man had started telling stories about his wife dying in childbirth and a child being left on his doorstep. Stories that made their way to his followers. It took a visit to the old man to fill in the blanks. His chest hummed with a deep chuckle. Ahh, Carmen. You thought you'd hide your children in plain sight. But I have one now. And he will lead to the other. The one I want most. He opened his hand. The stone was gone.

  The light of a gas station sign, the only light still on in the small town, laid a circle of light up ahead. Was there time to stop in for a visit? Of course. What was a few short minutes in comparison to the years he'd already waited? He stroked his beard as he walked toward the gas station's small convenience store.

  It was warm inside. The flickering fluorescent lights filled the air with a buzz. He walked up to the counter. Behind it was the lone attendant.

  "Can I help you with something buddy?"

  He looked over the man across the counter from him. A man with long hair, a beard and scuffed leather pants and boots. He could've been from another time. A time Nathaniel remembered well. Pointing to a jacket hanging on a chair, Nathaniel asked, "Is that yours?"

  "Yeah. Those are my colors." The man looked him over, folding a girlie magazine in his lap, leaning back in his chair. "You know - bikers' colors - I wear them when I ride. You're kind of a wild looking guy. You lose your horse and buggy or something?"

  "What do you ride?" asked Nathaniel. Reaching across the counter, he grabbed the man's jean jacket off the chair. The arms were ripped off and it was soiled with blood and grease, but he liked the death's head staring out from its back.

  "Hey, you crazy!"

  The man behind the counter stood up from his seat and moved toward the counter. He was big. For the first time, Nathaniel saw just how big. As tall as Nathaniel. Probably a bit heavier. As the man reached across the counter, lunging for his coat, Nathaniel could smell the beer on his breath. With a simple shove, Nathaniel completely stopped the man's momentum and knocked him back a couple steps. The alcohol smell, the long hair and beard, his coat with a death's head grinning... this was a man living beyond his day. He should've lived centuries ago, not in this day of computers and technology, the small gods of today's men.

  "Give me my God damn colors!"

  Nathaniel felt amused. The man was angry, but stayed a step or two back from the counter, not certain of himself after feeling a touch of Nathaniel's strength. But he didn't look away when Nathaniel met his stare. Licked his lips. Rocked back and forth on his feet. Looked nervous as hell. But he did not break his stare. Impressed, Nathaniel tried to hand the coat to him across the counter separating them.

  The man licked his lips again and swallowed, his hands clenching and unclenching. He kept his eyes fixed on Nathaniel. "Just put it on the counter. I don't want no trouble."

  Very good. A man with brains. Nathaniel shook his head, laughing. He dropped the coat on the counter, his laughter soft and fading, and traced a finger over the colorful flames that blazed red and orange from the eyes of the grinning skull emblem. "You remind me of people that followed me, before men stopped believing. For that memory, I'll let you live."

  The big guy grabbed at his coat, snatching it off the counter. He took a step back, his hand pawing at the displays behind him while his eyes stayed put on Nathaniel. He held his filthy blue jean coat against his chest like a totem to ward off evil and grabbed a Swiss Army knife from a display that read, "Swiss Army Knives - for the outdoorsman and today's man." Holding it with one hand, he still was able to pop the single gleaming blade open with a practiced downward jerk. His hand was steady and his eyes became smaller, more focused. He flipped the knife, catching the handle in his hand, and thrust the blade toward Nathaniel. "You better go now friend. Before I tickle your beard with this."

  "Good, good - this is even better - you don't disappoint me. Did you ever hear of the Maggiars?" Now Nathaniel's interest was up. His eyes tightened into chips of black ice. "That's who you remind me of. A Maggiar horseman. You remind me of one of them very much." Nathaniel leaned toward the man, placing his hands on the counter. The blade of the knife stabbed toward Nathaniel's chest and then slashed by his face. Nathaniel loved it. This one was being smart, bluffing to see if he could back off his opponent without having to draw blood. Nathaniel didn't even blink. This man had the courage of an earlier time. It made Nathaniel's heart stagger with joy to be engaged with such a warrior. Not many like this man existed any more. He stared past the tip of the knife being wav
ed at him into the man's eyes.

  "The Maggiar were horsemen. Barbarians. Like wild Indians, only they were wild white men. Many of them looked and acted like you." He took his hands off the counter, using them to demonstrate. "They had your long hair," his hands moved over his head, past his shoulders, "your beard," his hand moved under his chin, "your love of death," he gestured toward the jean jacket with the grinning deaths head. "They didn't fear. Like you. They almost conquered Rome. But they attacked blindly when they should've been content with what they'd already gained." Nathaniel's smile disappeared. He became still, staring with dead eyes. "They suffered horribly and were killed down to the last man because they had no fear when they should have. They almost beat down the walls of Rome and plunged the world into darkness, my darkness, but instead they let me down." He sighed, a low light burning in his eyes. "I had to watch from the battlements of the city while every one of the survivors was crucified, their legs broken while they hung on their crosses, gnashing their teeth at the ravens that pecked their eyes."

  The man's knife hand began to shake. He'd seen his share of trouble, but this man, the one staring through him with a hunger he'd never seen, this man made something deep inside cringe and want to hide. The girlie magazine he had been reading fell to the floor from the chair behind him, startling him. Sweat broke out on his face. He focused his attention on Nathaniel's hand. It was pointing at him. Then it opened, held out toward him.

  "But there is always another chance. The world always gives me and those that follow me another chance. Come with me. I'll teach you." Nathaniel took a step forward, reaching his hand over the counter.

  The man struck with sudden speed, the knife blade glinting. It buried into and through the palm of Nathaniel's hand. Then there was only the sound of the man's heavy breathing as he backed up as far as he could, knocking some candy displays and racks of nudie magazines onto the floor. He dropped his coat to the floor and held his hands defensively in front of him, looking at the knife stuck through Nathaniel's hand - the hand that was still held out toward him. And Nathaniel grinned, making the man fluster.

  "I don't want no trouble. I don't want no trouble, hear me? But if you come over that counter, I'll kill you. Swear to God."

  Nathaniel vaulted over the counter. He laughed and pulled the knife from his hand, dropping it to the floor, his hand bleeding, but his face showing no pain. He bent over to pick up the man's coat from the floor and admired the man's black leather boots for a moment before straightening up. "I like your jacket and your boots," Nathaniel said, calmly looking at the man. "If you won't accept my invitation to come with me, I'll have to at least take your jacket and your boots. I want something to remember you by. I'm sure you won't mind."

  Nodding, the man pressed back against the candy and cigarette rack behind him, unable to move. Not more than a step away the tall man dressed in black looked at him. The man licked his lips, unable to look away from the tall man's gaze, a bead of sweat moving down his back between his shoulder blades. Although he'd heard the tall man's voice, he would've sworn his mouth hadn't moved. Not one bit.

  Outside in the darkness, Nathaniel's footsteps echoed loudly on the parking lot. He was heading back down the road, listening to the sound his new boots made. He'd listen to them all the way to Jackson. Click, clock, click, clock... Entering the light of the gas station's sign, the death's head on the jacket he wore looked back toward the gas station's convenience store where a man watched from inside.

  The man kept blinking, rubbing his eyes. He could see, but his eyes burned like fire. Looking into the man's face had done that. It had been like staring down a black whirlpool that sucked and swirled. The tall man's face had been a palpable thing, tugging at him, pulling at his staring eyes until they felt as if they would pop from his eye sockets. That man wanted him, but had let him go. Thank God. He let him go. Thinking about it made him cry. He rubbed his eyes harder... and harder... and harder... wondering what happened to his feet where the man had touched him. His feet were cold. So cold.

  Chapter Four

  Jackson woke from a restless sleep and held completely still, listening to the nearby stream. He stared at the gray clouds drifting in the morning sky. It had been a hard night for sleep, the cold making it uncomfortable and his mind working frantically. He was thankful it was over, even if he was exhausted. Unfortunately, there would be another night, and another, and another... Two dead bodies would inhabit the dreams of those nights. At the very least, he thought, last night had taught him something. His father, son of a bitch that he was, would never have made up that story of a man in black wearing a hat. He was a crazy, mean drunk, but he wasn't a liar. Jackson felt his heart skip a beat. His old man had taught him something last night - that the man in black, the one in his dreams - he was real.

  He bolted upright to a sitting position and took a shaky breath. Calm down. Just get up and get moving. Slipping out of his sleeping bag, he looked around at the forest where he had stopped to sleep on his way out of town. Between the sounds of an occasional birdsong and the intermittent rustle of leaves from running squirrels, it was quiet. He walked to a nearby stream and kneeled, dipping his hands in the water. His breath caught in his throat, the cold running up his arms and seizing his chest. He coughed, got his heart going again, and scrubbed his hands with the sand and grit from the bottom of the stream. They glowed red as he pulled them out of the water.

  An image flashed in his mind. His hands dripped, droplets pattering on the dry leaves of the forest floor. His dream last night. How had he forgotten? It was her. The little girl he had dreamed of when he was only a boy. She had come again, last night, in his dreams. But she was grown up now. She had come back to him and the feeling of calm she brought to his dreams was powerful beyond words. He wracked his mind, trying to remember what she had done or said that had comforted him so much. Only a vague blur of her image, her black eyes, her dusky skin, and her long black hair - it was all he could remember. The sound of his hands dripping pulled his thoughts back to the present. He shook them and wiped them on his shirt. He felt an indescribable calm. Almost joy. She had come back to him.

  He sighed and lowered himself to his stomach, hung his head over the stream and splashed water on his face. A shiver ran up his spine and braced him to attention. His mind hardened back to the reality of his situation. On the run. Two dead bodies. And a man dressed all in black. The woman that had visited his dreams last night couldn't help him now. She couldn't erase what was happening to him. He wasn't a kid worried about devils in his dreams anymore. This was real. Two people dead. And the man in black was coming for him. He knew it with every fiber in his body and he dreaded it. He sighed. Damned crazy talk, thinking a man in black was coming for him. And the hell of it was he believed it. Knew it was crazy, but still believed it. Is that what happened to a person going crazy - first knowing they were going that way and then finally being there, being a crazy person? He looked at the water flashing beneath him and tried to clear his mind.

  There’s nothing I can do about it either way. Either I am crazy or I'm not, but I can't help the way I feel. Something's coming for me, and it’s not good.

  Slowly, he pushed up to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. The woods around him were silent. Not much sign of life, but it was there, just waiting to bloom. A couple of crows flew overhead, cawing tiredly at Jackson as he craned his neck skyward, looking up from the expanse of dormant forest. He watched the crows disappear over a ridge. A deep shiver turned his attention back to himself. Wet hair would keep those shivers coming, he thought. Steam rose from his head into the cold air. He shook his long black hair like a dog.

  Raking his fingers through his scalp, he became irritated with himself for wasting time. His brow scrunched together. Move. Get going. Got to get out of Dodge.

  The leaves crunched underfoot as he walked over to his sleeping bag. He bent down, rolling it up and tying it to the back of his motorcycle, cinching it down with a couple of bung
ee cords. Finishing, he hopped onto the motorcycle. Before he could start it, he looked up, trusting a sudden blindside of intuition. It wasn't a completely clear sightline, but he thought he saw movement through the picket fence of half mature trees growing next to the stream. Someone was walking toward him.

  Staying motionless on his motorcycle, Jackson watched the patch of woods. A figure slowly wound its way toward him from the thicket. It was a man. As he got closer, Jackson saw it was a very big man. Whoever he was, he was coming from the direction of the forest's interior. Jackson knew that nothing but state parkland ran for thousands of acres in the direction the man was coming from. Not likely that he was going for a leisurely walk. But that's just what this guy looked like - like he was going for his morning stroll.

  Thoughts rushed through Jackson's mind. He placed his foot over the kickstart on his motorcycle, but held back from starting it, not wanting to appear to be running away. He put his foot back to the ground and watched the man walk closer. By now there was a possibility someone had found the bodies of his father and the waitress, Tina. She, at least, must have someone worried about her. And this man could be part of a search party looking for her. It was no time to appear to be in a hurry. He tried to relax, hoping to just have a short conversation with the stranger and be on his way.