The Color of Gothic

by Joel Q. Aaron

  Blair wiggled to a spot where he could see out the door. He counted four men, but not Pruitt.

  “Sánd?” András Kovách hollered. “Sánd?”

  Blair almost answered. The idea of keeping quiet might give him an edge if they thought he was dead or wounded. But if they positioned themselves at the windows and door, he’d be caught in a deadly crossfire. Varga’s ax. The force of the blow chopped two floor boards to splinters. He could hack his way through the floor, but he’d be stuck under the church, like a gopher, with little maneuverability.

  His options faded faster than he could think of them. Running out the front door was suicide. The five windows were. “Five?” The church pew, set on its end, stuck through the glassless frame of the window Mitch had mistakenly left unguarded. The solid pine seat faced Blair. Would they expect that? He maneuvered on his elbows closer to the pew—pistols in his hands.

  The first shots either came from the door or the window diagonally from him. He heaved himself up and fired blindly behind him. Blair jumped on the high end of the pew with enough force the heavy wood piece of furniture moved. The pew acted like a teeter-totter with the windowsill serving as the pivot point. Blair rode the pew until the end hit the dirt. Momentum threw him on the ground. Two men with shotguns moved toward him. A creak and a crack sounded from above. The pew came down with a solid thud, upside down, over him as he curled up in the fetal position to brace for the collision.

  Shotgun blasts pelted the backside of the pew. The distinct click of empty chambers set Blair in motion—he rolled out and popped up. One man dropped his shotgun and reached for his pistol. The other man spun and ran. Blair fired, killing the first man and wounding the runner.

  A scream came from the other side of the building where Blair assumed the Hungarians were waiting for him. Pruitt sprinted from the front of the church toward the Maroon Saloon. Blair, swapping cylinders, reloaded.

  * * *

  Professor Frederick Worthington knelt down next to Mary Collins, who held her bleeding son.

  “Here, take the lantern.” Worthington handed the only light in the dirt room to Susanne Richmond.

  “Let me see the bite.”

  Mary lifted the bandage she had torn from her dress. The shallow bite was on the left side of Duane’s neck, and was more of a tear then a puncture. As far as wounds, this was survivable if infection didn’t set it. But his wasn’t an ordinary injury.

  In a weak voice Duane pleaded, “Kill me before I change. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt my mom.”

  Mary’s crying grew to an all-out sobbing.

  Even in the dim light, the boy’s skin was pale and eyes bloodshot. The boy’s veins appeared as blue rivers on a map, pulsing with every rapid beat of his heart.

  This was it, the moment for which Worthington had searched the world. The dark stories of demonic possession now came to life in front of his eyes. He sensed the manifestation of Heaven-birthed power distorted by sin growing in the boy.

  The professor’s despair from years of struggle and missed opportunities evaporated as the evil seeped into the soul lying before him.

  Duane’s skin lost more color as his veins became a dark shade of purple. His muscles contracted and swelled, causing him to writhe like worms in a can.

  “Professor?” Susanne moved the lantern to his face.

  “Shhh.” He put a finger to his lips.

  Worthington reached down and put a palm over Duane’s heart. It raced, pumping fear and the unmistakable presence of evil through his body. The professor’s lips curved up on his face as his amazement transformed to joy.

  * * *

  Jeremiah Pruitt dashed from the street into the Maroon Saloon. Jonathan Blair followed his prey, his bounty, his kill. He ran to the front of the church, paused and peered around the corner. The man he wounded squirmed in the grip of a demon. András Kovách and his nephew Péter attacked the creature with axes, as if they chopped at a walking tree. They knocked both men down. János Kovách lay on the ground next to the church, bleeding from the neck.

  One got him.

  Blair checked the street for other survivors and the possessed, then headed for the Maroon. He crept along the outside wall and took a quick look through a window. Shadowy figures danced through the saloon to the beat of the shifting fire across the street.

  He peeked again and searched for Pruitt. Nothing moved but the shadows between the tables and bar, or on the stairs. Blair crept through the door then hustled behind the piano in the corner.

  He held his breath and listened. Silence. Only the sounds from outside entered his consciousness—the crackling blaze, screams and gunfire.

  Pruitt either hid behind the bar, in the poker room, or upstairs. If he moved toward the wrong guess, Pruitt would have the upper hand. He pieced it together logically, putting Pruitt’s state of mind into his choice for a safe spot. He decided against the second floor because of the lack of time to make it upstairs. The bar or poker room?

  Blair took three strides toward the bar before Pruitt opened fire from the second floor. He returned fire. Blair took a bullet in the shoulder, which spun him around. He lost his footing and tripped, crashing onto a chair. The snapped ribs sent pain through his chest and back. He dropped a pistol and grabbed his left side. Pruitt continued to shoot. Blair used the table to steady himself. The gunfire paused momentarily. One blast came striking Blair’s hand, knocking his pistol to the floor. Blair clenched his fist against the sting.

  A chair, from the dark, struck him in the head. Hurried footsteps came for him. Another blow to the head sent Blair to the floor. He leveraged his elbows to crawl toward the bar. A boot to his broken ribs nearly caused him to pass out from pain.

  * * *

  Professor Worthington embraced Duane’s possession transformation as if gawking upon a beautiful woman undressing for the first time—anticipation growing with each new revelation of soft skin. But under the church, the skin of his desire became pasty and cold. Sulfur overpowered the smell of moist dirt. All of his studies never prepared him for the experience he was having now. Worthington’s spirit cried out against his passive actions, but he could not force himself to turn away from the supernatural manifestation.

  “Professor, what are you doing?” Susanne asked.

  “Quiet. A few more moments.” Yearning for proof overtook his humanity. The boy no longer mattered.

  “Kill him before it’s too late,” Bruce said.

  “No,” Mary said.

  “Kill him. We have no choice.” Bruce set himself between his family and the demon. “Get out of my way. I’ll do it.”

  Mary covered her face and cried.

  Susanne grabbed the professor’s shoulder and shook him. “Professor. What are you doing?”

  The nucleus of the lantern’s light burned Worthington’s eyes. He blinked. Mary’s crying pierced his ears. Terror masked the faces of the family.

  “Dear God, what have I done?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Last the Night

  Jeremiah Pruitt seized Blair by the back of the shirt and dragged him over to the bar and quickly retreated.

  Blair could see the fear in his eyes.

  “What are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re just like Stone. What are you?”

  That accusation hit Blair like the kick he took in the ribs. I’m not evil. Or am I? I’ve killed ruthlessly. Faces of his victims went through his mind.

  “Why does Stone want you dead?” He clicked the hammer nervously.

  Blair spoke without thinking. “Because I know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “That he is the cause of all this destruction. This feast of demonic anarchy.”

  “How can I kill him?”

  “Just like me—with a bullet in the brain.”

  “I’ve already done that. It didn’t work.”

  Blair snickered. A mistake. The pain shot through his back, causing him t
o tighten up and stop breathing.

  “I killed you. I know I killed you.”

  “You missed,” Blair said between his teeth.

  “No, I didn’t. I felt your heart stop. You were dead, Preacher Man.”

  “Then how can I be here? Or have been part of the Johnson Gang?” Blair cringed with agony.

  “The same way Stone took two bullets today and walked away. The same way you returned from the dead after getting gunned down in the street.” Pruitt swayed back and forth. His underarm sweat stains grew, showing his nervousness. He wiped his face. “I killed you, Preacher, and then that old man took your body inside.”

  “What old man?” He didn’t want to admit the truth. He fought the pain and filled his lungs. Tears ran down his face. “What old man?” he screamed.

  * * *

  Duane moaned on the floor of the church cellar.

  Worthington wiped the tears from his face. He beat back his selfishness. “Please forgive me.” He held out his hand to Jones. “Pastor, we must hurry.”

  “And do what?” he asked.

  “The fear has already entered this boy. Fear from the subtle lies of the enemy. Fear that has let the evil in.”

  “We’re too late.”

  Was the pastor correct? Worthington didn’t want to admit his hesitation could cause Duane’s death. The boy’s strength would grow as the demon took control. Worthington said a silent prayer.

  “No. Stop listening to the lies. Listen to your spirit, Pastor. It is struggling to guide you. Let it.” Worthington moved back to Duane and rewrapped his neck. “We can save him, but we are running out of time.”

  “Duane, listen to me.” He held the boy’s hand. “Duane.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Fight it. Don’t let the evil overtake you. We can defeat it.”

  Duane yelled. Worthington covered his mouth to prevent the sound from traveling through the floor.

  “Mary.” The professor put his hands under Duane. “I want to move him.” He repositioned the boy. “Sit there, quickly.” He pointed; she adjusted. He laid Duane’s head in her lap.

  “Susanne, please move over here and put your hands on his stomach. He will struggle.” He put his fingers up to Mary’s cheek. “I need you to be strong for him. We can save him.” She nodded as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Bruce. Sarah. Will you help us?”

  The couple whispered back and forth. “Yes,” Bruce said.

  “Will you allow your children to help also? Their purity and untarnished faith will give us power.”

  Sarah shook her head. Bruce whispered to her. Rebecca crawled forward.

  “Wait.” Her mom sounded scared.

  “I can help him, Mommy. I know I can.”

  Bruce’s wide eyes transformed into a wide grin. “Yes, you can, precious.”

  Worthington smiled at her. Rebecca maneuvered next to the prostitute, who patted her on her small knee.

  “Bruce, will you hold down Duane’s shoulders?”

  He nodded and crawled over. “Matthew, come sit next to mom, okay?”

  The young boy was cautious. Sarah reassured him.

  Worthington took in a slow deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “All right.” He went from person to person looking each in the eyes. “I must ask you not to be afraid. Rely on God’s grace to get us through. Duane, you must fight this evil. Everyone pray.”

  “What do we pray for?” Rebecca asked.

  “Pray for God to save him.”

  “I can do that.”

  Worthington nodded. “I only ask that you pray out loud. But not loud enough for others to hear.” He gestured up to the church floor. “Please, begin.”

  The group whispered separate pleas to Heaven. Their disharmonized voices filled the atmosphere with hope, encouraging Worthington.

  Gunfire came from above, halting their prayers. Eyes shifted to the subflooring above them, even though they could not see the activity in the church.

  “Don’t be distracted by what is happening in the church. That is a diversion from what God is doing here.”

  Bruce closed his eyes, laid his hands on Duane and spoke softly. “Dear God, deliver this boy from evil.” The others repeated his words in unison, “Dear God, deliver this boy from evil.”

  Another round of gunfire echoed into the dirt cellar, but the group maintained their cadence, repeating Bruce’s prayers. “Deliver him from Satan.”

  “Deliver him from Satan.”

  Then Rebecca spoke before her father. “Bring your glory.”

  “Bring your glory,” they repeated with a confidence that brought hope to Worthington.

  Rebecca continued to lead them, phrase by phrase, prayer by prayer.

  “Pastor Jones, it’s time.” Worthington put his hand on his shoulder. “We can do this.”

  “How do you want me to pray?”

  “I don’t.”

  The lantern light enhanced the wrinkles in Jones’ furrowed brow.

  “It is not time for us to make requests. They are lifting their voices to comfort and strengthen Duane’s spirit and to change the spiritual atmosphere. There is a time for prayer, and a time to use your God-given authority. This situation calls for the latter. Can you do this?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  Jones closed his eyes and took several breaths. When he opened them, his face refreshed, demeanor strong. “I can.”

  “Let us face this demon.”

  * * *

  Excitement and relief rushed through Jeremiah Pruitt as his former partner writhed on the floor of the Maroon Saloon. His boots slid two steps backward. “The old man helping at your house. He took you inside.”

  “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch, angel or not.” Blair struggled to sitting position and leaned against the front of the bar. More tears flowed—Pruitt assumed from the agony he was in.

  “What did you say?”

  “He didn’t save my kids. My wife. He saved me. He didn’t save them. He’s gonna suffer. He’s gonna wish he never left Heaven.”

  Blair neglected his wounds and stood up. The bounty hunter wasn’t coming for him. Blair totally ignored Pruitt, like he wasn’t even there. That scared Pruitt.

  “Tab first. Then Stone. I’ll hunt them down or give my life trying. He didn’t save them. He saved me. I’m not worth saving. I’ll go straight to hell to find him. If he thought that was going to be an awful eternal life, now he will have to deal with me.” He slammed his fist on the bar. “Forever.”

  Crazy people in the hospital talked about unseen things. Voices. Places they’d never been. Even as a boy, he wasn’t bothered by his insane companions. This was different. He’d known Blair. He wasn’t crazy. Was his talk of angels and hell real? Pruitt’s hands shook. Blair brought more fear to his soul than Stone did. But he could see Blair’s body did not heal like Stone’s flesh. He could kill Blair. Cut off his head like the Hungarians would do and be rid of him. Stone would like that. Stone would reward that.

  With effort, Blair steadied his feet with the help of the bar. Pruitt lifted his pistol, cocked the hammer back and squeezed the trigger. To his surprise the gun clicked empty. He miscounted. Blair didn’t react.

  He’s gone crazy.

  Pruitt reached for the nickel-plated pistol given to him earlier in the day. He finally had Blair. The victory seemed tainted because Blair was losing his mind right in front of him. Pruitt had taken him out. If he had the time, he could make Blair’s death come slowly, painfully. But he needed to kill him quickly and get to safety—Stone’s promise of safety. He could relish the fact that he was the man who killed Jonathan Blair.

  Pruitt raised the pistol, much lighter compared to his .44. He cocked his head and aimed at Blair’s heart. “Good-bye.” He squeezed the trigger. The blast rocked him back. The pain hesitated. Pruitt held onto his right wrist and lifted his hand, what remained of it, up to his face. The gun exploded, taking his fingers with it.
Half of the palm and his curved thumb were all that were left. The pain erupted. He clinched his jaw in anguish. His pulse pumped blood in rhythmic squirts. He screamed. Every heartbeat sent excruciating pain through his arm.

  Pruitt tore his shirt sleeve and wrapped his mangled limb with it. He whipped off his belt and wrapped it as a tourniquet for his arm.

  Blair leaned against the bar, holding himself up with one hand, the other held his ribs. “I’m gonna kill him,” he kept repeating.

  Pruitt searched for one of Blair’s pistols. They’d still had live rounds if Blair was the gunman he thought he was. He wasn’t about to try to reload his with one hand. That would take too long left-handed. He found a .45 under a table.

  Blair was waiting. “You started it.” The bounty hunter fired his new pistol from the mercantile into Pruitt’s chest. The first two shots knocked him down. Blair stood over him until the cylinder spun around clicking empty.

  Blair took two wobbly steps toward the door before he landed on the floor unconscious.

  * * *

  In the cellar the professor and the pastor each moved to a side of Duane’s body, at the shoulder, and laid their hands on his chest.

  “Ready?” Worthington asked.

  Jones nodded.

  “By the authority of God, the Christ, we command you to leave this child,” Worthington began.

  Jones repeated.

  “Leave me alone.” The demonic voice came from Duane’s lips.

  Mary screamed and put her hands over her face.

  “I command you to be quiet,” Jones said.

  The demon laughed. “I don’t know you. You are nothing to fear. Be gone, or you’ll be running home naked.”

  “You know me.” Worthington leaned on Duane’s chest. “Not because of who I am, but because of whom I represent.”

  The demon struggled to move away from the professor.

  “Hold him down,” Jones said.

  “Keep praying,” Worthington ordered. “You can stay in this boy and face me, or you can leave to the abyss in which you belong.”