Brethren

by Shawn Ryan

  "I've fucked up now," he said out loud.

  "You certainly have," a guttural voice said in front of him. The lamp clicked on and Webster shit in his pants.

  "Good evening," said the creature sitting on the couch. "I was waiting here for a woman named Alex, but you'll do for now."

  The beast looked at the blood covering Webster's hands and licked its lips. Webster thought he had never seen so many teeth.

  "I'm hurting again," the beast said. "This world of yours is an uncomfortable place for me. But guess what? You can help."

  It reached out and grabbed Webster by the collar of his jacket, yanking him into the air. Putting one hand on Webster's chest, the beast lifted him to the ceiling. Webster made no move to escape.

  "Thank you for your assistance," the beast said.

  Webster saw the thing open its right hand. Double-edged fingernails glinted in the light.

  Damn, those look sharp, he thought.

  The hand whipped across his neck and the little man thought no more.

  Chapter 37

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  Quintard sat in the car, fidgeting. Webster had been gone for almost half an hour. What the fuck was taking him so long?

  He debated whether to see what had happened, but common sense told him to stay where he was. If Webster has fucked up, don't get yourself caught in the shitstorm.

  But if Medlocke was home and caught Webster, there would be police cars coming in, lights flashing. Medlocke would call his buddies to take care of what he would think was a common burglar. Unless Webster was spilling his guts, a distinct possibility.

  Quintard slugged back several more shots of bourbon. Powered by the alcohol, his curiosity got the best of him. He opened the car door and stepped out.

  Cautiously he made his way across the parking lot, down the sidewalk, and around the end of the apartment building. He looked up at the windows he figured were Medlocke's. No lights were on. Walking around to the back of the building, he looked at the windows back there. Still no lights.

  He made his way back to the front of the building, blowing on his hands. Damn, it's getting cold, he thought. Unsteadily climbing the stairs, he snuck quietly to Medlocke's door. It was open just a crack. No light squeezed through.

  Was Webster inside? Quintard wondered. Was he alone? Or was Medlocke in there, questioning him? He leaned forward, but heard no voices.

  Taking a chance, Quintard whispered: "Webster?"

  "C'mon in," he heard Webster say. "There's no one here."

  There was something strange about Webster's voice, something a bit creepy, and Quintard hesitated.

  "C'mon in," the voice said again. "Everything's okay."

  Quintard gently pushed the door, which swung open easily. Motherfucker! It's colder in there than out here, he thought. Light coming in from the lamps in the outside hallway washed across the room and he saw Webster sitting on the couch, his arms casually spread out along the back as if he were waiting for someone.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Quintard whispered angrily as he stepped into the apartment. "I told you to get in and out quickly."

  Webster didn't answer. He just sat there with a blank look on his face. His attitude enraged Quintard even further.

  "Goddammit," he said a bit louder. "I asked you…"

  The light fell on the gaping wound in Webster's neck and his glassy, sightless eyes. Quintard felt his bladder begin to loosen and he turned to run out the door. Before he had taken a step, the door slammed shut.

  "Don't leave yet; the party's just begun," a raspy voice said.

  The light over the dining room table sprang to life and Quintard knew his life wasn't worth shit.

  "I keep waiting for Medlocke or that woman of his to come in that door, but I keep being surprised," Moloch said, sitting in one of the dining room chairs. "First this tiny man, and now you. I'm curious. Why so much traffic through this apartment?"

  Quintard couldn't speak. His tongue was bone dry and clung to the roof of his mouth.

  "If you don't answer me, I'm going to be forced to do the same to you that I did to him," Moloch said, pointing at Webster.

  His stomach churning with liquor and terror, Quintard caught something out of the corner of his left eye and glanced down. A white-haired man lay faceup on the carpet, breathing shallowly. Quintard noticed the man's throat was intact, except for some nasty scratch marks along the sides. His jaw, though, was almost black and the size of a cantaloupe. From the pasty pallor of the man's skin, Quintard could tell he was in bad shape.

  Turning his attention back to Moloch, Quintard spotted a dark spot on the wall to his right. He looked and saw a huge splatter mark with a thick, black trail running down to the floor. At the bottom, where the wall met the carpet, a large pile of bluish-gray matter sat in a pool of rapidly drying blood.

  Quintard vomited.

  "Since you are here, I assume you know Jason Medlocke?" Moloch asked.

  Quintard nodded slightly while wiping his mouth.

  "Fine. Well, that man on the floor is Medlocke's father. He and I have been friends for years, although our relationship appears to be over at this point. The mess on the wall is the remains of a partner of mine I sent to visit Stephen. He apparently didn't enjoy her company."

  Moloch looked at Stephen and shook its head.

  "The old man surprised me. He had more resilience and strength than I realized. It seems to be a trait all humans have."

  Then it shrugged.

  "But back to the task at hand. I asked you a question. What are you doing here? What is he doing here?" it said, pointing again at Webster.

  Despite the terror trying to erase any rational thoughts, Quintard's mind began racing. There was no time to figure out what this beast was or why it was here. What he had to decide was how to save his own life. From what the beast said, there was no love lost between it and the Medlockes. Perhaps he could capitalize on that.

  "I… I was here to get Medlocke," Quintard stammered. "The bastard has ruined my life, made a mockery of me, and I wanted revenge."

  "Ah, revenge. I can sympathize with that. How did you plan to accomplish this?"

  Quintard ran down his plan, telling Moloch about the cocaine and how he intended to set Jason up, get him busted for drugs. He had to explain what drugs were and why it would cause Jason embarrassment to be caught with them, but Moloch soon understood.

  "So you didn't plan to kill him, just shame him?" Moloch asked.

  "Yes, but also to possibly send him to prison, which would ruin his life forever," Quintard said.

  "Would you like to see Medlocke dead?" Moloch queried.

  "Yes," Quintard answered without hesitation.

  Moloch laughed, making the hair on Quintard's neck stand on end.

  "Good, very good," Moloch said. "Then you can help me, yes?"

  Quintard nodded.

  "I came here looking for Medlocke's woman," Moloch said. "I wish to… to speak with her. I expected to find her here, but she is not. Do you know where I can find her?"

  "Yes, yes," Quintard said. "I know exactly where she lives. I can take you there in the car."

  "Oh, we have no need for that. Here, take my hand."

  Quintard looked at Moloch's outstretched hand. Dried blood caked the fingers and tiny pieces of flesh hung from the nails. He didn't want to touch it.

  Moloch looked at Quintard, then down at its hand. It smiled.

  "Does the sight of blood alarm you?" it asked. "I can take care of that."

  It stuck its fingers in its mouth and sucked on them for a few seconds. Then it drew them out and gently licked the remaining blood and flesh off with its tongue.

  "There," it said with a satisfied stare. "Clean enough?"

  Quintard nodded shakily.

  "Good, then take my hand."

  Quintard held his breath and reached out. God help my soul, he prayed.

  Chapter 38

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  Alex drove home from Montgomer
y feeling like dogmeat. This particular day, she hadn't been plagued by morning sickness. Instead, she suffered from afternoon sickness. About three she began feeling ill, and for the next two hours or so, food looked disgusting.

  Driving along I-65 from Montgomery to Birmingham, then cutting over on I-20 to Atlanta, she kept her eyes on the road and off the roadside signs advertising McDonald's, Burger King, Hardee's, and the other assorted fast-food restaurants. Just the thought of some greasy hamburger or fries made her stomach do flip-flops. A pack of saltine crackers and a quart mason jar filled with ice water sat on the seat next to her. They were the only things she could keep down.

  But her queasiness also was part of her happiness. She was pregnant with Jason's child. She bad never been more in love. She and Jason weren't married, of course, but that would soon be fixed.

  Yet her happiness had a dark spot, a huge, overwhelming cloud darkening everything in its shadow. Would Jason live long enough to become her husband? To see his child born? This Moloch creature wanted him dead. God, most people only had in-laws that hated their guts. Jason had a merciless, inhuman killer after him. And it threatened her, too.

  When she thought about it—which was several times a day—she couldn't help crying. She cried as much for her unborn baby as for herself and Jason. God, it was so unfair.

  Switching between singing nursery rhymes to the baby in her belly and sobbing woefully, Alex arrived at her apartment about ten in the evening. Exhausted, she took a hot shower and pulled on one of the oxford-cloth shirts Jason had left for her to wear as pajamas. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she called police headquarters, but was told Jason was out. She left a message with the dispatcher.

  Out at ten at night? she wondered. Maybe there was a break in the Mercy Killer case, she thought.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  She shoved that perilous idea from her head.

  Her stomach was feeling normal again and she went to the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich and a glass of milk. The food soothed her and sleepiness crept up behind her and wrapped her in a warm blanket. She lay on the bed and, despite her worries about Jason, fell instantly asleep.

  She woke suddenly several hours later, alert and staring, yet unaware of what had brought her out of such a deep sleep. The covers were pulled up to her chin, leaving only her head exposed, but her whole body was covered in goose bumps. Light from the streetlamp outside colored the room in shades of black, white, and gray, but gave enough light to see. Realizing that she was holding her breath, she let it out in a whoosh. It turned into an icy cloud the moment it left her mouth.

  What on earth was going on?

  "Hello, Alex. So nice to see you again," a voice said from the doorway.

  Alex looked in the direction of the voice, but shadows obscured the door. From out of the blackness, a monstrous hand reached toward the light switch, flicking the overhead light on with a long, double-bladed fingernail.

  "How's the little mother feeling?" Moloch said.

  Chapter 39

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  Jason looked dead.

  Sprawled facedown, he lay limp and unmoving, his shallow breathing barely making his back rise and fall. The right side of his face was pressed to the ground, but he didn't feel the tiny chunks of gravel jabbing into his cheek, gravel that would leave tiny, purplish-red craters when brushed off.

  When he came to, he groggily raised himself. After three hours pressed Bat to the green-painted asphalt, his cheek momentarily stuck, giving him the sensation that he had just ripped his face off a hot waffle iron. A groan squeezed from between his lips.

  He slowly rolled himself onto his right side, using his right elbow as a prop. Blinking the glaze from his eyes, he gazed across the tennis courts. Empty. The cool dawn was coming quickly and a quilt of fog smothered the ground outside the courts. As gray as the haze that clouded Jason's head, the fog lay across the pine-straw-covered red clay beneath the trees, preventing him from seeing what lay at their feet.

  There could be a bulldozer out there and I wouldn't know it, he thought.

  Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead as he propped himself on his right side, trying to get his bearings. His brain fogged by unconsciousness, he forgot the gashes on his left side and the cracked ribs underneath. Their pain deadened by the chill of the night, the wounds hadn't made their presence known.

  Jason did, however, notice the acrid, salty taste in his mouth and tried to spit it out. A glob of blood the size of a quarter splattered onto the court.

  "Shit, where'd that come from?" he said, reaching up with his left hand to wipe his mouth.

  He twisted his arm to reach his mouth. When he did, the semi-hard scab that covered the gash on his forearm tore loose, sending a gush of blood running toward his elbow and a bolt of pain ricocheting off his fingertips. He howled, instinctively clamping his right hand across his left forearm and the bone-deep wound. As red, purple, and yellow explosions erupted behind his eyelids, he collapsed backward, hitting the ground with a jarring thud. The broken ribs shifted, grating their ragged tips against each other. Nausea crashed over him, a gust of agony blowing away the clouds in his mind.

  "Oh Jesus. Oh God," he moaned, his stomach wrenching into a fist. He wanted to roll back and forth across the pavement, but even in its jumbled state, his brain knew better. Stay still, it told him. Take the pain.

  When the torment subsided several minutes later, cold sweat dotted Jason's forehead and his stomach wanted to puke. But his mind was crystal clear.

  Everything that had happened the night before came back in a horrible rush. The skin on his arms prickled with goose bumps and an electric tingle ripped along his scalp. Benton. Dad. Moloch. Badger.

  "Badger," he whispered.

  Fighting the urge to leap up and scream Badger's name, Jason stood slowly, battling the sparks that burst in front of his eyes. Trying to stay calm, he headed for the gate. In the fifteen faltering steps it took to reach it, he formulated a simple plan: work his way around the perimeter of the court in increasingly wide circles, then head into the woods. If he didn't find anything in thirty minutes, he was getting on the radio and bellowing for help.

  He couldn't do that just yet. He wasn't sure what he'd find.

  The blood trail started two feet beyond the gate, originating in a foot-wide pool of blood on the parking lot A red stream led into the pines. In any other case, Jason's detective instincts would have kicked in, leaving his feelings behind in favor of cold, emotionless analysis. This time his heart jackhammered and his thoughts were a merry-go-round.

  Standing at the edge of the pines, he peered through the fog swirling around his knees and sending cool chills up his pants legs. He saw the blood stretch away in a line that was arrow straight, as if it had been poured from a can. He followed the crimson trail into the trees. The woods were silent.

  He found Badger's Atlanta Braves baseball cap about fifty feet into the woods, the dark blue fabric stained even darker in spots. Jason's stomach flip-flopped, but he moved on.

  He found Badger one hundred feet farther on, leaning against an ancient, gnarled oak tree. Jason's legs crumpled and he sank to his knees with a choked groan.

  Badger's hands drooped at his sides and his head cocked to the left, like an understuffed clown doll's. His neck was slit from earlobe to earlobe. The skin around the wound was stretched apart, exposing the ruins of his throat.

  He never even got the chance to put up a fight, Jason thought.

  In the center of Badger's chest, where his jacket was unzipped, was a large, ragged hole in his blue cotton shirt The material was crimped around the hole and there were deep gashes in the flesh of his chest. As if he had been lifted up by the shirt, Jason noted.

  Until that moment, Jason had avoided looking at Badger's face. He didn't want to see it; didn't want to look into the dead face of his once-living friend; didn't want to accept the ultimate finality of the situation. He slowly raised his eyes.

  If his
broken ribs hadn't prevented him, he would have vomited.

  There was a smile on Badger's face, a huge, comical grin. It was as if someone had waited until his skin began to cool and become putty-like, then taken their fingers and pulled the corners of his mouth upward.

  It wasn't natural. It was a sick, evil joke. Jason knew it was meant for him.

  Jason sat slumped on the ground for almost five minutes. In the deeper recesses of his mind, he knew he was close to going into shock, but his body felt leaden and his head hung down, as if an oaken yoke rested upon it. He couldn't look at Badger. He wanted to cry but no tears would come.

  What will happen to Badger's kids? he thought. Who will take care of them? Who will take care of me? Who will be my best friend? Who will I turn to when I need someone to talk to, to laugh with?

  Then, slowly, bottomless anger began to replace the sadness and anguish. Jason saw Moloch's face appear over Badger's head, ethereally floating in front of the tree his friend leaned on. A wicked smile sat on the creature's lips.

  Jason's body burned with a feverish tingle. All he saw was Moloch's face being smashed into oblivion. A great pounding shook the woods as the fist of Jason's mind unleashed its justice. But the face was only imagination and the anger was directed into the oak tree. Slivers and splinters of wood flew in every direction as Jason's anger wore itself out. When it was spent, sap welled up in the wounded, virgin wood. Jason felt no better.

  He suddenly thought of something else. Where's Benton's body?

  He rose and looked around the area. About ten feet to his right the saplings were smashed flat and spots of blood flecked the weeds and tree branches. Walking over, he found Benton's crumpled body lying facedown.

  Jason shook his head. One more dead because of me.

  He emerged from the woods ten minutes later, his eyes dull and glassy. He had carried Badger to the edge of the trees and gently laid him out of sight. He left Benton where he was, figuring he'd worry about him later. There was a good chance no one would find him, at least for a few hours. And Benton's car probably wouldn't cause much concern. Everyone would figure some kid left it there because it wouldn't start.