by N. J. Mercer
Johnny followed the trail of crushed undergrowth and broken branches. He caught the whiff of burning flesh, confirming the hard time Baccharus was giving the demon. As he got closer the smell became stronger, and he could hear sizzling blasts of psychic energy along with cries from the creature at their receiving end. Johnny eventually caught up with his familiar in a small clearing; lying on the ground beneath the hovering cherub was a body engulfed in flames. The demon, barely alive, shrieked and rolled about on the forest floor as it burned. Fighting back the heat from the flames, Johnny approached the Disciple and in an act of mercy, swung the hatchet down with all his might, caving in its skull so that it lay still.
Wearily, familiar and keeper retraced their steps through the woods and returned to their companions. Sascha was dragging the bodies of the other slain demons into a pile while Boyd sat in the open side doorway of the motorhome, he was wrapping a blood-soaked bandage tightly around two fingers. Johnny hoped he was not badly injured; in non-psychic warfare Boyd was their best weapon, the only one with military training and experience in using firearms.
“You all right, tough guy?” he asked as he approached his friend.
“I’m fine, except my hand really fucking hurts. That blue-skin just wouldn’t go down in a hurry. I had to climb on top of it and empty a cartridge point-blank into its ugly face in the end.”
“Looks like you got a whipping in the process, and I mean that literally,” Johnny said, referring to the slashed clothing and welts on his body and face.
“Yeah, he just wouldn’t stop lashing out with those long nails. I lived to tell the tale though, and my trigger finger’s working.”
By now, Sascha had finished dragging the dead demons into a pile.
“What did you do that for?” asked Johnny.
“Boyd asked me to; apparently these things can be reanimated,” Sascha replied.
“Best to burn them with a sacred flame,” said Boyd. “If their bodies are recovered, there is a chance they can be brought back to life with the correct alchemy. Where’s the one you chased into the woods?” he asked the familiar.
“Oh, he’s burning already,” said Baccharus.
Johnny noticed that in the pile of bodies one of the chests seemed to be moving up and down slowly as if breathing; it was the demon Sascha had cut in half. He pointed this out to his companions.
“Shit!” said Baccharus. “The sooner we burn these things the better.”
With a beam of highly energised Presarium focused by his willpower, Johnny set the pile of bodies ablaze. Boyd read the relevant lines from his abridged holy book causing the flames to turn a purple colour and burn with an increased intensity. The bodies were soon reduced to charred, glowing cinders.
Baccharus noticed that Sascha was still limping. “So do you think you’ll need to be cancelling any future plans for fatherhood?” asked the familiar cheekily.
“Not just yet, Bach. I checked earlier and they’re both present, and as soon as I have tested their function I’ll let you know,” Sascha replied with a broad grin.
Battle-weary, they all entered the motorhome. Boyd and Sascha wondered what good fortune had awoken Johnny; he in turn passed the query over to Baccharus who had raised the alarm. The familiar was only too pleased to explain the circumstances. After delivering Johnny’s report to the Council of Seven, Baccharus, on his return to Earth, encountered an unpredictable gravity field from a recent supernova. It had deflected his dimensional entry point, forcing him to correct his course through some improvised calculations, and he materialised a few hundred metres away from the motorhome. Rather miffed with this inconvenience, he made his way through the night, back to the vehicle, and in doing so stumbled upon the demons. Not quite believing what he had discovered, he quietly watched as they went about their mischief before using his will to shake some nearby trees and bushes to distract them. Expending huge amounts of energy, he performed a miniature jump through dimensions back into the motorhome. That was how he woke Johnny up in time. The end of Baccharus’s account was met with vocal approval from his companions – much to his pleasure.
Johnny was quiet as Sascha and Boyd considered how it was possible that their party could have been located by the Disciples in the first place, and after some discussion, both settled on the conclusion that they had been followed, most likely from Page’s Park. It was a reasonable assumption, thought Johnny, one he had arrived at earlier; there was still the possibility, however, of another reason, and he wasn’t yet ready to share it.
Outside, dark had retreated and the early dawn brought with it an increased sense of security – and also one of urgency. Johnny knew that if all the received calculations and guidance were correct then they only had until nightfall to find and confront the Disciples of Disorder.
He stepped out of the motorhome with Boyd and noted how effectively the sacred flame had vaporised the dead demons, leaving behind only a patch of charred ground. Looking up to the sky, he decided that there was just about enough light for them to begin inspecting any sabotage; it was the early start he and his friends had desired – even though it had happened in a somewhat undesirable way. He crouched beside the motorhome with Boyd while Baccharus and Sascha set about collecting the scattered weapons from the recent battle.
“Are you feeling up to this?” asked Johnny, screwdriver in hand, looking at Boyd’s bandages.
“It’s nothing,” insisted Boyd, moving his fingers to demonstrate that he was still able to use them.
The motorhome looked untouched at first glance; underneath it, Johnny found a lump of malleable white material which he pushed and prodded with the screwdriver.
“You don’t want to do that,” said Boyd sternly, “that’s explosive.”
Johnny froze and did not even dare to take a breath lest it activate the destructive reaction somehow. Boyd reached over and carefully peeled away the material. “There’s not much there,” he said, “but they stuck it just beneath the fuel tank – bastards. It doesn’t look like they got this thing wired up, usually there’s an electronic trigger somewhere.”
It was the first time Johnny had been subject to such a calculated attempt on his life. It felt unreal, and he could not believe it was happening to him. Generally, he tried not to annoy people too much. He often wondered at folk who could argue and fight and walk away again without a second thought while he, on the other hand, would seethe over any incident for days. He looked at Boyd, someone whose life had been threatened on many occasions in the past. He seemed unaffected. That’s how I’ve got to be, thought Johnny. Just don’t let it get to me. They both crawled out from under the motorhome. Boyd walked over to inspect his motorbike. Sascha and Baccharus were inside clearing the dishes and bedding in preparation for the next leg of the journey. Johnny went to tell them about the discovery of the explosive material. They had each come of their own free will, fully informed of the risks; he wanted to keep it that way. The explosive was of no great concern to Baccharus. As a familiar, he would follow his keeper to hell and back; for Johnny it was hard not see the cherub as an independent individual. Sascha was also unalarmed. Johnny was often amazed by his friend’s disregard for such matters; despite his undeniable intelligence, the important affairs of love, life and death somehow never moved Sascha as much as one would expect.
Boyd, who had managed to dispose of the plastic explosive, entered the motorhome a few minutes later looking upset; he explained that his bike’s cables and hoses had been subtly tampered with, making it a death trap for anyone who rode it. To make it safe again would take time. Johnny assumed Boyd would now travel with them in the motorhome; instead, Boyd insisted on staying and fixing his machine first.
“How long will it take?” asked Johnny.
“A couple of hours,” Boyd replied. “Look, the mission can’t wait. You guys go ahead, follow up the leads, find Mrs McGuiness. If there is a problem, I have my mobile phone. I can catch up with you as soon as I’m finished. We may need the motorbi
ke later so it’s important to have it up and running. The more mobility the better, I say.”
Although Johnny did not want to leave anybody behind, he saw the logic of Boyd’s argument. He knew the man would be very unlikely to continue without his beloved bike, whatever the circumstances.
“Do you think it’s safe to be alone out here?” Johnny asked.
“Look, it’s daylight now. So far, the Disciples have only attacked us at night. I don’t think they will regroup in time after the beating we just gave them; even if they do, I still have my pistols and the book, so don’t worry.”
Johnny and his friends reluctantly complied with their companion’s wishes. Baccharus, who was keen to lend a hand with the repair work, volunteered to stay behind. Boyd took up the offer and Johnny felt far more comfortable with the arrangement. Boyd would not be alone, and should it become necessary, he would now have psychic help with him.
Chapter 15
“Keep the amulet, it’s more difficult for me and Baccharus to be detected than you two,” Boyd said as Johnny dangled the sacred artefact from the passenger side window.
With a quick farewell, Johnny was back on the road again alongside Sascha, who was driving. The search for Mrs McGuiness and her general store was on, and they retraced their steps to Hilvern, a distance of about ten miles which did not take long to cover. On entering the village, Johnny could not ignore the same uncomfortable atmosphere he and his friends had all felt the previous night. Even though the morning was bright and the location picturesque, there was a hopelessness about the place and a sense of hidden malice. Buildings, although in good repair, looked empty and unlived in. There were not many people on the streets, and those few who had ventured outdoors seemed inexplicably suspicious. There was a distinct abnormality about Hilvern which Johnny could only put down to its historical exposure to the chaotic energy of Disorder.
Sascha stopped the motorhome at the first parade of shops they encountered: a launderette, mini-supermarket and shoe shop. All were small privately owned businesses; there were no big chain stores here. It seemed a suitable place for Johnny to start his enquiries. The village was compact and Johnny hoped the Mrs McGuiness store would be easy to locate. Firstly, he entered the mini-supermarket, which seemed to be staffed by the village’s only teenagers, none of whom were of much help. Next, he entered the shoe shop; behind the till was a frail, elderly man who looked like he had worked in the little shop since time began. He greeted Johnny with a faltering, “Can I help you, sir?” Years of working in a shoe shop meant the old man’s gaze had already shifted to Johnny’s feet.
“Oh! I can see why you’re here,” he said with a disapproving look at Johnny’s tattered old canvas trainers.
“I think there’s a good few miles left in them yet,” Johnny said defensively; the old man looked unconvinced. Before they digressed further from the matter at hand, Johnny asked him about the location of Mrs McGuiness’s store.
“Yes, I know where her shop is,” he assured him.
Johnny waited as the wrinkled face appeared vacant for a few moments. He could see the old man laboriously searching ancient memory banks, and then, with a defeated shake of his head, the man turned to the open doorway behind the till.
“Daisy! I say, Daisy, my dear, would you come and help me with this young fellow,” he called out in his faltering speech.
“Yes, dear, what size is he?” a croaky old woman’s voice answered from deep within the stock room.
“What size are you?” asked the old man to Johnny’s dismay.
“No, I’m not after shoes,” he reminded him, his patience wearing thin. “I’m after Mrs McGuiness who owns the general store.”
“Oh, yes! Of course!”
The old man turned towards the stock room again. “Don’t worry about his shoe size, Daisy; just come out here to help will you?”
“Yes, George; there in a sec,” Daisy croaked back.
Johnny waited; it certainly took more than a second for Daisy to show herself. After an eternity, a stooped, little old lady shuffled out of the mysterious stock room behind the till; she had fine white hair, pale blue eyes and was wrapped in a floral dress under a baggy yellow cardigan.
“Yes, dear?” she asked her husband behind the till. Daisy had dedicated most of her life to facilitating purchases, and this was obvious in her appearance and manner; her face was fixed in a broad grin that had been perfected over the years to put customers at ease.
“Could you help this young fellow at all, Daisy?”
“Of course,” she assured. “What are you after? Formal, evening, or maybe sports shoes? A fashionable young man like you might be interested in…”
They’re running on autopilot, thought Johnny before stopping her mid-flow. “Look, Mrs umm – Daisy, I’m looking for a shop, a store owned by someone called Mrs McGuiness.”
“Oh, I see! You’re not after shoes then?”
“No,” Johnny said firmly. “No,” he repeated again, slowly, to emphasise the point once and for all. He started again in a gentle voice, “I just need to find Mrs McGuiness. Look, if you don’t know her then I’ll just leave.”
“Hmm, Mrs McGuiness,” said the old lady with a frown, “when you leave the shop, turn right, then take the next left, then left again out of Hilvern. Follow the road as it leaves the village for about seven miles then you’ll find Mavis McGuiness and her store on the left. It’s a farm shop; the farm itself is called Fasely Farm.”
Johnny was stunned that he had actually managed to get a useful answer from the old woman. He repeated the directions back to her.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” confirmed Daisy.
“Thank you,” said Johnny with relief and gratitude in equal measure.
“Are you sure we can’t interest you in another pair of shoes?” asked the old man.
“No, thank you,” Johnny told him, “but if I ever need another pair of shoes, this is the shop where I will buy them.”
The couple smiled appreciatively and he left amongst a chorus of ‘thank you’s and ‘come again soon’s.
Johnny plonked himself wearily into the front passenger seat beside Sascha, who had been waiting patiently behind the wheel.
“What the hell kept you?” Sascha asked. “I thought you had been ambushed by demons again.”
“No, worse,” Johnny muttered in reply.
“You should have traded in those things while you were there; they’re a bit past it!” Sascha said, pointing disdainfully at Johnny’s trainers.
“Look, there’s nothing wrong with my damn shoes, okay!” Johnny retorted sharply, causing Sascha to flinch. “Drive on, partner; right then left, then I’ll tell you where from there.”
“Okay, let’s go!”
The motorhome left Hilvern Village behind. Johnny hoped not to return; it was somewhere his instincts urged him to move on from. The day was bright and windy with gusts strong enough to noticeably rock the motorhome as it sped along the winding road; patchwork fields surrounded the route while mountains were visible in the distance. Daisy’s directions, much to Johnny’s relief, had been correct. Sascha slowed down to turn through a wooden gate which had a sign to either side of it; one swung from a wooden post and read FASELY FARM. The other was larger and nailed to the fence: FARM SHOP, FRESH EGGS, POTATOES AND OTHER PRODUCE it announced in worn red paint. The motorhome bounced along a rough track that took them to a makeshift car park and a small cluster of farm buildings. They stopped in front of the shop, which was actually an extension of a rustic, whitewashed cottage. It had a wooden entrance door with a large glass window; a simple, neatly painted sign displayed the words ‘Farm Shop’. Just as before, Sascha waited inside the motorhome while Johnny went in to investigate. He entered the shop cautiously; opposite the entrance was a counter with a till that nobody was staffing. A woman with dark grey hair in an apron stood at a shelf arranging some vegetables for display; she was facing away from Johnny, he assumed it was Mrs McGuiness.
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sp; As she went about her work, Johnny took a moment to get a feel of the little shop. The walls were lined with old-fashioned wooden shelves, a far cry from the steel and plastic fittings found in modern supermarkets. Assorted household goods and fresh food produce were out on display along with outdoor clothing, camping equipment, garden tools and cheap electronics. As a child he had come across places like this on family holidays, nestled along country roads. Mrs McGuiness’s shop was not only a convenience store for the rural community, it also served as a meeting point for them. People from the neighbouring farms could bump into each other here, leave messages or even goods to be collected later. Urban dwellers, willing to make the effort, would also visit and pick up fresh locally produced food at the shop; Johnny took a liking to the place. Mrs McGuiness still had not noticed him. According to the news article Sascha had found, she was a close friend of Louise in addition to being her employer; she must therefore have known Rachel personally. The hope was that she would know the identity of the ‘family friend’ who should, by now, have officially adopted the girl; the very man who was also Martin’s brother-in-law and somehow associated with the Disciples. If Mrs McGuiness did indeed know anything, then she would have to be persuaded to share whatever information she possessed.
Johnny was the only person in the shop. He looked over his shoulder, nobody else was approaching; he cleared his throat and the grey head turned slowly.
“Mrs McGuiness?” he ventured.
An old but vigorous face looked back at him and smiled. “Oh, hello, I haven’t seen you before. Can I help?” she asked. Mrs McGuiness looked and sounded like somebody who, despite her age, had retained some youthful energy; it might have been her bright eyes that gave this impression. The couple in the shoe shop must have been of a similar age; in contrast to Mrs McGuiness, their faces had been dull and vacant.
“Lovely place you have here,” Johnny said as charmingly and conversationally as he could.