They stood there like that for a moment, both realising how ridiculous they looked.
Chris motioned to the back of the van. “Who’s getting him today?”
They both peered in, through the gloom to the shadowy shape up near the front seats. A plastic bag rustled, and lips smacked together, as the wine gums were excitedly devoured.
Pete pointed at Chris.
“No way, not today,” Chris said. “I just got puked on. I think it’s your turn.”
“I think you'll find I already got him wine gums, so my handling duties have more than been fulfilled for the day.” Pete replied, smugly
“Are you being serious?” Chris was annoyed. “You're comparing buying a bag of bloody wine gums to getting a faceful of Hell’s chunder?”
“Not my fault.”
Chris sighed. “There’s only one way to solve this.”
The brothers put their equipment down and faced each other. With intense stares, they balled their fists and prepared to strike, and at the exact same moment launched into their individual attacks.
One—
Two—
Three—
Chris smiled, savouring the victory over his brother. Pete looked despondent.
“For fuck's sake,” Pete said.
“Rock beats scissors, every time,” Chris replied.
Pete snatched up the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he reached into the van and grabbed a sheet of metal. Together they heaved it out and lowered it to the ground. It clanged as it hit the pavement, and Chris pressed a few clips to hold the ramp in place.
Pete entered into the darkness of the van, smacking his head on the rim. He cried out and pressed a hand to his head before continuing in.
Then there was a lot of banging and bumping, Pete grumbling incoherently under his breath. Something squeaked from within, and Chris stepped back, checking his phone and looking back towards the house.
He hoped this would turn out to be a straightforward job, for their sake and the sakes of the poor family involved. He picked up the cloth-covered cage just as Pete slowly rolled out their secret weapon.
CHAPTER TWO
MONTAGUE RHODES
The wheelchair squealed in complaint as it was rolled down the ramp, pushed with as much care as Pete could muster. His task was made difficult by the cumbersome figure sitting in the chair. The man was old, broad-shouldered, hunched over and miserable. He winced and squinted as the bright sunlight fell upon him, and held up an arthritic hand to shield his face from its rays. Swathed in blankets, he wore a dog-collar around his neck. He was still clutching the wine gums. The priest shoved his glasses up his face and settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
Chris grinned at him. “We're here Father,” he said, as Pete wheeled him down the last part of the ramp. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay on the journey over?”
“Don’t be stupid, boy!” the priest said with a grumpy slur. “When have I ever slept well?” He began frantically sucking on a wine gum, his eyes darting from left to right. He padded at his jacket, looking both confused and annoyed.
“Where’s my flask? I need a drink!”
“Not yet, Father,” Pete said, wheeling the priest towards the cottage across the gravel. “We’ve got work to do, young innocents to save.”
“You better not have hidden it,” the priest grumbled. “I'll give you a bloody good slap if you've hidden it.”
“No, we haven't hidden it, you miserable old bastard,” Pete said.
“Good,” the priest grumbled, returning to his previous inanimate state.
The brothers looked at each other knowingly, but said nothing as they approached the cottage.
When the priest saw the cottage, he slammed the brakes on; Pete bumped into the back of the chair, cursing as he stubbed his toe.
The brothers stopped for a moment, a concerned look on their faces as they observed the priest, whose eyes were locked onto the upper bedroom window of the house.
It was Tippi's bedroom window.
No one said anything, until suddenly the priest broke the silence.
“I need my flask,” he stuttered. “My flask. I need it.”
Chris crouched down in front of the priest, trying to get his attention.
“You'll get what you want, Father, but right now we need your help. There’s a family in there that needs us, and time is running out.”
Daphne and Ed McBain were now stood in the doorway looking down at them, sadness and desperation visible in their eyes. Pete carefully wheeled the priest up to the house.
The McBains stepped aside, clutching one other as they watched the three men enter. Their mouths fell open when they saw the shotgun strapped to Pete’s back, the covered birdcage in Chris' hand, the overalls and belts filled with religious items, and finally the old miserable priest in a wheelchair.
“Don’t be alarmed by how this all looks. It’s all part of the process,” Chris assured them. They didn’t look convinced. “This here is my brother, Peter.”
“Hullo,” Pete said in a tiny voice.
“And this here,” Chris stepped aside so that the McBains could get a decent look at the priest, “is Father Montague Rhodes. Say hello, Father.”
Silent stares all round.
“Is this… is this normal?” Daphne mumbled “This isn’t exactly what we imagined when we called you,”
“It’s not like in the films, is it?” Pete chimed in, much to Chris' dismay.
“That priest is drunk,” Ed said, harshly. “And what the bloody hell are you going to do with a gun?! There is no way I’m letting you anywhere near my daughter with that thing in your hand.”
“It’s not for her,” Pete replied. “I'm going to use it on—”
“It’s purely a defensive measure, we can assure you,” Chris interjected. “Please don't worry. Your daughter will not come to any harm.”
“Are you even anything to do with the church?” Daphne looked dubious now.
“Well, yes actually. In a roundabout way. We're like the unconventional arm of the church, if you will,” Chris replied.
“But you're not?” Daphne exclaimed, before harshly whispering the next words. “You're not exorcists?”
“Nope,” Pete said chirpily, pointing toward a half-asleep Father Rhodes. “But he is.”
Chris shot his brother a look that told him to not say anything further.
“He can’t even stay awake! How’s he going to help our daughter?!” Ed McBain said, clearly exasperated by the situation. “I told you we should have contacted someone else, Daphne. This lot are nothing more than a bunch of money-grabbing charlatans.” He angrily pointed to the shotgun hanging from Pete's back. “You are not going anywhere near my daughter, any of you.”
“Mr and Mrs McBain, please. We don’t have much time,” Chris protested.
“We'd like for you to leave,” Daphne said, stoically.
“You heard my wife.” Ed McBain stood defiantly next to Daphne “We'll find some other way to help Tippi.”
Chris and Pete exchanged knowing looks. They couldn’t turn back now.
“Do you love your daughter?” an old and cracked voice asked.
They all turned to Father Rhodes, who was no longer half-asleep.
Silence.
“We don't have time for this. So, tell me. Do you love your daughter?”
The couple were frozen by the priest’s gaze.
“Yes. Yes we do,” Daphne said, her voice reverting to its previous timid quietness.
Father Rhodes planted his feet down on the floor and shot up to a standing position, pausing briefly to steady himself.
“Then, by all that is holy, shut your bloody mouths and stay out of our way!”
Daphne opened her mouth to respond but, before she had the chance to form a single word, Father Rhodes was over by stairs, had planted his hands on the banister, and was making his way up.
Chris moved the wheelchair out of the way while Pete waited at the bottom of the stairs, one eye on Father Rhodes and the other on the anxious couple who were watching the old man head towards their daughter’s room. The stairs creaked as the priest climbed them, plaster trickled down onto the carpet as his hands brushed the wall.
He levelled onto the hallway and walked towards Tippi’s room. As he drew closer, the growling and snarling grew louder and more violent.
Suddenly, the priest drew up one leg and kicked hard at the door, much harder than his fragile frame suggested he could. A great roar came up from the room as the priest stood defiantly in the hallway. A swirling wind suddenly muted the girl’s snarls, whistling through the house, causing the windows to shake.
“I hear you, beast!” Rhodes shouted. “And I am not afraid!”
He stepped into the bedroom.
***
Chris and Pete raced up the stairs. Ed and Daphne were right behind them. As four, they tumbled into the little girl’s bedroom.
“I thought you said she was a spewer?” Pete said, staring down at the girl lying upon the bed.
“She was! She is!” Chris cried.
“Well she’s not spewing now.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a stream of vomit rushed in their direction. The brothers lurched to the side to avoid it, but only Chris managed to get clear. Pete looked disgustedly down at the chunks of ungodly mess coating his waterproofs.
“Shitting hell!” he exclaimed. “If you say I told you so, I'm going to kick you in the nuggets.”
“So much for this being an easy onee” Chris sighed, “We need to move fast, or it’s going to get real messy,”
“I think we've already passed that point, don't you?!” Pete pointed down at his waterproofs.
“Fair point,” Chris replied, before leaving the room and heading back downstairs.
“We're coming right back,” Pete said. “No matter what you see or hear, do not approach your daughter, and do not interrupt Father Rhodes. Understand?”
Ed and Daphne nodded in unison.
“Good. Be right back!” Pete said, before racing after his brother.
Father Rhodes was standing at the bottom of Tippi’s bed, a bottle of holy water in one hand and a battered Bible in the other. He had the book open, propped against his chest. He chanted quickly, his words almost blurring together into one. It was a mixture of Latin and English and French. He flicked holy water across the room, splashing it on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the thing on the bed that had once been an eight-year-old girl. Shreds of that youthful innocence remained, but they were overshadowed by the snarl on her face and the redness of her eyes. Her face was now twisted and misshapen; some parts of her skin looked like they had been burned, other parts looked as though they had been stretched tight. There were strange lumps under her flesh, too, and her teeth were unusually pointed and sharp. Every time a drop of holy water landed on the creature, the water hissed and steamed. The creature hissed and snarled and swore, writhing on the bed, twisting and pulling against the soft bandages that held her in place, arms and legs spread wide. The bed frame creaked as she pulled hard against the restraints, but it didn’t give.
The McBains looked shocked and terrified, and Daphne had tears streaming from her eyes.
“Oh my god, Tippi!” Daphne cried, her husband trying desperately to hold her back.
Tippi’s head turned at the sound of her mother’s voice. With an evil glare in her eyes, she smiled, her cracked lips parting to reveal a set of rotten and broken teeth.
“Your daughter is mine now, bitch!” she spat in an unearthly voice, like nails on a chalkboard. “Her little soul is all mine, and it's delicious,”
Daphne yelped in anguish and Ed stepped forward.
“You monster!” he cried. “What have you done to our daughter?”
The monster on the bed grinned even wider, and prepared for another verbal assault
“It's not what I've done,” it screeched. “It's what I'm going to do. I'm going to—”
Before the monster could finish, Father Rhodes slammed his foot down so hard on the floorboards that the sound reverberated around the entire room. The monster turned its attention immediately to him.
“You will do nothing, demon! Nothing save hear my words!” He chanted more vehemently now. Clearly pained by his words, the monster that was once Tippi struggled against her bonds.
“You cocksucking maggot!” Tippi screamed as Father Rhodes continued to chant. “I’m going to drag you to hell. I’ll kill you, I’ll screw your corpse, I’ll eat your flesh, I’ll eat all of your flesh and you’ll burn in hell with everyone else on this disgusting planet!”
Father Rhodes ignored the demon’s taunting.
Daphne sobbed and buried her face in Ed’s chest again.
“Coming through, clear the way,” Pete called out.
Pete entered the room, his arms laden with poles and an oddly-shaped box. He grinned at Ed and Daphne and walked across to the bed, deftly dodging a stream of vomit that the possessed child sent in his direction. With an audible sigh of annoyance, he dropped the poles on to the bottom of Tippi’s bed and began to screw them together.
Chris returned carrying a heavy metal toolbox, which he carefully lowered to the ground. He knelt beside it and unclipped the lid, swinging it open. He reached into the toolbox and pulled out a smaller wooden box. He closed the lid of the toolbox and knelt back, resting the wooden box on his knees. He flipped the box lid open and pulled out two chains, each with a silver cross swinging from it. He clutched the chains tightly and reached back in to the box, lifting out a handful of other crosses. He glanced up at his brother.
“Do we have everything?” he asked.
“Yep.”
The shotgun was still resting against the wall and the priest was still chanting and flicking holy water around the room.
Chris rose to his feet just as another stream of vomit spattered his legs. He looked down before throwing his head back and groaning in annoyance again. Holding tightly to the handfuls of crosses, he walked over to the window frame and balanced a wooden cross on it, making sure that it was steady and would not fall. Then he walked back across the room. He quickly clipped a cross to the inside of the door and shut it firmly. One more cross on the closet door, and he turned back to Tippi’s parents, cross chains clutched tightly in his hand.
“Mr and Mrs McBain?” he said quietly. “I need you to put these on. You have to wear them until we’re done.” He handed them the chains. “It’s especially important that you keep these if you’re going to stay here during the exorcism.”
“Y-yes. Okay,” Daphne said, as Ed nodded and put the chain around his neck. She glanced at her daughter again and back to Pete. “Is it going to hurt her?”
“She shouldn’t feel a thing,” Chris said kindly. “The only thing in pain now is the demon. Not Tippi.”
“Oh… good,” Daphne said.
“Mrs McBain,” he said firmly. “It’s very important that you put that chain on, and don’t take it off until we tell you otherwise.”
Daphne nodded and started to put the chain around her neck. She was shaking so much that Ed had to help her.
Meanwhile, Pete had finished putting his poles together and had started to place them where they needed to go. He put one at the foot of the bed, just in front of Father Rhodes. The pole was thin and swayed slightly until the wide base steadied it out. A few inches from the top was a large bulge, a collection of wire sticks, and a large metal lump filled with wires. It looked important and complicated, but Pete handled it with confidence and ease. He crouched down behind the pole and looked through a small hole at the centre of the lump, fixing the young girl in it. Satisfied, he smiled and stood up.
“What you got there, pigfucker?” the creature snarled. “You planning on making a sex-tape? Going to let the priest fuck your sweaty shithole?”
Pete stifled a chuckle.
�
��Nah. I'm more of a romantic myself. Candlelight, roses, all that jazz.”
Pete continued, setting up another pole beside the bed.
“I bet you and your brother do disgusting things together,” Tippi snarled. “I bet you do it every day and let that priest watch. Do you enjoy it? Do you like it? I bet you fucking love it!”
Pete looked up at his brother, completely ignoring the writhing ball of hate on the bed.
“Why do we always get the ones who talk like a 1970s stand-up?” he said as he worked away at the pole.
“I’m going to take you to hell and make you my bitch,” Tippi hissed. “You’ll do all my bidding and you’ll never be able to stop. I will own you and make you suffer for centuries. Every second will feel like an eternity.”
“I think I dated someone who managed to do that,” Pete said. “If I survived that, I doubt you can do worse.”
Tippi began pulling and writhing against her bonds, harder and harder. She hissed and shrieked, gnashing her teeth at Pete. He just chuckled beneath his breath and began to set up the final pole, just behind the headboard of the bed. He shoved and pulled at the bed frame, pulling it away from the wall until there was a two-foot gap. When the pole was in place, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Crossfires set up,” he said to his brother.
Chris nodded and went over to their toolbox, began rummaging through the items inside. He pulled out a strap of black elastic with a circular disk etched with symbols. He held it tightly in his hand and walked over to the bed. “Hold her head.”
“I hate this bit,” Pete said.
Pete placed his hands around Tippi's head, and her screeching became almost deafening. The McBains started to move towards him, but Chris shot them a look that stopped them dead in their tracks.
“Stay there!” he cried, and the parents froze on the spot.
Suddenly another spray of bile shot up from the child’s open mouth, splashing against the ceiling. This time, though, the hellish vomit refused to stop, and the brothers worked quickly as chunks rained down around them.
Chris tried as best he could to fasten the strap around the demonic child’s head, but was getting nowhere fast.
Devil Kickers Page 3