Outlaws of Babylon

by Eugene W. Cundiff

  Mory’s pain and self-disgust were palpable, and tears streaked her face.

  “I do appreciate what you wanted to do, Auntie. But I made a promise to Mother, too. I promised that with her gone, I would protect my family with all I had. And even though I hate myself for it, that means using my gifts like this. You’re threatening my family, and this is the only choice you left for me. I just hope you can forgive me for this someday. Drive, Auntie. Drive as fast as you can.”

  The pale young woman slumped down into the plush seat of the car, letting her heavy eyelids close. The light glowed through the pale skin softly, turning her teardrops to silver.

  27

  Jo dived through the door of the camp’s medical building, carrying Jeza under her arm.

  “We’re being attacked!”

  T.J. started, shooting up from where he had been tending to a sleeping Shelly. “Who?”

  “Irishmen I think! And men in black shirts!”

  T.J. swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding to Jo. Moving by long-honed instinct, he grabbed both the terrified young girl and the Preserve exile, pulling them behind the cover of one of the beds.

  “What are we going to do, T.J.?”

  The teen fought down his own panic, putting a finger to Jo’s lips. “We’re going to stay down here for now. Stay quiet, so they don’t see us, don't notice us.”

  “But what about her? And the others outside? We can't just leave them to die! We need to get out of here! “

  T.J.’s head tilted toward the entrance, and his hand clapped over Jo's mouth. He silently mouthed the words ‘too late’ as the door burst open. A pair of Sixes entered, pistols drawn. One of them gestured to Shelly.

  “Well look at this! It’s the demon-bitch, the one they freed from us before we could send it back to Hell.”

  The second man laughed, cocking the hammer back on his gun. “Let’s finish the job then. Here and now!”

  “Here’s to that! “

  From their hiding place, T.J. and the others watched the Sixes lift their guns. Jo stirred, eyes hard and muscles tensed. She was about to spring from cover when the first Six suddenly froze in place, his eyes full of terror. His partner waved a hand in front of the Six's paralyzed face.

  “Duffy? What the Hell are you –“

  He went silent as Shelly began singing in an eerie voice.

  “All around the children’s camp the Sixes shot the witches... until one witch showed them her tricks and pop –“

  The two Sixes began to sob as they raised their guns and jammed them into each other's mouths. Their muscles twitched, and they gagged out strangled pleas, but it did them no good. Their sweating fingers pulled the triggers, and their guns went off. The smell of gunpowder and voiding bowels filled the air.

  “- went the Sixes!” Shelly giggled madly, waving to the other three. Her sightless eyes blazed with light as red as the blood that oozed from the ruptured skulls of the two dead Sixes on the floor.

  “The Voices say it’s time to play! It's time to make the Sixes pay!”

  The blind woman rose, daintily stepping over the corpses at her feet and heading out the door. It was Jeza who finally broke the stunned silence that Shelly left in her wake.

  “Brother T.J., what are we going to do? The bad men are trying to kill us.”

  Before T.J. could answer, Jo rose from cover and pulled the gore-soaked guns from the Sixes’ cooling grips. She pushed one into T.J.’s uncertain hands as she regarded the young girl.

  “You’re going to hide here while me and your Brother do what Shelly suggested.”

  T.J. blinked, looking to Jo with fear in his eyes. “What’s that?”

  Jo pushed her way out the door, pulling T.J. behind her. The Preserve refugee wore a cruel grin as she answered him, a pearly-white razor against her dark chocolate skin.

  “We’re going to pop some Sixes.”

  T.J. wanted to protest, but as he watched the conflict and bloodshed consuming his home the frightened and passive young boy he had been faded away, and he found himself filled with a pure, burning rage. He had spent his life cowering and being kicked about by the world, and for the most part he had simply ducked and hidden or taken his blows with head bowed. But he would do that no longer. A steel glint formed in his young eyes, and he gripped the bloodstained pistol tight.

  “All across the children’s camp.”

  The two shared a final nod before throwing themselves into the fray.

  ◆◆◆

  Kurt was at the heart of the camp when the chaos had erupted, and by the time the gunshots and screams drew him toward the gates, war had erupted in full and gruesome force. The thunder of the guns sang in time with the thudding of his heart, and the Preserve exile felt a familiar anger building in his chest. The seething-hot wrath threatened to cloud his judgment even as it electrified every inch of his being with the promise of bloody satisfaction. The Killer in Kurt screamed for release, and as he watched the traitors and bigots lay harm upon those he had raised great walls to shelter, Kurt found that plea impossible to deny. He screamed with thunderous hate into the heavens, and Hell followed with him as he charged toward the gates. The ground beneath his feet rumbled and cracked in his passing, and a shrapnel-storm cloud of debris and rubble gathered like a cloak about him, obscuring him completely save for the blazing blue fire of his eyes. As he stormed forward, Kurt's screams slowly gave way to howled words.

  "You say I am a demon, you bastards?"

  A shocked silence fell over the battlefield in Kurt's wake, both sides of the conflict stopping to stare in horror at the walking cataclysm that strode amongst them, but Kurt took no notice. Neither did he take heed of the screams that shattered that silence as he charged the ranks of Sanctuary’s enemies, nor did he care that the scouring storm he stood in the eye of had turned to crimson as it tore into the pathetic wastes of flesh that had dared to strike blows against those he had chosen to protect. All Kurt felt as he crashed across the battlefield like the waves of the Red Sea upon the Pharaoh's armies was a pure, visceral joy.

  "If it is a demon that you name me, then it is a demon I will show you!"

  ◆◆◆

  Ric dove behind the pillar of a long-abandoned and unfinished monument, exhaling the fire from his lungs. The Californian watched the mayhem rage all around him as he lurked unseen, holding gun in one hand and knife in the other. He was unable to hold back tears as he saw his Sanctuary burning. He wondered if it had truly been too much to ask that his people be let live in peace. Perhaps it had been. Ric shook his head, cursing himself as he swiftly checked his weapons.

  "Battle's not over yet. Pull it together. Got a job to do."

  Finding his focus, Ric surveyed the battlefield and was heartened by what he witnessed. As the shock of the attack wore away, his people were beginning to rally and push back. Despite the grisly nature of it all, Ric was filled with pride as he watched his people go to work. To his left, Jo and T.J. stood back to back, firing pistols at the invaders. Ahead of them, Shelly was dancing madcap amongst the mayhem, her eyes blazing bloody red, and where she went Sixes and Irishmen fell to their knees, screaming as they turned their weapons upon themselves. And near the gates, a storm of bloodied debris and viscera that Ric could only assume must be Kurt tore through their enemies like a Biblical plague. But for all the destruction his fellow 'mindfreaks' wrought upon their enemies, it was watching the ordinary men, women, and children of the Zero taking up arms and defensive positions that made Ric's pride swell the most. Steely-eyed and lion-hearted, they fought with to protect their homes with guns and blades, crude bludgeons and bloodied fists, many guided by his own personal convert Benny. The penitent former Six was desperately putting his training to work against his former masters and comrades, rallying the defenders as he aimed for kneecaps and shoulders as best he could in the chaos of the battle. That last sight tore at Ric's heart, second only to the pain he felt watching his own people fall. It showed him that in a better world, a b
etter life, these men attacking the Zero might not have felt need to throw down their lives in assault against his own people. Ric took a deep breath, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  "This isn't that world, and there's a war was going on. Back on the clock. Got a little bastard to find."

  Ric dove back out into the fray, frantically looking for signs of Ronnie.

  28

  “Damn it, we’re being slaughtered out here! It’s the demon from the church, the one that Paladin Vega fought!”

  The Six ducked behind cover as he screamed the words into his worn military radio. The swift and decisive ambush they had planned was quickly turning against them. Their enemies had rallied behind the arch-demon from the church, and the horror was tearing through his brothers and their Irish allies like a scythe through grain. Lifting the crucifix that hung about his neck, the black-shirted man brought it to his chapped lips and kissed it. He uttered a prayer for protection before he dove from cover, drawing a bead on the raging demon. He fired his semiautomatic into the storm that the horror spun about itself. His bullets screamed through the air toward the nightmare, but to the man's dismay they were caught in the shredding whirlwind and torn to harmless particles. He cursed, fumbling for more ammunition, but before he could reload his gun the demon turned its blazing sapphire eyes toward him. The man swallowed down his dread, knowing he would not leave this place alive. He began to pray.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me..."

  His fingers found a spare magazine, and he quickly reloaded as the demon drew down upon him. He steadied his nerves and opened fire once again.

  "Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me...."

  The Six continued to fire until his gun ran dry. The air was thick with the smell of death, but the sounds of battle had begun to fade, lot in the howling of the demon's infernal winds. Casting his eyes across the battlefield, the Six saw that his brothers and their allies had been turned blood and ash before the Hell-spawned horror's fury. He realized he now stood alone before the demon. Reaching to his belt, the man found he had no bullets left.

  "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thy annointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over."

  The Six glared defiantly toward the demon, not flinching even as he felt it's awful power surround him. He spared a final look to his empty gun. He had seen enough old vids to know that throwing it at the monster would only make him look like an idiot before he died, and he knew he had no chance against the Hell-beast in hand-to-hand fight. He let the gun fall to the ground, and he fell to his knees after it. The smell of blood and death grew overpowering as the demon drew near. The murderous whirlwind around it faded, and a rain of gore and ruined flesh splattered across the ground. The Six did not need to see the demon to know it was looming over him.

  "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

  The demon hissed at him in a voice that was full of hate. “There’s no point in praying. Not for you.”

  The Six looked up, preparing to defy the demon's blasphemy. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were left unspoken when the thunderous roar of a familiar gun erupted behind him. The demon staggered back, holding a hand to the left side of its face. Blood poured from between its fingers as it howled in fury.

  “It would seem the Lord believes otherwise, demon.”

  Paladin Alistair Whitechapel's voice rang with the power of his conviction. He chambered another shell, firing again. The demon stepped back under the assault but was not injured further, for the load of shot was held hovering in the air before it by its unholy power. The demon's good eye flashed with fury, and the suspended cloud of buckshot went shrieking toward the Paladin. Whitechapel dove behind the abandoned van moments before the pellets tore into its frame, but the Six was not so fortunate. The same cloud of shrapnel tore the kneeling man’s head to gruesome confetti in its wake.

  ◆◆◆

  Pain ripped through him as the buckshot scored his face, and blood from the wounds blinded his savaged left eye in a viscous haze of stinging red. Kurt cursed himself for his blind hatred and the opening it had given his enemies. Had he been a moment slower, an agonizing wound would have been a fatal one. He was prepared for the second load of shot, however, catching it mid-air and sending screaming back toward Whitechapel. The buckshot killed the Six the older man had saved from Kurt, but the Paladin had managed to reach cover.

  “You’ll need more than that, demon.”

  Kurt gritted his teeth in pain and frustration. Whitechapel was trying to goad him, and if he did not keep his temper down there was little doubt the Paladin would succeed in drawing the young man into a fatal act of bravado or a mortal error of rage-addled judgment. “So will you, you child-murdering psychopath.”

  “So says the one who aids in holding my beloved son and daughter prisoner? The one who forced them to witness the murder of their beloved godfather?”

  “You mean the daughter you've beaten and tormented for years? The daughter you let starve so you could instead feed your wicked addictions to liquor and violence, lost in your worship of a false Messiah?”

  “Blasphemer!”

  A blast of buckshot punctuated the curse. Kurt blocked it effortlessly, smiling to himself through the pain.

  “It is so easy to sit upon the throne of judgment, isn’t it Paladin? Far harder a thing, to be made to stand before it.”

  “Your words are as empty as your soul, demon!”

  Another round of shot collided harmlessly against the invisible shield of force Kurt raised in its path.

  “Is this your plan, you bastard? You keep firing your little gun, and I keep stopping the shots in midair, all the while trading not-so-witty banter?”

  Despite his bravado, Kurt knew he could only hold out so much longer. His head was already feeling light, and even his good eye's vision was blurring at the edges. He knew both of these troubles were caused by the slow loss of blood from his seeping injuries. He needed a plan, some way to get a clear shot at the Paladin. Focusing his attention so fully on how he might achieve that goal, Kurt barely noticed the dull thud of the pineapple-shaped chunk of metal at his feet. He barely had time to dive away from the grenade, putting all his power into the effort of containing its eruption. The explosive detonated in an unnaturally-perfect sphere, its murderous energy straining heatedly against the force of Kurt's own telekinetic might. Watching the unearthly display, inspiration struck Kurt like a thunderbolt. With all his might, Kurt willed the forces he commanded to shove the orb of destruction into a collision course with the van. The metal screamed as the orb of force punctured it, burying itself deep inside the vehicle’s frame. Kurt dove to the dirt, releasing his mental grip. The formerly-contained explosion violently rejoined reality, blowing the vehicle sheltering the Paladin to flaming bits in a titanic fireball.

  29

  Richard Lee could not allow himself the luxury of concern over the immense and thunderous eruption in the distance, instead keeping his eyes and attentions focused on the struggling form of Ronald Whitechapel. The boy had been hiding, under fire from a pair of Irishmen who had either not recognized him, or not cared one way or another about his identity. Their focus on Ronnie had given Ric the opening he had needed to put a bullet in the skull of one and a knife in the throat of the second. The task of ensuring Ronnie's safekeeping was proving far more difficult than rescuing him. The boy kicked and shouted as Ric held him down in cover.

  “Let me go, you freak! Now’s my chance! “

  “To get your punk ass blown off by Irishmen who don’t know your bastard of a father?”

  “Don’t you dare! “

  Ric sighed. “I hope Mory forgives me for this.”

  “Forgives you for what you mother-“

  Ric sucked-punched the boy between the eyes. The blow put Ronnie on the ground in
a silent stupor.

  “That, you little shit.”

  Heaving the boy’s heavy bulk up onto his shoulder with a grunt of discomfort, Ric peered up out of cover. He waited to ensure the way was clear heading toward the central fortifications with Ronnie in tow.

  “I’d say you’d best appreciate this but we both know better than that, so we’ll just say ‘you’re welcome’ and call it good. That and ‘your ass is going on a diet.’”

  Reaching the nearest of the crude bunkers Kurt had crafted, Ric heaved Ronnie off of his shoulder and into the structure. The boy fell in an ungainly heap. Ric glanced out into the camp. There was no way he could help with the camp's defense while burdened by Ronnie’s unconscious bulk, and though he had promised Mory he would protect the boy it was agonizing to stay holed up in a tiny bunker while war raged on all across his home. The feeling of helplessness was both crushing and infuriating, but Ric resigned himself to the fact that there was little he could do personally scale at this point. There was little use for his powers or skills in an all-out battle.

  “This way! I saw one of them take the Paladin’s son this way, to that damned holdout!”

  Ric swore under his breath as he heard the Six shout, then cursed again as saw the man was leading a large band of Sixes approaching his position. Ric silently drew his knife, and his eyes burned briefly with violet light as he faded from sight. The Californian drew in a long, hushed breath and held it in his lungs, letting the burning in them hone his focus. He kept the fire in his chest caged in his ribs, ignoring the dull thudding growing in his temples. Ric climbed out of the bunker as the Sixes drew closer, lying in wait by its entrance. The Sixes were only a few paces away from the bunker now, and Ric knew when they arrived it would be time for the red haze of battle and murder. The dull pain he felt had begun to spread, setting his entire brain ablaze with a dull, droning ache. He ignored it, watching the Sixes approach. Just a little closer now, just a few more whispers of breath from these men, and he would be ending their lives at the edge of his blade and the spitting fire of his gun. Ric reached for that gun, and he quickly realized that it was not in its holster. His headache had grown excruciating.