by Sam Witt
He might just live through this mess.
Joe ran from the new boss as it shook its head and screeched in startled rage. The bat god was hurt, but Joe knew he needed to put some more bullets into it before it could recover from what he’d already done.
He slipped around another of the snake columns, and the monster drew back to take a run at him. Whatever else it might be willing to destroy, it wasn’t ready to smash into any of the glowing crystals and the mammoth snakes they held. Joe used them for cover, tucking up hard against one to catch his breath.
There were two bullets left in his pistol. Joe prayed it would be enough.
CHAPTER 71
THE DEVIL GIRL was right, at least in part. Walker could feel it in his bones. He’d served his God faithfully for decades, but there was nothing in him now. He’d failed to protect his church, and the darkness had come for him at last.
But still his faith would not die. It flickered in him, flames fanned by all the good he’d done and the evil he’d seen. His God was real, but Walker had failed the Red Oak and lost its protection.
He pulled his boys closer to him, and they huddled against his bulk. He took the oldest boy, Aaron, by the hand and looked into his eyes. Aaron had been with Walker for his whole life, ever since his mother died and left him to Walker’s care. He was young, but not so young as the others. In a few more years, he might even pass for a man.
“Aaron,” Walker said and slid the boy’s hand under his shirt. “I can go no further. The road ahead is dark, but yours is the hand that must guide the flock.”
Walker expected the boy to shrink from the duty, to deny the charge Walker had laid upon him.
He was wrong.
“Your time has come, preacher. You and your precious boys and all the rest who stand against us.” The bats exploded away from the girl and flooded toward Walker and his boys like an arrow made of fur and skin and teeth.
Aaron looked up into Walker’s face, and the preacher could see an old, righteous fire kindled in his eyes. That look was almost enough to ease the sudden, mind-shattering pain.
The boy thrust his hand into Walker’s wound, digging his fingers in to follow the swollen, bloody root that was proof of his God’s love.
The bats latched onto the younger boys, who threw their bodies on top of Aaron, shielding him from fangs. They sang as their flesh was shredded, sweet and pure and innocent even as the darkness drank their blood.
The girl laughed, and lightning echoed her voice, striking the trees around the church with such force the wood tore itself apart.
“Lord Father,” Aaron began, his voice rising in strength with every word. “I stand at the foot of your cross and am bathed in the blood of your faithful.”
Walker held the boy tight, doing his best to protect him from the bats. He heard Aaaron’s words just as he had said them so long ago. He could feel the root inside him, unwinding, being drawn forth from his body and with it, his life.
“I hold in my hands proof of your undying covenant and your eternal love for your children.”
The half-made girl’s laughter stopped. She soared to where the bats dug at the flesh of the children. “No,” she screamed, beating at Walker’s back and shoulders, “your God is not here.”
“Not yet,” Walker gasped and grabbed the girl. He wrapped his heavy hands around her neck and squeezed, putting the last of his fading strength into holding the half-made girl, keeping her attention. He was dead, but that didn’t mean he had to fail.
Aaron slipped from between Walker and the girl, standing untouched amidst the swarming bats. Blood had soaked through his white robes and splashed against his dark skin. His hair was matted against his skull, wet with Walker’s life.
“Cleanse me, Father,” Aaron roared and pulled the writhing root from inside Walker. It wrapped itself around his right arm, clinging to him as his prayers gained strength. “And let your love take root within my heart.”
The girl beat at Walker, smashing her wreath of hands into his face, digging one of his eyes from its socket and shredding his cheek with her nails.
Walker reveled in the pain. It was purifying, a baptism of agony that prepared him for his final reward. He had failed, but in his last moments he knew he had earned redemption.
Aaron extracted the last of the root from within Walker, and the preacher gasped in ecstatic agony. Blood geysered from his sacrificial wound and splashed across the altar.
The old red wood drank up the life of its fallen pastor, and the foul blood of the half-made girl burned away with an electric sizzle.
The boy laid his hands on the altar and bowed his head. “Lord, may all your angels and spirits intercede on the behalf of your faithful servant and cleanse this place of all evil.”
The half-made girl screamed and tore free of Walker’s dead grasp. Her hair burned with golden fire, and she bobbed and wove in the air, swerving drunkenly through the church.
An angry roar rumbled from beneath the church, the voice an ancient God who had held this place holy for long eons. The voice of a God returned with a vengeance.
The girl fled before that voice, but even as she neared the door, her flesh unraveled. Unmoored from this world, her skin shredded into glimmering, oily ribbons of midnight black that floated away from her and caught fire in the air.
Before she reached the door, the girl was no more. All that remained to mark her passage were the bloody, rotting fingers she’d stolen.
CHAPTER 72
THE FEW REMAINING cultists shook off their confusion and scattered like leaves before a tornado. It was one thing to want a god to answer their prayers, but it was something else to have it trampling them underfoot and threatening to kill them all with a cave-in.
Even Alma, for all her experience in the ways of darkness, could do little but stare in awe as the thing she’d prayed to raged out of control.
Joe took advantage of the chaos, hurling himself through the rushing crowd, trying to get the right angle for another shot. He could feel the Long Man inside, not quite as deep now, screaming for Joe to just shoot the fucking thing already.
“Shut the hell up,” Joe growled. He had to concentrate, get this just right, or he’d waste too many shots. He had to get every bullet right in the monster bat’s brain if he wanted to finish it. He wasn’t even sure the shots he had remaining would get the job done, but he still had one surprise left.
Joe hid in the scrambling cultists, running through their milling mass toward the edge of the cavern. He could see a crack in the wall running up from the floor to a high ledge. From there, he might be able to see the top of its head, might be able to drill some more holes through its skull and let the light in.
He ran at the crack full-tilt and threw himself up as high as he could jump. The fissure was wide and rough, with plenty of room for him to jam his hands in and get a good foothold with the toe of one boot, as well. Joe worked his way up along the crevice, moving as quick as he could without losing his grip, which wasn’t nearly as fast as he would have liked.
The dark god reeled drunkenly above it all, mad eye darting to and fro as it tried to find its prey. Whatever damage Joe had done was sticking; it wasn’t healing from those wounds, and its brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. It kept scything from side to side, whipping its head around to stare at Elsa as if it couldn’t understand how this insignificant animal had such a hold on it.
“Come on, you stupid cocksucker,” Joe growled and crawled up onto the ledge. He needed the monster to come closer, needed to see the target. “Come and get it.”
He waved his hand overhead and shouted a wordless challenge. That got the new boss’s attention. It swerved back toward Joe, lunging on its crooked wings and lashing its head at him like a cracking whip.
The second half-made girl’s death went off in Joe’s head like an artillery shell. The Long Man surged, pushing back against the power of the new boss, clearing out space in Joe’s soul to reassert himself.
T
he new boss felt it, too, and tried to dart away at the last second. Its left wing crumpled under it, and it squealed in surprise as its strength was further eroded.
The pistol came up, seeming to move of its own accord, and Joe squeezed the trigger. The bullet roared out, a streak of white fire that boiled the air around it. The lance of light punched straight through one of the holes Joe had blown in the top of its head and blasted out the back of its neck. It belched flame and smoke, and its tongue curled and blackened between cracked fangs. The new boss quivered, a seizure of pain rolling through its massive body.
“Choke on it,” Joe crowed and took careful aim.
The hole in the new boss’s skull was enormous: an ugly, flesh crater filled with bulging brains and oozing black blood. Joe couldn’t miss.
He squeezed the trigger, but the hammer never fell. Bats, a screeching horde of the hell-spawned mutants, fell on his hand and arm. One of them rammed its nose under the hammer, jamming the works with its skull.
The bats kept coming, pouring over Joe like a tide of fangs, ripping into him until his body ran red with spilled blood and he felt as raw as if he’d been rolled naked down a hill of broken glass.
He sagged to his knees, cursing his own stupidity for forgetting about the bats.
It was a mistake he was sure would cost him his life.
CHAPTER 73
STEVIE COULDN’T BREATHE, and her brain was stewing in bad blood. Little by little, she was losing herself, drifting away from the world and toward oblivion. Her power was there, but just out of reach. She was too dazed and injured to focus long enough to bring it into play. Stronger than she’d ever been, Stevie was going to die because she couldn’t take a breath.
The buzzing in her ears changed, became a mournful howling that seemed to echo through the whole of the cavern.
“You failed, Witch,” the half-made girl hissed. “All that work, all that spilled blood and dead bodies, and your old man still fell short when push came to shove.”
Stevie struggled. She knew the precious coke bottle was right by her feet, sitting on top of the duffel, she just had to get it onto the heartstone. Even if the half-made girl killed her right after, that would be enough. Stevie could die knowing she’d done her part.
Stevie let herself go limp, stifling the urge to fight.
“That’s right,” The half-made girl hissed. “It’s over. Let it go.”
Stevie let her shoulders sag and her head loll on her neck. It was too easy to play dead, now that she was so close. She wondered if she’d have enough of herself left to come back from playing possum.
The half-made girl gave her one last shake, yanking Stevie left then right. She smoothed Stevie’s hair with the back of one hand and laid her down on the cold stone floor. “So much easier this way.”
The girl laughed then, throwing her head back and howling with mad glee. She drifted away from Stevie, euphoric at her victory, insane with pleasure at what she’d done.
Stevie took a slow breath, fighting her instinct to gulp air. Her brain lurched into gear at the fresh oxygen, but Stevie lay still. Her heart no longer pounded in her ears, but Stevie could still hear the howling, like a pack of wild dogs.
Hope flickered in Stevie. Not wild dogs. Black dogs.
Alasdair was coming.
She cracked one eye open and saw the half-made girl had turned away, still laughing. It was now or never. Stevie rolled to the side, and her hand landed right on the Coke bottle.
The half-made girl roared with rage. Stevie could feel her rushing presence like an oncoming storm front.
She didn’t dare look back. Stevie swung her arm up and over, an awkward sidearm throw from the ground.
The half-made girl soared over Stevie’s head, shrieking, deformed hands stretched out ahead of her, trying to catch the bottle.
A sleek, feral form hurled itself into the half-made girl and buried its fangs in the back of her neck, bearing her down to the ground.
The bottle hit the heartstone and shattered, spraying bog water down the ancient stone’s side.
Stevie heard the chanting of a thousand Osage men and women and a single heavy drum beat that shook the cavern.
The water caught fire and raced down the stone, cleansing it with a purifying flame that had no color and smelled of campfires and lonely nights. The links of silver chain popped apart and flared on the surface of the heartstone like a swarm of fireflies.
The half-made girl struggled, trying to get out from beneath Alasdair, but she had no chance. Her flesh crisped like fried chicken, then cracked. Gray smoke leaked out, and the crunchy shell that had been her body crinkled and cracked apart. Flakes drifted into the darkness, floating away like charred leaves from an autumn bonfire.
Alasdair left the greasy stain on the floor and padded on all fours to Stevie’s side. He lowered his great, fanged snout, and licked the tears from her cheeks.
CHAPTER 74
THE LONG MAN screamed in Joe’s head. “Get the fuck up, Marshal. Finish your goddamned job.”
Joe felt another surge of strength accompany the command. The last of the half-made girls was dead; Joe could feel it. The plan was working, the new boss was slipping.
The Night Marshal reared up under the weight of the bats. They clung to him and dug their fangs into his arms, but Joe ignored the pain. He was close, so close, to ending this mess. He struggled out of his backpack, trying to shed the weight of some of the bats on his back. There was something else in his bag of tricks, one last surprise.
He staggered to the lip of the ledge and stared down, backpack in one hand and pistol in the other. The bats weighed on his shoulders, a cloak of teeth and pain. The monster swung its head toward him, the huge eye burning with raw hatred. Joe tensed, waiting for its attack. He was twenty feet above the hard stone floor, all out of places to run.
The new boss roared its challenge and came up like a freight train with fangs.
Joe knew he’d never get a shot off before it crushed him against the side of the cavern, so he didn’t try. He took a single step forward and fell, hurling his backpack down into the bloody crater he’d blasted through the top of the monster’s skull.
The dark god’s enormous head plowed into the stone just above Joe. Its snout shattered and rained blood, shards of limestone shot into its gaping eye.
Joe hit the ground hard, but the bats still clinging to him took the brunt of the fall. Their frail bones snapped apart and dug like tiny needles into his back. He rolled and struggled up to his feet, stumbling toward the dais.
He saw his shotgun resting on the floor and rushed toward it, grabbing the ancient weapon and getting back up on his feet in one smooth motion. He felt alive, burning with the power of opposing forces struggling to control him. Their power filled Joe with strength, but neither side could seize the reins of his body while the other remained. For this moment, he had all their strength and none of their liabilities. He was a free man for as long as they battled within his mind.
Joe could feel the last pieces of his desperate plan falling into place. He made it to his daughter before the abominable bat regained its senses. He hoisted the shotgun up onto his shoulder and leaned over his baby girl.
“Daddy?” Elsa asked, her voice hollow and echoing within the mask. “Can I rest yet?”
Joe shook his head. “Not just yet, little bit.”
Elsa looked at him with something like wonder in her eyes, but there was fear there, too. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I done somethin’ bad. I’m holding that thing against its will, like a Left-Hand Path witch.”
Joe nodded, and decades of conditioning himself to hate sorcery turned evil surged inside him like a knot of barbed wire in his guts. Things are always black and white until your back is against the wall. He’d been through hell, and now that he was almost out the other side of it he found his strict interpretation of the Night Law broadening. “Sometimes, ya gotta do bad to do good. You hang onto it, for just a little longer.”
; Elsa’s stared at her father, but she didn’t refuse. “I’ll try.”
The dark god staggered toward them, slowed by its injuries, its bristling back scraping the ceiling, crumpled wings elbowing along, scattering its dazed followers who’d been too slow or stupid to get into cover as they tried to decide what to do with themselves.
Joe walked toward it, shotgun over his shoulder.
The new boss stared at Joe. “You you you —”
Joe swung the shotgun up and drew a bead on the raging god. The weapon sighed in his hands, and Joe felt the weight of its history grounding him. It was an artifact of righteous vengeance, a weapon that had held many forms through the eons. The old man had once told Joe it had started life as a simple sling and stone in the hands of a shepherd.
He drew on the Long Man’s strength, sucking it down through his soul and into the gun. He pulled on the new boss’s power, as well, turning it back on itself. Runes glowed fire-engine red along the gun’s barrels, ancient wards against the primal evil flaring to life.
In the confines of his skull, Joe could feel the new boss trying to escape, to rip back the power it had given to him and dive back into its own reality. Try as it might, the mad god couldn’t get loose.
Elsa had the devil by its tail. It was trapped by the link it had forged between them. She held onto it even though she knew holding spirits against their will was wrong, even if they were monsters. She held onto it to save her father.
Joe held on, too, clinging to that piece of the new boss that was hooked into his soul.
For the first time in years, Joe prayed. His words were not a formula meant to wring small favors from an uncaring, distant deity, but a plea for justice. “God of my fathers, deliver this evil unto my hands that I might strike it down.”
Raw, furious power roared out of the shotgun, a focused cone of golden fire that plowed through roof of the new boss’s gaping maw. The burning battering ram blasted its front fangs down its throat and careened up through its palate, disappearing into the enormous brain in a cloud of sparking smoke.