“Nah,” Gage was quick to say. “If so, shit would've hit the fan and Om would have picked up some kind of chatter about it over channels. Plus, I don’t think the Order has anything tucked away that can do that much damage, else we would have heard about it at the Assembly.”
“I suppose you're right,” Ady stated. She exhaled and placed her hands on her hips. “Which still leaves us at square one: what caused this?”
Gage shook his head and that dark head of hair, slightly damp from sweat, flopped around. “All I know is what my gut is tellin’ me,” he said confidently, though his green eyes were uncertain. “If this was caused by those red eyed fuckers, it sure as hell wasn't Keli. If she ain't already dead, she's definitely in a world of hurt after…”
He went silent, thinking about the other day when they were at Machu Picchu. The amulet had taken control of him with such ease, yet inflicted so much hurt. Burning hellfire…scorching flesh… tortuous screams. Not only to that deserving demon bitch, but also to Ady and potentially the others he cared about. Had he not snapped out of it when he did, there was no chance any of them would still be alive.
Recognizing what that blank look on Gage’s face meant, Adrienne flung the dagger off into the brittle flowerbed and grabbed his hand hard. Her burn mark had lost some of its redness, but was still noticeable against her light skin. “It's alright,” she said calmly, her voice still able to work its magic and bring him around. “But Gage, if not Keli, then who? Some other demon or God forbid, worse? I didn't think there would be any more powerful than the Noctis’ leader.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of things out there, but thinking on what we know, maybe a Hell Knight?” Gage pondered that for a moment, weakly scratching an itch in his beard. “They're pretty powerful, right? But something still ain't sittin’ well with me. Hell Knights have been around for a while, far longer than Keli. Ya remember when we heard whispers about that one… what was his name? Baal? Gosh, that was around the time we all first met. Anyway, I dunno much about magic stuff, but if they were capable of doing this to the Lodge, they could’ve done it at any time before. They could've struck down HQ in New York for that matter, or blown the hinges off the cellar in Denver. Nah, this person is new on the scene.”
He paced back and forth a few nervous steps before moving over to the jagged edge of the porch. That itch had moved to the back of the neck, so he tended to it while watching Marcus help Joey up to his feet down the way.
The two men, tiny in the distance, walked up to the wreckage of the JSF and began to rummage cautiously through it, searching for anything useful. Based on what they'd seen, everything magical in the blast zone was out of commission, but it was still worth a check.
Cocking his head, Gage tilted it lovingly toward Adrienne. “Poor Joey,” he began. “I know he's taking this really hard.”
“He is,” Ady replied. “Can't blame him, though. This place, us, it's all he has.”
Gage looked back toward the workshop remains. “I'm glad he's got Marcus to occupy his attention now. Will help to take his mind off this… and other things.”
Adrienne looked over as Gage spit from the porch, wondering what he meant.
“I recollect what he said about the Incursion,” Gage continued before she could press him. “He said that someone would need to be pretty qualified to cast a big spell like this, right? Whoever we're dealing with is a notch, maybe two above a Knight’s pay grade.”
Adrienne’s eyes lingered a moment before she agreed. Gage might have been onto something and that chilled her to the bone. Not so much because he could be right, but if he was, the malevolence and strength of the attacker was off the charts.
“It seems I am always asking, but what now?” Ady questioned. Honestly, part of her wanted to race off into remote country and hide. The other part wanted to carry on with this fight, but she struggled to see which side was faring better.
“Well, right now,” Gage replied seriously, rapping his fingers on his thigh. “I need to get my gun back.”
A laugh slipped from Ady's lips as Gage stepped off the porch, his heavy boots stirring up ash. “Priorities! Hope you can still hit a target with your weapon,” she joked. “I mean that weapon. It has been a while since you've held it in your hand.”
He didn't turn, though a smirk formed on his face. As he walked off, a thick middle finger shot up in reply. “It takes hands, darlin’.”
“Well that’s gentlemanly,” Adrienne snickered as she jumped from the porch, falling in behind him. She noticed that he wasn’t swaggering, his pace quicker than usual. She had to hustle to keep up with him.
“Gentlemanly as I can be,” he said, swiftly closing the distance between the house and burnt-out lean-to.
Gage wasted no time grabbing up the axe, slapping it to his palm as he trekked to the rear of the structure and knelt down on the hard ground a couple feet away. Shoving the handle straight into the dirt, he began to scrape out a hole and with each rising puff of cinder and ash, it grew deeper and wider. It was only a few minutes before the blunt handle clanged against something metallic. He set down the makeshift shovel and delicately cleared away the remaining earth with his fingertips.
The side of a Masters of the Universe lunch box peeked back at him in stark contrast to the dark soil. As much as he loved his gun, he decided to store it that ordinary container, one that he might have procured from Joey without asking.
Gage grabbed and pulled out the dirty tin case, giving it a quick swipe with his palm. Flipping the latch, there was a welcoming click and he lifted the lid slowly, eyes widening when the familiar lines of that MK-23 came into view.
“There ya are, baby,” he said to her fondly, clutching the grip and pulling her out of the confines. She gleamed ever so slightly in the dim light.
Adrienne had been watching from the side, smiling. “Baby?” she said, feigning jealousy.
He chuckled, setting the box back on the ground. “You’ve nothing to worry about gorgeous; the main weapon is all yours.”
She rolled her eyes while walking back to the front of the lean-to, checking on how Joey and Marcus were doing. That little bit of happiness she gained soured; they hadn’t found anything salvageable, their hands empty of success.
Gage lumbered up beside her just as he placed the pistol in its holster, which he had also stuffed inside the lunch box. “Good ol’ non magical shit,” he said with gusto. “Ya can always rely on that.”
“Definitely,” she agreed, looking over to her man. His dark hair blew in the quick bursts of wind and he bore a confident look on his face. It gave her some strength as they stood amidst the wreckage of home, the full realization of what had happened still evading her. Her last memory there was breakfast before Denver and oh how far she had journeyed since then. As such, she felt lost, with no inkling of what to do next.
“Ya know what I really want to do?” Gage suddenly asked as if he read her mind.
Bracing for some kind of sarcastic one-liner, she shrugged and shook her head.
“Just rest,” he responded. “My soul’s too tired to fight, seeing all this.”
“All of this destruction,” Ady affirmed. “You've lost more than your fair share over the years Gage – especially the last few months. Sadly, Joey and I now have that in common with you, too. ‘Home is where the heart is’ they say, and when you lose it, part of you disappears with it.”
Gage might have agreed, but seeing her upset drove him to look for the good in the situation. He poked her hand with a finger, wanting her to take hold of his; she did right away. “Yep,” he said tenderly, “though we’ll manage. All we do is run in the darkness, fighting monsters of every imaginable kind. Hell, sometimes I feel the Devil’s mocking us, saying we’ll never get out of this alive. But I guess even though I've lost two homes, my parents, and even you once… I've come through.” He smiled and his white teeth beamed. “Wish I could say unscathed but I've always been a mental case. Heck though, I have ya back now ag
ainst all odds, plus Joey and even Marcus to a degree. The Devil may be trying to put a damper on things, but it's my choice to make him cry the entire way.”
Just then the patter of feet approached.
Turning toward the remnants of the Lodge, Gage saw Om delicately walking on his four legs around and over chunks of debris. He hadn't left the ship since they took off for Peru, so seeing him amongst the widespread devastation instead of the familiar surrounds of the Odyssey was jarring. When he got about five feet from them, he stretched out his thin arms and lifted his goggles to the top of his head, blinking those large eyes of his a couple of times.
“I couldn't help but overhear you both pondering the next course of action,” Om said to Gage’s puzzled face.
“Yeah,” Gage replied, searching for ears of any kind; he soon gave up when he couldn't see any. “We’ve got three more of the Solomon Six to find, no real idea where they are, and no place to put our heads at night.”
“Well, that last part hasn’t stopped you before,” Om countered. “You’ve made it this far, on far less and in little time. That is a blessing my big friend, not a curse.”
Gage turned his lips up. “You're right of course. Pretty on the ball for a cricket, Om.”
Adrienne gasped, causing herself to cough a few times. She was shocked that Gage would say such a thing and unsure how the diminutive creature would respond. It didn’t matter one bit that she might have been thinking the same thing.
“Of course I'm on the ball,” Om replied just as matter-of-factly as before. “You don't get to be two-hundred and fifty-seven by being ignorant. Unless you're a garden gnome, of course, but that is a whole other discussion; one we don’t have time for.”
Adrienne was relieved that Om took it so well, watching as he picked up one of the flaming rune stones at the edge of the path.
“You see,” he began as Gage stepped up to Ady’s side, “there are things in the worlds that serve only to annihilate life. The demons for example, are a powerful force of darkness.” He held out the burning rock in his palm, closing his other hand over it without so much as a wince. “Yet, wherever there is darkness, one will always find light to challenge it, driving it away faster than a strong wind does to smoke.” Om calmly shut his eyes, muttering an unrecognizable phrase under his breath. There was a fizzle, followed by a hasty pop. When he lifted his uppermost hand, he tossed the stone to Gage.
Expecting it to be hot, Gage retracted his palm as the cool stone landed, renewed and shiny as if polished in a river for countless years.
“Although we departed New York on less than savory terms,” Om continued while placing the goggles over his eyes; a crisp snap indicated they were in place. “I think we should go there to regroup, planning the next phase.” He turned, making his way back up the gentle slope.
“I suppose he’s right,” Gage agreed, albeit grumpily.
Adrienne, on the other hand, spoke out with joy. “I’ve never been to New York before; how exciting!”
Gage wasn’t as cheerful as she was, not even close. He spent a few seconds thinking of his experiences there, keeping some locked away. His thoughts soon found their way to Fenran and his smug, Elvish face. Cracking his knuckles, Gage relished the opportunity of giving that pompous asshole the gift of a fist or two.
He spun around and looked downhill, hollering loudly, “Hey J! Marcus! Come on gents, we’re heading out of this hellhole!”
THE SUN WAS sprinting to the Western horizon as night chased it from the east, the cloudless sky shifting to a purplish blue as faint pinpricks of distant stars began to pop in one by one. The air buzzed and a bolt of lightning suddenly flashed, smashing into the hard pavement with a thundering boom, muted by the loud beat of country music.
Dajjal had arrived, bent down on one knee. His skin was smoking through his clothes: a pair of tattered denim jeans and black denim jacket drenched with the stench of sulfur. He slowly rose, taking off a gray beanie and stuffing it in his back pocket. Beads of cooling sweat traced their way down his brawny chest and abs while his host’s verdant eyes fell upon an unassuming red-brick building across the street – source of the blasting tunes.
The formerly feeble Wilson Drake, now enslaved as Dajjal’s vessel, had piqued his interest in this shit-hole of a town; a few lingering memories knocking around in that bald head. Dajjal was fueled partly by an interest in understanding the human enemy, a species that he rarely dealt with outside of deliciously tormented souls. He wanted to get a taste of what made them tick, so followed Wilson’s loose mental breadcrumbs all the way to this chapter of the infamous motorcycle club, Snake Eyes.
Wilson had mentioned the MC during his ill-fated pact, along with something about them taking his prized bike. It was snatched away as penance for the chump’s past transgressions and that’s what motivated the other part of Dajjal. He sought to reclaim it, not for desire of material possessions, but for retribution. To him, revenge was a marvelous reason to deliver a message of to the inhabitants of this pathetic chunk of rock. Without remorse, he believed the worlds and everything that lived in them served no purpose other than to suffer by his hand.
Sniffing the chilled air as he stepped into the deserted road, Dajjal caught whiffs of marijuana and beer over the lingering sulfur, mixed in amongst hints of vomit and other unsavory odors. He spied a line of Harleys parked up ahead, the glow spilling out of the plain windows twinkling across their chrome trim and smooth paint jobs. There were fifteen bikes in total – an uneven mix of dark choppers and cruisers – yet not a single one managed to trigger any latent memories.
“Such a pity,” Dajjal said with a sardonic smile, looking to the front door and its weather-beaten façade. “Guess I’ll just have to ask them nicely where my ride is…” He strode onward, stepping around the parked cycles while his eyes lingered on the one closest to him.
It was … familiar.
Unable to look away, he wiped his brow before stretching out his fingers, running them along the customized Rocker C. It stood out from the rest, decorated with flecked burgundy paint, stylized black flames, and Dyna Wide Glide front end. As the dewy metal passed beneath his calloused fingertips, the bike acted like a key and the name Matthew Burdick was unlocked. His road name Merica soon followed, halting Dajjal’s admiration of the vehicle dead in its tracks.
If these fresh recollections were correct, Matthew was the son of this chapter’s President – an arrogant little bastard like his father, with no hair and his own proclivity for dealing out torment. Dajjal’s jaw panged during a fleeting memory: the Snake Eyes had come to collect and Matthew’s fist connected with a vicious uppercut, breaking loose a couple of Wilson’s teeth.
As he rubbed out the phantom soreness, irritation mixed in with the hurt, Dajjal couldn’t help but think that Matthew would have made a perfect host. A worthy one with brutality and strength vastly superior to Wilson’s scrawny ass.
Alas, what was done was done. Such a shame.
Dajjal blinked, his eyes filling with shadow while pupils seared with a red fire. Lifting away his fingers, an unseen force pushed hard against the bike’s fuel tank. It lurched, then smashed into the next one, which then fell into the next, and so on until the entire line had fallen like dominoes.
Eight Second Ride continued playing just as loud as ever, its riffs doing a fine job masking the sounds of metal scraping against metal. The occupants of the compound were none the wiser, unaware of the far from ordinary danger that prowled around outside.
Their time had come.
***
A toilet flushed as a rotund man with an equally tremendous beard exited the bathroom. He shuffled a few steps down the dingy hall before realizing his pants were still unbuttoned . Pressing a shoulder against the dark wood paneling, he began adjusting himself a bit too vigorously.
He wore a black leather vest, emblazoned with colored patches. ‘Snake Eyes MC’ ran arched along the top rocker while the center pie was an ornate cobra, coiled around a set
of crossed pistons. It had a dark green body and its face was a torn skull, eyes on fire with a die in each. The bottom rocker indicated they were in rural Tennessee.
The stench of what he left behind in the toilet caught up to him. Coughing, he plunged his hands deep into his pockets; out came matches in one that were promptly used to light up a pipe in the other. Taking a few puffs, his senses filled with smoke, helping mask the foul odor.
“Mudflap!” came a woman’s voice from the end of the hall during a break in the music; whether that shrill by nature or frustration it was hard to tell. “Jesus Christ,” she continued berating, “lay off the burritos you fat shit, and how many times do we have to tell you to use the goddamn fan? Your ass is already crawling its stinking way in here!”
“Shut it, Ratched!” he bellowed before licking his chapped lips, wrapping them around the bit for another draw. “Chromosexual bitch,” he said under his breath as he heaved off from the wall, passing gas before waddling back down the passage. “I ain't laying off no damn burritos.”
That's when the front door shook.
Mudflap stopped, unsure of what he heard. Another song had just kicked up, so he figured that must’ve been it and continued on toward the lounge. Then more shaking came, grabbing his attention again.
Curiosity spun him around and what his eyes saw, he couldn’t comprehend. The entire door was quivering, flecks of paint scattering in every direction. The shaking had grown so violent it threatened to tear the door right off its hinges.
Then, with an immense crack, it did just that.
The thick slab of wood rushed at him with the speed of a bullet, smashing right into his face. It splintered, breaking his skull into all sorts of pieces while shards pierced the flesh of his hefty body. It was flung down the hall and he soared straight into the lounge, much faster than he could ever have walked. Crashing into the stereo, the adjacent wall stopped his advance, killing the tunes. With a loud thud, Mudflap fell to the ground as a broken heap.
Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3) Page 2