by Roy Bright
I bet none of them killed the fucking Son of God, he had said, chastising himself. He had never spoken to anyone in the kitchen and even fewer in the outside world. His interpersonal skills had taken a serious turn for the worse over the years and that notion had him wondering if he would indeed be able to last another two days looking after this child.
He shakes his head and observes himself in the mirror. He looks much better. The toiletries he had stashed away in the lock-up had been put to good use, as had the hair clippers. Gone was the wild afro and beard and in its place, a buzz cut and clean shaven face. He had even treated himself to an extended shower, albeit a cold one. Stupid shit motel, he had moaned, but beggars could not be choosers and he needed this place, as bad as it was. All that aside, he felt clean again and smiled to himself as he rubbed his tattoo covered arms. He had replaced his dirty tramp rags with clean clothing. Gone were the stained and ripped jeans, in were new blue ones with not a rip in sight. Gone was the mangy tee shirt, in was a clean new black article. However, most enjoyable of all, he was wearing new, clean socks and shoes. Putting them on had felt like a little slice of heaven and at first he didn’t want to take the shoes off; old habits die hard. If you took your shoes off when living rough, you were almost certain to wake up and find them gone. But tonight, well, tonight was different. He had a bed, food and clean water and cold or not, he was going to enjoy this little piece of luxury. He continues to stare at himself in the mirror. He ponders his next move whilst turning off the tap. Where were they to go? Where could he take the child and guarantee her safety? He knew of only one man that he could trust and the only living soul in existence who knew of his true identity.
Father Francis Keel had been a missionary of sorts, visiting and tending to the lowlifes and the wretched in the dark alleys where Judas had kept himself to himself. The priest had tried to help those poor souls by bringing them food and medicine, talking to and reassuring them. He would deliver the tired old story of the Church that God had a purpose, a plan, that he hadn’t abandoned them.
He had always scoffed at that speech. God had no plan for these people nor any creature for that matter. He had just thrown them all into the mix together like a cruel cockfight, different races, colors, creeds and ideals and watched as they tried to tear each other to pieces. For the longest time he had hated God, despised him even, believing the punishment handed down to him had far outweighed the crime. He had convinced himself that he was now the one who had wrong done unto him. As time went by however, he had realized that he was wrong on all accounts, but well over a thousand years of the repetitive loss of loved ones and the pure madness of man had taken its toll and by the time he came across the young Father Keel in the early nineteen sixties, Judas was without doubt, clinically insane. On that day however, he had found something inside himself, a spark of recognition of his former humanity. He was grateful for the beast that still raged within him as he attacked the men that had tried to rape, murder and rob the young priest. There was enough of Judas Iscariot, the human being, left inside him to recognize a soul in need, but as he witnessed the attack on the young priest, his primal nature had taken over. The last of the men had managed to slash at his throat in a wild and frenzied, last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, before he had ripped him to pieces. The attacker had caused a deep wound. Father Keel had seen it, clear as day with his own eyes as he cowered on the floor, recoiling from the violence in its explosive glory. He had seen how his wound had healed itself in front of his very eyes and he knew that this man was a man of God. After that day, the priest had visited him time and time again, spending just short of two years reasoning with him, bringing his senses back into the light of sanity.
He had never forgotten that act of devotion and kindness from the priest and had decided to confide in him, to tell him everything. After all, he was a man of God; what harm could it do.
Father Keel continued to deliver the same speech to him every day; that God had a plan, a purpose for him.
He admired him for keeping his faith and trying to show him the way, the pure path. He was a good man and if it were not for him, he would still be lost to madness to this day.
As he looked into the mirror contemplating his options, he knew that the Father was right. God did have a plan for him and this was it; to protect the Coming of His Second Word.
He had decided.
Father Keel was his best and indeed, only option but the journey would be tricky to say the least. He resided in Jersey City and getting there would be no easy task. He would have to travel through New York City, the Holland Tunnel and into Jersey itself. He knew all too well that it wouldn’t just be demons looking for the girl but other people also. Men and women of law enforcement agencies would be trying to recover what they believed to be a kidnapped child. There is no way what happened in the Orphanage would go un-investigated and that meant that they were running out of time. Still, he had to try and get her there in whatever way he could. At the end of the day, the only thing that mattered to him was her survival and his forgiveness, and anything that got in his way, well, it would be in his way. He turns off the light, walks back into the room and lies back on top of the bed. He looks over the side and checks on her one last time. He smiles before returning his head to the pillow. He feels under it and his hand connects with one of his Berettas. Reassured, he casts one final look at the clock. It is now 03:54.
Time for some more of this quality shuteye, the best shuteye I have had in ages. Then, in six hours we find Father Keel and that will be that. He closes his eyes and drifts away.
Fourteen
Saturday 10 November 2012, 09:29
Kento and Masaki sit in a coffee house on Union Street in Brooklyn.
The place reeks of pretention and Kento hates it. Various methods and styles of seating adorn the room in what he imagines the owners would consider witty and bohemian in appearance. Fucking idiots, he grunts to himself.
The coffee house is alive with ‘artistic types’, all connected into whatever the latest hot gadget is this year, holding loud conversations into their various devices, all with the sole purpose of announcing their pathetic and meagre self-importance.
Kento sits and observes these ‘trendies’ and ‘hipsters’ who flock to this art house melting pot of culture on a Saturday morning and he hates them all. These fucking dogs wouldn’t know the first thing about style, art or how to carry themselves with true magnificence and nobility as of old. He grumbles.
Kento and Masakai weren’t Japanese. They hadn’t originated from Ancient Japan; they were older in time than that, created in the darkness that existed much earlier than man’s imprint on the world. They weren’t anything of human origin at all, but like their direct superior Zenaku Hotoke, they had been caught up in the majestic and epicurean nature of Ancient Japan and had decided to retain that form until they became tired of it. Although they had been this way for over five hundred years, it was just a mere spec of sand in time to them and they were not ready for a change, not just yet.
Kento sips his coffee and turns to his partner sat in silence, reading a comic book. He frowns and sighs, grabbing the comic from his hands. “Knightfall?”
“Issue #497,” he responds, incorrect in assuming that Kento is expressing an interest in the literature. “It’s where Bane breaks Batman’s back. I love this one because the hero gets—”
Kento holds up a hand putting an immediate halt to his inane ramblings. “Why on earth would you read such… drivel, anyway? Comics are for kids.”
“No, they’re not,” he replies, offended. “Millions of adults read comic books these days, it’s a fact! Besides, I love it when the hero gets the shit kicked out of him.”
The last remark garners a wry smile from Kento. “You really are a simple creature aren’t you, Masakai?”
They smirk at each other for a moment.
Masakai returns his attention to the comic. “Fuck you, Batman.” He laughs.
Kento l
ooks at him and joins in. The ringing of his cellphone interjects their laughter and he trades it for seriousness as the ringtone indicates a ‘specific’ source. He answers it, his tone dry as he speaks into the tiny phone, “What have you got for me?”
Masakai closes the comic and pays attention.
“Yeah… aha… aha… yeah… where... aha… how long ago... yeah… okay.” He terminates the call then taps into his smartphone.
Masakai stares at him. “Well?”
“We have a location on the girl and Iscariot. Our guy received a report of a motel owner who thinks he has seen the car. Some cop is on the way now to check it out.”
Masakai shrugs, “How do we know it is definitely them? It might be a shit lead?”
“It’s them all right. How many badass motherfuckers do you know running around driving that car?”
He pushes out his bottom lip slightly and nods in agreement.
Kento continues tapping into his phone. “Fucking thing!” He remonstrates with the device, stabbing at the screen with his right index finger. “I fucking hate these things!”
Masakai sighs, takes out his device and asks, “What are you looking for?”
Kento concedes and drops his phone to the table, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. “Atherbright Motel, just outside Southampton, Long Island.”
Masakai grunts. “Well, at least we are on the right side.”
Kento looks at him and frowns, annoyed. “Does it really fucking matter? Just get me an image will you, for fuck’s sake.”
Masakai mocks his partner, much to his disapproval, then taps and slides his finger over his device. In seconds, he declares, “Got one!”
“Okay, great.” Kento says. Picking up his own phone from the table he half stands, pauses then looks at him. “You have got what we need, haven’t you?”
He screws up his face and shakes his head, “Not everything. Just need the blood of an innocent.”
Kento sighs and once again rubs his forehead looking down into his lap, “Seriously, Masakai, one of these fucking days!” He ceases the rubbing and looks up. His eyes flare a vivid orange as he surveys the room, scanning back and forth a couple of times. He stops, his gaze fixing upon a young woman who is just returning from the bathroom. He pulls out his gun from inside his jacket and shoots her straight through her right temple.
The place explodes with deafening screams. Tables and chairs scrape across the floor followed by cutlery and porcelain scattering to the ground as people scramble for cover everywhere.
The demons stand and amble towards the dead woman, Masakai having joined his partner sporting his own firearm, training it back and forth, slow and steady, whilst he turns in circles, subverting the throng of cattle. Both men smile as the sound of human screams lifts their spirits. They are demons of decay, destruction and death and this is their song, this is their beautiful music filling their ears and swimming in their heads. Kento stands over the body. Blood has begun pooling under her face, her left side being visible to him, her mouth and eyes wide open. He pumps five more rounds into her body and blood erupts from each entry wound.
The coffee house reaches a new level of terror as people scream louder, terrified that they will be next.
He holsters his weapon and grabs the young woman by her long blonde hair now matted with her own blood and drags her body with no effort at all.
Masakai continues to train his firearm around the room, keeping the cattle restrained and cowering. He doesn’t care if they moved or not, he just thinks it looks cool.
Pulling the door to the restroom open, Kento enters dragging the woman in with him.
Masakai smiles at the carnage, taking a moment to soak up every last ounce of terror and misery and then he follows his partner.
Neither speaks.
Holstering his weapon, Masakai kneels down and wipes his right hand over the woman’s body covering it in her blood. He stands and starts smearing a symbol over the right-hand wall of the tiny cubicle.
The cubicle is so small that the dead woman’s feet stick out of the door preventing it from closing all the way. The sound of sobbing fills the air as people cower, wondering just what in the hell is going on, deliberating whether they should chance moving, scared out of their minds. Two young men take the opportunity to rush for the door and the rest of the occupants turn their attention towards them, waiting. The men open the front door and leave. There is a brief pause then more people follow their actions, the sound of scraping tables and chairs once again spiking into the air.
Masakai wipes his hand on the dead woman’s jeans, just over her right thigh in an attempt to remove as much of her blood as possible. Dissatisfied at his work he tuts and then commences to lick his hand, grunting gratification as he does so.
Kento outstretches his right hand and looks at the licking Masakai. “Phone!”
He stops and hands his phone to Kento.
Kento eyes the screen then, annoyed and holding the phone back at Masakai, sighs, “It’s locked!”
“Umm, sorry!” He retrieves the phone from his partner and jabs at the screen with his thumb leaving bloody prints on it. The phone clicks and he hands it back to him.
Kento stares at the image and the address written underneath, then looks into the symbol on the wall and starts to mumble, chanting; a mere whisper at first then rising in magnitude and pitch. His eyes burn bright yellow as the chanting rises to a crescendo and the symbol glows a fierce red. He grabs a hold of the left sleeve of Masakai’s jacket, forcing him to stand as the noise in the cubicle reaches a peak.
A young woman in the coffee house has managed to free herself of the sheer terror that has gripped her for the last two minutes and has decided to make a break for it also. She stands and starts to leave but then pauses, her attention turning to the restroom door and the feet sticking out of it as the sound of repetitive words grow in volume and intensity. She hates the words; they are dark and damaging and she reaches up with both hands, covering her ears, grimacing; the dampening only serving to dull the sound, not shut it out altogether. A pulsing, red light burns from out of the doorframe, growing in ferocity. A whirling, much like that of a jet engine firing up, spills out of the room. The red light glows even brighter, the noise even louder.
The woman presses her hands tighter to her head and closes her eyes, dropping to her knees. Paper cyclones all around her as a vicious wind swirls up within the shop. She bends over, her head almost touching the floor as the intensity of the elements peaks and screams.
From out of the bathroom, roars a loud dry sucking sound and then, the light and noise disappear whilst at the same time an unseen force slams against the door, pushing it open detaching the top hinge and leaving it dangling supported only by the one at the bottom.
Breathless, the woman removes her hands from her head and slowly looks up towards the bathroom. Save for the body of the unfortunate young woman, the tiny cubicle is empty.
Fifteen
Saturday 10 November 2012, 09:36
The woman draws a stocking up over her smooth and slender right leg, aware that the man in the bed is watching; lusting after her. He hasn’t paid for another session so teasing him gives her great satisfaction. Maybe she could ‘work him up’ into throwing another three hundred bucks into her purse. She seduces him, pulling the stocking up even slower, licking her lips.
He smiles at her. “Goddamn it, you’re hot! But I don’t have any more money.”
Abi Colter sits on the edge of the bed in Room 14 and disappointment replaces seduction as she hoists up the rest of the stocking, repeating the process just as fast with the other. She stands and forces down her very short, very tight-fitting red dress, wiggling her bum and hips in the process. She is stunning.
Dust particle filled beams of light project through the narrow gap in the dirty grey curtains and highlight her beautiful long golden hair. Her exquisite 5ft 8in figure is framed in the early Saturday morning light and as Herb Williams lay on the b
ed soaking up her beauty, he wished he had more money. Abi possesses the sort of beauty that would have any man die for her with a single wave of a hand, but all that beauty came at a price and like so many others, it was her undoing.