by Jesse Dedman
I bet Jack had more involvement than what he lets on. I assumed this at first, but after my questions were bluntly ignored, I now know for sure. Either way, perhaps having a disbanded member of the Marauders would work in our favor. But I’m still indifferent as to whether I would actually save him if the time ever comes.
Entry Thirty-three, 1/16/15
Status report? What the fuck is there to say? Jack never regrouped with the rest of us. But he sure took it upon himself to ridicule my constant log. He grabbed the journal, ripped pages out at random, stating that I was wasting my time. I protested, but all it did was urge him to toss the journal further into the woods.
Everyone had reached their boiling point, even though James tried to distract Grace with some stories from time to time, the tensions ran higher than ever. I finally told them of what I intended to do. James already knew, but he didn’t really jump in to back me up. Grace didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to, I could already tell that she didn’t believe me. Even when I explained the videos, they disregarded it. I think the realization was too much for them to try to even bear. To actually accept the existence of Hell and its army invading Earth sounds too insane. So Jack did what he does best, act irrational. He took my bag, kicked it away and found my journal as he raided the rest of the contents.
The others weren’t so incline to assist me, but the commotion baited us for an ambush of rogue survivors willing to shed blood for our supplies. They nearly caught us by surprise, but Grace’s instant dive for cover alarmed us all to follow suit. We were separated, too distant from each other to whisper a plan, while a group of six rough-looking men scanned our site with automatics.
Two men approached my location as I pressed my chest against the muddy terrain, hiding in the grass. The only thing I could think of was that my shotgun was by the tree, several feet away from me, and my 9mm was tossed when my bag was thrown. I breathed heavily and unevenly, moist soil and bacteria traversed through my nose. Mud soaked against my face, digging deeper into my pores. I feared for my life, thinking of things in a rush, while Grace screamed. I could hear her running through the thick woods. The men fired, all of them, aiming in the same direction, but I have no idea if it hit home.
Jack, however, fired wildly with my handgun to get beaten down. He missed his targets completely, strange for someone with military experience, and his decision to head out into the open was premature at best. The men bashed him, beating him a few feet away, but I couldn’t do a damn thing. I was powerless, completely powerless.
They didn’t kill him, though. They beat the living shit out of him and carried him away. I could spot James daring for an attack, but the fully automatics reminded him of the power they had over us. I could tell he thought about it. I could tell by the way he gripped the neck of his bass; the way he stared at them as if he was determined to give them hell.
They left the clearing shouting things as an engine fired up.
Grace was nowhere to be found, but an alarming splatter of blood gave me little hope as to her condition. If they took her with them, she only had a matter of time until they finished her off, or until she bled to death.
James was furious, and though I can’t blame him, I also couldn’t full heartedly support his plan to go after them. He dismissed my advice and stormed away, stopping only to gather the remains of our supplies. Everything we had with the exception of what was in my bag was stolen: my shotgun, the case of bottled water, the beer, and junk food.
I found my journal, obviously. James and I sat near a tree, sharing a beer I had stashed in my bag. James caved first, breaking the uncomfortable silence, spilling his ideas while trying to hide the fact that they were drafted because of his emotional ties with Grace. I thought it silly that he felt the need to rescue her so quickly, but I couldn’t justify undermining his intent, not then anyway. He constantly pushed for us to head after them, but we had little to go on.
I tried to tell him why we left him when we did, but I dodged the subject. I simply suggested that we would track them down as we continue with the plan, but he refused to listen. James insisting became impossible to reason with. So, from here on out, we are officially going off course from the mission.
Entry Twenty-four, 1/17/15
Day one of James’ fantastic investigation and everything went according to plan. That is, if you consider being detected by pesky carnivorous, and bloodthirsty floating heads a part of the plan. They appeared severed from corpses, and instead of crawling along the ground by the strength of their teeth, they were given the gift of flight, at least the power to slightly hover and gravitate. Either way, the demonic entities were determined to hunt us down and finish the job their slower counterparts couldn’t.
I don’t remember if there were any signs of their approach. I can’t recall any strange sounds or any change in stench. The only moment in time that comes to mind was when James and I followed the tracks out to a paved road. The local buildings and places of business were all abandoned, mimicking that of a ghost town in an old western. It struck me as odd that the army of walking corpses didn’t populate this particular spot. I still believe what I believed then, that the presence of the Marauders has effectively reduced the number of these disgusting horrors. I wanted to leave them alone; I still do. But James wouldn’t listen to reason, and the sight of the Jeep abandoned in the street didn’t help in my favor.
They took everything they could carry, leaving a few rounds of ammo, a handgun, and a crowbar. A smear of blood stained the fabric of the backseat, marking where Grace had been. From the amount, she probably only has a few hours left. James was furious, and if the Marauders wanted to provoke the metal-head into a hellish frenzy they were surely doing a fantastic job. James couldn’t be controlled. I couldn’t talk to him. Much more, I couldn’t prevent him from following the blood splatter to a desolate strip-mall. I could hardly catch up, I didn’t have the energy to push any harder. I could hardly make out the scene from my position, but it appeared as if James stormed with a fully loaded gun and a bass reinforced with scrap metal.
By the time I arrived, fresh mutilated bodies were strewn about with puddles of blood forming into a larger mass. The screams and gunshots echoed, piercing the silence with such intrusiveness that I’m sure it announced our location to every dead thing within a twenty-mile radius. I guess we were fortunate that only the floating heads took the approach, but I’m not so sure about how much better they really are. They might not clog the street, but smaller targets that float and pivot in mid-air make for annoying enemies. James was already deep in the building, in a backroom where he pummeled an already slain member of the Marauders. The narrow space made for good cover, if it weren’t for the choking space, I’m sure the floating fiends would’ve gotten the best of us.
I stayed in the corner, firing rounds warily at the ones that slipped past James. My nervous hands reduced my aim, slugs slammed through the drywall, engraving into brick, while only a few actually hit home.
I didn’t know they could shoot flame, and I, not knowing what to expect, froze when the time to move became most important. My left hand was caught in a searing projection of flame, burning the hairs clean off while leaving behind a throbbing sensation of pain.
We closed the door after we cleared the first wave of them. James thinks it is silly that I continue to write these logs, as if anyone would take the time to read it during these hellish times…. Perhaps he is right.
Through a combination of James’ rage, Marauder activity, and demented fiends, we destroyed this family owned video store. Bullet holes punched through the walls of the backroom, scorched surfaces mark the fire-tongue the fiends were so willing to use. I’m surprised that James only received a few grazes from the Marauders, I suppose they weren’t expecting to be attacked by a crazed, psychotic metal-head gone berserk for the possibility of getting laid one last time. That’s what it seems to boil down to. James refuses to agree, but I find the joke to be the only way I can cope wi
th this suicidal deviation. It wasn’t bad enough that we risked our lives surviving for another day, I guess. I suppose making us easy victims of the Marauders would only increase the fun…
What the fuck are we doing?
Entry Twenty-Five, 1/19/15
The relief of surviving for as long as we had felt good, but the shuffling outside the door was evidence that our break would have to wait, and I barely managed to catch my fucking breath, much less find something to treat the painful burn that scarred my arm. The Marauders, if they weren’t aware before, became alarmingly aware once they noticed the mess James made of their people. They taunted for us to come out from the backroom just before spraying lead, tearing through the drywall, nearly hitting us out of sheer luck.
James knocked against the backdoor several times, trying with might while bullets whirled by, and he tumbled once it opened. Down before the feet of a Marauder, James did as he was ordered and remained still. The thug of a soldier enjoyed the moment, wanting to do more than time permitted, but I peered from behind the door with a rushed shot that maimed his firing arm. James jumped back onto his feet and sent the man flying with an upward swing. With a deep gorge carved into his chest, the militant flew a few feet, hitting his head on a dumpster. A remarkable shot, if I say so myself. While I was impressed, James remained completely focused and ordered me to follow.
We ran down the alley with little cover. Doors locked within were our only outlets of escape, mocking us as the Marauders enclosed from behind with fully automatics ready to burn. We turned down an alley, and James shattered the glass of a pawnshop with his bass for a quick escape. I scampered for cover, but managed to carefully step over the shards of glass that lined the large window. I threw my weight into a corner, where I huddled with my pistol ready to claim the lives of those that turned the corner.
James knelt near the window, using a gun display for cover. He had a whole arsenal at his disposal, but he entrusted his fate to a magnum and a desert eagle. We waited with sights raised, arms shaking to the strain, hands slick with sweat, as our minds ran wild with fear. I know for a fact that my finger itched to pull, nearly jumping several times at something when there was really nothing. But, in our defense, there was gunfire and lots of it. The gunfire muffled the majority of the screams, with the exception from those that approached the window.
We watched as a couple of Marauders ran for the window as fire licked their flesh. They screamed for help, and I could see the cry for mercy in their eyes, but there was nothing we could do. We were still hyped and paranoid, or at least I was, and shots were fired. Shots that I don’t full-heartedly regret, as they served two purposes. Like a magnet to metal, the floating demonic heads descended for the window, and we did the only thing we could. Our guns thundered, muting our roars as we poured slugs, with feet ready to dodge. I don’t think we actually killed any more than four. Constantly moving, swerving, pivoting, and hovering as they fired at us, our fate was sealed. I found myself in James’ corner as his guns thundered in my ear. The shots hit their mark, but the head spun and returned with friends, all of which released a bath of fire towards our direction. A cocoon of boiling heat wrapped around me as the flames consumed the furnishings around me. James shielded us with his bass guitar, and though he tried with great effort to retain his cherished item, the unrelenting wrath gave him no choice but to toss it. He threw down the bass, knocking a floating fiend before it smashed into a bookshelf.
James rolled for another shelf, grabbing a handheld power saw, while I fired off the last of my clip. A bullet pegged forcefully between the eyes, causing the head to flip backwards before crashing onto the ground. I believe it actually flipped twice before it ate the floor.
There is nothing like the sound of a thin metallic blade churning over four thousand rotations a minute; the sound crept through my spine then just as it does now merely remembering it. But when James powered the device, when he harnessed that buzz saw for the flesh tearing, muscle rending, and bone carving power, he tapped into an instant death machine. Like a fighter in a cage match, James leapt over the counter with the buzz saw screaming, slamming it into the head. The saw ripped through the flesh, spraying blood everywhere, but the head produce one last ball of flame before James pounded it into the ground. The handheld device smoked and glowed red from the intense heat, but James released just in time.
He kicked the mutilated head away, and almost cried at the sight of his chard bass. He spent several minutes looking over the various guitars the establishment had for sell, but none of them had the same feel. He would pull them off the wall and judge by their swing ability, as if he purposely acquired his original for this insane, horrific episode we find ourselves in now. The guitars that failed to win him over were smashed against the counter. He threw the shattered necks at a stack of amps, and tried another.
He found another bass guitar, a black one with the same body as his original. It fascinates me how fast he thought up the modification. With a couple of nails and circular saws, James turned the Bass into fierce and powerful weapon.
All the commotion must have disturbed him, but it was odd to think that the strange old man was in the other room the entire time. A short, wrinkly Persian that walked with his frail body supported by a cane. He emerged out from a patch of wall that folded inward like a swinging door, and instantly reacted at the mess before him. The musky, bearded man revealed himself to be the owner of the place solely by his reactions alone. Who else would be so alarmed by the sight of a shattered window, chard shelving, ruined merchandise, and so forth? Much more, who other than the owner would stress the financial impact as if it cursed him to live a life of extreme debt and poverty?
He wasn’t so welcoming to our presence, and it took some convincing to get him to accept that we would be staying. We sort of forced the man into showing us the other side of the store, a full-fledge mystic shop.
He never gave us his name, but that was a secret he could keep for it was the only one we didn’t care to pry for. The others, however, were a different story. We gave him with thanks for allowing us to enter his other shop, but we didn’t spare him from our vulture stares. A wave of questions spewed from our mouths, and the man didn’t feel comfortable answering a single one. Like a man of shame and guilt, scared to reveal the tiny details that float in his mind. The man simply shrugged when asked why he stays, but while that worked for James, it didn’t work for me.
I exchanged honesty for the prospect of his comfort, knowing that comfort besets trust-worthiness. I unveiled our reasons, starting from the Hell Gates, and leading into our little debacles, and ending with our recent skirmish. I skimmed through the later details after noticing how his face shifted the further I went away from the Hell Gates. I explained what I found from the ‘Genesis’ video, and his eyes widened.
The man spilled his secrets like a Mississippi flood. Apparently, he not only owned a mystic shop, but he constantly studied the lore of the black arts: the spells, the old religions, the forgotten rituals, and the symbolic items. He spoke of Neolithic cultures, of ancient tools of otherworld communication that pre-dated ours, and worked far better than anything the modern world could create. Though he never actually practiced the hardcore ghost channeling, he had volunteered in animal sacrifices and other strange, morbid acts of worship. Where he found the people to do such things is besides me, and he wouldn’t reveal any names.
That’s fine, everyone has their secrets, and some should stay locked behind the heaviest of vaults. The Persian slipped and stated that he received a rather strange artifact recently. Something that trumps everything rumored and known about Ouija boards, something that stands close to the original creation, the tool used by ancient tribes of a forgotten world. Engulfed in shadow the lost culture might be, but this device could actually bring souls back from the grave.
James returned to the conversation, but with his fists ready to interrogate the old man. I pushed him back; nothing helpful would come out from that. Th
e man already said his piece. Difficult to fathom, even more difficult to accept, the man held the device that brought forth this hell, but he no longer had it. He informed that the board was in the possession of his little girl, and she never returned after playing her little game.
James delivered a punch to the old man, but I intercepted just in time. He knocked me in the side of my face, but I didn’t hit back. I wasn’t going to let his simple minded emotional reaction kill the one person that could help reverse this epidemic. Did the old man deserve punishment? Certainly, he did. But the man was our only ticket to actually closing the gates.
James’ remark about the Marauders caught the old man’s attention. The people that we are to rescue our friends from were the same that provided the old man protection. They patrolled the area, pillaging for supplies, while working on a plan to stop Hell’s army.