by Jesse Dedman
James and I rest in the store. The old man provided some chai tea, but then left for the second floor. I drink the tea while wondering why in the Hell I let James form plans. The lunatic wants to charge into the apartment complex, where the Marauders supposedly set as their headquarters.
Entry Twenty-Six, 1/20/15
A relentless wave of lead rained at our direction, catching use completely off-guard and nearly sending us to our graves. Tiny rivets punched through the wooden face of this humble mystic boutique, shattered glass rained along the floorboard, while we scampered for additional cover.
If Hell’s legions don’t kill us first, the Marauders surely will. A creation of God so willing to play the Devil’s game, taunting us with thick descriptions of torture and ridicule, as they continued to drain their magazines.
The sound resonates with me now as I huddle next to a warming flame that burns within a ruined barrel. So much information to go over, too much for what little time we have left. The Marauders could return at any moment, and knowing their record, they will most certainly not stop until our bodies are confirmed.
But the firefight, the needlessness sudden wave of extreme violence destroyed the first floor of this little shop. Cornering us behind weathered bookshelves. We were arms length away, but our voices, our shouts, were muffled and distorted as we returned fire. I forced my charred hand around the handle of another gun, and strained as I fired wildly at the sunglass-wearing thugs. James returned what my pathetic attempt couldn’t with a semi-automatic found stashed away in the pawnshop. A controlled burst rattled through the wall, sure to give our assailants a difficult time. But while James fired his gun, I noticed a pool of blood behind the counter.
I feel inhuman now that I reflect on my reaction. The sight of the lifeless old man wasn’t what really shocked me. It was the dread of never knowing what he knew. The man held a mental database of knowledge that we would surely need in order to succeed. He was the one that had contact with the item that brought on this damnation! His daughter is the girl responsible for the devilish pact! But his story, his source of wisdom and insight was now just as valuable as the blood that pooled around him, completely wasted.
James fought the Marauders off, and they didn’t have a chance to scurry away for back up. Hopefully, if James is correct, we should be clear for the night. He looks out the window, observing carefully for another attack while I try to make sense of the information stashed in an empty box that seems to be a very historic variation of the Ouija board package.
Unfortunately, I think the previous owner had a bit of a sense of humor and attached the typical bullshit instruction guide with nothing on how to open, close, or reverse a Hell portal. My disgruntled outburst caught James by surprise, and he tried hard to calm me, I’ll give the bastard that. I tore through the shelves looking for something to give an answer, but I wasn’t reading any of it. I simply grabbed, glanced, and trashed while James continued to remind me to lower the noise. Fuck the noise, were already dead anyway.
I calmed down a bit since then, but I still haven’t found anything that could really help. Sure, this shop has all sorts of wonderful advice on mysticism, ghost channeling, and spirit calling, but nothing on satanic pacts of this sort. If I don’t find something James will start planning…
Entry Twenty-seven, 1/21/15
I shouldn’t hold it past him. I mean, I really can’t foresee how any other train of events could’ve possibly transpired. James Mustang is essentially a metal head bent on reaching some elusive mental image of unstoppable badass, which would officially make him beyond psychotic than previously thought. His plan? Of course, it begins with a plan, why would this possibly have nothing to do with one of His plans? He approached me this morning armed to the teeth with every fucking illegal weapon the neighboring pawnshop had to offer, and it alarmed me on multiple levels quite frankly. One, our pawnshops hold a lot more behind the counter than what is legally justifiable. I mean, why would a pawnshop carry an M16? Second, our youths have more access to weapons than initially thought, just sneak behind the counter and take your pick. Third, James is determined like hell to get us fucking killed!
I nearly laughed, but my concern for my own safety and survival took over, transforming my would be taunting laughter into harsh remarks of criticism. James reacted as if I gave him a compliment and walked towards the window, orally conducting a plan that he so thoughtfully perceived.
His smart ass fabricated a plan that boiled down to merely marching straight for the apartments in broad daylight, making us practically visible to any curious fucker that just so happens to look out the window. Assuming, the Marauders are as half decent as they seem, they would probably be more inclined to watch for any suspicious intruders. James seemed confused as to why I couldn’t agree to his plan.
After minutes of trying to convey to him the stupidity of his plan, I decided to take another route and just tweak his current plan. He seemed too determined for the apartment complex for me to advise otherwise, but he didn’t mind going a more discrete route through the networking alleys.
From a distance, we scouted with binoculars, observing for movement to find that perhaps marching head on would’ve work anyway, as the Marauders seem more concerned with sending out search parties than securing the fort. James led the way to a ground level apartment and climbed over the low fence, and suggested for me to follow as he peered through a window. The single bedroom abode was trashed, mattress against the wall, stains of bodily fluids, liquor, soda, hot sauce, and such embedded into the grungy carpet, while bullet holes form irregular patterns on the walls. Despite the mess, the coast was clear and we entered, taking our hunt one step at a time.
I only had a small chance to jot this down now, while James sits in contemplation, scanning carefully for the best possible attack route. At least, that’s what I assume he is doing.
Entry Twenty-eight, ~1/22/15
I thought the smell was horrid before, strong enough at times to evoke sudden vomit and convulsions, but those odors have nothing on this. Where ever this is. Hell, could it really be? I don’t know, and I doubt I would accept the truth even if it stood right in front of me. What I do know is that there isn’t much light, which means that the moist floor and walls could be any number of things. A womb? An intestine? The pale glow of my cell phone can only provide so much, revealing a dark corrosive substance lavishly lathered upon something unrecognizable.
How things all connected, and they connected so very well, I will never know. But the Marauders understood more than I initially thought and the truth came out once we raided the upper floor of the complex. With chunks blasted through the walls, the entire second floor was a winding network of trashed rooms, and we stormed through with like a couple of meth heads killing through an amazing high. James pumped rounds into the few that tried to block us, while I fired at those that tried to flank us. We took many to the grave, but not without barely surviving a number of close calls that left us bleeding.
The lick of a sharp blade nipped my burnt arm, and the pain continues to throb as I write. I pray that my blood doesn’t ruin this journal, making it completely unreadable for any that follow our path. Assuming any would dare the same thing we did.
Though the bullets flew wild, streaming by, nearly grazing us, the downpour of lead didn’t send us to this void. No, we secured our assailants’ fate with a quick delivery until we reached him. I didn’t get his name, but he stood over Jack and Grace as if he insisted to bombard them with questions.
His glance stopped us in our tracks, and he whispered something into a hand radio that triggered a swarm of Marauder thugs to emerge out from the woodwork. We were fucked, absolutely fucked just as we are now. And the others could do nothing to help. Grace lay on a bed with her shoulder wrapped in bandage, while Jack sat tied to a chair with fresh blood dripping from his nose.
He approached us, the strange and yet professional figure, with a sincere question regarding the old man. This que
stion alone dispelled my fears that he would have us pay for the body count, but this dreamy idea plummeted the moment James spoke. The man freaked out, screaming for mercy from a God that appeared too busy to intervene. His crew raised their weapons, roughed us up, but stopped under his command.
He didn’t want us dead, at least not then anyway. He informed us through an egocentric monologue the same shit we already knew: The old man was the key to turning this hellish episode around. His men tried to stabilize the place until a way to seal the gates could be found. Apparently, I had it wrong. I thought each gate would be tied to a specific item or relic, but apparently the old man seemed to think differently. I pray that this information is true, but I don’t know.
The leader of the Marauders freaked out, discharging the cursed Ouija board into the wall, shattering it while yelling a string of glorified profanities.
Then this. Well, sort of. Besides the moment of intense screaming, bright pulsating crimson, and demonic taunts, we now sit in this cold nothingness. Feet shuffle from the other side of these strange, organic walls. Sounds of torture, of extreme agonizing pain seep in from somewhere beyond, while slowly we manage to regroup, questioning where the Marauders and their leader went.
Jack sat in a pile of busted wood from a shattered chair, working through the rope with tested patience. James noticed and was quick with a helpful knife, before catching a glimpse of Grace’s weak condition.
Her wound was bandaged, but how the Marauders actually treated it was uncertain. The bleeding stopped, but her strength seemed very slow to collect. James held her, checking for pulse, and feeling her sweat drenched skin.
James shot me a look I will never forget, a look of dread that comes about only rarely in a man’s life. My eyes failed to comfort him; instead, they only made it worse.
…..
I pray that we make it out of here alive, and if I die down here, whose gonna read this? How’s this journal ever going to see the light of day if we are indeed in the shores of hell?
-Chris Lecher