MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  THE WAREHOUSE AC ROSS THE STREET . . .

  Vandric Cane was a proud man. African-American, very dark skinned, bald, stocky and strong, he had a look on his face that gravitated between ice-cold intelligence and boredom with life and all its’ aspects. He was wearing an expensive suit and he held Roddy’s laptop at his side like a briefcase. He knew nothing of the recent death of his bookkeeper, nor of the bounty hunters crossing the street at this very moment to intercept him, nor of the cops that were a mere five minutes away, alerted by the hunters themselves. It was just business as usual today. Very big business.

  He faced Matei Firan, ex-Romanian special forces turned black market boss behind all sales of child sex slaves out of his country. Shaking hands with him, Vandric spoke in his deep, powerful voice, “Always good to see you, Matei.”

  “It has been a good day, Mr. Cane.”

  The shutter at the front of the warehouse lifted, and a cargo truck rolled onto the streets carrying Cane’s largest purchase yet: seventy-five Romanian children.

  A commotion arose from the entrance. Gunfire erupted. Cane saw two individuals, a man and a young woman, both holding SWAT-issue DC-14 automatic weapons, first shouting at the truck to stop, and then firing at the tires. The truck screeched against the pavement and sped away before taking any critical damage.

  Cane heard the words “Federal bounty hunters, freeze!” before his four bodyguards and Firan’s four opened fire on the hunters.

  The warehouse erupted with echoed chatters of gunfire from all three parties. Firan lost two men within seconds. Cane was grabbed by his guards and herded into the back of his car, secret-service style. Looking back for a moment, Cane caught a glimpse of Firan jerking from two bullets to the chest, his gun falling from his hands as he tipped backwards. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  AT THE ENTRANCE, Vega saw Cane being pushed into the car. Then he saw the metallic glint of Roddy’s laptop in Cain’s hand and thanked God that his onetime friend was at least honest about one thing in the end. He signaled to Jiana to advance on the car. He did the same, bullets sparking off the concrete floor and splintering crates all around him.

  A guard slammed Cane’s door shut and opened fire on the hunters, grunting as a barrage of bullets made dull thudding sounds against his torso. He fell.

  Cane’s driver accelerated, heading for the entrance. “Keep your head down, sir,” said the guard in the seat next to him. The third bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat, firing out the window. They bounced over Firan’s fallen body, and Cane saw another of the Romanians fall to gunfire. The last of them was directly in their path, still firing at the hunters. He was run over by Cane’s driver without pause, bouncing off the hood and rolling over the roof of the car.

  Cane’s driver angled toward Vega to strike him as well. Twenty feet from the exit, a hailstorm of bullets punctured the windshield and the passenger-side guard jerked and slumped in his seat. Vega rolled out of the way. The car was on the street and pulling away fast.

  THROUGH THE TRAILER’S METAL WALLS the truck driver could hear the sounds of the children screaming and crying. He seethed, angry that everything had gone so wrong. When his cell phone rang, he snapped out of his thoughts and answered it. It was Cane.

  “Head for the bridge, Ian,” Cane said. “And do what?”

  “Destroy the evidence.” “How, Mr. Cane?”

  “That truck is wired with explosives underneath. I want you to take the detonator from the glove compartment, drive the truck into the water, and destroy it. They haven’t seen the children. They can’t prove anything besides the fact that we fired on two non-uniformed individuals who approached us with guns drawn.” Cane’s voice was cold, unfazed by this turn of events.

  “Sir, how do I drive it off the bridge and get out without killing myself?” “Figure it out. If you can’t, then blow it with yourself in there, too.” Cane

  slapped the phone shut.

  Ian started to sweat, wishing he had known about the bomb before tearing down the busy streets.

  JIANA WEAVED HER MUSTANG recklessly past car after car, watching as Cane’s driver did the same. They were nearing him. Farther ahead, she could barely make out the cargo truck. They could catch it. It wasn’t nearly as fast as they were.

  Next to her, Vega reloaded his DC-14 and rolled down his window. Climbing out, he sat on the edge and took aim at the car. The guard in the back seat opened fire through the rear windshield, causing cars all around to hit their breaks and back off. Within seconds, the two cars were almost alone on the road.

  Vega spotted the bodyguard sticking his upper half out of the window to fire. Vega hit him in the arm with a well-placed shot, forcing him back into the car.

  They came onto the bridge, not realizing the imminent danger the children were now in. Jiana approached Cane’s car from the right.

  The truck was now just fifty yards ahead. Vega had an idea.

  The truck was in the leftmost lane. He used the roof of the car to steady himself and peered down the sights of his weapon.

  At that same moment, Jiana was coming neck-and-neck with Cane’s car. The bodyguard in the backseat thrust his gun through the window at her. Without thought, Jiana pulled her gun from its holster and fired. The guard took three bullets and fell into Cane’s lap. She aimed for Cane.

  Vega fired at the truck, hit the front right tire, and watched as it fishtailed, turned left, and came to a stop, by some miracle not tipping over.

  Unexpectedly, Cane’s driver hit the brake, jerked the wheel right, and slammed into Jiana’s rear bumper. Both cars spun out of control.

  Vega was thrown from the car, hit the ground, skidded, rolled to a stop. Jiana’s car spun 180 degrees and stopped. Cane’s car skidded past, slammed broad-side into the truck.

  Twenty yards back, Vega stumbled to his feet, knees shaking, coat ripped, left brow and cheek scraped and bleeding. He slung his DC-14 over his shoulder and drew a pair of HK pistols from behind his back. He stumbled toward Cane’s car, guns out front, and filled the trafficker’s door full of bullet holes.

  He saw no movement. Continuing to limp ahead, he reloaded both guns and opened fire again.

  Jiana opened her door and fell to the ground, nose bleeding, lips the coppery flavor of blood. She came to her feet, drawing her sidearm.

  Cane’s driver pulled the gun from the dead hand of the guard beside him and emptied the clip at Jiana.

  Jiana felt and heard the zip of the bullets, lifted her gun, trying to steady herself, but the last two shots hit her, one in the shoulder, one on her left side. She fell against the guardrail.

  Vega watched as Vandric Cane, all rage and hatred, stumbled from the back seat.

  Vega reloaded his guns one last time.

  Cane leveled his weapon at Vega. Fired.

  Vega took one in the leg, one under the ribs, and one that burned a graze-mark on the side of his neck. He returned fire.

  Jiana, laying on the ground, also lifted her gun and fired.

  Vandric Cane jerked side to side like a rag doll, catching every bullet aimed at him, until his knees buckled and he tipped to his left, falling, silent and still, to the ground.

  Cane’s driver threw the car into reverse, backed away from the cargo truck, and turned toward Jiana. Tires screeched; the car jerked toward her.

  She rolled. The car slammed into the guardrail, reversed, and prepared for another try.

  Vega threw his guns to the side, spun his DC-14 off his shoulder and, with every last bit of strength, charged the driver side window, aimed directly at the driver and . . . fired.

  Seventeen rounds in the chest.

  Then all was quiet.

  IAN, THE TRUCK DRIVER, was now handcuffed to the steering wheel, the keys and detonator confiscated despite the fact that he really had no desire to detonate himself just to kill a bunch of kids and a couple of bounty hunters. He even told them about the bomb under the truck.

  Vega and Jiana helped patch one anot
her up, crudely, but it was okay for now. Neither was losing much blood. Someone was looking out for them.

  “Your face okay?” Jiana asked, indicating the raw scrapes on Vega’s cheek. “Teenagers . . . none of you know how to drive.”

  Jiana playfully poked him in the stomach, laughed, and then cringed, clutching her injured side.

  “Sorry, kid,” Vega said, his face with an expression that said oops.

  “Me, too. Sorry about that whole . . . throwing-you-from-the-car . . . thing.” Vega waived her off nonchalantly as he reached for the latch on the

  trailer.

  The sound of distant police sirens pierced the silence as Vega slid the trailer door up and out of sight. Inside, as promised, were the children.

  They inched toward the two hunters, Jiana assuring them in the sweetest voice she could that it would be okay. They helped the children, one by one, out of their prison.

  Eventually, when the squad cars and EMS started to roll in, Vega had settled himself on the guardrail, skimming through the client list on Roddy’s computer. There were several actors, more than a few politicians, and a pastor from a church not too far from Vega‘s own church, among other names. He looked up at Jiana, who sat in the bed of the truck, legs dangling. A few of the smaller children had climbed up to sit with her.

  “I guess we did it, partner,” she said. Vega nodded slowly. “I guess we did.”

  A girl beside Jiana, not older than eight, pointed to her and said something in Romanian to an older boy.

  “What did she say?” Jiana asked.

  The boy responded in clear but broken English, “She said she pray to God to send angel to save her, but she never think angel would be beautiful American.”

  Jiana’s eyes sparkled, this time with warm, contented tears. I’m no angel, she thought to herself. But then, who is.

  The little girl laid down in the bed of the truck and rested her head on Jiana’s lap. Jiana may have been a total stranger, but the girl knew who she could trust. Jiana gingerly lifted her good arm and stroked the little girl’s hair. She looked up and saw Vega smile, and then wink at her. For some reason she wasn’t sure she understood, she felt her cheeks blush red, and she smiled back, all sweet and embarrassed and vulnerable. She wiped her eyes.

  And in looking at her, Vega felt at peace deep inside.

  THE GIFT OF THE MAGI IF THE MAGI HAD BEEN BIG IDIOTS

  PAUL LUIKART

  They were young and in love, those two. So young and so in love. They barely had any money, but that hardly seemed to matter to these young lovers. Their love was young and so were they, and they began their new life together, bravely standing side by side as they gazed with eagerness upon their future together, which unfolded like a giant, luminescent Kleenex, drawn freshly from the box.

  If only they weren’t so stupid. Yes, young and in love were they, but also stupid.

  So shamefully stupid.

  On Christmas Eve, Andrew came home especially late from his third shift job at Mama’s Lamp Factory. His face was gaunt and haggard, his hair mussed, but in his deep brown eyes burned the everlasting light of his love for his Melissa. The everlasting light of his flat-out stupidity burned somewhere below his colon.

  “Oh, honey,” Melissa said, as soon as she saw his unsettled countenance. “Melissa,” Andrew said, “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

  “Oh, but I wanted to. I love you,” she said. He clutched her close.

  “I love you, too,” he said, “Merry Christmas! I bringed you a present.” “You did? But, we can’t afford presents” she said.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Gee! . . . What is it?” she asked. He reached into his satchel.

  “Well, the other night, when you were sleeping I gazed at you and you were so beautiful that it took my breath away,” he explained.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, her heart melting.

  “I thought, She’s so beautiful and wonderful, I should bring her a fine Christmas present,” he continued, “I thought for a minute, and suddenly an idea came to me! So I quietly shaved your head.”

  “Oh you! I thought you did! But, we’re so desperately poor,” she said. “Here,” he said, reaching into the satchel, and pulling out a box wrapped in red ribbon and lovely white paper.

  “What is it?” she said, barely able to contain her excitement. “Open it,” he said, kissing her forehead.

  Her nimble fingers flew as she tore the paper off. “Oh!” she gasped, as she saw it, “A wig!”

  “Do you like it?”

  His voice was quivering with anticipation.

  “Oh, Andrew, it’s perfect! Absolutely perfect!” “That’s real human hair,” he said.

  “Oh, wherever did you find such fine, fine hair to make this fine wig?” she asked.

  “From your head,” he replied, rather sheepishly.

  A delicate tear had formed in the corner of her eye.

  “I have a confession to make,” she said, as she put it on. “What’s that, my darling?” he asked.

  “I got you a present, too,” she said.

  “You did . . . but how? How could you have afforded it?” he said, taken aback. She disappeared into the next room, and reappeared carrying a small blue

  box with a single green bow upon it.

  “It’s not much. But the other night, when I was laying there next to you with my head on your strong shoulder I thought to myself, What a wonderful husband I have! Confound our lack of money! I’m going to get him a Christmas present!” she said, “So, as you were sleeping, I unraveled all of your socks.”

  He glanced down at his naked, frost-bitten feet.

  “You little dickens! I thought they were missing!” he said, his heart nearly beating out of chest, he loved her so much.

  “Here!” she said, handing him the box, “Open it!”

  “Oh boy!” he said as he tore the paper off and flung open the lid.

  “Oh, Melissa . . .,” he said as the sight of the gift greeted his weary eyes, “Gloves!”

  “It’s really just one giant glove, because you didn’t have enough socks to make two giant gloves” she said.

  “It’s perfect! I’ll work harder and make even more money and then I’ll buy more socks, and more and more!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh, so will I!” she shouted, leaping into his arms.

  Somewhere in Heaven, the Christmas Angel sighed and spat on the ground. And so spent the young couple their first Christmas together, drunk with love and mired in utter idiocy. But, we could all take a lesson from them; their love should be something we all struggle towards. In its simplicity, there is great beauty. In its power of endurance through difficult times, there is inspiration. In its tenderness, there is a warming of the heart.

  And in its brazen stupidity, a slamming to the forehead with a huge chunk of granite.

  THE THIEF AT THE ALTAR

  CAROLINE MISNER

  Father Cutler snuffed each candle out in turn, inhaling deeply of the sweet smoky aroma that wafted in spirals throughout the silent church.

  He felt satiated and satisfied, as usual at the conclusion of mass. It was his favorite time of day, a time when he felt most at peace, a time when he could reflect on the day’s mass and the various concerns of his congregation.

  The parishioners had long since filed out, pausing to linger on the sidewalks and in the parking lot in clusters to chat and gossip and light cigarettes while restless children scampered around their legs. Father Cutler had seen them off, smiling and shaking hands at the door while the soft notes of the antique pipe organ played “Nearer My God to Thee,” his favorite hymn. It was a small congregation, but devoted. A perfect fit, Father Cutler felt, for such a humble little church like St. Isadore.

  “Not much today, I’m afraid, Father,” Dennis the altar boy said from behind him as he approached, carrying a wicker basket jingling with coins and a few flapping bills.

  “They give what they can,” Father Cutler said and accept
ed the tithe.

  “Yes, sir,” Dennis agreed and stood before him, restlessly rocking on his heels so the hem of his purple robe brushed the threadbare carpet. “Will you need anything else?”

  “No. Thank you, Dennis. You may go now,” Father Cutler smiled and filaments of wrinkles bloomed around his eyes. “I can see you have someplace you’re eager to get to.”

  Dennis was already peeling off his robe as he ran down between the rows of polished oaken pews.

  “See you next week, Father,” he called as the door to the rectory swung shut behind him.

  Father Cutler chuckled and offered a small wave, though he knew

  Dennis would not see him. He had been an altar boy for over eight years and this year would most likely be his last. Father Cutler felt a small sense of his own immortality as he recalled how the awkward freckled youngster had grown into a young man before his very eyes, almost without him realizing it. Had the years really moved so swiftly?

  Shaking his head, Father Cutler shuffled down the aisle, the basket tinkling in his hand. He felt his heart swell with each step as he approached the Madonna at the altar. She was magnificent, a work of art worthy of the great cathedrals of Europe and she offered Father Cutler a sense of pride and solace.

  She had been bequeathed to St. Isadore by an anonymous benefactor over a century before when the church was first dedicated. The name of the sculptor and the artisan who had fashioned the artifacts that surrounded her had been lost to antiquity, but the workmanship was superlative. Even after so many years, her presence still made Father Cutler gasp with awe.

  Unlike most statues of the Madonna he had seen, The Lady of St. Isadore sat with her legs slightly crossed to one side, such as the way a woman might sit on the ground at a picnic. Her long blue robes flowed about her and covered her legs so only the tips of her bare feet protruded from beneath the hem, so precisely detailed, he could see the ridges of the nails on each delicate toe. Her head was cocked to one side, as though listening for approaching footfalls; her eyes were downcast, but her rubicund lips were arched into a knowing smile. Her outstretched hands hovered over a low stone table where her artifacts lay upon a runner of deep blue velvet embroidered with silver thread. A heavy gold chalice stood in the center, engraved with her likeness and rimmed at the top with rows of sapphire and pearl. Beside it lay a gold crucifix edged with tiny rubies; the image of Christ had been so finely fashioned, Father Cutler could see the tiny dots of sweat bead His forehead, just below the crown of thorns. Beside it lay a small gold plate edged with sequences of emerald that encircled it like a row of shiny peas. It was the plate Father Cutler used every day to serve the host to his congregation. Over time, it had become so polished from use its luster rivaled the shine of the of the brass pipes that towered above the organ in the corner.