by Erik Lynd
“Sorry to interrupt your porn fantasy, but don’t you think we should get out of the limo with some distance from the building? I think it might blow our cover to have two poor, homeless vagabonds arrive in a Cadillac.”
“I think we’re about four blocks away from his rally,” Michael said. He looked like himself, fitting the part without magic. Of course he couldn’t keep his eyes off the Silas and Abigail, seeing real magic for the first time.
Silas had Steve pull over and they got out. The street was deserted. Silas leaned over the driver’s side window.
“Stay in the area, but keep moving; this isn’t really a limo type neighborhood. I’ll call you when we need a pick up.”
“Sure, Mr. Silas. Maybe I should pick up some prostitutes? You know to look inconspicuous,” Steve said.
Abigail grunted. “You picked him Silas.”
“No Steve, just tool around a little; this isn’t the time to cruise for a piece of ass.”
“Right. Gotcha. No ass.”
Silas did wonder if it had been a mistake to bring Steve into the fold. Although he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, there was something about him that made Silas think he would be useful.
They headed off down the street, keeping in the shadows until the limo was gone.
“Silas, you’re strutting like the king of the fucking ghetto. Try to walk a little meeker, maybe shamble a little.”
Silas tried, but it wasn’t in his blood to be meek. Thankfully he had drunk most of a bottle of Bourbon in the limo so it was easy to manage a little stagger here and there. He also smelled the part, thanks to a bump in the road Steve had taken too fast. But the sooner they get what they needed from the preacher, the sooner Silas could grab the other bottle he had stashed under the seat.
As they approached the area they spotted more people heading the same general direction and avoiding eye contact. They all walked, staggered or stumbled down the street like a zombie parade. They were subdued like a congregation gathering for church. A few cried out here and there like the crackpots they were.
Must be something going on tonight, thought Silas.
They eventually merged with a small crowd outside an abandoned warehouse. Two large men wrapped in baggy clothes and hoodies stood outside the doors watching the crowd of destitutes wander through the door. Silas caught a glint of silver from under the hood of one. He leaned down to whisper to Abigail.
“I think we’re in the right place, I just caught a glimpse of scales. These two aren’t as far along as the others we’ve encountered.”
“That’s probably why they are on recruiter duty. They look the most human,” Abigail said.
As they approached, shining eyes glared at them from beneath the hoods. Silas heard the man in front of him offer a greeting to the thugs at the door.
“Brother,” the man said and nodded a greeting to the two.
“Welcome, brother,” the man said, his voice gravelly, and Silas could imagine that soon it would be the same hiss he heard from the creatures they had fought. Why did he feel as if they were entering the hornets’ nest? As he stepped to the door, Silas spoke.
“Hi brother, how’s it hanging?”
The thug’s eyes slid over him.
“I don’t recognize you brother. Are you new?”
“Yep, first time. Will there be a raffle?”
The bouncer returned his question with a cold stare. Abigail kicked him in the ankle and pulled him away.
“Watch it Silas, they take this thing seriously,” she whispered in his ear.
They walked by the other bouncers, but only received stoic glares. Silas tensed waiting for an attack. It wouldn’t be the first time his mouth had fucked things up. But they were allowed into the building without incident.
Inside was a great mob of the unwashed. The scent hit Silas, but it was nothing compared to the great rotting pits of Hell. Still the presence of so many homeless--there must have been a hundred gathered in the decrepit building--brought out a certain stench to the air. Silas saw St. Abigail wrinkle her nose.
“Makes you wonder how Mother Theresa could do it,” Silas whispered to Abigail.
The inside of the warehouse was as plain as the outside. It consisted of one large open room with small piles of trash scattered about and what looked like a makeshift stage of stacked lumber and wood pallets. Beyond the stage was a large garage door, presumably to a loading dock. Along the other wall three garage doors sat closed. The large room was lighted by old halogen lights, half of which were burned out while most of the others flickered.
The congregation--if that was the best word to describe this group of homeless misfits--gathered close to the stage. It appeared most of them had been here before, so it was an ongoing recruiting effort. Silas could identify a few newcomers looking uncomfortable as the other tried to explain the beauty of what they were about to experience.
The low din of voices talking filled the room, some more passionately than others. Silas identified these as the shills. Several televangelists had made it to Hell--actually all of them that had died so far--and had explained that this was how it worked. You primed the crowd with a couple of people who will pump them up and lead the way.
There were also coffee and donuts. Silas made his was over to the table and picked a powdered one. Michael grinned and grabbed a large chocolate one. They both noticed Abigail giving them a disapproving look. Silas shrugged and then gave Michael a wink as he bit into the donut. The kid grinned a little wider and took a bite.
Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad.
The crowd grew quiet. One of the garage doors began to open, beyond was the open back of a shipping container on a semi-truck. Standing inside was a man wrapped in an oversized trench coat, two other large men also hidden in large coats standing behind. Beyond them the lights didn’t penetrate; the rest of the container was covered in shadows.
Even with the baggy coat covering the preacher’s form Silas could tell it was not Webb, if Webb had been the slim man at the back of the bar casting spells, and Silas was sure he was. This guy was not as thin, and most of his face was obscured by a long beard and scraggly hair that hung in dirty dreads down his face. He stopped for a moment after noticing how large the group was, and one of the large men behind him stepped forward and spoke in his ear, gripping the preacher’s arm tightly.
“Handlers maybe?” Abigail whispered in his ear.
“Maybe,” Silas said. Abigail was probably right, the preacher looked a little confused, but the men behind him seemed to know exactly what to do. So that meant he was probably just a tool, the real brains were probably far from this place. Like in the Undercity.
The preacher climbed up on the makeshift stage and seemed to undergo a metamorphosis. His eyes came alive as he stared out at the crowed and a large, friendly grin spread across his face. The confusion was gone. He opened his arms as though he wanted to embrace everyone in the congregation.
“Friends. It is good to see so many of you have come. It gladdens my heart that so many have come to hear my words, which aren’t really my words at all. They are the words of a man much greater than I, much greater than all of us, but also one of us. One who has been through all that we see on a daily basis, he has found the Way.
“I speak of the prophet. The man who has walked the same path as us, the one who has risen above and ascended. But brothers and sisters he knows what it is like out there. He has been there when the rest of the people, the ones that call themselves society, have turned away from us. Like all of us, he has felt the scorn that this society places on us.”
The preacher spoke the word “society” like it was a disease.
“This society doesn’t know about pain, about the suffering we have to endure. They don’t know what it takes to survive on the streets. The horrible things we have seen and, yes brothers and sisters, the horrible things we have had to do, just to live. They don’t know this, and why? Because this society takes care of its own.
> “Now, I know what you are going to say. You’re going to say, but they do try to help, what about the missions? What about the soup lines? Well I say these are nothing but salves for their guilt. They help just enough to keep us alive so they can look down at us from their high places and say, well thank God I am not one of them.
“Let me ask you brothers, how many of you have been on a job interview recently?”
A handful of people raised their hands and Silas noticed that most of them were the shills he had identified earlier.
“And none of you got the job did you?” The preacher asked.
A few cries of “not me” or even “I was laughed out the place” came out of the crowd again, mostly from the shills. Silas stopped listening. It was the same old spiel used to spur every revolution since the beginning of time. But Silas was beginning to put together Webb’s method.
“First find your army, unite them against the enemy, then give them the ability to fight,” Silas whispered to Abigail. “Standard revolution planning. Most revolutions fail because of step three,” Silas said quietly to Abigail.
“That’s where the catalyst comes in. At some point he transforms them into beings that can fight,” she murmured back.
“Right. The question is why exactly? He’s got to know that even if he transformed all the homeless in New York into these monsters he still can’t stand against, say the U. S. Military. All he is going to accomplish is raising the Pale from the mainstream and hasten the end of the world. Even if he doesn’t know about the balance, there is no end game for him. As nasty as these creatures are, they can’t stand against a united humanity.”
“Unless he truly is crazy, then none of this really matters,” Abigail said.
“If this is just madness, then we are really fucked. Nothing is going to stop him from destroying the world.”
There was a burst of activity from the crowd and the preacher spoke up.
“And how is the Prophet going to accomplish all this? How is he going to help us all rise above the streets and tunnels we dwell in? Why with the elixir. The Blood of the Wyrm.”
As he spoke, several men walked through the crowd carrying silver trays with small shot glasses. In the glasses was a red liquid. As the servers walked by, hesitant and nervous hands reached out to pick them up.
“Don’t worry brothers and sisters. This is just a taste of the elixir the Prophet has created. There is nothing dangerous in it, just the blessing of a man that understands and loves us. I know many of you have polluted yourselves with drugs and alcohol before; in fact, I bet most of you have something impure floating through your veins even now. But this is different; this blessed drink will burn the impurities out of you and replace them with natural euphoria--the natural high of understanding.
“Take one, but only one, my brothers. This is but a taste of the power and the strength awaiting you if you are ready to take the next step. We no longer have to be the ones at the bottom, feeding on the refuse from society.”
Silas watched as people began drinking the liquid. Most winced like it was strong liquor. Soon smiles appeared on faces, and people who only moments before seemed little more than drug addled zombies began to show life and energy. Somebody laughed out loud and others joined him. People that before had ticks or lame feet shook them off. From his perch on the stage the street preacher watched on with a smile.
A tray appeared in front of Silas, and the red liquor gleamed with malice in the low light.
“Oh no, thanks, I’m more a bourbon man,” Silas said.
The large man holding the tray raised an eyebrow. Silas had the feeling that any members of this congregation that didn’t drink would quickly find themselves reevaluated as unworthy. Not that Silas was against taking drugs—hell, he was pretty sure he had a vial of coke in his jacket pocket, but this was different. This drug was magical, from an unknown source, and in fact, might be responsible for transforming humans into deadly monsters. There was no telling what it would do to him or how permanent it would be. From the corner of his eye he could see Abigail eying the tray with the same concern.
“Take the drink, brother. Show your dedication; trust me you’ll like it,” the server said. Silas could see the telltale shine of silver scales on the backs of his wrists. He took a glass, but did not drink. The server chuckled. “It looks like little brother is eager.”
Silas saw that Michael was putting an empty glass on a server tray. Uh oh.
There was a commotion from the stage and Silas looked up to see another of the preacher’s handlers step up to him and whisper in his ear. The preacher listened for a second then nodded.
“I have just been informed that we have newcomers in our group,” the preacher said and looked directly at Silas.
As if on cue, the crowed parted around them leaving only the men serving the drinks near them. It looked as though they have become the focus of the party. Several more thugs stepped closer to them.
“Drink new brother and sister, drink and understand,” the preacher said.
“I am pretty sure that’s what Jim Jones said too,” Silas said.
The smile left the preacher’s face. Several people, holdouts that hadn’t drunk yet, paused with their glasses halfway to their lips. Of course many more had ignored him and were trying to snatch another glass off a passing tray.
“It is not death that waits you at the bottom of the glass, but a new life. One filled with purpose and strength,” the preacher said and then sighed theatrically. “But you did not come here for that did you? No I think you came with your heathen heart and blasphemous ways to tear asunder what my master has built.”
The last few words of the rant ended with spittle flying from his lips as his face tightened in fury.
“Now hold on there, Jim Jones,” Silas began.
“Kill them,” the preacher said.
Silas didn’t know what was in the glasses, but from what he could smell with his demonic nose it was a volatile substance. Before the thug nearest him could react, Silas waved his hand over the tray of red liquid and flame erupted from the glasses. With his other hand he slapped the flaming tray into the stunned face of the thug.
The monster screamed as the burning liquid reacted like napalm, sticking to his face and shoulders. But Silas didn’t have long to admire his handiwork, another thug was on him. This one threw a punch, but it was slower than the other creatures they had fought, and when it connected with Silas stomach it lacked the force of other monsters. A mortal would have been thrown back. Silas just smiled and dropped the transmogrification. There was no point in keeping up the charade.
Silas enjoyed the look on the man’s face when he saw that he wasn’t fighting some drunken old homeless man, but instead had just punched a drunken demon. Silas took his turn and punched him in the face, feeling the man-creature’s jaw snap as his fist crushed bone. It staggered back, screaming from a ruined mouth.
A few feet away Abigail had just dispatched one of the thugs, leaving him on the ground bleeding from multiple slices and stabs. The rest of the man-creatures stayed back, wary of these deadly strangers. Silas heard a noise behind him and turned to see the preacher abandoning the stage and making a break for the open garage door. They needed that preacher. Abigail could take care of the low level thugs here.
Silas let lose his demonic fury, and felt it infuse his mortal limbs and bones. With three strides he leaped over one of the thugs, who watched his airborne acrobatics with a stunned expression, and landed in the midst of the homeless congregation, taking three of them down with him. Others scattered and screamed as they struggled to get away from Silas.
With a second leap he landed on top of the stage. Pallets shattered from the force and sent wood pieces flying in all direction, but the main structure held. He sprung again and caught the preacher just as he was entering the back of the truck. Together they hit the ground and slid into the container.
Silas had him pinned. He grabbed the man’s collar and pulled h
im close so there would be no doubt that the preacher could see the demon in him.
“What is Webb up to? Why is he making these monsters?” Silas yelled at the preacher.
Subtle interrogation had never been his strong suit. The preacher looked confused again.
“My master, he has left me,” the preacher said.
“Your Master? You mean Webb?”
“It will be an army the likes of which this world has never seen,” the preacher whispered and his eyes became maniacal, darting left and right. “Monster soldiers to cleanse this world.”
Silas shook him to try to make him focus. “How? How is he doing this?”
“Blood of the Wyrm, blood of the Wyrm is the stuff, the juice that gives a kick to his blessing. Precious stuff, must protect it. Jeremy did a bad thing, you never steal the blood.”
Silas didn’t know who Jeremy was and didn’t really give a shit. He didn’t have much time before the preacher’s handlers reached them.
“When is he planning this war?” Silas asked.
“Soon. Soon. Because of you. Must act quickly. Must cleanse this world. We wanted to wait, build our strength, but not now. Now we must cleanse this world…”
“Yeah yeah, cleanse the world blah, blah, blah. When, dammit?”
“Sunset on the morrow. The sun goes down and the Children of the Wyrm will rise.”
“Where is he doing this?”
“Down, down, down underground,” the preacher hissed.
He heard someone enter the trailer behind him. He turned to see Abigail standing just inside the door, blood dripping from her daggers.
“Where underground?” Silas asked, shaking him again.
“Under, Undercity… deep down, down with the worms…”
They were losing him. The preachers eyes became distant, engrossed in his own mind. A hiss and growl came from the front of the shipping container. Now that he was in the dark of the trailer he could see clearly with his demonic sight. Against the front wall of the compartment stood a group of the lizard creatures. They were of the larger variety.