Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (62 page)

This must be what happens in war,
he thought.

John’s eyelids fell and locked into place. His heartbeat
slowed as his tense muscles relaxed. He climbed on top of the bed and yanked
the spare blankets from the floor. With Bob the Builder and SpongeBob
Squarepants as his protectors, John slid into a deep but fitful sleep.

Chapter
8

The rumble of another APC shook John out of his sleep. He
held his breath as the sound faded into the distance. The morning sun crested
over the trees and reflected spinning crystals off the frosted window. John’s
nose felt like ice, but the rest of his body remained warm in the bed.

John’s ankle had swelled overnight, and only his shoe had
prevented it from becoming the size of a volleyball. The sounds on the street
jarred John from the concern over his ankle and snapped him back into the
present. He was hungry.

John grabbed some canned corn and an opener from the duffel
bag. As he tipped the opened can to his mouth, the slimy corn left a salty
taste in his mouth, and silenced his stomach.

John dropped the steel can when he saw the bedroom door was
open. He fought to remember if he had shut the door, but could not recall.

John looked out into the hallway. He saw footprints in the
plush carpet, but nothing else out of the ordinary. John gathered his things
and threw them into the duffel bag.

“How did you sleep?”

John jumped and turned toward the end of the hall. A young
man sat in a folding chair at the top of the steps.

“Are you the owner?” John replied.

“Does it matter?”

John reached for the opening of the duffel bag in the hopes
of placing his hand on anything that could be used as a weapon.

“Don’t bother, Father. If I had wanted you dead you’d be
bleeding out in that bed by now. Follow me.”

The man stood and John followed him down the steps. At the
first landing, the morning light gave John a better look. The stranger appeared
to be in his mid to late twenties. He’d shaved his head bald and wore a black
T-shirt and jeans. A knife and a holster hung from a flaking leather belt. A
full sleeve of tattoos ran down his right arm, while two portraits hung on his
left. The sleeved arm cradled a twelve-gauge, pump action with a sawed-off
barrel. The man’s black boots left deep impressions in the carpet on the steps.

John followed the man into the kitchen, where red stains on
the floor replaced the bodies of the night before.

“I found it difficult to have breakfast with the dead. Hope
you don’t mind me cleaning up a bit. How about some eggs?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Steve. You, Father?”

“John.”

“Nice to meet you, Father John.”

Steve held his hand out, waiting for John to shake it. John
did so, but without taking his eyes off of Steve. John had forgotten about the
white collar under his black shirt.

“Is this your house?” asked John.

“No, this isn’t even my neighborhood. I live in Shaker, but
happened to be drinking with my girl when the shit went down.”

“What shit is that? I still have no clue what the fuck is
going on.”

“Hmmm. Well, you just confirmed my hunch that you’re not a
real padre and that I don’t have to cut your throat – yet. I’m afraid I don’t
have much to offer,” Steve said while stirring the eggs on the stove. “I awoke
from a drunken sleep, still groggy from screwing my lady, when I hear all these
explosions, like the Fourth of July fireworks. Next thing I know, the power is
cut and the entire neighborhood goes black. My girl, she starts freakin’ out. I
had to slap her to get her to shut up. I could see the flashlights moving from
door to door. I thought maybe it was a drug raid or something like that, but
there were too many shots coming from too many places. My girl throws her
clothes on and goes running out to ‘demand information’. I saw them gun her
down right on the front lawn, like they already knew which people to eliminate. Some asshole grabbed her by the ankles and pulled
her inside.”

John grimaced and thought of Jana, his mind twisting with
concern for his wife and hatred for his ex that used roofies to attempt to
wreck his marriage.

“I ran for the basement. I hid in the coal room that most of
these old places have. The previous owner had covered the door with a moving
blanket and I think that’s what saved my ass. I hid in there for two, maybe
three days until the shots, screams, and cries ended.” Steve stopped stirring
the eggs and did his best to maintain the tough-guy persona. “When I climbed
out of that place, I walked the same street you did. This place is my girl’s
neighbor, to her left. I’ve only been here one night, but I won’t be staying
for another. It’s a matter of time.”

Steve left the comment hang and John knew what he meant.

“I was at a Halloween party,” said John.

“That was my second guess,” William replied with a sarcastic
wink. “Where?”

“Over on South Belvoir, not far from here.”

“Do they know you’re on this street?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they do.”

“Then we need to eat this and get the fuck out.”

“What do they want?”

“Damned if I know. Can’t get shit on the radio or cell
phone.”

John nodded in agreement and ate his eggs. They had a slight
bitterness to them and he hoped they had not spoiled. Steve left the kitchen
and returned with a backpack and coat. He threw a black trench coat to John.

“It’s gettin’ cold. Fucking Cleveland winters.”

John set the duffel bag down and put the coat on. In the
inside pocket he felt a heavy object. He reached in and pulled out a twenty-two
caliber pistol.

“That’s all you get until I can trust you. If you try
shooting me with it, you can bet your ass I’ll return fire with this bastard.” William
held the sawed-off shotgun up in the air.

“As long as you don’t spray-paint me with a pentagram, then
I won’t put a round of twenty-twos in your ass.”

Steve laughed and so did John. They looked at each other
with reluctant trust.

“Where are we headed?” asked John.

“Right now, I’m not really sure. If we can find other
survivors, maybe we can put together a tight group and set ourselves up
somewhere safe, like maybe out in Geauga County. Find an old farmhouse,
something like that, until this shit blows over.”

“What if it doesn’t?” asked John.

“Then you and I best be getting to know each other really
well.”

Steve turned and headed through the kitchen toward the back
door. The full light of morning illuminated fast-food wrappers and newspapers
blown from overturned garbage cans. John stepped out after Steve and pulled the
frosty air into his lungs. The burn of it sharpened his senses and gave him the
slightest bit of hope.

***

The rest of Winston turned up nothing. John and Steve crossed
the street to search. On the east block, the soldiers had tagged every house
with the Sign. The men swept a wide circle, careful not to attract attention
with movement or noise. By dusk, seven APCs had rolled down Winston Road. In
the distance, Steve thought he heard the rumbling vibrations of tanks. They
returned to the house to spend the night in spite of Steve’s concerns about
being found.

“What’s left to eat in there?” asked John.

“Shit. We’re gonna
need to take what we can from the pantry and kitchen closet. Let’s stash some
of it in the basement, just in case. Keep your flashlight off and keep under
the windows. Something tells me they’re not going to forget they saw you.”

John gathered cans of chicken soup and dumped them into a
pot on the stove while Steve washed his hands and face with the warm water. Even
though the electricity to the neighborhood had been shut off, the natural gas
continued to flow to the hot-water heater and stove. The homey scent of the
soup relaxed John, bringing him back to childhood days. The men ate in silence,
enjoying the warmth in darkness. Two vehicles sped past the house on Winston,
neither pausing to search.

“Logically, what could it be?”

“My guess is a dirty bomb or maybe a terrorist threat, shit
like that.”

Steve pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. A
deflated menthol parted his lips and he huddled in the corner to prevent the
lighter’s flash from giving up their location. Steve inhaled and pushed the
minty smoke back into the room, leaning against the wall with a satisfied
groan.

“Smoke?”

John held out his hand and Steve tossed him the pack.

“I’ve neglected my addiction,” said John.

John masked the light of his cigarette and closed his eyes. The
nicotine brought a wave of normalcy and comfort.

“What if we’ve been invaded? What if the troops aren’t US
soldiers?”

“I guess it’s possible. I haven’t gotten close enough to one
of those bastards to tell. How do you pay the rent?” Steve seemed curious.

The question snapped John from the surreal back into
reality.

“I’m a web designer. I build websites.”

“Yeah, I know what a web designer does, asshole.” Steve shot
John a look of derision hidden by the dark room.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Right. You assumed I’m a thug that wouldn’t know what a web
designer does. You probably think I’m a mechanic or somethin’, right?”

“I don’t know. What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic.”

Steve’s wisecrack released a torrent of pent-up laughter in
John. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he rolled around on the living-room
floor. Steve hitched and giggled like a little boy.

“I wish I knew what happened to my wife,” John said, reality
sobering the mood.

Steve snuffed his cigarette against the wall.

“That’s the toughest part for me. I’ve got family in
Pittsburgh and Columbus. I’ve got friends and shit in Lyndhurst and University
Heights. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“We should sleep,” said John.

“I’ll take first watch. Go ahead, and I’ll wake you up in a
few hours.”

“Okay.”

John climbed the steps towards the bedrooms. The smoke awoke
his synapses, as did the conversation with Steve. John flopped on the mattress,
searching in vain for a comfortable position. John set the pistol on the floor.
He stared at the barrel, reached for the grip, and then thought better of a
loaded gun in his bed. All kinds of possibilities, even impossibilities, raced
through John’s mind at lightning speed. He still could not formulate a theory. No
warning, no sirens, no panic. Based on Steve’s account, the city simply winked
from existence, and the soldiers moved through to tag houses. John wanted to
sleep. He also wanted to figure out this horror. His restless mind permitted
neither, so he headed downstairs.

“I can’t sleep,” he said to Steve.

“What do you want me to do about it? Rub your head and tell
you stories?”

“I thought you might want to sleep first.”

“No, I don’t. I’m keeping watch. I’ll come up in a few hours
when I get tired.”

John turned and went back upstairs. The adrenaline from
earlier in the evening wore off and his mind tired of the relentless pursuit of
the situation. He tumbled into the bed and fell asleep.

***

A single, sharp crack shook the house, followed by a dozen
more. The shouts of men filled the streets. John opened his eyes and could not
remember where he was or what he was doing. Windows on the wall opposite his
bed burst open in rapid succession. The icy fingers of the November night
crawled into the room.

John leapt out of bed, grabbing the pistol off the floor. After
another night in his costume, the clothes had taken on disturbing aromas. Downstairs,
the black trench coat covered his duffel bag. John cursed himself under his
breath and scanned the room for anything else that might serve as an extra
weapon.

He froze when he heard the footsteps in the hallway.

“In here,” someone shouted.

John sat on the end of the bed, tucking the gun beneath the
pillow. A bright beam of light blinded him, but he could hear the room
filling. He held his hands up in defense.

“It’s a priest! It’s a priest!” someone else shouted.

The light switched off, as did the four red dots circling
the room.

“Father, are you hurt?”

John looked up at the inquisitor with genuine fear and
confusion.

“He’s in shock. Quick, let’s get him to the medic.”

Two men lifted John by the arms and carried him down the
steps. A Humvee sat outside the house. Another group of soldiers ran out to get
John and led him into the vehicle. They sped off down Winston and turned right
on Mayfield toward downtown Cleveland.

Chapter
9

Steve could not open his right eye. His nose pointed left at
an awkward angle, and his mouth ached as blood ran from a gash in his forehead.

“He’s awake,” a voice said.

“What were you doing with John the Revelator?”

The question confused Steve. His brain struggled to keep up
with the situation.

“Who?” He spit the word through broken teeth and split lips.

A fist slammed into his mouth, sending a fresh wave of pain
down Steve’s spine.

“John the Revelator. He is the one foretold by the
scripture, the one Father has been looking for. If you don’t tell us what you
were doing to the priest, we will cut you to pieces.”

“What priest?”

“The one you were holding captive in the house. Did you
think you could ransom him? God will cut you down, sinner. He is gonna cut you
down.”

Steve’s head lolled to one side as he fought to maintain
consciousness. Voices swirled through his head, muffled as if speaking
underwater. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Steve thought of his
dead girlfriend with something like envy, and smiled.

“I thought I could use him as a ticket out of here, out of
town,” he lied.