An Immortals Tale: Part 2

The Man in the Black Suit
Part Two
“In the Balance”

What felt like steel wrapped in dried and cracked leather were wrapped tightly around Jon’s neck. Rotten breath cascaded over his shoulder as the wraith held tightly to his trachea as it kept speaking, “You think your God will welcome you with open arms or with damnation and fire?” The raspy voice laughed. Jon’s nervousness peaked when he felt that skin of the fingers begin to crack, then he could hold back no more, “Very funny, Sah-Jan, now let go before you get skin flakes all over my suit again! You know how hard it is to get that stuff out? Impossibly hard.” Again the raspy voice laughed and the fingers released, the seat next to him pulled aside and the Wraith named Sah-Jan sat down, a grey suit with a black shirt and red tie were draped over his thin and very bony frame, darkened skin and sunken eyes complimented lips that had dried up and had been pulled back to reveal stained and yellowed teeth. It was a sight to see, horrifying in almost every way, but still a sight. The Wraith laughed a bit more as it settled in and it finally addressed Ricky, the vampiric bartender, “Skin flakes! Right! Ricky get me some bile.” The thin man behind the bar got to work as Jon picked up his drink and inspected his suit for those pesky skin flakes he’d been nervous about getting on his suit. A cup of bile and a cup of sacramental wine were lifted and both sipped out of. Sah-jans wide eyes stared without blinking and thin hair swayed when he moved, neither his fault, being dead takes its toll on people. “I suppose you heard the news, eh, preacher? Some dumb schmuck has gotten their hands on the spear of Tristen.” Jon nodded and watched the wraith carefully as he spoke, “Yeah. Quite the little dilemma we got going on here. I doubt they know how to properly use it, though. All those proper texts are in such in an archaic language that these youngins don’t have a real chance to get into all the real problem causing stuff.”
Another sip of the bile was taken before the dead man spoke again, “You know google does this marvelous thing called uh….translate.” The smile was impossible for him to do due to his skin being dried and tighter than a tourniquet on those bleached bones, but it was implied. Jon simply smiled back at the Wraith and sat his cup down to respond, “You know what google doesn’t do? It doesn’t give you Nordic or Hebrew ancestry or the correct correlation of runes and such to get the proper rituals done for anything big.” Ricky was finally feeling the tension between his two patrons and decided to step in, “Hey Jon, don’t you have somewhere to be? And Sah-Jan, isn’t there somewhere else you can haunt with your poor prophetic crap?” Jon nodded and downed the rest of what was in the goblet and proceeded to pay his tab, the Wraith deciding to stick around and consume more bile. “Email me the rest of the details of what you know, Ricky. It’s been good seeing you.” Jon stopped by weekly at the little tavern to check on things and rumors from the underworld. This little piece of information regarding the spear of Tristen was just too juicy and dangerous to pass up.
Afternoon tried to shine through the still overcast skies, but failed to penetrate the thick layer of clouds that hovered above the city, keeping the two o’clock hour nice and chilly, the slight breeze that wafted between the thick concrete buildings that hid away the skyline of the world. Jon’s pace was quick and direct, knowing where he needed to go and how to get there the quickest route. Nameless faces streaked by as his pace was steady and unfaltering, buildings with their names proudly displayed on the front were merely veneers between him and his destination. As he walked he tried to imagine all the horrible things that could come from having such a powerful and dangerous object thrown into the hands of bumbling idiots who probably didn’t understand the first thing of the paranormal or its consequences. He said a small prayer in his head, hoping to God that he wasn’t too late. Options played before his eyes, most he didn’t like, but a few he could live with. Suddenly, and as if on purpose, his cell phone chimed to tell him he had an email.
Guided by repetition his hand quickly found the phone, clicked on the screen, opened the program, and then selected the new email to read. Information got read quick and precisely, as to not make any mistakes, and then memorized with daft precision. The name of a satanic church, a man responsible for the item not being in quarantine, an address for both, and a warning to be careful. Apparently their goal is to raise a small squad of Gollum. Rock monsters that love to squish human skulls for fun. Luckily he was already on the path to the church, originally to seek some counsel, but now to give it. Jon liked walking and could get places in moderate time, not that he really cared about time or how late he got there usually, but this time it was a bit pressing. Blocks went by and by, none making their names known, just the general direction as his expensive shoes clopped on the sidewalk. It was easy for him to get lost in these streets, not because he didn’t know his way, but because he liked discovering new shops and such, however today he didn’t have the time.
In his inner coat pocket there was a tiny copy of the bible. One he always kept. In the other pocket was a single vile of holy water that could be used as a weapon in the right circumstances. And worse come to worse it could be a bomb strong enough to level a building. Soon the church was before him. Or the abandoned warehouse that these cretins called a church. The door was open and so he let himself in, Jon the preacher in a satanic church, this will be one for the books. The dark halls and low ceilings were easy to navigate as he searched for the proper hallway and room combination, graffiti covering the stone walls with satanic labels and pictures and such. It was idiotic, he thought, but to these morons it was a place of worship. Soon chanting came wafting down the halls like a breeze that carried the smell of rotted flesh and cigarettes with stale beer, all unpleasant to the human kind. He sighed deeply as some of the words rang true and so did the smell of burning candles. This was bad and he was about to step into it knee deep and fast.
In the center of the large room there sat a girl with long black hair, pale skin, and no clothing on an altar, six men around her in black robes with hoods, candles lighting the whole situation, and one tall and skinny male leading the chants with the spear of Tristen in hand. A virgin sacrifice. The skinny leader raised the spear as he continued chanting and reading from the black leather bound book he had in the other. With each passing verse the spear raised higher above his robed head, the girl on the altar before him seeming to be awaiting the fall of the blade. They hadn’t noticed him yet so Jon decided to make his presence known. He cleared his throat hard and loud. The chanting stopped and all the heads that were not his turned to regard the man in the black suit that was invading their sacred ritual. Jon stood tall and smiled the best charming smile he could as he stepped forward. “Hi. My name’s Jon. I’m here to confiscate that little butter knife you got in your hands, there, junior, in the name of the Church and God, himself. So if you’ll kindly hand it over I’ll be on my way and you guys can continue to…drink your sacred kool-aid.” Again he smiled and took another three steps forward .
The one holding the spear was still staring at Jon like he had three heads and all three were speaking greek. Jon let the awkward moment pass and still waited when suddenly the one in charge pointed the spear at Jon like a teaching rod and declared in a loud and high pitched voice that bordered prepubescent, “Defiler! Remove him!” Jon chuckled a little and stepped forward. “I’m not a defiler. Just like…a repo man.” The six men all stood at the same time and faced Jon, their robes coming off in the same unison as they stood, revealing the true nature of what was beneath them: Six very large demons. Built like body builders with horns protruding every here and there to accentuate their already disturbing and intimidating manner. “Huh.” It was all Jon could manage as the six beings snorted their discontent at him being there and began to close the distance between them and him. The tall man behind the altar that held the spear watched as the demons proceeded towards Jon the preacher, their ritual disrupted for now.
Jon took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he prepared for the fight that was coming his way. Large demons, a closed space, a virgin sacrifice, and the spear of Tristen sitting at the end of this soon to be blood rainbow. The first demon was within its arms reach of Jon and raised its monstrously huge hand decorated with equally large talons and targeted the man in the black suit.

After They Came (Short Story)

She fell. Shortly after she did he heard her scream, long and blood curdling. She was gone. His legs pumped harder, every muscle burning intensely, tears blurred his vision, their moans invading and pounding on his ears. He'd only met her a few days ago, but he swore he would morn her. His heavy pack jingled loudly as blocks of an abandoned city streaked by, each darkened and empty window seeming like a mouth agape, waiting for someone to tell its grizzly tale to. As he ran by his loud footsteps attracted shadows to the shattered panes, each seeking living flesh. He kept running, his destination near. They were slow, but violent, weak, except in groups. Boney fingers would rip any living body apart without mercy. He was getting tired, but his encampment was close and he didn't want to wait. The moans died away and were replaced by a placid silence. Blocks passed without incident and the gravity of losing her was starting to sink in. Hot tears flowed down his cheeks, reminding him he could feel, even in a world like this one. Since the outbreak he's lost so much and humanity is now just a shell of what it used to be. The dead came back and started eating the living. Zombies. No sound came from anywhere, quiet as the grave. It was overbearing. Something was wrong. He should have heard his settlement by now. Then, like the cry of a raven in the dead of night, a scream tore through the air. He was running again. He reached the front door of the warehouse that he and the other people he had found were living in and it was caved in, bent and ripped off the hinges. A cold calm settled over him as he stepped through and bore witness to the chaos inside. They had gotten in. His haven had fallen to the dead. Red sprays of blood colored the walls and floors, viscera and gore decorated almost everything. The shock was so much that as he watched the last of the survivors fight he didn't feel a dead hand grab him in an iron vice grip. Didn't notice the set of rotted teeth sink into his flesh. The last thing he truly felt was warm washes of his own blood cascade down his body. Right before the world went dark.

An Immortal's Tale: Part 1

An Immortal’s Tale: The Man In The Black Suit

My name is Jonathan Ross and I’m here to tell you about the time I almost died. Not much of a tale normally, I know.  But here’s the twist that makes it interesting: I’m immortal. Now before you ask the obvious question let me start as near to the beginning as I can.
I was born in the middle of the dark ages in history, back when even calendars were ‘a work of the devil’, so guess who doesn’t know their birthday. I was born as the result of a need for people to combat the evils that were entering this world and stealing away the goodness of mankind, the innocence of the good people. So a deal was struck, a ritual performed, and out popped a vessel for the clergy to fill with the goodness of the church. I grew up in many a monastery hearing many renditions of many passages of many books of the bible. And to this day, some hundred and odd years later, I can still recite each and every single one by heart. Now this was no ordinary education, no, I had to learn spells, incantations, exorcism rights, demon banishing rituals, the fundamentals of physical combat with the dead. Oh, and Latin.  From the time I could understand the King’s English I was told I was destined to help rid the world of all evil. Didn’t pan out that way.
You see, these folks that cooked me up didn’t count on three things: That the demonic threat they thought was so imminent was actually just a nuisance barely constituting any attention from anyone, the second being the dark ages ending and the church denouncing all their ‘barbaric rituals’, and the fact that I’d be immortal. Though I’m over a hundred years old I still look like I’m thirty, and if I don’t say so myself,  in relatively good shape. Despite these fantastic and mind bending facts I’m as plain as vanilla. I’m of average height, average build, average complexion, with short, brown hair and no visible scars. The only notable part of me is my gray eyes, but that’s about it. It’s really a downer when the supposed ‘Combater of Evil’ looks like your neighbor that mows his lawn every Sunday. With that said the ages have been kind and interesting to me, as have the people and the monsters I’ve encountered.
That’s right, monsters. Vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghosts, poltergeists, ghouls, demons, imps, creatures from black lagoons, pixies, bigfoot,  lawyers and the lochness monster are all real. Don’t let the movies and bed time stories fool you, though, ninety nine point nine percent of them are actually harmless and avoid humans like the plague. Remember that threat I mentioned earlier? Exactly. Turns out that the church and many, many cultures before the guys who created me have had a steady and peaceful truce with the non-human kind, making someone like me irrelevant. The only thing that I can do is help police those who step out of bounds and break the truce that has been in standing for so long. Truth be told, though, the incidents are less than a dozen in the whole of my existence. Disappointing, I know.
But I’m here to beguile you with a tale of danger and revelations so deep you’ll question the moral fiber of the world we live in. Now I could narrate all that happened to you, but I believe the ebb and flow of time is best observed from another vantage point. Welcome to my tale.

The Beginning of the End

October was a special month for Jonathan because he believed it was when he was born. He remembered the old priests talking about how the weather was cold, but it hadn’t snowed yet, and how they had to wrap his small frame in extra blankets to fight off the chill in the air. None of the details of his birth were ever really discussed, but he knew and didn’t really mind, the life they gave him was beautiful and so was the world they brought him in to.  He also liked October because of the way the color seemed to drain from the world and leave it gray and made the faces on the streets he walked uniform. Seattle, the city he called home, was beautiful when winter started to settle in according to Jonathan and his macabre tastes. Maybe it was due to the time in history he was born, or maybe he just like winter. Either way, the pavement below his feet moved at a steady pace and the cold concrete buildings smiled faceless grins at him as he passed.
The overcast sky was wonderful on such a cold day because it muted the sun and didn’t make his black suit so hard to wear. Another piece of average applied to him, but this one he didn’t mind, a black suit with a white shirt and a plain, red tie, his shoes plain and black leather. He had grown up surrounded by priests drabbed in black and white with the occasional red sash, so his suit was a bit of a tribute to the men that had brought him into the world. It was funny to him to walk the streets and compare the times of now and the times of old. From folks toting bibles and speaking the good word to people toting ipods and shouting their personal situations into cell phones with no regard for the ones around them.
City sounds played into his ears like a symphony of concrete and engines being conducted by the voices of millions speaking at once, and he loved every single second of it because it meant life. He guessed the time was around eleven in the morning due to the smell of hot dog stands being opened constantly and thousands of grills firing up at the same time making the small breeze a scent to remember. Luckily the place he was on his way to was open all day and night to cater to all sorts of customers and their cycles. It was an intelligent way to run a business that served both humans and non-humans. And he’d always like the place because they served sacramental wine and he could drink that. He wanted to know the time, but he didn’t wear a watch and all the signs on the street he was walking were off, he was immortal and time meant nothing. That and he wasn’t very punctual.
After a time and many a turn he arrived at the place he was going, the faded red paint on the thick door marking his final destination and announcing his arrival with a loud and heavy squeaking of the hinges. He stepped into a front hall that was dark and had a single man sitting on a stool next to another door with faded red paint, the real entrance to the bar. The man was thick with muscle and bled the stereotype of tough doorman in every stitch of clothing and in every muscle that made up his scrutinizing scowl. A skin tight shirt, black slacks and a bowler hat, complete with toothpick in mouth made this doorman the epitome of ‘tough guy’. Even the way he regarded Jonathan with a nod, indicating it was okay to enter. Jonathan returned the nod with a smile and pushed the heavy door open and stepped through.
The bar was dark and barely lit, the walls a dark red with mirrors every now and again decorating the dark paint with windows of reflected light. Some old song played on the jukebox in the background, covering conversations and lending an air to the place that was supposed to comfort all who entered. Occupants were scarce and mostly human at this point in the day, giving the bar it’s cast of ‘normals’ for the day. The bar, itself, was pressed tightly against the wall to his right, heavy wood with an oak smell and leather bumpers. Various stouts toting various names of beverages stuck up from one part while behind the bartender glass shelves were filled to limit with glass bottles of liquor and various other concoctions that were ordered by the less than human customers. The bartender, himself, was a short and thin man, tshirt and jeans clinging to a bony frame that was covered in pale flesh. Vampire. Despite what he was by nature, he was friendly and always smiled to his customers, carrying on conversations and serving drinks with a flair. Short cropped black hair sat above thin eyebrows and below them were a pair of light brown eyes, a pointed nose and thin lips below them. And as Jonathan approached those features were concentrated deeply on a cell phone.
Jonathan couldn’t help himself and decided to slink his way around the place, skirting tables and booths alike, making his way slowly to the bar as silently as possible. It worked, he had him. “RICKY!!!” Jonathan shouted while at the same time slamming his open hand on the heavy wood right in front of the unsuspecting bartender. The poor vampire was so startled his cell phone flew out of his hands and skitted across the floor as he screamed an obscenity. “Jesus, Jon! You trying to give me a heart attack?” The two men stared at each other for a moment and then began laughing. “How you been, Ricky?” After retrieving his phone he answered, “I’m fine. How ‘bout you, preacher-man?” It was a joke they shared and if anyone else tried to make it there’d be trouble. “I’m living life to the fullest.” Jonathan spread his arms wide in a show of good health. “Uh huh. And by that you mean you’re still locked away in that stuffy library you call an apartment, right?” Jonathan let his arms flop down, “Yeah. But that’s my life and it’s full.” He said with a grin.
Ricky shook his head and stuffed his mobile device in his pocket while carefully deciding what to say, so instead he asked, “The usual?” Taking a seat and unbuttoning his coat the plain looking immortal nodded his head while taking a quick look around the dark room that smelled of spilled alcohol and cigarettes. After a moment a crystal goblet filled with sacramental wine appeared in front of him along with Ricky, resting his thin arms on the bar and leaning in to start a conversation. A long sip was taken and it seemed that his vampiric friend was having trouble finding the words, so Jonathan spoke first, “So what’s bothering you?” Ricky looked a little surprised, but then let it quickly pass, knowing it was pointless to lie to Jonathan. Not because of the clergy, but because Jonathan always found out the truth. The bartender leaned a little closer and spoke in a low tone that was barely audible over the juke box warbaling away in the background.
“The end of the world is coming.” And with that simple phrase he withdrew himself and stood straight to evaluate the immortal’s reaction. Jonathan thought about all the prophecies and the letters and the various futures told and tried to come up with a date near the current one. Nothing came up and he knew that his friend wouldn’t be spooked by some nutjob in a purple robe handing out fortunes for five bucks. “What does that mean?” he tried not to sound harsh or unbelieving, but it came out that way and it seemed his friend was becoming less and less talkative as the seconds burned away. “Ricky. You can tell me, man. You know that.” The bar tender considered his friend with the goblet of wine before him for another moment and finally nodded, giving in and leaning forward again. “Look. It’s nothing I’m sure of, but it seems that some guys are stirring up stuff with some ancient texts and such that got a lot of people on edge. It looks like they might have gotten their hands on some serious voodoo and have been having a good ol’ time releasing this and that. Well, with that little taste of awesome it seems that they’ve been talking to some folk about bringing about the apocalypse.” Jonathan kept a small smile on his face and waited for his friend to finish before presenting the obvious holes that were always in these ‘plots to end the world’, “Look, Ricky, they’re probably just some wackos that got their hands on a legitimate copy of something that is harmless. So they’re going to raise a few demons, spit out a few incantations, and sacrifice a goat or two and realize that it takes some major mojo to even try to start the doomsday clock. So don’t worry about it, okay?” He gave a reassuring smile and began to take another sip of wine when his friend said words that chilled him to the bone. “They say they have the Spear of Tristen.”
The glass froze on its way to his lips and suddenly some wackos had become some major issues.  There are few holy relics that are the real deal around, and there are even fewer unholy ones, most of them locked up by the Vatican and kept under lock and key and guard. The Spear of Tristen was one of those relics that had fallen under the radar, being lost in time and history. It was the spear given to King Constantine by the church and used to slay thousands upon thousands of people by Constantine, himself. In the wrong hands with the right book this spear could also unleash some very ugly things upon an unsuspecting world. The glass filled with wine found the wooden bar again and Jonathan tried his best to not be alarmed. “Ricky, I’m going to need all the information you have. And if you don’t have it I need to know who does.”
The pale vampire nodded and then suddenly froze, his eyes fixated on something behind Jonathan. The immortal sensed it before he felt it and it came suddenly. Icy fingers slowly wrapped around his throat and began tightening as fetid breath joined a raspy voice coming from behind him. “Enjoying yourself, Preacher?” The voice, hands, and horrid breath belonged to a creature that was terrifying to imagine: A zombie with a lot of intelligence and drive called a Wraith. And now one of those creatures had its rotting fingers wrapped securely around his throat, “I hope you are, Preacher, cause this was your last drink. Now I send you to meet your maker.” For the first time in a long time Jonathan got very, very nervous.