An Immortals Tale: Part 10

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"

Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.

The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.

A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.

Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.

As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."

The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.

The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.

The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.

The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.

The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.

"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.

Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.

Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.

Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.

He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.

House Of Lies (Original Short)

"Your father was a ruthless bastard..." My uncle Jimmy used to say after he'd had a few drinks in him. "We had M16's and grenades and he used to use a knife. Moved like a shadow at midnight." That New York cop accent slipping through though he's been living in California for the past 20 something years. I smile at him with practiced affection at his tale. He doesn't know that I know something: The truth about him and my father. Both my parents are dead. They had died in a vicious car accident leaving me to the only person that my family would have trusted: My uncle Jimmy Dons. After their death he took me and moved to the west coast in an attempt to start a new life and give me a shot at something normal. My name is Jack DeMonstros, 21 years old. Yeah, I know. Hell of a name. But we'll come back to that later. "After the war we'd come home and they called us 'Baby killers'! Can you believe that bullshit?!? Worse than that they could only give us jobs as cops!" I sip my beer and puff on a cigarette as I watch him, drunk and at the grill, in the back of my mind a theater plays all the things that I will make happen. He goes on with tales of the war, reciting them to his cop buddies that surround us in our tiny backyard, people he's known for years. The spatula in his hand is waved around like he was drawing the pictures of his narrative, and sometimes it was a rifle, sometimes a handgun, all to illustrate the story he was weaving at the time.

Before I was born my uncle and my father served in the war together. After that they became cops. After that my uncle became corrupt, trying to take my father with him into the depths. My father refused. So they staged a coupe. My mother and father were shot down and pushed off a bridge in their car somewhere in New York. My uncle pulled the trigger. He thought it was the end of it. But plans had already been made. Three years ago a box showed up on my doorstep, no return address, no postage. I managed to open the chest and inside were things that changed my life: Videos made by my parents. They explained what had happened to them, what they saw coming, and videos that trained me. Trained me to be a killer like my father. For three years I've studied them intensely, learning every trick, every word memorized. And soon I became like my father. Soon the blades in the box that was sent to me, 20 plus years later, by my parents, were second nature to me. Every night before I'd gone to bed, for three years, I'd watched a video of them both, telling me they loved me.

He hadn't even noticed that I'd been wearing the very cross necklace my father wore all those years ago. Didn't notice the extra inch or two of muscle I'd put on for the deed yet to be done. He would. I had them all here. Every one of them that took that which was most precious to me before I ever knew them. Now was the time. My empty beer bottle shattered against the floor as I launched myself forward, they never saw it coming. The blade on my hip was out and working, spilling blood and viscera, entering soft, screaming flesh as I dispatched them all. The metallic smell of what they'd spilled by my hand filled my nose, pushing me onward. My uncle Jimmy was stunned to see such violence from his frail, antisocial, quiet spoken nephew. My shoes squished audibly against the soil now soaked with crimson as I approached him, eyes wide in disbelief. He uttered one word: Why? The handle of my knife, my father's knife, came down on his head with a sick thud. He was unconscious. I dragged the rest of the bodies into the kitchen and arranged them, as I'd been told. Then drug my uncle to the den. My muscles quaked and shivered as I peeled the soaking shirt off myself while I tied him to a chair. He'd get his answer soon. While he slept I poured gasoline all over the house, all over his dead friends, all over him.

He woke with a groggy moan, seeking to move his immobilized limbs, but couldn't. I sat in a chair across him, shirtless, the cross hanging from my neck in a gentle sway. He asked why I'd done all this in a slur. With a grunt I turned him to face our TV and without a word let the videos my father and mother made all those years ago do the explaining. He was wide awake, making excuses, justifying his actions, pleading with me, then cursing me. It had been somewhere near ten o'clock at night when I began this spree of violence, but it was dawn by the time he rattled out his last breath. I took the knife with me, cleaning it, and storing it in my coat as I breathed one last, deep sigh, and tossed the lit match into the house he'd built. A house of lies and deceit. I only stayed a few minutes to make sure the flames engulfed and consumed everything inside before taking the few thousand dollars that were in the trunk and walking away. The last words to leave my mouth that night were the words my father had said from beyond the grave: "Revenge takes time, cunning, strength, and in the end the undying belief in the truth." I walked away from my life. Walked away from the lies. And into the night I disappeared with my hand gripping my father's cross tight, giving me the ability to start anew. Revenge is never easy. But it is very, very, gratifying.