Depths: Southern Watch #2 (2 page)

“So,” Hendricks went on, “the new guy calls out just as the hillbilly is getting to his truck: ‘Wait a minute! What kind of party is this? I mean, what should I wear?’ And the hillbilly just sort of stands there, truck door open, scratches his hairy chin for a minute like he’s thinking it over, and then he says, ‘Oh, I don’t reckon it matters. You and I are gonna be the only ones there.’”

A low guffaw from Sweater Vest spread quickly to a roaring laugh from Suit and Tie. Hipster Glasses on the left sort of winced, throwing a nervous glance at the regulars over at the bar. They were all staring sullenly at the table in the corner, clearly with a bone to pick.

“Gah, that’s probably so true,” Suit and Tie said, picking up his beer for another drink. He wore an easy grin, but his glance over at Sweater Vest told Hendricks that he was looking for approval from his leader. Hendricks made note of the little co-dependent relationship between him and Sweater Vest and wondered how long that had been going on. “It’s probably a true story.”

Hendricks shrugged, keeping an eye on the characters at the bar. If one of them didn’t start moving soon, he had another joke to tell, one that might get a little more provocative.

“Yeah,” Sweater Vest said, nodding his head. “We’ve been down here for … what? A week? Totally feels like that. Bunch of hillbilly fucks around here.” He was talking loud, the booze letting his jaw run away with itself. Hendricks just sat back and let it happen. “It’s all backwoods and backwater shit. Nothing to do—no theater, no culture, no decent restaurants.” He looked around. “And the beer—”

Hendricks inclined his head slightly. “Well, that one I suppose I can agree with.”

“It’s like 1859 down here,” Sweater Vest went on. “You lost the war, guys,” he said, voice carrying. Hendricks watched as one of the boys at the bar who had previously remained facing the bartender turned around at that, bringing his chair around in a slow orbit. “Bunch of racists, just sitting around spinning their monster truck tires and slinging dirt—”

The bartender started over at a slow pace. He was medium-height fellow, a ball cap on his head and a windbreaker that read ‘SM Lines’ on the breast. It was zipped high enough that it revealed only a corner of plaid flannel beneath. He strode over to the table and Sweater Vest shut up, turning to look up at the guy, who didn’t look altogether pleased.

“Yes?” Sweater Vest asked, staring up at him. None of the guys sitting with Hendricks looked like they weighed much over one-fifty. The bartender was a hell of a lot more solidly built than that.

“Sorry to interrupt you fellows,” the guy in the hat said, “but I couldn’t help but overhear you saying some mighty disparaging things about the folks around here.”

“Nah,” Sweater Vest, turning away to face Hendricks and the others at the table, “we were just talking about our experiences around here.” He snickered and the other two followed right along.

“Well, boys, I don’t think you’ve had those experiences around here,” the man in the hat said, “I think you’ve seen
Deliverance
one too many times and it’s stuck in your brain for some reason.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t like to speculate on people’s motives, and I definitely don’t judge, but maybe it’s because you’ve always had a yearning for a man to take you out into the woods and show you a firm hand.”

“What the fuck?” Sweater Vest said, standing up so quickly he turned over his chair.

“Like I said, I’m not judging, but maybe you ought to control your derisive attitude a little while you’re visiting our home,” the man in the hat said.

“Your
home
?” Sweater Vest said, the scorn dripping off of him. Hendricks lowered his head, hiding his expression under the brim of his hat. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “Your home is a rainy, backwards shithole where the attitudes are crap, your people are broke, uneducated idiots, and the culture is all about skinning things.”

The man in the hat took it off, smoothed his thinning hair, and spoke again. “My name is Michael McInness and I’ve got a degree in French Medieval Literature from the University of Minnesota. I own this bar, and I only skin things during hunting season.” He placed the cap back on his head and straightened it. “As evidenced by the fact that I’m not skinning you right now.” He looked them all over. “These are people who have different interests than yours. Show some respect for them as fellow human beings. If you can’t keep a polite tongue in your head while you’re in my bar, I invite you to leave.” He tipped the bill of the hat to them. “Good day, boys.”

Sweater Vest just sat there sort of stunned, sputtering, not really sure what to say next. Hendricks watched, about ready to curse it. He needed a fight to break out, dammit, and polite, carefully thought out responses were not gonna do it.

“You think you’re better than us?” Suit and Tie stood up, all uppity and filled with the sort of piss and vinegar Hendricks was looking for. Well, it might work out after all.

“I ain’t better than anyone,” Michael McInness said as he walked back to the bar. “But no one’s better than me, either.”

“I think I’m better than you,” Suit and Tie said, and Hendricks watched him clench the beer bottle in his hand. He tipped it up and took it all down in one good drink. Hendricks was about ready to interject to say something to stir the situation up a little more when Suit and Tie smashed his empty bottle against the table and held it out in front of him. “I think I’m a hell of a lot better than you, you backwards fucking hick.”

“You’re gonna have to work to convince me of that from a rhetorical standpoint,” McInness said. “A man who’s got to break a bottle and threaten another man with it to prove his point seems like a man with a weak argument, like someone who just keeps repeating the same untrue shit over and over until he believes it’s true.”

“How about me and my buddies here just beat the shit out of you until you drown in a puddle of your own blood?” Sweater Vest said with a smirk. “I think that’d establish superiority.”

“Not of intellect, that’s certain,” McInness said with a sad shake of his head. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed you’re outnumbered.”

This was the point where Hendricks started to get dry mouth. It was nerves, sure as shit. Trying to provoke these three into getting into a bar fight with the locals seemed like a good idea when he’d thought of it a few minutes ago. If it turned out they weren’t actually demons, it’d be a damned stupid idea.

Upon further consideration he realized that if they did turn out to be demons, it might be even worse.

“Who have you got backing you up?” Sweater Vest said, nodding at the boys over at the bar. There were four of them, every one with a beard at least halfway down his chest. “
Duck Dynasty
?”

As one, the four men at the bar stood up, pushing their stools back from underneath them. McInness cringed. “I hope weren’t being insulting there, because—”

“I was,” Sweater Vest said, and Hendricks watched as Hipster Glasses stood, sending his wooden chair skidding back.

“That’s a damned shame,” McInness said, shaking his head. “Now, this is my establishment, and I’m asking you boys to leave.”

“Make us,” Suit and Tie said.

“That’s a very kindergarten response,” McInness said. He drew a stinging look from Suit and Tie in return. “You realize I’m going to have to call the law, since you’ve threatened me and failed to leave my property when I’ve asked you to. I even asked nicely.”

Sweater Vest took two steps toward McInness and poked him in the chest with a long finger. “You won’t last long enough for them to get here.”

McInness gave Sweater Vest a slow nod. “I see. And you, Cowboy?,” McInness looked past Sweater Vest at Hendricks. “Where do you stand in this whole thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know these guys,” Hendricks said, still sitting in his chair, beer in hand. “I was telling a joke, playing to my audience. Figured some shit-hot city wankers would get a good laugh out of the one I told. Turns out I was right.”

McInness gave him the once-over. Hendricks was a little surprised Sweater Vest hadn’t made his move yet. None of them had presented a hint of their true faces yet—if they had them—which was concerning. “So you came into my bar just to stir up shit.”

Hendricks looked at Hipster Glasses and saw a twitch at the eye, a little hint of darkness within. He set his beer down, not taking his eyes off the guy as his hand crept slowly into his coat. “Sorry, but yeah. I did.”

“Well, my patrons here enjoy a good fight,” McInness said, nodding to the crew behind him. One of them was even wearing a bandana. Seriously. “But I think it’s gonna end up causing some damage to my establishment, and I’m wondering who’s going to pay for that.”

Hendricks let his hand go inside his coat, felt the hilt of his sword and tightened his grip around it. “I think this one might have to go to insurance, sir.”

“I’m gonna take it out of somebody’s ass if my place gets torn up,” McInness said. Now he was looking Sweater Vest right in the eye. There was a pause. “Son, you got something wrong with you? Been smoking the wacky tobacky?”

“What?” Sweater Vest asked.

“Your eye.”

Hendricks caught the glimmer from Suit and Tie on the left. Shit.

Sweater Vest struck as Hendricks pulled his sword. McInness went flying through the air, shouting all the way. Suit and Tie went for the men at the bar on all fours, like a fucking wolf that had just been let loose from a kennel.

Hendricks buried his sword right in Hipster Glasses’s gut. The resulting blaze of hellfire filled the air with the sharp stench of brimstone.

Hendricks coughed and stumbled back. Surprise attacks were the best on these motherfuckers. They were the only ones guaranteed to work, really.

Sweater Vest and Suit and Tie were tearing into the boys at the bar now, and Hendricks felt a tug of remorse. This was his fault. His stupid plan to get them to reveal themselves in a crowd so he didn’t get blindsided had backfired on the locals. Guilt was gonna beat his ass down later, especially if any of these guys got hurt.

Hendricks threw himself forward with a recklessness that was probably at least partly the fault of the shitty beer’s effects. He wanted to bury the sword in Sweater Vest’s back, but Suit and Tie saw him coming and charged him. He took a shoulder to the midsection and all the air came rushing out of him. He felt it in the ribs and hoped nothing was broken.

They slammed into the floor. Suit and Tie moved a hell of a lot faster than Hendricks did. Hendricks realized his cowboy hat had fallen off in the scuffle as his head cracked against the floor of the bar. His eyeballs rattled in their sockets as the dirty, scuffed wood hit the back of his skull.

That wasn’t enough for Suit and Tie, though. Hendricks’s sword was out of position, his arms extended over the demon from where he’d gotten caught in the tackle. He couldn’t reverse his hold on the sword quickly enough and a serious pain in his chest almost caused him to drop the blade. He was still injured from where another demon had done a number on him just a week or so earlier.

For a flash, Hendricks considered trying to stop the demon as Suit and Tie got up into a schoolboy position to start punching the shit out of him. That idea fled quickly and instead he tried to block. He caught the first punch with his left wrist and nearly screamed from the pain as it hit. His arm went numb from the wrist down, and it ached all the way up, like he’d gotten a shovel smashed into it.

“Get the fuck outta here!” Hendricks heard somewhere, and the heavy footfalls of boots fell around him. He dimly realized that it was the boys from the bar exercising the better part of valor. He wished he could join them.

The next punch from Suit and Tie caught him in the nose, and he felt the blood start running. His head got hazy. There were two of that fucker on top of him, weren’t there?

Hendricks’s eyes alit on Sweater Vest. He was standing just past Suit and Tie’s shoulder, past the white shirt that was now a little spotted from blood. Hendricks knew some of it was his.

Hendricks’s mind slipped back to him long enough to remember he had something in his hand. Something that might help. He looked over at it, blinking as the next blow descended.

Oh, right. A sword.

He jabbed up and poked it into Suit and Tie’s ribcage. He put some power into it, like he needed to bury it up to the hilt to get the job done. It didn’t go all the way in to the hilt, but he got it in a good three inches, and that was enough. Suit and Tie’s bloody ensemble was engulfed in the shadowed fire that came from a demon’s demise, and Hendricks felt the belching of the cloud of heat as he passed.

Hendricks wanted to sag to the floor and just wait, but McInness was in Sweater Vest’s grasp. This was not going to end well, but still Hendricks could not compel his body to get off the damned floor.

There was a noise behind him, but he couldn’t turn to look. Thunderous steps moved past him, heavy footfalls, like the boys from
Duck Dynasty
were back with friends, but—

No. That wasn’t it.

A mountainous black man stood over him, wearing a sheriff’s deputy’s khaki uniform. He only glanced at Hendricks for a second before he grabbed Sweater Vest from behind and pulled him backward, throwing him out of Hendricks’s sight.

Oh, thank God.

Arch.

* * *

Archibald Stan didn’t like his first name, so he went by Arch. It didn’t have the ring of a name to his ears, not a traditional one, but it worked. Easy to say, easy to remember, and distinctive. He didn’t really care that it was distinctive, but it worked in his favor so he didn’t dislike it.

Arch had seen the regulars go bolting out the door of the bar from where he’d sat in the parking lot, soaking in the silence in his patrol car. Rain tapped at his windows as the front door to the Charnel House Bar opened and men started spilling out. That was about as much signal as he needed to know that things inside had gone downhill. He’d been waiting for Hendricks to come out and get him once he’d confirmed that the out-of-towners inside were, in fact, demons. But the cowboy never did come out. If Arch had been any other deputy on the force, he could have just gone in with Hendricks.