Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) (3 page)

“
I think I’ll
manage.”

The rec door swung open, letting in a
gust of hot Texas air. Kevin stumbled into the room, blue Solo cup
in hand. His clumsy swagger and bloodshot eyes suggested he’d
either just finished a twenty-four hour shift or was infected with
the latest zombie virus.

Shane shuffled the cards while
watching Kevin take a seat at the table behind them.

Birch exhaled a deep breath as he
popped his knuckles.

“
Tough shift?” Shane asked
without looking away from the cards he spread on the table. Ali
Hassan al-Majid. King of Spades. One of the dead
motherfuckers.

“
Had to write an
operations manual for the new submersible pumping system. The
sections code under the federal—”

“
Look Jamie-boy,” Shane
said, taunting Birch with his real name, a name Birch had loathed
since kindergarten. “Next time I ask how your day went just say
‘fine’ and forgo all the techno-babble bullshit.”

Birch bought cheese
crackers from the vending machine and took a seat in the folding
chair across from him. “The Army turned you into an
ass.”

“
No. It didn’t.” Ace of
Spades. Camp Justice. God bless America.

“
You’re right,” Birch
said. “You were always an ass.”

It had been a year since
Shane’s dishonorable discharge, but it wasn’t Uncle Sam that turned
him into the asshole everyone had said he was. He wasn't afflicted
with PTSD, at least not from the war anyway. He loved being a
soldier. Gun in hand, boots laced tight, order and protocols, those
were all the things befitting him.

Shane began dealing the
cards. “You in or out?”

“
Certainly,” Birch said.
“Considering my winning streak last night, I think Lady Luck has a
crush on me.”

“
Hope she does you better
than that diva you call a wife.” Shane dealt cards across the
table.

With a teasing grin, Birch
spoke around a mouthful of crackers. “At least Bridget is
sane.”

When Kevin groaned, Shane glanced over
his shoulder. Kevin sipped his drink, giving Shane a half smile and
nod.

Shane turned back to
Birch. “Don’t call Amy crazy.”

“
She’s the only chick I
know that organizes her cabinets according to the alignment of the
stars.”

Or invokes orgasms by the
placement of her shoes under the bed, Shane thought. “She’s
cute.”

“
Looking for a rat’s head
at sunset is cute?” Birch’s face contorted into an exaggerated
frown. “It’s a little bit loco, chief.”

Kevin let out a huff. He
stumbled from his table and took a seat on the other side of Shane.
“Wait until the little woman climbs up your ass about leaving the
twist tie off the bread. Of course that pales in comparison to when
your dog takes a shit on the new carpet. And the fireworks don’t
really crack until she kicks you out of bed for coming home
smelling like cigarettes and beer, asking the name of the whore
you’d been fucking. Then you’ll know you’re officially in the ninth
circle of Hell and married to the Devil’s own succubus.”

Birch snickered. “Nah.
Baker here is in love. Puppy dogs and sunshine.”

Shane ignored Birch,
instead glancing at Kevin. “How’s Rachel and the baby? She must be
ready to pop. What is she, nine and a half months
along?”

Kevin leaned forward.
“Fuck you, Baker.”

The pungent scent of
whiskey assailed Shane’s nostrils. “Jesus Kev! Are you drinking? We
could all get fired.” He shook his head. “At least put it into a
coffee mug, you dumb fuck.” Shane reached for the plastic cup, but
Kevin dumped it on Shane’s head and pitched it to the floor. “Prove
it, asshole.”

Gripping
the rim of the table, willing himself to stay seated, Shane counted
from ten.
Nine. Eight.

Birch whispered in his
left ear. “Don’t. Overreact, man.”

Kevin whispered in his
right ear. “Tell your flaming, bum chum lover to fuck
off.”

Seven.

“
I know plan A’s looking
mighty fine,” Birch said, “but last time plan A landed us naked in
a Mexican jail.”

Six.
Plan A was Shane’s simple go-to
plan in a tight spot that involved little more than beating a man
to a bloody lump.

With a demon in one ear and an angel
in the other, Shane felt his blood pressure rise, his face get hot,
and his hands shake. One more write-up for fighting on the rig and
he’d surely get fired.

Five.

Kevin was hardly a saint, but this
behavior seemed over-the-top, even for him. Must be the alcohol
flapping his gums.

“
Think of Amy,” Birch
said. “He’s not worth it. Walk away.”

“
Yeah,” Kevin whispered,
his pungent breath wafting across Shane’s face like the steam from
a sewer pipe. “Think of Amy and how she might be served better by a
real man.”

Four.

“
He’s just rattling your
chain. Don’t let him bait you.” Birch whispered.

“
Yeah, Baker, I’m just
rattling your fuckin’ chain.” Kevin leaned back in his chair and
cackled like a rabid bastard. He straightened and pointed. “Tell
that country slut that when she’s done sucking on your southern
fried dick where to come find a real cowboy and not some white
trash redneck.” Kevin’s mouth unleashed a thunderous
belch.

Three...two...

“
Fuck it.” Shane’s chair
rattled as he shot to his feet. Fists clenched.

Birch darted between Kevin
and Shane, and held his palms up to Shane while keeping at arm’s
length. “I got an idea,” the lanky bastard said. “A good ol’ plan
H.”

“
Fuck your Plan H.” Shane
shoved Birch to the floor before he grabbed Kevin. Birch scrambled
from the fray to avoid getting trampled as Shane and Kevin
grappled.

From behind, Shane locked
his arm around Kevin’s neck while Kevin’s feet scrambled for
traction on the floor. He thrust his fist into Kevin’s chest,
knocking the wind from his lungs. “You stupid sunuvabitch! You
swore you’d quit drinking when Rachel got pregnant.” With his mouth
close to Kevin’s ear, Shane gritted, “You’re gonna end up in jail,
jobless and fuck up your wife’s life and your unborn
kid’s.”

Standing to the side,
Birch clapped Shane on the shoulder. “Let him go. You don’t need
any more trouble.”

With a sneer, Shane shoved
Kevin against the wall. “I’m going with plan A.”

“
Is an ass-kicking your
solution to every problem?” Birch asked, his tone one of
indifference.

Shane nodded. “Damn
straight.” He shook Kevin, but Kevin jerked away, and lost his
balance, tumbling into the coffee table. The glass pot crashed to
the floor and its black contents pooled at their feet.

Kevin never threw a punch.

Shane gripped the collar
of Kevin’s shirt and heaved him against the wall. “What the fuck
you thinking? This is bullshit.”

“
Just kick my ass.”
Kevin’s blank stare rolled to the black puddle on the
floor.

Shane loosened his grip.
Something didn’t sit right about all this. No man in a right state
of mind ever asked for his ass to be kicked, not even a drunk one.
“Did something happen? Is Rachel and the baby alright?”

Tears welled in Kevin’s
red eyes. He slumped to the floor and sat in the cold black puddle
of old coffee, like a gut shot buck felled in its own entrails.
“Six years we tried. Six fucking years. And it happened. God
willing it happened.” Hugging his knees, he buried his face between
his legs.

Shane watched a grown man
weep.

“
They said he wouldn’t
make it.” Kevin’s head dropped, gaze lowered to the floor. “God
blessed us with a child and now He’s taking him from
us.”

Shane’s fists unclenched. He knelt in
front of Kevin and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Kevin’s tear-stained face lifted and a
ghastly deadpan gaze caught Shane.

“
My son’s gonna
die.”

# # #

With the rat's bloody body resting in
a shallow grave, Amy had spent the last hour patting the dry,
yellowed grass, scouring for the rodent’s missing head.

She sat back on her haunches and blew
a strand of blond hair from her flushed face. Muck clung to her
sweaty forehead.

Alamo, a black and tan
mongrel with about as much worth as a bushel of rotten peas, slept
near the foot of the wooden porch. After spotting Freya, the feline
scoundrel, Amy chased the blasted cat with a yard broom around the
porch until the guilty she had escaped underneath the trailer.
Alamo perked one ear, slightly raising his head, but went back to
napping shortly.

Amy returned to her knees and
continued raking her fingers through the parched lawn and gold
weeds while silently cursing Freya.

Behind her, Alamo put his
nose to the ground. He sniffed along an unseen zig-zag line that
led to the mound of wheat-colored grass trimmings. Within spitting
distance of the heap, the dog excitedly began to dig through the
mulch with his front paws.

Freya sprung from under the porch,
stopping shy of Alamo. Hissing. Spine arched.

Alamo barked and growled but the nutty
feline didn’t take the hint.

When Freya slashed Alamo across the
snout, he fled to seek refuge inside his doghouse. Freya meowed
triumphantly.

With a dainty stride, the cat nosed
inside the patch of grass and surfaced with a furry head in her
mouth. Freya snaked around and in between Amy’s legs before
dropping the gooey head at Amy’s feet.

“
Heavens!” She plucked the
head by a half-chewed ear and plopped it into the hole with the
rest of its remains.

Her palms packed the cool
soil over the grave as she grumbled at Alamo. Course he couldn’t
hear her from his doghouse across the yard. “How could
you?”

To further ward off any vengeful
spirits courtesy of the dead rodent, she strolled to the edge of
the woods to pick some wild blueberries to put on the grave. An old
Indian trick to keep the dead at peace. Nervous tremors took hold
of her fingers while she carefully plucked the berries, making sure
not to pop any of them. It was crucial she take ample care in
pleasing the poor rodent’s soul, especially if it was the dreadful
portent Sherry had foresaw earlier.

Returning to the grave,
she divided the berries atop it. Mental checklist: Found head.
Buried head. Covered with berries.

Then Amy made the sign of
the cross, her hand moving from the right shoulder to left. “In the
name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.” She never
recalled her pastor giving sermons on appeasing wronged spirits but
she’d also been raised Baptist, so she hoped her pseudo-Catholicism
was good enough.

Another thought jolted her to her feet
and she ran to the side of the trailer. There she turned on the
faucet to fill Alamo’s dirty water dish before returning once more
to the burial site.

How does one bless water
anyhow? She looked at the mucky water in the metal bowl. “God,
please bless this water and make it Holy.” Since she tried to make
it a habit to talk to God on a regular basis she knew her request
would be provide adequate blessing of the water.

She dipped two fingers in the bowl and
drizzled the grave.

“
Please don’t haunt me. I
really do like all animals. It’s just my dumb dog...or cat don’t
know any better. I hope you understand.” She sprinkled more water
on the grave. “Rest in peace, my furry friend.”

Thunder rolled in the
distance. Amy sniffed the air. There hadn’t been any storms
forecasted for tonight, but she sure could smell the rain. And the
breeze carried an odious foreboding aroma.

A bright light geysered from deep
within the dense forest of ash and oaks. A banshee howl bellowed
from the doghouse and Alamo burst free, racing into the
woods.

“
Alamo!” Amy shouted but
the cur was already gone.

Freya stalked the edge of the gloomy
forest, swiping the air.

Maybe she saw an intruder
visible only to her, Amy thought as dread seized her. Cats were
able to look into alternate dimensions where the wicked wights and
spirits capered.

And cats who ran in
circles weren’t just chasing their tails. They were chasing those
otherworldly specters who hailed from the underworld. Felines kept
tabs on the devils and wights that trespassed into the world of the
living. Aunt Carol had taught her the way of cats. Aunt Carol would
know ‘cause she had thirty-nine of them before she went
nuts.

Another crash of thunder
rolled. This one a lot closer.

“
Dear Lord.”

Never once had Alamo ventured into
Sacred Oaks. He’d only bark his ever-loving head off. Even a dumb
mutt like him could probably sense the perilous secrets inhabiting
those woods. But today the forest conjured him the way a witch
summoned her familiar.