Story #23 - Deacon First

Deacon First

Stuffing the silver bullets back into the magazine, he made sure that each hollow-point was completely encased in the shining metal. A bad bullet might mean his life or that of his partner's and he'd be hard-pressed to explain why he let another man die because of his lack of preparation.

The seventeenth bullet took some force to seat properly in the magazine; the gun had always given him problems. He'd complained about it several times but with the same results – the guns the Ministry gave out were made to the same specifications. If there was a problem it was with him, not the gun.

Pulling back hard on the slide, he notched the weapon into firing position and jammed it into his holster. He didn't have much time before they'd expect him downstairs and he needed to make a good impression. First days on rounds were some of the most important for a Deacon looking to move his way up the ranks, and he couldn't afford to make mistakes.

Reaching into his locker brought a smile to his face as he drew out his Chastiser. What he lacked in skill with the pistol he more than made up for in precision and near-perfection with the melee weapon, something he felt was much more likely to save his skin at close range – a position a Deacon was put in far too often for comfort. The bastards he was hunting could move like a part of the air itself, fifty yards from you one second and fifty inches the next. He had to be ready.

A quick glance around the corner showed that no one else was in the change room and he swung the Chastiser in a quick downward arc, the weapon telescoping as it went and yielding a baton of four times its closed length. With a grim smile he jabbed the activator button on the grip and two black spikes sprung out three quarters of the way up the shaft. Razor sharp and quenched in holy water, the Chastiser and its blackened points were a powerful force against things that went bump in the night.

His Chastiser still held perfect balance and the spikes glistened just as they should so he carefully locked them back into place and retracted the weapon back into carrying form. A check over his belt told him he had everything he needed aside from garlic pepper spray, but he'd been told he would receive that before his boots hit the street.

One more stop in front of the mirror, a once-over with a lint roller and he was out the swinging door and down to the Chapel – Session began in only a few minutes.

***

Settling himself as he approached the Chapel door, Deacon First Barry Howe took a deep breath. He'd been training for this moment for months, fighting and clawing his way through the program just to be given the opportunity to serve. His class had lost two good men and a woman in the pre-operation exercises; the Ministry used live subjects in their testing and those who did not take the training seriously enough ended up removed or – Barry brought himself up short. No good to be thinking about that now.

Pushing open the door to the Chapel he strode in confidently, head up and shoulders back. Limited familiarly with his equipment made him wider than he believed, however, and his gun smacked hard into the door frame, sending him stumbling a step to the left and drawing the attention of the seven men inside.

A flush came to his cheeks be he stepped forward, determined not to lose what little he'd gained by walking in with such bravado. Most Deacon Firsts would knock before their entry into the Chapel, though protocol did not strictly require it. Already he had knowingly breached convention; appearing to regent his decision would not speak well of his character.

In measured turn he met the eyes of the others in the room. Six were Deacons - four Seconds and two Thirds - and one was the Bishop.

He'd met Bishop Trammel prior to training and had been told he ran one of the tightest cadres in the city, one that any Deacon could be proud to be a member of. From what Barry had heard, he was also one of the most demanding taskmasters and from Trammel's dark gaze under bushy black eyebrows, he was inclined to believe it.

All of the men in the room were hard, sharp-edged things but Trammel somehow stood above, seperate. They'd fought the Darkness but he'd conquered it, pushed it back a step. His shoulders were no more broad than John Fry, one of the burly Thirds in the room, and his face bore no more scars than Pike Rolson, a beanpole thin Second, but somehow Jens Tremmel stood out among them. Coarse brown hair clipped short over a squat forehead and too-short nose gave him the look of a small-time boxer were it not for the pristine black uniform over his blocky frame.

Meeting Barry's eyes, Tremmel held them and gestured to a chair in the back of the room, apart from the round table the other men sat at.

Another challenge, but not one that Barry could win this early in his career. He had to earn the right to sit with these men, and that meant earning their trust. He sat down as instructed.

“Listen up!” Tremmel's voice wasn't loud but it immediately stopped all conversation. “We've got a new Deacon First - you all heard him when he came in. Barry Howe. Rolson, he's with you.”

Rolson nodded. He was the most junior of the Seconds, so he'd be the one assigned to deal with the “new guy”. From what Barry had heard, Rolson was a solid man to learn from.

“Quiet night out there, boys,” Tremmel continued. “But I want you to watch your backs. There's been reports of a Fanger in the area.”

Barry felt his excitement rise. Every kid dreamed of joining the Ministry just for a night like this – a chance to bag a vampire.

- D