Story #202 - Deacon First VIII

Deacon First VIII

Pike Rolson had been beaten to within an inch of his life before; it wasn’t so bad, once a man understood what was behind it.

The first two times had come at the hands of the undead, once during his time as a First and once when he took a late watch alone during his fourth month as a Second. His training officer had saved him the first time, and only stubborn determination had been enough to get him through when there was no one else to rely on.

One of Venman’s guards raised a bloody fist, but Pike didn’t react. They’d broken his jaw, torn off part of his ear and he was missing at least five teeth, but he hadn’t made a sound. All men above him were doing was making a point at the insistence of their master, and what they were doing would stop once that master felt his point had been made and understood.

Pike could endure pain, certainly – he was a Deacon – but that didn’t mean he had any great fondness for it.

“Had enough, Pikey?” That was Dren Pollard. He and Pollard had gone through training together, and Dren had been as ambitious as they came. It was clear from the first moment they hit the streets that the other Deacon had his sights set far higher than Pike, and the bigger man had quickly been noticed by Venman, both for his interest in the job and his ferocity when it came to administering physical punishment.

It had been obvious to Pike as soon as his training round was completed that the Bishop-Captain was a madman. That wasn’t so out of the ordinary; a life spent fighting the undead could make a man twist and turn in ways most couldn’t understand. He could see some of it in himself; three years on the street had changed him from the bright-eyed young man that had come to help defend the city into one far more jaded.

Instead of answering Dren, Pike let his shoulders drop and sucked in a deep breath. If they wanted to continue beating him, he could endure it, but he saw no reason to draw the process out. The sooner they thought they’d ruined him the sooner Venman would let him get back to work.

“Lipper!” Dren barked at his companion. “Go tell the Bishop-Captain we’ve beaten the cocky out of our thin friend here.”

Lipper was bigger, dumber and quite possibly more ferocious than Dren, and looked at him with a flat, angry stare.

“Now!” Dren reached out and smacked Lipper sharply across the face. As the senior member, he had authority over Lipper, at least so far as the bigger man would allow it. Should they ever spar and Lipper come out the winner, Venman would likely give the mountain of a man a promotion. For the moment, Lipper seemed to be cowed, and stumped out of the room.

Pike didn’t bother to look at Dren, or try to strike up a conversation. That would only give the man the impression that he wasn’t beaten yet, that he still had some fight left in him. He did, but Dren didn’t need to know it. He needed to get through this as quickly as possible and get back into the city so that he could meet up with Howe; the kid needed his help now more than ever.

Despite the rage the Bishop-Captain had displayed at being called down in his own meeting, there was no way he was going to kill a Second. Fewer and fewer men were available to take on the job, and those that did were of declining quality. Pike had put in his time on the streets and proven he could not only handle himself but keep another man safe, and that wasn’t something the Deacons could afford to lose.

Dren huffed in a breath, and Pike had to stifle a smile, even through the pain. The shaggy man bore a strong resemblance in body type to the Wolf that had almost ended his life a year ago, and had about as much intelligence. To most, that was an insult, but the fact was that Wolves – and Vamps – had a lot more going for them than the ordinary citizen realized.

He’d come across the Wolf on a quick patrol around the stadium grounds, and the thing had been on him before he knew what happened. When he told the story later, he’d been sure to throw in comments about how he knew that the thing was coming for him, or that he’d had some sense that he was going to get attacked, but the truth was he’d had no clue.

Teeth and claws had ripped into him, shredding his armor and pushing blood out newly-formed wounds. His gun hand had been pinned to his side and useless, and a shaky swing of his chastiser glanced off the thing’s back. It hadn’t even flinched.

Within thirty seconds he’d found himself on the ground, throat exposed and the beast above him roaring in triumph. He’d been sure his life was over, but then the Wolf leaned down, sniffed hard, and growled out words he’d never forget.

“Can’t. The Master doesn’t want you dead.”

He’d become a hero overnight; the Second who’d single-handedly defeated a Wolf. He knew he didn’t deserve the honor, but his status gave him the chance to poke his nose in where it didn’t belong.

Barry Howe had been just another recruit until he started babbling about Wolves talking to him. Howe wasn’t a bad First, but Pike wouldn’t have taken a beating just to save face for his trainee. Something important was happening in the ranks of the undead, and Howe was a part of it. Venman couldn’t be allowed to suspect Barry Howe of anything more than being an incompetent First, and one more beating wouldn’t be the end of Pike Rolson.

The door to the cell banged open to admit Bishop-Captain Venman, his face dark. A motion to Dren and the man’s gun came up, cocked and ready to fire.

“The Service is loathe to lose you, Second, but such are the risks of war.”

Pike Rolson raised his head. This was unexpected.

- D

Story #155 - Deacon First - VII

Deacon First - VII

Barry tried to catch Pike Rolson’s eye as they moved through HQ to the Briefing Room, but the taller man was clearly avoiding his gaze. It wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone looking at them as they strode through the emergency-lit hallways, but he knew his training officer well enough to know when the man didn’t want to deal with something.

That was the odd part – he’d never seen Pike shy away from anything even remotely difficult or unpleasant. When it came to the public, Rolson wasn’t exactly the model Bishop, but that was common in the ranks. Most Firsts and Seconds had real chips on their shoulders, and snide attitudes – they were “better” than those around them, those they were supposed to keep safe. Pike wasn’t like that – he just didn’t like dealing with the public very much. He’d never say so, but Barry was sure that the public made his training officer nervous.

The double doors to the Briefing Room were guarded by four men, Bishops that Barry had only seen once or twice in his time at the station. They were specially selected – an elite force that Bishop-Captain Lars Venman had drafted to protect him even within what should have been the safety of the district walls. All four men wore a single red shoulder flash on their right sides, and stood with a straight-backed precision that most of the Bishops didn’t bother to try and emulate. They were the “best of the best”, at least in the Bishop-Captain’s eyes, and that tended to add layers of arrogance to an already healthy set of egos.

None of them would meet his eyes as he passed by, and he pushed down a small core of anger. He’d done nothing wrong! Between him and Pike, an attack on the district’s HQ had been thwarted, and lives had been saved.

Barry’s mind called up an image of the shimmering shield again, of what had likely saved his life out there rather than his own skill or Rolson’s reflexes. The fact that he didn’t understand what it was bothered him, but the seeming fixation of the five wolves on him – that he seemed to be their target – chilled him to the bone.

Rolson obviously knew more than he was saying, and his whispered words meant that whatever knowledge he had he wasn’t supposed to. Listener’s Bookstore was a known hangout for rebels and drifters – those that civilized society considered only one step above the Wolves and Vamps that ran the streets. Public perception held that those on the fringes of city life had a higher chance of getting caught and turned, but the truth was that anyone, anywhere could be caught and have their life twisted away from them – it was just easier to paint those that didn’t fit in as the real problem.

“Gentlemen,” a smooth voice said from the far side of the room, “sit.”

Barry had met the Bishop-Captain only once, when he began his training round at HQ, and the man had been suitably distant. He’d expected as much from a superior officer, but from what the others in his squad had told him, the Bishop-Captain didn’t warm up noticeably over time.

He and Rolson took up chairs opposite the man at the head of the table, and Barry couldn’t help but notice that not only was he flanked by two more guards, but that both had their guns drawn and safeties off. The Bishop-Captain took no chances.

“I must commend you for your actions, gentlemen,” Venman said softly, “you have done us all a great service tonight.”

Barry was finding it hard to see the other man; the lights in the room had been turned to focus on the chairs that he and Pike sat it, leaving Venman and his guards in shadow.

“Thank you, Bishop-Captain –“ Rolson began, but Venman cut him off.

“Second! I did not ask you to speak.” There was no anger in the tone, just a stern rebuke; a father telling a son that he had stepped out of line. Pike shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. Venman was well-liked by the brass but hadn’t garnered much of a reputation among those at the bottom of the chain of command, and it was no wonder why. Except for his elites, men under the Bishop-Captain’s direct command tended to not come home in one piece.

“As I was saying,” Venman went on, “you’ve both performed admirably tonight. But,” the Bishop-Captain leaned forward, his silvery hair glimmering in the low light “I have to wonder why the Wolves chose to attack at all. We’ve seen nothing from them in weeks.”

Both he and Pike remained silent. Barry wouldn’t have spoken up in any case, and his training officer seemed to have learned his lesson from Venman’s first rebuke.

“Tell me,” Venman said, pointing at Barry, “First. Have you ever seen a Wolf that just wasn’t right? A Wolf that was more than it should be?”

“More?” Barry tried his best to sound confused.

“Yes,” the Bishop-Captain cut off the word. “More. You’ve been seen in the company of the Undead, Howe, several times without your weapons drawn. Now, an unprovoked attack has occurred on the least valuable of any of our points of entry. You seem a magnet for trouble, First, and I wonder – perhaps you know more than you should?”

Pike Rolson barked a laugh, and even in the dim light Barry could see the Bishop-Captain’s face darken.

“What is the meaning of this, Rolson?” Venman demanded, and Barry could hear the guards shifting on their feet.

“I apologize, Bishop-Captain, but your statement was more amusing than you know. Howe here is a passable First, but only because of my training. Without it, he would be dead on the street. We’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel with the recent set of recruits, and Howe here is about the worst of it.” Rolson shot him a look that said keep your mouth shut, and then went on. “If you’re looking for problems, he’s not the one you want.”

Venman relaxed slightly, and then motioned to the elite at his left. “Howe,” he grated out the name, “you are free to go. Rolson, you will remain here.”

The tall man didn’t react, but Barry was quite sure there was panic masked under the calm collection of Pike Rolson.


- D

Story #131 - Deacon First VI

Deacon First -VI

“Howe!” Pike Rolson’s voice cracked like a whip. “Get your head out of your ass!”

With a start, Barry realized he’d been nodding off; they were on midnight watch of the Order’s HQ, which meant little more than standing at the east entrance and making sure nothing made it through alive.

Every team had to take a turn at guard duty, though Rolson had managed to postpone their required nights thanks to Barry’s status as a new member; training recruits was hard and often deadly, but it did come with a few perks.

“Sorry, Pike,” Barry said, running his hands quickly over the silvered machine gun he shouldered. There was nothing to correct, nothing needing adjustment, but he needed to look attentive, and hoped that fiddling with the gun would at least keep him awake.

He had been surprised his superiors were willing to issue him one of the guns so quickly, especially without proper training in its use. Its parts were easy enough to understand and he was sure he could point and shoot, but his aim would be in question.

“Wondering how it works, rookie?” Rolson asked, and continued before Barry had a chance to stop him. The senior Deacon had already explained the gun’s workings twice, but apparently needed something to help him stay awake as well.

“Silver coated inner barrels,” Pike said, and Barry wished the man would at least vary the order of the information or his speed of his delivery, “which allow soft copper bullets passing through them to pick up enough residue to hurt a Wolf.”

Barry nodded, though his eyes had begun to close again; his own Wolf encounter three nights ago had kept him up for days, and was finally catching up with him.

“Won’t kill ‘em,” Pike went on, “but with these one bullet won’t be all they’ll get. Fully automatic, rookie – just hold down the trigger until they’re dead.” Rolson’s voice came to him as though from a great distance; had the man been walking as he spoke?

“Howe!” There was real anger in the voice, this time. “Wake the hell up, right now!”

The dark courtyard of the east entryway sprang back into focus, and Barry took a deep breath. There was nothing in the darkness to keep his concentration, nothing to help him pass the time. None of the Order would come from this direction; only the odd delivery truck that couldn’t use the south gate would be routed this way, and only in daylight. If something came out of the darkness, it would not be friendly, and he was stuck sweeping his eyes across the flat grey pavement over and over again.

“Pike –“ he began, but the Second cut him off.

“Listen up, First.” The use of his title told Barry that Rolson was really angry; they’d enjoyed an excellent working relationship until now, with Barry managing to not get either of them killed or seriously wounded, but nodding off on duty was something Pike couldn’t tolerate. “You haven’t been a total disappointment, but I’m looking to make Third next year, and that’s not going to happen if you slack off!” Rolson hadn’t moved from his post, but Barry could hear the strain in the taller man’s voice. If he could, he would have closed the distance between them and made Barry physically aware of the anger he was feeling.

“Yes, Second!” Barry called out, and Pike went quiet. Arguing would have been the worst possible course, and there was little he could say to Rolson in his own defense. He had been nearly sleeping on the job – something that could endanger them both.

Ten minutes of silence passed and Barry tried hard to keep himself awake and on-track, but even vivid remembrances of the Wolf’s first appearance in his apartment did little to keep him alert, and he could feel himself sliding again down the grey and soothing slope to sleep.

“Pike,” he said quietly, “has a Wolf ever acted…oddly around you?”

Rolson sniffed. “Nothing normal about a Wolf, Howe. You should know that. And what do you mean by ‘odd’”?

Barry took a deep breath; he had to talk to someone, and Pike was a better choice than anyone else he could think of. Their post provided a measure of security; they weren’t due to be checked on again for another hour.

“Well…” he hesitated. Telling Pike everything would be a bad idea –

There was no movement in the darkness, only a quick inrush of air and then five dark forms were hurtling toward them, bodies coursing low over the ground and fur whipping. They both opened fire, but too late – only one of the five was caught in their scattershot, and the other four came on hard.

For him.

He screamed, but no fangs reached his neck, no claws touched his arms. The golden shield sprung into existence and the four against him howled, then burst into flames. In moments their singed shapes had disappeared back into the quiet black and all was still once again.

Rolson jammed the alarm hard and then strode up to him. “So – odd like that?”

Barry nodded. “Sort of. Pike, one showed up at my apartment. Talked to me. Told me they have a creator, then attacked me and that shield showed up. What the hell, Pike? What the hell?”

Rolson put a steady hand on his shoulder and shook his head. “I’ve got no idea, Rookie. Now, let me check you for bites.” Pulling hard, the Second forced him forward and made a show of looking over his neck.

“Lifter’s bookstore. Next day off. Noon.” Pike’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, and Barry had to strain to hear it over the wail of the alert klaxon. “Clear!” His trainer announced in a loud voice, then stepped back and put his arms up. A platoon of men burst through the east doors, weapons drawn, and Barry raised his hands as well.

“Come with us,” the lead guard said, then gestured to two of his own to take up position at the door, “the Bishop-Captain is waiting in the briefing room.”

- D

Story #60 - Deacon First III

Deacon First - III

“See where I hit ‘em?” Pike Rolson grabbed the ‘wolf by the ears and lifted its face off of the ground. “Right between the eyes.”

From most Seconds, such a statement would be a boast, a way to one-up the First they were training, but Pike Rolson was simply stating facts; teaching Barry how he could be most effective on the streets. He was a good man and a good teacher, though most assumed a different sort of character lurked below the surface of his scarred face.

Barry looked away from Rolson’s thin frame as the Second let the creature's head drop back to the wet pavement. It was another night of rain, a silvery drizzle that mingled with the blood and filth on the streets, not quite strong enough to wash it all away.

In the streetlight the whole city seemed covered in dark, slippery blood, oozing through the cracks in the pavement and slipping quickly around corners to pool out of sight. The Bridge had been seeing more action than usual; two werewolves in the space of three days and twice that many vamps, so they’d been told to step up patrols in the area.

For most of the guys on the street it was chance to show off – to them, it was about who could bag the most undead and with the most “style”; Rolson was one of the few that seemed to care more about the job than the killing.

A nod from his partner told him it was time to go, and Barry made his was to the waiting squad car, holstering his gun as he went. The first time they’d come up against a ‘wolf he’d drawn his Chastiser just like they’d told him in training, and Rolson had torn him up one side and down the other.

“Use that thing if you have to," Rolson had said through clenched teeth, “not because they told you to. If you’ve got the range, draw and fire – don’t get me killed out here, First.”

Rolson hadn’t mentioned the incident again, but Barry had been very careful to leave his Chastiser at his hip.

Once they were both seated and safe behind the bulletproof glass of the car, Rolson pulled a small pad from the center console and made a quick notation. He kept his Kill List meticulous and accurate, a testament more to his ability to do his job than the size of his ego. Trammel had made the right choice in picking the tall Second as a training officer, at least from where Barry was sitting.

“Another one,” Barry tried to keep his voice steady, but actually seeing the undead in person was a whole different ballgame than having instructors dressed up in foam suits and growling at him from across a gym floor, “what the hell does this mean?”

He’d been told vamps and ‘wolves liked to congregate wherever there were pockets of concentrated unholy energy, invisible disturbances in the normal order of things that humans would perceive as “creepy” but drew the undead like moths to a hellflame.

“Mean?” Rolson’s voice was soft in the car, but it carried the confidence that came with experience. “It means there’s a bubble here, Howe.”

“Yeah, but,” Barry hesitated – his time on the streets amounted to little more than a month, but from what others in his training class were telling him, the amount of action he’d seen was far out of the ordinary, “there are just so damn many of them. More than usual.”

“Usual,” Rolson said, and Barry could hear the amusement in his voice, “more than usual. Really, Howe? Is that your considered opinion? From your years of long experience?”

Barry shifted in his seat; he hadn’t spent long as a Deacon, but that didn’t mean he was completely green – he’d done four years with the sheriffs in his home town before coming to the big city. “My experience doesn’t really matter – there are more undead here than there should be. I’ve looked at the daily reports, same as you. This is one of the biggest spikes we’ve seen in a while.” He turned from scanning the darkened streets to look directly at Rolson. It was a breach of protocol; Firsts were supposed to always be “eyes out” in the car, but the Second needed to know he meant business.

Rolson met his gaze for a moment and then his mouth curved up in a small smile, tugging at the long scar on the side of his face. “Not bad, First. At least you can read the dailies well enough to know a spike from your own ***. Most can’t.” He pointed a thin finger out toward the bridge. “Now get your eyes back where they belong.”

His point made, Barry went back to scanning the pavement in front of the car. The undead could move faster than he’d ever believed and even parked in the open, a werewolf or vampire would be able to cover the distance to their car in a matter of seconds.

“It’s about that ‘wolf, isn’t it?” Rolson asked softly, and Barry nodded. The Second had seen what happened, even if he didn’t understand it either. Two weeks ago, their first call at the bridge and a shaggy brown ‘wolf had run them down, cornering Barry and cutting him off from Rolson.

There had been a moment of awful silence, of horrifying realization that his throat was going to be torn out and spit on the ground like so much gristle, and then the thing had actually spoken.

“He comes,” the creature had said, and then loped off into the darkness, leaving both Barry and Rolson stunned. They’d both heard it; these things were supposed to be brain-dead monsters, twisted human representations that had sold their souls to a lower power.

That ‘wolf had been different.

“Look, Howe,” Rolson spoke slowly, “we’re just grunts, you and I. You’re smarter than the average First I train and maybe I’m not your typical Second, but they don’t pay us to think. They pay us to keep people safe, to keep the streets clean,” he drew his Chastiser and thumbed the button, black spikes springing into view, “to kill.”

Barry grunted; somehow, that didn’t feel like enough.

- D