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

Story #51 - Deacon First II

Deacon First - II

Bishop-Captain Lars Venman had more problems than he could count. Fortunately, he’d never been particularly found of counting so it didn’t matter; even if they’d been of a reasonable number he wouldn’t know it.

"Deal with what’s in front of you, son, and you’ll do alright," his dad had always said, and damned if he hadn’t been right.

Eggheads, thinkers and number-crunchers had been fine when the only problems the local authorities were dealing with included hopped-up scumbags and streetwalkers, but real men of action were needed once the supernatural hit the fan.

Vampires. Werewolves. If he hadn’t seen both in the pale or furry flesh he’d never have believed it. Corpses sucked dry and men torn to shreds were one thing; something that could be explained by a psycho killer or a twisted bitch with a passion for suffering. But seeing one of the monsters looming above him, dripping fangs only inches from his face or watching rippled silver hackles rising as its four-legged gait carried it away, well, those things tended to make a man into a believer.

It had been the army before the force, and he’d been bored out of his tree until all this came along. Criminals had one important trait in common, no matter how they chose to ply their trade: they were stupid. Stupider than most cops, at any rate, and that gave the boys in blue the advantage. No one could out-do his performance, top his arrest records or find enough ways to properly recognize him for his contributions to “safety and the civil defense of the city”, but Lord Above, he’d been bored.

Now, he had problems.

Fortunately the most immediate was also the easiest to solve. More vamps down at the Gate Bridge meant two cadres on duty there at all times and double shifts for all the Firsts in both of them. They’d make a little money and feel like they were protecting the poor and innocent so he’d get no complaints from the inside and get the standard “atta-boy” from the brass up top.

Internal issues were harder to solve – Grosman had an issue with how Reiner was doing business in his cadre, something about “fostering elitism”, and he’d have to be set down hard. Taking up the mantle of Deacon was something few were cut out for and fewer lived long doing, so they’d damn well better think they were elite. That, or he could expect a pile of bodies at his door and a host of weeping mothers wanting answers. The men needed to feel powerful. Special. Invulnerable.

Granted, he’d seen more than one Deacon First gutted by an off-hand claw swipe or punctured by the too-perfect teeth of this generation’s “problem”, but that wasn’t information he was going to make widely available. His men were the best. Period.

The last problem he was prepared to deal with immediately was also the most troubling. He’d been surprised to see that it was someone from Trammel’s crew; the man was one of the best in the business. No one questioned the Bishop’s authority and the man was adored – adored! – by every man on his crew. Eliminating Trammel would be easy enough if need be so he posed no real threat to Venman himself, but destroying a tool simply out of spite spoke more of a smith’s inability than an implement’s failure, and he was no apprentice.

No, Trammel wasn’t the problem – he was steadfast in his devotion to eliminating the undead – it was one of the men under his command. Venman read the brief again: Barry Howe.

He’d been disturbed to first hear of it and seeing it again in black and white made it all the worse. The boy had been seen – on several occasions – in the company of the undead and without his pistol drawn or Chastiser ready. Three separate reports described his inability to address the gravity of these situations, to pull the trigger when needed and destroy the filth that had infected the city.

A simple dismissal could be arranged but that lacked impact, did nothing to show others the folly of Howe’s ways and how it could affect the Department as a whole. No, something more was required, something – appropriate.

Only the sound of expelling air warned him that the Master had arrived. For a being with such power, Venman had always been surprised the Master wasn’t more forceful, more obvious in his displays. Power concealed was power wasted as far as he was concerned, but he spun his chair quickly and prostrated himself on the ground as required.

- You have a problem. – To call it a voice would be a disservice; it was a reverberation in his soul, a hammer of force in his mind. A staggering excitation of his being. Painful, reverent.

He didn’t bother to answer. If the Master knew enough to mention the problem, he did not want commentary on it.

- I will provide a solution, as you seem incapable of doing so. – It was vastly unfair; he had just learned of the issue himself, but defending his pride would bring pain, something he would have to endure and that served no purpose.

- This one must die, but it is crafty. I will provide an opportunity that you will not waste. Look up. –

He steeled himself. The Master did not always choose to reveal his true form, but when he did the results could be – unpleasant – for the human body. His head came up, stomach clenching in anticipation, but only a black cloud hung in front of him, one of the many states of being the Master favored. In front of it was the hazy image of a standing form, though not the one Venman had expected.

Instead, it was a large brown ‘wolf, fur combed to sleekness and with eyes that showed a marked sharpness, a heightened perception the others of its kind typically lacked. A throwback.

- You will kill this one. It no longer pleases me. You will find it here. – He stifled a scream as information was forced into his brain. The first time the Master had touched him so directly he had woken half of the Division and had been forced to create the fiction of post-combat stress in order to explain it away. Fortunately, it had only added to his appeal.

He hit the ground hard as the Master’s touch left him; the removal of sensation was always draining, and when he looked up his office was once again empty.

Climbing back into his chair he crumpled his list and tossed it into the waste bin. Howe could wait, as could Grosman and the bridge. He had not known of the problem the Master had presented, but it was his now to deal with – and he would see it quickly resolved.


- D