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 #107 - Deacon First V

Deacon First - V

It was the screeching sound of dying birds that awakened Deacon First Barry Howe, though he could not have pinpointed the noise had he been asked. The sound was strange enough to wake him, tear him out of a cold sleep in the murky half-light of dawn, and send him rolling out of bed for his gun. Standard practice was for all Deacons, regardless of rank, to carry their sidearm with them at all times. Though it was the exception rather than the norm, the undead could take a liking to a particular individual, and they could be very…persistent.

So far as Barry knew, he hadn’t run afoul of any that wanted his blood, but he kept the pistol low and ready as he moved out of his bedroom. The noise had stopped, but silence was often far more deadly than cacophony in the life of one of the city’s fighting men.

Barry kicked the bathroom door hard open as he moved through the hallway; unexpected noise often disrupted the ears of wolves or the echo location of vamps and gave the forces of good a brief moment of respite.

“Deacon.” A voice grated from the shadows as he moved into the living room. It didn’t belong in a human throat, and Barry brought his silver-bullet pistol up to firing level. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Put down your pea-shooter, Deacon,” the voice came again, “if I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Barry lowered the gun; from the sound of the voice it was a wolf and not a vamp, and that meant he was at a serious disadvantage. Years of training ritual had coated his body in a thin garlic sheen, making any vamp less likely to attack, but their furry companions had no such issue. When it came to wolves, a gun and a steady hand were the only things that gave a Deacon a fighting chance.

“I’m surprised to hear you speak,” Barry kept his voice quiet. “I wasn’t aware your kind could.”

“How little you know us, Deacon, and how well.” A shape stepped forward into the shafts of moonlight slanting through the window, and Barry caught his breath.

“You!” Barry cried. The brown fur of the wolf was unmistakable; that and the fact it stood head and shoulders above its brethren. “Why soul-link me, beast? What could I have that you want?” Only a handful of Deacons who had been linked survived, and half of those were permanently damaged by the experience. It took close contact with one of the undead for them to get their hooks into a Deacon, but once they did they were almost impossible to shake off.

There was a snuffling sound that Barry took a moment to recognize as laughter, and he felt his cheeks starting to flush.

“Soul-link? With you? Deacon, you flatter yourself. I have no need of a companion, or easy prey. I have questions you must answer.”

“Must?” The creature hadn’t moved, and Barry took a step to the right, hoping to flick on the living room lamp before it had a chance to get away. “I wasn’t aware you were in a position to demand anything.”

“Leave it, Deacon, or I will rip your throat out.” A toothy smile spread across the thing’s face. “I like the dark.” Dropping to its haunches, the wolf took up a sitting position in the middle of his room, tongue hanging out to one side and ears pointed, and Barry could see several feathers clinging to the side of the thing’s brown fur. “As for demands, you’re hardly in a position to deny me. I’ve already done you a favor by ridding you of the pests on your balcony; the least you can do is answer my questions.”

Barry gave the request a quick once-over. Not only was even talking to the thing a breach of protocol, but answering questions would almost certainly place him in breach of his oath. Of course, an ill-fated stand off with the thing wouldn’t do him any good either.

“Fine,” he said, moving toward the window. “Ask your questions and leave.” There might be a chance he could escape out onto the balcony; a slim one, but it was better than nothing.

“Deacon, do not test me. I will do as I please. Now, let us begin.” There was a pause as the thing considered, and Barry took a moment to study it. Intelligence permeated it, an almost-human sense of understanding of the world around it. The wolves had been men and women, originally, but he’d never seen one that could act rationally, let alone ask questions. This one seemed almost noble, with a broad face and expressive eyes, but the effect was somewhat marred by the blood matted on its fur. Despite its ability to speak in complete sentences, Barry had to remember that the thing was a killer through and through.

“First, Deacon, you must understand that you cannot tell me too much. I am under the control of the creator, and while he has left me alone for a time, he will be back. He cannot make me act, but he can hear what I hear. My mind is still my own – somehow - and I must use it to best effect.”

Barry frowned. Creator? It made sense the things had a common origin, but this was the first he’d ever heard of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the thing growled at him before he got a word out.

“Silence, Deacon. You do nothing but reply, here. Now, tell me. Why didn’t I kill you the first time we met?”

He started to answer, but stopped before the first word came out. The thing would be the one to know that, not him, since he was just lucky to get away. “I…” he said, stalling for time, but nothing that made sense came to mind.

The wolf was on him hard before he had a chance to react, knocking his gun out of his hand and sending it skittering across the floor. Brown fury rose up in front of him, fangs gleaming, and Barry could see his career in the Order coming to a short and bloody end.

Knife-edged teeth drove down, and Barry twisted, hoping to live a few precious moments more, but a foot from his throat a white incandescence blazed, surrounding his body and hurling the wolf up and back across the room. As it hit the ground the shield faded, and Barry struggled to his feet.

“I knew it!” The wolf was wheezing hard, “Deacon, what are you?”

Barry Howe had no idea.

- D

Story #60 Notes

60 stories. Almost two months. I must admit, I'm fairly impressed with myself.

Overall, I think the quality of my work is improving, so I'm happy with where this thing is going. For the two or so of you that regularly read my stuff - thanks! It's much appreicated.

Today's story is the "other" serial story I'm working on, Fey'ted Thrones being the original one. I'm enjoying the world of Barry Howe and the Deacons, and we'll see how it pans out from here.

Once again, thanks for reading, and here's to another great two months.

- 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

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

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