The van rockets through darkness, swaying and bouncing along the bumpy road. The breakneck speed no longer seems necessary, but everyone is preoccupied and still racing on adrenaline and fear. For several minutes there is relative silence, but Carbone resumes his screaming and writhing about, knees pulled in close to his chest as his bloody hands clutch desperately at the mangled flesh that was once his stomach.

“Hang on, bro.” Snow pokes his head up between the front bucket seats and looks to Rooster. “We need to get him to a hospital!”

“He’s already dead,” Rooster tells him.

Between screams, Carbone wheezes and literally cries for his mother.

“Christ,” Nauls groans, “his intestines, I—I can see his fucking intestines!”

Landon, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, glances quickly at the rearview then increases speed despite the rough terrain.

“Slow down,” Starker says, his deep voice booming from his position at the rear of the van. “This ride dies, you die with it.”

“Whatever,” Landon says indignantly.

“We can’t just let him bleed out,” Snow says.

Rooster watches the darkness through the windshield wash over them like renegade waves. He’s always liked Carbone, and knows he and Snow are best friends, but they’re miles from any hospital. Game over.

“Goddamn it!” Snow leans closer. “You hear me?”

Rooster looks back at Snow. “Stay with him, all right?” he says evenly. “Don’t let him die alone.”

After several seconds, reality sinks in, and with a defeated nod, Snow disappears into the back.

“Where the hell are we?” Rooster asks Landon.

“No clue, been following these country roads for miles now.” He nervously paws perspiration from his face with the back of his free hand. “You wanted the middle of nowhere. You got it.”

Rooster is about to tell him to slow down when the van comes to a sudden stop. Everyone lurches forward and Carbone screams again.

Before them, fog rolls across a field of weeds and overgrown grass. In the distance, an old farmhouse sits in the darkness and mist. The moon is full but obscured by clouds, scarcely illuminating a series of hideous scarecrows nailed to rotting wooden crosses scattered throughout the property.

“What is this place?” Nauls asks.

Landon squints. “Looks abandoned.”

With a final gagging cough, Carbone vomits blood and bile and dies on the floor of the van in a pool of his own excrement and urine.

What they don’t understand is that his death is far more merciful than anything they’ll ever know.

Distant screams echoed in his mind like the sudden screech of tires. He had no idea where he was, but his first conscious thought was that something was chasing him. The sheer curtains billowed, danced before him like smoke. It seemed as if he’d been watching them for hours, though he couldn’t be sure. He’d been asleep, hadn’t he? Below, city streets were awakening, coming alive as the sun slowly rose over a horizon of brick and steel. It was far too cold outside for the windows to be open, but he assumed Gaby had opened them at some point during the night.

Rooster sat up in bed and swung his feet onto the chilly floor. He leaned forward, face in his hands. It felt like an eternity since his old life had ended. Yet there was a disconnect between the here-and-now and the past, as if one or the other wasn’t quite true, falling closer to waking nightmares than reality. Even the night he and his old crew pulled their last caper was such a blur he often had difficulty piecing his scant memories into anything coherent. But for Carbone, he and the others got away. He knew that much. He remembered the final score and leaving that way of life behind him. For a long while the past had stayed buried, forgotten, perhaps even consciously ignored, but over the last few weeks, flashes of memories had returned, mostly in tiny bits and pieces. He couldn’t be sure, but Rooster suspected that’s what had started the awful headaches he’d been suffering from of late, his continued attempts to remember in more detail.

The farmhouse… he remembered that dark farmhouse they’d ended up at to split the take. He remembered the moon that night…and scarecrows… horrible scarecrows. He remembered them too.

And then, like a reel of film that had run its course, the memories stopped, returning his mind to an equally unsettling darkness.

Though tall, thin and wiry, with angular features and a receding swath of buzzed-down brown hair, the nickname he’d had since high school still fit, but his body was slowing with age, and for the first time he’d begun to notice it, to really feel it. He moved his hand up behind his neck and squeezed, rubbing down to his trapezius muscles. He sported the remains of a tan, his skin a deep bronze, the veins and muscles in his arms and legs defined and strong. He patted his stomach. Not quite the six-pack it had once been, but flat and tight, nothing to be ashamed of.

A breeze blew through the windows, disturbing the curtains once again.

This time they were shredded and filthy with dirt and blood, dangling there like sheets of slashed flesh.

Rooster looked away, clenched shut his eyes.

When he opened them the curtains were back to normal, but everything felt askew now, as if something or someone had entered the bedroom without his consent. He stood up, glanced around, eyes panning the room.

Nothing… no one…

A chill licked his spine.

“Are you all right?”

He turned to the doorway to find Gaby standing there bundled in a robe, dark hair mussed and the look on her face a mixture of horror and concern. “You were screaming.”

Rooster grabbed his Marlboros and a lighter from the nightstand, lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke at the windows. “I wasn’t even asleep.”

Her expression softened, and she leaned against the doorframe with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. You never sleep anymore, not really.”

“The windows…”

“I opened them.” She hugged herself. “Fresh air’s good for you.”

Rooster drew another drag, coughed it out. “It’s freezing.”

Her brown eyes—so dark they were nearly black—sparkled in place of a smile. “It’s good for the soul.”

“Nothing can live long in the cold,” he mumbled.

Gaby nodded but said nothing.

Shadows lay across the room like fallen spirits. Rooster stepped through them, approaching the windows with caution. A cold and dreary day stared back, the sky gray and overcast, the streets beyond the housing project courtyard dirty and cracked, cold and still mostly abandoned; the buildings in the neighborhood old and rundown, many of them condemned and long forgotten. Such a bleak city, he thought. Even where bustling life should’ve thrived, there was only emptiness, decay and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. He looked back over his shoulder at Gaby. It seemed to him her name should’ve been Grace, since she was like a savior, the only consistently good and beautiful presence in what had become an otherwise murky existence. When it was just the two of them and they held each other close in the night, the fear in him subsided. In those moments he felt alive again, perhaps even happy, but like all else he’d once believed in, Gaby would eventually leave him and he’d be alone again in the darkness with his nightmares and the awful echo of faraway screams…

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Your name.”

“My name?”

“It’s pretty. Gabrielle.”

“I didn’t realize it interested you.” She smiled as if letting him in on a secret. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“Never really thought about it until now, I guess.”

“Its origin is Hebrew,” she explained. “Most people don’t know that.”

“What does it mean?”

“God is my might.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment he was lost in them, their depth and beauty. He knew her so well, and yet in many ways she seemed unfamiliar. How could that be? He focused on the writing table beneath the windows, the bills scattered about it.

“I better get in the shower,” Gaby said. “Don’t want to be late for work.”

Right, he thought. Someone’s got to earn some money around here.

“I’ll find something,” he promised. “There’s been some talk that big warehouse facility over on Dover Street’s hiring.”

“That place gives me the creeps,” she said. “What do they warehouse there anyway?”

“I don’t know. All I heard is they need some extra hands to unload trucks. It’s temporary but steady work for a week or more. Word is they’re only hiring a few people, so I want to get there early.”

“What about the phone calls?”

Fear rose from deep inside him. “What about them?”

Gaby came closer, padding across the chilly pockmarked floor in her bare feet, nails painted blood red and a dainty gold ankle bracelet adorned with tiny bells jingling as she moved. “It’s obviously important. He’s called at least half a dozen times, and at all hours, too.” She slid up behind him and wrapped her hands around his waist. She smelled vaguely of freshly cut flowers, and her breath caressed the back of his neck in slow, sensual intervals. “He says he knows you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Are you going to call him back?” When he didn’t answer she leaned into him and brushed her lips against his ear. “He sounds so frightened, the man on the phone.”

With a sad smile, Rooster flicked his cigarette out the window. “He is.”

Beneath an oddly gray sky, Rooster walked toward the hulking shadows cast by the enormous warehouse facility at the end of Dover Street. He strode past one alley strewn with garbage, human and otherwise, and then another, the last hope for escape from the dead-end street and the monolithic structures awaiting him. His breath spilled from his nostrils like columns of smoke, partially concealing his face as he pressed on through the cold, hands buried deep in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and chin tucked to chest in an attempt to ward off the occasional bursts of winter wind blowing in off the nearby ocean. Everything was deathly still, and though the constant din of city noises could still be heard, rather than a block or two away, they seemed impossibly far off, as if they were memories of a different city altogether, a deafeningly chaotic city recalled while passing through the mysterious solitude of another.

When he reached the tall chain-link fence surrounding the facility, he noticed the gate was open, a thick padlock and chain dangling free as if left there mistakenly. He hesitated. A nearby security hut beyond was empty, the glass cracked and aged and looking as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years. On the far side of the hut, scarred with cracks and occasional tufts of weeds, an enormous parking lot led to a series of loading docks, and amidst the larger warehouses, a smaller building marked OFFICE. Forklifts and other pieces of equipment were scattered about the property as if abandoned long before, and though most of the bays were closed, the few left open revealed enormous but empty storage areas. It looked like some time ago everyone had simply picked up and left.

No one came or went from the office building, and the lone wire-meshed window facing the street was grimy and dark. Had the place gone out of business? He could’ve sworn he’d passed by here a few days before and it was alive with workers and trucks coming and going, loading and unloading. He tried to remember where he’d heard about the job opportunities here. Had someone told him? Had he seen something at the Unemployment Office? Rooster watched the area a while with the experienced and trained eye of a thief. In time he looked back at the street. It was empty but for bits of trash and debris blowing about in the wind. He checked his watch then gazed at the sky. It normally wasn’t so dreary this time of afternoon, but the drab winter sky conspired to cast everything in a dull pall reminiscent of dusk.

After another quick look around, Rooster stepped through the open gate, crossed the parking lot and slipped into the office building.

He found himself in a long, dimly lit corridor that reeked of bleach. With the dull industrial tile floors, low plaster ceilings, steel-encased light fixtures and unimaginative but practical architecture, the building more closely resembled an archaic hospital or dated mental institution than office space.

Rooster pulled off the knit hat he was wearing and held it in his hands. Though the heavy steel entrance door had closed silently behind him he could still see his breath in the hallway. Surely they had heat here, why wouldn’t it be on? A small sign protruding from the nearest doorframe read: RECEPTION.

He looked past it to the far end of the corridor, which was draped in darkness. Had something moved just then? Startled, Rooster took a step back. He was certain he’d caught a glimpse of someone shuffling into the cover of darkness, and the sudden sound of labored breath seeping down the hallway in its wake seemed to confirm it. The noise echoed along the walls, transforming into strange, indecipherable whispers.

Whispers that did not sound human.

Rooster stuffed his hat into his back pocket, took a deep breath then ran a hand over his face, eyes trained on the shadows at the end of the hall. Calm down, he thought. It’s just the nightmares again.

An unusual ticking sound drew his attention to the reception office. A lone woman well into her sixties sat behind an inordinately large desk, banging away on an old Olympia typewriter and seemingly oblivious to his presence. A series of metal file cabinets filled out the remaining space behind her. Clad in a dowdy dress and a cardigan sweater thrown over her shoulders for good measure, the receptionist’s silver hair was pulled up into a bun, and a pair of half-glasses attached to a chain strung about her neck sat along the bridge of her bulbous nose.

Rooster stepped through the doorway. “Are you still hiring?”

Without looking up from her typewriter the woman retrieved a sheet of paper from a metal bin, slapped it down and slid it over to the edge of the desk. “Fill out this application, front and back. Turn it in to me when you’re finished.”

Rooster took the form. “Is it always so cold in here?”

“Comes as a shock to most but that’s the way it is.”

He nodded like he’d understood her answer. “Are you open today?”

“We’re always open.”

“Then where is everybody?”

The woman’s head snapped up, her eyes glaring at him with demonic fury. “Where are you?”

Rooster watched the paper fall from his hand as the familiar torment of agonizing screams came to him again. But these were not nightmares or daydreams, he could hear them bellowing from deep within the building, as if people were being tortured in the bowels of the facility. Heart crashing his chest, he backed out into the hallway, terrified. The receptionist’s mouth hung open as she panted with anger, spittle dripping from her pale, cracked lips. A quiet growl emanated from her, like the low rumbling snarl of a dog just before it attacks.

He turned and bolted for the front door, slamming into it with his shoulder and stumbling out into the parking lot as it gave way. Staggering forward, he nearly pitched face-first onto the pavement but regained his balance at the last moment and in one frantic, uninterrupted motion, broke into a full run.

He did not look back.

The payphone on the corner was occupied by a rotund woman carrying a brown paper bag filled with groceries. Across the street, Rooster waited, watching from the burned out doorway of an abandoned building only a few blocks from his apartment in the housing projects. Though he couldn’t hear what the woman was saying, she was clearly upset and quite animated. He remained huddled in his hiding place until she finally slammed the phone down and stormed from the booth, a look of desperation and confusion creasing her face as she toddled toward the top of the street.

He checked the boulevard in both directions. It was empty. Not even a car or city bus to be found. Moving quickly, he crossed the street, ducked into the phone booth and dug a shred of paper from his jacket pocket. Jotted across it was the information Gaby had written down the last time a call came in. Rooster dropped a dime and punched the numbers.

The connection crackled and hissed but eventually went through and began to ring.

“Hello.”

Even after all this time Rooster knew that voice. “Snow.”

An exhale of relief and then: “Rooster-man.”

He gripped the phone tight and spun around so he could watch the street. “You’ve been calling me.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you. Didn’t know if I’d be able to track you down after all this time.”

“Are you here, in the city?”

“Where else would I be?”

“What do you want?”

“We gotta talk.”

“I’m not in the life anymore.”

“You got no idea what life you’re in.”

A sharp pain stabbed Rooster’s temple. He flinched. “What’s that mean?”

“What the hell you think it means? Means I need to talk to you, bro.”

“Whatever you’re into these days I’m not interested.”

“This is serious shit.”

“Snow, what do you want?”

“I need to see you.”

The receptionist’s demonic eyes tore through Rooster’s memory in strobe-like flashes. “Just leave me alone, man. I got enough problems.”

“Motherfucker, I’m trying to help you!”

The visions faded. The fear remained. “Stop calling me.”

“You don’t hear nothing else I say you better hear this.” A crackling hiss bled through the line again. “You need to know what I know.”

A burst of wind forced the phone booth door open. He pinned the phone to his shoulder with his ear and sparked a cigarette, making sure to cup the flame until he got it going. “What do you know?”

“I know what you’re going through. The headaches, the nightmares. Hearing things, seeing things. Bad things. Evil things.”

Rooster’s eyes watered. He told himself the cold was to blame as a black Crown Vic with a tinted windshield and windows turned at the head of the street and slowly rolled by. Cop car, he thought, feeling the muscles in his stomach clench. He hadn’t been a criminal in years, but old habits, old fears, died hard. He watched the car until it was out of sight.

“There ain’t a lot of time,” Snow pressed. “I need to see you.”

Rooster breathed heavily into the phone in quick nervous bursts. “When?”

“Today.”

But for their labored breathing, the area is deathly silent. Fog rolls over the open field, cutting across the desolate country road and floating through a thick expanse of forest on the other side. The full moon, still masked by cloud cover, reveals a mist-shrouded landscape of crucified scarecrows, demonic sentries guarding a farmhouse no one would want.

Snow stays in the back of the van with Carbone’s body but the rest pile out of the vehicle and wander about the street amidst confusion and high emotions, attempting to gain their bearings while figuring out what to do next.

“What’s with all the scarecrows?” Landon asks. “Nothing’s grown there for years but weeds, why would they need scarecrows?”

As he surveys the area, Starker still clutches the AK47 he used on the job, his hulking presence and enormous shaved dome daunting even in limited light. He moves to the side of the road. “Maybe it’s not crows they’re looking to scare off.”

“Well if they’re meant for me they’re working,” Nauls says. “Fucking things are creeping me out.”

“Yeah Nauls,” Landon quips, “they’re meant for you. Jesus, what an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot? You’re the one who stopped here.”

“Yeah, because shit-for-brains bit it.” Landon jerks a thumb at the van. “And if it’s OK with you I’ve had my fill of smelling dead ass tonight.”

Snow emerges from the rear of the van and wipes his bloody hands on his jeans. “What did you say?”

Landon faces him. “You heard me.”

“Say it again, motherfucker.”

“Hey, I’m sorry Carbone stepped off, but it’s nobody’s fault but his and you know it. He blew the back doors too early. Total amateur-hour horseshit, he knew better.”

“A good man’s dead.” Snow stepped closer. “Show some respect.”

“He fucked up and now we’ve all got blood on our hands.”

“What the hell would you know about it, wheelman?”

“Enough to know the stupid bastard could’ve gotten us all killed. And I didn’t hear you making any driver jokes when I was carting your sorry ass the fuck outta Dodge.”

“You’re working my last nerve.”

Landon squares his stance. “Blow it out your ass.”

Rooster steps between them. “Both of you cool it.” He knows he must get the crew focused, split the take and make arrangements to wrap things up one way or another. But it can’t be done out in the open, even in a desolate place such as this. One local police car or nosy townsperson passing by is all it’ll take to escalate things, and there’s been enough escalation tonight. No one was supposed to get hurt. The job had been meticulously planned, rehearsed and timed to the millisecond. Yet there were still mistakes, and what began as a robbery ended in a homicide, one guard dead, two badly injured. And now they’ve lost one of their own. They have to move and move fast. “We’re still on the clock, which means I still call the shots, so get your heads out of your asses and get back in the fucking game. Now.”

Snow points at Landon. “We ain’t done.”

“Any time, douche.”

Rooster stands his ground until both men drift away in opposite directions. “All right, let’s get inside and finish our business.”

Nauls, holding two large canvas duffel bags stuffed with cash, shuffles about like he needs a bathroom. “Can’t we find someplace else?”

“I don’t like this shit bin any better than you do,” Rooster admits, “but it’s out of the way and nobody should bother us here. Nauls, you stay with me. Landon, get the van off the street and under cover. Snow, you and Starker check the place out. It looks deserted but let’s be sure.”

“OK how come the two brothers got to check the farmhouse out?” Snow cracks. “We more expendable, that it? We ain’t special like you white folks.”

“Just get it done.”

Snow pulls two .45s from the back of his belt and turns to Starker. “All right, big man, let’s go.”

Apparently mesmerized by the field of rotting scarecrows, Starker does not respond. He stares off into the darkness as if in a trance.

“Come on biggins, time for some recon.”

Starker continues to stare at the horrible faces peering across the field through the darkness and fog. Rooster approaches him and cautiously places a hand on his shoulder. “Starker.”

He says nothing.

“Stay with me now,” Rooster tells him softly. “We need you.”

Starker remains locked on the field, one enormous finger resting on the trigger of the AK-47, the other hand sliding almost lovingly back and forth across the top of the weapon in a slow and steady motion. “Something’s not right.”

“You see something?”

“I feel it. So do you.”

He’s right, but Rooster can’t figure out how Starker knows this. Perhaps he hasn’t hidden his anxiety and uneasiness as well as he thought he has. “Maybe we should all go,” Rooster suggests. “Check the place out together.”

“It doesn’t much matter.” Starker blinks slowly, his eyes eerily reflecting moonlight. “We’re all gonna die tonight.”

Memories of Starker’s bald head covered in blood flashed before Rooster’s eyes, the huge man spitting and slobbering between horrific screams, choking on his own blood and bodily fluids while begging like a child for mercies he would never be granted.

The horrible sounds of that night were the last to leave him, fading gradually like the slowly dying things they were. And like the dead, a gruesome residue remained in their wake. A reminder of their power, perhaps, evidence that such figments of torturous nightmares had, in fact, existed.

Out in the open air the winter wind cut like a razor. Rooster held his ground at the mouth of an alley between a seedy bar and a blown-out storefront, his jacket collar flipped up to protect the back of his neck. A red neon sign advertising the strip joint two doors down blinked with a steady rhythm, painting his face in a strange and frightening haze. His headache had weakened, but a dull pain still lingered behind his eyes. He rubbed his temple and studied the passersby. Everyone on the street seemed suspect, every car a potential menace. He swore he’d seen the same black Crown Vic twice more since he’d walked the eight blocks from the payphone to the agreed upon meeting place, but of course there was no way to know for sure if it was the same vehicle. Even if it was, what would the cops want with him? He’d been doing straight time for years.

He returned his focus to the neighborhood. It was filthy and far from the safest in the city, but Rooster had a good vantage point, as from his position he could clearly see people approaching from either direction. Though like the rest of the city many of the buildings sat vacant and rotting, this was predominantly a commercial area that still crackled with intensity and life. Heavy traffic clogged both lanes, filling the air with a glut of sickening exhaust fumes, and numerous souls of varied descriptions hurried along the sidewalks, several scowling at him as if he’d done something to personally offend them but most with their heads bowed and eyes averted. At the end of the block an old homeless man collapsed on the sidewalk and lay still. After watching him a moment Rooster realized the man’s breath was no longer forming clouds in the cold air. Perhaps he’d died. No one seemed to care.

It was then that Rooster noticed a bald man of perhaps sixty standing across the street watching him, features unremarkable but for a pair of piercing ice-blue eyes. Dressed entirely in black—suit, shoes and overcoat—it wasn’t until the man glided a bit further down the block that Rooster saw the white collar and realized he was looking at a priest. The closer the man got the more disheveled he became, his clothes wrinkled and soiled and his face creased with age and looking as if it needed a good scrubbing.

Ignoring the traffic, the priest recklessly crossed the street, eyes locked on Rooster even after several drivers hit their horns and one car nearly struck him. While still several feet away, the priest raised a hand and pointed at him. “You, I—I know you!” he called. “I know you!”

Rooster shook his head and waved the man off, though oddly enough, the closer the priest got the more familiar he became. He couldn’t quite place him but was convinced he knew him from somewhere.

Just as the priest made it to the sidewalk, another man appeared out of the crowd and cut him off, blocking his path.

The afro gave him away. Snow, looking like he always had, dressed in jeans, sneakers and an old army jacket thrown over a sweatshirt, extended a hand, holding it up between himself and the priest as their eyes met. Neither moved; two statues in a sea of humanity.

Rooster stepped out of the alley, approached them.

The priest looked over Snow’s shoulder, enraged. “I know you!”

“Keep moving, padre,” Snow said evenly. “I ain’t playing with you. Move.”

Defeated, the priest slipped away, looking back every few seconds until he’d been completely absorbed by the crowd, carried off down the street with the rest.

Rooster started after him but Snow grabbed his arm, firmly enough to stop him but with enough restraint to let him know the move wasn’t a challenge.

“Let him go, man.”

“He’s right, I—we know each other, I—”

“Just let him go.” When Rooster relaxed Snow released him. “You don’t look no different.”

They shook hands. Snow’s palm was cold, rough and covered in calluses. “Neither do you,” Rooster sighed. “But we are different, aren’t we?”

Nearby, overhead trains rumbled along rusted tracks. The noise seemed to distract Snow for a moment. “Let’s get off the street.” He motioned to the bar behind them. “Catch some heat.”

The bar was dark, with scarred linoleum floors, low ceilings and only two small windows on the front wall. A scattering of tables and chairs filled the area, while a row of dark booths lined one wall and a bar filled the back. A jukebox kitty-cornered nearby sat quietly. The bartender, an overweight guy with a shock of unruly salt-and-pepper hair, chatted quietly with what was probably a regular, both staring at a small television suspended in the corner showing an old black-and-white horror movie. Otherwise the place was empty.

Rooster and Snow ordered a couple beers then took them over to the booth farthest from the bar and sat down.

“It’s good to see you, man.” Snow slowly caressed his beer bottle, focusing on it rather than Rooster. “Just sucks it has to be like this.”

After a long swallow of beer Rooster slid a black plastic ashtray from the corner of the table into the center and lit a cigarette. “What’s going on, Snow?”

He was about to answer when a bloodcurdling scream exploded through the bar.

Rooster reached to his belt for a gun that wasn’t there, a gun that hadn’t been there in years. Snow cocked his head in the direction of the television, where a ghoul was staggering through a cemetery shrouded in mist, closing in on a buxom young maiden with the ability to scream at octaves capable of shattering glass.

“Jesus H.” He rubbed his temples. “Could’ve lived without that.”

“Never seen you so jumpy, Rooster-man. You were always cold as ice.”

“The priest, who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He knew me. And I knew him. I just can’t remember how.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t figure out much of anything lately. The strangest shit’s happening. I can’t make sense of any of it.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it climb toward the ceiling. “Look, I—”

“Feels like you went to sleep and woke up in the middle of your life,” Snow interrupted, voice unusually quiet, “and now you can’t remember how the hell you got here.”

Rooster stabbed the cigarette between his lips and left it there so he could put his hands flat on the table between them and better conceal the fact that they were shaking. He nodded. “What’s happening to us?”

Up close Snow’s eyes were bloodshot and heavy, like he’d been crying recently, hadn’t slept in a while, or both. He smelled vaguely of cheap aftershave. “What do you know about demons?”

“Demons? You mean like—”

“Like all kinds of crazy shit runs through your head, then you start hearing things. Screams mostly, or whispers that don’t make no sense. And just when you think it can’t get no worse, you start seeing shit. Not people, not…not exactly. But they look like people…least until they don’t.”

The receptionist, Rooster thought, shrugging off a chill. “I don’t believe in demons.”

“Yeah neither do I but they don’t seem to give a shit.” Snow downed some beer then let out a quiet belch under his breath and looked to the door as if expecting someone to burst through it at any moment. “Not too long ago I got some information.” He leaned closer, across the table. “And ever since then these other motherfuckers have been following me. Never up close, always a ways back, watching from their cars, Crown Vics—big black bastards—that’s what they drive.”

“Cops?”

“These ain’t cops.”

“Who are they?”

“They been following me for weeks. After today they’ll be following you.”

“Why?” With manic repetition Rooster puffed his cigarette. “What do they want?”

“You remember the night Carbone died?”

Rooster began to perspire as flashes of farmhouse, blood and scarecrows filled his memory. “Some.”

No longer able to contain his nervousness, Snow abruptly stood up and made a beeline for the jukebox. He dropped a coin in, made a selection then gave the bartender and his friend a long look that said: This is going to make hearing the television more difficult but let’s not make a big deal about it or you’ll force me to do some really unpleasant shit to you. Both men looked away without comment and Snow slowly strode back to the booth as The Police’s Spirits in the Material World kicked in.

“You said I needed to know what you know.” Rooster crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “So tell me.”

“What do you remember about the night Carbone died?”

“Come on, man, what the hell’s going on?”

“Do it.”

“The armored car robbery, the last job we pulled as a crew,” he said. “Everything went according to plan until Carbone fucked up and blew the back doors too early. The third guard was waiting on him. Carbone took a shotgun blast dead in the gut. Starker wasted the guard, shot him in the face, killed him instantly.” He remembered the young man’s head as it exploded, a crimson mist of blood, brains and skull spraying everything, and all of them. “You got Carbone back to the van while Nauls and I handled the other two guards and took care of the swag. Landon was the wheelman. We got out ahead of the cops, ended up in the middle of nowhere at some deserted old farmhouse. Carbone died in the van.”

Snow nodded. “Then what?”

“You were there.”

“Pretend I wasn’t.”

Rooster fidgeted in his seat. It felt like thousands of insects were scurrying over every inch of his body. He scratched at his head and suddenly found himself checking the door every few seconds as well. “I don’t…”

“You don’t know.”

Shadows along the ceiling shifted, elongated.

“We split the take,” he finally said. “Then we took off.”

“That how you remember it?”

“I think so but I can’t…” Rooster took another swig of beer. “I can’t remember exactly, it…the whole thing seems like a dream.”

“I couldn’t remember nothing either.”

The man at the bar, a middle-aged guy wearing some sort of workman’s uniform, hopped down from his stool and slipped through a nearby door marked RESTROOMS.

“The more I thought about it,” Snow continued, “the worse it got. I couldn’t remember the rest of that night no matter how hard I tried. It was like it was just…gone. All I knew was whatever happened scared the shit out of me, made me scared like I never even knew I could be. I’m talking about the kind of fear you feel right down to your nuts, man. The kind that makes you shit in your pants like a baby sliding out lunch. You know what I mean.”

Rooster did know. He swallowed so hard he gagged.

“Like you, I thought I was losing my goddamn mind.” Snow sat back with an air of defiance. “It’s like there was something right on my ass, something evil. I couldn’t take no more. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating, just locked myself up in my apartment and hid out. I wanted to kill myself but I was afraid of the other side. Ain’t exactly lived the life of a saint, right?”

The bartender was staring at them intently. When he realized Rooster had caught him he quickly looked away and busied himself.

“That’s when that woman started hanging outside my apartment wanting to talk to me all the time.” His face twisted. “I didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what I’d done. I don’t even remember it. I was on H when it went down and was hurting so bad for a fix I was out of my mind. I never meant to hurt her.”

“I never knew you did heroin.”

Snow sighed helplessly. “Neither did I.”

“You’re not making any sense. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I tried to do straight time, man, for real. I tried.”

“I believe you.”

“I got a janitor gig at this office building a few blocks from my crib. I was going crazy but I showed up on time every night, did my thing and minded my own business, played by the rules, closed my eyes to the demons and the screams and that woman always staring at me. I’d walk there, work the overnight shift then walk home in the morning. I’m there about a week when I notice this old dude following me one night. Skinny little white cat with glasses. Real Poindexter-looking motherfucker. At first I think maybe he’s a cop, but he don’t look like no cop I ever seen, looks more like a professor or some shit. He shows up every night, tails me from my apartment to work, and then he’s gone. So one night I get a lead on him, take a corner and duck into a doorway. He comes by and I grab his narrow ass.” Snow ran a hand over his face. He too had begun to perspire. “I’m about to rack me some old white man when he starts talking about that night at the farmhouse, all the shit I’m going through and how he can help me. Motherfucker knew more about me than I did, man. Said he had answers, said he knew what happened to us that night. He said it was time we knew the truth. And that’s exactly what he laid on me. Only now sometimes I wish he didn’t. Sometimes not knowing was better.” He bowed his head in an attempt to mask the tears filling his eyes. “Ain’t that a bitch? We never had a goddamn chance, man, none of us.”

“Who was this guy?”

“What they done to us wasn’t right, Rooster, it wasn’t right. We did some bad shit but we’re human beings, man, we fucking human beings.”

“What who did to us? What are you saying?”

Snow reached into his jacket, put something on the table and slid it over to him. When he pulled his hand away a small key was revealed. “Opens a locker at the bus station downtown,” he said. “Take it. Use it.”

Rooster nonchalantly covered it with his palm. “What am I gonna find?”

“Everything I know. Everything you need to know. All the proof I got from Poindexter.” He checked the door once, then again just a second or two later. “They’re after me, man, and they know I’m trying to pass the information to you. Once they know you got it, they’re gonna come after you, too.”

“Why are you giving this to me, why not one of the others?”

Snow shrugged. “Carbone’s dead. Nauls is a retard. Landon’s an asshole, and Starker—shit—that boy’s stone psycho. Whatever Hell them motherfuckers are burning in they deserve.”

“I’m not so sure anybody deserves to burn in Hell.”

“Makes sense if you’re the one burning.”

Rooster slid the key to the edge of the table then pocketed it. “You know where any of them are?”

“Last I heard Nauls and Landon were still in the city and still in the life. Starker supposedly caught his old lady banging some guy. Put a .38 in her pussy and pulled the trigger, then he beat the dude into a coma, ripped his junk off and stuffed it so far up his ass they had to do surgery to get the shit out. Couple days later they both died. Starker got away. Word was he headed down to Mexico or some shit.”

“They ever catch him?”

“Don’t know.” He wiped the tears from his eyes then killed his beer. “Don’t care.”

“What happened to us that night, Snow?”

“Go open that locker.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

Snow smiled, but it was the smile of the damned. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

“Try me.”

“You got to see for yourself.”

Across the barroom, the restroom door opened with a scraping sound and Rooster saw the same man exit, wander back to the bar and return to the stool he’d vacated moments before. As the door slowly swung shut, he saw a moist and filthy tile floor littered with scraps of toilet paper and trash, and something else moving along the wet tiles toward the toilet stalls on the back wall of the bathroom. Like the severed appendage from some scale-covered creature, it slithered about in a snakelike motion, revealing a pale tentacle several inches thick and at least three feet long. Rooster sat up straighter, squinting through the shadows in an attempt to bring the thing into focus, but the door had closed. He glanced at Snow, who hadn’t seen it but looked as if he had. Rooster turned away, hopeful he might be able to obliterate what he’d just seen and knew to be impossible, but when he returned his gaze to the bar he saw the man grinning at him with malicious glee. Both he and the bartender began to laugh.

Rooster shuddered. “We need to get outta here.”

“Don’t matter for me no more.”

Rooster reached across the table, took hold of Snow’s wrist. It was cold as ice. He let go. “I’m not leaving you here, man.”

“I’m already dead. Been dead and buried for years.” Snow’s eyes suddenly looked empty, even more hopeless than before. “And so have you.”

He’d stood in the bus terminal for more than an hour. There was no sign of the Crown Vic or anyone following him on foot, but Rooster couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been tailed. So he stayed put, watched and waited.

People came and went, maintenance workers and ticket agents busied themselves with various duties, an occasional policeman drifted through, and a handful of homeless people sat in corners or, like many of the waiting passengers, occupied one of the numerous plastic chairs bolted to the floor in clusters and rows throughout the station.

The entire place smelled like a combination of filthy socks, urine and body odor, all of it made more oppressive by smothering bursts of forced hot air from an archaic heating system set far too high.

Directly across from the wall Rooster was leaned against stood a bank of lockers. He’d been fingering the key in his pocket since he arrived, and though he’d yet to approach it, he’d already zeroed in on the appropriate locker. He still couldn’t be certain he wanted to know what was waiting for him behind that little metal door. His life was complicated and confused enough. Did he really need to up the ante? Then again, could he afford not to? Snow had assured him the answers to his torment could be found within and he had no reason to doubt him. Even if it was a Pandora’s Box (and Rooster was certain it would be), how could he not open it?

Fuck it.

Pushing away from the wall, Rooster walked toward the lockers, casually sliding his hand from his pocket and holding the key down by his thigh.

They’re after me, man.

No one seemed to notice as he closed on the locker, pushed the key into the slot then pulled the latch.

And they know I’m trying to pass the information to you.

Rooster swung open the door, saw a black leather briefcase inside.

Once they know you got it, they’re gonna come after you, too.

Heart racing, he reached inside, yanked it free and walked away, leaving the locker open and the key still in the lock.

Moving through the sliding front doors and into the cold but fresh air, Rooster hurried down the block and slipped into the first alley he came to, using it to cut through to the next busy street, where he disappeared into the flow of the crowd on the nearest sidewalk.

Night fell across the city as darkness swept through him, awakening demons eager to tear at a soul already in ruin.

The fires of Hell burned on.

He’d always felt relatively safe at the apartment. Now he wasn’t so sure. As he’d crossed town he noticed no tails, but knew he was being watched. Even when he’d hurried across the courtyard and into the projects, the area cold and empty but for one lone child sitting on a stoop a few buildings down, he still felt an overwhelming sense that someone was following him. Once inside he bolted the apartment door, pulled the shades on the windows then set the briefcase on the kitchen table. He remained still and quiet a moment, listening. Some distant sounds from neighboring units bled through the thin walls and the building settled and creaked against the increasing wind, but he could discern nothing out of the ordinary. Next he returned to the windows facing the street and courtyard, spending a few seconds at each one, pulling back the shades enough to peek out and inspect the area for intruders, strange cars or individuals. Nothing.

Rooster checked his watch. Gaby wouldn’t get home from work for about another hour. He’d have the place to himself for a while. With only a small hanging light in the kitchen illuminating the area, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured a shot. As the booze burned then warmed him, he pulled up a chair and sat at the table, eyeing the briefcase as if he expected it to do something other than sit there like the inanimate object it was. A basic black leather model, it had only one main zippered compartment and no markings or personalized indications of any kind. He looked at his hands. Still shaking. For Christ’s sake, he thought. Get a grip. Back in the day he’d been known for his remarkable cool in the face of danger. Hadn’t he? Like so much else it was lost in a dark sea of partial memories, fractured dreams and uncertain yesterdays.

He pounded down another mouthful of whiskey then held the empty shot glass out before him until he’d willed the trembling to stop. Hand finally steady, or at least reasonably close, he put the glass aside, unzipped the briefcase and reached inside. His hand returned holding a large manila folder held shut by two thick rubber bands. The only other item in the briefcase was a hardcover book. Rooster placed both on the table before him, quickly inspected the briefcase to make certain he’d gotten everything then put it on the floor by his feet.

There were no markings on the exterior of the manila folder itself but it was stuffed with various documents. The book was black, had no dust-jacket and was badly worn, the back cover blank. Rooster flipped it over.

A bright red inverted pentagram filled the front cover, the title in matching color above it: DEMONOLOGY: Incantations.

He vaulted back and away from the table as if hit with an electrical charge, eyes transfixed on the pentagram as his chair tipped over backwards and fell to the floor.

What do you know about demons?

Fear crashed him like a wave, surging up through his legs, guts, and into his chest, chills firing through his shoulders and neck, his eyes burning as the uncontrollable shivers returned, this time violently throttling his entire body.

I’m so cold…

Voices in his head…familiar voices…

I’m so…so…cold…

Flashes of a face stricken with horror, mouth ripped open into a bloody and devilish grin, the skin on the cheeks and forehead moving and tenting impossibly, like something was trapped beneath and trying to get out, something barbed and small slithering for purchase…

Help me…God in Heaven, help me!

Clutching his temples, Rooster staggered back, muttering prayers he hadn’t recited since childhood.

Shadowy visions of a man standing over a body, the stomach cavity split open, his hands grasping a tangle of viscera—ropes of blood and guts squished between his fingers—laughing and squatting closer to the carnage, his face spattered with blood and colorless jellylike fluids, shards of human flesh dangling from the corners of his mouth…and all the while, horrible screams of agony bellowed amidst vicious laughter…

It wasn’t until Rooster felt the far kitchen wall against his back and slid down to the floor in a heap, sobbing and moaning like a traumatized child, that the visions and voices finally retreated.

But not before he realized that the face of the man he’d seen—the man in the shadows disemboweling another human being—was his own.

They move across the field in a staggered line, weapons drawn, the overgrown grass and weeds nearly to their waists. The fog moves with them as they negotiate the uneven terrain, slowly, cautiously, the darkness deepening with each step they take. The scarecrows watch from their wooden crosses, some nailed, some tied with rotting lengths of rope, manlike ghouls in old and torn denim overalls and decayed work shirts, hands of straw protruding from the sleeves like talons, legs dangling, vanishing into the tall grass. With badly worn, stuffed and filthy burlap sacks for heads, their mouths are stiff grim lines of worn leather thread sewn into the fabric in a disturbing crisscross pattern, their eyes sunken black holes, as if the sockets have been long-since picked clean.

Starker is in the lead. He stops and the others follow suit. His eyes pan the area, take in each scarecrow. No one speaks for several seconds. The night is unnaturally quiet.

“Come on, what is this bullshit?” Landon moans. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Nobody’s been here in years. Why bother with the house at all? Let’s split the take now. What difference does it make?”

“We are pretty far from the road.” Nauls looks back. “Haven’t seen any cars pass by the whole time we’ve been here.”

Ignoring them, Rooster looks to Starker. “What’s wrong?”

“Notice anything about those scarecrows?”

“I’m trying not to notice them at all,” Nauls says.

Landon rolls his eyes. “What are you, five-fucking-years-old? There’s nobody here but us, let’s get on with it.”

“Starker,” Rooster presses, “what is it?”

“There are six of them,” he says, “six scarecrows.”

Snow shrugs. “So?”

“There are six of us.”

Rooster studied the shadows cast throughout the kitchen, opaque swathes of darkness slashing the light. Still on the floor and covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, his flesh was clammy and hot but his breathing and heartbeat had finally returned to normal. He wasn’t sure why the pentagram specifically had triggered such terror, he only knew it had. His fear had weakened, though it was still close by, and a steady throb above his eyes signaled another headache was on its way. Luckily the pain hadn’t kicked in yet.

With a willful grunt he forced himself to his feet, and on shaky legs, returned to the table. Once he’d righted the chair he dropped back into it then cautiously reached for the book. The cover was old and shabby, rough in his hands. Without looking at the pentagram, he quickly flipped open the cover.

In rather ornate script, printed on the first page:

The pages of the book looked even older than the cover. Made of stiff thick parchment, faded and badly furrowed, they mostly sported what appeared to be very old drawings of demons. Hideous winged creatures with leering eyes, many with horns and cloven hooves, huddled in darkness. Others perched over the beds of unsuspecting sleeping victims or sat on blasphemous thrones of human bone. Others still were illustrated engulfed in flames or in mid-flight amidst the clouds, tangled in battle with angels. But for the cover and Milton quote, the text was written in Latin, in a calligraphy-like style, as if scribed by some mad medieval monk in the bowels of a candlelit monastery. Just touching the book made Rooster uncomfortable, so he quickly flipped through the remaining pages of lurid illustrations and indecipherable text then slammed it shut. Placing it facedown, he took another shot of whiskey.

When his nerves had settled a bit, he turned his attention to the manila folder. Six files were individually bound and stacked within, the front of each marked with a name: Paul Carbone, Terrell Snow, Anthony Starker, Perry Nauls, Thomas Landon, and the sixth and final file, his own, Michael Cantrell.

Rather than immediately delve into his own file, he decided to begin with someone else's. Carbone’s dead, he reasoned, I’ll start there. He opened the file to find a mug-shot staring back at him. He hadn’t seen Carbone in anything but nightmares for years, and looking into the man’s eyes now shook him to the core. He remembered Carbone as a short and stocky man of few words, with a dry but cutting sense of humor and a laid-back personality. But mostly he remembered him screaming in agony and begging for his mother as he bled to death.

Rooster moved to the next page. All of Carbone’s stats were there: his full legal name, date of birth and social security number. Lower on the page it listed no living next-of-kin, the fact that he’d never graduated high school and had no formal education beyond the tenth grade, and that he was unmarried and had no children. The next page revealed a bullet list regarding his criminal record, which went back to his late teens and covered everything from petty theft to numerous sexual assaults and indecent exposures, to child pornography charges to assault and battery. The final entry, highlighted in yellow, documented his final arrest and conviction, the rape and stabbing death of a seven-year-old girl. He’d received two Life Sentences with no chance of parole, and according to the entry, had been serving them at the time this information had been originally compiled.

“That’s bullshit,” Rooster muttered. He hadn’t known Carbone that well, but Snow had, and he’d have never aligned himself with that kind of scum. Carbone was a criminal like the rest of them for sure, but he wasn’t a sexual deviant or a child killer. They were thieves, they didn’t rape and butcher children. And besides, even if Carbone had been guilty of such things and given those sentences, why hadn’t he been inside serving them? Had they let him out? Had he escaped? None of it made any sense.

He went back to the photograph. It wasn’t an actual mug-shot, as he’d originally thought, it only looked like one. Instead it was simply a headshot of Carbone from the neck up, a black background behind him and his name stenciled along the bottom white border.

The last page of Carbone’s file contained a single word: DECEASED.

The file seemed thrown together and incomplete, as if someone had hastily transcribed a few important basic points, added a photograph then bound and stuffed the information into a folder. Rooster put it aside and moved to the next one.

Starker’s file contained a similar photograph and described him as a former Army Ranger that had received a dishonorable discharge and had served four years in a military prison for assaulting an officer. His personal stats were listed as well, including that he was single and had no children. His civilian criminal record began after his stint in the service, and consisted mostly of assaults and illegal weapons charges. It also listed him as a member of a radical political and paramilitary group the government had labeled as a terrorist organization responsible for the numerous bombings of several government buildings. His final conviction described him as one of a three-man team that had firebombed the campaign office of a political candidate their organization opposed. Four people had been killed in the bombing, including two women, one of them eight-months pregnant. Starker, along with his accomplices, had received Death.

This information was more believable—Starker had always been the most violent of the crew and the most unpredictable—but again, much of it made no sense. Starker wasn’t single, he was married—or at least had been, according to Snow he’d since murdered his wife—and although Rooster did know about Starker’s prior military service, he knew nothing about this radical political organization he’d supposedly been a member of, and certainly nothing of the firebombing of a campaign office. And again, if that were true, and he’d received a death sentence and had already begun to serve time on Death Row as the information suggested, how had he been with them the night of the armored car job?

“He couldn’t be.”

This time the final page contained the word TERMINATED.

Rooster reached for the bottle, poured another shot of whiskey.

Terminated? But Starker wasn’t dead. Unless they’d killed him…whoever the hell they were.

Next came Nauls. The face in the photograph showed that same narrow face with the beady eyes he remembered. A closely-cropped beard and wild nest of curly hair coupled with his thin build gave him the look of a stoner or wannabe rock musician, and in reality, he’d been a little of both. In fact it was strange to see his eyes at all, as Nauls had almost always worn a pair of dark sunglasses, the lenses small, round and tight to his face. His file described a man who had been in and out of jail from the time he’d been a teenager, and who began serving prison time at only twenty. Predominantly a thief, he’d been arrested countless times for B&Es, purse-snatching, shoplifting, and drug possession. By all accounts Nauls had been a petty thief but not the least bit violent. In his mid-twenties he’d graduated to bank robbery and done time for it in federal prison. Like so many others, Nauls had come out of prison far worse than he’d gone in, as according to the paperwork, two months after his release he was arrested for another bank robbery, one that ended particularly violently.

The report claimed Nauls, cornered in the bank, had taken several tellers and the bank manager hostage. After a fourteen-hour standoff, Nauls had been refused the helicopter he’d demanded for his escape, and as a result had executed a female teller and then the bank manager. He was shot by a SWAT sniper moments later. Hit in the upper right chest, Nauls survived.

Ironically, he was sentenced to Death.

Rooster knew Nauls to be the most harmless member of the crew, and also the least violent. He spent most of his time smoking pot, chasing women, strumming an old guitar he loved and watching cartoons. He was a thief—and a good one—but not that bright and generally clueless. He was damaged, the kind of guy who had done hard time and wasn’t really cut out for it. Far as he knew, Nauls had an extensive criminal past but he wasn’t a killer, and the idea that he could’ve executed two people in cold blood seemed beyond belief.

The last page was the same as Starker’s. TERMINATED.

Landon too looked exactly how Rooster remembered him, as a man of average build with short dark hair receded to the middle of his scalp, hazel eyes, a permanent five o’clock shadow, an aquiline nose with flared nostrils and a mouth that seemed perpetually set in a wiseass smirk. His file depicted a man with a long criminal record, the majority of his arrests involving car theft or driving violations. Landon had always been a car nut, and was one of the best drivers Rooster had ever seen—certainly the best he’d ever worked with—and though he had a temper, complained endlessly and never backed down from a physical confrontation, he’d never been a particularly violent individual. He had the ability to be violent, and Rooster remembered more than one occasion when Landon had handled himself competently in physical skirmishes, but for the most part it was his mouth one had to look out for. Landon could cut someone to shreds verbally without even trying. He’d begun his criminal career stealing cars as a teenager, and by the time he was in his twenties he’d done time for auto theft and for two counts of aggravated assault. In and out of prison for most of his twenties, he was later arrested as the wheelman on a jewelry store heist. He and his accomplices had escaped but not before police were on them, and in the resulting high-speed chase Landon plowed directly through a police barricade, killing two police officers. After losing control of the car he struck a group of pedestrians, killing two—including an elderly man and a woman who had been holding her four-year-old child at the time—and seriously injuring several others. Landon drove on. Several blocks later his tires were shot out and he crashed into a telephone pole. One of his accomplices died in the crash. The other survived but was gunned down as he attempted to flee the scene. Landon suffered several minor injuries but survived. He was given Life without parole.

Same final page: TERMINATED.

Rooster shook his head in disbelief and turned to Snow’s file.

Terrell Snow looked the same in the photo as he had at the bar earlier. His record was long and varied, consisting of everything from theft to assault to attempted murder to drug charges. A lifelong criminal and former gang member, Snow had, according to the paperwork at least, struggled with heroin addiction at one point earlier in his life. Something even Snow himself had been unaware of.

Which means it’s crap, Rooster thought.

After a long criminal career, the result of which was Snow spending the majority of his adult life in prison, he’d been convicted of beating a young woman to death in her apartment during a botched robbery.

I didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what I’d done.

The crime was listed as ‘particularly vicious’ in that the woman had apparently not resisted her assailant but had been beaten so mercilessly that police were initially unable to determine if the victim was male or female.

I don’t even remember it. I was on H when it went down and was hurting so bad for a fix I was out of my mind.

Snow received Life without parole.

I never meant to hurt her.

Last page: TERMINATED.

I’m already dead. Been dead and buried for years.

Of course he’d meant it figuratively, but Rooster couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more truth to Snow’s statement than he’d originally been willing to give it. He put the file aside and eyed the final one, his own. He downed another shot, felt his head swim a bit.

There he was looking back at himself in a photograph Rooster had no memory of ever posing for. His basic stats were all correct, as were the entries concerning his criminal record. He’d served several jail sentences over the years, having been arrested numerous times for theft and assault (once with a deadly weapon), but he’d only gone to prison twice. Once for his involvement in an armed bank robbery for which he served six years of a ten-year sentence, and the other, his final conviction for which he received Death.

This is ridiculous, he thought. How could I have served time on Death Row without having any memory of it? And what am I doing out even if I did?

He continued reading. He’d been given Death for the torture and murder of a man named Roland McKay.

A Roman Catholic priest.

Rooster’s breath caught at the base of his throat, and he brought a hand to his mouth for fear a literal gasp might escape his lips. His mind replayed the memory of the priest accosting him on the street. How could this be? He had no memory of ever murdering anyone, much less a priest. He was a thief like the rest of the crew, not some sadistic psychopath. And if he’d killed this man, how could he be stalking the city streets pointing an accusatory finger at anyone?

The files were all there in front of him in black-and-white. But not one of them made any goddamn sense. The information couldn’t be true.

Hesitantly, Rooster turned to the final page of his file.

TERMINATED.

He gathered up the files and threw them back into the briefcase on the floor. As he reached for the book he saw a business card lying on the table he hadn’t noticed previously. An address had been written on one side, a phone number on the other. Both had been written in ballpoint pen, and though legible, appeared hastily scribbled by a less than steady hand. Mind still reeling, Rooster considered the card a moment then grabbed the wall phone and dialed.

“We’re sorry,” a recorded female voice replied, “the number you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

He hung up and tried again. Perhaps the five shots of Jack Daniels had caused him to misdial. This time he concentrated on each number to make sure he got it right, but the same recording answered. He slammed the phone down, fear and uncertainty giving way to anger. It was short-lived. Within seconds of hanging up, the phone began to ring. Startled, he slowly reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. He could hear breathing. “Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Cantrell.” The voice was raspy and weak, like it belonged to a very tired old man. “You dialed the number. Obviously you’ve seen the files.”

“Who are you?”

“Look on the other side of the card,” the voice instructed. “Do you see an address there?”

“Yes.”

“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“No,” Rooster said, “let’s do this tonight. I want this over with.”

“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you. Come alone.”

The line clicked, died and was replaced with a dial tone. Rooster grabbed the card, read the address again. It meant nothing to him, just an address. His mind on overload, he tried to consider the information in the files again but couldn’t make sense of it. He knew those men. None of them were guilty of such things. And why in God’s name would he have tortured and murdered anyone? Why would someone invent pasts and former crimes for him and the others? Why would they compile files with false information about things that never happened? What could possibly be the point?

Rooster snatched the phone up again and this time dialed the number Snow had given him. He’d promised the information would answer his questions and tell him everything he needed to know. It hadn’t. The line rang several times without reply, and he was just about to hang up when he heard a soft click. The ringing ceased. “Hello?” he said a moment later.

“Who is this?” The voice was strange. Though male, it had a synthetic quality to it, like the person was speaking through a machine of some sort.

“Where’s Snow?”

“Who is this?”

“I need to speak to Snow, put him on the phone.”

“Who is this?”

“Who the hell is this?”

The voice answered in what began as English but quickly morphed into an indecipherable tongue, eventually becoming a deafening screech somewhere between a scream and a rage-filled, animal-like howl. Rooster pulled the phone from his ear, holding it several inches away, but the horrible wailing continued. He knew those sounds. He’d heard them before, somewhere in a distant and blurred past. Wracked with another wave of terror, he hung the phone up and backed away, stumbling into the kitchen table as he went.

A loud clap behind him sent a shiver through his body as he spun in the direction of the noise.

He’d knocked the book to the floor.

He retrieved it, tossed it on the table then grabbed the whiskey and poured another shot.

The violent tremor in his hands had returned.

The jangle of Gaby’s keys in the lock startled him. Huddled at the kitchen table, Rooster had become so enthralled while further studying the book on Demonology that he hadn’t heard Gaby ascending the stairs to their apartment. He’d stopped at a depiction of a particularly gruesome-looking demon with blackened wings and a hideous, half-goat, half-human face. Squatting atop a mountain of mangled and dismembered human bodies, in one of its clawed hands it held the severed head of a woman, and in the other what appeared to be a male member. Rooster rubbed his eyes, looked over at Gaby.

“Hey,” she said, closing the door behind her. In her arms she held a brown paper bag from the neighborhood grocer. Beneath her heavy winter coat she wore a plain dress and a pair of black heels. Her hair was up and held in place with a clip but had become mussed, probably from the wind. She looked tired. “How’d the job hunt go?”

“Lock the door.”

She did, then put the bag on the counter, removed her coat and walked over to the table. They kissed. “You OK? Why is it so dark in here?” She headed for a lamp in the den.

“Don’t.”

Gaby stopped, looked at him quizzically.

“Just don’t. OK?”

As if not entirely sure what to make of him, she moved back toward the table. “What’s that?” she asked, referring to the book. Before he could answer she saw the illustration. “What are you doing with that?”

Rooster closed the book so she could see the cover.

“Demonology? I don’t want that in the house.”

“Neither do I,” he sighed.

“Then get rid of it.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and took it with her to the counter, where she dropped it off then began emptying the grocery bag. “Sorry babe, I had a long day, just didn’t feel like cooking.” She held up two TV dinners. “Got you that Salisbury steak one you like, OK?”

He followed her to the counter, grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. “Do you believe in them?”

“Demons?” she asked, busying herself with the oven. “Do you?”

“The book supposedly shows what they look like, and it has incantations written in Latin. Is that how people summon them?”

“Why would anyone want to summon demons?” Gaby unwrapped both dinners and left them on top of the stove. “It’ll just take a minute to preheat and I’ll get these in.”

“I called Snow,” he said. “We met this afternoon.”

“Is that where you got the book?”

“That and the briefcase,” he said, motioning to it.

“Why would he give you a book like that? And what’s in the briefcase?”

Rooster took a couple drags before answering. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Is that why he kept calling? So he could tell you secrets?”

“Gaby,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to ask you something.”

She stopped futzing about the kitchen and focused on him, dark eyes narrowed as if trying to see him more clearly. “OK.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Seems like forever, doesn’t it?”

“How did we meet?” he asked.

She smiled uncomfortably. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t remember?”

Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head no, brought the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, hard. “I can’t…I don’t know what’s happening to me but—something’s wrong, Gaby—I think I’m losing my mind or… worse.”

She put a hand on his forehead. “You’re warm. Feels like you’re running a bit of a temp. Let me get you some aspirin.”

He gently pulled her hand away but held on tight, watching her blur through his tears. “I know I know you but…Gaby…I don’t know who you are. I’m not even sure who I am.”

“You haven’t slept, you’re drinking, and now you’ve got a bad influence from your past giving you scary books and making things worse.” She moved by him, grabbed the book from the table and tucked it into the briefcase. “No wonder you’re not feeling well and can’t think clearly. Get this out of here or I’ll take it out to the Dumpster myself. I’m serious.”

“I need you to tell me, Gaby, please, I—”

“You need something to eat, a nice hot shower and some sleep. I’ll—”

“Stop it!” He smashed a fist on the counter. The entire room shook. “Fucking answer me!”

Gaby remained where she was, hugging herself. In a tiny voice she said, “You’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry.” Rooster threw the remains of his cigarette into the kitchen sink then began pacing like a caged animal. “I’m sorry, I—Jesus Christ, what’s happening to me?”

She cautiously stepped closer. “It’s going to be all right.”

No longer able to control it, he wept openly.

Closing the gap between them, Gaby cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me.” He did. “It’s going to be all right.”

“Am I crazy?”

She pulled him into her, held his head tight to her breasts and kissed the top of his head. “No, baby, you’re not crazy. You’re just trying to find your way.”

“I think they’re after me, Gaby, I think the demons are—something’s happened to me, I can’t remember things and—”

“Nothing can hurt you while you’re with me.” She gave him a quick wink. “My love’s way too powerful for any demon, real or imagined. They mess with my man I’ll kick the slithery-tailed little pukes back to Hell where they belong.”

Rooster wanted to smile, but the terror remained.

“Come on. Rest while I get some chores done and dinner together.” She led him into the den, helped him onto the couch then switched on the console television in the corner. “Watch some TV.”

As the set came on, Gaby retreated to the kitchen, leaving him alone. He wiped his eyes and nose and sunk deeper into the couch, hiding in the shadows.

A news anchor with bad skin and an even worse comb-over sat at a stylish desk, an ACTION NEWS 8 banner on the wall behind him. Decked out in a yellow polyester blazer and ridiculously wide tie, he shuffled a stack of papers and continued relaying a story he’d begun a moment or two earlier. “According to eyewitnesses, the black male exited the bar on Cafferty Boulevard and darted directly into traffic. He was struck by what has been described as a large black sedan, possibly a Ford, which fled the scene. Paramedics are working on the man now and we hope to have a live report from the scene very shortly.”

Rooster sat up. The bar he’d met Snow at earlier was on Cafferty Boulevard.

“One eyewitness told Action News 8 the man appeared disoriented and was running as if being chased, though that did not seem to be the case. It’s not yet known if the man was intoxicated or under the influence of narcotics, but—one moment…” The anchor put a hand to his ear, listened to the voice in his earpiece then paused for dramatic effect and frowned as if personally devastated. “This just in: the victim, identified as Terrell B. Snow, has been pronounced dead on the scene. As further details become available on this horrific hit-and-run tragedy, we will—”

Rooster turned the television off. The apartment was quiet. He looked to the kitchen. The TV dinners were still on top of the stove but Gaby was nowhere to be found. He hurried through the apartment to the bedroom.

Light filled the room as he flipped the switch. Half-expecting to see the horrible winged and long-tailed creatures in the book flying about, he was relieved to find only shadows, an aged bedroom set and the usual open window. He went directly to the closet and pulled an old shoebox down from the shelf. Inside, a 9mm, a full clip and two boxes of ammunition were wrapped in a cloth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even touched the gun, much less fired it, but he scooped it up, deftly slapped the clip into place, chambered a round and released the safety. Something about holding the gun steadied his hand.

A cold breeze blew through the room, disturbing the curtains. He moved to close the window but froze. Beneath a streetlight just beyond the courtyard, a lone man was watching the building.

A priest.

“What’s wrong?”

Rooster glanced behind him. Gaby stood in the doorway, a laundry basket of freshly folded clothes in her arms. “How did you know that would be on the news?” he asked.

“How did I know what would be on the news?” She noticed his weapon and her face went pale. “Michael, why do you have a gun?”

“Turn off the light,” he instructed. “Do it now.”

She did. They fell into darkness.

Rooster looked back out the window. The priest was gone.

Silence fills the night again.

“Starker’s right,” Nauls says, “six scarecrows… six of us.”

“Not anymore.” Landon makes sure he smiles at Snow before he takes the lead, moves by the first scarecrow and heads for the rotting remnants of the old farmhouse. “Scratch one Carbone. Dead guys don’t count.”

“Before this night’s over,” Snow mutters, “I’m gonna end that fuck.”

The others move on, following Landon now, who has gotten several yards ahead of them and is barely perceptible in the darkness and fog. When they catch up to him, they find themselves standing before a ramshackle two-story structure with a dilapidated porch. To the side of the house and further back on the property is a barn in even worse shape. From the face of the farmhouse, a series of blown-out windows stare down at them, opaque eyes gaping in judgment, perhaps in warning.

A rusted metal sign has been staked a few feet from the front porch steps.

“Yeah,” Landon says with a smirk, “didn’t see that coming at all.”

Rooster immediately feels something so unsettling it leaves him breathless. He squints through the darkness at the looming structure. “I know this place,” he hears himself say.

Snow nods, eyes fixed on the house, his mouth hanging open. “So do I.”

“Me too,” Nauls says, voice shaking.

“Like we’ve been here before,” Starker says.

“Don’t worry about it.” Landon tests the first step, and once satisfied it will hold his weight, climbs up onto the porch. “These old farmhouses upstate all look alike. You’re spooked, that’s all. Come on.” He ambles across the porch to the front door, which lies on its side next to the doorframe.

“Got to love Landon.” Nauls chuckles nervously and climbs the stairs, hoisting the duffel bags of cash along with him. “He ain’t afraid of anything.”

Snow climbs the steps next. “Too busy being an asshole.”

“Let’s get this done.” Battling uncertainty, confusion and a growing sense of dread, Rooster forces himself up the steps. “I don’t want to be here.”

 Already fearful they will never leave this awful place, Starker, who began in the lead, is the last to enter the house.

He joins the others in a large filthy room just inside the entrance. A few broken pieces of what was once furniture are scattered about the otherwise empty area. The floor is rotted in several spots, littered with jagged holes.

Landon sticks the revolver he’s been carrying into his belt and pulls free a flashlight. He switches it on, punching a hole in the darkness. Countless dust motes float about in the beam. He sweeps it around. Thick spider webs dangle from the ceiling and fill every corner. A moth flits into the light then spirals off. “Check it out, Nauls. Looks like your apartment, only nicer.”

Their movements disturb something in the air, stirring up a pungent odor.

“What the hell is that smell?” Nauls asks, dropping the duffels to the floor and crouching down next to them.

Landon points the flashlight at Snow. “Dude. Seriously. Put your shoes back on.”

“You don’t get that off me it’s going up your ass sideways.”

Drifting deeper into the room, Starker watches the ceiling as if expecting something to attack from above. His considerable size causes the floor to creak and shift. He sniffs the air. “It’s sulfur.”

Nauls opens the first duffel, stares at it dumbly a moment then scrambles to the second one and begins rifling through it. “Landon, put the light here!”

He illuminates the duffels. Both are stuffed with neatly banded pieces of blank paper designed to resemble money.

Snow leans in for a closer look. “Where’s the cash?”

“It was here,” Nauls says, “I—”

“Unbelievable!” Landon spits. “You assholes stole scrap paper!”

Rooster steps back for a better angle on the others.

Nauls struggles to his feet. “Me and Rooster loaded the cash into the bags. I saw it. It was all there. The bags were full of it.”

Landon draws his revolver. “Yeah they’re full of it all right.” He points it at Rooster. “Where the fuck’s my money, crew chief?”

Rooster, Snow and Nauls simultaneously pull their weapons and point them at each other. Preoccupied, and unconcerned with the others, Starker wanders to the back of the room, where a large unusable staircase resides. Littered with broken wood and debris, he gazes up into the shadows of the second-floor. Something dead—probably an animal of some sort, though he cannot be sure—lies in a mangled heap at the very edge of the landing. The walls and upper portion of the banister are streaked with what might be blood.

“Everybody calm down,” Rooster says. “We’ll figure this out, we—”

“Fuck that,” Landon snaps. “Somebody switched out those bags or the money or something and one of you pricks is gonna tell me what’s going on or I swear to God I’ll shoot every last fucking one of you.”

“How could we switch the bags out?” Nauls frantically moves his gun from one person to the next then back again. “They went straight from the armored car to the van, and we were all in the van until we got here. Nobody could switch anything out! We were together the whole time!”

Snow, who has been holding one of his .45s on Landon and the other on Nauls, lowers them both. “He’s right.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Landon says. “That money didn’t just disappear, so where is it? Rooster, you and Nauls were the ones who loaded it, and since Nauls is a fucking mongoloid, you better start talking.”

“Mongoloid?” Nauls cocks an eyebrow. “What the hell is a mongoloid?”

“It’s them little elf-looking motherfuckers,” Snow explains, “the ones with the pointy heads and shit.”

“No, those are cretins,” Landon says. “Mongoloids are the redheads.”

Nauls tucks his gun into the back of his pants. “I don’t have red hair.”

Landon sighs but keeps his attention on Rooster, who lowers his weapon as a peace offering. “Get your piece off me,” he says, “and we’ll figure this shit out.”

“Nah, asshole, first you’re gonna tell me where the—”

An enormous muscle-bound arm shoots out of the darkness behind him and wraps around Landon’s throat, strangling him with such force that his feet leave the ground. He drops his revolver and the flashlight and clutches at the arm with both hands in a futile attempt to dislodge it. The flashlight rolls across the floor, tumbling through the room and painting the farmhouse with sweeping arcs of twisting light that eerily illuminates then plunges each man back into darkness. “Listen to me and listen to me good,” Starker says, holding the smaller man effortlessly, his voice just above a whisper in Landon’s ear. “We got a lot more to worry about here than that money. Now you cut the shit, keep your mouth shut and do what Rooster tells you to do or I’ll snap your neck. You feel me, boy?” Landon manages a gurgling response and Starker releases him. He crashes to the floor with a thud and one of his feet breaks through the boards.

Landon lays there a moment, clutching his throat, then pulls free, retrieves his revolver and slowly returns to his feet without further comment.

Nauls scurries to the corner and retrieves the flashlight. As he brings it round, he stops on something beneath the old staircase. “Hey, there’s a—”

“Door under the stairs,” Rooster interrupts. He knows he’s right but has no idea how he’s come to possess such information.

Starker finds Rooster’s face in the dark. “It leads to another staircase.”

“Then a hallway,” Snow says quietly.

“And there’s doors on both sides of the hallway,” Nauls adds.

Everyone looks to Landon. He rubs at his throat. “Oh I’m allowed to talk now?” He glares at Starker. “Just wanna make sure it’s OK with fucking Albert DeSalvo over here before I say anything.” Nauls aims the light at him, leaving no doubt that despite his bravado, even Landon is terrified by what’s happening. He finally nods reluctantly, fidgeting about tensely. “Yeah, I—I don’t know how I know it either, but behind the doors there’s a bunch of rooms.”

“Even if we’re right, end of the day it’s just an abandoned old farmhouse with scarecrows out front and some rooms where a cellar ought to be,” Snow says. “Why we all so scared?”

“There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

“Aw, fuck me running.” The beam of light begins to tremble as Nauls heads for the porch. “I want out right now, man, this is bullshit.”

Starker lifts the AK-47 higher on his hip, and with one short sidestep, blocks the doorway. “We’ve all been here before. We need to know why.”

“But what happened to the money?” Snow asks, his face a mask of barely contained terror.

“Maybe there never was any money,” Starker says. “Maybe there wasn’t even an armored car.”

“Tell that to Carbone,” Landon counters. “Fuckhead died robbing it.”

“Maybe that’s not how he died. Maybe that’s just what we remember. Maybe this is all some kind of sick game.”

Nauls looks at the floor. “Well I don’t wanna play no more.”

“Think about what he’s saying,” Rooster says. “Does anybody really remember anything before the job today?”

“Of course we know what happened today,” Landon says.

“Do we?” Rooster watches him, doing his best to keep his face void of emotion. “Do any of you remember anything before the van? Because I’m not sure I do. I mean, I think I do, it feels like I do but…”

“It’s in your head,” Starker says, “but you don’t actually remember it.”

“Yeah,” Snow agrees. “What he said.”

Rooster nods.

“So I’m the only one who wants to leave then?” Nauls paces about wildly. “Really? Are you guys fucking high?” The light drifts back and forth across the dark room, cutting shadows and revealing quick glimpses of a long-dead house.

In that moment, eyes following the beam, fear wells in Rooster the likes of which he’s never known. He’s sure he sees something more, something there yet not quite there, waiting in the darkness, slipping from sight like scuttling insects just as the light passes over them. He grips his weapon tighter but it does little to calm his rising terror. “We need to search this place.”

“No we don’t.” Nauls shakes his head. “We can just leave.”

“We need to know what’s happening here.”

“We can’t get upstairs,” Starker tells them. “Staircase is blocked with shit and it’s all rotted out. But there’s something dead up there and whoever killed it did some finger-painting with its blood.”

“There’s something wrong with this place, man, it’s—you guys all feel it too, I know you do. Shit Starker you and Rooster felt it outside, and…I don’t…” Nauls suddenly becomes strangely calm, his voice quiet and childlike. “I don’t want to die out here.”

“Easy, Nauls,” Landon says. “Don’t wanna trip and fall on your vagina.”

“Bring the light around to the door under the stairs,” Rooster tells him, his gaze moving between the horrified faces before him. “We’re going down there.”

As daylight splintered night, it brought with it an icy rain that descended upon the city in violent torrents. Shaking off the residue of nightmares, waking and otherwise, Rooster adjusted his position in the chair. He’d placed it in front of the window and watched the street all night. Every muscle in his body hurt, his neck was stiff and sore and his temples pulsed with a dull ache. Ice ticked against the window, mixing with the sluicing rain to blur the glass and world beyond. Numerous lost souls had come and gone throughout the night, hurrying through the darkness, but the priest had not returned.

Though he couldn’t be certain, Rooster thought he’d briefly nodded off a few times during the night. After asking him countless times to put the gun away and come to bed, Gaby finally gave up a little after midnight and drifted off to sleep. She lay sprawled out across the bed, her breathing slow and deep. He watched her a while. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. It didn’t seem right, Rooster thought, for someone so intelligent, so caring and just, so uncorrupted and faithful to be associated in any way with such madness and horror. Yet somehow it made perfect sense, a pure and tranquil soul like Gaby existing amidst the mayhem, calm beauty at the eye of an otherwise violent storm. His storm.

He sat on the bed next to her and gently caressed her face. She stirred and moaned quietly but remained asleep. Who are you? He wondered. Why are you here with me?

The pain in his temples drifted behind his eyes, lingering there as he gently kissed Gaby on the cheek.

With the 9mm tucked into the back of his pants, he threw on his jacket, swallowed a handful of aspirin and slipped into a cold and unforgiving rain.

Rooster found himself standing in the same rain some minutes later, having traced the address on the card to an old restaurant in a long-dead neighborhood. A small dark hole-in-the-wall, it sat alone between a series of boarded-up storefronts and a huge lot of bricks and debris that had once been a building. The street was filthy, cold and lifeless. No cars out in front of the restaurant, but the sign in an otherwise dark window blinked: Dante’s. There was no one else around, and the second floor above the restaurant appeared deserted, most of the windows blown out or boarded up. Rooster looked to the end of the block, checking the corners in both directions. If he was being watched or tailed, they were the best he’d ever encountered.

He moved through the door, which alerted those inside to his arrival with the jingle of a little bell. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting as he was met with a blanket of thick, oppressive heat. A series of tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and small candles encased in glass orbs at their centers lined the walls to his left and right. The open area between them provided a path through the narrow restaurant to, he assumed, the kitchen in back, but it was so dark he couldn’t make out much beyond the first few tables. The smell of burned food hung in the air, and although there was a podium for a maître de the restaurant appeared empty, perhaps closed.

“Here,” a voice said from the rear of the room.

Rooster casually slid a hand to the gun in his belt and moved down the center aisle toward the direction of the voice. As the shadows parted, the candlelight danced along the floor and walls, flickering about, alive in the dark. As he cautiously approached the only occupied table in the place, the silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders emerged.

“Mr. Cantrell.” Not a question. Said with what almost sounded like adoration. “Nasty rain out there this morning.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s not important,” he said. “Call me whatever you’d like.”

Same aged and drained voice as on the phone, Rooster was sure of it.

“Mr. Snow seemed fond of Poindexter.” The man motioned to the chair across from him with a spindly arm, his hand brushing through the circle of candlelight cast across the table. Skeletal and liver-spotted, his pale flesh was laced with bulbous blue veins, the fingers gnarled with arthritis. “Not terribly original, but we can go with that if you’d like.”

“Snow’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Rooster looked behind him. He could see the front door and the light beyond, though it seemed farther away than was possible.

“It’s all right, Mr. Cantrell, you’re safe here. Please. Sit.”

He pulled the chair out, slid it to the side so he could still see the door then took a seat. He’d never cared for sitting with his back to doors. “Who are you?” Rooster pulled his gun and laid it flat on the table, barrel pointed at the man. “I’m not asking again.”

Until then the man’s face had remained in shadow. He sat forward enough to allow the candlelight to reveal a glimpse of a loose-skinned face ravaged by age, his features sharp and birdlike. A pair of eyeglasses with black frames sat high on his needle nose, the flickering flame from the candle reflected in lenses so thick they might have been comical under different circumstances. “Don’t be an ass,” he said wearily, “put that away. Our time together is limited.”

Rooster reluctantly returned the gun to his lap.

“Are the headaches getting worse?”

He nodded.

“It happens as the mind recovers and remembers more and more. Truth always comes with some measure of pain.” He folded his damaged hands before him on the table and sat back, his face again engulfed in darkness. “Does The Kingdom Project mean anything to you?”

Faraway screams tore at him. “No.”

“Named for the famous Eliot poem ‘The Hollow Men’ which speaks of ‘death’s other kingdom’ compiled with numerous books on demonology and the occult that consistently referred to the darkness on the other side as a ‘kingdom of shadows,’ The Kingdom Project was a top secret program begun in the late 1970s and continued until the mid-80s. The occult has always been of interest to the powers that be. Hitler spent a fortune on its study and possibilities. Many of the same scientists that worked for the Third Reich ended up here, in the United States, after World War II. They weren’t all rocket scientists, Mr. Cantrell. Many were those who worked on the Reich’s most classified occult projects. Their work not only continued here in the states, it expanded and went farther than even Hitler could’ve imagined.”

Outside, the muted sounds of a siren rose then fell away to silence.

“The early programs of the 50s and 60s met with failure,” he continued. “For much of the 70s nothing changed, and the majority of programs were scrapped. Many concentrated on psychic phenomenon or the like, but The Kingdom Project had different, more sophisticated ideas. Our goal was to discover a connection—a bridge, if you like—between our reality and the underworld. We weren’t concerned with an afterlife that could only be entered through death, but rather alternate existences existing simultaneously with ours.”

A waiter materialized from the shadows holding a plate of spaghetti and meatballs and a goblet of red wine. He placed them before Poindexter without comment then slipped away.

“I understand you’re not a man of science, so I won’t bore you with the technical details, but suffice to say it all boils down to physics and mathematics. Our existence, our entire universe, this entire dimension, is based upon them. They all are. It’s simply a matter of finding the correct equation then executing it via the proper tools. What we as well as the others before us failed to realize was that in a psychological sense, the physical world is essentially an illusion. The path to the other side, to the power we were searching for—the darkness, that place of pure primal terror and evil—isn’t something one can find in the depths of the Earth or on a saucer ride through space or any of that nonsense. It exists in the limitless caverns of our minds. Our minds provide the gateway to the other side…the underworld…the darkness. It wasn’t Heaven Hitler was searching for, Mr. Cantrell, and neither were we. In the end, these programs all have military—or similar—applications. The Kingdom Project was no different. We focused specifically on the dark side of the occult, the concept that things like demons, devils, demonic entities—whatever you’d like to call them—literally existed on some level, if not on a physical plane then perhaps a purely spiritual one. Think about it, beings of pure, unadulterated, unapologetic evil. Beings of pure rage, pure violence, pure hatred. Imagine if that level of evil truly existed in a conscious, intelligent form. Imagine the possibilities of literally summoning such creatures. Imagine harnessing their power, the very essence…of Hell.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“No, but unfortunately you are. And I’m largely responsible for it.” He took up a fork, poked at the food on his plate. “Our push, specifically with The Kingdom Project, was largely chemical-based. We believed that once the bridge was found, if it truly existed outside theory and mathematical probability, could only be crossed in a spiritual way. In-other-words, psychologically, as the real-world applications of physics and mathematics had to be merged with spiritual, non-physical, synthetic components.”

“Synthetic,” Rooster asked, “as in drugs?”

“Yes, and it was only if and when these two areas were in perfect synchronization that our goals could be achieved. The mind itself had to be altered in order to access the other side. There was no question about that. You could get there from here, as it were, and the key was right before our eyes. Many ancient cultures, from Native Americans to countless tribes of people worldwide—people we considered largely inferior savages—already possessed the process we’d been searching for. These peoples used it to commune with paradise, to find nirvana, God, peace and transcendence. And they all used mind-altering substances to achieve it—roots, leaves, plants, things of the Earth—ingested before these journeys were taken. It’s precisely that angle I studied and brought to the project. There were numerous formulas over several years that used pieces of these various concoctions from different cultures. And of course, as a chemist, I implemented my own mixtures, including LSD derivatives and other mind-altering substances. Many did nothing more than standard hits of LSD. The initial versions were far too strong and brought on brain damage, permanent insanity, even death in a few cases. Eventually we were able to isolate the aspects we required and produced what I believed was the perfect elixir for The Kingdom Project. Once the right formula was found the challenge became finding proper test subjects. No one sane would knowingly volunteer for such a thing, so we were forced to utilize subjects that hadn’t volunteered.”

Rooster tightened his grip on the gun but left it in his lap. “You forced people to take a mind-altering drug you cooked up in a test tube?”

“We did. And the results were interesting. Not what we’d hoped for, mind you, but very interesting.” He twirled the fork around strands of spaghetti, brought it to his mouth and chewed. “Many subjects experienced something,” he said, “but it wasn’t the darkness we were searching for. Many believed it was nonsense, false near-death and other psychotic episodes brought on chemically. But I knew this was different. We were so close. The problem, you see, was not with the drug, but the subjects. I began to more closely study the nature of evil, the various interpretations of it in different cultures and varied religions, and though they were often vastly different, I uncovered one consistent thread throughout. According to every doctrine, evil was partly voluntary. One had to embrace it in a sense, allow it. The Devil, if you will, could not simply snatch you up in the dead of night and carry you off to Hell to do with you what he liked. Nor could his minions—demons—attack without provocation, their powers were limited as well. One had to let them ‘in’ so to speak. Simply put, if the road to Hell truly existed, one could not be dragged there. One had to voluntarily walk that path—through either conscious decision or even outright deception—but one had to allow it. Without that consent, evil could control no man, and no man could find or tap into pure evil. What we needed were not subjects forced into service but rather test subjects that had already embraced the darkness. We tried various subjects that practiced black magic and evil—Satanists and the like—but again met with failure. Evil, it seems, does not want those who so enthusiastically want it. So we began searching prisons. And that is where we found you, Mr. Cantrell. It’s where we found all of you. You and your crew were chosen from thousands of potential candidates. You were all condemned, all paying for the horrible crimes you’d committed, all hopeless. If damnation was real, you were all headed straight for it. Murderers, thieves, rapists, terrorists, destroyers of innocents, you were perfect pieces to a larger puzzle of absolute darkness and depravity the likes of which even this hideous world could not begin to comprehend. You were the best of them, granted, the best of the worst, but the best just the same. As it turned out, you were also, however, a rather large fly in the ointment.”

Heart smashing his chest, Rooster attempted a deep breath. “You’re telling me everything I read in those files is true?”

Poindexter scooped up a forkful of meatball and slid it between his lips. “That is precisely what I’m telling you.”

“Why can’t I remember?”

“We didn’t want you to remember.” He wiped a smear of marinara from his chin with a cloth napkin. “So your memories—all your memories—were wiped clean and replaced with memories we wanted you to have.”

“Then there was no armored car job?”

“There was not.”

“But Carbone, he—he was shot.”

“He was killed, yes, but not from a gunshot.”

The tremors returned. He struggled to control them. “What then?”

Poindexter rolled more pasta onto his fork, the sauce dripping in thick globs back to his plate. “You remember the farmhouse,” he said, the fork shaking in his arthritic hand. “It’s coming back to you.”

“Yes. Slowly.”

“As I mentioned, you were the best of the worst.” He stuffed the spaghetti into his mouth. “You tortured and murdered a priest, claiming at your trial that you’d been repeatedly sexually molested by the man when you were a child and that’s what had led to your life of crime and eventually his murder. He’d ruined you, and in turn, years later, you had ruined him.”

A spike of pain dug deep into his temple and ran down along the right side of his jaw. Rooster fought it back. “I don’t…”

“Remember. Yes, I know. For that you should thank me.”

“For wiping my memories away and leaving me with lies?”

Ignoring the question, he took up the goblet, sipped some wine. “Of course the pedophilia scandal that shook the Catholic Church had not hit yet.”

Rooster had no idea what scandal he was referring to. How much of his mind had these bastards destroyed?

“The idea that a respected, admired and loved parish priest would’ve ever done such hideous things to a little boy was unthinkable. No one, including us, believed you.” Poindexter savored the wine a moment before continuing. “Turns out you were telling the truth, who knew? The fact remained, however, that you tortured and murdered a priest in cold blood. Well done.”

“What the hell did you people do to us?”

“We sent you where no human being had ever been before…and returned from.” He stabbed another meatball. “You were all given the mixture. It took you to depths none of us could’ve imagined in our wildest dreams. You went to the core, the heart of evil, to its very soul. I must confess that until that night I hadn’t counted on it actually working. But it did. As we’d hoped, you weren’t alone in that boundless darkness, there was something else there with you. Something…alive.”

“Where did we go?”

He grinned like the demons in Rooster’s nightmares. “You touched the face of Lucifer, Mr. Cantrell. And he showed you evil in its purest, most savagely beautiful form, unbridled violence beyond comprehension.”

“The farmhouse,” Rooster muttered, “the scarecrows, the rooms beneath the house…”

“Props,” he said, waving at the air as if to knock the words away. “Familiar images that would elicit fear and discomfort were necessary so the mind would have something to reference. Interesting thing about the human mind, it fills in what is not there, often pulling images from a bank of previous experiences to fill the gaps. We simply helped you all with that, giving you something to experience in a pseudo-physical sense. Something terrifying that you could all relate to and understand.”

“This is bullshit.” Rooster stood up.

Poindexter continued eating. Candlelight flickered across the plate. The spaghetti was not spaghetti at all, and it was not drenched in tomato sauce. Blood…bile…excrement… worms…human eyeballs cooked to a crisp, burned nearly beyond recognition. “Technically the experiment was a success,” he said. “We did achieve what we’d set out to do, at least initially. But then it all went horribly wrong.”

“This isn’t happening.” He pressed his palms to his temples, his head pounding now and his legs weak. “This isn’t…this isn’t…”

“Once we realized what we’d truly tapped into, that it was the equivalent of accessing the literal power of existence, and the dark side of existence at that, we knew we’d overestimated our abilities. It was actually quite beautiful in its purity, but you were all torn to shreds by its profane glory. It became an orgy of violence and blood, an orgy of death.”

“You’re lying, you sonofabitch.” Rooster pointed the 9mm at him.

“Do you really think we could let any of you come back at that point? Or that there’d be anything left to bring back?”

“Then where am I? I’m standing right here!”

“The longer you struggle against truth, the longer the forces of darkness will bind you, Mr. Cantrell. There are some things human beings can never control. We’re not meant to, regardless of how badly we may desire it. Evil—true evil—is one of those things. I understand it’s hard for you to accept, but you were all thoroughly expendable, Mr. Cantrell, a bunch of hooligans and lowlifes, losers and drains on society no one cared about then or now.”

“It wasn’t enough that you used us as guinea pigs for your demented projects, crippled our minds and broke us to pieces. You had to wipe out our memories and send us back into the world haunted by nightmares you put there and with no knowledge of who we are or how we got here? You destroyed us—you admit it—and yet you still try to cover it up with bullshit stories about demons and Hell and—”

“Do you really believe telling yourself that long and hard enough will keep the terror at bay?” Poindexter placed the fork next to the plate and wiped the blood from his mouth with the napkin. “You all disappeared from the face of the Earth and not a single person noticed, much less cared.”

“Then why come to us after all this time?”

“Penance,” he said softly, the air of arrogance fading. “It’s what’s required of me now. Eventually, we all serve one master or another, Mr. Cantrell, whether we like it or believe in it or not. And I’ve come to learn that it rarely turns out to be the one we were counting on.”

“Who are the men that killed Snow, the men in the Crown Vic?”

He smiled blandly. “They’re not men.”

“What do I do?” Rooster leaned across the table so that the gun was only a few inches from the man’s face. “How do I kill these things in my head?”

He leaned further into the light, pulled his glasses from his pale and sickly face and pushed forward until his forehead met the barrel of the gun. “Deliver me from my sins,” he whispered. “Deliver us from evil.”

Rooster’s finger remained remarkably steady as it curled to the trigger.

The old man’s eyes rolled to white.

Everything else turned crimson.

The flashlight beam slides along the dirty floor to the door under the stairs. An inverted pentagram has been painted across it in blood. Above it and to the left, also in blood, are the numbers 666 and a series of words Rooster cannot decipher.

“Oh hell no, that’s Devil shit right there.” Snow backs away.

Rooster studies the words scrawled on the door. “What language is that?”

“Latin.”

They all look to Starker. The giant shrugs. “I took it in high school you ignorant motherfuckers.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.” Starker finds Rooster in the darkness behind him. “Supposedly that’s what it says at the gates of Hell.”

“Why would somebody put that there?” Nauls asks in a panic.

“Probably a bunch of drugged-out, loser, never been laid, douche bag, Devil-worshipping-wannabes.” Landon pushes past the others. “Who gives a shit? If we’re doing this let’s get it over with.”

With that, Starker steadies his stance then kicks in the door. It implodes and tears from its hinges with a loud cracking, splintering sound, tumbling away into darkness down another set of stairs. They hear it land seconds later as an enormous cloud of dust and dirt kicks up in response, wafting out the open doorway and bursting into the room. A stale mildew odor is followed by a pungent smell similar to rotting garbage and raw sewage. They cough, block their nostrils then huddle together in the limited light until the stench weakens and the farmhouse is returned to eerie silence.

No one speaks, but before anyone can motion Nauls to lead the way with the flashlight, he hands it to Rooster. With a sigh, Rooster takes the lead, the light in one hand and his 9mm in the other. He steps through, aims the light and sees a small set of wooden stairs. Beyond them is a cement landing and what appears to be a corridor he and the others were somehow already aware of.

He begins his descent. Starker is behind him, his weight shaking the staircase with each step. Next is Landon. Snow and Nauls pull up the rear.

They reach the corridor without incident. Rooster pans the light along the walls. Several doors line either side. The far end of the hallway is draped in a darkness that the flashlight is unable to penetrate from this distance. The fear and danger is palpable now, a spiritual entity unmistakably alive and horrific, real, it drifts and moves around them like liquid, invisible to the naked eye but without question, present. Rooster sweeps the light along one wall and then the next, as together, the crew slowly moves deeper into the corridor. All the doors are closed.

Except one. He places the light on it. This door is ajar.

Rooster uses hand motions to let the others know what needs to be done. He sends Starker to the left side of the doorway, Snow to the right. Rooster then crouches, facing the door head-on while Landon covers his back and Nauls watches the section of hallway and stairs behind them.

Starker holds the AK-47 in one hand and raises the other into the light so everyone can see. Slowly, he counts off, raising one finger, then another and finally a third. A quick nod, and the crew springs into action, rushing into the room with weapons at the ready and the flashlight leading the way.

Silence returns. A mocking silence…

The light trembles in Rooster’s hand. But they see. They all see.

A series of metal slabs like something out of a coroner’s workshop, bodies atop them in hospital johnnies, IVs attached to their arms pumping some clear fluid into their veins, oxygen tubes implanted in their nostrils, wires running from their heads and chests and limbs to machines and computers along the far wall, all of it organized and functioning in the dark bowels of an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Six metal tables. Six men.

“God in Heaven,” someone says in a desperate whisper. “It’s us.”

It might’ve been hours, might’ve been days.

He could no longer tell the difference.

The rain had stopped and the air was still, but it had gotten much colder. Bundled in a heavy coat and knit hat, the briefcase in his free hand, Rooster stood arm-in-arm with Gaby before a fresh grave. Dressed in a black dress and heels, her face partially covered with a lace veil, moments before she had placed flowers where a headstone should’ve been. Her lips moved in silent prayer behind the veil, dark eyes lowered. No one else was there. A life, Snow’s life, had ended. Here, at this unmarked grave. And no one cared. It was like he’d never really been there at all.

Gaby finished her prayers, and together, they turned to leave.

It was then that Rooster saw them. Across the sea of headstones, crypts and monuments to the dead, two men watched them, their breath converted to spiraling clouds rising from their bodies like fleeing souls.

Gaby saw them, too. “Do what you have to do.” She lifted the veil, rose up on her toes so she could reach, and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

As she moved away toward the gates of the cemetery, the men started toward him. Rooster lit a cigarette and smoked it until they reached him.

They looked the same.

Landon stared at him, said nothing.

“Hey, Rooster,” Nauls offered, scratching at his beard and smiling nervously, eyes concealed behind the usual sunglasses. “Good to see you, bro.”

“Good to see you too, Nauls.”

“That is so precious—seriously—I think I just tinkled a little. How about we save the group hug for later and you two can finish jerking each other’s gherkins then, OK?” Landon stepped closer. “Paper said the hit-and-run was probably an accident, driver just panicked. I say kiss my celluloid-dimpled ass, whoever hit Snow did it on purpose. Can’t blame them—I would’ve run the prick over if he stepped in front of my car too—but sounds like somebody took him out to me.”

Rooster took a final drag on his cigarette then dropped it and crushed it out with his boot. “They did.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“I’m not sure yet, but—”

“You heard about Starker?”

“Snow said he killed his old lady and ran to Mexico.”

“He never got that far. Big bastard was hiding out in a fleabag motel right here in the city. They found him a few weeks back, in the bathtub, wrists slashed clear to the bone. Sorry, I’m not buying that one either. Same fuckers probably did him too.”

“I keep having these dreams,” Nauls blurted out. “Nightmares, I—”

Landon held a hand up like a crossing guard. “Let the grownups talk.”

“Fuck you, man! You’re having them too. Tell him. Tell him.”

Landon defiantly bit his lip and looked away.

“Rooster,” Nauls said, barely able to contain his tears, “I’ve been having these dreams. There’s all this screaming and yelling and blood and horrible shit. Then it gets dark and I can’t see. I can’t move, I can’t even breathe and it feels like I’m being smothered. I try to open my mouth to scream only I can’t. My mouth, it’s—somebody’s sewn it shut. Who would—the bad dreams won’t stop, they—I’m even starting to have them when I’m awake, I—”

“We all are,” Rooster said evenly.

Nauls ran a hand through his tangle of hair. “Every time I leave the house I see this chick and this older dude, they’re dressed like they work in an office or a bank or something and they follow me and want to talk to me, but there’s something not right about them. They look so familiar only I don’t know who they are. And Landon, he—he don’t drive no more. Landon don’t drive. He can’t. Every time he gets behind the wheel of a car he sees this lady holding a baby.”

“She’s on every fucking corner just staring at me.” Landon became visibly shaken as his resistance fell away. “I know her from somewhere but…I’m pretty sure the baby’s dead.”

“What’s happening?” Nauls asked. “What happened to us that night at the farmhouse? We can’t remember nothing but bits and pieces.”

“I’ve got something to show you,” Rooster said softly, as if the dead might otherwise hear. He held up the briefcase.

“What’s that?”

“The truth.”

“This isn’t possible,” Landon mumbles.

As if in a trance, Snow approaches the last table, the only one covered with a white sheet which has apparently been thrown there to conceal Carbone’s body. “Carbone’s dead,” he says. “He’s dead, and he’s back in that van.”

Mesmerized, the others gawk at their likenesses on the tables before them, confusion and fear igniting as one and slashing at them like razorblades. Rooster cocks his head, studying his own face just feet away, eyes closed and face void of expression as if in the throes of a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Inches from the covered metal table, Snow pokes at the sheet with one of his .45s. The sheet begins to shake in response, as whatever lies beneath convulses. Horrified, Snow yanks back the sheet.

Sans johnny, wires and tubes, Carbone’s nude body lies quivering violently on the table. His lower abdomen and sexual organs are ripped to shreds, and the remainder of his body has sustained thousands of small but horribly deep serrated cuts, as if it’s been wrapped in barbed wire then torn free. The lacerations, many blackened and scabbed over, others fresh and still bleeding, form a crisscross pattern on his savaged skin that is as strangely alluring in its symmetry as it is appalling in its brutality.

As Snow backs away, both .45s locked on the body, Carbone suddenly sits up, vaulting forward. His eyes open but they are empty raw sockets. He continues to spasm uncontrollably in seizure. “He’s coming.” His voice is no longer exclusively his own, but many, and sounds as if it is stacked atop countless others, giving it an unsettling echo-like, inhuman tone. “He’s coming…”

Hands to his ears, Nauls stumbles back into the hallway like a terrified child.

“Shoot it!” Landon screams.

Snow is frozen in place.

“He knows who we really are,” it says. “He knows the things we’ve done. Our secrets, he knows them all. He’s coming…”

“God help us,” Rooster mutters.

“God?” Carbone turns what remains of his butchered face in the direction of Rooster’s voice. His split lips curl into a hideous, bloody-toothed grin.

Starker levels the AK-47 and unloads.

The discharge is deafening in such an enclosed space, and sends the body tumbling from the metal slab. It crashes to the floor as if boneless, flesh slapping cement floor as the impact empties the remains of its internal organs from the body cavity.

From the corridor behind them, Nauls begins to scream.

At the outskirts of the city, on a lonely dirt road, Rooster leaned against Nauls’ car and smoked a cigarette. He’d waited as Nauls and Landon poured over the material in the briefcase, then he answered their questions as best he could. Both men exchanged uncertain glances throughout, and now stood watching Rooster as if expecting him to tell them what to do next.

“They used us like lab animals,” Rooster finally said. “They wiped our minds clean, and now that we’re starting to remember they’re taking us out one by one. They figure they can toss us aside like garbage.”

“We are garbage,” Nauls replied quietly.

“Maybe so, but we never even got the chance to make things right, to—”

“What?” Landon interjected. “Repent? Save our souls? Deliver ourselves from evil like this Poindexter dude told you?”

Rooster stared at him.

“Maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing right now,” Landon said.

A breeze blew past, causing nearby trees to whisper and sway.

“We have to go back,” Rooster said.

“To the farmhouse, are you serious?” Landon gave a wry smile. “You want to go back there?”

Rooster nodded, smoke curling around his head like creeping vines. “You think you could find it again after all this time?”

“Yeah.” Landon looked to Nauls but he had his back to him. “I can find it.”

He hadn’t expected Landon to be so adamant. But then he hadn’t expected his and Nauls’ nearly blasé reaction to the things he’d told them either. Something had changed since they’d driven out here. The moment he’d agreed to go with them they no longer seemed quite as upset as they’d been initially. He dropped his cigarette and pushed away from the car. “You’re sure?”

“Rooster, I…we’ve…been there since.”

“You’ve been back there since that night?”

“You don’t understand,” Landon said. “We never left.”

Running… screams… confusion…

Panic explodes through the darkness…

The flashlight bounces, throwing strobe-like splashes of light along the corridor, floors, walls and ceiling before finally settling on Nauls. His face protrudes from the darkness, eyes closed but with a look of horrific pain. Blood slowly trickles from his nostrils into his beard.

The others scramble about trying to cover the corridor. Landon frantically knocks Snow out of the way and climbs the stairs back to the house.

  Nauls opens his eyes. “He’s here,” he says in a loud whisper.

His body begins to shake. Slowly at first but gradually building in intensity, he begins to buck, wracked with increasingly violent spasms. His thin frame twists as he flails about, and his weapon falls to the floor. He brings his shaking hands to his face, screams and stabs his fingers directly into his eyes.

Rooster reaches out in an effort to stop him, but it’s too late.

Nauls tears his eyes from their sockets with a spray of blood and fluid, his screams replaced with laughter as his spasms grow worse and he begins to spin like a top.

“Jesus God!” Snow shrieks, falling away in horror.

“Go!” Starker grabs Snow and throws him toward the stairs. “Go!”

Rooster stands paralyzed, holding the flashlight on Nauls, who comes to rest, laughing through the blood and pain, holding an eyeball in each hand as if in offering, hideous moist strings dangling from them and dripping blood. “We’re going where there are no eyes,” he says, his voice little more than a garbled growl now. “Where everyone is blind… yet everyone sees.”

Blood suddenly spews from his mouth, eye sockets, nose and ears. Like something has exploded deep inside him, the blood sprays free as his screams return, this time as raspy, animal-like squeals. “He’s here,” he gurgles, choking on the blood as it pours out over his bottom lip. “He’s—”

Nauls flies backwards, crashes into the far wall like he’s been thrown by something savage and powerful. His body slides to the floor, swallowed by the shadows there.

Rooster feels Starker’s enormous hand clamp onto his arm and yank him back just before he fires a burst from the AK-47 into the darkness. Together, they run for the stairs. “Don’t look back!” Starker yells out.

But it no longer matters.

The darkness, and all that dwells within it, follows.

In the room upstairs, Snow lurches about, lost in the dark, his guns at his side and his mouth open, soundlessly forming words—perhaps prayers—while something speaks to him from the surrounding shadows only he can hear. The voice of a woman, a young woman asking him why, her voice oddly hollow as she shuffles about nearby, hidden in darkness, her breath cold and rapid on the back of his neck. But when Snow turns there is only night, moonlight and fog beyond the blown-out windows. The scarecrows watch a field of weeds, a dead forest and a path to nowhere, an empty road no one will ever cross again.

The voice, different now—neither male nor female and no longer entirely human—whispers his name.

Snow wants to run for the door but can’t move. He knows, understands for the first time, what is coming, and still cannot move. He trembles and begins to urinate. As the .45s drop from his hands the fire appears from nowhere, sweeping over the ceiling then down the wall and across him, engulfing his body in seconds. Oddly, Snow feels no burning sensation, no pain, only sorrow and hopelessness the depths of which he never believed possible. He stumbles, flaming arms and hands held out in front of him as if to embrace some invisible presence. He sinks to his knees. Eyes wide, he stares at something through the growing inferno and laughs maniacally.

The last thing Snow sees is Starker and Rooster rushing up the stairs.

Outside, Landon runs with all his might, the tall grass and overgrown weeds slowing him as he wades toward the road. The van, he thinks, just have to make it to the van and I’m free. He ignores the scarecrows’ dead stares and does not look back, even when he’s certain there is something right behind him, closing in with impossible speed and ready to swoop down and pluck him from the field like a hawk closing in on a mouse. He bolts through the last bit of field and jumps the final embankment down to the road. Pitching forward on landing, he catches himself, and now on pavement, takes a quick look back. No one coming, nothing behind him. He pulls the revolver from his belt just in case, sees the farmhouse in the distance. It’s on fire, the flames creeping up through the roof, lapping night. He turns and runs for the van but pulls up short after only a few strides. It’s gone. He looks around frantically. This isn’t possible. He parked it there himself, out of the way, just as Rooster instructed.

“Yeah, I need this shit.” He heads off down the road, running right down the center lane through the darkness; the fog-shrouded moon his only guide. Every now and then he looks back. The farmhouse, the scarecrows and the fire grow fainter and fainter until the night swallows them whole and he is alone in the darkness.

He slows his pace a few minutes later, finally opting for a fast walk. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath and a sharp pain digs at his side. Landon keeps moving, knowing eventually he’s bound to run into something—a car, a house—anything. He notices a slight incline to the road. He pushes on, trying to forget the things he saw back there. All he needs is a car. He can hotwire anything and be long gone from this place for good. He kicks it back up a notch, jogging up and over the sloped portion of road. In the distance, he sees an outline of a building. Set back quite a distance from the road, it is merely a silhouette, but a hulking one. Must be a house, he reasons, then increases speed and veers off pavement onto grass.

Running across the field, he watches it become more and more defined the closer he gets. Within minutes Landon realizes it’s a barn.

Beyond it is a farmhouse.

A farmhouse guarded by scarecrows…a farmhouse in flames.

“No fucking way.” He comes to a stop between the barn and the house. He’s gone in a circle, but how is that possible? He ran straight and in the opposite direction the entire time.

Shadows drift through the weeds before him. Landon steps back and raises the revolver. He can hear screams and smells a suspicious burning odor. Beyond that of burned wood, it is sickeningly sweet and similar to the stench of charred meat.

A baby cries somewhere nearby. Landon whirls in the direction to find only darkness. Blind with terror, he runs but trips over something and pitches forward into the grass and dirt. He scrambles to his feet, sees what he fell over. A wooden stake…a cross of wood…

The scarecrow, he thinks, his mind shattering. It’s gone.

  From behind him, shuffling movement.

A strange shape comes toward him through the tall grass, hobbling like a crippled man.

Only this is not a man.

Landon fires the revolver. Keeps firing even when the revolver is empty and makes only clicking sounds.

And then something coarse covers his head, cold dead hands wrap around his throat and he hears another scream shred the night, unaware that this one is his own.

In the farmhouse, Starker and Rooster run through the burning front room, trying to find a way out in all the madness and confusion. The darkness is alive, shifting and thick with the shrieking cries of countless dead, nameless lost souls all wailing in the night with violent fury. Rooster sees a pillar of fire and realizes it is Snow kneeling before them, his body wrapped in blankets of flame.

Like a cold winter wind, something follows them up the stairs, gusts into the room and cuts through them. It feeds the flames and Snow’s body becomes a firestorm. Yet he doesn’t topple. Instead he struggles slowly to his feet.

Rooster shoots him, emptying his gun.

Snow finally topples over and the fire spreads, racing up the walls and along the floor in search of more victims.

The strange wind passes, surging out to the field beyond the doorway, and Rooster feels some part of himself go with it. He stumbles after it, dazed and fighting the gripping cold suddenly rising from the depths of his body. He finds Starker standing next to Snow’s body, staring at it with a strange look of…satisfaction? He throws the AK-47 aside, drops down, and eyes ablaze with passion claws at the burned heap that had once been Snow, ripping charred meat in stringy handfuls he hungrily devours.

And as the fire spreads, Rooster understands. He feels it too. Lust not for sex but violence, death, mayhem, destruction and pain…as if these things have been his destiny all along. Rather than reload the 9mm, he drops it and reaches for a combat knife tucked in his boot. He slides it free, already salivating as he closes on Starker.

Behind him, Nauls slowly ascends the stairs, his hollow eyes piercing the smoke and darkness, his mouth twisted into a hideous demonic smile.

Rooster slams the blade deep into Starker’s lower back, pulls it free and stabs him again. He seems not to notice at first, but then collapses from his knees to his side and lies there laughing, his large teeth bright in the darkness and caked with blood and human flesh.

As Rooster sets to work on him, gutting Starker from throat to pelvis, Nauls moves past, through the fire and out the doorway to the field.

His feet do not touch the floor.

Rooster focuses on Starker’s laughter. No—not laughter—not anymore, cries now, screams. Beautiful screams…his face and bald head covered in blood as he spits and slobbers, each scream more horrific than the last. As Rooster tears at the enormous incision then plunges his hands inside the body, Starker chokes on the bodily fluids bubbling up into his throat and begs for mercy.

But all Rooster hears are the shrieks of souls trapped in the darkness and flames surrounding him.

Cords of intestines clutched in one hand and the knife in the other, he leaves Starker’s now silent but convulsing body and slowly approaches the doorway. Darkness waits…a field of tall grass and weeds…six wooden crosses…three with fresh scarecrows nailed to them…three still waiting…

Rooster begins to laugh, bringing the intestines to his lips and eating as he steps out of the flames and into the night.

Somewhere within the hurricane of violence and howling souls, a frantic, familiar and decidedly human voice screams for salvation.

Visions of demonic creatures—some human, some not, and others still stranded at various horrific points between the two—flashed through his mind. Held in rusty metal cages, pinned, strapped or chained to medieval devices of torture and imprisonment, the creatures gawked at him in horror, several deathly still, others violently struggling to free themselves, all of them moist with blood, urine and excrement, their bodies grotesquely deformed and savaged.

The terrifying chambers of blood and death dissolved; became a roadside.

Landon had already gone quite a ways up the incline on the side of the road and looked back as if he expected Rooster to follow. But Rooster knew now what lay on the other side of the tall grass blowing in the wind behind him.

With a shrug, Landon held his arms out like the victim of crucifixion and backed away over the ridge, vanishing from sight.

Nauls turned to him, removed his sunglasses.

We’re going where there are no eyes…

His eyes were gone, just empty sockets.

Where everyone is blind…yet everyone sees.

Without warning his body shook with impossible velocity, transforming him into little more than a blur before he again fell still. “Come with us,” Nauls said. “We’ll all figure this out together.”

Rooster shook his head no.

Nauls slid his sunglasses back on, slowly walked up the embankment after Landon then hesitated and looked back. “You really think you have a choice?”

“That’s all any of us have.”

Nauls reached into his jacket pocket, pulled free the car keys and tossed them to Rooster. “We’ll be waiting,” he said sadly. “Forever.”

He made the car tailing him even before he’d reached his apartment. Rooster pulled over a block from the housing projects and continued on foot. As he crossed the courtyard, hurrying through the cold, the black Crown Vic crept slowly past, the windows and windshield impenetrably tinted. It continued a bit further down the street then pulled over and parked. Rooster kept checking back over his shoulder, but no one emerged from the vehicle.

When he’d reached his floor, Rooster stopped at the incinerator shoot and dropped the briefcase in, listening to it slide away down the shaft to the fires below.

Burn, he thought. Burn in Hell.

He slipped into the apartment and was met by a welcome burst of heat. Moving silently, he went to the bedroom and stopped just inside the doorway. Gaby was standing next to the bed, a blanket in her arms and a laundry basket at her feet. She’d already stripped the comforter, blanket and top-sheet from the bed but the bottom sheet remained. She seemed surprised to find him there, but smiled anyway. It was perhaps the most reassuring and comforting thing he’d ever seen.

Until he took a closer look at the bed. Rich dark soil was scattered across the sheet, blood and straw along the pillows. He narrowed his eyes and grimaced as fear clawed at what few defenses he had left.

“It’s all right,” Gaby said, quickly tossing the blanket over the bed. “Don’t look. It doesn’t mean anything. They’re just trying to frighten you.”

The night sky rolled above, moving, the fog turning and twisting as the rough ground tore at his back and shoulders.

“Gaby,” he said softly, voice breaking. “Gabrielle…help me.”

They were dragging him by his legs…pulling him across the field, the grass and weeds tangling and scratching him as he went, the night sky overhead, vast and ominous, the smell of death and burning flesh filling the air.

“Hell does more than burn the wicked,” she said. “It cleanses the lost clawing for the light. Remember what I told you. Let me help you tear them apart like they’ve torn at you.”

Hideous hands of straw, of charred flesh and exposed bone held him down against the fallen cross of wood while shadows moved about, laughing horribly even as they drove nails through his palms, destroying flesh and shattering bone, even as they hoisted the cross up and into position, even as Rooster screamed and begged for God to save him, even as unseen filthy hands held his mouth closed while others pierced his lips with an old rusted needle, running the leather string through the holes and pulling it taut until his screams were muffled groans and his mouth could no longer open.

“Remember what I told you,” she said again.

Those in the shadows pulled the burlap sack over his head, two holes cut out in the fabric to accommodate his eyes. Eyes that could still see…inhuman eyes now, the eyes of a soulless scarecrow…impossible eyes opening, seeing, watching, frozen in time, crucified to damnation and endless suffering.

“Rooster,” Gaby said forcefully, “remember what I told you about my name and what it means. Do you remember?”

“God is my might.”

And his eyes see the Hell he is trapped in…a Hell not of demons with pitchforks and cloven-hooves or boundless oceans of fire…but one in a small bedroom not so different than the one Rooster stood in now. A quiet and dark room where a little boy sat on a bed with crisp white sheets, crucifixes on the walls and a devil he’d believed a god sitting next to him whispering assurances that the things happening were just and right and moral and clean. Father McKay staring down at him with those striking blue eyes and telling him everything would be all right if he simply obeyed God’s will.

Tears stain Rooster’s cheeks. Rage, sorrow, fear—he cannot decide. All of them, goddamn you, all of them in a tempest of blood and tears and evil.

“They’re dying. You’re killing them one by one.” Gaby motioned to him with a slight turn of her head, her beauty shifting to something decidedly more sinister. “Burn them. Burn the fuckers away like the leeches they are.”

He smelled death…dirt…an open grave and its rotting remains…

Terror strangled him, its grip desperate.

The priest stood behind him, filthy and discarded now, like the souls he’d torn from countless children years before. “I know you,” he said.

“I watched you die.” Visions of Starker came to him. No. Not Starker. Father McKay, his head drenched in blood, choking on his own body fluids and gasping for forgiveness. “I killed you. Slowly.”

Blood so dark it was nearly black trickled from the corners of his eyes. “Did you think that would save your soul?” the priest asked.

“I only knew it would end you.”

The priest moved deeper into the room, stepping between him and Gaby, smiling wide like a demonic Cheshire Cat. “But that’s what you hoped for, wasn’t it. Just like now, you hope it will save you from me, from this place, from those waiting for you outside, from yourself. It won’t. Do you know why?” A fat brown spider scurried across his bald head, disappeared into his ear. He didn’t seem to notice. “Because the illusion of hope is Hell’s greatest joy.”

“And Heaven’s greatest weapon,” Gaby said from behind him, her eyes rolling to black as she grabbed hold of him, sunk her teeth into his neck and pulled him to the floor with shocking strength and violence, straddling him and tearing at his throat the way a wild dog might.

Light and dark merged as blood sprayed the walls.

Rooster backed away until he’d vanished into the safety of nearby shadows, the meager scraps of sanity he still possessed fracturing as night fell over the city of the damned.

Lost in time, through bloodshot eyes Rooster watched the sun rise on a new day, broken dreams collected at his feet, tarnished trophies stolen rather than won. The beautiful innocence of a little boy nailed to a cross of wood in burning fields called to him across the years, tears from a forgotten and wasted life and the sins of ghosts from a past he couldn’t quite remember and perhaps never would. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to.

Repent? Save our souls? Deliver ourselves from evil?

But rather than destroy, the flames in those burning fields were what would eventually free him.

Maybe that’s what we’re doing right now.

Rooster rubbed his hands together, they’d gone so cold. He lit a Marlboro and checked the corner. The Crown Vic was gone. From behind him, he heard heels clacking pavement. Bundled in a winter coat and hat, Gaby walked across the courtyard with her typical brisk stride.

Across the street, Nauls’ car waited.

Gaby smiled, no longer wolf, but lamb.

“Where are we going?” Rooster asked.

“Away from here,” she said, offering him her hand.

“Home?” he asked.

 “Home,” she said. “But get rid of the cigarette. Those things’ll kill ya.”

He slipped his hand into hers, and for the first time in a long while, felt himself smile.

Fires burned. They always would. But Rooster’s flames no longer trapped him in a Hell of his or anyone else’s creation. Instead, they destroyed those things shackling him to the Devil’s playground, and all the nightmares and lies that had tried so desperately to keep him there.

The longer you struggle against truth…

In a dark and distant field, a hideous scarecrow closed its sightless eyes.

The longer the forces of darkness will bind you…

Rooster’s soul quieted as the demons fell back into the lightless abyss from which they’d come.

Hand-in-hand with Gaby, Rooster walked to the car. Somewhere beyond the horizon, death’s other kingdom waited.

A kingdom not of shadows and darkness, but of peace.

Called “One of the best writers of his generation” by both the Roswell Literary Review and author Brian Keene, Greg F. Gifune is the author of numerous short stories, several novels and two short story collections (Heretics and Down To Sleep). His work has been published all over the world, consistently praised by readers and critics alike, received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal and The Midwest Book Review (among others) and has recently garnered interest from Hollywood. His novels include Children Of Chaos, Dominion, The Bleeding Season, Deep Night, Blood In Electric Blue, Saying Uncle, A View From The Lake, Night Work, Drago Descending, Catching Hell, Judas Goat, and Long After Dark. In addition to working as a full-time author, he also serves as Associate Editor at Delirium Books. Greg resides in Massachusetts with his wife Carol and a bevy of cats. Greg can be reached online at: gfgauthor@verizon.net or through his official web site at: www.gregfgifune.com.

First Digital Edition

October 2009

Published by:

Delirium Books

P.O. Box 338

North Webster, IN 46555

sales@deliriumbooks.com

www.deliriumbooks.com

Kingdom Of Shadows © 2009 by Greg F. Gifune

Cover Artwork © 2009 by Zach McCain

All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.