Monstrous Page 17

  Henry screamed until there was nothing left inside him. He collapsed onto the bed then looked up at the TV. Pastor Owen was on the screen, speaking with the news anchor, Bonnie James, from inside his church, loudly declaring he would not allow fear to win.

  “What’s next for the church? How do you recover from something like this?” the anchor asked from her comfy seat in the studio, far from the misery she covered day after endless day.

  “I’m not sure what’s next. We’re taking things a step at a time and doing what we can to help the community heal,” Pastor Owen said, looking right into the camera. “Time, and our Lord, heals all wounds.”

  Henry glared at the TV. “Except exit wounds, Pastor. The Good Lord doesn’t do dick about those.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Henry was leading a symphony of pain played by an orchestra of murder inside him. Clawing, biting, and tearing the flesh from one innocent victim after another, drinking their rage and misery as if lapping from an endless fountain of death.

  And then he woke up, his body throbbing with the ache of withdrawal. It had been two days since he had left the apartment, and he hadn’t killed anyone since Bulldog.

  Henry thought that once he rejected Boothe, Randall would come and return him to Purgatory. But the angel had yet to arrive, and every hour that passed without feeding was another eternity. To make matters worse, his ability to sense the world’s suffering had heightened to the point where he could feel, hear, and taste every whiff of pain within a half mile. The world called with its banquet of misery, and Henry could no longer avoid it.

  He had to feed.

  Covers hit the floor as Henry crossed the apartment to the kitchen. He drained four tall glasses of water. Then he dressed in a rush and ran to the window. He opened it and leapt into the night, chasing his body’s bellowing instincts.

  He was a half-dozen rooftops from his apartment when the painful ripping inside him intensified, dragging him in a fresh direction. He went deeper into the city, following the scent. Minutes later, he found himself staring down through the large glass windows of a convenience store at the something horrible happening inside.

  He looked around, watching as cars passed on the street, oblivious.

  No pedestrians. No cops.

  Shit was about to get bad. A tiny part of him whispered to turn, go home. Anywhere but down the side of the building and into the convenience store. It was drowned out by his larger need, and he ignored the whisper, scampering down the fire escape of an old abandoned apartment building across the street from the store. He hit the ground and paused to get a better look. Through the window, fifty yards away, Henry spied a pair of gunmen in mid-robbery.

  The sudden buzzing surprised him. It was either a new ability or one he’d not noticed before. A talent he hadn’t been able to use until desperate. He could sense the victim inside, terror like heat on his back. But for the first time, Henry also sensed more. Everything from gender, to the old woman’s fear that she wouldn’t make it out alive, to the sorrow that she would miss her granddaughter’s Ballet Folklorico performance the following Friday.

  And nearly drowning out her emotions was the raw violence fuming from both men. The taller of the two was named Alex, a rail-thin fucker with a buzz cut and a misshapen nose from too many fights. Clearly itching for a reason to shoot.

  Henry tasted, and could almost feel, the murder. Seconds from happening.

  Get away from here.

  Stay out of it.

  Don’t give in.

  Henry flipped the bird to the whisper, ran toward the store, and screamed as he exploded through the glass. The second, shorter gunman, whose name Henry hadn’t sensed, turned his pistol on him. But he couldn't manage a shot before Henry was on him, grabbing the gun from the fucker’s clenched fist.

  Henry wrenched the weapon from his fingers, twisting them in the process, and swung the handle into the man’s skull, sending him to the floor.

  Alex moved his aim from the cowering grandma and centered it on Henry’s chest.

  The muscles in his forearm bulged, and Henry leapt on the gunman before he could pull the trigger. He had the barrel of the pistol in one hand and Alex’s thin wrist in the other. Henry planted his feet and leaned back into a spin. He pulled Alex into his rotation then tossed him across the store.

  His body slammed into a shelf full of candy. Rattling boxes flew, and the display crashed to the floor. Alex swam through the mess, trying to get to his feet, screaming in terror as Henry moved in a flash, shoving the punk’s own gun against his cheek.

  “Give me one good reason not to kill you!” Henry roared. He wasn’t sure if he would even pull the trigger, but he pulled back his hood, revealing his face to the wide-eyed man.

  Alex slung his head from side to side in denial, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  Henry felt the punk’s fear rise against his face. Tasted it as it filled his nose. Ignored his own sympathy poking through, like a seedling struggling for sun. He threw the gun behind him, then brought his fist back on the rebound, pounding the guy in his temple.

  Alex’s head rocked back, and his eyes fluttered closed. He body relaxed, the fear leaving his face. Receding from Henry’s senses. Grandma stopped cowering behind the counter, standing to look at Henry. He turned to her with a growl.

  “Go! Call the police!”

  Grandma ran outside as Henry stood over Alex, fighting the urge to murder him. The fallen men’s fear, along with the raw violence still floating in the air, surged through him. Like the sickening sweet scent of the iced cinnamon rolls at the mall. Henry wanted more.

  Henry squatted down over Alex. Examined him from head to toe.

  Why the Hell should I spare his life? Or the other man’s?

  They were thugs. Wastes of humanity, preying on those weaker than them.

  No different than the men who broke into his own house and murdered his daughter, raped his wife, and killed him. If Henry allowed them to live, it was only a matter of time before they harmed or killed someone else.

  Is it not a kindness to take out society’s trash?

  These are the monsters, not me.

  Nah, I don’t need to kill them. Randall will come soon.

  Don’t give in. He’s probably testing you.

  To see if you can go without killing.

  A thunderous gunshot, and the window in front of Henry exploded. He spun around to see the other robber had gotten up and recovered his gun. He held it out in his left hand, the barrel jittering as it shook with his fear and anger. He held the broken fingers of his right hand in front of his chest, curled against his jacket.

  The thug steadied his aim and fired. This time, the bullet slammed Henry in the chest.

  Henry fell back, pain splintering through him in a spreading fire as he struggled to recover his breath.

  He laughed, stumbling forward, sliding on scattered candy. “What the Hell are you?” The thug asked. He was three feet from Henry and unlikely to miss, even disoriented and using the wrong hand.

  Henry’s heart raced as he stared down the barrel of the pistol. He tried to stand, but fear wouldn’t let him. What if a headshot could kill him?

  “I asked you a question,” the thug said, sneering down at Henry. “What are you?”

  Should have killed the fucker while he was down. Mercy was wasted on trash like this. How long did he have before the man fired again? He clutched his chest where he’d been shot, even though he could feel it already healing. Pain lanced into his breastbone, and the twisted bullet pushed from the wound into Henry’s hand.

  He gasped, and the thug came closer with a smile. “I’m …” He let his voice to trail off and hung his head, panting with feigned exhaustion.

  “What?” The man moved closer, his legs now inches from Henry’s feet.

  That’s it. Come closer.

  As if he heard him, the thug took another step, bravado outweighing his caution. He leaned over to get a closer look at Henry’s misshapen
face.

  His eyes shot open and met the thug’s widening gaze. Then he swept his feet and brought the man to the ground. He fired as he toppled, throwing his broken hand out for balance. The bullet whined past Henry’s ear. He leapt up and pounced on top of the thug with a roar.

  The thug raised his gun, dazed eyes tracking his prey’s descent.

  He growled, and his black nails extended into claws, sinking into the man’s wrist as Henry grabbed his pistol hand. Henry jerked his fists apart, wrenching the thug’s gun hand from his arm in one sickening pull.

  Blood spurted from his stump as he screamed. Henry felt an invigorating rush at the man’s horrified reaction. He couldn’t imagine losing a hand, but he could taste the man’s screaming denial. He wanted to finish him off right there. More than anything.

  But he thought of Randall again. And his chance at redemption.

  Do I want it more than my family?

  “What the fuck did you do?” the man screamed in a high-pitched shriek, clutching his stump with mangled fingers.

  He looked down, then back at Alex, still on the ground in a heap. He tried to convince himself that he shouldn’t kill them, frozen with indecision until forced into motion by a siren screaming in the distance.

  Henry fled the store, racing back into the night, running near top speed without stopping or slowing until he found himself in a huddle of shadows.

  Back in front of Burg Spires.

  He felt like a junkie calling his sponsor. He hoped Pastor Owen would say something to make the cravings go away. Henry slipped from one shadow to the next, then inside the church. The pastor dragged a worn broom across the cold floor, cleaning dirt tracked in from outside. He’d yet to scrub the bloodstained wood. Broken glass glittered in the corners.

  Henry stayed buried in the shadows, wondering if the pastor knew he was there, and more importantly, whether he would blame him for what had happened on his hallowed grounds. The pastor couldn’t possibly know that the men were connected to Henry’s victims, but he had surely put two and two together with the Hooded Angel sightings.

  “Pastor.” Henry stepped out from the shadows.

  The pastor turned, startled, though his kind eyes suggested he was genuinely happy to see Henry. Yet, behind his smile, Henry sensed a definite anxiety. He seemed nervous, almost skittish, though it was probably impossible to stay unfazed when your church was host to a massacre.

  The pastor shifted on his feet. “One moment, Henry.”

  Pastor Owen went to the wall and leaned the broom against a wood panel, then to the front door, locking it then before returning.

  Henry stood at the pulpit, looking up at the giant wooden crucifix he’d looked at so many times over the years from the pews. He stared at the fine details etched into Jesus’s face, the frozen anguish as if He had witnessed the massacre beneath him.

  “It’s good to see you, Henry. I’m sure you’ve heard about the tragedy, yes?”

  “Yes,” Henry said. “I’m sorry.”

  Silent discomfort passed between them, with neither man speaking until Henry finally said, “How is she, Pastor? Sam, I mean. I saw her arrive.”

  “She’s okay. Shaken, of course, but otherwise unharmed.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m fine.” He looked down.

  Henry followed his gaze to the bloodstained floors. “Jesus.” The pastor winced and he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take the Lord’s name in vain, especially in church.”

  The pastor said nothing, pulling them deeper into shared silence.

  Henry was hungry to scream but spoke in a whisper. “Why would your God allow something like this to happen, Pastor? Something so horrible?”

  “My God?”

  “Well, he isn’t mine. Not that He wants me. Even if He did, I don’t know that I’d worship a God who was responsible for all this.”

  “He does want you,” the pastor said, sparking to life. “And He isn’t responsible, not for any of this. Your question is as old as religion. Why would a loving God bring misery to so many? That’s an obstacle of faith for even the most devout among us, and always more so during moments of tragedy. God may allow horrors to happen, Henry, but He does not cause them.”

  Henry shrugged. “Potato, pa-tah-toe.”

  “No, Henry. Not quite. Bad things happen because God gives freedom to his people. You are free. Not a puppet on a string. No different from the monsters who did this. Yes, they were able to do so because God gave them the gift of choice, deciding between good and evil. But He grieves loudest when man chooses evil, like a parent weeping for a prodigal child.”

  “I don’t know, Pastor. Seems like there’s as much bad in the world as good. Sometimes even more. You’ve gotta wonder what sort of God would allow evil to thrive. He gives us choice, and this is what we decide?”

  “Sadly,” the pastor said, “there will be more. Much of the world’s suffering stems from our separation with God. He is all that is good, yet everyone on the planet, including me, does things to move further from Him, day by day and inch by inch. When I sin, I worsen our global relationship. The more I separate myself from Him, the more likely I am to hurt others. The same holds true for the rest of the world. He has set us as the caretakers of the reality he created.”

  Henry wondered which sentence to challenge. The pastor, though, kept him quiet by finishing his sermon.

  “We are separated from God. Apart from Him, there is suffering. When we use our time to answer His call, He will deliver eternal peace. We are all given choice, Henry. We choose to live by His word, or we choose to reject Him.”

  “It’s bullshit. Sorry, Pastor. But that’s my take. No God worth believing in would let evil exist in such abundance. There’s an entire group of fucks, all sharing the same bullshit tattoo, doing everything from beating their women to murdering my family. I can see why God would want to look the other way on that crap. After all, it’s not His problem. But He better not expect my worship. It turns praying into begging, and I ain’t begging for shit.”

  Henry expected the pastor to argue theology. Instead he said, “A tattoo?”

  Henry nodded.

  “What did it look like?”

  Henry thought for a second, then said, “It’s ornate. And specific. The fuckers probably bought ’em in bulk, all at the same place. There’s a twisted vine as a circle, with an F and C inside it. The letters are made of vines too, and they’re sorta jagged, with roots at the bottom and a bunch of shit coming out of the top.”

  Pastor Owen’s eyes said he knew something horrible.

  Then he proved it.

  “I’ve seen that tattoo.”

  Wow. So shit can still get weirder.

  “I visit Dodd Prison, two Saturdays each month,” the pastor explained. “Several of the men at Dodd have the same tattoo you’re describing.”

  “Because they saw it in a Calvin Klein ad?”

  Pastor Owen answered Henry as if he wasn’t responding to sarcasm. “No, the men in Dodd belong to a religious offshoot calling itself Order From Chaos.”

  “Order From Chaos?” Henry repeated. “How clever. What the Hell is Order From Chaos?”

  “The organization was big a few years back, at least for those in the twelve-step and prison communities living in Burg. It was underground. No single official meeting place. Consisting of broken people trying to piece their fractured lives together. Members of the Order were always overcoming something. Addiction, abuse, all the usual bad stuff. It wasn’t a cult with Kool-Aid or Satan worship or anything like that. Mostly just a sad assembly of harmlessly confused individuals with lives so desperate that the Order’s mantra was their only way out. They saw themselves as pulling order from their chaotic lives, with God’s help, of course. Like I said, they seemed more or less harmless, save for a few who used their positions to exploit others.”

  “These aren’t people trying to piece their lives together, Pastor. They’re trying to tear lives apart. Assholes, mur
derers, and rapists.”

  “Weeds grow in every garden, Henry.”

  “Could the Order be tied to this?” Henry waved his hand across the empty church. “To what happened to me and my family?”

  Henry then told the pastor how he’d found the second of the three men, and the man’s warning that his people were gonna strike the church. He told him how Randall said Henry had sown the seeds, that this was all some sort of cosmic payback.

  The pastor stared at Henry, his eyes finally registering shock. “The killer told you they were going to strike here?”

  “Yes. And then he killed himself. If that’s not fanatical, I don’t know what is.”

  “Did he say why he was targeting the church? Did he say he was after Samantha?”

  “He wasn’t too talkative after slitting his own throat. Do you think the Order did this?”

  “They haven’t been active since their founder passed a few years back. A man named Darryl Scott. They weren’t terribly organized to begin with, and many of the original members quickly fell back into their old habits without his guidance. Still,” the pastor shook his head, “I don’t see them doing something like this.”

  “But two of the men who broke into my house had the tattoos, and I’m willing to bet the third does, too. Could that really be coincidence?”

  “Two or three of the men might’ve met as part of the Order and teamed together to commit robberies. So in that way, yes, the Order could be loosely related, but that’s petty crime. To do something like this, well, it makes no sense. The group wasn’t violent. At all. And I doubt you’d be able to find three members still in touch with each other, much less staging attacks on a church.”

  “Maybe even five. Remember I killed two. So I’m back to hunting at least three people, assuming there aren’t more.”

  “I don’t think you should be hunting anyone, Henry. I believe you’re far better served by surrendering the pursuit. Let the police handle it. Let them do their jobs.”

  “But the cops don’t have shit. They think I had something to do with it!” Henry was suddenly angry, as if everything was the pastor’s fault. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”