"Friend and Neighbor" by Scott Harper and Timm Gillick

Editor's Introduction: Our last offering of the year has a supernatural theme in a strong setting with realistic characters with understandable motivations. In other words, it's a good story. To round off 2019, Sirius Science Fiction presents...

"Friend and Neighbor" 

by Scott Harper and Timm Gillick

            Justin sensed the two men walking up to his porch long before they knocked.  He opened the door and found Ned and Stan standing before him.  Justin stared past the two men at the light from the new moon, diffused by a crimson mist.  The mist that hung over the world since the Event.  No one ever learned its origin, but it was a sure sign the world had changed, and not all of it for the better.

            “Evening Jus, “ Ned, the older of the two, said, dipping his head in a friendly nod.  Ned was one of the few black men living in the predominantly white town.  At 53 he was also one of the oldest, but still strong enough for a full day of herding cattle.

            “Ned.  Stan,” Justin greeted them in turn.  Stan seemed a bit anxious.  He kept his eyes averted as he shifted his weight from one booted foot to another.

            “We were wondering if we might have a word with you, Jus.  About what’s been going on in town,” Ned continued.

            Justin flipped his hand over and gestured inside.  “Please come in.”

            The two men entered Justin’s residence, eyeing the furniture and antiques on display in the living room.

            “Nice place you have here, Jus.   Thanks for inviting us in,” Ned offered.

            “My pleasure.  Feel free to sit down.”  Justin indicated a plush couch.  “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

            “I’m good,” Stan said.  Standing an even six feet in his boots, Stan fidgeted with his hat, his dark hair hung in his face, and he used it as a shield so he wouldn’t have to meet Justin’s eyes.  At 23 years of age, his boyish face did little to hide his emotions.

            “Thanks Jus, no, we’re both fine.  We’ll just stand,” Ned said, light from the single lamp reflected off the dark skin of his bald head.

            Justin sat down in his sofa chair, at ease as he steepled his fingers together.  “How can I help you tonight?”

            “Maybe I should sit down, now that I think about it,” Ned stated, taking a seat on the sofa facing Justin.  Stan remained standing.  Justin could sense apprehension in Ned’s voice.  “I’ll get right to the point, Jus.  Those tattooed riders that have been causing all the problems, well, they’re back again today.  In force.

            “No more petty thieving or random assaults.  Today they came in, cut the power and ambushed the sheriff’s station.  Just after the morning shift change.  Police never saw it coming.  They used explosives to take out the radio cars and make their way into the station.  Pretty soon they’d gutted Sheriff Haskins and his men, stuck their heads on wooden poles for everyone to see.  They even killed the inmates.  It was ugly…evil.”  Ned shook his head in disgust.

            Justin absorbed the information without comment or reaction.  “Perhaps we should attempt to communicate with law enforcement in Artisan,” he said, referring to the nearest town.

            “We thought of that,” Ned responded.  “Cell service is gone and the land lines are down, it’s like…well it’s like…I don’t know what it is.  Never seen anything like it.”

            “Like magic, “ Justin added.  “Like a spell.”

            “Exactly.  Like a spell.  And these riders, they’re not regular men.  We’ve dealt with them before.  They’re strong, fierce and cruel…normal men can’t stand up to them.  The only person that’s ever beat one of them was…well, you know...”  Ned’s voice became hesitant.

            “Was you, Mr. Justin!” Stan finished Ned’s thought.  “You’re the only one that‘s ever hurt them.”

            “I was probably just lucky, young man.”

            “No, I was there Mr. Justin,” Stan countered.  “I saw what you did.  That big rider went after me and Cassie that night.  His tattoos seemed almost alive, pulsing with power.  He beat the living crap out of me, tossed me around like a child.  He grabbed Cassie and was going to hurt her too, real bad.  Then you showed up out of nowhere, just came out the dark like a ghost, lifted him up and took him away like he weighed nothing.  Never saw that one again…” Stan’s voice trailed off.

            Ned picked up the conversation.  “Jus, I’ve known you for a long time, ever since you moved into the old Marsden farm all those years ago.  Not as friends, I know, more like acquaintances.  You live alone outside of town, tend your livestock, your cows and your goats and such.  You keep to yourself mostly, come into town once in a while for supplies or town meetings.”

            “And your point is, Ned?” Justin asked.

            Ned gazed down a moment, swallowed to regain his composure, then looked Justin in the eye.

            “My point is that you don’t look a day older today than when I first cast eyes on you some thirty years ago, when I was still living with my folks, God rest their souls.  You’re only seen at night.  Your skin is pale, which is real peculiar for a farmer with no family or ranch hands to help with the work.  You never sell or kill your livestock.  You keep them around for years, either as pets or maybe because you get what you need from them without killing them.  And you can take care of business when you need to.  Since the world turned to crap, you’ve taken it upon yourself more than once to make miscreants disappear.”

            “We know what you are, Mr. Justin!” Stan added, his voice loud and excited.  “That’s not an accusation, it’s just a fact.  And we’re ok with that.  Both Ned and I.  You protect this town, when it needs it.  That’s what’s important now.  Because the town needs help.  Cassie needs help.  Your help, Mr. Justin.”

            Justin looked down to the floor, taking an unnecessary breath.  At one time in his long existence he would have been forced to kill these men, men who had discovered the secret of his true nature.  But times had changed and the world was not what it had once been.  The collapse of centralized authority since the Event had made it a more dangerous place, even for his kind, allies few and far between.  Based on previous encounters, he knew these “riders” to be far more than a simple biker gang.  He found himself in a situation he never would have anticipated, on the verge of admitting the secret he had maintained for so long.

            “Well…” he finally replied, “well done.”

            Ned paused a moment, considering then enormity of Justin’s admission, but then decided to resume where he had left off.  “They’ve taken Stan’s girl, Cassie, and holed up in the old church on Morgan’s lane,” Ned stated.

            “They plan to sacrifice her,” Justin stated matter-of-factly.  The other men looked at him, eyes wide with horror. 

            “These men are acolytes of Curmonga The Subjugator.  The symbols they wear on their clothing and their tattoos are runes, supernatural inscriptions that channel the winds of magic.  Curmonga is one of the Old Ones, either a demi-god or demon, depending upon how you prefer to look at it.  With the dissolution of civil society, the old gods are seeking to make a comeback into this world.  Their essences reach out and touch the minds of those who still worship them.  The Subjugator’s acolytes are seeking to bring it back from whatever cesspool dimension it’s been banished to all these years.  For decades they’ve been poking at the outskirts of civilization, testing its barriers and strengths.  Now they see an opening, a soft target they can conquer.  A blood sacrifice is necessary to bring their god back.  I had hoped the others that came into town before were just random strays, chaotic and dangerous in themselves but unorganized, scattered across the oceans of this new world, I see now I was mistaken.”

            “Please Mr. Justin.  I’m begging you.  Just like you helped Cassie back then.  Please help us now,” Stan implored.

            Justin stood with serpentine grace, his eyes blazing in the dimness of the room.

            “I will help you, young man.  I will help this town and its people, this town where I have found refuge.  But know this, my friends, I am not a man, not a being such as yourselves.  The man I was died many centuries ago.  What you see before you is a cursed creature of the dead, forever doomed to feed on the blood of the living.  I have done things that would curdle your blood and forever scar your psyches.  I am not a good person.  I am not a hero.”

            Ned stood resolutely.  “We never asked for one.”  

            He extended his hand.  Justin returned the grip with his cold hand, exerting just a fraction of his immense strength.

            “So be it.”

            By the time they arrived at the church, a group of townspeople had gathered outside the weathered exterior of the front entrance.  Justin recognized most of them from his previous visits.  Their faces were grim yet determined.  A mixture of men and women, young and old, they carried with them a variety of weapons – semi-auto pistols, shotguns, axes and machetes.  Justin gave them a nod of acknowledgement and approached the massive wooden doors.

            The church had been abandoned a decade ago.  Faith in an all-powerful, benevolent being was hard to come by in this modern ravaged world.  Justin felt only the vaguest traces of the faith energy that had once flowed from this structure.  At one time, that energy would have been barred him from entering.  As he laid his hand on the door, he sensed that no such stricture remained.

            He looked back at the townspeople.  Ned and Stan stood at the front of the group, waiting for his command.

            “We go in hard, we don’t stop until they’re all dead and we’ve got Cassie.  It’s that simple.”

            Ned, Stan and the others nodded.

            Justin turned back to the door.  He concentrated, his keen senses detecting twenty beating hearts on the other side.  Twenty living humans, plus the acrid, uncomfortably-familiar odor of black magic and the nascent formation of a gateway to another dimension, waiting for the spilled blood of an innocent to open it.

            He shot his hands forward, blowing the heavy doors off their hinges.  Two riders were crushed as the doors landed.  Justin surged inside as gunfire erupted, the shadows of the room coalescing around him.  He felt the lead rounds impact his thighs, chest, neck and forehead, but shrugged them off and continued forward. 

            Before him, the riders were assembled like a conga line down the aisles of pews, weapons drawn, their presence in violent contrast with the sublime peace offered by the themed glass windows and religious murals that decorated the walls.  Up on the altar, he could see Cassie chained and screaming as a hooded rider, some type of self-proclaimed warlock he guessed, chanted in Latin and raised a wicked ceremonial dagger over her prone torso.

            Justin’s fingers curved into claws.  He slashed the throats of two riders before they could fire another shot, blood erupting like geysers into the air.  He absorbed a switchblade thrust into his sternum, feeling the cold metal slide into his even icier heart, then lifted the rider bodily, throwing him into the nearest wall and shattering his skull.  The body slid down in a boneless heap.  Another rider, a heavyset woman in a leather jacket, brought a hefty wrench down on the back of his neck.  Justin absorbed the blow, which would have broken a normal man’s spine.  He extended one clawed finger toward the woman’s head.  Fueled by his will, a long spike composed of shadow erupted from the finger, skewered the woman through the eye and exploded brain matter out the back of her head.

            Two more riders confronted him as the female fell, the runes on their faces and arms glowing sapphire, fueled by the eldritch energy of the warlock’s ritual.  The first carried a bat, the second a two-foot long piece of lead pipe.  Justin prepared to deal with the former, waiting for the rider to swing, only to be surprised when the man’s body began to jerk as bullet holes filled his hairy torso. 

            Ned stepped forward, continuing to fire with trained precision into the rider with a Beretta pistol.  The acolyte absorbed the initial rounds, standing his ground and drawing on the magic of the runes, but after the tenth round began to falter.  When Ned’s magazine went empty after the sixteenth round, the rider collapsed.

            Justin stepped into the second rider, grabbing the man’s elbow as the pipe descended.  He broke the elbow and jerked the rider to him before the man could scream.  Justin’s canines lengthened as he tore into the rider’s neck, letting the hot blood spill down his throat.  He tasted the eldritch energy powering the man, a more potent brew than any he had sampled in recent years.  Justin took just enough of the acolyte’s blood to fuel himself for the rest of the battle, then snapped his neck and tossed the corpse aside.

            Around him the battle raged.  The rune-enhanced bikers exacted their toll on the townspeople, shooting and hacking and clawing.  But, thanks to the edge lent by Justin’s unique abilities, a greater number of the riders had fallen.

            A woman’s scream forced Justin’s attention towards the altar.  He saw Stan struggling with – and losing to - the warlock.  The ceremonial dagger struck straight up from Cassie’s chest.  Her body spasmed as she bled out.   A portal began to open nearby, a world of shadow and sulfuric misery, ringed by waves of blue energy.  Something large and black and evil moved in the darkness.

            Justin leaped to the altar.  The warlock held Stan by the throat, strangling him, Stan’s feet held inches off the ground.  Rune tattoos on the warlock’s face throbbed with dark power.  Justin’s claws flashed out, severing the warlock’s forearms at the elbows.  Stan fell to the ground, coughing as breath found its way back into his lungs.  A backslash of Justin’s claws removed the warlock’s head.

            Justin used his teeth to gash his own wrist, drawing viscid black blood to the surface of the wound.  He ripped away the chains binding Cassie to the altar with his unwounded hand, then slid the dagger from her sternum with a wet, sucking sound.  Cassie’s breath came in shallow gasps, her pupils dilated.  Justin pressed his wrist to her dagger wound, allowing his blood to mingle with hers and heal the damage.

            As Cassie’s pain lessened and her breathing returned to normal, Justin cast his eyes back to the portal.  As he had hoped, the ritual magic ceased when Cassie had not died – the portal sealed and began to fade from this reality.  But in the brief duration it was open, one creature slipped through.

            Justin looked up at the blue-hided demon lord.  Towering over eight feet tall, hundreds of multi-faceted insect-like eyes covering its black-horned forehead, it grinned with a maw of yellow fangs set in black gums.  Its ape-like arms ended in three-digit claws; its feet were cloven hooves.  The interruption of the ritual injured the creature, leaving suppurating wounds crisscrossing its massive frame, wounds that bled a brackish purple ichor.

            Justin moved like quicksilver, vaulted onto Curmonga, then sank his claws deep into the demon’s throat.  With a strength greater than that of twenty men, he squeezed his fingers, trying to reach the creatures’ spine, if one existed.  More of the purple ichor showered forth.  Curmonga managed to smile, its thick blue lips opening wide over rows of fanged teeth, its black eyes shining in triumph.  It spoke in a harsh, guttural voice, the words an ancient version of the Germanic languages that preceded the adoption of Latin.  Though many centuries had passed since Justin had last heard this tongue, he still understood the import of the demon’s words.

            “Little leech.  Are you afraid I will steal your food?  Rest assured, I would have shared, what with an entire world to feed upon.  There are no gods to protect these people now.  You could have been my herald as my armies conquered this world.  Regrettably, such disrespect for one’s superiors cannot be tolerated.”

            The demon’s claws clamped like vices onto Justin’s forearms.  Its strength was awesome, bone-grinding.  With visible effort, it pulled his hands away from its neck.  Curmonga’s maw began to chomp, the sharp teeth covered in stinking saliva.  Despite his best efforts, despite all his strength, Justin was being overpowered.  He tried to twist away, but the demon’s mouth was now mere inches from his neck.  One good bite would decapitate him.

            A bullet hole opened up in Curmonga’s forehead.  The creature’s multiple eyes rolled up in shock to look at the wound.  Justin turned his head and saw Ned and Stan.  Ned pumped round after round into the demon’s head and torso.  A stray bullet hit Justin in his upper back.  He made a mental note to thank Ned for that later, if they survived.

            Stan, swinging a discarded axe, buried the blade in the demon’s thick chest.  Curmonga staggered back, still holding Justin as its prisoner, then laughed.  The demon released Justin’s right arm and pulled the axe from its torso, crumpling the blade into a useless lump of metal.

            “Mortal weapons cannot harm me, flesh bag.”

            Justin used the distraction the men had created for him.  His free hand shot out, grasped one of the creature’s striated stone horns, and twisted with all his strength.  With a sound like a rifle shot, the horn broke off.

            Curmonga staggered, screaming in shock and pain.  Justin drove the horn into the demon’s chest, hoping to impale whatever organ passed for its heart.  Curmonga toppled like a fallen oak, crashed to the ground, and splintered the floor.

            Justin stood over the demon lord, watching its lifeblood pump out and pool around it.  He could see fear in the creature’s eyes.  He reached his hand toward the other horn, calling more of the room’s shadows to him as he did so.

            “Worship me, leech.  These flesh bags will turn on you.  They can smell the stench of your dead flesh.  I can make you like myself.  Immortal,” it wheezed through its torn throat.

            Justin felt his body swell with the power of the additional shadows, as well as the rider’s enhanced blood.  He’d never felt stronger.  When he wrenched off the other horn, Curmonga’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

            “How’s that working out for you?” he asked in the ancient tongue.  Justin rammed the horn through the demon’s mouth and out the back of its head, blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor.

            Justin surveyed the aftermath of the battle.  All of the demon’s acolytes had fallen, as had half of the townspeople.  Ned and Stan stood nearby, Stan holding Cassie.

            He looked again at the fallen demon lord.

            “Subjugate that.”

           

            Justin watched as the townspeople tended to their wounded.  A couple of radio cars and ambulances had arrived from neighboring Artisan.  Justin took it as a good sign for the future.

            Ned, Stan and Cassie approached.  Cassie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Justin’s torso.  His first instinct was to flinch, an old habit born of self-preservation, to prevent her from noticing his reduced body temperature.  Then his brain kicked in, recalling what they had just endured together, that a new reality awaited all of them.  He returned the gesture, careful not to squeeze too hard and accidentally harm her.

            “Thank you,” Cassie said, sniffling.  “You’re a good man.”  She kissed him once on the cheek.  “Your blood…will I…I mean, eventually…” she asked.

            “You have nothing to fear, child.  It takes much more than that to become such as I.  I would never willingly inflict my curse on another.”

            She smiled and then went back into Stan’s arms.

            “I don’t have the words, Mr. Justin…” Stan added.

            “Call me Justain.  It was my birth name, many, many years ago, in a country that no longer exists.”

            Ned remained on as the young couple departed.  “That sounds like an interesting story.  I’d like to hear it sometime.”

            Justin smiled.  “It’s a long one.  Might take more than one sitting.”

            “There’s not really much more a man of my age is good for, other than sitting,” Ned said, smiling.  Then his tone became serious.  “There’ll be more coming, won’t there?  More monsters, more evil.”

            “Yes, I’m afraid you are correct.  The old barriers are down.  The walls between dimensions are shifting.  In the past, human faith held many creatures at bay, though it gave birth to its own form of demons as well.  Since the Event, the dinner bell has been rung.  And the monsters are hungry.”

            Ned walked closer.  “You’ll always be safe here, Jus.  With us, at least.  You have my word,” he said.  “If an old black man like me can make it here, so can you.”         

            A sense of relief and community passed through Justin.  For perhaps the first time since he had broken out of his grave so many centuries ago, he felt at peace with the world.

            Justin nodded his head.  “My thanks, friend.”  He gazed east, where dawn was impending.  Ned stepped back, silently acknowledging that Justin needed to leave.

            Justin took flight.

END

About the Authors: 

Scott Harper was inspired to write by the works of Bram Stoker, Marv Wolfman and John Steakley.  Combining aspects of horror, dark fantasy and superhero fiction, his stories have appeared in a number of small press venues, including Space And Time, Weirdbook and The Society For Misfit Stories.  He lives in Southern California with his wife, son and two dogs.

Writing since a young age, Timm Gillick has always been creative, whether writing and directing short films, to writing comics, short stories and novellas, or doing cosplay photography.  Inspired by the works of Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and Robert Heinlein, Timm is the author of the Felix Valentine, Gentleman Adventurer novels.  He cherishes spending time with his son.