​Morty “The Butcher” spread his arms.  The shaved gorilla patting him down plucked three guns from the bodyguard.  Morty’s boss, Emry Timinski, coughed.  The subtle order prompted “The Butcher” to remove a switchblade as well as a tiny fourth pistol.
 
Depositing them in a basket, Morty said, “I better get these back.”
 
The gorilla nodded.  Stepping aside, he opened a thick wooden door.  Morty went first followed by Emry.  The dank basement hallway opened onto a well-lit room.  The large space resembled a gentleman’s club not the dingy underground one might expect.  Bright ornate lamps killed the darkness, and elaborate Oriental rugs beautified the concrete floor. 
 
Already several well-dressed individuals lounged about the interior.  Several stood clustered together.  A few sat alone, save for the silent presence of their bodyguards.  Though each enjoyed a glass of quality booze, their eyes remained sharp. 
 
A fellow in a tweed suit clapped softly for attention, “Ah, Emry’s here.  We can get started.”  Once everyone sat, the tweed suit said, “First of all, gentlemen, thank you for coming.  For those who don’t know, my name is Cohen.  I’m acting as the representative of Messrs. Bernstein.”  He gestured to a pair of men seated near him. 
 
Morty recognized the two, Ray and Abe Bernstein, heads of the Purple Gang.  He couldn’t help cocking an eyebrow.  Emry said this get-together meant meeting the royals, so to speak. 
 
Cohen went on, “This meeting is to address the recent unpleasantness that’s been afflicting all of us.”
 
A balding fat man slapped the table, “I want to know whicha yous motherfucks killed my kids.”
 
“Fuck you Sorisi.  We all know Italians kill their own no thinkin’ twice.”  A redheaded Irishman said. 
 
Sorisi scowled, “You think I’d take my own son’s eyes?”
 
“Maybe.”
 
Morty tried not to snicker.  Standing behind Emry, he glanced down.  His boss eyed the room silently as the fighting escalated.  Soon the room filled with shouts, accusations flung in all directions.  Everyone in the room amounted to the heads of Detroit’s organized crime.  From the Purple Gang to midlevel Greek gangs, anyone who made a dishonest living sat in this room.  More importantly, however, it sounded like everyone here lost a child in the last few months. 
 
Rumors floated about the underworld, and yeah, it all started with Sorisi’s kids.  His son Alfonso went down an alley to take a piss.  They found him nailed to the wall with railroad spikes and his eyes torn out of his head.  His bodyguards, now residing at the bottom of the Detroit River, swore no one could’ve got at the kid.  He went into a dead end alley alone.  No one came in, or out.  Next thing they knew, he was screaming.  Seems he didn’t die right away. 
 
Not long after a Chinese gang let slip a few of their boys and girls went missing.  All seven turned up hanging from the Ambassador Bridge.  The youngest couldn’t’ve been older than thirteen. 
 
Cohen called for calm. 
 
“Let him speak,” Emry said.  The room quieted.  Ray Bernstein nodded thanks. 
 
Cohen said, “We’re all aware of the current epidemic that is, frankly, Biblical, and I sincerely doubt, as do Messrs. Bernstein, that any of us is responsible.”
 
Jerry “The Greek” remarked, “I think one, or two, yeah I could see some of us being that vicious.”  He gestured towards Morty, who smiled in appreciation, “But seventeen.  Some are practically babies for Christ’s sake.”
 
A low murmur of agreement filled the room.  Two weeks ago, Frank “The Hammer” Castelli, driving his kids home from elementary school – his story sounded like madness.  A figure appeared in the road.  The streetlamps went out.  He said something huge slammed into the sedan, flipping it on its side.  Concussed, he could only watch in a daze as some bearded demon – “bear with burning eyes” – snapped the necks of his children; holding each up then executing them one at a time.  Three right before his eyes. 
 
Such accounts echoed rumors about a hideous presence appearing in the night.  It stood next to the beds of grieving mothers and forced a sack over their heads.  According to Emry’s sources, the bosses suffered a similar fate.  Alone, they suddenly found their heads engulfed by a burlap sack.  Gasping, they almost suffocated until just as unexpectedly the sack vanished.  Looking around, totally alone, they couldn’t explain what happened so told few. 
 
Cohen said, “There appears to be an unknown player in the game.”
 
Emry said, “The fact of the matter is, whoever’s doing this is targeting our children, and – apologies for not being able to put this better – as far as I know, I’m the only one who still has a living child.”
 
Jerry “The Greek” raised a glass, “I heard she was born last night.  Congratulations.”
 
The rest of the room lifted their drinks.  Emry expressed thanks.
 
“However,” he said, sighing heavily, “Not to sound selfish, I’ll give everything I have to protect her.”
 
Conversation began, each mobster sharing whatever info they possessed.  Jerry said he barricaded his last son, twenty-two-year-old Phillipos, in a brownstone.  They turned the place into a veritable fortress.  The next morning, no one answering the phone, he and his men went there only to find everyone inside dead. 
 
“Looked like a slaughterhouse.”  Hands shaking, he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. 
 
He didn’t go into details, but Morty heard they found Phillipos gutted, his intestines stuffed down his throat.  This mystery man felt like a kindred spirit.  Morty almost regretted a need to kill him.  He half hoped this overkill amounted to an over the top audition. 
 
Emry said, “One thing is the same: the description.”
 
That proved true enough.  No matter the account, everyone who glimpsed this monster described him the same way.  He stood over six feet tall, long greying beard, and amounted to a mountain man come into the city. 
 
Emry held up his hand.  Morty produced an envelope from his inside pocket.  He handed it to his boss.
 
“Taking that as a cue, I looked into the description.  It matches a guy named Lynch.  Cillian Lynch.”
 
Confused murmurs went around the room.
 
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t ring a bell.”  Emry removed the papers in the envelope, “He and his brothers stole, I suspect unintentionally, about fifty thousand dollars from one of us.”  Tactful to the last, Morty liked how Emry wouldn’t say who to spare Sorisi the embarrassment.  Then his boss went on, “Retribution occurred.  Lynch’s brothers are dead, but he survived.”
 
Sorisi said, “Sos all we gotta do is find this sonuvabitch.”
 
Cohen said, “Agreed.  I suggest we start with his surviving family.  They may be able to illuminate us further as well as provide leverage.”
 
Emry said, “I’d agree, however, he’s got no one.  His father died in a hunting accident, shot by Cillian, and his mother killed herself while he was in Europe.  He only had his brothers.”
 
From there the meeting went nowhere.  Although it served enough of its purpose – to get the gangs to stop blaming each other, thus avoiding more blood shed in retribution – the end result, naming Cillian a suspect, only labeled the horror.  As far as Morty cared, they didn’t stand on any firmer ground.
 
Emry disagreed.
 
Afterward, walking back to their car, Emry said, “Now we can focus on casting a net instead of pointlessly killing one another.  We’ll get him.”
 
Lighting a cigarette, Emry looked up at the sky.  Morty smirked.  The boss tended towards this habit when his mind considered difficult matters resolved – the stars finally aligned.  “The Butcher” figured things now amounted to a united front instead of each going it alone.  He didn’t see that angle until just then.  It reminded him why, though he did the dirty work, Emry ran the show.
 
Morty said, “Come on, I’ll buy you drink.”
 
Emry sighed, “Sadly, I’m more inclined to go home.”
 
“Tired?”
 
Emry shook his head, “No, I want to be with my family.”
 
Morty shook his head.  He never thought he’d see the day.  But he let the matter slide, preferring to take the boss home – whatever made him happy.  He opened the sedan’s door.
 
Emry froze.  The color drained from his face.  He shivered like a loose lid on a boiling pot. 
 
Morty glanced over.  There in the backseat – his mind didn’t register it at first.  He kept thinking of Coney Island kewpie dolls.  He heard Emry howling.  Some of the other mob bosses came running.  Jerry “The Greek” threw up.  Slowly, Morty comprehended the sight of the baby’s head in the backseat. 

Cillian pretended to be asleep.
 
“How the fuck is he alive?” a gruff voice asked.
 
A softer voice replied, “No idea, though it’s not the first time.”
 
“Whatcha mean Doc?”
 
Cillian felt the sheet on him being pulled back, his gown shifted exposing one side.
 
“Holy shit.”
 
The doc’s soft voice, “I’ve only seen scars like this on, well.”  He sighed heavily, “Boys from the war.”
 
“Looks like he caught the wrong end of the shelling.”
 
“Is there a right end?” the doc remarked.
 
The sheet returned, covering Cillian.
 
“Fair enough.  When ya think he’ll be awake?”
 
“No way to be sure.  He’s recovering.  Lord knows how.  He lost a lot of blood.”
 
“Yeah, well, he’s a big fella.”
 
“Why’d they have to make such a mess?”
 
“Since that Milaflores Massacre, Tommy guns are all the rage.  Gangs love ‘em.  Sends a clear message.”
 
“If you ask me, detective, it seems like overkill.”
 
“It’s what I expect these days, considering.  We found fifty grand in their car.  Stupid bastards robbed the wrong folks.”
 
“Any idea who?”
 
“Not yet, but to tell you the truth, this shit’s gotten so common, I blame them all.”
 
Cillian tried not to grimace.  He only blamed himself.  If he never came home; never started robbing banks; never wanted his brothers with him when… he felt his eyes growing damp but held back the tears.  If he learned anything in the war, the hurt could come later. 
 
“Any who, Doc, you lemme know when he wakes up.”
 
“Sure thing, Jaworski.”
 
Retreating footsteps.  The swish of a door closing softly.  Cillian popped a cautious eye open.  Left alone, he sat up.  Though it hurt to move, he pushed the pain aside.  A terrible duty lay ahead – penitent vengeance; atoning by blood for the loss of his brothers.    
 
The police would never let him leave.  Murderer, bank robber – a spectral noose hung around his neck.  Yet, though he blamed himself, Cillian blamed others as well.  It would be a sin to lay back, take his punishment without inflicting justice on them. 
 
Getting out of bed he grunted.  A hot leak started down his side.  Blood trickled from his wounds.  Grumbling, he staggered to the window.  Cillian knew well enough to expect a cop somewhere in the hall.  So, he threw open the window. 
 
A bullet hole in his shoulder, along with the tight bandages, made it difficult to maneuver, yet he managed to take hold of a drainpipe.  Gracelessly, he made his way down.  No plan – that never stopped him before – Cillian marched into the street.  The first car that stopped, he went around to the driver side. 
 
Cillian didn’t ask.  He flung the door open and ripped the driver out of the car.  He climbed inside.  One bullish snort inspired the passenger to jump out.  Then Cillian drove. 
 
Snow fell.  It reminded him of ash, and he wondered if any difference existed.  Both could cover the world, and the right eyes would see a beautiful blanket, regardless of how it smothered. 
 
The hours vanished.  At one point he stopped at a general store.  The owner recognized him from months earlier.  Giants are hard to forget.  Plus, news traveled fast.  He gave the grieving Lynch whatever clothes he needed; however, for the sake of his family, he didn’t want it known he helped the fugitive.  Not for fear of the cops, of course, but –
 
Cillian said, “I understand.  Appreciate the clothes.”
 
Back on the road, he suspected it would be the same everywhere.  Even those willing to help him would be incurring a risk – he couldn’t ask anyone to possibly pay that cost.  He knew the expense too well.  So, he did the one thing that made sense.  He drove to the Lower Peninsula.
 
Cillian trekked through snowy woods to the scarecrow.  Although, when he found it, the figure was not where he expected.  The same campground, for sure, however, the scarecrow now sat on the trunk, warming its hands over a crackling fire.
 
Without looking at him the scarecrow said, “’Bout time you got here.”
 
Blood loss. 
Infection. 
Grief. 
Anger.
Fatigue.
Misery.
 
Cillian ran through a list of reasons that made this scene make sense. 
 
The scarecrow grinned, “Don’t worry.  You ain’t crazy.  Not yet.”
 
Something moved in the woods.  Turning quickly, Cillian caught sight of a massive creature lumbering on all fours.  The shaggy beast stalked the woods looking like a wooly giraffe with a fleshless stag’s head.  Its antlers rose from exposed bone.  Smoldering coals served as eyes.  The sound of wood snapping.  Cillian spun, more of the creatures lurked nearby, at least four creeping, obscured by the bare trees.  He remembered them from the killing fields in France.    
 
The scarecrow thumped the trunk with a palm, “Come, come my boy.  We’ve much to discuss.”
 
Opposite the scarecrow, the fire between them, Cillian listened. 
 
“Call me, Sam, to keep it short.  Once I get started the names and titles flow.”  Sam chuckled, “Samael Melkira Belial Belkira – ope, there I go – member of the Qliphoth, and husband to sweet, sweet Lilith.” The scarecrow blew a kiss towards the moon. 
 
Cillian said, “That’s a helluva mouthful.”
 
“Hence, Sam.”  The scarecrow spread a hideous grin. 
 
Never one to mince words, Cillian said, “What do you want Sam?”
 
Stirring the fire, Sam replied, “It’s not what I want.  It’s what you want.”
 
“What do I want?”
 
“Blood.”  Sam looked him in the eye, “And justice for all.”
 
The scarecrow made it sound so simple.  However, Cillian Lynch could hardly be called a fool.  He knew running headstrong, regardless of whatever furious desire fueled him – charging the guns would only result in his death.  He recalled soldiers spurred to mad acts of vengeful valor storming the trenches alone.  Thoughts of dead friends, comrades, that kid who only just arrived; they ran screaming over the top.  Sure, occasionally they took a few dozen with them, but they all ended up dead. 
 
Sam said, “Of course, easier said than done.”
 
“Unless we make a deal.”
 
The scarecrow chortled, “Don’t make me sound like Old Scratch, with a double-cross deal on the horizon – no, no, no – waste of my time.”
 
The antlered entities circled the fire.  Their footfalls thudded softly.  The sun going down, their eyes glowed bright in the night.  Vague whispers drifted on the wind.  Cillian met one’s gaze.  He felt a voice inside his head like razorblades dancing through his brain. 
 
“As iron strengthens iron, my life suffocates… suffer unto me.”
 
Sam clapped his hands.  Cillian tore his eyes free.
 
Sam said, “Best not to look.”  He snickered, “I don’t.”
 
Cillian nodded.  Rubbing his eyes, he pulled his hand back.  Blood on his fingertips, he grimaced. 
 
“What’re you offering?” Cillian asked.
 
The scarecrow shrugged, “Information.  Options.  A means to an end.”
 
“And the price?”
 
“Your revenge will be by my design.”
 
After a moment, Cillian said, “Go on.”
 
Sam elaborated.  The scarecrow made sense.  Still, the two shared such similar minds, at times Cillian felt like he might be talking to himself.  Regardless, he liked the path of bones mapped out by the scarecrow. 
 
The deal agreed to Sam pulled a handful of leaves out of his chest.  Sprinkling them on the fire, he held out his hand.  He and Cillian shook hands over the flame, bound by a ribbon of smoke. 
 
“Now what?” Cillian asked.
 
“You begin with the children.”
​

Black smoke cloaked the blue sky.  Whatever grey touched the scene, blood red mingled with the view.  Body parts crowded in clusters, blasting strangers into brotherhood – forever together among the dead.  Even the living wouldn’t leave the trenches intact.  Among the bullet swarms and shells (mimicking thunder gods), the world seemed so different from what Cillian knew, and yet, he almost felt at home.  He aimed; firing in the past echoed in the present – buckshot tearing into the scarecrow.  Cillian’s grimace sent memories of the Great War scurrying to the back of his mind. 
 
He lived in the now, over twelve years since the trenches.  There he learned the world doesn’t give it takes.  Home again, since ‘22 he resolved to take what he wanted, and his three brothers agreed.  Flynn because of a philosophical anarchism, Sloane due to a lust for any thrill, and Kyle, the youngest, because he always followed his brothers’ lead. 
 
After robbing banks, the Lynch brothers enjoyed disappearing into Michigan’s Lower Peninsula.  Hid out in a bog forest, they spent afternoons chatting over moonshine.  Fantasies fueled by firewater set the money spent before a single cent left their pockets.  And after a few weeks in the woods, the boys came back to the world like a flash flood of cash.
 
They spilled green all over whatever town they drifted to.  Every penny seemed suspicious, but especially in those early Great Depression days, no one minded ill got gains.  Fruit of a poisonous tree, perhaps, however, leave that guilt aside until Sunday; then confess the sinful sum wondering why God begrudges the use of stolen cash to feed hungry kids.  At least the Lynches made life feel worth living.
 
Those four boys caroused to beat the band.  Once, at a roadhouse in Leonard, Michigan, they roped in the local preacher.  He agreed to a sip of whiskey, for the sake of sociability; happy to see the locals smiling for the first time in too long. 
 
A short while later, blind drunk on Canadian whiskey, smuggled in to ease the Prohibition drought, the preacher toasted the Lynch brothers proclaiming, “You buoys – boys – gentlemen – merry men! – you could’ve taught Aristippus a thing or two, but I bless you.  For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in, so is glory unto Him the most high when we take pleasure.”
 
“That’ll do padre,” Kyle Lynch said.  Patting the fellow on the back, he led the drunk sliver to a cup of coffee.  Some considered it the right Christian thing to do, though perhaps not giving a preacher the blind staggers might’ve been better. 
 
Still, cups raised, clunked, and drunk – the preacher’s words resonated with each Lynch brother in their own way.  Cillian, especially, would never forget a part of the speech.  Sometimes, in the swamp forest, firing his shotgun at the scarecrow, Cillian echoed the words, “For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in.”
 
Antlered entities harvesting in the killing fields… only he saw, or at least, felt sane admitting to seeing… what he never shared with his family. 
 
Now, it must be said, the Lynch brothers, though legends, never achieved fame for their robbers.  Unlike Dillinger, Sutton, or Bonnie and Clyde, the Lynches would’ve been a footnote in the history of bank robbery.  Likely only to be remembered by local anecdotes, one day used as esoteric allusions in poetry and bluegrass, they made the mistake of robbing the wrong people.  Sad old story, the grim aftermath of which permanently placed them among other myths. 
 
#
 
“Everybody down!”  Flynn fired into the ceiling. 
 
Plaster showered down.  Shaking it off, he aimed his shotgun at a nearby guard.
 
“I said down!” he roared, pumping a fresh round into the chamber.
 
The guard got the hint.  Meanwhile, Kyle charged into the bank.  Jackrabbit quick, he grabbed anyone standing and threw them to the floor.  Cillian, the oldest Lynch, sauntered in last carrying a Browning automatic rifle.  His brothers occupied with crowd control; he alone spotted a guard creeping out of a side room behind them.  Cillian raised the BAR.  Ten .30-06 cartridges ripped through the man in seconds.  He fell dead before bits of his jaw, blown to the ceiling, hit the floor. 
 
An old woman cried out as she fainted dead away.  Flynn glanced back at his brother.
 
Cillian said, “It was necessary.”
 
The rest of the robbery went smoothly.  The bloody corpse assured no heroics.  Tellers handed over cash quickly, while the manager did the kindness of not resisting Flynn’s demands to open the safe. 
 
Cash in sacks, the trio hurried outside to brother Sloane behind the wheel of a getaway car.  They piled in. 
 
Driving away at top speed, Sloane said, “Heard a lotta gunshots.”
 
“Had to be done,” Cillian replied.  That closed the discussion. 
 
Unfortunately, it didn’t cool the heat.  Though they’d shot a few guards over the years, those few survived.  Consequently, the Lynch brothers found themselves less than welcome in some parts.  Small towns forgave a degree of bloodshed and robbery, especially if it kept the 20s roaring, but death never got a pass.  No one cares for a coldblooded Robin Hood. 
 
So, the brothers retreated directly to the Lower Peninsula.  Plans to live off whatever they could shoot – deer and turkey – sounded realistic.  However, the first few days, they couldn’t catch a damn thing. 
 
Sitting on a fallen tree, Kyle rolled a cigarette.  Not far off he could hear Cillian blasting away at the scarecrow.  The straw inuksuk marked their hideout.  Kyle often noted, though never said aloud, that Cillian used their father’s clothes to dress the scarecrow.  He blasted it until only rags remained then pulled a fresh shirt out of a battered trunk. 
 
Seated next to Kyle, brother Sloane remarked, “I’m not enjoying this.”
 
“Me neither.” Kyle said.
 
Nearby, packing a pipe, Flynn said, “Don’t worry.  Things’ll be back to normal before you know.”
 
Lighting his cigarette, Kyle nodded, “Plus we won’t have to work for a while.  You see how much we got this time?”
 
Sloane frowned, “More than we should’ve.”
 
“You’re worried too,” Flynn said.
 
Sloane nodded.  Kyle glanced from one to the other.
 
He said, “I don’t see the problem.”
 
“A bank in that small a town with that much money…” Sloane trailed off, hoping his little brother might put it together.
 
Having little faith in the boy, Flynn finished the thought, “Mob bank most likely.”
 
“So what?” Kyle said.
 
#
 
Winter came early that year.  It prompted the Lynches to leave their hideaway sooner than usual.  Cillian asked Sloane to take the backroads, and they avoided places they knew for the most part.  Looking out the passenger window, Cillian stroked his greying beard wondering if it meant frost the same as he saw on the trees.  He could feel the cold creeping into him.  Sometimes he prayed the rosary, just like Mama taught, hoping to keep devilishness at bay; hope in faith like a drop of water on a hot stove.
 
The current plan involved heading West.  Fifty grand would last a long time anywhere.  Unfortunately, spending anything in Michigan would attract eyes.  Flynn suggested California seemed far enough away.  They could join the caravans floating West, chasing hope. 
 
Then they stopped at a diner outside Kalamazoo.  Despite the late hour, the place looked full of people.
 
Cillian said, “Just get sandwiches.  I don’t want to be here too long.”
 
Kyle groaned, “This car is freezing.  I wanna get soup.”
 
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” Sloane said.  Catching Cillian’s glare, he added, “I need to be awake to drive.”
 
“Flynn can drive.”
 
Flynn said, “No problem, but we still gotta stop long enough for me to take a shit.”
 
Cillian sighed, “Fine.  Everyone do what you want, but we leave in an hour.”
 
The brothers exited the car.  The years of locals treating them kindly resulted in the Lynch boys failing to adopt any measures of preventing their recognition.  In other words, although quite distinct in appearance, particularly Cillian Lynch’s long greying beard, the brothers never thought to change their look.  And following Cillian’s lead, none of them ever wore masks.  As such, four long haired mountain men idled into a Kalamazoo diner, attracting every eye in the joint as well as the street on their way in. 
 
Stuffed into a booth, the brothers failed to notice a young man in a three-piece suit slip over to a payphone.  He whispered into it then retreated outside.  Enjoying hot chicken soup, none of the Lynches observed the young suit loitering outside.  Laughing, joking with one another, they failed to spy three Cadillac Sedans parking out front. 
 
A blonde bombshell at the counter kept casting glances at Kyle.  Encouraged by Sloane, Kyle went over to the counter to flirt. 
 
Cillian tapped his wristwatch.
 
Sloane shrugged, “Come on, he’s gotta learn sometime.  Nineteen, he barely knows how to say hello.”
 
Flynn smirked, “When ladies glance over Kyle shies into silence.”
 
Cillian chuckled, “Especially when they’re so perfect words are afraid, leaving them indescribable.”
 
“What kind of women did you see in France?” Sloane asked, his face contorting in instant regret.  He felt Flynn’s foot kick his shin under the table.
 
Cillian said wistfully, “Never boast about dead beauties,” echoing a fellow he knew in France.
 
A bell jingled as the front door opened.  Cillian glanced towards the sound.  He saw Kyle leaning on the counter, the bombshell smiling – lips ruby red; several men in fedoras and trench coats entered the diner.  Cillian knew wolves when he saw them.
 
One of the wolves stopped next to Kyle.  He pulled a submachine gun out from under his trench coat.  The wolf bit – machinegun spitting teeth.  Kyle shuddered, a perplexed look on his face.  He collapsed into a lifeless heap. 
 
Cillian roared.  He launched out of the booth like a furious bear.  His massive paw pulled a .45 out of his coat.  He began firing in a blind rage.  His first shots hit a customer at the counter.  His others tore through the throat of the wolf who shot Kyle.
 
The rest of the pack opened fire.  They filled the air with lethal lead rain.  Bullets shredded one side of the diner along with a waitress and several customers.  Flynn managed to reply with a few rounds from a revolver before the hail filled him full of holes.  Sloane kept low, somehow slipping safely under the table.  Several rounds hit Cillian.  He fell down but kept firing until the gun went click. 
 
Sloane hurried out from under the table.  Unarmed, he went straight for Cillian.  Grabbing his big brother, Sloane hoisted the giant bear up, and more dragging than carrying, pulled him into the kitchen.  A backdoor stood open, left ajar when the cook fled the gunfire.
 
Cillian struggled to reload.  Sloane did it for him.
 
“I got a feeling we’re fucked,” Sloane said.
 
Cillian grunted in reply.  Sloane handed him the .45.  Cillian shook his head, pressed the gun into his brother’s hand.
 
He said, “You can make it.  Out the back.”
 
Sloane said, “Not without you.”
 
“Don’t be stupid your whole life.”  Cillian glared, “Go!”
 
He shoved his brother, almost throwing the younger sibling towards the door.  Sloane backpedaled, going towards the exit, but not taking his eyes off Cillian.  The big bear nodded.  Nothing needed to be said; they knew enough to know the unspoken.
 
Sloane stepped out the backdoor.  A storm of bullets shoved him back inside.  He fired a shot into the floor then fell onto his back.
 
Cillian bellowed.  The kitchen door swung open.  Cillian snatched a sizzling skillet off the grill.  The gunman entering the kitchen got a face full of hot bacon grease.  Cillian silenced his screams with one dreadful blow of the heavy skillet.  He dropped the pan, grabbing the gunman.  When the other wolves opened fire, Cillian used him as a human shield. 
 
Darkness crept in at the edge of his vision.  He didn’t remember snatching a submachine gun off the floor.  However, he recalled snarling like an animal as he fired.  The wolves that didn’t die scattered.  Cillian heard sirens approaching.  Shambling into the diner, he stepped by Flynn, saw Kyle’s bloody body, and welcomed the void enveloping him. 
​

Unsettling sounds are beginning to afflict an entire town.  The source and the consequences are a haunting horror that will leave any reader shivering the next time an odd sound is heard.  Find out by reading my latest published story “The Cursed Crave Silence” in The Sirens Call.  The 45th issue of overflowing with dark fiction, poetry, and art.  Making things even better, the issue is free to anyone willing to download.  Just the follow the link… that is, if you think you can handle the horror.

http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/