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.”
“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.”
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