Diablo (another working title)

This is the second Story I started recently. To me it is starting better than the first. I did not wanna have too many htreads going on, but felt compelled to post it anyway to get some feedback on what you guys think so far. I swear I won't clog up Turtleback with story threads, I can only write one at a time! :( Keep in mind I have not spellchecked or edited this yet, so typos may be rampant...enjoy and hope to hear some feedback! Thank you. -Dave
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Chapter 1
November 13, 1975
6:32 P.M.
Dust filled the air as Mark Walker attempted to gather his belongings. Most of the documents and laminated photographs were unintelligible until the many months and years’ worth of dust and dirt were blown off of them. He hastily crammed what he could into several large suitcases, mindless of the protesting spines of centuries-old books letting go. The waning light that shone into the large picture windows of the library in this forgotten corner of Philadelphia gave the entire scene an eerie pall. He knew he had to hurry. He had been first discovered, then tracked, then approached. He knew the man would surely kill him, but death was the lesser of the two concerns Mark had. Sweat began to fall into his eyes, despite the chill that seeped into the room from the damp November air outside. He crammed even more documents into the suitcases, creasing them and bending the corners of the irreplaceable photographs into shapes that would have made this perfectionist and borderline obsessive-compulsive cringe only months earlier. Months before he had noticed the man that stood but did not speak. Months before he had seen the terrifying signs in his apartment. Months before he had dreamt of his imminent demise. And exactly two days since he had known that the time was at hand. He had to get as much of the information together as possible and pass it along. Someone would find it and hopefully not dismiss it as madness. Hopefully they would continue his research. Hopefully they would not be found as easily as he had been, and hopefully he would not meet his successor in Hell.
Mark hastily crammed one more handful of typed and bound documents into the second suitcase and pulled the zipper taught. He found out quickly enough that the enormous weight of paper, when grouped into a large mass, was nearly impossible to budge. Still he was running on pure adrenaline, and his college football days of nearly three decades ago still offered enough might to allow him to drag the suitcases out into the street, even if it was one at a time. As he exited the library for the last time he did not look back. Looking back meant that one acknowledged the fact that they may not return. Looking back meant that you peered into where you had been. Looking back could also prove to Mark that he may not be alone. He crammed the suitcases into the considerable trunk his five year old Monte Carlo offered and slammed the lid shut. Seconds later the large displacement V-8 roared to life and began its trek to the closest church Mark knew of. Surely there would be a person there that could appreciate the information.
Cold rain mixed with sleet began to pelt the windshield of the Mote Carlo as Mark drove through the nearly deserted streets of Philadelphia. Although night had fallen and the weather was terrible, there seemed to be an eerie emptiness to the streets, a fact that he found discomforting at the very least. He turned right onto a side street and ahead of him loomed the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. At the base of it stood St. Augustine, a seemingly ancient Roman Catholic Church. He drove for it as if being led there by some unseen force and parked his car directly in front of the massive doors leading to the cathedral. He hurriedly opened the driver’s door and left it open, seeming not to care that the November rain was soaking his pristine interior. With the car running he popped the trunk and lugged the first suitcase to the doors, finding that they were, in fact, open. He ran inside and tried frantically to find someone to hand the documents over to, but could not. Mark slid the first suitcase underneath the rear right hand side pew and stopped at the doors before going back out into the darkness. He could feel the heavy weight of someone watching him and a chill went up his spine. The idling Chevy sat only twenty yards away, but the distance seemed like miles. He ran for his life and retrieved the remaining suitcase, placing it beside the first under the same pew. His footsteps echoed in the tomb-like silence of the cathedral as he approached the two banister rails that separated the pulpit from the congregation. For the first time in months he fell to his knees and prayed, forgetting the fact that he had been a life-long Baptist and was in a Catholic place of worship. Despite the difference they still prayed to the same Lord Mark thought as he knelt, talking to a God that he hoped would save him from the fate that countless others had met over the centuries. He was not the first, and would not be the last.
Mark slowly walked down the center of the aisle and felt ashamed that he neglected to shut the entry doors, as rain had dampened the floor in the entranceway. He took one last look toward the front of the grandiose hall and walked out into the night and to his awaiting car. Once inside with the doors shut he felt a bit more at ease. It was done. The information was safe now and with any luck would find itself in the hands of someone who could continue the research. He reached to place the transmission in drive and stopped short when he saw the flickering light of a cigarette being lit from the back seat. A man sat there in silence regarding Mark in the rearview mirror with eyes as dark as coal. The eyes were the same ones that had regarded him in silence from a distance on several occasions. They belonged to the face that had pursued him back in the summer. Mark’s heart leapt to his throat and his mouth was suddenly too dry to speak. It was if he didn’t need to, as the stranger spoke for him.
“Yeah, I know, don’t worry about it. No need to say anything, Mr. Walker. So it seems that you think you have ‘one-upped’ me. For the time being, yes, I guess you have. It takes an intelligent man to put such sensitive material on hallowed ground. As if you knew I could not enter that place and take it from you. Smart. Very smart. However, I have met much smarter men. So don’t pride yourself on your seemingly newfound conquest. However, I am going to offer you a reprise. All you have to do is go back in there and get those two satchels back and bring them to me. A simple request and one that will save you. I trust that a man of your intellect can appreciate the knowledge of what is to become of you if you don’t.”
Mark seemed to find a newfound bravado as he confronted the man that all mankind had been taught to fear.
“No. You know I won’t do it. Never. I know full well what happened to the others before me. And to compromise centuries of facts and proof of what and who you are is absurd. I have done my part. God help me, I will not give in. Not now, not ever.”
The man sat in silence for a length of time, smoking his cigarette down to the filter before speaking. The silence began to unnerve Mark as he anticipated his impending doom. As suddenly as he had appeared the man leaned forward, placing his crossed arms on the back of the passenger seat so that his face was mere inches from Mark’s own. His eyes widened a bit and a smile came across his face to reveal perfectly straight and gleaming white teeth. Teeth that seemed impossibly long and numerous to be natural. He spoke in a calm, even tone.
“Last chance, Bucko. Now move your ass and get those papers for me right now. And I mean right now.”
“Go to Hell! It ain’t happen..”
The man grabbed a handful of Mark’s hair and slammed his face into the steering wheel before he could finish his statement. Blood sprayed from Mark’s pulverized nose and saturated the inside of the windshield. He wheezed and gasped as the man pulled his head back against the headrest. The man put his face directly in front of Mark’s and Mark saw that the man’s eyes had gone totally black now, and the perfectly straight teeth ended in numerous needle-sharp points.
“Too late, Mr. Walker. Been there, done that.” With a shriek of rage the man tore Mark’s head from his shoulders and threw it like a football toward the closed doors of the church. It banged against the doors and left a crimson streak on one as it fell to the floor, open eyes seeing nothing. The man leapt from the still running car and ran into the night, shrieking in an inhuman howl of frustration and rage.
The remnants of wet footprints stained the floor nearly all the way up the center aisle. Father Anthony Gutierrez quizzically peered at them as they led to an expanding pool of water left at the foot of the entry doors. Someone had entered and then left again and not more than fifteen minutes ago, he presumed. He looked around and found that nothing was missing or vandalized, and was thankful. The Archbishop would have his rear for not being out to greet the visitor and attend to his or her needs, but if it had resulted in a harmful prank it surely would not have been the best of days for himself, that was for sure.
He followed the trail to the doors and reached out to open them again when he noticed something black in his peripheral vision. He turned his head and saw the edge of one of the suitcases protruding from the rear of the pew. Father Gutierrez walked back to the pew and knelt down, overcome by curiosity mixed with hope. Maybe someone had come and left not one, but two suitcases full of cash as a donation to the church. There were always those fables that things like that happened, and he had seen it on various television programs. Was it too far-fetched to think that it might actually occur in real life? He liked to think that maybe this was it in reality.
He knelt down and fumbled at the zipper on the first suitcase. Whatever was in it was packed solid, that was for sure. Upon finally getting the zipper open he looked inside to find not stacks of green, but stacks of folders, loose papers, and books so old that the binding had turned brown on most. He picked up a sheet of paper to see that it had various locations throughout the world and dates alongside. Cairo-June 08, 1935, Beijing-January 23, 1849, Stockholm-December 31, 1969. The list went on and on for at least the twenty more sheets that filled the manila folder where he had gotten this one. He sporadically looked a the dates and locations, noting that there were cities named that existed only in ancient Roman times, cities on every continent, and dates ranging from 1432 B.C. to August of this same year. He then found one of the photographs. It was the first of many to seer his eyes for the days and weeks to come. The first of countless others that would fill his sleepless nights with paranoia. It simply showed a man dressed in a completely black suit. He was hunkered down on one knee beside another man who lie on the ground on his back. The man on the ground seemed to be screaming, his eyes wide and glassy, mouth agape, veins protruding from his neck and forehead. His hands were clutched around the forearms of the man in the suit. The man in the suit had both hands buried up to the wrists in the man’s midsection. Amazingly enough the picture did not show any blood. Not one drop.
Father Gutierrez stared at the picture, seeming to gather every detail and nuance of the macabre scene that it depicted. Time went by and he did not notice. He systematically looked at several photographs. Some were just as horrific if not even more so. Some only showed the man in a crowd of people, standing on a street corner, smoking, and sometimes waiting in line at various subway stations. Some were ordinary photos of a man in everyday life, some were much more ominous. One chilling picture showed the same man, a large white grin on his face, waving at children departing a school bus somewhere in the desert southwest of the United States. Based on the style of the bus Father Gutierrez put the date in the late 1940’s. He spent perhaps two hours gazing through the uppermost contents of the first suitcase when he heard a boisterous “hello!” from outside the front doors of the church. Cautiously he walked to the doors and placed his hand on the knob. The metal felt colder than it should have been, despite the November chill in the air outside. He opened one of the doors and saw a man in a black suit standing at the base of the steps, grinning back at him. The face and the hair were the same as the man depicted in the various photographs throughout the last few decades. And as it was in the pictures, the man showed no signs of aging. An instant chill went down Anthony’s spine and he began to close the door when the man ascended the steps in one quick, fluid motion and stopped just outside the door.
“Father! I was wondering if you could help me. My brother left me a message to pick up some luggage here that he left for me. Think there is a chance that you could gather those for me and just put them outside the door here? Man, I would greatly appreciate it!” The smile never wavered and the coal black eyes never blinked.
“I do not know who you are just yet, sir, but something is clearly not right here. I ask you in the name of the Lord to leave this place.”
“The Lord, you say?” The man boomed echoing laughter at the statement. “I just do not think that is an option. Now, Father Gutierrez, if you would be so kind as to just put those satchels outside this door we do not have to go back and forth any longer and waste anymore of your precious time, now do we?” The smile faltered a little bit and anger began to well in the stranger’s eyes.
“As I said, in the name of our Heavenly Father, leave this place and let me be.”
The man backed up a single step and stooped to pick up something to his left. Father Gutierrez did not see what the item was until the stranger threw it into the open door, barely missing him. A severed human head rolled lazily down past the Father’s feet and came to rest against the open suitcase.
“There! I see the suitcase, now if you do not want to end up like Sir Walker here I suggest you give me the damned satchels!” The man’s eyes went totally black now and his coat waved in an unfelt wind around his legs. Father Gutierrez backed away slightly, knowing now exactly who this “man” was, and why the two suitcases had been left for him to find. He dipped both hands into the bowl of holy water and threw it into the face of the stranger.
The stranger screamed and backed up several feet, covering his face. The muffled screams turned to laughter as the stranger lowered his hands and held them out as if in inspection.
“Well then. First of all, Father, I am not Vlad Tepes. And you, by no means are Van Helsing. You really didn’t think that that would help you in this instance, now did you?” He erupted into another freshet of hearty laughter, but the eyes still radiated the man’s fury. “Vlad was just an ordinary man, you see? A man that made a deal once a long time ago. But his downfalls were pride, power, and fame. He thought that he actually became more powerful than even me! Believe me, I spend a lot of time now reminding him of his place. You can say that he is well schooled, and will continue to be, on just who the master is. So will you if you do not place those two items outside this door right now!”
Father Gutierrez backed away and slammed the door shut in the stranger’s face. He knew that the demon could not enter the doors of the church and as long as he was inside he would be safe. He retrieved a large garbage bag from the supply room and gingerly placed the head into it. He then took the suitcases down into the basement and hid them behinds several layers of canvas until he could go through the contents of each.
Not more than ten minutes after he placed the call the entire front section of the parking lot was full of police cars. And one single idling Monte Carlo with a headless occupant. There were two straight days of questioning and pictures taken. An officer by the name of Walter Higgins took possession of the trash bag with Mark’s head in it. Father Anthony neglected to mention the two suitcases. After all, how could he testify that the Devil himself had come down to Philadelphia, beheaded an insurance salesman in the parking lot, and accosted a man of the cloth for the contents of two suitcases? In the coming weeks it was chocked up to an unsolved case of random violence and placed on the back burner where later it would become a cold case. Sgt. Higgins would pay Father Anthony several visits in the coming weeks, months, and years. It would not be until 1984 that Father Anthony would finally pass on the contents of the suitcases. In them the next recipient would find approximately another nine year’s worth of documents and pictures. It was days later that sleep finally came for Father Anthony, and it was broken by nightmares of savage onslaughts delivered by the man in the black suit.

Chapter 2
January 28,1984
10:21 P.M.
Sgt. Walter Higgins sat in a recliner in the living room, looking at the fireplace and thinking about everything and nothing at the same time as the fire danced its dance on the crackling poplar logs. His old friend had called him over for the evening for a bit of “very bizarre” information that he said was long overdue to be told. Walter believed that it may help clear up the nine year old cold case that had first brought these two men from very different walks of life together as friends. He looked at the four stacked Rubbermaid containers sitting by his chair and wondered if the meeting was about what was contained in them. As he sat pondering the question Anthony walked into the room carrying two empty coffee cups and a very large container of Columbia’s best.
“As you can tell, Walt, looks like we might be here awhile.”
Walter laughed. “Seems that way, Tony. I assume this might involve those totes over there?”
“Actually yes. And I hope when we are done here you will forgive me for keeping things from you all these years. But I feel that the time has come for a little insurance, and help in the matter if you want to.”
“Well then, I guess we will have to see. It must be something if it was so important to keep to yourself for how long now? If I were a betting man, and I am, I would say right about nine years now?”
Anthony laughed. “Well then your bet would pay off. You remember that day we first met, back at the church? I know who killed that man, and forgive me, if I had told you back then…Well, you know. First you would have sent me to the psych ward then more than likely to trial for that murder.”
Walter shifted in his seat and took a long sip from his coffee cup. It was strong. Very strong. He looked at Anthony and motioned for him to go on.
“Ok. Hear me out here before you rush to dismiss it as madness. I not only have years of proof of who this man is, but what he has been doing. And I have taken several pages of personal notes on experiences. And there are pictures, Walt. Pictures that will prove what I say is true. The man, if you will, would be best described as the Devil. Trust me, I know. I have met him first hand on a couple of occasions. None of them pleasant.”
Walter sat there with a semi-downturned frown of concentration on his face, but never laughed or considered the man crazy. He simply nodded his head and refreshed his cup of coffee, offering a refill for Anthony as well. After a brief drink Anthony continued his tale.
“That night I walked into a puddle of water on the floor. There were fresh footprints leading up to the banisters and then back out again. So naturally I followed them to the door and found two suitcases hidden underneath the rear right side pew. Curiosity got me and I opened the first one to find these.” He handed Walter the same photographs he looked at the first night. Walter examined them closely, paying particular attention to the one where the stranger’s hands were buried in some anonymous man’s midsection. He also noted the lack of blood, as if the hands had passed directly through the skin. He slowly looked up at Anthony. “Go on…”
“So after a while I heard someone call from outside and opened the door to face him for the first time. He tried to reason with me and get me to come outside with the suitcases. He cannot enter any sacred or holy ground, you see? Anyway, I refused and that is when he threw that man’s head at me. I didn’t know what else to do so I threw a handful of holy water in his face. He just laughed at me and lectured me on a story of Dracula and some history of their dealings. There is no doubt in my mind that he told the truth. He is ageless, you see? But I closed the door in his face, placed the poor soul’s head in the bag and called you.”
“I remember. But what became of the suitcases?”
“I hid them in the basement until I left the church altogether. That is when I placed everything in these containers and burned the cases. Here, look at just what I have personally gathered on him since.”
Anthony handed him a handful of photographs and documents, all dated within the last nine years. Some photographs were of the same benign nature of some of the past ones. There were three that showed murders in progress. In one the Devil had impaled an EMT through the chest with a tire iron. In several others he was simply shaking hands with various people. The documents laid out a timeline of events and cities ranging from coast to coast. “How did you get this information, Tony?”
I followed him the best I could. For some odd reason he chooses to travel like any of us would. Be it by plane, automobile, what have you. Seems that he regularly and methodically returned to the same building in New York after every excursion.” Anthony then placed another photograph in Walter’s hands. It showed the front of a large office building, perhaps ten stories tall. The name embossed on the brass sign above the door simply read “The Legion Corporation”. The name sounded ominous and he asked Anthony for a clarification. “Legion. Sounds familiar from church. Think it has any underlying meaning?”
“Definitely. If you remember, The book of Mark, chapter five. Christ met a man possessed, and the man declared his name to be Legion. ‘my name is Legion: for we are many’ is what the man said.”
Walter sat back in the chair for a moment and rubbed his jaw. It was a large pill to swallow to accept this and deem it reality. And Anthony had been right. There is not a judicial system that would not find him insane for the notion. And Walter knew very well that his personal seal of approval would not account for much to promote the cause. He would more than likely have his own padded cell to think things over for a very long time indeed. It was a long time before he finally and gingerly placed the papers back into the 1st container and spoke.
"Tony, this is all too much. I mean, how do we, or rather, where do we go from here? Now that I am involved what is the next step?"
"That I don't know. All I know is that he knows me well, and it is only a matter of time before he finds me unprotected. I felt the time had come to pass on what I had to the one person who I trusted, and the one who might at least give it the credit it deserves. You, being the detective of the bunch has an upper hand here. You have to promise me that you will not let it rest, Walter. Do not stay in one place too long. And, forgive me for being so blunt, but you are in a position where you can move about without certain...limitations.
"You mean a family? I assume that's it, right, Tony?"
"Sorry, old friend, but yes. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and I'm not trying to justify what happened to Peggy and the boys back then, you know, I was..."
"Just trying to make a logical observation. I know. It's been damn near fifteen years. I still think about her and the boys every day, Tony. Hell, it was a long time ago and several thousand miles south of here. If you think I am offended , don't. I understand why you said what you did, implied it, or whatever. Be it cold or not, it's the truth. You're right. If it comes down to having to leave Philly then you know I can. I't why you said it in the first place."
"Walt, I.."
Walter stopped him with a wave of his hand and a half-smile. It was a smile that had loosened the belts of many fair ladies in his prime. It was also a smile that said "enough is said" to his friend. He offered anothe top-off of coffee to Anthony, but he dismissed it.
"Walt, I really think that if I plan to sleep at all tonight I had better stop. We have a few more things to discuss, and then I think it might be better if you get out. You never know where he may be or when."
"I see. Then what else is there now?"
"There is the matter of saying that no matter what you hear, no matter what you think you see you cannot come back here after tonight. Maybe somewhere down the line we can find one another again, if the Lord wills it. The most important thing is that he does not get his hands on that information. There is a group of theological professors down at Duke that I think would be able to help you along with this. One, a man named John Summers is a close and personal friend of mine for many years. Find him first, and immediately tell him all I have told you, share the papers with him, and he will take it from there, with or without your continued support. But you, I think, have a key role in this, and as I said, your abilities will come in most handily when the time comes."
"Very well, then. Tony, If I may, can I ask you one last question?"
"Yes, my brother, you can. I'll answer if I can as well."
"Is there something you aren't telling me about the reason you called me tonight, of all nights? Is there a reason why after all this time it has to be now, all or nothing to pass this on to me?"
Anthony Gutierrez looked at the man now standing before him and iinside his mind begged forgiveness for the lie.
"Walt, no. I just felt like it had become too costly for me to be the lone torch bearer. Please, be vigilant, Walt. All of humanity may be counting on it." "Inside his mind he laso remembered the recurrent nightmare that had plagued him for the last several weeks. Each night it became more vivid. Each night the man in the black coat always got a little closer. Last night it was so close Anthony could feel the air from his breath and smell the stench of death about the man like a cloak.
They shook hands one final time and Walt reached out to give this man that he had come to know as his brother one last embrace. It was an embrace of love, hope, solidarity, and one of a final goodbye. With the containers loaded into the back of his Ford LTD Walt turned to go, pausing to look back at the shape in the doorway. The light inside that spilled around the sillouhette seemed to warm, to full of life for this night. He remembered hearing once that looking back meant many things. One of which was that you knew there was a real possibility that you may not ever return. A chill ran down his spine as he climbed inside and shut the door. The man who once had been known as Father watched his friend drive away in the early morning darkness and turned toward the warm, inviting crackle of the fire. Maybe it would soothe him enough to get some rest tonight. Maybe he would partake of the Crown Royal in the cupboard to cope with the descending spiral of madness that threatened to consume him. Maybe there would be no rest at all. As the morning rays of sunlight entered the windows the latter two proved to be true.

OK. This all I have written on this one so far. I will post more as I write it. So now I guess feel free to give thoughts/advice/critiques/jeers, or whatever. Thanks for yall's time in reading it so far, and hope to have more soon.
-Dave


Chapter 3
February 13, 1984
8:45 P.M.
The din of constant noise in the terminal was deafening. There were sounds of shuffling feet, too-loud conversations, rustling papers, crying children, incessant beeping and humming, and the sounds of the building itself underneath it all. Charles Legion stood and smoothed out the creases on his black trousers. The fabric still felt alien to him, too smooth to be comforting, too thin to offer warmth in the Atlanta evening. His trench-style coat waved around him in an almost imperceptible manner, as if driven by the slightest of breezes inside the building. He swiveled his head first one way, then the other until he heard the ever so satisfying crack as his neck popped. "It's gonna be a good day, tater!" he thought to himself as the faintest of smiles touched the corners of his mouth. He was a handsome man, one that the lonely ladies, and even those who weren't would pause to take a second glance around at. He was thin, but not overly so. His well manicured nails matched his well manicured coal-black hair. His face had the perfect symmetry that only models seemed to possess, and his gleaming teeth, ever so white, completed the picture. He bent at the knees and retrieved his lone small suitcase. It perfectly matched his nondescript, simply black ensemble. Charles looked up at the passing crowd for the first time as he heard the last call for his flight echo across the cursed speakers. The amplification was too high, the robotic voice too harsh, but that was ok. He had business up north today. You could say the time had come to visit an old friend.
He approached the counter with a genuine smile on his face as he handed the small framed woman behind it his documentation. She was young, perhaps twenty with the freckles of her youth and the Georgia sun still prominent on her cheeks. And as he suspected her speech was heavy with the drawl that accompanied the sun down here in the good ole southland.
"Ahh, here we go! All I need now is your licence to verify, Mr...?"
Legion stood for a moment and could not resist the chance at his own dry humor. "Pleased to meet you! Hope you guessed my name."
Obviously missing the Stones reference, she only stood, not knowing which part of her scripted monologue she should revert to. "Seems that these people are as simple as you hear." Charles thought to himself as he outstretched one smooth and lineless palm.
"Charles Legion. Here ya go." He quipped as he first shook her hand and provided an Arizona licence with the other hand. She at first didn't know how to react, but took his large hand in hers and shook. After all this was the polite thing to do, right? For a moment the terminal and all the people seemed like a far-away foggy dream. There was a slight jolt, like accidentally touching the base of a bulb as you screw it into the awaiting socket, only to realize that you failed to turn off the switch first. She hurriedly dropped her hand and hastily completed his boarding pass, glad to see the handsome man go. Before he did, he did something strange, something that she failed to tell the investigators in the coming days. He turned and told her..
"Have a nice day, Ms. Bullins. And don't worry, your brother will be ok." With that he walked onward with a steady smooth gait, never once looking back as he began to whistle an old Rolling Stones tune. She only stood there, mouth hanging agape, wondering first how the man knew her name, not to mention the fact that her brother was lying in a coma in the hospital, a victim of one of the thousands of drunk drivers that littered the countryside outside the city. She would only come to know the truth when the same man appeared some two years later at her bedside in that same hospital. She would understand and remember when he would reach out to touch her smooth scalp, the direct result of the now growing brain tumor. The very same tumor that he himself had given her on this day.
The inside of the plane was, thankfully, quiet. It was also warm, which made it all the better. Charles Legion sat alone, at the window seat, and watched the pavement streak by, and the ground eventually grow farther and farther away below him. He remained in this trance-like state for a long time, even after the city lights below had dissapeared below the clouds. He felt eyes on him like a brand when he looked up to see a small child of maybe six regarding him with the mistrust and curiosity that only a child could muster. Well, a child and most wild animals dying of hunger. He had seen plenty of both and held each in the same regard. As if reading his mind the child popped his thumb from the corner of his mouth long enough to stick his tongue out. A six year old's version of "screw you buddy!".
"How dare this chimp-baby mock me!?" Legion thought to himself. To him it was the settling mark. It was, so to speak, what brought him forward again. It had been a long time since he had caused mischief, a long time since he had felt the sweet release that came after a good slaughter. Why not? It wasn't like he couldn't still get to where he was going either way. He always found a way. With his mind made up he settled back and watched the clouds roll past. Not now, but soon. Very soon.
As his never-seen adversary sat at an airport in Atlanta, Walter was just beginning his journey as well. His LTD was full of gas as he merged with the southbound traffic that I-95 had to offer. He really had no idea where he was going. South, to Duke university was a good place to start. Maybe once he was there finding Mr. (or Professor) Summers wouldn't be too hard. "There will be water if God wills it." he thought to himself as he turned on the radio to pass the time. Even though Cheap Trick blared out at him he could still only think of Anthony. Would he be ok? Is he ok right now? If I go back would I find him, or only a smoking corpse? Walt talked to himself inside a lot these days, seemingly second guessing every move. If there was one thing that took his mind off of Tony it was the realization that this was the first time he had gone back south since Peg and the boys had been buried down in El Paso. North Carolina wasn't exactly west Texas, but it was still closer than he felt comfortable going. He rummaged through a fresh paper sack until he found the Slim Jim he had been searching for. With it and a throat full of Coke he felt some better. He saw the sign welcoming him to Maryland pass as Charlie Daniels was singing about the Devil going down to Georgia. Walt sat bolt upright in his seat, a sudden vision of fire, wind, and rain in his mind. He wondered if he had actually dozed off for a brief second and pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road. Traffic flew by as he stood outside his idling car, stretching his back. Baltimore wasn't far ahead. He would stop there for a bite to eat and some gas, maybe even a cigarrette. He felt as if he needed one after all this time. Somewhere in the air south of him the lavatory door of a plane clicked shut silently as the Devil, in fact, was leaving Georgia. As if a stark reminder of his vision, rain began to pelt his shirt as he climbed back inside his Ford and continued toward Baltimore.
Charles opened his eyes and first saw his reflection in the glass of the window. He stared into his own coal black eyes for a second, pondering the situation. He also had to pee. It was just one of the annoyances of being inside this human-like form. He loathed it, as it felt like he was pissing lava every time. It seemed to be one of the many trade-offs, or maybe even punishments, of being able to move among the people. He walked back to the rear of the plane, noting that most everyone aboard was either sleeping or reading. Sheep. So consumed in letting the world pass them by even as their own immenent demise loomed like the thunderheads beneath the plane. He smiled a little again, knowing that he had made the right decision. The best he could tell it would mean roughly two hundred and fifty less maggots crawling the planet, worshipping their God, making their babies who in turn would make more babies and worship more God. Blah blah blah. Give me a friggin break. If they only knew the futile nature of their existence and what meager mark they think they leave as a legacy. If they had a single clue they wouldn't be wasting time reading Cosmo, agonizing over what color of sports car to buy, what flavor of soft drink is the best, whatever. It was better for all involved. This reinvigorated anger filled him with even more hatred for the dozing sheep. It was almost time to bring the fold in. He regarded the child in the seat in front of his now empty one more time then closed the bathroom door silently and swiftly.
When he was done, Charles Legion opened the door to the lavatory and silently walked down the center aisle, past his vacant seat. He paused for one moment to look at the now sleeping boy who had earlier stuck his tongue out. The sleeping child's eyes flew open and were instantly filled with terror. He scrambled up into his mother's lap, who continuously asked the child what the problem was. All he can do is cower and point toward the aisle.He tries to tell his mother that there is a bad bad man standing there. He has black eyes. Some may have detected a slight shimer in the air, a slight temperature difference, amybe even a feeling of being watched. But to the boy's mother the aisle is empty. (Jason. His name is Jason and his teacher is concerned he may be autistic. He likes Crayolas. They break but he uses both pieces and draws trees and cats and carsanddaddyandthenthestreet.the streetisBLACKandHOTTHELINESAREYELLOWANDWHITE!!!!!! !!) Legion grabs his own head as the flood of information flows into his own mind. It's a bit like a single fierce burst of feedback that gains until it crashes. Yet another downfall of being on this Earth with all of these mortal sheep. Sometimes there are some that turn the tables on him and cause him to lose his own thoughts and control. The boy, to be so young yet so powerful amazes and scares him a bit. If he needed reassurance on his deed he had it. The people must go, especially the boy.
Legion continued to walk down the aisle, eyes watering and a trickle of blood running from one nostril. He reaches the cockpit door and passes through it as if it never existed. He is surrounded by banks and banks of flashing lights, gauges, and switches. Sitting at the chairs are the pilot and co-pilot. They are drinking coffee and talking about the Dallas Cowboys. Smiling, Legion closes his eyes and concentrates on bringing himself forward.
Walter pulls the LTD into a Shell station just outside the city limits of Baltimore. The rain is beginning to increase in intensity the farther south he goes, and it makes for one really monotonous dreary drive. He goes inside for a Coke, 3 Musketeers, a pack of Marlboro reds, and to pay for his gas. He thanks the clerk and grabs the handle on the door to go back out. The rain is pelting down on the passing cars and the street. The street is black and the lines are yellow and white. Mark shakes his head, trying to clear it. He blinks at himself, wondering why he would think about the lines on the street and dismisses it as road weariness as he fires the Ford back up and proceeds to merge back onto the onslaught of traffic going south on 95. Above him, and several hundred miles to the southeast, over the mountainous Virginia/Kentucky border, there is a bloodbath going on in the cockpit of a Continental Airlines flight bound for Pittsburg.
The pilot is the first to notice that the air in the cockpit plummets. He turns to say something to his co-pilot when he notices a shadow in his peripheral vision. A shadow in the darkness of the late night cockpit illuminated only by the instrumentation in front of him. He turns to view the shadow and sees a man in a black trench coat materialize out of thin air. He raises his right hand to say something and his coffee cup is still in it. Before he can even speak the man moves like a snake striking and drives the cofee cup into his face, shattring it and sending hot liquid into his eyes. The pilot is unsure whether the liquid is from his puctured eyes or the coffee, and does not have long to ponder the question. In another instant he is ripped from the seat and pressed against the glass of the front windows. The glass is even colder than the air in the cabin. The copilot slowly turns, exclaiming " Hey! What the fuc.."And then his larnyx is lying in his lap before he can finish the statement. The pilot can hear the watery gurgle as his co-piolt tries to breathe or speak, maybe both. The man is holding the co-pilot down in the chair so hard that the bolts holding the frame to the floor protest. THe co-pilot begins to accordion in on himself like a stack of paper. It doesn't matter anymore. His face is pressed against the glass so hard that cracks begin to form around the window in the shape of his forehead. He feebly tries to reach backward and grab the man, but the man somehow reaches forward with a third arm and jams his right arm up high enough behind his back that his hand rests on top of his now flattening head. Seven seconds have passed since Legion passed through the cockpit door. The window fianlly gives way and the limp bodies of the two men are sucked out into the blackness of night, some thirty thousand feet above a small town in Virginia. From behind him he hears screams as the oxygen masks fall. He hears the cockpit door swing open as an air marshall enters, gun drawn. He turns on his heels and impales the gun to the trigger guard in the forehead of the man. The man is thrown out of the window to join the two others as the plane begins a nose dive straight for the rain-slick mountainsides of the Appalachains. People continue to scream and he knows Jason is terrified. (OH no MOMMY! WHAT?! THE PLANE! IS THIS PART OF THE RIDE!? THE MAN T HEBADMAN IT'SHISFAULT!!!!ITOLDYOU HE..WAS...BAD!!!)
The plane connects with a mountaintop covered with scraggy pines and rocks at over three hundred miles per hour. The fireball was immense, breaking the aircraft into three parts, each a flaming reminder of the fuselage that was. The wings fly off in two seperate directions, two triangles of fuel and fire. The front of the plane slides down nearly halfway down to the icy water at the foot of the mountain and explodes into a final fireball of destruction. Trees burn and fall, flaming debris litters the surrounding ravine and continues to burn. As the flames build and wane a lone figure emerges slowly from the wall of flame. His perfectly manicured hair begins to reknit on top of his charred scalp. The skin sheaths back over the bony fingers of his hands, and an unfelt wind wraps the cloak of a black trench coat around him. He looks back at the wreckage and tries to connect with the boy. Inside his head all he hears is static and the crackling of fire. He rears back his head and howls laughter at the treetops and raining clouds. Somewhere in the distance wolves join in. He looks back at the wrecjkage one last time and thinks to himself "It's a good day, tater!" and roars laughter again before beginning to walk east. There is a town nearby. Towns mean more people. More people mean there will be cars. Cars will get him to I-95. I-95 will get him to Philadelphia.

Chapter 4
February 14, 1984
12:04 A.M.

Valentine's day. A day where you love your lover, rejoice in your togetherness, or are reminded why you are either with or without someone. For two individuals, alone in the world, things could not be any different. But yet they are the same as they find themselves intertwined in the blanket of fate. As the hours turned over to this day both men found themselves pondering the solitude that each found himself suddenly thrust into.
Walter Higgins drove steadily down 95, changing stations frequently to avoid the temptress that threatened to send him into slumber behind the wheel. This was the end of the Earth. Had to be. He could'nt remember an area being so removed from civilization as the long stretch of highway between Richmond and Raleigh. Especially at midnight, and in the rain to boot. This storm was proving to be a good one, making the roads slick and the constant drone of the rain on the roof mesmerizing. The occasional cars were now few and far in between. His eyes were heavy, and the mewling tunes of the country station he currently had dialed in did not help matters. He reached down and turned the station to Today's Current Chart Toppers. Better, but not much. What was music coming to these days, and just what the hell was Devo singing about? Thankfully the song changed and he found himself involuntarily swaying to the beat of the Safety Dance. He couldn't help but smile a tired man's smile as he caught himself. The song was replaced by some too-slow ballad by Elton John and he felt his eyes begin to droop again. Like everyone on the planet that has ever had the misfortune of falling asleep at the wheel, Walt opened his eyes just in time to combine an "Oh Shit!" with a brief second of panic. He jerked the wheel to the right, attempting to avoid crossing the median and being catapulted into the errant vehicle headed north. He succeeded in causing the rear wheels to switch places with the front, and then again back to their repective heading. He was caught in a four wheeled version of a death spiral, clutching the wheel with a white-knuckled grip of terror. The time passed by in milli-seconds, but it was as if he could see everything in slow motion and hear the sounds around him in stereo. He watched as the treeline became the guard rail ahead, then the median would flash by in front, followed by the treeline again. Then the upcoming guard rail. He could hear the fact that Elton had been replaced by Aerosmith. The train kept a rollin' and the Ford kept a spinnin'. He jerked the wheel to the left and goosed the accellerator in an attempt to reverse the spin before he could be impaled on the guard rail which seemed mere feet away now. He succeeded a bit, but found that the front end was not quite pointed in the right direction just yet. Before he could attempt to correct a third time he saw several scrub pines illuminated by his headlights shear off of the fender and fly away into the night. One was caught up in his wheelwell and may have very well saved his life that night. His right fender was peeled back by the sapling and it caused his car to spin around yet again, facing the wrong direction. But the important thing is that he had been stopped. The very leading edge of the guard rail had been pushed back and now lie against his trunk lid like a discarded drinking straw paper. The rain continued to beat down on his roof as he sat, heart racing, and peered out into the darkness that now was pierced by only his driver's side headlight. After a brief few moments to gather his thoughts and verify that he hadn't soiled his britches, Walt opened the door and stepped out to survey the scene. His feet found a soft wet mat of pine needles. He could smell burnt rubber and pine sap. He walked to the passenger side and saw that the tree had broken the tire right off of the bead. "Let's hope I can get the damned jack under the car in the dirt now." he muttered to himself as he walked to the rear of the car and grabbed onto the guard rail that rested on the trunk lid. He found that he could not budge it and was not surprised. Not in the least. He begrudgingly walked back to the road, hoping that his headlight shining in someone's eyes and his frantic waving would summon a good samaritan. After all, how long would it take for someone to come down a major interstate? He looked northbound and saw nothing but blackness. His heart sank in his chest as the rain flowed down from his face and ran off of his chin like a small stream.

Charles Legion walked along the old wagon road listening to the mud squelch underneath his previously polished black boots. This road, much like the area in which he now walked, were a forgotten relic of the previous century. He could almost picture the horse-drawn wagons filled with freshly primed tobacco stacked impossibly high. He could smell the sweet, sticky smell of the sap, he could hear the horses snort and fart. He could almost feel the air as it would have been back then, fresh, clean, and clear. He opened his eyes and saw that the road and well kept farm had gone back to the Earth in much the same way. The path was barely perceptible and the shadow of the barn's roofline, swayed at a severe angle, proved that there had been no human inhabitants here in quite a while. In fact he could only hear the fat drops of rain as they fell onto the ground and whispered through the foliage. He suddenly felt very alone and isolated, and would have relished in the absolute clarity of the silence had he not been on a mission to find a vehicle. He smiled a very large and toothy grin as he thought that it was a perfect time to hear a banjo key up somewhere in the distance. Squeal boy. Squeal like a pig indeed. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of a white light and knew that it meant that there was at least one house in this damned state that had electricity. It was the unmistakable glow of a security light. He began to walk toward it when he was reassured by the bark of several hounds that he knew would be tethered to posts in the front lawn of house. And in that house he would probably find at least one person who could be persuaded to either surrender their keys or maybe even escort him to the main road. Yep, he felt quite confident that he could find a means of persuasion that would suffice. He also knew that he would have to change his appearance as well. A plane crashes thirty miles west of this point and a man walks in at midnight dressed in black dress pants. Right-o. Makes perfect sense. He furrows his brow slightly and the thin slacks become a faded pair of black jeans and the trench coat becomes a worn, faded leather jacket. His hair lengthens a bit and becomes somewhat unruly. He doesn't need to fit in and be natural. All he needs is the brief few seconds that it takes to get the door open. Maybe someone would be more inclined to open it if he looked a little more like he belonged in a twelve-county radius of here. He emerged from a tree line to see what sufficed as a lawn. It was more of a mud path leading up to the front porch of a farm house that looked older than the dirt that his boots left tracks in as he walked. The hounds, both of them, in fact, barked and pissed in his direction. He began to walk up to the few steps that remained intact when the porch light clicked on and the front door opened to reveal the outline of a Chicago Bears' linebacker-sized man. Legion smiled as he raised one hand in a salutation as false as the smile on his face. Turns out he wouldn't have to charm his way to an open door after all.

After what seemed like an eternity on itself a lone set of headlights emerged on the horizon. As the vehicle came closer Walt actually strode into the right-hand lane, waving his arms like a man trying to land aircraft. Luckily for him Cheryl and Johnny Waters were returning home from a late-night trip to Richmond. Luckily for Walt they stopped their Dodge Aspen rather than running him over. And luckily for Walt they proved to be the good samaritans that he had been looking for. The Dodge came to a stop on the shoulder and Walt approached it with his hands raised. The driver's side window came down, just a crack and he could smell the strong aroma of Cheryl's perfume. There may have been a time, twenty years ago, when the smell and the piercing blue eyes that greeted him would have stopped more than a few men in their tracks.
"Hello? You need help, Mister?"
Walt gestured toward his cycloptic Ford and nodded his head. "Yes, Ma'am I do. Seems I fell asleep and ate the pines down there. I can't get my trunk open to get my spare out."
Ten minutes later Walt was in the back seat, drying out and warming up. Turns out good ole' Johnny had tools and a jack back at the house, which, also luckily for him was only a few miles further down. He felt torn as whether or not to leave the papers unguarded, but in the end decided that he had to. At least he had cut off the ignition and took the keys with him.
Back at their humble family home Walt was given a towel and a much-needed cup of fresh hot coffee. Along with these came the questions and conversation he knew would come. He hated lying to good people, but sometimes you had to pick the lesser of two evils for your purposes.
"So, I have to ask, Walt. You had Pennsylvania tags, but your accent is more.."
"Southern? Well, yeah, originally from Texas. Moved to PA years ago for my job. Business manager. Banking firm in Philly."
Johnny eyed his wardrobe and remembered the eight year old Ford. "'Zat right? Banking manager, then?" There was more than a hint of mistrust in the voice. Johnny did not trust him as easily as Cheryl did. And he also knew that Walt was lying. Bank managers did not have the bulge underneath a jacket that signified a shoulder holster. He motioned for Walt to accompany him to the tool shed. "Won't ya come on with me there, Walt? Help me find the crowbar and some hammers."
"Johnny, really. There is no need for that! This man is drenched! You know you keep 'em right inside the door, to the right of the bandsaw. I really..."
The icy stare Johnny shot back at her immediately broke her statement off. Walt knew that the look meant that it was time for Cheryl to shut the hell up. His detective side sensed that there very well may be a history of domestic violence there. Johnnny may have had the opportunity to be a rather cruel bastard in his younger days, he also thought. Walt sat the half-empty cup of coffee on the table beside the door, handed Cheryl the towel and turned to walk out the door. Johnny stopped and gestued for Walt to go first, his gaze not faltering in the least. Once inside the shed Walt tried to make small talk but Johnny cut him off as effectively as he had done Cheryl not five minutes prior.
"Look, Mr. Higgins. I know you ain't tellin' all the truths you know. I'm also knowin' you got a pistol there under yer coat. Just remember that we ain't lookin' fer trouble, and you ain't gonna give us any. I spent two tours in 'Nam and was a mean sumbitch in my day. We gonna help ya's out and git ya on down the road. I don't care 'bout where ya's from or where yer goin. Figure least I can do is help a stranger in need, and that's all it is. We gonna get yer trunk open and git on our way. Suggest you git yer tire changed out and do the same. I got a .38 in my belt and if you mean to cause me any concern I will shoot you and leave you. Understand me?"
Walt looked at the man and knew he was telling all facts as if they were gospel. "Yes, Mr. Waters I do. I know you don't wanna know about me, but I am, or was, a cop. I am on a mission, so to speak, to Carolina and I gotta get goin as soon as I can. And rest assured that I mean no harm to you and your's."
"Good. Then keep it that way and we'll be fine. Don't say nuthin' to Cheryl bout us talkin' and 'bout you bein' a po-leese. She is the only reason I stopped and I don't wanna hear 'bout bein' rude to a stranger for the rest o' my life."
"No problem, Johnny."
"Good, now git."
Walt got. Quickly. In less time than it took them to get back to the Water's house he was back at his LTD with the trunk lid pried open. He watched as Cheryl gave one last wave out of her window and then they were just a fading set of brake lights in the distance. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was nearly three in the morning. He fought the jack and then the sapling for another hour and half before he had the tire changed and the LTD back on course, one headlight illuminating his path.
Legion divided his time between driving and wiping blood off of his hands. He found himself reminiscing over what had happened back in the mountains. He could consider it reminiscing, as he had gotten a fair amount of joy out of it. But not nearly as much as he had wanted. Time, after all, was not on his side now. The loss of time was the only thing that he regretted downing the plane for. For all he knew the priest had already handed the papers off to another person. He knew that the father was still alive because he could still sense him. But he could not read his thoughts from this distance.
He quickly diverted his thoughts back to the farm and the very large man with the dogs.
The man standing in the doorway moved only slightly, unphased by the flashy grin that Legion presented.
"Whachoo want stranger?"
"Wrecked my car and got lost trying to find help. Lucky for me I heard your dogs and found your house. Do you have a phone I can use?"
The man shifted to his left a small bit and produced a shotgun. It had two barrels that looked as large as cannons in the white light. "Ain't no road for damn near fifteen miles from here, Mister. I suggest you move on and keep movin'."
Legion saw him begin to raise the shotgun and closed the distance in a single, floating step. The man had a brief shocked expession before furrowing his brow. Legion saw his finger tighten on the triggers and he raised two of his own fingers and plugged them into both barrels of the Mossberg. The man looked at him quizzically and called him one dumb sumbitch before squeezing both triggers. There was a hollow bang that only Legion could hear. It was followed a nano-second later by the rear of the gun exploding into the man's face. The man's hands flew in two different directions and most of his head sprayed the walls behind him. His lifeless body slumped half-in-half-out of the doorway. The hounds barked and yelped. Legion looked down at where the man's face had been.
"So where are the keys to one of your rides out there, pardner? Huh? Got nothin to say, do ya? Oh, that's right! You can't! Seems your lips are in the kitchen now. Damn shame if you ask me, Barry. I'll be seeing you real soon, trust me. Then we will see who the dumb sumbitch really is, won't we, Barry?" Legion spewed laughter at the empty house and found the keys right where he knew they would be. People these days lacked any real creativity, it seemed. The man had every key he owned hanging by the phone on the kitchen wall. Legion walked back out the door and paused briefly to place the top of Barry's head back in place. "There. Now you look more natural. Can't really impress the ladyfolk with your brains falling out all over the damn floor, now can ya?" With that Legion roared more laughter as he walked out the door and back down the steps. The incessant barking was splitting his skull. He looked at the hounds and cocked his head to one side. The one nearest him lunged forward again and again. Legion raised one finger and the chain holding the dog down snapped. The hound did not run for him, however. It turned on it's brother still held captive by the other chain and began to snarl. Legion tossed key after key into the mud as he walked. He finally found the one that fit the red hulk of the 1969 Ford Torino parked beside the house. He hopped in and as he fired up the 429 under the hood and drove off the hounds were still consumed in tearing each other to pieces. With the memories already fleeting his mind he drove faster than any normal person would have, emerging onto the onramp in a sideways snarl of exhaust and tire smoke. Despite the faded exterior this car had balls! He grinned, floored the accelerator, and headed east, toward I-95. He turned on the radio and pushed the tape in that was sticking out like Jason's tongue had been on the plane. He was instantly greeted by Black Betty and turned up the speakers until they began to protest. Yep, southern rock did kick ass in these situations, it seemed. He grinned yet again, pointed teeth gleaming and began to sing along. "Black Betty had a child. BAM-A-LAM. The damn thing gone wild BAM-A-LAM!" At this exact moment somewhere northeast of him Walt was cheating certain death trying to avoid an oncoming guard rail.

Chapter 5
February 14, 1984
5:28 A.M.


The sky was beginning to lighten up in the east, just barely. Walt had been driving on now for an hour, and had to proceed painfully slow to keep the car on the road. It seems that his Ford had sustained a little more damage than he previously thought, and any speed much above 45 caused his car to shake and vibrate like a dog trying to shit a watermellon. That combined with the fact that his remaining headlight had uncovered more than a few deer that seemed to be pondering suicide served to keep the pace down. He saw an exit ahead with an AMOCO sign illuminating the night sky like a beacon of hope. Hell yeah! Time for some coffee and maybe actually some real food for a change. Besides, his Ford was a little low on the fuel for his comfort. Especially out here in the middle of nowheresville. He pulled off onto the exit ramp and found himself staring straight ahead at several fuel islands and the store itself. There were even rigs there getting diesel. Good. He squinted a little, likening the harsh lights in this landscape to putting Las Vegas on the dark side of the moon. Either way it was good to see people again. He pulled up to the nearest pump and placed the handle into his thirsty ride. He walked away and let it pump, thinking that it would save some time if he could shop and pump gas simultaneously.
The store was better than he thought. There were the usual items, and above all else there were sausages and frankfurters on a rolling warmer/grill. At this point he could care less if they were being warmed on a mule's ass. He was famished. After buying three hot dogs, a bag of Doritos, and two bottled Cokes (not quite coffee, but better) he pulled the pump handle back out placed it back on it's hanger. One of the hot dogs had already met its fate by the time he shut the door and fired the engine back up again. He began to pull back out onto the road when his vision doubled and he felt as if the weiner he just ate was about to make another debut back onto his lap. He slammed on the brakes and both hands went to his head. There was a sound coming from inside his head now, almost like the feedback from an amplifier.
The sky was beginning to lighten up in the east, just barely. Charles Legion had been driving to the point where he feared the car would just die on him altogether. It had to be running strictly on fumes by now. He had hoped that there would have been a station where the two interstates met, but for some reason in podunkville there weren't. This would make the second time that he would have to stop and fill up. The car was fast, that was true, but it liked the go-juice a lot. A helluva lot. He was beginning to wonder if he would have to ditch the car and find another when he saw something up ahead. What he saw was an exit with an AMOCO sign illuminating the night sky like a beacon of hope. Hell yeah! Gas and maybe something to eat. He thought and remembered that hte last time he had eaten had been the morning before his flight. Nearly twenty four hours ago. Having to eat was yet another on the list of mortal irritations he had to endure. Maybe if he appeared as a female next time he could reap the benefits of a full blown case of PMS to boot.
He veered the Torino off onto the exit ramp and swerved out onto the overpass without stopping. Just as he had thought the car lurched and jumped as the fuel all sloshed to one side of the tank and starved the fuel pump. He was damned lucky to have made it this close. He was perhaps halfway across the bridge when the wave of feedback pierced his brain like a hot railroad spike. He squinted one eye and held the car on the road as good as he could manage. As he slid into the parking lot he nearly clipped the front off of some old boat of a Ford that looked as if the front had been clipped at least one other time in its past. Instantly his nose burst forth with a torrent of blood and his head was filled with thoughts from somewhere else (HOLY SHIT WHATISTHIS??!!THINK IM GONNAPUKE OHMYGOD THAT HURTS!!!).He pulled straight up to one of the pumps and looked over his shoulder, noticing that the other car was now gone. With it was the icepick of thought that had invaded him.
Walt shook his head to try and clear it and noticed a pair of oncoming headlights, moving much too quickly to be normal. he squinted his eyes open and shut a few times to attempt to clear his head when a large, red, wedge-shaped bullet of a car with open exhaust raced by his, nearly taking out his other fender and headlight. (HOLYSHIT BOUT RAN OUTTA FUEL!!OOOWWW!! NOTAGAIN!!!WHOTHE HELL IS DOINGTHIS TO MEEE!!!???) raced into his mind. Blood trickled down his lip and pattered onto his lap. He suddenly felt as if he should cut a trail, and right now. Walt took another quick look back at the red hot rod (Torino. It's a Torino. Back when they were real cars...) and sped away, his lone headlight illuminating the path ahead. He hurriedly merged with traffic, hoping that whoever or whatever it was in that car wouldn't follow him. Somewhere deep inside he did know, however. It was the smallest of voices, the tiniest of intuition, but it was there. And he believed it. Instantly he felt like turning around and facing the man, if it was in fact who he thought it could be. If he stopped him now then Tony would be ok. Or was he also coming southbound...maybe he was leaving Philly...or maybe that wasn't him at all. Walt's mind raced a million miles an hour. Reluctantly (but not too much so) he kept his southerly heading and hoped that for his sake and the sake of the documents that the man, if he was actually Legion, was headed north. God save Anthony.
Legion exited the Torino and placed the pump handle into the rear of his car. He knew that it would cost a fortune but it was just fine. he had no intention of paying, just like the last time, and the times before that. Seems that if it came down to it he could either persuade the cashier to forget the entire visit, or kill them. Either way it made no difference to him, as he had done both several times. He walked in and saw perhaps eight people all together, half of which were truckers. Fine and dandy. One or eight made no difference to him. Not much did. He grabbed essentially the same items as his predecessor, two Cokes and the last two sausages on the rollers. Damn people didn't have any hot dogs left. It all tasted like trash to him anyway, but sausage was particularly bad. But at least it was a hot meal. Cold meals were worse than garbage. Cold meals and chocolate were like shit on a shingle. OR Shinola. He laughed at himself for that, wondering just what Shinola was after all. Perhaps half of the patrons then stopped and took a look at the man dressed in black cowboy boots, leather jacket and a black button up shirt. It was if Johnny Cash himself had walked into AMOCO for a sausage and a drink. But in the end Legion thought that they had finally noticed the blood that had dried onn his hands and the fresh red that stained his face. He knew it was past the point of no return when one of the truckers with a point to prove approached him with a snarl.
"Hey pal, looks like you ran into the north end of a southbound jackass. You ok?"
"Hey Chuck! Just fine you fat bastard. Now mind your own business and get the fuck outta my way. I'm hungry and I got a lotta miles left to go."
Obviously trucker Chuck didn't like the reply, as he first opened his mouth in surprise, then closed it again, thinking of some witty clip to spout back at the man dressed in black with the black eyes that called him by name. In the end he didn't have to say anything, he just reached out to grab a handful for leather jacket. What he came away with, however was a handful of spiders. They crawled over his arms and face, multiplying as they spilled out onto the floor and crawled onto his face, biting and burrowing. He screamed and ran for the door, only to crash face-first into one of the glass cooler doors and fall flat on his back. Any recognizable feature had been erased, as the shape of a man was writhing on the floor, covered every square inch by a moving, live, black carpet of arachnids. Legion laughed and danced around the man, dropping one of the bottles of Coke, which exploded on the floor in a fury of foam and glass. He pointed and mocked the screams as they died out and ceased all together. Now everyone in the store was looking at him. Less than thirty seconds had passed since he first laughed and drew attention to himself. He made his way to the door, looking straight into the faces of the few people that remained. The witnesses tomorrow would all have the same story, the same account of the events, but none would ever be believed. After all, what person in their right mind would believe that Johnny Cash waltzed into an AMOCO and set a herd of flesh-eating spiders onto a trucker? No one, that's who.
Legion walked out and cranked the fire-breathing engine to life. He floored the pedal and turned a complete circle. ripping the nozzle from the pump and dragging it along the pavement with him. Fuel spewed out onto the ground and puddled up, running in all directions. It was then that Charles Legion slammed on the brakes, opened the door and stepped out. From the folds of his jacket he produced a single cigarette and a lighter. He lit it and inhaled a long, single breath before exhaling slowly. The remainder of people had gathered outside the front of the store, along with the clerk. In the excitement he had forgotten to shut off the pumps, and realized too late that it would not have made a difference anyway. Legion took a deep breath and called out to the group in a booming, baritone voice.
"Remember, kids! Smoking is hazardous to your health!"
He completed the sentence with shrieking laughter and climbed back into the driver's eat of the Torino. After an exaggerated burnout he flicked the cigarette out the window and into the path of the ever-expanding pool of fuel. Legion sped off into the night, escaping the inferno that was to come and the high, sweet smell of charred flesh that smelled eversomuch like home.
Walter Higgins had not been on the road long when his rearview mirror exploded with light. A fireball that looked like a nuclear explosion rose into the night sky. He had no doubts as to the origin of it, and was thankful he had decided to venture onward instead. He had no doubts now as to the identity of the man in the Torino. He had had a brush with Legion and had came out alive, for the first time. He hoped that in their second encounter he would be so lucky. He thought of the people in the store then. How many of those had remained there after he had gone? How many more had stopped in since? How many, if any, were still drawing breath? He filed it away with a newfound coldness that would serve him well in the coming months and years. It was collateral damage in the great war. It was a neccessary sacrafice for the greater good. It was the work of the Devil, and no matter how he sliced it it would haunt him for the remainder of his life. Walt looked up to see the welcome sign for North Carolina and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long, hard night. He was bloody, wet, and cold. He would have to find hotel room before going on into Durham. He was pretty darn sure getting close to John Summers not to mention getting the man to listen would be impossible without a change of clothes, a shower, and some rest. In the east the sun rose and shone through the thinning clouds. A new day had dawned and Walter Higgins could only think of the bed that awaited him and the hope that it would be a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 6
February 15, 1984
8:45 A.M./ 7:00P.M.

When the morning rays of Carolina sunshine broke through the crack in the curtains Walter woke with a start. He had gotten a room at a Motel 6 just down the road from the Raleigh-Durham airport in the early afternoon the previous day. After a full fourty-five minute hot shower he ate nearly half of a large pizza, downed a six-pack of Bud, and fell asleep, waking thirteen hours later refreshed and feeling like a new man. He couldn't recall when the shower had felt so good or the sleep so deep and satisfying. He walked across the room in nothing but his boxers and parted the thick green curtains. The sun was so bright and intense that at first he thought he had seared his eyes for good, but squinted until his pupils adjusted to the light. Any sign whatsoever of the previous day's deluge had passed, as a perfect blue and cloudless sky greeted him. He could see gulls flying around the parking lot and looked down to see his Ford in daylight for the first time. He was amazed and hurriedly put on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater from his suitcase to take a closer look. As he opened his suitcase a sinkinig feeling of dread and trepidation filled him. He had broken the lock on the trunk lid the previous night, and in his hurry to get inside the room and get rest he neglected to get the Rubbermaid totes out. He prayed that they were still there, opened the door and descended the flight of stairs to the parking lot below. He bypassed the examination of the damage and went directly for the trunk, which opened far too easily. A colossal wave of relief filled him when he discovered that all the contents were accounted for. He swiftly closed the lid again and walked around his car to inspect the damage. Just as he had suspected the passenger side fender was peeled back like a can lid, and had been flapping in the breeze for the remainder of his trip. The bumper on that corner was pushed almost all the way back to the tire, and the grille and headlight were long gone. Luckily he had no radiator damage and it looked to be all cosmetic. He noticed that the wheel, however, had a slight but noticeable cant to the inside on the top, accounting for the wobble and vibration he felt at highway speeds. At least the car had gotten him this far. He would need a better car, that was for sure. He didn't want to dip into the funds that Anthony had provided him for a replacement, but necessity was what it was. Besides, even if he did invest in a semi-decent automobile it would still leave a little more than a hundred thousand dollars to fund his "mission". With that in mind he proceeded to take all of the containers of documents up to his room and lock them away. Once back downstairs and on foot he went on the first leg of his mission: to find another car, and preferrably one that could rival the one Legion had if it came down to it.

Charles Legion breathed a sigh of contentment once the George Washington Bridge was in sight. It had been a while since he had been back, and knew that his business here must be quick. He had to return to the office after his nearly three month hiatus. Even if you were an omnicient boss you still had to make appearances and verify that the dealings and running of your corporation were "in hand". He would like very much to see what Daniel Cummings had to say about the matter. Daniel was his #2, if you will. A veritable tank of a man with a less than savory past. Legion had found him wandering the desert of Afghanistan, a refugee and former POW. Daniel had been as insane as a man could be, and blinded by bloodlust. A real-world evil version of a John Rambo the man was, as he had single handedly slaughtered an entire village alone. Every man, woman, child, and animal lie dead in the burning hulks of their former homes. Eighty five souls, all told. Legion remembered the day they met with full clarity and smiled a little now at the thought. The man had come into his "fold" easily enough, and had rose to power and help build what was curently the "Legion Corporation".
Legion shook off the thoughts as he idled up to the same front doors St. Augustine that he had first met Father Anthony. It was here it began, but it would end on the other side of town. He produced another cigarette from his leather jacket and lit it, smoking it down to the filter as he watched the front doors of the sacred place like a hawk. He despised churches. They were all the same, filled with the aura of the white, the pure, the goodness of God. It sickened him to be so close, to feel the tug, the ebb and flow of the energy. He recalled how it had been before he had "fallen". How important and all-powerful God had wanted him to believe He was. Countless eons and many worlds had passed on since then. This one would be no different, as it was not the first nor would it be the last. The human sheep were a different breed, though. Very different. He saw them as pawns in the majestic game, playthings to be dealt, extinguished, and forgotten as need be. With a pointed smile of teeth he flicked the remainder of the smouldering butt in the direction of the doors and sped away, to the west side of town. Nightfall would come soon enough. With it would come the time to have a sit-down with good ole' Father Anthony, previously of St Augustine's. And boy howdy did he have plans for that defiant sack of clay. Did he ever.
Walter walked past several car lots, both new and used. The lump of cash in his pocket felt like it weighed a ton. He saw several cars and trucks that would have worked, but he was looking for a certain type. If it came down to where he would have to give chase to Legion (or escape) he knew that he would need some power and speed. For all he knew Legion had ditched the car, but Walter couldn't bank on that. He would not bet his life on it, either. By the time he saw the fifth car lot he saw a possibility sitting among a row of small imports and cargo vans. He walked across the sidewalk and small, grassy divide and peered through the window, remarking on the black interior and the filtered sunlight that shoe on the seats through the bronzed T-tops. He was not surprised to see the salesman swoop in like a wolf hungry for the kill.
"Hi, friend! Name's Bart Jensen, how ya doin today?" The man had offered his hand while he was still a full ten feet away. His green suit coat didn't match his blue dress slacks in the least, and Walter smiled at the pure genuineness that the man filled the stereotype with.
"Walter Higgins. What can you tell me about this one?"
"Oh, boy! Can I ever! This one is a special order direct from Chevy. or was, back in '81. Three years old and only ten thousand miles showing. The owner chose the 427 Vette motor in lieu of the stock 350 that came in these cars. But he didn't stop there. It has a racing carb, cam, you name it. The dyno sheet is in the glove box, shows a strong four-fifty at the wheels. You can't get these in black with the silver stripes, so he had them custom make the graphic package and ship it direct to the dealer. And that's not the best par.." Walt shook his head at Bart and asked him if the price on the window was the bottom dollar price.
"Well, Walt ole' buddy, depends on you. you know cash talks."
"That's what I was banking on, ole' buddy. I'd like to drive it first, you know."
"Well, you know for um, liability reasons I can't let you go alone. I gotta go with you, and I'll take it off the lot, of course. We can switch seats down the block."
"Sounds great, lets do it."
With that the man dissapeared like Alice's rabbit back into the small block building and emerged mere seconds later with a dealer tag and a set of keys. He opened the door first for Walt and then folded his six foot five frame into the driver's seat. This car was not designed for the large man about town, that was for sure. Bart inserted the key and the engine rumbled to life, popping and gurgling the sweet, low tune of pure american power. A smile touched Walt's face at the sound as Bart depressed the clutch and backed the car from its spot.

Legion sat outside the quaint, Tudor-style home that Anthony Gutierrez called home smoking cigarettes and listening to Dire Straights. Ahh that band could play. The sun was lower in the sky now, and in a few short minutes he would walk up to the rear door and take a peek through the sheer fabric curtains that he knew were there. Aesthetic, yes, but not much in the way of providing privacy for one hunted man. The small windows that lined the center of the door also would not have won the 1984 national award for home security either. The thought caused a smile to touch his lips, as he pictured how easily it would be to get inside the home. Once inside it was all downhill from there. He would deal with Gutierrez, take the documents back to the Legion Corp, and do as he pleased burning them one by one. Nothing was going to stand in the way of his new aquisitions, not Gutierrez, not a box or two of photos, not anyonoe. This country was going to fall at his knees, followed by the rest of the maggots on this planet. But he had a few small loose ends to tie up first. Starting with this one. As the sun finally dipped down low behind the apartment complex across the street Legion got out and closed the door to his car silently. He had not picked the most subtle of vehicles, but it would serve him well, and had. He knew that Gutierrez knew he was there. He had personally seen the curtains open and close the slightest bit an hour ago. He could almost see the gleam from the man's balding head, could almost smell the fear in his rabbit-like gaze. He walked past the small white picket fence and silently approached the back stoop. The energy and elecricity in the air were almost tangible, and Legion's heart was racing in his chest. His face and demeanor, however, remained as solid and cold as a stone. Four thousand years of pursuit. Four thousand years of being too late, Four thoudsand years of meddling and secrecy came down to this moment. He finally could taste the papers, the smell of the aged photos, feel the crinkle of ageless brown papyrus between his fingers. Oh how quickly it would burn! How sweet the smell of victory would be! He was semi-lost in the thought of the grand party he would throw for the Corporation once it was done. The celebration of the centuries it would be! Smiling, he placed one hand on the cool glass pane directly to the left of the deadbolt and peered through the sheer, rose colored curtains that parted slightly in the center.
The kitchen was simple, yet stately at the same time. The countertops and surfaces were sparkling, the alabaster refrigerator humming along. He could feel the heat radiating up from the baseboards, and heard them pop and crack as they came on. other than that there was no sound, no movement. He tried to reach out and touch the man, but all he could sense were excerpts from the serenity prayer. Good. The man was home still, and had not fled out the back door and away through the hedges. With a glance over his shoulder toward the house that stood on the far side of the hedgerow, Legion pressed against the glass pane and watched it melt away under his palm. He reached in and found the deadbolt and turned it, the metallic clicks much too loud for his taste. It sounded like a freight train on rusty rails to him in the silence of this place. If the man had been unaware of his presence before, there would not be a doubt now. With a quick and silent motion Legion pushed the door opoen and stepped inside, closing it in the same silent manner. When he raised his head and looked forward, through the open doorway into the living room, he was caught by surprise for a brief moment. It was only a moment, but the sheer bravado of the act caught him off-guard.

With every slight amount of pressure on the accellerator the car would lurch forward, pinning the occupants back in their seats. With a slight amount of amusement Walt remembered the urban legend about the car that was so fast a man could not pick the hundred dollar bill off of the dash to keep it, provided he could raise up and grab it. This very well could have been that car. He gunned the accellerator yet again, sending a chirp up from the rear wheels. He liked it and this was the one. Looks as if the notion of a decent and practical car had gone out the window, and had the memory of the sled-like LTD.
Less than an hour later Bart shook his hand and Walt counted out the 8500 dollars (not bad considering the MSRP three years ago was only eight grand for a stock version), and took possesion of the keys.
"There ya go, Walt! You are now the proud owner of the fastest damned Z28 in the state. keep 'er between the lines, man."
Walter laughed a little as he reached for the doorknob. He couldn't wait to get back to the apartment and get over to Duke to see Summers. "Ha! I'll do my best. Thanks, guys!"
"You bet! See ya, and oh! Any friends looking to get in a vehicle soon, sned 'em in and we'll do 'em right, Walt."
"Will do, Bart." With that he closed the door and climbed into the Camaro. Feeling like a high schooler again he pulled out into traffic and headed back toward the hotel. The events that were to occur later that evening in Pennsylvania the furthest thing from his mind.

When Legion looked up he never expected to see Anthony standing there, waiting for him. He expected the man to cower behind a couch, a door, or a cross. Not only was Anthony standing there, but his feet were shoulder-width apart, and his hands were clasped firmly around the grip of a snub-nosed .38. And they were shaking so badly that Legion's moment of surprise waned into amusement. The man probably couldn't hit him if is life depended on it, as it very well did.
Anthony, formerly Father Gutierrez of St. Augustine's didn't wait for some patented remark, nor did he wait for the Devil to strike first. He emptied the cylinder, all six shots, in quick succession. The report sounded like a flurry of grenades in the small confines of the tidy kitchen. The first two rounds only succeeded in removing large chunks of plaster from the wall to Legion's left. The next round cut a deep and messy furrow across Legion's throat, opening his carotid artery. Blood sprayed across the sanitized white countertops, making them appear to have a maroon-black appearance in the lamplight. The fourth and fifth rounds pierced his chest, passing through his beating heart and left lung. The sixth and final slug caught him directly below where his navel should have been, propelling him backwards into the door he had just broken into. His flailing arms went backwards and through the remaining eleven or so panes of decorative glass. Blood sprayed once again from his wounds, and it oozed and pumped down the outside of the door, pooling on the straw mat that lie on the top of the small brick stoop. The wind outside traced fallen leaves through it and they left small crimson tracks behind as they skated across Anthony's white concrete patio near the bottom of the stoop. Legion hung there with both arms flailed out behind him, hung on the broken glass that rimmed each opening. Anthony stepped forward, reloading the gun. Or at least attempting to. His hands were shaking so badly now that every other bullet fell to the floor before he could chamber them. He wondered if he had actually succeeded in killing Satan with a simple hangun, but knew in his heart that it was not to be true. He closed the distance by a few more feet and flicked the gun to the side, locking the chamber in place. Legion began to moan and then cough.
He could hear Gutierrez walking on the hardwood floor toward him, then the man stopped after a few paces. He was only four or five feet away now, and Legion's downturned face broke into a snarling smile full of hatred, pain, and amusement. He knew that the Father could not see it, so he feighned a thick moan of pain and managed to eek out a few blood-filled thick coughs for good measure. When he heard the cylinder click back into place he rose his head first, and pulled his arms back in through the broken glass, embedding the shards that much deeper. Several pieces broke off and now hung out of his forearms like gleaming triangles. He stood erect and managed to pop his neck one time before Anthony fired again.
Anthony had managed to chamber four out of the six rounds he attempted. Seeing Legion stand before him, eyes black from eyelid to eyelid, smile gleaming with frothy blood, rattled him more than he anticipated. Three of the four rounds went wild, dusting up more sheetrock and doing no harm to the man. The fourth round passed directly through Legion's outstretched hand and into the thick wood of the back door. Legion stood there then and laughed. As he did blood sprayed out onto the floor and fine droplets settled on Anthony's cheeks. It hung there for a minute and began to burn, like battery acid. He dropped the gun and attempted to rub his face as Legion stood fully erect before him. Legion reached out and grabbed his hands down from his face and Anthony stiffened, not knowing what was to come.
Legion brought Anthony's hands down to his midsection, palms up. He was eerily gentle, which unnerved Anthony to no end. One by one, the spent rounds pushed their way back out and plopped into Anthony's outstretched hand. Then Legion took Anthoony's chin and tilted it up, making the two men's faces almost touch. To an outsider it looked as if they were about to share an intimate kiss. It wasn't a kiss they were going to exchange, but conversation.
"Now, Mr. Gutierrez, or shall I call you the father-that-was, Anthony, or Sir Shit-for-brains? You had to know, HAD TO that that peashooter of your wasn't gonna do a damn thing for you. It may have bought you a few precious seconds, that's all. But the fact remains that I will repeat my request of a decade ago. If you would kindly hand over those satchels, or boxes, or whatever houses the information these days, I will make your end quick."
"I don't have them anymore, Legion."
Charles stood up straighter then, a brief moment of shock at hearing his name spoken. This must be how all of those sniveling chimps felt as he called their unspoken names to them over the years. But in all fairness, was he really surprised? He knew the man had tracked him. He knew that Anthony had documented his movements, so why would it be outside the realm of possibilities that this man knew of the Legion Corp? He knew that this man had never been inside, as he would not have lived long enough to exit the same doors he entered by. But that was not to mean he had not been outside to structure, taking his photos and writing his scribblings. He simply nodded his head then and asked the man once more.
"Too bad, Mr. Anthony. I will ask you one more time, and one time only. If you have those items here, I will find them one way or the other. It can be the easy way, and you will pass on to your God in some really passive manner, or I can make things really REALLY hard here, and find them after your smoking soul is sitting near my throne for me to entertain myself with until I tire of it. Now make a move, bucko. Checkmate."
"I swear I don't have them. I knew this day would come. I felt you invading my mind, my dreams, my thoughts. I knew you would come for me soon, as you have. But my smoking soul is something you will not ever have, As MY LORD WILL COMFORT ME! HE WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO.."
"SHUT UP MAGGOT! YOUR LORD IS NOT HERE NOW! I AM THE ONLY ONE HERE FOR YOU TO PRAY TO OR GROVEL AT!!!"
With that Legion pulled the man even closer, bending Anthony over backwards until his back protested. Once again their faces were mere inches apart, and gravity caused the escaping noxious spittle from Legion's speech to fall into his own open mouth. Legion spoke again, and in a eerily calm, smooth baritone voice.
"Now, since you have chosen the hard way, as I knew you would here is how this is gonna go down. First, you will feel pain. A lot of pain. You will bleed, but not die directly. You will soon pray for death, but it will not come until I am done showing you the very first of many object lessons. Your mind will go insane at the things I will show you. Your soul will thirst, your thoughts will twist, and your very conscience will be at my mercy. And once I am done, I will tear this house apart until I find what I seek. if you speak the truth and it is not to be found then I will go and seek elsewhere, starting with every single member of your primate family until each in turn winds up a smoldering heap of clay and bone. See you on the other side, Father." With that Legion tore out Anthony's tongue and tossed it into the sink. Anthony tried to scream, but could not. He tried to flounder his way loose from the Devil's grasp, but failed. He was carried into the same living room that he and Walt had had their coffee and comraderie. He was placed on the floor and nailed to it with steak knives from the kitchen, on his back in front of the same fireplace that offered them warmth that evening. Legion's face transformed into an undescribable shape that the mind of a mortal man could not compehend and Anthony felt himself go insane. But Legion spoke the truth. By Midnight he was praying for death. By three in the morning he would have licked the boots of the very entity that tortured him now, provided he still had his tongue. And by daybreak, when Charles Legion had departed the house, Anthony Gutierrez's soul had departed the earth. But much to Legion's dismay the soul would not be his for the taking. Despite the dark power and evil intentions, Legion still had no control of a man's soul. Upon being reminded of the fact, Legion went into a rampage, cursing and defouling the name of God, tearing the house to shreds, and still never was redeemed in either finding the lost documents nor being awarded the soul of former Father Gutierrez. Legion did walk away with something useful, however. A name. Summers. John Summers.

part of Chapter 7:


Chapter 7
February 16, 1984
12:15 P.M.

Smoke drifted up lazily to the ceiling from the pipe stuck jauntily from the corner of his mouth. He loved the sweet aroma of the apple tobacco. He never really inhaled any of it; he just let the the pipe sit in the all to familiar spot and fill the air with its scent. His old college psychology professor as well as the young and dapper Prof. Johnson down the hall (Duke's answer to his own past teacher) would agree. It was more than likely an oral fixation stemming from a bad childhood or some hokie shit like that. His third ex-wife would have agreed, as she never liked the habit and told him repeatedly that he might as well put pickled cat's ass in his mouth. You know that stuff will give you cancer. Hell, breathiing gives you cancer. Next week the Surgeon General would probably hold a press conference and tell the American people that carpet will give you the big "C". Or too many popsickles. It was something new every day.
John Summers sighed his trademark theatrical sigh and walked over to his antiquated record player. He caressed the wood, still shiny after five decades, and smiled at the fact that after going through four nasty divorces, losing his retirement and life savings, and paying child support for now six children he still held on to this one gem. It was the one family heirloom that none of the women could take from him. He opened the lid and placed the needle on the lone record he kept at the office. Sinatra. Ahh yes. A good pipe, Sinatra playing in the background, and the lunch break that he alrady could tell was waning quickly. What more could a man ask for? He smiled and returned to his desk, eyeing the mid-term exam papers sitting on the corner. The stack looked ominous, sitting nearly two feet high. He had a sudden urge to knock them to the floor, gtab his grey tweed suit jacket and put the top down on his pride and joy 1971 Olds Cutlass. And then drive. East, all the way to the coast. Hatteras wasn't that far, and the beaches north and south as far as the eye could see would be deserted. He sighed another Summers' sigh and grabbed the paper sitting on top of the stack. Being the head Theology Professor had its advantages, and this was not one of them.
He placed his bifocals on the bridge of his nose and began to read. He had barely made it through the first page when he was startled by the iinterrupting knock at his frosted glass door. John peered over the top rim of the frameless lens at the back of the glass. He could read his name written backwards there and saw the shadowy shape that shifted from one foot to the other on the other side. With yet another patented sigh he dropped the paper back onto his desk and scooted his chair back. The younger professors here loved their rolling chairs, but his taste was more (eccentric) elegant. His was a leather backed Queen Anne-style office chair, fitting in the decor that he had hand picked. It was just one of the items he had brought back to the states during one of his hundreds of overseas jaunts and excursions. John approached the door and placed his hand on the cool brass knob. Little did he know that the man standing on the other side was about to complicate his studious and simple life. Little did he know that this man was about to awaken a facet of John's own interest he thought was long-dead. He opened the door to see a man in his late thirties. He was dressed in a semi-faded pair of blue jeans and a black button-up shirt. His black hair was semi-long in the back (a pre-mullet if you will) and beginning to show a trace of grey at the temples. A simple pair of faded black cowboy boots completed the picture. In his left hand he held a simple manilla envelope. John could see the edges of several papers sticking out. The man had his right hand stuck out in an offering of a handshake. John shook the hand of Walter Higgins for the first time and instantly felt the connection.
"Mr. Summers?"
"Yes sir, that would be me, at least, the last time I checked. And you are?"
"Walter, Walter Higgins."
"Pleased to meet you, Walter Walter Higgins."
The man was obviously a smart ass or very wiity. Walter figured that it was a fine line that was more than frequently blurred With Mr. Summers.
"How can I help you, Mr. Higgins? I am on my lunch hour, which is growing shorter by the minute, and I have a stack of paperwork to do that rivals Mt. Shasta."
"I am actually here by request of a man you know. Anthony Gutierrez. He told me..."
Summer's eyes brightened and the smoking pipe almost fell from his lips when he smiled. He interrupted Walter in mid-sentence. "Tony! I'll be! How is he doing?! And how do ya know him?"
"Well, part of that is the reason I drove here. I actually met him at St. Augustine's back ten years ago. We've grown close since and shared a lot. As a matter of fact the single-most important thing that he shared with me is the sole reason I am here. Mr. Summers, We need to sit and talk a few minutes, if you will give me the time. At least today. This is a discussion and there are things that I can only hint at here. We need to meet at another location when you have several hours to spare to fill in the rest. I cannot stress how important this was to Tony, and how important it is for the rest of us as human beings."
John Summer's mood darkened and his genial disposition became instantly serious. He stood aside and motioned for Walt to enter the office. As he did, John walked behind him and closed the door before speaking.
"Walter, If Anthony sent you here it had to be important. And if my suspicions are right, you have something in your possession that you think may be difficult to present?"
"Your suspicions are true, Mr. Summers. To be perfectly frank I have some doubts as to Walt's well being at this very moment. What I am about to show you was so important to him that he risked and still risks his own life to protect and preserve it."
"Please, John is fine. And may I call you Walt, as Tony did?"
"Please. Walter is too formal for my taste anyway."
"Very well then. I have a 1:00 class, but my T.A. can handle the first part if need be. Something tells me this is more important than talking to a group of young adults about the topography of biblical Mesopotamia."
Walt shook his head in agreement and accepted the chair that John presented. Once sitting he slid the manila envelope across the desk for the man's inspection, inadvertently knocking a handful of exams to the floor. Ever the tidy college professor, John reached down and placed them back on the stack without even looking at the floor. His eyes were tranfixed by the closed folder.

Legion drove northeas back on I-95 again. The midday sun was bright and he squinted at the pattersn of swirls and stars it made as it reflected off of the aged windshield of the Torino. His Ray-Ban sunglasses did little to shield the light. He hated, absolutely deplored the sunlight. He thought long and hard about his decision to drive to New York in the daytime hours. He was now less than an hour away and the sun, combined with the ever-increasing traffic, did little to lighten his mood. He knew that Cummings wouldn't be expecting him, and that was fine. He had no doubts that business was being taken care of in the best possible manner.

OK! Rest of Chapter 7: (It actually starts at the beginning of the last paragraph from above, so the first few sentences are repeated.) Enjoy! -Dave

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Legion drove northeast back on I-95 again. The midday sun was bright and he squinted at the pattersn of swirls and stars it made as it reflected off of the aged windshield of the Torino. His Ray-Ban sunglasses did little to shield the light. He hated, absolutely deplored the sunlight. He thought long and hard about his decision to drive to New York in the daytime hours. He was now less than an hour away and the sun, combined with the ever-increasing traffic, did little to lighten his mood. He knew that Cummings wouldn't be expecting him, and that was fine. He had no doubts that business was being taken care of in the best possible manner. Several cars passed him on the left, most of them trucking on by in their own little world. Once a child in the back of an insanely large station wagon with woodgrain down the side stuck his tongue out as the car passed. Legion smiled and thought "If you only knew what happened to the last brat that did that you would think twice next time, little one." If there was one thing Legion hated worse than sunlight it was Jersey. Legion remarked that it must have its own place right next door to Hell. Throw in a little sulphur and Bingo! Just like home. He had to laugh out loud at the thought. As he drove closer to the city his foot became a little heavier on the throttle. It seemed that the closer he got the slower time passed. He was actually looking forward to sitting in his leather office chair and look out at the city. The sights, sounds, and smells of the city comforted and relaxed him. There was just something about the concrete, steel, and towering buildings that put him at ease. The only thing that rivaled it was Ancient Rome and the stone streets. There was a civilized, sophisticated charm it brought, despite the fact that men had designed and built it. The stone and concrete held a coldness and unfeeling reserve at all times. They could not be reasoned with, made to feel as if they required more and more, and never felt pity. Long after the flesh-maggots were long gone these would remain. They would stand as a reminder, or a memory, of what once was to any future sojurners to happen upon The Big Apple. He stood at the window smiling to himself at the thought of a windswept and empty lower Manhattan for nearly fifteen minutes before there was a knock at his door. Without turning around he beckoned the person to enter his own modern-day version of the Fortress of Solitude. "Mr. Cummings, please enter, but leave your two companions outside a bit, if you will. We have much to discuss."

Summers looked at the folder precautiously while smoke continued to float lazily up to the slowly turning ceiling fan. Walter sat and watched the man like a student, hands folded on top of the few open areas of the desk's surface. Finally the man let out a very pronounced sigh (one that Walter would come to know well, and find much amusement in) and folded the top cover back. The first document was the familiar first page of dates. Cairo-June 08, 1935, Beijing-January 23, 1849, Stockholm-December 31, 1969, Leningrad-Summer, 1926. Summers noted that the list goes on for three more pages. He never once looked up at the younger man sitting patiently across from him. That was, until he came to the first of many photographs. He looked up, one eyebrow quizzically cocked over the rim of his bifocals. "Mr. Higgins, care to explain this?"
Walt looked over at the picture and saw that it was one of the photos taken of a concentration camp. The familiar emaciated faces peered, the naked bodies pale in the black and white light. The sun cast shadows from the chain link fence over their faces like spider webs. There was the familiar spent, emotionless, hopelessly lost look in all of the men's eyes. But there was one man off to the far right whose eyes were filled with pain and terror. From behind his right shoulder stood the figure in the black trench coat with the black, cold eyes. They were black from every perceivable border with an eyelid. He was grinning, and the sun actually glinted off of the white teeth. His right hand rested on the figure's right shoulder, the left was protruding out of the man's chest and seemed to be caught in mid-wave. And there was not one drop of blood. If there would have been it would have been in sharp black contrast against the pale man's skin. Especially in a black and white photograph. "That is one of many, John. The first of thousands. If you keep going you will see worse. And you will see the same man. A man that has a name that I will tell you once you are done with the folder. And when I do I doubt you will be surprised."
"Indeed, Walt. Well then, make yourself comfortable for a while while I look. There is water and tea in the case nearest the door. Sorry for not having anything stronger, as the office does not exactly smile upon the notion."
Walt nodded in agreement and was thankful to be spared the chore of looking at the contents yet again. He walked around the perimeter of the office, taking in the details about the man sitting at the desk. You could tell a lot about a man based upon the things around him.
The bookcases lined the left and right walls, and were filled to the brim with books, pictures, and foriegn treasures beyond count. Walt noted that the vast array of texts ranged from what looked like a first edition of "The Origin of Species" by Darwin, to a Bible written in Hebrew. For all he knew it could have been the first ever printed. The authors ranged from Stephen Hawking to Stephen King. From Marx to John Kennedy. There were even a few bound notebooks that looked like handwritten journals. He picked one up and noticed that it was, in fact, a journal. One written by the late Albert Einstein himself.
"You have Einstein's journal!?"
Summers paused and gave Walt a look that he took to mean "Yeah, and?" and smiled a little. "There are four known to exist, ranging from different periods of the man's life. I have the one he created from his early to mid thirties. And if that gets you, wait until you see the ones I have at home. Ever heard of Fredrick Douglass?"
"The Underground Railroad activist, right?"
"Well, the man was much more than that, my dear Walt. Much more. His is in a glass case hidden away in my personal library. Signed, dated, and with his personal drawings of the day. The man was a great artist, among many other things."
Walt just gave the man a shocked expression until Summers smiled and puffed his pipe, returning to the task of flipping through the papers on his desk. Walt continued to look at the contents of the cases. There were photos of deserts, temples in Jerusalem, Mosques, mountains, and in each one Summers would stand with his pipe jutting from the same corner of his mouth, despite the age ranges depicted in the pictures. The man was well travelled, that was for certain. From the look of the pictures he had been to every holy city and shrine on the planet. There was even one of him standing on a set of steps with a giant statue of Buddha behind him. Buddha seemed to be grinning through a pre-picture puff of smoke from the pipe. Walt wondered how long the man had had the same pipe he now smoked, and how many different secrets only he and it shared.
John Summers shut the rear flap of the folder and rapped it on the desk, straightening the papers within. He took off his bifocals and gestured for Walt to sit. Walt brought him a cool glass of water and refilled his own. John accepted it graciously and after a long drink, the professor spoke.

"Cummings! How are you doing old friend?" Cummings was half-kneeling at the back of Legion. Legion spoke yet again without turning around.
"Oh for crying out loud, get the hell up! Now, fill me in on our status before I tell you of my tale."
"Sir, things are on schedule. We purchased three banking institutions just this week, and look at four more in the coming month. The armory is filling up faster every day, and we even managed to get a fighter."
Legion turned to face Cummings then, with one eyebrow raised in a quizzical manner. "Fighter? I assume you mean the plane, and not Rocky Balboa?"
Cummings uttered a small, nervous giggle. "Yes sir, I do mean plane. It is an F-16, but without the provisions just yet. But not to worry. I have Jamie Teague working on that as we speak. Says he might actually be able to get his hands on a little plutonium as well. Can you imagine!? That would be so..."
"Yes, I can imagine, Cummings. I assume he has the forethought of what to do with it once he gets it? Just a bit of plutonium without the trimmings is like shitting with no toilet paper for you people. You are just stuck there with no options. Understand my analogy?"
"Yes sir, very much so. Sprague is also up for a Senator's spot in Arizona as well this year. If he wins then we have our foot in the door in Washington as well. But I'm sure..."
"Cummings, we already have our foot in the door. Both feet, actually. And yes, he is going to win. Trust me. And in '88 he will win the White House. It has been arranged. Or 'It has been written' if you will. Perhaps you would understand that reference a bit better. Now stop wasting my time and tell me where we stand with the purchase of the computer manufacturer. It was on the top of the list I left in your keep."
"Going well, sir. We are seperated by only a few hundred thousand dollars from coming to an agreement. I think..."
Legion's eyes flashed dark and his voice rose a full octave. "Think!? And no agreement yet!? Better get on the ball, Cummings! Since when has money been an issue here? Really? Now once we get done here you had better move your ass and get me a signed agreement by the end of the week! But before that I need some research done. There is a man by the name of John Summers. I need every iota of information on this guy. I want to know every detail all the way down to what size underwear the shitbag wears. I want a location, and I want it all by morning. Matter of fact, better move on and get it done."
Cummings spun like a buck private dismissed by a drill sergeant. He reached out and grabbed the door knob. He thought he had made it out easy when he felt breath on the back of his neck. Legion had crossed the room silently and now stood at his back. He leaned down and whispered in Cumming's ear. "It would behoove you to not screw this up and let me down, my chap. Tomorrow morning. The info." Cumming swallowed hard and exited the room with his eyes closed. He knew Legion spoke the truth. He also knew that he sure as hell did not need to falter in the least. He entered the elevator and pressed the button to go the the third floor. He had to get some research done, and he had a feeling it was gonna be a very long night indeed.

"Well, Walt, Here's the deal. You have seen my texts, my pictures. You know Tony referred me for a reason. There is a scope and depth of my expertise that you have not began to scratch the surface of. If this all boils down to what I assume it does then I will have quite a bit of insight and, of course, questions. But first I have a question for you."
"Sure. I mean, I'll try and answer it the best I can."
"Very well. Do you believe that evil is inside of all men, just needing a catalyst to bring it forth, or do you believe that evil is a stricly outside, benevolent influence?"
"Speaking of pure evil? Talking about the evil of this man, if you want to call him that? Or are we talking of evil in the world in generalities? Each is a different case, in my opinion. Forgive me for not having the theological insights and knowledge that you have. Mine is less than Anthony's was. By far. And to compare it to yours, to me, is not a do-able thing."
"Indeed they are different. The evil of this man is beyond the scope or the ability of mankind, based on this information. Pure evil is also beyond mortal men. We cannot create it, but outside influence, or a manifestation of Satan, can transform a man to become something that in the natural world he could not have become otherwise. But as a generality, evil, in my opinion is in us all. No man has been sinless or without evil since Adam. But sin and evil intent are two different things again."
"True, and I agree. But I'm afraid I'm missing the point of your question."
"What I am trying to do is get you to look inside yourself and your gut feelings and tell me which category you think this falls into."
"No question in my mind. This 'man' is evil incarnate. John, these are pictures of none other than the Devil, in my honest opinion. And as icing on the cake, he goes by the name Legion."
John started at the mention of the name and nearly dropped his empty pipe on top of the folder. "Well, as shocking as it may sound, I tend to agree. Strictly speaking in terms of what I have seen today. And you say you have more?"
"Yes, nearly four large boxes full."
"Then Friday if it's ok come to my house and bring the rest. I'll give you the directions. I presume there will be much to go over, so we will make it early. Say, around 6:00 P.M.?"
"That's fine by me, John."
Summers jotted down the directions along with a crude roadmap and handed it over to Walter. "One last thing before you go. I believe we should call Tony. This has me a bit concerned about the ole' boy."
Walter nodded his head in agreement and Summers picked up the receiver. He thumbed through the Rolodex on his desk and dialed the number. After a frown he tried it again. And a third time. He looked up at Walter with a look of concern on his face.
"It's only a busy signal. And Tony has call waiting. I have a very bad feeling about this, Walt. A very bad feeling indeed."
Walter asked for the phone and John handed it over. Sure enough the busy signal was there. It was a sound so alien and full of despair it sounded like it was in another universe. Walter reached over and disconnected the call before dialing a series of numbers. After a few clicks the phone rang. Twice. The voice on the other end was too flat and emotionless in that instant.
"Hello, Philly P.D. Lieutenant Rogers speaking. How can I help you?"

Chapter 8
February 17, 1984
8:10 A.M.

Legion stood at his familiar place by the window, looking out at the sun's rays as they danced and slid further up the sides of the skyscrapers. Cars, people, and countless taxis bustled to and fro. Everyone had places to go, people to see, money to make. Such was life in the 1980's. Legion reminisced about the days before now. Even a couple of decades back life and the human race had not been this self-involved. As much as he loathed these creatures he still respected their ingenuity and recent (if you look at the last 100 years or so) technological leaps. He was thinking about Glen Armstrong of all people when the familiar knock came at the door.
"Come in, Cummings. And shut the door behind you."
Cummings did as he was told and stopped several feet short behind Legion's back. As much as he honored and felt he owed this man he still felt uneasy being within an arm's reach. Hell, he felt uneasy being in the same room as the guy. He knew what the man really was, and had never really seen his true form, thank goodness. If he had he believed he would have run out into the street insane and bleeding from both eyes. Truth be told that was really too damn close for comfort in reality. But all told the man had rescued him from certain death out there in the no-man's-land of a foreign land. He had saved him from his own self-destruction. And he had made him a veritable "2nd in command" in the Legion Corp. He had gone from a madman with nothing, roaming alone and bloody in a desert to a life of ease. He had a very large house, even if you take the New York real estate out of the equation. He had the cars, the booze, the women, pretty much anything he wanted. And it was all due to this man. All he asked in return was service and loyalty. And Daniel Cummings would serve, fight, and even give his life for this man now. And Legion knew it just as well as he did.
"Sir, I have all the info we could find. It's all here." Cummings made as if to hand it over to the back of the man in the black trench coat. Without turning around Legion spoke.
"Don't hand it over just yet. To tell the truth I really don't feel like reading it all right this minute. Why don't you give me a rundown of what you have and we will go from there."
Cummings always felt a twinge of fear when Legion just seemed to know things. How he knew that he had been holding out the papers was just another example.
"Sure, Sir. Umm.. Summers. Ok. We actually have seven of them right now living in the U.S. Two more in Europe, and one more in Australia."
"I believe you can rule the ones across the pond out, Daniel. Tell me more of the ones stateside."
"Ok. We have one in California, one in Wyoming, two in Texas, one in Alabama, one in North Carolina, and one in New Hampshire. And I have statistics and information on each."
"What are the occupations, Daniel?"
"Well, one is a construction worker, one a welder, two are teachers, well, one is. The other is a college professor. One is a bank manager. One more is a seminary student, and the last one is unemployed, but was a lawyer. He is currently disbarred."
Hmm. Seminary student. Lawyer. Teachers and a bank manager. Interesting. I'll bet if ole' Chappy Gutierrez would have been thinking the name it must be a close friend. Maybe even one he could have passed the documents over to. And If I was a betting man, and I am, by the way, I would start with a seminary student or a lawyer. Where is the student?"
"Abilene, Texas. The Lawyer is in New Hampshire."
"Alright then. Give me the papers and go about finalizing the computer takeover. I want it done in the same manner as this was. I'll call you with my decision on where to go from here. I will not go alone this time, as you will be left here to run things, as usual. I want five good men. Five accurate shooters. Get me a list of potentials by afternoon and I will also mull that over. The team will leave Friday night for whichever one of these Summers' I think fit the bill the most. That is all."
Cummings took the hint and wasted no time whatsoever making his exit. Legion waited for the door to close fully as he looked out at the sea of yellow cabs below. He frowned and turned to sit at his black stained executive desk. He began to scan the information on each paper carefully. After he was done he laid his chrome paperweight on top of a single sheet of paper. John Summers, seminary student in Texas would be having visitors this weekend. And they weren't what one would call the most approachable of company, either.
February 20, 1984
5:48 P.M.
Walter sat outside the front door of nothing short of an estate. His Camaro's engine was silent, ticking as the headers cooled. An ornate fountain spat water into a crystal clear pool of water. The pool sat in the center of a grass basin fully fifty feet in diameter. It was ringed with symmetrical blocks of white granite. Birds chirped and danced their own version of the tango above his car, darting occasionally to rest on the shoulders of the cherub spitting water into the pool. He noticed that they were a blue color so vibrant that it didn't belong in nature. The day had been unseasonably warm, with temperatures flirting with the mid-fifties. Spring was only a month away, but it seemed to be teasing the entire eastern half of the state today. He was busy watching the birds when he heard the massive front door click shut. He peered out of the passenger window and saw a casually-dressed Summers standing on the bottom-most flat of the three steps that led to the front door. He was dressed in flat front slacks and a simple green polo shirt. His unruly grey hair had been contained underneath a hat that Walt associated with golfers. Or maybe it was Irish crime bosses. Either way it didn't matter. And to top off the ensemble was the trademark pipe. Even from here Walt could smell the apple scent of the smoldering tobacco.
"Walter! If nothing else I would say that you are a punctual man. Welcome to my humble abode!"
Walter smiled. His abode was anything but humble. It bordered on pretentious. He finally made the connection. It looked like a French Manor. It was the obligatory symbol of affluence that he saw on countless movies where there was fox hunting and tea parties. He was almost certain that at any moment a butler would emerge from the front doors and offer to take his luggage. Then a silver Bentley would come up behind him and let out a load of ladies dressed in skin-tight black dresses, complete with the elbow-length gloves. He smiled at the thought and actually laughed out loud.
"Well, are you planning on sitting in your obtuse American gas guzzler and laugh at me all evening or shall you join me for some conversation?" The man's eyes flashed amusement, but his voice held the slightest hint of annoyance. Walt couldn't tell which the case was.
"Certainly! Sorry, I was caught up in the view from here, I guess. You house reminded me of a thousand cheesy movies, I guess. No offense."
Summers turned around and looked at the front of his concave mansion as if it were the first time he had seen it. "Ha! None taken, and I guess now that you mention it it does seem like we should be planning a fox hunt or other snooty manner of recreation. But pardon me for a moment of levity. It is the only way I can cope with the passing of our dear friend. Which, of course, plays into this, and is a matter we will discuss later."
Walt thought that for a moment the man had read his mind. The thought caused a chill to race down his spine. He finally got out of the car and shut the door with a satisfying bang. "You wouldn't get that sound from a Bentley, now would you?" He thought to himself. He was actually surprised later to find that the man did not own some elaborate European car. It was one that followed his own tastes, in fact.
Fire crackled in the fireplace, and the light from it danced on the maroon curtains that adorned the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined two of the four walls of the study. It reminded him painfully of Tony and their last meeting. The Philadelphia P.D. had called him back on Wednesday afternoon. Once they confirmed his credentials as a former detective they afforded him the painful luxury of the details. Most of Tony had been in the living room, splayed out in front of the fireplace. The rest of him was nailed to the walls in several rooms, using his own fingers as the nails. Every piece of religious material was shredded. The crucifix that hung above his entry door had been driven through his heart and speared into the wall like a harpoon. The rest of the house had been trashed, with every single wall ripped from its base and tossed aside. They suspected a fanatic cult had done the damage. Walter knew that in fact, it had been a single entity that did it after flying onto an indescribable rage. And the worst part was that Legion was still out there somewhere, searching for what he had just brought in from his trunk.
"Have a seat, Walt, and let's have some Crown, in remembrance of Anthony, and his service as both a servant of the Lord, and as a dear friend of many years ago."
Walter accepted the crystal tumbler and clanged it softly against the one John had. They sat in silence looking at the fire, both men wrapped in their own thoughts for several minutes until John cleared his throat and gestured toward the first box.
"Well then, let's see what we have in box number one."

Legion was standing by the window once again, looking out at the fading sunlight when there was a rap at his door.
"Enter, all of you. And close the door behind you."
Six men entered the room, led by Cummings. Each of them had the hardened look of a mercenary and the lack of emotion in the eyes that signified a calculating killing machine. Cummings gestured for the men to advance, and each took a knee in front of Legion.
"Stand, my sons. I assume Cummings has briefed you on our trip? If so then good. I have no doubts that each man, given the chance would lay his life down for me. There are no doubts in Cumming's mind about your abilities to act accordingly when needed. I ask you now, just once, can I trust his judgment? Is there a single one of you that would hesitate for a fraction of a second, or have any conscience issues with this?"
In a single, harmonious voice the group shouted a resounding "Yes Sir! We will serve!" Legion rocked back on the heels of his black boots and smiled. He then motioned for the group to join him at the conference table. Lying on the table at each chair was a single piece of paper. On it was the photo of the man they would be hunting for. It had his address, work address, and all information about the man. He was to be taken alive at all costs. If anyone located any documents stored in a mass quantity then it was to be delivered to Legion at all costs. Legion thanked each man individually and sent them onward to the armory, located in the basement level. They were to meet in one hour to depart for Abilene.

John looked through the contents of the first tote without speaking. He only puffed on his pipe. The sight of a man with his chemical release made Walt long for the days when he used to chew tobacco. He could almost taste the syrupy sweetness of the Levi Garrett as he sat there. He decided that the next morning would bring about a trip to the nearest store. There was no time like the present to restart an old habit. Besides, he needed and longed for the rush that the nicotine would bring.
Nearly four hours passed while John Summers methodically thumbed through each page, each picture. He was making small stacks of photos and documents, and Walt couldn't wait to see what connection the man was making. Finally John looked up at him and asked for his help to transfer each stack onto a large, stained oak conference-style table that sat in the corner. John waited until Walt had another tumbler full of Crown and Coke before he began to speak.
"What I have done is arranged the pictures with the corresponding documentation. Of course, it is based upon my memories of the places in which he and I have both been. Some things have changed over the years, but the scenery is the same. I am trying to establish a pattern or at least a chronological timeline. From there maybe we can attempt to understand why, or what he is doing. Possibly even where he may go next."
Walt began to speak and before he could John was up and across the room. "If you will excuse me for one minute, Walt, I'll be back. There is something I need to find, and it may take me a little longer than a minute, actually. So please, make yourself at home."
"Sure thing. I'll be right here when you get back."
With that John exited the room. Walt took the opportunity to take in his surroundings once more. He walked around the room once more, taking in the details with his detective's mind. What does any usual vistor see? What does the man with the eye for detail see? What hints are left to be discovered about this man that he had just met a few days earlier and entrusted everything to? What di the obvious things meant to adorn and decorate the room hide behind them? What did they destract the normal man from seeing? Was there a puzzle here waiting to be pieced together? Were there things he might find that would trouble him? Would they down right fill him with terror or confusion? There were a thosand questions in his mind, but Walter breathed deep and set them to the side. A mind full of jumbled thoughts does not register what the eyes show it. Sometimes the eyes skip important things that one should take note of. Sometimes they defiantly obscured the details and clouded them with the obvious. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them with a fresh sight. What did the room hold now? A fire. Set deep withing the deep red bricks of the fireplace. Above the fireplace, a mantle. On the mantle there were trinkets and a few small pictures. And behind one of the pictures there was a small black shape. Walter walked over to it and his eyes widened. He took a quick look over towards the door and verified that it was still closed and he was alone. It was wrong for a person to snoop so brazenly, but he felt like the move was well warranted and with good intention. He then turned back to the shape and with the easiest of motions, picked it up.
He knew right away what it was, down to the model. It was a completely black Beretta 92FS. He had seen many, and had carried a handgun just like it years back, before he carried the H&K he now had. And he noted that it was the one that had the 15 round capacity. Interesting. Now why would a man, no, a professor, with such a sophisticated, superior, laid back aire have such an item sitting in his study, partially (and very poorly) hidden on a mantle? Walt placed the gun back exactly as he had found it and moved on. There were countless books in the cases. None seemed out of place in this room, as far as he could see. All of them were remarkable in their own way, as some had to be over a century old. He did note that there seemed to be and entire shelf devoted to witchcraft and demonics. Not out of place considering the man was one of the country's leading theologians, and a professor of the topic. There were more framed pictures, all of them in the same silver frames, and all of them of middle-eastern locales. Walter did note that the pictures not only served as decoration, but they were used to seperate the rows of books by topic, or genre. If there was one thing about Mr. Summers, one could say he was an anal-retentive neat freak. But Walter sensed more. Much more. For some reason Tony had sent him down south to entrust all to this man. For some reason John knew or posessed something either in his personal belongings or his inner self that would prove to be a deciding factor. He then moved to the rows of pictures and documents that John had systematically placed on the table. In several stacks the connection seeemed clear. In others it was barely there, if not obscure. In yet more there seemed to be no connection whatsoever. John had placed most of these stacks on top of a single, blank piece of paper. He moved on to the last bookcase. He noted that it was nearly identical to the first. Both were stained a deep mahogany color. Both were very expensive, complete with under-shelf lighting on each row. This one seemed different somehow to him, though. He looked at the books held in it. There were still more religious titles and collections. There were more pictures of more worldwide locations. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. "Don't look at just the pictures, Walt. Look into the pictures. Look at the details within. Look at what is around the focal point of the photos. Don't just look at the bookcase, look beyond the case. See what is meant to be disguised, if in fact it is there." He told himself these things over and over and finally opened his eyes.
The undershelf lighting was a subdued amber color. The two lamps at either corner of the room were of the same hue. The fireplace emitted its own amber warmth. The earth toned brown walls complete with their complementary maroon curtains completed the scene. It was a room designed to be relaxing, warm, inviting, introspective. This room was designed as an escape, a refuge from life's stresses. It was a place to sit in warmth and indulge in the literary works that filled it. Or the apple-filled scent of a late evening pipe. It was not a sunny room, nor was it decorated as a light, airy, summertime escape. Why would a room decorated so have two entire walls that were comprised of nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows? Walt had missed this detail when he first entered. But now he saw it. The books and the pictures were a decoration, a sham. It was if they were placed here as a facade, to make the visitor think that this was the study. Walt looked at the bookcase on the adjacent wall again. It stood against the wall, yes, but not as much on one side as the other. It had been moved, or maybe even placed there at an angle. It was then he saw the small, nearly hidden casters on the bottom of both cases. They were mobile. Which meant that they were not necessarily a permanent fixture. Why would this man go to such lengths to create the environment, and all by himself? Walt began to feel very uneasy about Mr. John Summers. There was something the man was hiding. There was some reason why he went to great lengths to lull the average visitor with a crackling fire, warm lighting, and brandy. This individual was much more complicated than first impressions awarded.
Walt decided to take another look at the pictures, as if driven to do so. He noticed Jerusalem in a lot of them. He recognized it from the news. Well, at least some of it. Some of the buildings in the pictures no longer existed thanks to Lebanon. It seemed that it was in the news every day now. Lebanon, Israel, Egypt. It occurred to him that even since biblical times there were always wars and conflict in that region. And sojurners of truth, like Mr. Summers appeared to be at first. All of these pictures were in the same case. The second case held pictures from other locations throughout the world. There were several of Stonehenge. Two of the Nazca lines. Yet another of a temple somwhere in southeast Asia. And one of Macchu Picchu from a distance. And one of the front of it up close. It was this picture that stopped his wandering eyes. There was an eroded symbol in the center of one of the walls. It was a symbol that he had seen before. It was a symbol that was in a few of the pictures on the table. Walter managed to walk calmly back over to the table, but with great restraint. He made an effort to keep the system intact that Summers had begun, but his hands flew from one stack to the other. It had to be here. He knew it was here somewhere. When he felt panic begin to take over he finally found the stack he was searching for. It was near the end of the table, in the top right corner. The newest data, compiled within the last twnety years or so. He finally found the first picture and his breath caught for a brief second. Just as depicted in the picture of some ancient Incan ruins, the symbol stood out above the title of a building in New York. This one was not eroded by centuries of weather and countless bloodshed. This one stood as a symbol of future weathering of man's spirit and further bloodshed. It had an embossed sun with a single serpent wrapped around it. Whether the serpent served as protection or a chocking threat was up to the eye of the beholder. He nearly dropped the picture when he heard the door open again. Summers stood there with a smug smirk on his face. In his hands he held a box full of papers and a set of keys.

I've read up to end of Chapter 5 today, and will return to this tomorrow I hope.
A great story again Dave!

OK, I've read it all up to date now.
Bloody good stuff!

Hey thanks! I would like to say that there is more coming soon, but I need to stop and think about direction from here. I have another chapter and a half written, but don't really like it as much, as it feels a bit forced, or a bit rushed. It has a lot of interesting twists and a major development, but I really want it to fit and flow a bit better than it currently does. So I am taking a small break from it and thinking. I actually have the first page or two of a third book written, hoping that it would bring about a change in this one. The third one is another post-apocalyptic one, and from a first person point of view with journal entries rather than chapters. Kinda hard, as carrying a first-person account through an entire story may prove to be boring and/or hard to bring continuity to. Hopefully soon I can get back on Diablo and make something better out of it, and actually make it a novel-length story that does not feel drawn out with too many far-fetched (as if the plot itself isn't!) characters and plot lines.
I am trying really hard to make this one better than Evolution. I go back and read Evolution and I want to hack it to pieces and refine it to an exponential level. It is childishly written, rough as hell, and at times, boring. So it is so important to me that I make this one that much better. I will continue to post more of Evolution in the other thread, being as it is, untouched and unedited. Hopefully others will read it as well and have some feedback, good or bad. I know a lot of the weak points, and recognize them myself. So to repeat, I am trying hard to make this one a different caliber of story, so stay tuned, and thanks again for the comments!

OK Dave! - hopefully we'll see more of Diablo sometime in the future.

I can see what you're saying about Evolution, and of course it needs editing and so forth. But at it's heart there's a very strong storyline that's already well fleshed-out. A good re-write will make a very good (& very publishable) book out of that one!

And already working on a 3rd one? :rock: - keep it up.

Will do, my Irish friend, will do. (I am very close friends with an Irishwoman born and bred. She's lived in the states for a decade or so now. Married my best friend. I absolutely love her accent and stories. So, as she would say "I'd like ta hear some stories from ye, ya wanker!" :) PM me sometime. And I'll continue to post more of Evolution in the meantime. And get back to this one maybe next week or so. Thanks again, Man!

OK. Here is that chapter I was fighting with in my mind. I finally decided that I needed to press onward and just post the damned thing as is. I'll go back and maybe change it in the future, but for now, the show goes on. I'll roll with it as it stands and hopefully it will be the least-liked (personally) chapter of the story to come. I had things in my mind that wanted to come out, as to build in the characters and some future developments, but struggled with exactly how to introduce it. So it is what it is...and it may make more sense and fit as the book develops. I felt as if it were time to proceed, as I very well may have a new job working third shift, six-seven days a week, 10-12 hrs a day. That will seriously cut into my writing time. :pullhair: So, here it is. More to come. -Dave.
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Chapter 9
February 17, 1984
11:05 P.M.

Legion sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban, looking out at the Tennessee countryside fly by under the cloak of night. Jimmy Lane, one of the five men Legion had drafted for the mission, drove faster than most. Legion had no qualms whatsoever about it, as he knew any situation that arose would be handled in an expedient and thorough manner. If one of these country bumpkin officers out here dared pull them it would only be a minor setback, and one that would cost them only a few minutes of their time. Legion would have rather driven, as he found a personal satisfaction in being behind the wheel himself. But Lane had insisted that the Master be driven, as if he was royalty. So be it. At least Legion could sit and reflect once more, counting his chickens yet again before they hatched. He expected a tussle once they arrived the college (McMurry. It's called McMurry and they produce hordes of preachers and self-proclaimed holy men), but he didn't anticipate a firefight. If one happened to erupt he was prepared to sacrifice any number of his men to quell it. He also knew the men would stand and fight to their own demise, if the situation called for it. The serpent-that-was smiled to himself, comforted in the fact that he had so much control over these beings he loathed. They were making good time now, as Kentucky was nearly an hour behind them. He absent-mindedly plucked lint from his trench coat as the men bantered back and forth.
"What do you think Reagan is gonna do about Egypt if he gets re-elected this year?"
"Kill 'em all for all I care, let God sort 'em out."
"Come on, Terry! You think they'll just sit and let us turn their country into a parking lot? Do you really think Gorbachev is going to let the chance to jump in pass him by?"
"Screw him and the horse he rode in on. I ain't got no use for no damn Commie. They damned near killed my unit back in '81. I'd personally like to show them a thing or three myself."
"Terry, you're so full of shit! I was in your unit if you remember! All we did was sit back and play poker while the black ops were mowin those bastards down like a hayfield. We didn't so much as fire a single sumbitchin bullet then and you know it!"
There was much laughter and Butch was taking several playful shots to the ribs coutesy of Terry. The men's boyish exchange only amused Legion slightly. These men were so hardened, but yet so soft at the same time. The time for jokes and jeers would soon pass. "Let God sort them out, indeed." Legion thought to himself. The mental image of the Lord sorting out souls like spare change amused him more. He stole a look at Butch in the rearview. The man could'nt have been more than twenty five. Despite his age Legion felt like the man could be a harder case than any of the others. He had an icy coldness in his eyes and looked at other men with so little regard. His smartass side and jaded outlook would serve him well. As would his intellegence. He was far more crafty and observant than the others, and once they got back home Legion had a plan for the man. A stellar future awaited Mr. Frank (Butch) Stevens in the Legion Corp provided he did his duty well this time. Jimmy reached down and turned on the radio to help pass the time. They would have to stop for fuel soon, and perhaps some food. He needed a hot meal, and no sausages either. Pretty much equals Shinola on a bad day.

Summers placed the box on the one empty spot on the table and put the keys away in the front pocket of his slacks. He noticed Walter holding the picture of Macchu Picchu and smiled. The man was a bit smarter than he expected him to be, but had passed the test well. He turned his back to Walter and smiled further.
"Can you go in the office and get the paperclips out of the top right-hand drawer?"
"Sure thing, John. Which way?"
"Out the door, to the right, third door on the left."
Walter left the room and came back a few moments later holding the box. Summers turned around and looked him in the eye. There was a sparkle and light there that had been absent up until this point. Summers pointed at the table and his gaze never faltered. The two men stood there for several seconds in silence. What happened next forever changed Walter Higgins. Little did he know that these were the last moments of his life where he would wonder where a suddent thought or a phantom noise or smell came from. It would all become so clear to him as to why Tony had sent him here instead of making the journey himself. All of his questions about Summers would soon come into focus and be swept away. This was the moment when Walter Higgins' life became much more than just his own.
Summers' intense stare unnerved him, but he did not drop his eyes. He felt the sure, heavy weight of the H&K .50 caliber pistol pressing against his rib cage and knew that he could get to it if he needed to. Summers had the look in his eyes of a man suddenly aware and insane. He dared not drop his eyes to the mantle to see if the Beretta was still where he left it. He was in the process of shifting the box of paperclips to his left hand so he could have his right to draw if need be. The box gained exponential weight and Walter felt as if he was moving through a thick full body cast full of mud. He could hear the tick of the clock on the wall and the wind whip across the roof. He could hear Summers breathing through his nose. The man's mouth was drawn tight in a smile of either madness or sudden understanding. Sometimes the boundary between the two was thin. Walter could now feel the weight of the box rest in his left hand. He inched his right just a millimeter towards the inside of his coat when Summers' voice broke the silence. One could not say exactly that it broke the silence, as a sound never carried across the room.
"You will not need the gun, Walt. That is not our purpose here tonight."
John Summers' lips never moved but his voice was as clear and real as the sounds of the clock. The box of paperclips suddenly lost their weight as they fell from his hand and scattered across the polished hardwood floor of the "study". Walter felt his knees unhinge and the crystal clear ticking of the clock faded into the foggy semblance of the room. Summers moved faster than a snake and caught Walter before he could crack his head open on the hardwood.
"Be careful, there's paperclips all over the floor. Don't slip on 'em." was his final thought as he slipped away into the darkness that overtook him.

Legion walked into the 7-11 like he owned the place. The five other men were right on his heels. The three or four other patrons inside the store stopped their shopping for a brief second to register the six intimidating men enter. Once they seemed to go about their shopping the tension eased slightly. Mary Grizzwald placed her case of Pepsis and her loaf of bread on the counter. She hurriedly left the store with a single glance over her shoulder, not waiting for the eighty three cents change the clerk owed her. If it was going to hit the fan here tonight she didn't want to be anywhere around.
Legion passed the aisles slowly, taking in the variety of things he could gorge himself on. He couldn't remember when he had been this ravenous. It was as if his metabolism had increased tenfold the closer they got to Abilene. His eyes stopped upon a shelf with perhaps eight Texas-style cinnamon rolls sitting patiently for his greedy grasp. He grabbed them up and popped the entire bunch into the microwave next to the fountain drink station. He looked at the turntable slowly spinning and felt his stomach churn and groan in response. He then turned and grabbed two fistfulls of Slim Jims and placed them in the microwave with the liquefying pastries. Terry brushed past him and felt the heat rising off of Legion like a blast furnace. He noted that the man had broken out into a fierce wave of sweating and hurriedly paid for his two liter of Coke and left. He was about to tell the others that something was wrong with the boss when the clerk behind the counter shrieked. Butch pulled the nozzle out of the tank and placed it back into the side of the pump. He was halfway across the parking lot when he was passed by a sprinting Jimmy Lane. Jimmy had his shotgun out. Both men stopped short at the sight of Legion standing in front of the counter cramming fully wrapped cinnamon swirls into his gaping maw. The man's open mouth was the size of a dinner plate and his needle-sharp teeth glinted in the flourescent lights inside the store. He was following it up with the swollen Slim Jims when the woman shrieked again. Legion acted as if the world around him, filled with the screams of the clerk, didn't exist. He turned to look for more, black eyes bulging. He saw a stocked rack of potato chips and made for it. Lane tried to call out, his voice finally unfrozen, but was too late. The microwave sat on the floor near Legion's feet, the door hanging open and askew on one hinge. Legion tripped over it and fell face-first onto the linoleum covered concrete. Blood sprayed as his nose shattered. He rose from the floor, still grasping for the miscellaneous bags of Doritos and Ruffles. He rose to his feet for a brief second before careening onto the display and sending the bags flying in a thousand different directions. His hunger turned to fury as he arched his back and roared into the air inside the 7-11. Terry secretly thought that Legion looked like a three year old denied of a prize toy. The amusement quickly faded, however as the entity's voice echoed off of the distant hills and the entire front of the store exploded outward in a flood of glass and aluminum.
"AWW! GODDAMMIT! I AM SOOO FUCKIN HUNGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!BAHHHH!!!"
The clerk's shrieks stopped abrupty as her eardrums let go and blood poured out of her ruined ears. She managed to crumble into a semi-sitting position behind the counter when both of her eyes flew out of her head like an uncorked bottle. She slumped onto the cool linoleum like a wet bag of rocks and lie still.
Legion never noticed the woman or her demise. He grabbed another handfull of Viennas off of the nearest shelf and calmly walked out to the awaiting vehicle. As he walked past the open-mouthed men and into the passenger side of the Suburban he consumed the entire contents of his hand, cans and all. He looked at Butch once and muttered "Paperclips all over the floor, don't slip on 'em." The man's eyes were as black and blank as two pieces of obsidian glass. One by one the men piled back in in silence. Legion's fit had passed and his nose had grown back together by the time they got back on the interstate. Jimmy opened his mouth to ask Legion if he was ok when Legion cut him short.
"Shut your fucking yap, Lane. Not one word. From any of you. EVER. If this ever gets brought up again I will tear out your cursed spines and beat every last damn one of you to death with them. Now if you are done pondering the circus perfomance can you get a move on to Abilene, Lane?"
Legion never averted his gaze from the trees streaking by ini the Tennessee night as he spoke. In fact, none of the rest of them uttered so much as a squeak the rest of the night. The boss was pissed, and the boss was one crazy pissed off man they dared not cross. Not after what they had witnessed at the store.

Walter opened his eyes and noticed that he had been propped up against one of the book cases. Summers was at the table, humming and placing more photos from the box he had brought onto some of the stacks. Summers turned to him and smiled as he exhaled an exaggerated sigh.
"Walt, good to see you've joined the land of the living again." Thankfully this time his lips were moving. Walter stood again on two legs that threatened to spill him back over onto the floor. He joined the man at the table and looked at the new photos without speaking for a few minutes. He could tell right away that the pictues were taken with the same camera as the others that adorned the shelves in the room. The difference was that these had people in them. And in a few he could see an all-too-familiar face. It was the face that graced the multitude of photos that Anthony had given him. It was the face of Charles Legion.

"John, if there is any way you can possibly tell me what happened back there I need to understand."
"Certainly, my boy. See, there was something about you I picked up on the day you came to my office. I wasn't completely sure, so I waited. I left the room to get my box of extra pictures, you see? I knew that once I saw the man in your photos I had seen the face before. At various places and times. And thankfully I had remembered the face from some of my own. I don't have much, but what I do posess comes with a story. I left the room and knew what you were doing. I could see it as clearly as if I were you in here. There are so precious few of us in the world, you see?"
Walter opened his mouth to ask another question when Summers stopped him.
"You see? I knew you were looking around and could feel your thoughts as if they were my own. You told yourself to look beyond. You noticed the wheels on the cases. Then you noticed the symbol. I came back into the room and knew it was time to level with you about who we are, and where we go from here. So I tested you once more. With my back turned I told you to go get the clips, only I never spoke the request. I only thought it. You couldn't possibly fathom how ecstatic I was once you replied and left the room. I'm sorry for the scare. I never thought you would actually pass out on me. I guess the first time is always the scariest."
"But John, I don't understand. Few of US? What do you mean US? And how in the hell did you..."
"Walt, it's going to take some more time and understanding on your part first. I can't explain it all to you now. Most of it you wouldn't remember anyway. See, I have only met one other with the gift. Yours is strong. Very strong. Perhaps stronger than mine. All you need is to learn how to harness and pinpoint it. Use it, if you will. I'll attempt to show you how, but the process is really up to you. But we will talk more of the matter later. I believe now it's time to get down to some of the stories of my photos and how they fit."
With that Summers picked up a stack of papers and pictures. He handed them one by one to Walt as he talked.
"This is a picture you brought. See the top of the temple in the background? It is on Temple Mount. I have a picture of your man standing outside the same temple. Mine was taken in 1973, and the man looks the same as he did in your photo, dated around the same time. Seems that whoever the keeper of the documents was back then was in the old city during my time there. And if he and I both caught htis man on film it means that he was after the man that took your photo."
"Legion, John. He goes by the name Charles Legion."
"AHH! That explains the significance of the name on the building in some of your pictures. Wait, here's one. The Legion Corporation. I should have known, but really I'm not surprised." Even though he said it Walt could see a bit of a personal beating the man was giving himself by not making the connection himself.
"Anyway, Legion was there. I caught him on film and never gave it a second thought. I just assumed I had caught a fellow tourist in my shot. Who knew, right!? Had I known... if only.."
"I know, John. Thankfully I haven't had the misfortune of running onto him quite yet." Walt began to hink about the night in Virginia just the past week. Turns out he may have been a lot closer than he thought at one point. And what would Legion do if he only knew that what he was searching for had only been a few meters away? Walt thought to himself that it would have ended up badly for himself if Legion had.
Summers regarded him above the rim of his bifocals again. "You sure about that there, Walt?"
"Damn I hate it when you read my mind."
The men looked at each other for a moment and laughed.
"Walt, ole' boy, it almost seems as if you talk to me like we are some old married couple. I tend to object to the thought, no offense."

And one written just now...ahh. Good to be back at it again!
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Chapter 10
February 18, 1984
9:14 A.M.
Walt woke from his heavy slumber as a fighter would after ten rounds of being pounded by Joe Lewis. The morning sun threatened to burst through the heavy curtains of his room and blind him for life with their harsh rays of brilliance. His head felt as if it weighed fifty pounds, and his eyes felt full of sand. If he hadn't known better he would have thought he and Summers had gotten into several fifths of Single Barrel Jack the night before. Truth be told they each only had four or so tumblers of Crown the entire night. After the revelation they had reverted back to coffee and parted ways by one A.M. Much had been revealed and clarified the previous night. The soup had thickened to a point where Walter felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He hadn't bargained for all of this supernatural shit when he took the information from Tony. He didn't feel ready now or ever for the burden now weighing on his shoulders. He hadn't bargained for the position of pawn in a great chess game. But it was what it was. He had been dealt a hand and now had to play it or fold. Folding in this case did not mean walking away with a loss of a hundred bucks. It may very well mean his own life and that of countless others, including Summers. Apparently there were others like them. Many more, in fact. The sheer density that they held in the world's population had been diluted with the passing of centuries, but the fact remained that they were still here. Some had fallen to the power of the dark, the side led ultimately by Legion, but the majority that knew of their telepathic powers were on the right side of things. Summers had even divulged facts that even today seemed far-fetched and too surreal to have any roots in fact, not to mention logic. According to Summers one-tenth of one percent had the ability to alter reality. Another hundredth of a percent had the power to travel backwards (but for some reason never forwards) in time. Still yet there were others that Summers said would merit another conversation for another day. Walter pondered what new and exciting powers they might hold that were so far-out that Summers would only touch at the subject. They had boiled down to the fact that Walter had telepathy. Other than that tests had to be run and scans made to determine where in the echelon Walter fit, exactly. He was pondering the facts when the coffee finally decided to quit dripping into the pot. With a fresh steaming cup in hand he walked to the window and parted the shades, inviting the sun into the room. It was a new day and he looked out onto a world that he would never behold the same for a single second again. The birds still chirped, the trees still moved in the breeze. The buds would pop out in another few weeks and leaves would form. The mountains would stand, the rivers still run, the cars would continue to buzz along to their different destinations. But underneath it all Walt could feel this hidden world. It was if the trees, mountains, cars, and people were all just a painting on top of the Real World that lie underneath. It was if Earth existed in the same plane, but only a thin sheet of fabric holding the sham in place from another Earth. Experts would call it a dimentional dilemma. Walt thought of it as the brink of madness if one decided to ponder too long, or look into the deep blue sky too deeply. There might be the slightest bit of a shimmer in the painting that would threaten to push him over the razor's edge of sanity.

Butch pulled the Suburban into an empty parking space near McMurry's library. They had perhaps ten minutes until Summers' first class ended. Timing was everything in this game, it seemed. It was amazing what information Cummings could muster up when he was under Legion's figurative gun. He took one last look at the class itenerary and neatly folded it before placing it snugly into the sun visor. The air was crisp and clear down here, and the trees had already began to bud out. He thought longingly that one day he may move down to Texas to escape the dreadful cold of the northeast. One day. Maybe when their work was done and Legion released them from their service. If he played his cards right here today that day could very well come very soon indeed.
Legion shifted in his seat, feeling the slightest bit of nervousness threaten to rise in the pit of his gut. If it was there he fought to shroud it from the men. The last thing they needed after the previuos night was a sign of more weakness or any humanity whatsoever in him. He could feel the anxiety rise in the vehicle as they sat in silence. Butch placed the class schedule into the sun visor and it seemed to break the men from their trance. Jimmy was the first to speak.
"Say, boss, when we see the kid, Terry and I are to approach him, and Butch is going to just grab him up, right?"
Legion sighed a heavy sigh of frustration. Jimmy was a tough bastard, for sure. But slow. And being called "boss" was grating on his nerves like sand in a wound this bright morning.
"Yes, simple one. Please get it right when the time comes, if you can do that much for me. We've been over this several times now, and frankly I hope that your mind can grasp the concept once the time comes. And Lane?"
"Yes, boss?"
"If you call me 'boss' one more fuckin' time I'll kill you myself."
"Yes bo..er, Sir!"
"Legion will be fine, asshat. Look there! I see people leaving up ahead. Do any of you see Summers yet?"
Each man took the picture provided to them and took turns looking from it to the growing group of seminary students leaving the library. He almost proceeded to walk right past them when Lane redeemed himself.
"There! Right fuckin' there! In the red shirt and glasses! Hey! He ain't got no glasses in these pictures! Damn near missed him!" Lane was practically pissing himself as he fought to don his hat and get the door open at the same time.
"Well then move your asses, boys! Get him in the truck!" Legion sat on the edge of the seat now, peering through the windshield at the young man in the red shirt only a mere fifty yards away.
As if he felt their presence, John Summers raised his head momentarily to see two very large men emerge from a Chevy and walk in his direction. He dropped his gaze and quickened his step. He didn't know if the men meant to talk to hm or not, but they had maintainied eye contact for far too long for comfort. He neared the steps of the Psyc. building and attempted to blend into the fourty or so students that swarmed around him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and noticed that the men were gaining ground. The one in the black beret averted his eyes and found a very intersting spot on the sidewalk when Summers met his gaze. John dropped his armload of books and sprinted up the steps and into the hallway, merging with the sea of students. Ahead he pondered which door to slip into, and had to make his decision very quickly. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and knew something was very wrong with these two men. The doors closed momentarily behind him and he made his move.
Terry topped the steps first, followed directly by Lane. Ever the eager one, Lane reached around Terry and grasped for the handle. At the same moment a small group of oblivious women burst out of the door and smacked him directly in the nose with it, sending him reeling off of the left edge of the steps and onto the grass below.
"Damn it, Lane! Come on! We've got him now! You wanna piss Legion off today or what, man!?"
Lane picked himself up off of the grass and afforded the astonished group of women a scowl before following Terry back up the steps and into the hallway. The sea of students had eased some, but of the one in the red shirt there was no sign. Terry sighed and motioned for Lane to hurry up.
"Ok. He's gotta be in one of these rooms. You take the left side, I'll take the right."
"Gotcha!"
Terry opened the door to the first classroom and peered inside. The instructor looked over the top of his glasses and paused his monologue in an annoyed manner.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Terry scanned the room and saw that there were no other closed doors in which for Summers to dart in and hide. No student in a red shirt and glasses either, for that manner. "No sir, just looking." Terry closed the door and proceeded onward to the second. The instrutor gazed at the closed door for a second before shaking his head and continuing on with his speech. Terry glanced over his shoulder and saw that Lane had come up with the same result. As Lane proceeded to peer into a utility closet Terry grasped the knob and turned. The door was locked.

After a morning shower the world felt somewhat right once again. Walt put on a new pair of jeans and a fresh button-up basic black shirt, feeling the urge to visit the nearest convienence store now more than ever. There was a fresh can of Copenhagen with his name on it. He was going to go over to the school today and see if he could get Summers to talk further. There were so many unanswered questions burning in his mind and so many visions of what could happen. He needed some answers and some respite. He found his keys and opened the door to the sunshine. Upon double-checking to make sure it was locked he closed it behind him and descended the steps to the parking lot, fumbling with his sunglasses. At the foot of the steps he gazed up at the blue sky for a second, partly expecting it to roll back like a sheath and reveal some horrid winged mass of teeth and eyes surrounded by swirling clouds and lightning. The only thing he did see was the contrail of a passing jet high above and the silent blue of the stratosphere. He opened the door of the Camaro and welcomed the deeply-toned exhaust with a smile. It was a sound he could never tire of. Moments later he came to a halt outside a Wilco and walked inside for his refreshed habits.
"Mornin' sir! We got a Mt. Dew. That'll be seventy-five cents."
"Not so fast. I'll take two cans of Long Cut Cope as well."
The clerk turned around and placed the two copper-topped cans on the counter beside the drink and rang up the total.
"You want an empty ice cup, too?"
"Well, yeah! Thanks!" Walt blushed a little at the ease in which he had forgotten another crucial element when chewing or dipping. The clerk handed him the empty cup with a napkin neatly folded and placed inside.
"Hey, you have a good one, sir, and thanks for stopping at Wilco!"
"You too, Joey!" It would not occur to him at any point that he had never asked the kid's name that stood behind the counter. It did occur to Joey, however, as he peered down first to notice that he had forgotten his name tag today, and secondly to ponder if he knew the man from somewhere. He watched the man pull out onto the street and drive off, still trying to place him. Joey shook his head and began to ring up his next customer, not remembering this moment until several weeks into the future when it would happen a second time, only with a different man. A man with black eyes and a smooth voice.
Walter took out his pocket knife and carved along the lid, careful not to pierce the cardboard or cut his thumb. He should have done this while still sitting in the parking lot of the Wilco. It would have been a lot easier to "load up" without having to drive at the same time. He managed to get the majority of it in without spilling too much onto his lap. The long-lost burn and tingling wasted no time presenting themselves to him. He was barely a mile down the road when the nicotine now coursing through his system made his stomach flip. It was a feeling he remembered from the first time, and knew that it would soon pass and not return. Once you get used to the first few dips the nausea never comes back unless you quit and restart as he did. All he had to do was make it untill then without emptying his coffee onto the dash of his new car. He pulled up into one of the several vacant parking spaces near Summers' Cutlass. The car was constantly garaged, and the Butternut Yellow paint gleamed in the Carolina sun. Walter thought briefly that he and Summers should take a long ride in it come the first warm day and talk some more. As he opened his door and stood a fresh wave of dizziness came over him and then soon passed. Man, it had been a very long time, indeed. He smiled as he knelt down, retrieved his cup and walked toward Summers' office.

Upon discovering nothing offensive in the utility closet other than a stale mop, Lane shut the door and walked across the hall to see why Terry was struggling with the knob on the other door. Thick veins of frustration popped out on the sides of Terry's neck as well as his forehead. The man was built like a horse, as they all were. He struggled with the satin knob again and again. The heavy door never gave a single sign of budging either way. If there was one thing these schools did have it was some really heavy-duty construction work.
"Dammit Lane! It wasn't supposed to go like this! All we had to do was get out, grab the kid, get back to the truck and boogie. Now we got this happy shit goin' on. If we don't find a way in here soon Legion is gonna be pissed! And after last night do ya really want to see that? I sure as hell don't."
"Me either, man. Hey, I got an idea."
Before Terry could see him move Lane had his Glock out and flipped off the safety. He moved to tell the stupid bastard to stop. But if it was one thing they were all too good about it was drawing a weaon and using it faster than a snake could strike. Jimmy Lane fired off four rounds into the area around the knob and splinters of wood flew out onto the floor around them. The reports sounded like cannon fire straight from the Civil War in the hallway. It echoed off of the empty space and reverberated back to them tenfold. A lone student at the end of the hall promptly dropped his books and shit his pants in one proud moment. Terry looked up at Lane and before he knew it he had knocked the gun from his hand and smacked him once, hard, across the face. Lane's eyes flashed a bief moment of fury and Terry seriously thought a duel to the death was to ensue.
"What the fuck, Terry!? Dammit!"
"What the hell were you thinking, Jimmy!? We were supposed to do this the quiet way first! Now the shit is going to hit the fan and Legion is gonna come unglued on us!"
Jimmy Lane simply reached around Terry and pushed on the door with both hands. It swung open and banged hollowly against the wall on the other side. This time it was Lane that had his weapon out and walking into the room first. He quickly scanned the room, noting that all the lights were out. The light that seeped in through the slats in the blinds revealed a room identical to the first, only this one was utterly and completely empty. No class, no instructor, and no Summers. He turned to Terry and saw he bore the identical blank look of defeat and desperation on his face that he had. They both knew that Legion would not be pleased. There were a few more rooms to check before the hallway ended abruptly. Terry walked past the hulk of a man that partially blocked the doorway and saw that the professor from the first room had poked his head out and was peering at them like a mouse.
"GET YOUR ASS BACK IN THERE OR I SWEAR I'LL PUT A BULLET RIGHT THROUGH IT!"
The professor dissapeared as quickly as he had appeared and another door opened down the hall. Another professor with yet another rodent-like stare appeared and Terry walked down to him, gun drawn. He grabbed a handful of sweater and pulled the teacher out into the hallway, spilling him onto the floor. He then filled the doorway with his six and a half foot frame and peered inside. Among the screaming students inside was one red-shirted John Summers. His eyes met Summers and he felt as if they may be able to salvage this mission after all.

Legion turned to Butch and raised one single eyebrow. "Better get your gun, Butch, ole' boy. They've been gone too long now. You two stay with the truck. Casstevens, you get in the driver's seat. I believe that we might be needing a quick exit when the time comes."
Derrick Casstevens did as he was told and opened his door, ready to hop in once Butch got out. As Butch opened the door they all heard several shots come from inside the building. Casstevens dropped to one knee and pulled his pistol out of reflex, his eyes wide and white.
Legion slammed his door shut and motioned for Butch to enter the building. With a stromy look of displeasure Legion took off his coat and tossed over the hood to Derrick.
"Here, put this in the truck. And leave it running. We'll be in one helluva hurry once you see us coming back." Legion began to walk along the outside wall of the hall toward the fourth set of windows, his eyes growing wide and dark as he walked. If you wanted a job done right you had to do it yourself, it seemed.

Terry walked quickly into the room, gun levelled at Summers' terrified face. The students surrounding him fell to the floor, clutching their heads and sobbing. Most were pleading for mercy, praying, or doing both.
"Are you John Summers?"
"Me? umm...Yeah. I...Uh. I Uh, Don't know what I did. Mister, please..."
"Shut up. Come on. You're going with me. Resist and I'll shoot you in the leg for annoying my fragile sensibilities."
Summers hesitated and ran for the far side of the room in a futile flanking manuver for the door. He stopped halfway across the windowed wall when he saw the door fill once again with the girth of Jimmy Lane. Terry tracked him with the pistol, grimacing at the fact that he may indeed have to shoot this man. That was not part of the plan Legion had laid out. He was about to speak to Summers yet again when the windows directly behind Summers imploded and the young man of twenty-two was pulled out into the grass by his hair. Lane saw what was happening and bolted out into the hallway and back toward the doors to the steps below. He nearly bowled Butch over as he shouted for him to run for the truck. Terry was left inside the silent room full of terrified students holding his .45 and blinking in surprise.
Legion was walking quickly and dragging the flailing form of John Summers behind him like it was a toaster held by the cord. He had his hand deeply buried in the red shirt so hard that his knuckles were white. He arrived at the truck at the same time that an out-of-breath Lane and a surprised Butch did. They piled in and Legion screamed at Casstevens in a thousand voices. "DRIVE, YOU FUCKING STUPID CHIMP!"
Casstevens drove, leaving two deep furrows in the grass, and two matching black marks on the pavement once they had made contact with the pavement once more. In the rearview he could see Terry running and waving his arms.
"Keep driving, Derrick." Legion said in an even, baritone voice. Casstevens peered once more at the diminishing figure and felt sadness creep in. They had Summers, but left a man behind.

Chapter 11
February 18, 1984
11:59 A.M.
As Walter walked toward the front doors they opened before his outstretched hand. He started for a moment, thinking that after last night some new paranormal world full of mystical powers had been revealed. He laughed a little when a group of students emerged, heading out to their lunch break. Some of them looked at him in an odd manner, but most kept walking onward to whatever trans-fat filled delicacy their hearts desired. He walked onward and ascended the single flight of steps that led up to Summers' office. Another small group of students passed him on the staircase and he exchanged glances with one of the young females in the group. He couldn't help but smile despite himself. He looked back over his shoulder to steal another look and noticed that she had done the same. Her long black hair shone almost as much as her perfect smile, even in the absence of sunlight inside the building. He felt his pulse quicken and his smile grew even wider. She offered a small wave across her shoulder and disappeared along with her counterparts into the bright sunlit day. Walter stood in the vacant staircase smiling to himself for another second or two and shook his head. Appaerently he still had "it", or at least a semblance of the "it" he once had. Or maybe it had just been way too long since he had enjoyed the company of another human being other than that of his ever-increasing apocalyptic brotherhood. Either way it put his troubled mind at ease quite a bit in that moment. He actually began to whistle as he climbed the last few steps to the second floor. His bootheels clicked hollowly on the hardwood floor of the hallway as he walked toward the third door on the left. Even before he got there he could smell the familiar aroma of apple tobacco. But today he wasn't greeted by some eclectic blend of sounds. It was Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire that wafted across the open air and greeted his eardrums. He smiled yet again, thinking that there was actually much more about Summers that he still had left to find out. He had been wrong about the manner of car as well as the man's taste in music. He thought to himself that there was not exactly some unwritten code that said a fan of Sinatra couldn't also be a fan of Cash. It just seemed...odd, and maybe a little out of place in the studious office that he was about to enter. He walked up to the door and didn't bother knocking this time. He simply grasped the handle and opened the door. The frosted glass hid the fact that Summers was not only smoking his pipe and listening to old country, but the man was in the midst of an all-out boot dance boogie right in front of the drawn shades of his office. Walter stood for a moment in awe, his smile growing even larger. It felt as if his head would split right in half if his mouth grew any wider, but he couldn't help himself. The early morning's feelings of impending darkness and underlying falsehoods were a distant memory in light of the last few minutes. He cleared his throat and Summers looked up, startled, and promptly stopped his dance and found a particularly interestiing pile of papers on the corner of his desk.
"John! Umm, Well don't let me stop your scuttlebutt there, ole' Pardner!" Walter tried to manage through stifled laughter.
"Walt! Hey good to see you made it through the night ok and none worse for the wear." Summers looked inquisitively above the rim of his glasses at the man in front of him. "You can't blame a man for being out of chartacter sometimes, right? Hey, I was in that kinda mood this morning. Just felt righ..." He trailed off as he saw Walter raise the cup and proceed to spit into it.
"Oh come on. Don't tell me you do that. I mean, Isn't there another less...disgusting manner of habit you could have picked up?" He winced at his own words, realizing that he would have sounded like his ex in the flesh had he added a quip about some pickled cat's ass.
"And this is worse than your pipe? At least no one else in the tri-county area can smell mine! Besides, would it be better if I had a pack of Camels and smoked up the office even more than it is?"
Summers furrowed his brow for a brief second and smiled before throwing in his last jab of the morning. "Well at least it fits the musical choice of the day! Come on over and have a seat, Cletus!"
Walter laughed off the jab, thinking that Summers had quite the sense of humor and more than a modest share of sarcasm to boot. He was about to fire another back about maybe a change to some Dwight Yoakum when he was stopped by one of the trademark sighs from Summers. The man looked better today, if not a bit younger. His eyes shone with a newfound life and light and Walter even noticed that there was more than just a hint of a five-o-clock shadow on the man's cheeks.
"So... what brings you by today? Sheer boredom or is it a deliberate attempt to monopolize yet another of my lunch breaks?"
Walter figured the man was joking. It was hard to tell sometimes, but he went with it anyway. "Well, John, here for a few questions and some more talk, if you will. If it's lunch you're worried about I know the Mickey D's a mile down the road has a burger with your name on it."
"Can't stand that place. The burgers don't really taste like beef to me. And they're too small. Man like me would rather enjoy a thick one at the house, fresh off of the grill anyday. And since the grill would be fired up anyway, a good thick ribeye actually sounds better. So anyway, let's get off of the food subject before I chew my way through this desk. Go on ahead with your questions, Walt."

The group rode in silence for several miles, the only sound other than the tires on the pavement was the gibbering Summers thrown in the back. As suddenly as the silence had descended upon the vehicle it dissaperaed when Legion turned around and spoke to Summers.
"Ok. Time to shut up the crybaby shit and talk, Summers. And I mean right NOW. Where are the papers?"
"I...I..I don't know what you're talking about! School papers? What is this about? Thththe only papers I can think of are the ones I gave Billy Johnson last week for his exam! Surely this ain't about cheating on an exam, is it?!"
Legion shook his head in disbelief and spoke again in his smooth, calm voice, imitating the terrified man. "I...I...I...I'm not talking about a damned exam, John. I'm talking about the containers of pictures and papers that your friend Anthony gave to you. Now you have about ten seconds to tell me before I finger through your pissant brain and find out for myself. How do you think I got your name from Gutierrez in the first place? Hmm?"
"I Don't know a Gutierrez! I told you I don't know what you are asking me!"
Legion simply sighed, gritted his teeth and reached back beyond the two rear rows of seats. He pulled the squirming Summers forward until he lie in between the front and first row of seats. He leaned down so that his face was only a few inches from the spectacled one of Summers.
"This is going to hurt, Johnny-boy. Tell me where they are. Last chance or this is not going to end up well for you. Do you think I'm joking? No, you don't. I can tell by the snot running out of your nose and the piss in your pants. I really do mean what I say, John. So go ahead and tell me so we can skip the dumb shit and get down to business."
"Please, Mister. I don't have the slightest id..."
Legion smacked Summers across the face with his right hand, and hard. The man's glasses and a few teeth bounced off of the rear door glass and landed in Butch's lap.
"Fine. We'll do this the hard way!" He used one hand to pull the man's head back by the hair and pushed his fingers down to the palm through the screaming man's eyes. The screams persisted for a few seconds and died out altogether. John Summers' limp body slumped down onto the floorboard and Legion let him fall, finished with his prospecting. He turned forward and peered silently out into the Texas countryside before speaking.
"Stop the truck, Casstevens."
"Sir?"
"Stop the fucking Suburban. Right here, right now. Don't make me ask you a third time."
Derrick did as he was told, and the tires crunched on the loose gravel that resided on the shoulder of the road. Legion motioned for his to pull further off of the road and he did so, until all four tires were devoid of pavement. Finally the truck came to a stop and Legion told every man to get out. He followed suit and they all stood, except for Summers, thirty feet or so from the shoulder of the road. Lane began to feel a lump rise in his throat as Legion walked close to him and stopped.
"Tell me what went wrong back there, Lane. Who fired the gun?"
"I..I..Umm. I did, Boss. Umm. Sir. Terry couldn't get into the room cuz' the door was locked. We thought Summers was in there, so I shot the lock so we could get him for you. He ran on us and we had to find him, see? Terry didn't mean to.."
"Fine. Fine. I'm not happy right now, Lane. Do you like to have me unhappy? Because unhappy is not good for any of you. Not you, not Terry, not Summers. Not for any one of you pantywastes that walk this planet. Give me your gun."
"Sir?"
"Do I have to treat you like Casstevens? I said give me your gun. Remember what I told you I'd do if you called me 'boss' one more time, Lane?"
"Yes Sir." Lane began to feel a coldness seep in from the bottom of his stomach and creep its way towards his face. He knew the feeling. It was the feeling that meant you were in deep shit, and the feeling that meant you were more than likely going to die in a very bad way. He looked down at the sparsely vegetated ground and closed his eyes for a brief second before beginning to speak. He never got the chance, as Legion pulled the trigger twice, sending him sprawling face-first in the dirt. Legion then turned to the remaining men and began to shout.
"Does anyone here not comprehend exactly what failure means when it comes to me? Any single one of you not get what the cost of stupidity is? Is is too much to ask for that we not only get the man we are after without drama, but get the RIGHT DAMNED ONE? HUH? ARRGH!" Legion emptied the clip of the Glock into the gut of Casstevens and threw the smoking gun at the distant hills to the north. He turned to the pair of men left. Butch and the last man, Carter, stood with their heads down, shaking with fear.
"You two. Carter and Butch. Get that bloody sack of shit out of the truck and pile in. Fail me on the next mission and you can join these two. And if either one of you decides to call me 'boss' I'll feed you to the worms in the most painfull and slow manner I can find."
Once in the truck they sat in silence for a few minutes while Legion calmed his breathing back down in the neighborhood of somewhere human again. He then turned to Butch and spoke as if the entire last two days had not occurred. "Where is the other Summers that was in Texas?"
Butch fumbled through some papers and found what he was looking for with shaking hands. "He's, um, a welder in Houston. South of here."
"I know where the hell Houston is, Butch. Drive there. Now. I want to be there before dark."

"Well, John, I guess the first question, of course, is about the others with the powers."
"The others, then? Hmm." Summers rose and walked over to the door, closing it. "You don't mind if we leave the Cash playing to drown out a little conversation, then?" Walter felt as if the question warranted no answer, as Summers sat back down in his chair and peered across the desk at him with his fingers interlaced.
"The 'others', as you call them then. Remember the one-one hundreth percentile we discussed?"
"The time-travellers. Yes. Backward, but never forward. You never explained why that was."
"Didn't think I needed to! The future hasn't happened yet, Walt. It is a series of events that still have yet to be determined and played out. Anything we do or say here today could determine, or even change what future there might have been. In all the fictionalized books and stories, like Verne's, theortetically one could travel forward, but what awaits him there? What if the planet is lifeless and without an atmosphere? What if it doesn't exist at all? But in reality, I feel travel to the future is just that, a theory."
Walter laughed out loud at the notion. "Theory? Well until you brought it up last night time travel in itself was theory. Now you quantify it as 'well, now only forward travel is. The other is fact'. You do realize how insane that really sounds, right?"
"Insane, you say? Walt, if you only knew, my friend. There are so many things to his world that you don't understand yet, but will. Remember that feeling this morning of the 'painting' that you thought reality and the mainstream world was? If that threatens your fragile sanity then the rest of it is something you couldn't begin to delve into quite yet. What if I told you there were those out there who can pass from person to person as easily as you can pass from one step of a staircase to another? What if there was one man who could travel through the vacuum of space and into another galaxy in the time it takes for you to order a hot dog and a Coke? Walt, first things first, my friend. I can only tell you the things that I personally know about, and even that only a little at a time. I can't explain it all at once. Even sometimes it is hard for me to comprehend, and there are more than likely more out there I have no idea about. I have a small sphere of facts and knowledge around me, and it may account for a millionth of a percent of what could be out there. I just don't know. But you have to have patience, my dear Walter. I can put you in touch with maybe, at the most, five others with some powers at the moment. The information I have is passed on from them, from reserach, and from all of these worldly travels you see in these pictures. Given time you will know all I know, and hopefully even more. Who knows what your powers extend to? Maybe you are a simple telepath. Maybe you are a time traveller as well. Hell, maybe you have the ability to turn horse shit into gold. The fact is that we don't know yet. Give it time, Walt. I'll explain what I can, as I can, and as I feel you can process it without getting freaked out and shooting yourself in the head. Which, by the way, has been known to happen more than once. Some can't handle it. Some don't want it. And some use it for evil. And that, my young friend, is why the Good Lord put us together in this, I believe. Do you believe in destiny, fate, or even the Almighty Hand, Walt?"
Walter sat back and took all of it in. He spit into his cup again, savoring the moment. It was a lot to digest, and truth be told he understood what John was saying and agreed despite himself. "Is there really much difference between the three? I do, regretably, understand what you say and understand why. I just feel like there is so much there to know, so much that only yesterday would hae been science fiction to me. And I just don't know why I have whatever it is that I have. Why you? What makes us any different, or what makes us the same? What purpose does any of it serve, or what help is any of it? Legion is still around, has been forever. If these powers are here, and always have been, then what good do they do against him?"
"They do. During some times throughout our history he has been...captive, for lack of a better term. There are ways to slow him down, stop him, or whatever you want to call it."
"But he always come back. So what do we accomplish?"
"How do you think centuries of papers and documents made it into your hands? Do you really think we, as mortal men, could elude the Devil that long, and keep this from him for that length of time without something...extra? Walt, he is looking for it, and will not stop until he connects the dots and eventually finds the person who currently has it. He almost got to Tony. And if he tracked it to Tony he can track it to us, to you. Time is growing short, Walt. Mind leaving your car at my house for a little while?"
"Umm... Sure, I guess. Why, we going somewhere?"
"Matter of fact we are. Ever been to Europe? I think it's time we took this to another level. We discussed tests, and others. That's the first stop. We need to get the documents back together tonight, pack your luggage again, and check out. I'll have a plane ready for the morning. Meet me at the house, say, around 7?"
"Well, what choice do I have, John? Really?"
"What choice do any one of us have if destiny truly is in charge of us all?"
Once again the question deserved no answer. Walt peered at John and wondered if he was also pondering the impact, if only minute, free will played into the equation of destiny versus purpose. Or what it meant for all of them when it came to Legion.

Chapter 12
February 18, 1984
10:38 P.M.

Butch could feel one mad case of iron butt setting in by the time they saw the Houston lights on the horizon. They had only stopped for gas when needed, and luckily Legion had found his precious food in time these last few times. If there was one thing he could go without the rest of his life it was a repeat performance of what Legion went through/became that night at the 7/11. To tell the truth it propelled him much beyond simple respect and adoration mixed with fear. He was downright terrified of the boss now. He always knew the man had powerful means of persuasion, or call it charisma if you will. And all of the men in his service knew that he was the sort of hard ass you never wanted to cross. And to add even moe to it all the men knew that he ws not a good guy in the grand scheme, but he had helped each and every member of the Legion Corp. out of a jam in one way or the other. He had heard rumors about Cummings eating desert rats and even his fallen allies. Whether or not it was true was unimportant; he never needed to know either way. The fact remained that in one way or the other they all knew in their hearts that Legion was bad news, and not a man to be trifled with. What the vast majority, if only few, of the men knew is that Legion wasn't really a man at all. Not even close. He walked, talked, and controlled the business as a man would, but underneath the shell was something so inhuman it made his skin crawl. Especially in such close scrutiny and proximity to him for this length of time. For some reason he had spared both he and Carter. Carter probably because he was a more behind-the-scenes kinda low key player. He had been a scout sniper in the Marines at one point, and kept his thoughts and his comments to himself. As a matter of fact he was the only member of this particular team that hadn't served as part of the same unit in the war. Now that Butch thought about it he came to realize that he knew virually nothing about the man, other than he came from somewhere in the southeast. North or South Carolina, if he wasn't mistaken. He wondered how much Cummings had known about the man when he enlisted his service for Legion. Suredly it was much more than that. Butch peered at the man in the rearview and saw that Carter was absentmindedly looking out at the nondescript flat land dotted with fine houses under construction and paying his fellow occupants of the Suburban no mind. As was the case fully ninety-eight percent of the time. He felt that the man was taking all of it in, nonetheless. And thinking whatever thoughts he continually kept quiet. AS if he felt the weight of the gaze, Carter shifted his focus from the window to meet Butch's eyes in the mirror. Butch Stevens was not a weak-willed man in the slightest, but felt his will shaken by the icy-cold stare of Carter. The man's eyes were so blue they might be white in the right light. Butch likened them to those of a Siberian Husky. And those eyes never hinted at what the mind behind them was thinkiing. Whether it was the constant shroud of secrecy or the calculated coldness that unnerved him more, he couldn't tell. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Carter uttered the first words of the trip as his unwavering stare pierced Butch's bravado.
"Say, Frank, see anything interesting back here?"
If there was one thing that instantly pushed his buttons it was being called "Frank". The last person to call him that was his sergeant. And one of the only men allowed to. "No, Carter, just wondering what you're thinking. You've been especially mum the whole trip. No joking, no bullshit, just business."
"Is there any other way to be, Frank?"
"Guess not. Ya know, I really hate to be called Frank. Everyone calls me Butch, and that's the way I like it. I'd like to call you something else, too. Never got your first name."
"Well then there's a reason why, Frank. Let's keep it on a professional level if you please. I got no interest in formalities or finding a buddy."
Butch recoiled in the seat as if slapped, and Legion actually turned his head and gave Butch a sideways smirk that bordered on meaning "Damn, boy, put that in your pipe and smoke that shit!" Butch tended to believe it more than bordered on it. Legion might as well have just said it. If there was one other thing that pushed his buttons it was being belittled in front of others. He had a new and very strong dislike for Carter, and the back of his throat was coated with the thick metallic taste of anger. Carter maintained his unblinking eye contact for several seconds before shaking his head and continuing to survey the dark landscape rushing by outside his glass. Had they been in the field then Butch would have definately found out what strong oats Carter could serve up. Lesser men had eaten the beer and piss-soaked dust of a hundred bars for less. The conversation would not be forgotten anytime soon, and by far was not over yet. He would see to it.
Butch was contemplating a thousand different scenarios of confrontation when Legion spoke, bringing him back to reality.
"Midnight's coming. Have the information on this Summers handy? I'd like to look it over being as we are practically in his back door now."
Butch fumbled around in the papers above the sun visor for several seconds before he felt a slight movement at this left elbow. Carter had handed several papers forward, never breaking his gaze from the window. Legion looked back at him, then at Butch, then at the jumble of papers crammed in the sunvisor, then back at Butch. Without taking his eyes from the man he thanked Carter in a pleasant voice that echoed nothing of the event that occurred that morning. Butch felt a new wave of mistrust and distaste rise. Now that the group had dwindled down to three Carter had decided to participate. Now that they were co-dependant on each other for the mission he decided to up the ante. Fine. Butch was no idiot himself, and would see to it that at the end of this all he would be the one on top. He wasn't scared of Carter or his intentions, cold stare or not. It should have been him that was left standing in the dust of Abilene, not Terry. If there was one man of the original group that he would rather have at his side now it would have been Terry, not this unknown staue that sat in the back seat.
"Alright, boys. Summers is a shipyard welder, third shift. Means he'll be at work now. I'd say we take a side trip to his house first, take a look and see what we find. Find what we want, and the rest is a cake walk. I'll deal with Summers later, provided the papers are at home. If not then we'll be paying him a little drop-in visit at work. Take the route south, toward Galveston, Butch. I'll get us in from there."
"Will do, Sir. Plan 'B', should we run into anything unexpected?"
"Plan 'B' will be for you two to not shoot him in the head. Other than that I don't care. Everything else is up to personal choice, or defense, if you will."
Butch stole another look at the expressionless Carter. It appeared that he didn't pay any attention to Legion's words. Either that or he simply didn't care. Time would tell, and the time was quickly coming, as Butch took the exit ramp and disengaged the cruise control. They could smell the salt and stench of fish through the rolled up windows. Galveston Bay was up ahead, and the shipyards as well. But as ordered, Butch took a right off of the ramp, away from the yards and towards the cozy neighborhood in which Summers' house awaited their arrival.

Walter looked out of the windows of the 747 at the tops of the clouds below. It unnerved him more than a little that they were over open ocean now. Nothing below but miles of cold water. Not that it would have mattered much in the event of a crash. Land or sea. Between the two there just didn't seem to be a good choice to crash into. But he still felt as if it would have been better over land. Even if he survived the crash he would have rather had the option of crawling for help instead of drowning in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
"Woolgathering, I presume?"
Summers' voice jolted him out of his daze. He had almost drifted off with his forehead against the refreshing coldness of the glass.
"Yeah, a little. Ya know, thinking of crashing and all that. But on the positive side of it, our seats also serve as flotation."
Summers laughed both with him and at his expense.
"You know how much fuel these things carry, right?"
Walter, wondering what possible angle Summers could have, replied questioninigly. "No, not really."
"Just enough to make it to the scene of the crash. Figure we'll beat the firetrucks there by about twenty minutes."
"Oh gee, thanks a lot, John! That makes me feel so much better. And to think I thought that it was a legitimate question."
"Oh come on, Walt! You know the statistics show that we are more likely to be eaten by a carp than die in a crash."
"Carp? Now that is funny. It's sharks, John. Or gators. Any of your ex-wives ever tell you that you are a sarcastic ass?"
"Every last one of 'em, Walt. Every one. But on a more serious note, when we land in Switzerland, just stay close. The streets are narrow and crowded at times. And the first time you visit you'll find every corner looks the same, so it's easy to get lost. We'll be seeing a Dr. Jacobs tomorrow morning. American name, yes, I know. That's because he is. Well, born there, anyway. He's been over here for years, and has accompanied me on several trips to the Mideast. Once to Istanbul. Now that was one trip I'll never forget."
"Gotcha. Jacobs, the transplanted Yankee Doctor of Psychosis. Should I be concerned as to the reasons why he isn't stateside any longer?"
"Not at all. Funding and acceptance of his field is hard to come by back home. And it's not Psychosis. He is an expert in the field of the paranormal, which, my young friend, is the category we both fall into. Welcome to the club, Walt."
"Thanks, old man. Sad to say, but I hope that some of the other clubmembers are far better looking, and younger than what I've seen thus far."
Summers laughed and lifted his glass of brandy in agreement as both men focused their attention to the windows once again. Walter was speechless and forgot every fear he had about flying when he saw what gift awaited them miles above what the rest of the world could see.
The moon shone with a clarity and brilliance Walter had never seen. The thousands, if not millions of them, stood out in sharp contrast to the blackness of space. He had never seen so many, and so clear. The combined light of both shone off of the tops of the clouds and made it seem as if they were being cradled above a thick layer of the softest cotton. But it was the myriad of colors that the distant aurora bestowed upon them that made his breath stop. He never knew that the combined effect could seem so surreal. At that moment any feelings or thoughts he had that morning about a hidden darkness underneath reality had abated.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes. It's truly amazing, John. And a shame that every man can't see what we're seeing right now."
"Goes to show you God knows what he's doing when it comes to beauty, Walt. See how fragile the Earth feels from up here? How fragile and finite? That's the reason why we fight Legion. It's the reason we fail more than succeed. I've never known that he was who he was, but I do know he means to cast it all away from us. The Devil wants nothing more than to make the whole thing desolate, and without either us or God anything left when he's done. It's why we are here, and why we were born. Things are going to happen quickly now, I'm afraid. Call it fate if you will, but I had no idea of the enormous truth in those documents. I had no idea that they existed, and it is only fate, or the grace of God that Tony ended up with them, and gave them to you, which in turn came to me. After all of our years of theological discussions and disagreements it never came up."
"That's because he only received them nine years ago, John. It's not like he had these all of his life and kept it from you. Now why he chose me, and not you directly, I will never know. I don't think it's anything to be jealous over, or feel slighted for."
"Nono! No jealousy at all. Tony was a good friend to both of us. I just had the opportunity to know him a lot longer, is all. I'm just surprised to see how it all seems to fit together and happen for a reason. See, I've had my own battles in life, Walt. I've been to all of these places, researched all of this history, correlated science, religion, and biblical history like few others, and didn't know all of this priceless information existed. I never really knew for sure that Legion existed until now. It's really hard to put into words. I just feel like we are on the tipping point of some huge iceberg of events, and this is what is going to make it turn bottom-side up."
"Do you ever wonder if others have stood where we are now? What became of them, their struggles, their efforts?"
"Oh I'm damn near positive that we by far are not the first. Like I said, there have been so many others out there, so many more in the past. And they had powers as we have them. I don't want to get into too much of this on a plane, but you know what I'm talking about. How those ended up, I don't know. All I do know is that the other side has been held at bay at times. Sometimes a long time. So victory is in the eyes of the beholder, so to speak. And something else I think we need to keep in mind once we get there."
"What's that?"
"We had better get a little rest and relaxation before we go back home. Something tells me that there will not be a lot of it once we return."

Legion paced from room to room, tossing whatever items he could find onto the floor. It was pretty apparent that the documents he were looking for weren't anywhere to be found. Carter simply stood "guard" at the front door, peering out into the night as he had done on the entire ride to Houston. Despite the fervor in which the quaint house was being destroyed Carter stood still, unphased by the furniture and countless books being flung about the inside like they were nothing. As far as Butch could tell he broke his calm and collected gaze only momentarily to purse his lips and examine his fingernails. Something about the utter obliviousness of the man unnerved him. Only when the headlights came streaming across the living room curtains did he move. The door shut swiftly and silently as Carter announced to Legion that they had company. Seemed that they might not have to go search out Summers after all. In the end he came right to them.
John Summers could feel the fever baking off of him like a furnace. It wasn't like him to miss work for any reason, the least of which being the damned flu. But he had had enough for one night. It was hard to think, much less be productive, when your head felt like it was a half-ton weight clinched in a vise. Luckily he had plenty of sick time left, and nothing sounded as good as the inviting softness of his bed and a glass of bourbon. His thoughts of both, however, faded quickly when he finally noticed the solid black Suburban sitting in his driveway. Someone was here, and he could still hear the engine ticking, which meant that they hadn't been here long. He cautiously approached his front door and found it to be no big surprise that it was unlocked. His mind told him to turn and walk away. Go get the police, go now and at least get someone. But the simple fact of the intrusion was the sobering catalyst that drove him to simply reach out his hand and push the front door of his own house open. The audacity of an intruder to park right in the driveway and break in was too much. He would deal with it himself. Once he walked through the opening and flicked on the light, however, he wished that he had decided to do the former.

Chapter 13
February 19, 1984
12:24 A.M.

The door swung open, seeming nearly weightless on the silent hinges. John Summers briefly noted that the world existed of a dark night with an even darker square hole in front of him. The air outside was devoid of sound, as not even a single gull dared exhale. The one sound he heard before he took his first step into his house was a muffled shuffling sound from deep within. The sound seemed too alien in the serenity of the night, almost as if the house itself had moved. But John knew better. As if the unlocked door wasn't enough to convince him, the still cooling Suburban outside would have. Maybe three seconds had passed since his hand reached out to open the door, but it felt as if he was moving in slow motion, even if the fiery inferno inside his body was taken out of the equation. He closed his eyes one last rime and took a step forward, allowing the darkness to envelop him.
The air inside the darkened house instantly felt heavy and thick. Butch could feel a single droplet of sweat escape his forehead and slither its way down his cheek. Why did he feel like a teenager caught in the act of stealing something? Legion was here, and if one thing was certain it was that Charles Legion would always get the upper hand in a confrontation. Besides, it was just one man. Legion calmed his breathing down to the point where it was almost imperceptible and straightened up as the company he expected pushed the door open and stepped inside after only a brief hesitation. Legion didn't pounce and tear the man limb from limb as Butch had expected him to do. He simply reached over and clicked on the table lamp that at one point resided on the shattered glass end table beside the shredded couch.
"Well come on in, Mr. Summers. I'd say have a seat, but hey, little late."
"Let's skip the bullshit. Who the hell are you guys?"
"I'll be asking the questions, John. Think I'll start with where the hell are you keeping the documents?"
"What damned documents, you crazy bastard? And what the hell are you guys doing in my house other than making it look like a war zone?"
"Looking for the collection of documents that I sincerely hope you know about, Summers. Now please, if we can stop this entire exchange, I'm getting really tired of asking all of the same questions over and over again. So, where are the fucking papers, John?"
"I don't have the slightest clue what you're talking about. Now what?"
Legion sat, leaning on the bottom of the overturned couch for a brief second before standiing up and slowly walking toward Summers. "I'll tell you 'now what'. I'm going to find out one way or the other. Seems that you thick-skulled sonsabitches just can never do things the easier way. So we're gonna do it my way." He turned to both Butch and Carter and told them to go ahead and wait in the truck. They did as they were told, reserving both comments and direct eye contact. They both could feel the fury baking off of Legion like he was a campfire on a cold night. At least he was learning to harness some of the rage better. A few days back and he could have very well exploded like an atomic bomb and levelled several city blocks, Butch thought to himself as he and Carter walked, unspeaking. They sat in silence for a few moments until Carter actually started the conversation for a change.
"So what happens now, Frank?"
"I told you not to call me that, shithead. I don't know. You know what he said about us not failing..."
"Yeah, but it was Cummings who is failing when you think about it. All we are doing is going on what he gave us, and in the order that Legion is saying go in. I fail to see how we are accountable for that."
"I know. As much as it pains me to agree, I do. But you know as well as I do that there is no real escape from Legion. We both saw a lot of heavy shit the last few days. Do you have any doubt?"
Carter never had the chance to answer. He was staring out at the darkened front of the house with his cool blue eyes when it vaporized in front of them. Glass, wood, blood, and brick flew out into the night in a whirlwind of fury and fire. Luckily most of the brick had been reduced to powder by the time it reached the Suburban in which they sat, horrified. Even Carter had lost some of the calculating look in his eyes. Legion was far more than either had imagined. Glass and bits of smoking sheetrock were still falling around the street around them when Legion emerged from the house, dusting off his leather jacket as if he had simply noticed an errant piece of lint on his shoulder. His face was eerily calm, except for the coal black eyes that took up most of his face. Even in the dark both men could see an unquenchable desire deep within them. He was tired of screwing around with the wrong men.
Legion did not decapitate both men on sight as Butch had feared. He simply sat down in the passenger side, closed the door, and retrieved the stack of papers from the center console. He briefly thumbed through them, tossing the information about both Texans into the floorboard. He took a picture of another John Summers out and pinned it to the dash with a splinter of bone. "Presumably one from the newest casualty." Carter thought to himself.
"Boys, I am really tiring of these wild goose chases. I believe it is time to head east, to Alabama. This one is a teacher at a high school in Tuscaloosa. Now get this fucking thing in the breeze. I'm getting hungry again. And one more thing. If either of you want to live to see the sun tomorrow don't utter a single syllable. And you are right. Cummings will have some answers for me when we get back. He'll have plenty. Now drive."
Butch did exactly as he was told. He had a feeling that as much as he was beginning to hate Carter they were both probably thining the same thing. No thoughts or discreet conversations were safe with Legion. He was in the house, dealing with Summers but still knew what they had talked about. It was downright scary when you thought about it. He merged with the traffic headed east on I-10 and peered out into the night, trying not to think. You never knew when Legion would pry right on in and get a taste of your thoughts for good measure.

As it turned out Walter rather liked the Swiss countryside. It was as picturesque as the postcards, and as fresh as the alpine air was always purported to be. It amazed him that the landscape and buildings around downtown Geneva were as ancient as they were, but still in very good condition. At least as much as he could tell from the air as they descended upon the runway. Within moments of disembarking they found themselves standing on the sidewalk outside the airport, bags in hand. The same Rubbermaid totes sat at thier feet, taped and bound. With the proper credentials they were allowed passage with their cargo, uninspected. The only provision was that their firearms be stored in cargo as well. Walter thought it to be a pretty good tradeoff, considering. It was amazing what good money could buy. Seems that two ordinary-looking men could buy top security international travel passes like they were novelty hats at a roadside stand in Laredo, Texas. It didn't take long for the February chill to begin seeping in through Walter's clothing. He had left North Carolina only earlier that day and the temperature had been flirting with the fifties. Here it had to be thirty degrees, maybe even colder with the constant downslope wind coming from the mountains.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?"
"I'd have to agree. Is this where we're staying?"
"Unfortunately, no, not tonight. We have to catch the train to Lausanne tonight. We'll be staying in one of the flats there owned by Dr. Jacobs. Tomorrow we'll come back here because we have an appointment to meet Dr. Jacobs at St. Peter's Cathedral."
"Cathedral?"
"Yeah. Cathedral. It's the one with the tower sticking up over there." Summers pointed toward the gothic spire that Walt had missed during their descent. The view of the green spire sticking up above the main building gave him the chills even more than the brisk air ever thought about. There was an ancient power underlying the city so great that he could almost feel the electricity from it raising the hair on his arms. And he could feel it emanating from that very church like waves from a hot oven. He was sure that Summers felt it, too. Or at least knew of it.
"As a matter of fact, I do, Walt. It's one of the reasons why we're here. We talked of the old battles and the past on the plane, remember? They don't get much older than this place unless you want to go directly to the middle east, my friend. St. Peter's has been traced back as far the fourth century, and I'm sure parts are even older. What you see from here, the spire, has been there since the late 1800's. But you'll find all that and much more out tomorrow morning. I'm sure Gregory will more than likely talk your ears right off about it all."
"Gregory?"
Summers sighed heavily once again. "Yes, Walt. Gregory Jacobs. The doctor. I'm sure that after a few formalities he'll more than likely clap you on the back much too forcefully and declare that you refer to him with his first name. Despite his eclectic tastes you'll find him to be a very down-to-earth man. Almost like one you'd see in the local bar, watching football and drinking too many beers."
Just as the conversation began to wane a cab pulled up to the curb. After a brief exchange in French John motioned for Walt to help him place the totes into the trunk. Not much longer than that, and after a silent ride, they boarded the train and bid farewell to Geneva for the night. Walt remarked how lonely the land seemed past the city limits. His forays outside of the continental U.S. had been few, and this country was as pristine as any he had seen. He peered up at the sky and thought to himself how different yet how similar the rural places looked when compared to home. The world did seem to be getting smaller. The same feelings of the Earth's fragility seeped back into his mind briefly as he looked out at the grass covered fields streaming by. The trees were barren, the grass yellow and fragile, just as the planet seemed. Stones gleamed in the moonlight, lying as still and cold as the rest of the landscape outside his window. He suddenly had a terrible thought and turned to John.
"Yeah, I know, Walt. While the world sleeps evil is constantly planning its demise. It saddens you the more you think about Legion and the fact that he wants nothing more in the world other than to see it burn around us along with every living creature on it. I can feel the sorrow and introspection growing inside you. I've been there myself before, and I can tell you that you have to fight it every day until it sleeps. If you don't the negativity will cloud your judgement just when you need it most. Is it the changes in your life bringing these thoughts, or do you think it is more of a coincidence in timing with a mid-life crisis in formation?"
"Well, for one I am beginning to wonder exactly how much you actually read my thoughts and scan my feelings, John. Some things are better left private. I really don't know what it is, to tell the truth. I stop for just a few minutes and let the thoughts come, and more and more the last few days they seem to turn toward dark thoughts. I can't seem to shake it. When I get distracted from it, keeping my mind occupied, it goes away and seems petty. But seemingly every time I stop to take in the beauty of a thing or place, or just the scenery, it comes back. It's like a nagging reminder of the fact that it could all be swept away so quickly, and without notice."
"He's getting to you, Walt. He doesn't know you, but he knows of you. I'm sure of it. He is probably back in the states running around like a madman looking for the documents in the back of this train. And you know as well as I do that he always finds his man. Always a step or two too late, but he finds him nonetheless. And the storm is coming. The best we can do is be prepared when it does. Make sure the documents are safe first, and deal with him second. It is the reason we are here in the first place. Sometimes, as we have seen in the documents and journal entries, a man or group of men have to make a stand. You and I have to be prepared, and not be alone when that hour comes. I think and hope that Gregory can help us. The battle is old, and we are just the newest players to join in it."
Walter hadn't noticed at first that John's lips had stopped moving after the first few sentences. The conversation had been going on inside his head almost the entire time. "Yes, I know. It's safer this way. No one else can hear us, and no one else can infer anything ominous about our speeches."
"Well, provided there aren't other telepaths nearby. Right, John?"
"Precisely. And if there are more than likely they share in our fight, whether they know it or not."
"And if they don't? If they are fighting for the other side? Can our secrets and location be somehow transmitted to Legion?"
"That I don't know. As I said, I've met precious few like us. All I know are the facts that have been told and shown to me in the past."
"By Jacobs?"
Summers grinned. "Why yes, Walt. By Jacobs. Your life is about to change yet again, old boy. Hopefully you can harness and control this along with the negative energy that seems to creep in. The two can be a dangerous combination."
Walt looked out the window again, feeling unsure if we was either willing or ready for the next step. If the first bit of delving onto it had changed him this much he was afraid what the next day would bring.
"We've got to ditch this truck." Legion spoke out of the blue and shocked Butch back into reality.
"Sir?"
"I said we have to ditch this truck. And soon. It has been at the scene of the crime twice now, and with the deaths of two men with the same name. It won't take long for the authorities to put two and two together and try and head us off at the pass."
Butch glanced up in the rearview mirror, hoping to see the same feelings he had reflected in Carter's eyes. He momentarily forgot about Legion's ability to probe his thoughts.
"Ok Butch ole' boy. No, it's not fear you detect. I am incapable of the weak human emotion. It is simply caution. Do you really think we need the slowdown and distraction of having police trail us and attempt to take us down? Can we afford the chance that word may get out to the other Summers? Pretty soon it is going to look like a serial killer is after men with the same name and word will get out ahead of us. I can't afford to lose the chance at getting my hands on those papers. And neither can you. You seem to forget that I am constantly listening. Don't make the same mistake over and over again. For the record I think about as much for you as I can any of your species. So don't go and fuck that up by getting skittish on me and second guessing my intentions. Take the next exit. We need another vehicle."
Butch did as he was told and they found themselves at an Exxon just over the Louisiana line. Legion walked inside presumably to quell his hunger yet again. It amazed Butch how normal the man seemed in some ways. Several times now he had simply walked into a convenience store, purchased food, paid, and walked out as any man would. He could take whatever he wanted, when he wanted, so to act this way seemed strange. Maybe he was intentionally trying to keep a lower profile while he systematically tracked down these men. Who knew, really? The man was just strange, to say the least.
"You know, Frank, eventually you might just learn to control your thoughts so he won't bust your balls every chance he gets."
"Dammit Carter! How many times do I have to tell you, don't call me that! I swear one of these times when his back is turned I'm going to beat the shit outta you. Your day is coming, man."
"Dammit, Frank, don't you listen? His back is never turned. Ever. I'm only saying what I'm saying because I don't want you to spark his temper any more. I'd like to make it to the end of the plan here alive if it's all the same to you."
"Why dosen't he ever jump your ass? I mean, you have to be thinking the same things I do. You say shit in the truck and he doesn't correct you or anything. Just what is it with you anyway? You just sit there and stare out the window and never talk until he leaves."
Carter laughed and leaned forward so that his mouth was mere inches from Butch's ear. "It's because he can't read me, Frank. Don't you think he is racking his brain inside, wondering why? Sooner or later it'll come out, I'm sure. But to help I keep a clear head. You should try it sometime instead of thinking so clearly and making it easy for him. But in the end I really don't give two shits whether he rips your arms off and beats you to death with them or not. So it is in your best interest to keep your mouth shut to me and mind your own business. And rest assured, Frank. You will never beat the shit out of me. Trust me on that. Now if you can manage to keep his anger focused on something else we might make it to the end here. After that what you do is up to you. I'm going my way, and I suggest you go yours. Now have I spoken enough now to suit you? Hope so. 'S all I gotta say."
Carter resumed his former position of sitting comfortably back in his seat. Butch simply glared into the rearview until Legion got back to the Suburban.
"Alright time to switch out. See that truck over there?" Legion pointed to a fairly new Red Ford Bronco.
"Yes Sir."
"That's the one. Grab the papers and let's go."
The three men walked quickly to the vacant Bronco and piled in. Butch went to reach for the keys and hesitated.
"Looking for these?" Legion said with a smile. He tossed the keys toward Butch and he reached out his hand to catch them out of instinct. They were wet and slippery. He hastily wiped his hand on his shirt and looked back at Legion with disgust.
"Yes Butch , that's blood. The clerk won't be missing them anytime soon, I believe. So can we get a move-on to Alabama now if you're done being a female?"
From somewhere in the back seat Butch heard the slightest of chuckles. Legion turned around in his seat and peered at Carter for a moment, his head cocked. Without speaking he raised one eyebrow and turned back toward the windshield. Butch could feel his fury rising yet again. Something was not kosher at all with Carter. Not in the least.