DCLXVI-Six Hundred, Three Score & Six: Book One

CHAPTER ONE

I
A cassette snaps irritably into the car stereo as it lands against the heads. There is a short hiss as the tape advances to the next song and Bob Seiger begins to sing Feels Like A Number. A hand reaches for the volume knob and turns it up as loud as possible, grabs the stickshift and grinds it into third. Two patrol cars top a hill behind the black '64 Corvette. The green light from the instrument panel accents the driver’s devilish features as a smile flashes across his face. He shifts the car into fourth gear. The cops, less than twenty yards behind, try to regain proximity to their quarry. The narrow winding street prevents them from safely pursuing the fugitive. The corvette accelerates and widens the gap. Less than a hundred yards away, two more cop cars sit at an intersection. Their lights strobe as they cast red and blue beams into the darkness. Four policemen load and aim shotguns as the automobile quickly advances. They retreat and dive for cover when it becomes obvious that the driver does not intend to stop. The Corvette crashes through the vehicles that block its path and the patrol cars behind it skid broadside into the barricade. Their windshields shatter and spew shards of glass across the street. In his rearview mirror, the driver watches as the cars explode and light up the night. When darkness reigns once more he breaks into insidious giggling. Within minutes he will be on the interstate and is confident no one will catch him. Early the next morning, a state trooper finds the Corvette on a farm road thirty miles outside of town. A man in the driver's seat is dead with his throat cut. Flies flitter around the wound and land. His eyes stare vacantly at the roof of the car and a look of shock dominates his features. Long blonde hair is matted to his neck, stiff with dried blood. His hands, clasped together in fervent prayer, beseech the Almighty for one more gasp of air before death comes to claim his soul. “...Heaven is a place, a place where nothing.. nothing ever happens..” David Bryne laments from the car’s radio. The trooper looks away from the grizzly scene. A squad car from the city pulls off the road and stops in front of the Corvette. Three policemen step out of the car and approach the trooper. The early morning sun glints off their sunglasses as slivers of light dance across the dead man's face. “Howdy,” The trooper says, “any of you boys got a weak stomach? You better not get too close. I'm gonna go call for the coroner.” The policemen stare at each other and seem to communicate without words. One of them, a big, broad-shouldered man approaches the window of the car and leans down to see the dead man’s face. “It’s not him.” he says to his comrades. “Should we tell the trooper?” asks the smaller policeman with red hair. “No,” replies the big cop. “let them think they've got their man. When he surfaces again we won't have to deal with the police.” They nod in agreement as they walk back to their car. In his cruiser, the state trooper puts his mic back in its clip and climbs out of the car. He shuts the door and notices a small country church in the distance. "Well," he says turning back to the Corvette "the coroner will be here in thirty minutes. You boys...." The cops are nowhere in sight. He looks up and down the highway for their vehicle. He removes his hat and scratches his head in bewilderment. "Huh" he snorts "Musta got a call." He returns to his cruiser to await the arrival of the coroner. Across a field to his left, towards the rising sun, a church bell tolls as it calls its flock to Sunday service.

II
The Hobo hears a distant sound.
“It’s too high to be a train whistle,” he mumbles. “I wonder what it is?”
He has been on this desolate dirt road since sunset and hasn’t seen any sign of life for hours.
The sound grows louder.
As he walks arounds a curve in the road, he discovers a car in the ditch.
He approachs the '57 Chevy and regards it with a curious interest. Its front bumper rests securely against a knarled oak tree and its headlights shine dimly across a freshly plowed field. The trunk lid, slightly ajar, seems to have a hollow toothless grin. A street lamp nearby reveals the car is two-toned pink and white with whitewall tires. Its taillights glare like evil scarlet eyes that dare him to come closer.
The Hobo wades through the tall grass that grows between the field and the dirt road. He approachs the car on the passenger side, and through the window, he sees a girl in severe pain. She groans and sweats profusely as she clutches at her swollen belly. She is obviously in labor.
A dead man, who appears to be in his early sixties, is slumped against the steering wheel.
“In all the excitement he must have suffered a heart attack and run off the road into this tree,” thinks the Hobo. There is no blood that he can see, and the windshield isn’t cracked. The look on the old man's face is more of shock than anything else.
A moan from the woman takes the Hobo's attention away from the dead man and back to her. She is in dire need of a doctor.
Pain shoots through her body like hot stabbing spikes shoved up between her legs. She lurchs forward and rocks back as she grits her teeth against the contraction.
“The first thing to do is to stop this racket” thinks the Hobo as he calmly walks to the drivers side, opens the door and pulls the dead man away from the steering wheel. The banshee wail of the horn is finally silent.
The Hobo returns to the girl's side of the Chevy, reaches in his coat and produces a handkerchief to dab the sweat from her face. Her eyes say more than her parched lips ever could, though she manages a weak, almost unintelligible "Help me" before she sinks back into the throes of pain.
He looks around into the darkness. There is no friendly moon to reveal any of the terrain around him. Across the field he can see the lights of a farm and wonders why no one came to investigate the horn's insistent cry. However, now is not the time to ponder such irrelevant matters.
With strength that belies his apparent age, the white-haired Hobo lifts the afflicted girl into his arms. He moves at a swift steady pace that seems unlikely for a man of his years and reachs the farm quickly. Though his heart races with apprehension for the girl's well-being, he is no less fatigued than if he had taken a leisurely stroll through a park.
He carries her towards the large red barn which stands between him and the deserted farmhouse just beyond. No barking hounds challenge them, nor does anyone from the house come to investigate their arrival.
The Hobo knows they don't have much time judging from the intervals between contractions. He opens the barn door, surveys the premises and spots a gas lantern near a hay bin.
“Well, this will have to do. After all, this won't be the first baby ever born in a barn.”
He smiles at the girl as he places her in the hay then retrieves the lantern and lights it, using a tattered book of matches from his pocket. The warm red orange light illuminates the room and he gets his first good look at her.
She is young, and on a good day with a smile on her face, she would be considered attractive. The old man kneels beside her and wipes her brow with his handkerchief.
"Thank you." she whispers with deeply felt emotion, "Am I gonna die?"
"Of course not, dear." replies the Hobo. "Everything is going to be just fine."
"Is my baby gonna die?" asks the girl weakly."They said I would to have to give him up to..."
"Shhh...Try not to talk. Just lay still and rest, this will be over soon."
"Oh!" she cries, "Oh, it's coming. I can feel it. My baby is coming!"
"Relax and breath deep. Here, let me look."
Gently, the old man pries her legs apart and spreads them wide.
The girl realizes that this man is not a doctor. In fact, he could be an escaped prisoner from some insane asylum or he could even be one of “them.” All she can do is hope and pray that God will watch over her and her child.
Whoever this man is, he has to be better than the one dead in the Chevy. That incestuous bastard who fathered her baby, screamed at her and beat her when she told him she missed her first period. He will never bother her or her child again. His Satanic rituals and sacrifices ended when the car struck the tree.
“I see it.” says the old man as he reachs between her legs. “Okay, now push as hard as you can! That's it. Push!”
She can't help but notice that the man is as calm as if he were removing a splinter from her thumb. She pushes with all the force she can muster. Blood rushs to her face and she feels very hot.
"Okay, Ellie, one more push and we're done. Come on, honey you can do it!"
It takes her a second to realize that the man said her name. Perhaps in all this confusion she mentioned it but does not remember.
Suddenly, her thoughts are interrupted by an overwhelming sense of release. Her baby is born and she can relax. She breaths deep and stares at the hay through the slats of the loft above her. The amber glow of the lantern flickers on the ceiling and shadows dance on the wood. She has no idea what she was going to do now.
Her mother died when she was six years old and left her alone with that bastard. Now she has her baby and together they can start a new life.

"... Jesus Christ....”

"Oh, he's a fine little boy." says The Hobo, with a trace of unmistakable pride that Ellie can't help but notice.
“He’ll make a fine addition to the family. Yes, indeed!”

"... He shed his cleansing blood..."

She raises her head to look at her son. A silent scream catches in her throat and terror grips her in a vice so powerful and cold that she can't breath. She stares at the thing in The Hobo's hands. Paralyzed, unable to move or utter a sound, she does the only thing her mind will let her do, she faints.

"...and gave his life as a ransom for our sins. So long ago on that hill called Golgotha, the place of the skull..."

The creature moves its dark head and a soft whimper escapes its slime covered lips. Its eyes, still glued shut, lack the strength to stand even the soft light of the lantern's glow. It gropes blindly as it tries to find a place to hide its sensitive eyes from the light.

"...and rose, friends and neighbors, Christ rose on that third day, claiming victory, victory over death and the grave so that we, poor wretched sinners that we are, could enter the Kingdom of God, Amen..."

Ellie Martin’s first born son is a jackal.