The Dead of Wynter

By Jennifer Ritter

After his release from prison and the death of his grandmother, Rodney Baker decided to walk away from his janitorial job as pursue a calling with Holy Order of the Knights Dominion.  Now he just needs to survive his first assignment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Ritter
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393814351

Jennifer Ritter

Writer, researcher and word artist Jennifer Ritter was writing before she entered Kindergarten.  The Snow White volume of the Walt Disney Reading Library Collection served as her first spell check.  Since then, Jennifer has written for various newspapers, magazines and online journals as well as a number of ghost writing publications that must remain nameless.  She is also the author and illustrator of books such as How to Tell the Difference Between a Zombie and the Cable Repair Guy , Is That a Mummy in the Drive Thru? and You are Not Special and Other Harsh Realities in which the author's true style came out as well as her lack of artistic talent. When not enjoying time with her children, charities and beehives, Jennifer splits her time between freelance projects, fiction writing, and her blog where she writes the columns 'Jenerally Speaking', 'The Con Game', 'Confessions of a Bitch', and 'Spanking the Monkey'. She makes her home in green country, the Midwest, and on the sofas of several friends' apartments when on the road. For more information and works by Jennifer Ritter, visit www.jenuinelyjennifer.com 

Book preview

The material contents of this journal and the information contained is the exclusive property of the Holy Order of the Knights of Dominion and archived, preserved and maintained by the dedicated brothers of the Shaolin Temple. May the Father give me strength as He guides my hand and may He protect all who read it from harm.

Prologue

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His soul draws near the pit, and his life to those who bring death.

Job 33:22

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People say the bible is antiquated, that it is full of folklore and contradictory messages that don't relate or even matter to the modern day. That's not fair. I say it’s just incomplete. Take the book of Genesis for example. In the beginning, there was Heaven and Earth. That part is true even if it leaves a whole lot out. I think it would have been better had they come out with everything.  To say 'In the beginning, there was Heaven and Hell and Earth and Purgatory, and angels and demons and shades and about a hundred other beings all duking it out right in front of you'.

Don't agree? You will.

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In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit... began Father McNeil as he made the sign of the cross and placed a wafer on the expecting tongue of the inmate before him. It was a good day for his church. All the remaining inmates beheld services today. It pleased him to be able to save so many souls, even if the only reason many attended was the woeful nature of their situation.

Brother Marcus was especially serene as he dutifully attended to his tasks. It had taken him no time to prepare. The toxin had dried quickly on the hosts; you would never guess they had been tampered. He could barely contain his growing anticipation as he bit the loose skin on his lip. One by one, the cooperating inmates made their way through the line to receive communion. Those who decided not to be obedient were silenced earlier and were now seated in the back pews to witness the transformation.  Step by step, the congregation advanced to receive their absolution, wafer and taste of wine. 

As the prisoners filed past, Marcus could not help but compare their methodical shuffling to the way that livestock move through a chute at a slaughterhouse. He joyfully bit down on the plump flesh of his lip as he observed them, pulling off a satisfying bite. The movement of the prisoners, the slow methodical way they advanced to their fate was a thrill and he sucked the blood rushing down his mouth as he swallowed the soft, salty flesh. They took no notice, bowing their heads and doing the sign of the cross in response. They nudged and moved automatically, as if lead by a Shepherd's hook. He could almost feel the wood of the tool in his hand as he took another bite of skin and tissue and swallowed it slowly. The nihility of their expressions was truly moving and he happily continued to munch upon the sweet, bursting meat clinging to his teeth. 

Father don't! an inmate pleaded as he reached the priest.  You can't do this! 

McNeil smiled, it was going to be glorious! You were always destined to burn in Hell, my son, he said. A year or two of good behavior would hardly make a difference.  He presented the host but the prisoner swatted it out of his hand.

No! This is suicide! he screamed and nearly jumped out of line.  With no other means of protection, the inmate clutched at the robes and the heavy metal cross the priest held in hand.  God, help me!

The act of desperation did not affect the priest in the least.  He reached for the eloping inmate with a smile and a chiding headshake. Isn't it funny how men are so quick to dismiss God when it is convenient only to rush back to His loving arms when it suits them?

I'm sorry Father! he continued to beg.  I'll never stray again!

The priest caressed the cross lovingly with his fingertips and continued.  Of course, we are only acting under God's example.  He picks us up and puts us down just the same. No matter how you live, he'll strike you down the moment He feels like it.

The inmate broke out of line, clutched his hands together and dropped to his knees.  I'll do whatever you say! he prayed.  Deliver me!

Have no fear, the priest chuckled softly as he picked up the inmate by the shoulders.  The inmate smiled at him. The priest wiped a tear from the inmate's cheek as he would a child and pulled the top of the cross, unsheathing the sharpened blade concealed inside. 

A quick flick of the wrist, his throat opened and the dark, warm blood began to flow.  He looked the prisoner in the eye as his life force ran down his uniform and spilled onto the floor, You will be delivered. 

He cast the body aside in anticipation of the next congregate and the line kept moving.

Marcus paid no mind to the possible reaction of flock. The inmates cared no more for the priests’ activities than to the pile of accumulating bodies. So long as they got their glass of salvation, it made no matter to them. Their surrender made the experience even more gratifying.  He felt enveloped by the sacrifice as the last of the inmates filed through. His mutilation was his own communion.

In time, the inmates that returned to their seats began to slump over. The poison began to take effect. The makeshift church pews slowly began to swell with his congregation, all the sleeping lambs before him. Peaceful, sleeping lambs.

The instrument please, McNeil directed his bloodied, grinning assistant. Brother Marcus nodded and revealed the large kitchen knife he had been sharpening for this very special day. A feeling of thrill overcame the priest as he took the knife and turned towards the lambs.

It was time to cull the herd.

Chapter One

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For at one time you were darkness but now you are light in the Lord, walk as children of light.

Ephesians 5:8

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The key to listening to something that is not there is to listen harder. Deep huh?

My name is Rodney Baker and up until a few weeks ago, I was a mild-mannered custodian.  Now everything is different.

Back then, a typical day began with getting up at the crack of five and performing penance before walking across campus and reporting to work. Now, I get up in the morning, perform penance and sit-just as I did today. It was ten in the morning and I was sitting in the library with a woman. We had been sitting together for five hours and I had a terminal case of bleacher butt! That was all that was stirring below my waist at the moment; my legs fell asleep long before under the strain of my sore behind.

It wasn’t a parole hearing.  It wasn’t a date gone wrong.  I was sitting with my artifex, Wynter Summerfield and she was teaching me how to listen to nothing.

Close your eyes, said Wynter. Turn off your thoughts and quiet your mind. Tune out all the noise that keeps you from listening. 

Quiet my thoughts? I asked. I have been sitting here so long the only thing I am thinking about is how much my butt aches!

You'd be surprised how noisy your head can get when you are focusing on your butt, she said dryly. Turn it off. Focus on the silence.

I closed my eyes, ignored my achy rear, and focused on the silence-at least I hoped I was. How do you know if you have truly succeeded? It’s already quiet! I took a deep breath and let it go slowly, focusing on the silence again. It was almost slippery in my mind's grasp. It felt like I was clutching at the silence, feeling it slip through my grip like sand. 

It's not working, I said.

Try harder, Wynter insisted. You are trying to overcome thousands of years of genetic programming. It takes effort to accomplish.

It's gonna take effort to get feeling into my legs! I said.

Forget about your legs! The voices you are listening for aren't worried about theirs, she said with a snit in her voice. Try again. 

I took a deep breath and made a mental note to make sure to drive past the coffee shop next time Wynter had a great idea to do a pre-dawn lesson. I closed my eyes and pushed everything out of my head. I strained as hard as I could to hear something in the nothing, but to no avail.

I can hear bumping and noise going on upstairs.

Wynter shook her head, That’s just noise, tune it out and keep listening.

Tune it out and keep listening to nothing, right, I sighed in frustration. 

There is a lot going on. You just have to filter out the physical plane and all the crap in your head and you will hear it loud and clear.

I don’t know. There is a lot of noise on the physical plane.

There is a lot of crap in your head too. Suck it up and start listening.

Suck it up and start listening-that was a good one! I tell you, before a couple weeks ago, that silly white girl wouldn’t have talked to me like that. Come to think of it, she probably wouldn’t have talked to me at all. Up until then, I lived with my Grandmamma and had just applied to the seminary. It’s crazy how things can change so fast. 

Back then, the closest we would ever cross paths is when she would leave a locked hospital room and I would follow and clean up. Man, I dreaded that! I never knew what was going on, one of the qualities St Margaret of Antioch values above all else is the ability to turn a blind eye.  Over the years I noticed that the longer she was behind those doors, the bigger the mess. 

And the mess! Tacks, nails, and staples, bits of wood and rocks, vomit, blood, body fluids of any type and quantity imaginable, gasoline, sulfur, ashes. You name it and it covered the place at one time or another. I mopped, installed mirrors, re-hung doors, and replaced light bulbs by the hundreds.

It was the light bulbs I noticed the most. A normal room in the hospital or the church had blown bulbs about once a year. On the psych ward, they stock them by the case. They constantly blow bulbs. I used to think it was a glitch in the wiring-I even went through the wiring myself to see if I could find the source of the surges.

Boy, does that sound stupid now!

St Margaret of Antioch is the biggest entity in town. It is located in Midean Michigan, a small town located right on the state's lifeline. Michiganders carry the map of our state in the palm of our hand. Trace your lifeline to about the middle of your palm and there we are. Besides the church, St Margaret's is home to a catholic school, seminary, hospital and several outreach programs. Grandmamma used to say you couldn’t swing a dead cat without striking something connected to the church, and she was right. 

The church was dedicated to a beheaded virgin who was swallowed up by the devil in dragon form and then released a few days later. I don’t remember if she was beheaded first and then swallowed or swallowed and then beheaded.  Either way, the girl had a bad day. The church is a mainstay in the community-in spite of the virgin.

Stop breathing so hard! she said.

I didn't think I was breathing hard.

She shook her head judgmentally. She did this a lot.

And don't focus on your breath-you'll just start listening to that. Focus on what is beyond your breath, beyond everything in here.

Focusing on the beyond, I repeated and pressed my eyes shut.

St. Margaret of Antioch's is also a front for the Holy Order of the Knights of Dominion, or the Order for short. Legend has it that in the beginning, angels and demons didn’t make any bones about frolicking amongst man and engaged in some pretty big slobber knockers-all of which were summarily erased from our memories and even from most religious texts. 

It is said that God got tired of having his favorite pets caught in the crossfire so he armed a few of them with the ability to see things the way they are and left the others to enjoy the illusion of security.  And that began the Order. 

Long before Christianity, long before any organized religion for that matter, the Order was formed to deal with the apocalyptic disasters no one ever notices.  It is a multi-denominational group of the faithful that stands between mankind and the supernatural.  Kind of like a crossing guard assigned to an expressway.  They exorcize demons, purge evil, and protect the vulnerable.  And if my initial experiences were any indication, they tortured their enlistees for fun. 

Beyond is too quiet, I said.

Pay attention, she insisted. Shades are all over the place.

I am a transplant to St. Margaret's. I came to live with Grandmamma after I got out of prison. She worked as a housekeeper out here; her whole life was the church. A strong willed, hardheaded woman, she cleansed temptation and sin while she dusted, mopped, took out the trash. 

Priests and seminarians dreaded the days Grandmamma cleaned the dorms. She would go through each room with a white glove, a fine toothed comb and plenty of militaristic self-righteousness. And suffer in silence they did because no one in their right mind would ever cross Dinah Baker. Fire and brimstone had nothing on her.

Grandmamma had no qualms about chastising violators either. She was a disciplined believer that saw