Killing Time Till I Die

By Douglas J. McGregor

Jake McCluskie is back

Last time, he was the Redeemer, and he redeemed three souls and found Hells Codes for the Angel of Death. This time, McCluskie is Morning Stars Dog, let off his leash to stop the Horseman Pestilence from unleashing a plague that will exterminate Mankind.

Something, I said, I dont know what the hell it wasblocked the hole.

The Devils eyebrows twitched as he regarded me. His fingers moved, and a chair pulled away from the table. He opened his coat and sat. What did this thing look like?

Picture something covered in black hair about the size of a dump truck with arms and legs and a head. It picked me up, sniffed me, and then tossed me halfway across the warehouse. All I have to say is yes, ouch, it sure hurt when I hit the wall.

The Devil sighed. Stop complaining. Do you have any more of that rot-gut Cognac? Because I need a drink.

You knew this creature had to be bad when even the Devil needed a drink.

I need a drink too. I climbed to my feet, my back and ribs aching. You drank all the Cognac last night. Ive got beers in the fridge.

I hobbled to the kitchen, dug two cans of Bud from the fridge and plunked down his can in front of him. There you go, 24 ounces of Bud.

He sipped on his can of beer, and grimaced. Why dont you have a stocked liquor cabinet? Even do-gooder Catholics drink. And the Mrs. has blown so you wont get nagged because you have a few bottles of hooch lying around.

I wasnt expecting company, and may I askhow bad is this creature?

Lets just say this swill Im drinking isnt making it.

May I have clarification on how bad it is?

The word bad doesnt even come close to describing it. Its probably the worse case scenario you could think of.

I took a hit of beer. Thanks for sugar coating it.

A team of bakery chefs couldnt sugar coat this disaster.

Do you know what crawled out of Oblivion? I mean, aside from Luther.

Its Mohana, the Devil said flatly. Mohana of the Chaos Hold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491766422

Douglas J. McGregor

Douglas J. McGregor is the author of nine action novels: Going Down Ugly; Limbo, Mississippi; That Special Knack; Killing Time till I Die; 8 Crazy Moments in Time; Off the Beaten Path; Itch; and most recently, Roadtrip 41. He is also the author and illustrator of the popular children’s book, Alphabet Town. A new children’s book entitled; Calvin Babysits the Zoo is due out in 2024.

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Copyright © 2015 Douglas J. McGregor .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6641-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6642-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906228

iUniverse rev. date: 5/14/2015

Contents

Prologue Serious Business

Part One: No More Mr. Nice Guy

Part Two: First Blood

Part Three: The Bitter Taste of Necessity

Part Four: Stuck Inside A Payback Mess

Part Five: Road Trip

Part Six: Antietam

Part Seven: My Save… And something else

Part Eight: The Christmas Eve Blues

Part Nine: Christmas Day

Part Ten: Home For The Holidays

Prologue

Serious Business

Mrs. Dawn Rennie:

Crazy things are happening.

Jake McCluskie:

There is no where to run.

A whispered breath floated across my shattered reality. …and this is how Mankind ends…

The cryptic words faded to dust in my head and I left them behind and walked toward a circle of light, a light so dim, at times it disappeared—but not the claws of growing fear chewing through the pit of my stomach or the hollow and deep sepulchral fingers of mortality crawling across and drumming coldly on my soul. And all I could think of was—where am I?

A stiff, frigid December breeze bit my cheeks and my breath trailed white from my nostrils. The light in the distance brightened, and I realized something—I was walking between buildings toward a street, which meant…I was somewhere I didn’t want to be.

The Devil warned me never to go into dark alleys. He couldn’t blame me this time. I had no idea how I had gotten here; I also had no idea where ‘here’ was. Those thoughts scared me. What scared me more was the thought: what’s waiting for me on the street?

It had to be bad—it’s always bad, so why not this time? And where’s my gun?

Except for lint, the pockets of my gray corduroy coat were empty. Great, lost and unarmed, I thought, and shivered against the cold with one thought pressing heavy: I wanted out of this alley—and fast. I hurried my pace, my feet hot in my sneakers. The V-neck t-shirt I wore felt loose, my blue jeans felt tight, and the waist band on my boxer shorts itched. Not that I noticed much, for black eels of bad thoughts tore through my head.

The cold hurt, and sunk into my bones. I wished I had my hoodie on. For that matter, I wished I had my gun. Being unarmed was a bitch.

With that playing heavy on my thoughts, my phone vibrated on my thigh.

A short jab of fright shot through the pit of my stomach—the thought that I carried a phone never even entered my head. The phone was in my hand in a second, but I kept walking, for I wanted out of this alley—fast. The Devil is right: dark alleys are no place to be.

My phone’s display window pulsated a soft white. The message read: Calling/ Mrs. D. Rennie. Fear crawled up my throat like angry ants, and I jabbed the ‘talk’ button with my index finger. Are you okay?

A blast of static answered my question. A second later, I heard her voice. Mr. McCluskie…are you there?

The desperate timbre in her voice stung me deep. My problems emptied out of my head like bath water down a fast moving drain. The only thing that mattered to me now was the school mom.

Is this the end? Is the World ending?

Good question, I thought, breathing into the phone, and now I was thinking up a response, and I was thinking something else too, something sinister—could I lie to the school mom?

The thought lasted an instant and ended with a definite ‘no’. There was no way I could lie to her. I didn’t have it in me. No matter how bad, I had to tell her the truth, at least from my perspective.

I cleared my throat. Uh… The words tasted rotten in my mouth, and when I spoke them, they sounded even worse. Things are gonna get bad.

My God… she managed weakly, and for a moment I listened to static, and thought bad thoughts. The Horseman Pestilence was cooking up a plague. I stood in his way. I felt outmatched and insignificant. My family was gone. How’s that for a kick in the nuts? Good thing I drink, huh?

I listened to Mrs. Rennie breathing, and my thoughts raced. Had the plague started? Is this why she called? Had I been too busy in front of my computer writing to have missed the start of the apocalypse?

Static crackled in my ear. Are you there?

A weak, Yes came back, and then in a stronger voice she said, Crazy things are happening.

What kind of things?

Before she could respond, the line went dead. The phone felt cold in my hand. The display window went dark, and I cursed under my white breath all the while thinking of Mrs. Rennie. What was her definition of ‘crazy things’?

As I went to drop the phone in my pocket, it vibrated and the display window lit up. I pushed the ‘talk’ button and heard Mrs. Rennie say, All the dogs are dying.

Her words bounced around inside my head. Huh?

I can see a dead dog laying in the street. Her voice trembled with hysteria. Why is this happening? She breathed a hard sigh into the phone. Are we all going to die? Please tell me the truth.

If the school mom wanted the truth, then she was going to hear it. I don’t know why dogs are dying. I guess it’s the start. And things are going to get worse, way worse.

She gasped with a desperate horror that bothers me to this day, and I wondered if I should have sugar coated my response. Not that I could have. But I did wonder, and while I wondered, she sniffled back tears and asked, Should we run?

My answer was immediate, and blunt. There is no where to run.

I went to add more, but a violent hiss of static crackled in my ear and the line went dead. With no trace of signal bars on the screen, I stuffed the phone in my pant pocket and swore.

I was still swearing when I walked out into the middle of the street. The buildings looked familiar. I had been here before, but again, where was ‘here’? Had to be New York, and my gut said Queens. But my gut has been wrong before. Lots of times. So who knew for sure?

But my gut was right about one thing—I was in trouble.

The overhanging streetlights at the end of the block flashed yellow for no cars and no people. Nothing moved. My reality was static, and the silence deepened.

At the end of the block where the lights flashed yellow and the streets intersected, I spotted road signs, and I marched up the empty street toward them, wandering a bit toward the gutter because I was looking at the gray sky, trying to decide what time it was.

It looked like early morning light defused in the mass of ash-gray. As for a specific time, it was tough to say—but if I had to ballpark it—and that’s when the phone in my pocket buzzed. My heart jumped, and the phone was in my hand in an instant. The screen lit up, and my heart skipped a beat—Mrs. D. Rennie was calling back. Good for her. I pushed the talk button.

We got cut off, I said, and for no other reason than I really wanted to share right then, I cryptically added, I don’t know where I am.

Her breathing quickened, and a curse word tumbled from her mouth and ran into a long Uhhhhhhh sound. I pictured her with the phone to her ear, her hand buried beneath her blond hair, tears in her green eyes, steaming up her glasses, the tops of her cheeks crimson with emotion. I wondered what I looked like. Not good, I figured, not good at all.

She cleared her throat. Uh, you don’t know where you are?

Last I remember, I was at home, in front of my computer, writing. Now I’m on some street. It’s New York…I think. The line crackled with static and I stopped walking and asked, Are you still there?

Yes. The pause sounded long to my ears, and then, just as I was about to speak, over the crackle of static she quietly asked, Is there any way I can help you?

The school mom’s offer warmed me and dampened some of my fear. It felt good to know someone cared. But what could she do? For that matter, what could I do?

No, thank you…I’m on my own.

The silence between us stretched, and I listened to the white noise of the connection and her breathing. Then she sniffled and blurted out something unexpected, The schools are closed, and I don’t know what to do.

Closed? Is it Christmas vacation?

A sharp report of static squealed in my ear, and as the line went dead I clearly heard her say, Head lice.

No signal bars on my screen spurred on another rant of curse words. Go figure. I dropped the phone back in my pocket and walked toward the street signs, giving the buildings a good look now. The coffee shop had a closed sign in the window, as did the mom and pop bodega, and no one was out shopping for a used car in the lot across the street. And no one was walking a dog either, and Mrs. Rennie’s words took center stage: all the dogs are dying.

Now I was thinking of dogs and head lice; I was also thinking about that son of a bitch Horseman, and as I thought about him, a bone-white mist formed along the ground. This isn’t good, that much I knew, and the fear burned harder in my belly. The mist meant something. But what?

I couldn’t decide. Mrs. Rennie still had center stage. Head lice? Her words blazed in my head, and I wondered how bad does it have to be to close Rockaway High School? And that got me thinking about other things, and the things I was thinking about I didn’t like. Like maybe the origin of the head lice was a tad more nefarious than a few dirty children with bugs in their hair. Maybe someone else was involved, perhaps a deity, perhaps a Horsemen—perhaps that son of a bitch Pestilence.

My thoughts boiled over and bubbled on the front burner. How did I end up here? Pestilence? Had to be.

Something took me from home and plopped me here, and maybe that something was a Horsemen. The thought made me swear, and as four-letter expletives rolled off my tongue and rang in my ears, I realized something, something bad.

A jolt of fear hit me with a thunderclap—the mist was thickening…and rising. The bone-white swirls of soupy mist swirled around my waist now, blanketing the street like freshly fallen snow.

The street signs came into view then: Hillside Avenue and 130th Street.

I knew where I was: Kew Garden, Queens, near the cemetery. It was where I became the Repairman.

I was back where it all started. That meant something, so did the rising mist.

The wind picked up, rustling the mist, and then, out of nowhere, a stale bland taste filled my mouth. My tongue burned with it. And oh my God, it grew worse, a lot worse, and a dark thought shot through my head—this is what death tastes like.

Death tasted bad, real bad, sewer water bad, and it filled my mouth and festered on my tongue. I wanted to spit but couldn’t. What happened next was worse. What happened next made me gag.

The smell hit me like a punch—a rancid, spoiled-meat stench that stung my nose. My stomach lurched, and I nearly threw up.

I staggered forward like a drunk through the waist-high mist, wanting away from the smell, and tripped over something. I landed on my knees atop something squishy, yet familiar. It felt like someone’s back. Couldn’t be? Right?

I bolted to my feet, and as I did, the mist cleared. It simply vanished, revealing what smelled.

The scream in the back of my throat stuck solid. All I could do was glare at the horror, at the open mouths and at the open dead eyes.

I stood waist deep in a sea of bodies. Everywhere you looked, everywhere, there were bodies. They were piled up on the sidewalk, in the gutters, in the street, and stacked up against the sides of the buildings like wood. Most were dressed for December, in coats and hats and boots. They ranged in age from the elderly to babies.

Dear God, I thought, unable to tear my eyes off their faces. Their mouths, locked open wide in a death scream, tugged at my sanity. Their open eyes, filled with a helpless dead glint, smothered my senses and made it hard to breath. With my thoughts running wild, I closed my eyes, and at the top of my lungs screamed. I wanna be left alone!

I never expected a reply, but I got one.

Good luck with that.

I whipped my head about so fast it hurt my neck. The Fat Turk stood ten feet away from me, up to his knees in bodies. His soft, warm brown eyes zeroed in on me. This is not good.

Thanks for stating the obvious.

I had met the Fat Turk last year at the Archangel Michael’s poker game. The last time I had seen him he was running for the door as Michael grabbed me. I guess he didn’t want to watch the violence.

The deity stood a foot taller than me, topping out at six-foot-ten, and he was obese to the point where I couldn’t even judge his weight. Five, six, seven hundred pounds? Take your pick. Who knew? You’d need a truck scale to weigh him.

The red, tent size t-shirt covering his torso clung to his boobs and spilled over his belly. Beige sweat pants with the thighs worn thin, clung to his legs.

He scratched quizzically at the black patch of hair ringing his bald head and opened his mouth slightly as he marveled at the rotting corpses. Oh, this is quite unsettling. He shivered with fright, the folds of fat on his cheeks quivering, and a deep uneasiness glinted in his eyes. This is not good at all.

You mentioned that. I looked down at the bodies by my feet, at a young girl, her face grimaced in death, her eyes looking off into nothingness. I looked up at him. How did I get here?

As he went to answer, the phone vibrated in my hand. The display window lit up. My conversation with Mrs. D. Rennie was back on.

The connection sounded solid, normal, and with no static crackling in my ear, I heard her ask, What should I do?

Funny you should ask, I thought, wondering what I was going to do waist-deep in a sea of bodies with a deity for company. I collected my thoughts the best I could for the school mom. Are you safe where you are now?

The pause lasted a few seconds. Yes…for now. Then she asked, Can you stop what’s going to happen?

Mrs. Rennie was full of good questions. As I thought up my answer, the Fat Turk nimbly picked his way around the copses, heading toward me, and motioned with his hand. Is that Lucifer on the phone? Because I need to talk to him.

Mr. McCluskie? Are you there?

I raised a hand at the Fat Turk to silence him, and into the phone said, I’m here Mrs. Rennie.

What should we do? All our neighbors are running.

Trust me—running is useless.

Her emotions broke, and she cried hard into the phone. We have to do something. We have food, but there’s no electricity, and the house is getting cold.

No power, huh? And now I was thinking about Con Ed. Sure, the power goes out now and then, but never really long enough for the house to get cold. Con Ed should have the juice back on soon.

The Fat Turk scoffed, his protruding lips wiggling from side to side. I doubt that.

What do you mean? I asked him.

He shook his head dismally, and a dark sigh seeped from his thick lips. Society is breaking down fast.

Huh? I wanted a bit more clarification on the Fat Turk’s response of—‘society is breaking down’—but Mrs. Rennie was back in my ear, wanting to know what to do.

Listen Mrs. Rennie, I will not let anything happen to you or your family. I will find you. Those were gallant words, but in my present situation, hardly worth much.

Static bite the line hard, and she repeated her earlier question, Can you stop this?

Before I could reply, the line went dead. Maybe it was just as well, because I didn’t have a good answer. I slid the phone into my pocket. For some reason, I didn’t think I’d be getting another call for awhile.

Who is Mrs. Rennie?

She’s a school teacher.

Is she in trouble? Before I could answer, he added, Stupid question—everyone is in trouble.

No kidding. And I glanced at the sea of bodies. What the fuck?

Yes, Jacob, this is serious business.

He stepped over a few more bodies, and came up to me, his expression dour. He paused, faked a smile, and then he leaned down and wrapped his massive girth around me. He squeezed hard, a wrestler’s squeeze, yet he was soft, like a marshmallow.

It’s great to see you. He stepped back, and put his massive hand on my shoulder, looking me over. Jacob, do you ever eat? You’re real thin.

Like my patience.

He snickered bashfully. You should eat more.

I lost my appetite.

The snickers ended, and he glanced down at the sea of bodies, his cheeks creasing with anguish. I can understand why.

I stared up into his face, into his brown eyes. So? How did I get here?

Why are you asking me? We’re inside your head, so you tell me.

I’m dreaming? I cut in sharply. I can’t be…it’s too real.

I wouldn’t call it a dream, the Fat Turk said with discomfort, looking again at the sea of bodies around us. This is a nightmare on acid. His eyes coasted down to me. Do you always dream like this?

A tremble that started in my groin tore upwards. I was inside my head? And I decided at once, this was just too damn real. I can’t be dreaming. It’s too real. I just talked to a woman on the phone.

He shrugged. I wonder if she’s dreaming too.

This isn’t a dream. I shook my head, worried about how scared I sounded. No one dreams like this. I can feel the wind on my face. I can smell.

Nothing pleasant to smell here, he shot back. Your dream is being enhanced by someone.

Who? I snapped. Pestilence?

He looked up at the sky as though he might find the answer there. I don’t know. Could be him. When was the last time you talked to the Devil?

You think it’s coming from him? From Lucifer? And I thought about it some more, and…Naw, it doesn’t feel right. He’s more of a bathroom mirror showman. Besides, he would do this face to face with me. I paused for half a second, my expression hardening. I think it’s coming from Pestilence. And now it was my turn to look at the sky, as though he might be there, hiding.

It’s possible. He shrugged his massive shoulders. Regardless of who’s enhancing this, it’s real troubling. I don’t like what’s going on inside your head, Jacob. And I sure don’t like what I saw on your computer screen.

Huh? I blinked quizzically. What are you talking about? I’m writing a book.

Oh really? he scoffed. Not what I read. He leaned over toward me, his thick black hairy eyebrows knitted with concern. That’s quite the suicide note you’ve written.

A cold chill crawled through me, and the silence lengthened as I stared at him in utter disbelief. No, I managed weakly. Can’t be. The last I remember I was in the middle of writing a chapter. I stared at him hopelessly. I don’t remember pulling up that file.

I can’t believe you even have a file like that.

I decided not to defend the point, not that I could have right then anyway, for I was still too stunned. How could I not remember doing it?

Maybe you pulled it up to make some changes. He sighed uneasily. Have you considered going to a psychiatrist?

I don’t need anyone in a three piece suit telling me I’m crazy, I already know that. And since I wanted to give him more of an explanation on the suicide note, I gloomily added, I think Pestilence went after my family. I think he went in their dreams and turned them against me. My family is gone.

The Fat Turk looked crushed, and hung his head sadly. I’m sorry…bad times.

And times are only going to get worse.

Serious business, he said quietly. This is serious business.

So it’s started?

He looked at me sharply. It has inside your head.

So this is going to happen?

He looked away, but before he did, I saw the troubled glint in his brown eyes, and that hurt me. When he spoke, his voice was a dark whisper. It’s your fight.

With hard determination, I looked into his eyes. I am going to stop this plague. I’m going to stop this madness—and I’m going to kill Pestilence.

Well, when you do, please make sure I’m a long way away.

I’ll try to remember that, I grumbled, and then thought of something. Why are you walking in my dream anyway?

I need to see you.

Okay, you’re seeing me now.

I can’t maintain the connection. I’m not a strong deity. Whoever is causing this dream to be so real is pushing me out. So listen, meet me here—he pointed up at the road signs—Kew Gardens, Queens. Early morning. I’ll be around.

What about Pestilence?

What about him?

If Pestilence is causing this, he’s going to know where I am.

Everybody knows where you are, he shouted back. I had no trouble finding you. You’re at home, asleep in front of your computer, in front of your suicide note. You don’t think Pestilence knows that?

He had a point, a real good point.

And be careful outside. Things aren’t right. Society is cracking.

What do you mean by that? And why don’t you think Mrs. Rennie isn’t going to get her power back?

Instead of answering my questions, he asked one of his own. When was the last time you left your house? When was the last time you watched the news?

I don’t know. I’m writing my next book. I paused, thinking, it has been awhile.

Then I added, Mrs. Rennie said dogs are dying.

Pestilence is making a point.

By killing dogs?

Don’t you get it? He is sending you a message.

By killing dogs? I repeated bluntly.

The three tasks will be completed by Morning Star’s dog.

What the— was as far as I got with my question before the Fat Turk disappeared. He simply winked out. I was alone, about to ask a question to myself. I closed my mouth, and thought about it. I was the Repairman the first time out; and the Redeemer the last time. According to the Fat Turk, I was Morning Star’s dog this time. Being called ‘Morning Star’ was cool. The ‘dog’ part? Not so much.

The Fat Turk reappeared in the exact same spot he vanished from. He looked bewildered, and slightly pissed off. I can’t maintain the connection.

Obviously, I returned. He went to speak, but I cut him off. So I’m Morning Star’s dog?

He nodded. Does Mrs. Rennie have a dog?

If she did, she doesn’t now, I said. And Rockaway High School is closed because of head lice.

It’s not just Rockaway High School. It’s every school in the five boroughs.

I pinched my cheeks together in disbelief. No way.

He glumly nodded. A lot of mortals see this as the sign of the apocalypse. Little do they know they’re right. He nodded again, the folds of fat around his neck rolling up and down like bicycle inner tubes. Head lice is just a warm up.

Pestilence?

Why did you make it sound like a question?

Yeah, stupid me, I said, and went on with, So why did he send a plague of head lice? It’s damn annoying, sure, but treatable.

It’s his penance for being the deity. He must do this to start the blood spell.

Blood spell? I questioned, and my mind raced down a scary train of thought. What’s that all about?

One side of the spell starts the plague, he explained. The other side of the spell stops it. He pointed a massive finger at me. That’s where you come in.

Yeah, I’ve got that part figured out. I stayed silent for a few seconds, thinking about what he had said. All I could think of to say was Why a blood spell?

It’s because of God’s Doomsday Tablet.

Huh?

He went to speak, but held up, and sniffed. Do you smell corn?

All I smell are dead bodies. What’s God’s Doomsday Tablet?

I never heard his reply, for I woke up in a cold sweat. The glow of green digits on the clock on the corner of my desk read: three-thirty-four a.m.

I knew that time meant something—for the thought sat there in my mind, bloated and heavy for a long time.

Hard rain hit the window, taking me from my thoughts, and I soon focused on my computer screen.

I read over my suicide note, and then tapped a button on my keyboard twice. The suicide note was deleted. What would be the point? No one will be around to read it anyway.

Part One

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Morning Star’s Dog:

Do you wanna end your day splattered all over the wall?

(1)

I left the apartment just after nine, and took the elevator to the lobby. My phone was charged up, and with full service bars even in the elevator, I tried once again to contact Mrs. Rennie. I had been trying since seven a.m. All I heard from her end was ringing. Why hadn’t the call eventually gone to voicemail? Phone service must be screwy, and I remembered what the Fat Turk said last night in my dream, ‘society is cracking.’ So much for Christmas, huh?

The lobby was empty, and I considered checking my mailbox; then I thought of the Fat Turk’s cryptic words, and my intuition told me not to bother. What would be the point? The bills and any Christmas cards could wait.

A stiff wind hit me in the face, and I followed the concrete path to the street, looking around as I walked, looking for signs of society’s breakdown, and finding nothing but emptiness. No one was around. I couldn’t even see a bird. That was odd, and scary.

The grass beside the sidewalk was frozen and brown. We got snow in November, but it was gone now. So much for a white Christmas.

Dead dogs, head lice, society breaking down, I thought wearily, I’ve got to get out more often, or at least watch the news from time to time.

Small white clouds dotted the western sky. To the east, the sun was where it was suppose to be but doing nothing to warm the air, for the temperature had to be in the low thirties. Thankfully, I was dressed for it—not like last night in my head.

Beneath my coat I wore a thick cotton t-shirt and a gray hoodie. The demon gun was tucked in the hoodie’s kangaroo pouch, my phone in the front pocket of my jeans. My T-bird was parked down the street. It was a ’55 classic, black as night with a beige interior. Hard on gas, sure, all V-eight engines are, still, I loved it too much to sell it.

As I went to climb in, a smell caught my nose, and I stopped and straightened up. The smell was faint, and I took a deep breath of cold New York air, and, yeah, sure it’s faint, but it’s there.

Sulfur? At least it smelt like that. And what was causing it? A fire? For some reason, that explanation didn’t sit so well with me. Something else was causing it, but what? Since I had no answer, I climbed into the T-bird and keyed the engine. It started at once, protesting against the cold, and after letting it chug in place for a few minutes, I threw the car in gear and drove north on Rockaway Boulevard and headed toward Kew Gardens.

A few cars were on the road, but not many, and I saw no buses or cop cars, and few people. Sure, it was cold, see your breath cold, still, it was 9:30 on a weekday morning, days before Christmas. The sidewalks should have been teeming with people.

As I drove along Beach Channel Drive heading out of Far Rockaway and into Inwood, I spotted my first dead dog. Black hind legs of a dog poked up from a garbage can, and I turned away quickly, keeping my eyes riveted on the road. I didn’t need to see that. I had seen enough last night.

The Van Wyck was closed, all the exits blocked off with concrete blocks, so I took side streets and arrived in Kew Gardens in under twenty minutes. I parked the T-bird on Hillside Avenue and walked down to the corner of 130th Street. The Citgo gas station was closed. Good thing, too, for someone had knocked over the pumps, clearing out all four off the concrete island and leaving them scattered on the oily macadam parking area like kicked over dominos.

Across the street, the front door of the bodega banged opened and closed in the wind, jangling my already frazzled nerves. The street was empty. That was good. And I saw no dead dogs, or deities for that matter. And where was the Fat Turk?

Before I could fish my phone from my pocket to look at the time, a voice from behind said, See what I mean about society cracking?

I jumped at his voice, and whirled around abruptly, my face creased with annoyance over being scared.

You’re sure jumpy, the Fat Turk remarked without humor.

Wouldn’t you be?

I suppose. He wore what he had on last night in my dream—beige sweatpants and a red t-shirt—and he stepped up to me and gave me a gentle hug. It’s good to see you Jacob, outside of your head that is.

Thanks for walking through my dream last night. I threw an arm around his midsection and gave him a squeeze. It felt like hugging a warm, mushy pillow. I sure needed the company.

To say the least, he returned, and sighed heavily, his thick nostrils fluttering. The smell of rotting flesh lingered in my nose for hours afterwards.

Not the smell of corn?

His eyes widened and he leaned down a bit. That was the oddest thing, he confessed. As soon as I climbed back inside your dream, all I could smell coming off you was corn. Do you eat a lot of corn?

No, I said, and now I had other thoughts on my mind. Speaking of smells—why does it smell like sulfur? It’s faint, but it’s there. I know there are fires around. I passed a few on the way here, but I don’t think that’s it.

The thick folds of blubber under his eyes creased with anguish and his lips puckered with distaste. I cared little for his look, and my heart rate sped up, fear stirring in my stomach—I wasn’t going to like his answer.

You’ve smelt this type of sulfur before.

My mind raced to find the answer, and when it did find it, the Fat Turk was already confirming my worst thought.

You smelt it when you walked in Oblivion.

A sick feeling bottomed out in my gut, it always does when I think of that place, and now I was thinking all sorts of bad things, and the question burning a hole in my head was, Why does it smell like Oblivion sulfur on the corner of Hillside Avenue and 130th Street?

Pestilence opened Oblivion, he said flatly, as though it was common knowledge.

I stared at him for a moment, my mouth agape, not knowing what to say, for I had too many questions. Finally, I managed, Is Oblivion closed now? Did Luther get out?

Luther? he questioned, his eyebrows arched, and he paused in thought. Who knows? Maybe Luther never even entered his head, and as I thought about that, a quizzical glint materialized in his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, his extra five chins rolling up like paper towel rolls.

Well?

He sniffed the air, shrugged, and mildly said, No. I don’t sense Luther, and trust me, I would, so I guess he’s still in Oblivion.

I sighed with relief and asked the next question in line. So why did Pestilence open Oblivion?

Demons. He needs an army of demons, and now he’s got them.

Thanks for making me feel good, I grumbled back, and drew the demon gun from my pouch, looking at it. I’ve only got three rounds.

That’s not going to be enough.

Thanks Einstein. Even I’m smart enough to do the math on that one.

He flashed me a smile before his expression turned lukewarm, his lips turned with distaste. Actually Jacob, that’s an insult.

Huh?

His tone was flat, but not harsh. My intellectual capacity far exceeds that of Mr. Einstein.

Oh, for the love of a… I trailed off, shaking my head a bit. So you think you’re a genius, huh? If you were smart, you’d be nowhere around here.

His smile was back and he chuckled quietly. You’re very funny sometimes.

Only when I’m scared.

You should be real funny then, he commented, and quickly turned his head up the street. A blue mini-van freckled with rust spots turned at the corner and drove toward us. Uh-oh, we have a problem.

What kind of problem? Who’s in the van? A pissed off soccer mom?

Gangs own this part of town, he revealed.

Gangs? Where are the cops?

He shrugged. Gone.

I can’t believe things got so bad so quick.

To make matters worse, the three gentlemen in that car have machine guns. Before I could utter a sound, he added, Since I’m not up to a drive-by shooting today. He waved his hand and the van suddenly screeched to a halt, and went zooming back in reverse. At the corner, it turned and raced away.

What the hell did you do?

I took control of the car. It’s going to drive them down to the ocean.

Oh yeah, thanks for the magic. I betcha the gun-totting hoods feel the same way, cuz I know a trip to the beach always brightens my day.

The Fat Turk smirked, and then his expression pinched up. Perhaps we should talk somewhere else—not in the open. With that said, he lightly grabbed my arm above the elbow with his meaty hand and guided me down the street.

You sure seem jumpy, I remarked drily, looking up into his chubby face. You’re a deity. What are you afraid of?

Pretty much everything these days.

I could find no fault in how he felt; I felt the same way.

We walked up 130th Street, his sausage-size fingers still wrapped around my arm. We filed past the used car lot and turned up a narrow dead end alley between two red brick buildings and closed off at the end by a high wooden fence.

You know, Lucifer warned me to never go into dark alleys.

Yeah, well he isn’t here, and I am, and I don’t want to be seen on the street, so here we are.

Mid-way down the alley he stopped and turned to me.

We should be safe here.

Don’t say that, I said at once, and turned, expecting to see some sort of danger lurking at the mouth of the alley—that’s the way my life usually goes, so you just have to figure, right? Yet, this time the entrance to the alley was empty. I tried not to think about it, and put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. Could you have picked a narrower alley?

Narrow? You could drive a car down here.

A small car, I said, adding, If nothing else, at least we’re cut off from the wind.

Are you cold? Because I find the temperature perfect.

I’m always cold.

It’s because you have no body fat.

Don’t start that again.

He chuckled in the back of his throat, and turned serious, his cheeks tightening. Did you contact Mrs. Rennie?

I can’t get through to her. I even called the school but all I get is a recording.

He sighed wearily, and slowly shook his head. This isn’t good. The fact that she was in your dream—in a dream enhanced for your benefit—means something.

It means she’s involved in this, I cut in sharply. Which means she’s in trouble. It also means that Pestilence knows about her.

Maybe not. His shoulders hunched slightly as though he was uncomfortable talking about it. I’m not convinced the dream came from Pestilence.

Huh? And I frowned so hard it hurt my cheeks. Who do you think?

That I can’t answer, but I sense nothing evil, and Pestilence would leave a stink, even in a dream, I would smell him.

Yeah, probably, I muttered, wondering which deity could have enhanced last night’s horror show.

Have you spoken to Lucifer?

Why would you think that? I know he’s my archangel, and I’m tethered to him, but it’s not like we’re hanging out.

Don’t get flustered. He put up his huge hands in defense. I’m just asking. See, I need to talk to Lucifer about something.

He didn’t produce that dream. That much I’m almost certain of.

I’m not saying he did, though he has the power to do it. I’m just saying I don’t think Pestilence did it and I need to see Lucifer.

You can find him at Giovanni’s. He has drinks there every afternoon at four.

The Fat Turk’s thick lips smacked together with distaste, and he looked away, anguished, as if I had created a problem for him. I’m not sure if Lucifer would let me see him. His bodyguards would most likely stop me long before I got to him. Remember, he knows I’m friends with Michael.

Aw, for the love of God. I shook my head with dismay. Okay, I’ll tell you what, if I bump into him—and I’m sure I will—I’ll pass along the message that you need to talk to him. How’s that?

He nodded a ‘thank you’, and looked at the ground, playing with his sausage thick fingers. Did you watch the news?

My cable is down. So is my internet.

He looked up, his cheeks crinkled up sourly. Maybe it’s down for a reason, he said cryptically, raising a brow at me. What’s going on has the Government afraid, and that’s not good.

What exactly is going on? I asked bluntly. You said ‘blood spell’ last night. Is that what I should be seeing on the news?

It’s all because of the blood spell. And now society is crumbling. And it’s only days before Christmas.

I know the date. Go on.

Pestilence has started the blood spell. Being the deity, it’s his penance to get things going, and he started it last year.

Last year? What are you talking about?

The head lice got the ball rolling last week, he answered. But it’s actually the second one. He shrugged. Most people have forgotten about the first time.

First time?

That’s when it started.

I went to speak, begging him to answer my question: when was the first time? For that matter, what was the first time? But he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

The head lice was a helluva thing. It happened overnight. Every school in the five boroughs was infected. It was so bad, you could see the bugs jumping on the kid’s heads. And these things aren’t your normal run of the mill lice. These things are super lice. The only way to get rid of them is by shaving the head.

I wanted to comment, I really did, but I had nothing; to be honest, I was having trouble imagining bugs jumping on kid’s heads.

No adults were infected. This plague was only for kids. Anyone under eighteen.

I thought of Mrs. Rennie, and was happy she still had her blonde hair. Her kids, however, (and I had no idea how many kids she had) was another story. Okay, are you gonna answer my question? When was the first time? And what was the first time?

Don’t you get it? Pestilence has started the Ten Egyptian Plagues. That’s his penalty for being the deity. That gets the blood spell started. He paused, his expression darkening. The locusts he sent after you on the subway last year was the first plague. That started it.

Thank you for finally answering my question, I said with attitude. I thought Pestilence sent the locusts to mark my location.

He knew about the blood spell, but not it’s contents—that I know for sure—but he did know that in order to start the spell, he had to unleash seven of the ten plagues. So he chose the locust plague to start it and to mark you as the Redeemer. Then he sat back and—

Waited for me to die.

He scoffed. He was cheering for you.

My brow rose. Get outta here. Why would he want that?

He wants this fight. He wants to exterminate Mankind. He leaned closer and added, He also wants to kill you, Jacob. He wants to kill Lucifer’s dog. Because in case you don’t know, Lucifer and Pestilence hate each other, and that’s saying it mildly.

Lucifer’s dog? I thought you said I was Morning Star’s dog?

We’ll get to that in a minute, he said with a huff, and pushed on. Pestilence went after livestock next. So if you’re interested in a handsome cab ride, forget about it. No horses. And no dogs either.

I saw a few dead dogs on the way here, I noted, the memory stinging my brain with haunting clarity.

When you mess with someone’s dog, that’s bad. The Fat Turk shivered a bit at the thought. People sure ran then.

Mrs. Rennie said that last night, I said quietly, more to myself than him. She wanted to know if she should run.

I heard what you said—no where to run to. Dejection filled his wide face, and he looked away, only to place his hand on my shoulder a moment later and say, The good thing is, Pestilence only has to unleash seven of the ten plagues to start the spell.

Seven too many, I said, and motioned with my hand. Okay, so how do you know about this? Do you know what’s written on the tablet? On God’s Doomsday Tablet?

He nodded, I’ve read the tablet—the half everyone knows about.

Excuse me?

He snapped his fingers, and a thin sheet of granite about two feet long and one foot wide appeared in his hand. This is the original tablet—the top half anyway. He held it up for me to see, and I gently ran my hand along the jagged edge where it had been broken in two.

Where did you get this thing?

It first turned up somewhere in Mesopotamia around 334 B.C.

334? I questioned, thinking about the time I awoke from last night’s dream.

He ignored my question and continued with his story, The tablet was owned by Alexander the Great. His enemy at the time, Darius the Third, the Persian King, learned of its existence, and had his spies steal it, taking it to the Phoenician City of Tyre for safekeeping.

Tyre? I’ve heard of that place.

It’s a small island in the Mediterranean off the coast of Israel, he informed.

Okay, what happened to the tablet there? Alexander the Great get pissed and go looking for his property?

Have you heard about the Siege of Tyre?

Naw, I mostly only know about U. S. history.

Instead of writing suicide notes you should be reading more, he said with a hint of pensive scolding, and pushed the story along. It took seven months for Alexander to take the city. He killed most of the male population and enslaved the women and children. And he only got half the tablet, this half.

When did it get broken in half?

Knowing how important the tablet is, and not wanting Alexander to get his hands on it, Darius the Third had it broken in half. He picked his best two soldiers, gave them each a half, and sent them out of Tyre. One solider made it, eluding Alexander’s army; the other solider… He trailed off and shook his head. Alexander got part of his property back, and then time erased it from history, until last April, when this half of the tablet was discovered at an archeological dig outside of Damascus.

April?

Seven days before you became the Redeemer, he said. And an hour after the treasure was discovered, Pestilence stole it. He gestured with the tablet. Pestilence gave me this yesterday. He knows I’m familiar with this ancient text.

I put my hand on the tablet and ran my fingers over the writing. I’ve seen this writing before—it’s similar to the writing of Hell’s Codes.

Good eye. It’s the same text: an obscure form of ancient Latin. A language not written by men. If you know what I mean?

Yeah, and the language of deities is written all over my friend Belinda Baines.

He looked down sadly. I know. He looked up at me. Listen, Pestilence wanted you to have full disclosure on the blood spell, at least the top half. He knew we were acquainted, and since I could read the text to you, he passed it off to me.

How nice of him, I remarked blandly. Okay, so where is the other half of the tablet?

No one knows, but you better find it before Pestilence does because if you don’t, what we saw in your dream last night is going to happen for real.

Well thanks for the history lesson, and thanks for scaring the shit out of me.

You’re going to be a whole lot more scared when I tell you about what’s written on the tablet.

I thought of something then, and stopped him with a raised hand. If Pestilence knows the history of the tablet like you do, and I’m sure he does, why hasn’t he gone back in Time to the City of Tyre to steal the damn thing before it gets broken in half?

It’s too far back in Time, he responded. The only one who could get that far back in Time is the Timekeeper.

If I could find him, I said, thinking, he hangs out in Red Hook, but trying to find him there would be a long shot. Think he’d do it for me?

Did you see him when you were the Redeemer? Is he one of the Redeemer’s assets?

I nodded. He showed up just when Lucifer was gonna kill me. I grinned at the Fat Turk. If nothing else, the little guy sure has great timing. And he loaded my gun.

Can you find him? Before I could reply, he whipped back with, Haven’t you already time traveled?

Yeah, the Timekeeper sent me back to 1938.

You can’t time travel again, he replied. So the Timekeeper can’t help you.

If I can’t time travel, how am I gonna go back in time to find this tablet?

You’re asking me?

You’re the only deity around. But I know one thing, I’ll be asking the Devil when I see him.

Remember to tell him I need to see him, he said, paused for half a second and pushed on with, Now, about the tablet…it’s God’s reset button. It’s a blood spell on how to kill Mankind, and how to stop it. He stared me in the eye. As I said last night, this is serious business.

I gather—please continue.

This plague will wipe out the entire population of the planet. His expression hardened. When I read the text, it gave me the damn chills. He leaned down slightly. Pestilence—he pointed with a beefy finger at a skull on the tablet—is mentioned by name. That figure means him.

What about me?

He pointed at a character—three small stars above what closely resembled a crooked inverted 7. That’s you there. The direct translation is the mortal canine of the Trinity’s Morning Star.

Canine? Gee, I hate the sound of that.

Canine is a loose translation. It could mean warrior.

I like the sound of that a bit better, I said with a resigned huff, and then asked, Are you gonna explain the whole ‘Trinity’s Morning Star’ thing to me?

The Trinity means the archangels: Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel. He shrugged uncomfortably. Then Lucifer rebelled. That’s not good.

I bet.

It’s the reason only Michael and Gabriel are mentioned in your Old Testament.

Okay, I understand that, but what’s this ‘Morning Star’ thing?

In ancient Hebrew, Lucifer means ‘Morning Star’.

Morning Star, huh? No shit. That got me smiling for some reason. Oh, I gotta mention that to Lucifer the next time I see him.

He flashed me a grin. Anyway, you’re the Devil’s Dog.

You know what? It’s not bad. I’ve been called worse.

I’m sure. He paused for half a second. That’s why Pestilence killed all the dogs—just to make a point.

I plan on making my own point with him very soon.

He nodded somberly. Anyway, it’s you against him.

And it looks like he got the Marquee.

The Fat Turk smiled. You are the challenger, you are the underdog.

That’s a gross understatement. I pointed at the tablet. What’s the blood stuff about?

You have to gather seven bloods for your side of the spell. It’s written that since he starts the spell, he only has to gather six for his side.

Bloods? I don’t follow. Like blood types?

Kind of. It’s more along the lines of who’s blood. Like for example, one blood that Pestilence must gather is that of a Norwegian. He managed a weak smile. I hear a Norwegian man coming home from work yesterday got drained of his blood. So I think it’s safe to say Pestilence has that one.

I’ve got to drain people of blood?

He shook his head. You only need one vial. It’s stated right in the text.

So why did Pestilence drain this guy?

He looked at me as though I’d asked a stupid question. "It’s Pestilence. What