CHAPTER 33: MARSHAL WHITFIELD
SILVER FALLS—NOVEMBER 20th, 1992 | LATE AFTERNOON
?
Two gruff-looking men waited for them at the bottom of the stairwell in front of a reinforced steel door, marked with sigils in excess.
Cameron didn’t know what any of the symbols meant, but there were enough of them for him to know that neither he nor Leroy would be getting inside without their permission. One of them had a shotgun in his hands, and another had a glistening spear leaning up against the wall, but both had the same red sword-shaped cross on their neck.
“Was told Eisenhower was down here,” Leroy began. “Need to see him.”
“Yeah? And who told you that?” said the one with the shotgun.
“Your Chaptermaster,” Leroy clarified. “Now open the door.”
The warden with the spear practically gulped, and with widened eyes, insisted to the other warden that they open the door without so much as a single word. The gun-toating man exhaled sharply, reached for a set of keys along his belt, and plunged the key into the lock. Each of the sigils hummed with subtle power as the door opened.
The smell hit Cameron like a sledgehammer, and he stumbled back an inch or two to hold his hand over his mouth. Rotten food, decayed bodies and burned hair. It was either all of those things or none of those things, or something worse. Cameron’s stomach cried out in protest. He dashed to the side and pressed a hand against the brick wall, leaning over and retching onto the floor, eyes watering as drool and spittle fell from his mouth alongside the bile.
A laugh escaped Leroy. “Don’t feel too bad, Kessler. Same thing happened to me when I came down here the first time. You’ll go nose blind in a few minutes.”
Still hunched over, Cameron’s attention centered on the small cage that hung from his belt loop. The sprite twisted and turned in onto itself, as it tended to, but its normally unblinking, singular eye looked up at Cameron and blinked. Over and over and over again. The only thing Mercedes had ever told him, and the one thing he knew for certain about sprites—outside of what he’d learned from Silvio—was that the only time they ever blinked was in the presence of danger.
And second only to the smell was the sound.
In many ways, Cameron thought himself fearless. Whether or not that was true didn’t matter to him; it was something he’d always tried to tell himself. Delusion was an ability stronger than anything he’d ever achieve as a hexling. He deluded himself into thinking that he’d be just fine at Blackpool Penitentiary, a place that by all estimations was as bad as everyone made it out to be.
But even without ever having been there, Cameron knew that there would be no noises in Blackpool comparable to what he heard behind that opened door.
He hadn’t even looked—he couldn’t bring himself to.
Deep and powerful screeches filled the air, coupled with the sound of flesh being severed. Noise hit his ears, and it was otherworldly and uncanny. It was the cries and bellows of things that knew they didn’t belong here, and Cameron wanted to stay where he was, with his awareness locked tightly around the blinking eye of the sprite. If it could speak, it would’ve told him one thing: do not enter.
A hand clasped onto his shoulder, hard. Leroy pulled him back and stood him upright. “Get it together, Kessler.”
Cameron wiped the final dredges of the bile away from his mouth, and nodded. “Yeah.”
The two wardens shared a laugh, and nodded Cameron and Leroy in through the door.
The ceiling was taller than one would’ve imagined, and to one side of the room were opened garage doors connected to tunnels, where a few military-style transport trucks were parked—each of which had been retrofitted with large cages. Cameron squinted. The steel was black. It had to have been Drychus metal.
It was more of a bunker than a basement, a facility halfway between state-of-the-art and dated. On one end was an open floor plan with supply crates, a few tables, a handful of couches, and what looked like further weapon racks alongside an area dedicated to a collection of large black chains and even larger black collars and restraints. Wardens lingered around, some of which shared a beer, while others seemed caught up in more pertinent discussions. Everything was concrete, including the floors, which had light fixtures built along the ground.
On the far end of the bunker, closer to where the tunnel entrances were, were holding cells with black bars. Ones that were far too large for any human.
As soon as Cameron stepped inside, a massive clawed hand pressed up against the black metal bars, screaming with pronounced malevolence. It screeched as its red-leather hand burned up against the Drychus metal—and the smell was consistent with what he’d been slammed with as soon as that steel door opened.
“What the fuck—... what is that thing?” Cameron muttered.
“A lesser demon,” Leroy said, stepping in front of the holding cell.
As it moved around within its cell, Cameron was able to see it more clearly. It had a hunched frame, four red arms, and a tail that it coiled around its own waist. Its jaw was large and hung low to the ground, and its face was a collection of eyes without a nose. It had a single, jagged horn. It wasn’t the only one either; the cell was occupied with a handful of other lesser demons, all distinct in their appearances, but all red-skinned and ugly in their own way.
“There’s.. there’s people in there, Leroy,” Cameron said.
Husks of humans were pinned up against the far side of the demon holding cell. Bags covered their heads, and their clothes were varied, but none of them moved. None of them spoke. It was as though they were empty, and had completely resigned themselves to whatever their current state of being was. Strangely, the demons didn't even acknowledge them.
“They were people,” a voice said. Cameron turned and saw a man pacing towards them. He was a behemoth, likely somewhere or around six-foot-five, with shoulders as broad as boulders and a barrel-chest to match. “Now they are but husks. Tethers, we call them. Soulless shells of what used to be, captivated by demonic compulsion for the sole purpose of allowing them to roam freely in our world absent a demonic contract.”
He wore military-style trench coat, a dull green, and buttoned all the way to the top. It was accented by the patchwork of lightweight metal armor that covered his shoulders, elbows, thighs and knees. A visored helmet covered his entire head, and Cameron couldn’t tell if it was medieval or some modern re-interpretation of what was supposed to be medieval. A shoulder-cape hung from his shoulder. Black, with a golden cross on it. His utility belt housed a number of things: a cluster of what had to have been grenades, a wooden stake, rows of bullet magazines.
Half of his right arm was missing. In its palace was some sort of cast-iron prosthetic, which looked more like a weapon than a replacement, and strapped across his lower back was some sort of sawed off shotgun. As soon as that made himself known, Cameron’s fear practically sputtered out of existence. That dread which seemed undeniable only moments ago was quelled by his presence, and the presence of the wardens at-large, but he’d never say such a thing outright.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
“Eisenhower,” Leroy said with a smile. He extended his hand.
Eisenhower took it, and the two embraced. If Eisenhower was smiling, Cameron wouldn’t know. “That’s Marshal Whitfield to you, Leroy Waters, while we’re inside these walls, at least.”
The Chaptermaster didn’t seem thrilled to have Leroy in the church, and most of the wardens either mirrored that sentiment by way of the way they looked at him, or it was implied by their silence. But this man was different—he was happy to see Leroy, and Cameron couldn’t help but wonder what sort of storied past they must have had together. A warden embracing a demonic contractor didn’t make any sense.
Cameron shifted his attention back towards the so-called tethers. There was one for each of the demons contained in the cell, and they were all bound to the walls, with bags covering their heads. The sight of it brought something out of Cameron, an indignant rage that spread through his features.
“They’re people,” Cameron said.
“No,” Eisenhower said, with a low and thunderous voice. “They are not.”
“If it looks like a duck, acts like a duck, swims like a duck,” Cameron retorted, and pointed an accusatory finger towards the tethers bound within holding cells. “As far as I can tell they are still breathing. Look. I’m not a fucking paragon of virtue here, but even I know that this is wrong, alright? It’s.. it’s fucked. It’s all fucked. There’s gotta’ be some way that you can, I don’t know—”
“Bring them back?” Eisenhower interjected. “There is not, young man. And no amount of wishful thinking will make it so; this is simply how it has been and how it will always be. There is no arcane ritual capable of restoring a lost soul.”
Leroy cleared his throat. “Kessler.”
“What?” Cameron snapped.
Eisenhower turned towards the holding cells. “You bring a guest, Leroy Waters.”
“My underarbiter, Cameron Kessler,” Leroy said. “He’s got a mouth on him.”
Eisenhower shook his head. “He asks reasonable questions. I imagine this is the first time you have seen a demon, no?”
Cameron remained silent, but Eisenhower caught on.
“It is a lot to take in, and save for a few outliers, you’ll not find demons in Brinehaven. Your concern is understandable, and your gripes even moreso,” Eisenhower said.
“You’re what, monster hunters? Demon hunters? All of the above? Why keep these things alive?” Cameron asked.
Eisenhower invited both of them to walk with him, and with a nod, Leroy urged Cameron to follow. As Eisenhower led them through the basement, a number of the wardens who had been idling—and even those who weren’t—stopped just enough to issue the man either a nod, or a wave, with a handful even saluting. It didn’t strike Cameron as odd. Outside of his self-confessed title as whatever the hell a marshal was, Eisenhower’s stature alone demanded a degree of respect.
“We are God’s soldiers,” Eisenhower explained. “We are the first line of defense against the evil of this world. Vanguards, Cameron Kessler, who ensure the safety of those who cannot. We are hunters, exterminators, and cleansers. Our trade is primarily the tracking and slaying of demons, but there are other things—the twisted, dark, and vile—which demand our attention. What you call monsters are known more commonly as fiends.”
“That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t answer my question,” Cameron said.
“Kessler,” Leroy warned.
Eisenhower shook his head. “It’s quite alright, Leroy Waters. The Order of the Wardens works in tandem with the Exorcist Association, Cameron Kessler, both of which are branches of the Vatican. If I may put it so simply, our primary task in Silver Falls is to survey the Pines and hunt fiends before they can reach the city limits—as is our obligation both to the Vatican and the Commonwealth of Brinehaven. But among demons in particular, we are required to allocate a certain quota of them, so to speak, to the Exorcist Association.”
Cameron almost laughed. Eisenhower’s version of put simply was, in fact, more long-winded than he must’ve realized. Not to mention his preference for full names, and the low, formal tone in which Eisenhower seemed to speak in. After following him around for long enough, the marshal settled them into what seemed to be a small rest area closer to where the tunnels and the rows of trucks were situated.
Cameron imagined that the tunnels lead outside, to the Pines, and that when they had to capture a demon instead of killing it, the wardens drove them down under the church’s basement.
“And what is it that the exorcists do with the demons? Exorcise them?” Cameron asked.
Leroy stifled a laugh, and a wry smile took hold of his features. “I’ll bite my tongue on that one, Eisenhower. Let you tell him the cold hard truth of it.”
“Exorcism is customary for cases of possession. Possession, in most cases, is a phenomenon limited to ghosts, specters, wights, and wayward spirits. Exorcists are capable of cleansing these things, but their interest in demons is the extraction of their blood,” Eisenhower explained.
Cameron’s stomach sank. It didn’t take him long to put two-and-two together. Demon blood had to be pasteurized in order for it to do any good, but Cameron never knew how it came to be—or where the raw materials came from. “So it’s about money.”
“That’s what it tends to boil down to, Kessler, for just about anything,” Leroy noted. “I’ll take over from here, Marshal Whitfield. Take a look around you, Cameron. Guns, trucks, swords, Drychus metal cells. You don’t get this level of gear from a few donations and a long term tax-exemption. This, Kessler, is one chapter out of many, and all of those chapters need funding in order to do what they do.”
“Is that not, what, fucking—.. I don’t know, against your rules? Heresy? Selling out raw demon blood? Hell, do you even know what people use that shit for? It’s poison. All of it,” Cameron said, his tone rising in volume.
“Poison until pasteurized," Leroy pointed out. “In which case it’s the best healing agent the world has ever known, and probably will ever have. From my understanding, the Exorcist Association only deals the raw demon blood to accredited alchemists. People with degrees. Am I wrong, Eisenho—.. Marshal Whitfield?”
Eisenhower shook his head. “No. You are correct, Leroy Waters. The unregulated distribution of raw demon blood, I should point out, does not and will not happen due to any fault of the Exorcist Association. We here are aware of what you may know as blud, and it is a tragedy, but it is my responsibility to speak truth to power, and the truth of the matter is that there are alchemists with ulterior motives, driven by the sin of greed. If it were my choice, I’d have them all executed.”
A memory flashed before Cameron’s eyes. He saw Germaine, his mother’s old apartment, and that look on her face on the day that she died. Cameron suppressed what felt like a rush of emotion that was liable to turn into tears, and very nearly threatened to make his voice crack. He thought of his mother often enough, but her memory was never at the forefront of his awareness. It was something he better thought subdued, else he’d be forced to relive that moment. That day.
“On that,” Cameron began, and his words came out between gritted teeth. “We agree.”
“That’s your lesson over, then, Kessler,” Leroy said, half-joking. “Order of the Wardens, Exorcist Association, the Vatican. All stuff arbiters need to know about—all stuff you’ll need to keep handy.”
Eisenhower nodded in agreement. “Indeed.”
“With all of that said, Marshal Whitfield, I’ll be needing to borrow you,” Leroy said.
Eisenhower nodded once more. “Yes. I imagine that is why you are here, Leroy Waters. Whatever it is, I am up to the task.”
Leroy smiled. “Good to know. Cameron and I need an escort through the Pines to the Commonwealth Industrial Park. Need to take the back roads.”
Eisenhower’s silence spoke volumes, and his visored metal helmet made it harder to tell what he must have been thinking. “When?”
“Today,” Leroy said. “Now, even, if you can swing it.”
Eisenhower nodded. “I will prepare a truck.”
bonus chapters that explore specific characters that have already been mentioned in the story.
So.. where do you guys come in with this?
You guys would all vote, essentially, on which sort of story would be made into a bonus chapter, which I'd then add into a independent volume called Rituals, which would function as an anthology of sorts containing self-contained short stories probably around the 3,500-5,000 word mark.
Here's how it would work:
- Vote is taken for 3 selectable characters.
- For every rating and/or review, a ? will be added to the Ritual.
- Upon completion, the voted upon Ritual (as tallied at the time fo the Ritual completion) would be released as a bonus chapter.
- After that, the Ritual cycle would begin anew.
As an aside, feel free to suggest characters to be included in Rituals. I'd love for you guys to have a direct say in which characters you'd like to see more of.
At any rate, I've attached a poll below with the first official selection! Cast your ballots, folks ???
[VOTING CLOSED]
LEROY WATERS
CAMERON KESSLER
MArSHAL WHItFIELD
Enjoying BRINEHAVEN? If so, please a review or a rating, it helps this story gain much needed visibility!
? SUMMONING RITUAL (1) ?
