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Precious in the sight of the lord is the death of his Saints. - Psalms 116:15 |
| [Introduction] ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Wasteland Saints And it was given unto him to make war with the Saints and to overcome them: and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations. -Revelations 13:7 ---- The world was shit before the apocalypse, but at least it was our shit. We had our wars, our murders and our sins, but that was life. We could deal with human problems. Then Hell decided to climb out of its hole and nothing was the same. Demons don't play by the same rules as even the worse humanity has to offer. They have their own rules in that there are no rules. They turned on us. They turned on each other. The whole world fell. The thing about the end of the world is that people will always believe there's going to be heroes. The kind of hero that stands up against the evil of the world and prevails. The kind that doesn't set a foot on the wrong side of the law. These kind don't exist. And if they do, they don't last long. People who want to be a hero just to be a hero, they're the first to die. They stand up and think some godly, divine intervention is going to save their ass. Then their feet are swept out from under them by a fucking hell hound and... it gets bloody from there. No, the real heroes after the end of the world, they don't care about being heroes. They care about surviving. They care about family and somewhere deep down, they care about humanity. They do what needs to be done. They fight, they bleed and they sacrifice. They don't give a shit about being labeled a hero or a good guy - they just want to live. It's said God has an army of Saints at his side at the end of the world. The end is here and God's no where in sight. And if he's picked out his Saints, he's done a shitty job. The real Saints of the world don't dress in white and charish purity. The real Saints load shotguns, carry knives and bleed for each other. They don't do so in the name of God. They do so in the name of men. The world is a Wasteland and we're its Saints. |
#1 - Death of a Saint --- "Then I called upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech thee, deliver my soul." They had a place where they buried their dead. Outside of town, away from their camp - just a nice place, with a nice view in a nice skeleton desert. It was solitude. It was serenity. It was death and dust and dirt and Wes had been there three times in the last year to bury what was left of his family. Unmarked graves to make it hard for the demons to fuck with them. It wouldn't stop them completely. Half the town turned up to bury his Dad. Would have been more, but an empty town is an invitation for disaster. It was the closest thing to a real funeral that people had these days. Flowers were paper because real ones didn't grow anymore. They burned the body, buried the ashes, put a single stone down, no markings. There were others around. Two more that meant something to Wes. An anonymous graveyard. Too many stones. "Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; yea, our God is merciful." The sun had set a long time ago, the bonfire burning and casting an orange glow on the faces of everyone standing in the dust. Wes sat on the ground, because he was so fucking tired of standing. He was tired of a lot of things, but tonight, mostly standing. And it sure as shit didn't have anything to do with the half empty bottle he held in his hands or the way the desert seemed to move beneath his feet when he tried to stand. The whiskey was numbing, but not numbing enough. So he just kept drinking. Declan stood beside him and the man was the picture of a stoic badass. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his coat drawn around his frame and his face stone hard and passive. He'd been the one to break it to Wes that the last of his blood was dead. The man cared, cared more than he was letting on at the moment. He was better at hiding his emotions than Wes. Or maybe he'd just lost so much already that it didn't matter anymore. Wes didn't believe it. But Declan wasn't the one with tears on his cheeks and blood on his knuckles. "The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me." Wes ran a hand over his face, resting his head in his hand and turning to stare at the row of bikes lined up behind the funeral goers. The whiskey blurred his vision, but he could spot his Dad's Knucklehead from where he sat. It was the bike the others envied. Detailed with red crosses. Wes had driven it out there and it was a wonder he hadn't crashed it into a fucking cactus. It was the bike his Dad had taught him how to ride on. It was the bike of the man who had founded the Saints and people knew to respect it. Turning his head back, he took another long swig of the whiskey bottle and looked up at Buckley who stood on the other side of the fire. The bible in his hands was old worn, fraying at the edges and Wes found it a perfect fit for the times. It fit the man who read from it and the crowd that listened to the words. Old, tired, worn. Seen better days. Probably would see worse. Although Wes didn't know how it could get any worse than this. "Return unto they rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee." The words fell from Buckley's mouth in a smoky tone. His face was shadowed by the brimmed hat he wore. The only part that could be seen was his moving lips and scruffy chin. He was an older man, older than his Dad had been and older than Declan. Those were rare to find these days. Wes licked his lips and turned to look at the people who'd come to honor his father. Most of their heads were bowed, some were crying, some just stared at the ground. Others held onto loved ones and still others just watched Buckley as he read and Wes felt his lip curling up into a snarl because the words meant nothing. They were just words and what comfort could the offer now? Buckley lifted his head from the book, reciting the rest of the words from memory. "For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. I will walk before the lord in the land of the living. I believed, therefore have I spoke: I was greatly afflicted." Wes snorted and shoved himself to his feet. He swayed in his drunkenness and felt hands grab at his elbows to try to keep him up. He shrugged them off immediately because he could stand on his own two goddamned feet and fuck them if they thought he couldn't. He pointed the whiskey bottle at Buckley, who just lifted his chin in silence acceptance of the interuption. "I said in my haste," Wes carried on where the pastor had left off. "All men are liars!" he yelled it to the sky and turned to glare at the crowd, walking backwards towards the line of bikes. "What shall I render unto the lord for all his benefits toward me? I will take the cup of salvation," he lifted the whiskey bottle to the air, in a toast to God. "And call upon the name of the Lord!" The he took another swig and headed towards his Dad's Knucklehead. Behind him, he could hear Declan's quiet voice. "Lou," was all he said. He could picture the man nodding to Declan and he could hear his quiet boot falls in the sand as he came after him. He half expected the man to try and stop him, or man handle him back towards the crowd and if he tried, he was going to get a fist in the teeth. He was half surprised when his friend just fell in line beside him, hands stuffed into his leather jacket. He didn't say anything, instead offering his quiet support and even if Wes wasn't completely blasted, he wouldn't have thanked the man out loud, but he'd still respect the offer. Wes reached his Dad's bike and grabbed the handles, dragging it across the dirt, away from the others. He kicked it over onto the ground, staring at the fallen piece of metal and gears. He yelled in fury and kicked it again and then a third time before he emptied the rest of the bottle of whiskey onto the top of it and flung the bottle down onto the chasse. Then he pulled a lighter from his pocket. "Shit, Wes," Lou said, coming forward. Wes waved his hand at him drunkenly. Wes grinned at him, but it fell flat off his face in the next moment. "It's alright," he slurred. "You don't want to do this," Lou tried, but Wes was beyond listening as he turned around and faced the crowd again. Declan stood watching with that calm look on his face. The other Saints' faces were hidden under grim masks and for a moment he didn't know what he was doing. Declan had pity in his eyes, as did Buckley and even god damned Alex, who he'd never seen pity or emotion aimed towards him since the moment his brother had met the woman. He growled and then let out a maniacal laugh, flicking open his lighter and holding it up in the air. The wind threatened to put it out, but it held strong and Wes yelled at the sky. "I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people!" he screamed, waving one arm at the crowd while he flung the lighter down onto the bike with the other. The alcohol ignited immediately and Wes laughed at the flames. He felt Lou grab the back of his leather coat and he stumbled as the man pulled him back away from the burning bike. The crowd scrambled back. In a calm voice, Declan said, "Put it out." Immediately, without question, the Saints ran to the bike and began drowning the flame with their coats and sand, trying to put it out before it reached the gas tank. Wes stood back, laughing his ass off, nearly doubled over. Behind him, he heard Lou whisper, "Jesus, Wes." The quiet, whispered words were enough to make the hysterical laughing stop. He kept his eyes on the bike and he wasn't sure what he felt when the flames finally died and the others lifted the bike back up. The metal was scorched, but the bike wasn't ruined by any means. It was still there, still useful and still alive. He'd wanted to bury it. He'd wanted it gone. "God damn it!" Wes screamed at the others and they turned to look at him, eyes wide and a little fearful of what he was going to do next. He stood there for a moment before flashing them a toothy, drunken grin. Then he turned towards town and was going to fucking walk back because he wasn't driving that bike to town. "This funeral is fucking over!" he yelled so everyone could hear him. "He's in the ground, so it's time to get a fucking drink. I want this whole town drunk out of their minds tonight or so help me I will reign fire down upon the earth!" He laughed and then paused, turning around to look at the crowd. His eyes sought out one girl in particular. A blonde from town. "Summer, you're with me tonight." The girl's eyes widened a little and then she nodded, jogging the short way over towards him. He turned to look at Lou, who'd been following him. "We're taking your bike. Mine caught on fire." Lou sighed as Wes laughed, slinging an arm around the little honey at his side. He climbed onto Lou's bike as Summer climbed on behind him and he looked at the crowd once more. All eyes were on him, but he wouldn't apologize. "What are you waiting for!" he yelled. "Drinks are on me tonight!" He started up the bike and the dirt kicked up behind him as he took off, leaving his father and the unmarked grave he was buried in behind him. Next to his brothers. Next to the last of his blood. He felt tears stinging at his eyes as he drove back, but he countered it was a crazy laugh and with one hand, he reached for Summer's hand, bringing it to his lips. He spoke the words against her skin. "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his Saints." |
| Derek’s jacket didn’t smell like him anymore. It smelled like dirt, leather, and cigarettes, but not like the man who used to wear it. It was battered and worn, patched in multiple places including the shoulders and the right side where demon claws had torn through it less than a year ago. ‘The Saints’ had been sewn across the back in thick white letters framed by the wings across her shoulder blades. It was too big for her, the bottom of it hanging down to mid-thigh and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows just so she could use her hands. It swamped her small frame because it used to belong to a man over six feet tall and she was barely passing five. Not even dead a year and already his daddy and his little brother had been put in the ground next to him. His jacket, his black and white bike, and a smoking habit were the only things of his that she had left. The bar was packed, townsfolk and bikers crowding into the small space. Declan had taken over the table in the corner so that he could see every way in, every way out, and the staircase behind the bar leading to the rooms upstairs. Nobody came or went without him noticing and even if this was their version of a wake, no one was going to get the drop on him. Even if he was supposed to be drowning his sorrows and trying to get over the fact that Arthur Chapel was dead and never coming back. Buckley sat pounding away at a piano, singing in a low, rough voice songs about angels. Alex sat at a table in between Max and T.J., nursing her beer and smoking a cigarette. Normally this was the part where Cameron would come over, plastering a grin on his face as he shoved himself onto the same chair as her because they probably weighed the same. He would have stolen her beer and tried to make her laugh and it would have worked. The kid had been a skinny, loudmouthed little shit. Only he was dead too. The second Chapel to be put in the ground after Derek, because after his big brother had died he’d wanted to be a hero. Too bad there was no such thing as heroes. Instead she had Max slinging an arm around her shoulders. She went stiff just on instinct. A bad habit she didn’t get from Derek. They were playing a game of “you remember?” It went around the table and the men laughed afterwards like it was some kind of big cosmic joke. Alex wasn’t playing along. She pulled her leg up into the chair with her, arm draped across her knee as she tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of being touched. She just sucked on her cigarette and let the smoke settle in her lungs. She felt numb, detached, and she felt almost guilty for that. Arthur had done a lot for her. She should have been able to feel more. “Hey, you remember that time he bailed us out of Carthage?” Max said. He had a grin on his broad face, hair shaved close to his head and a tattoo curling around his neck. “Man, I thought I was fucked. My leg’s all ripped to shit, Bobby’s trying to hold his guts in, and there’s no end of them. Then that asshole rides in with Dec and blasted all those hounds away like it was nothing.” He laughed loudly afterwards before it started to falter. He hid the expression behind a pint of beer. “You remember that time the Devils road in here and tried to take over?” T.J. grinned, tipping back in his chair and looking every inch the smarmy bastard he was. “Guy goes on the whole speech about how he’s taking over and bam, Chapel just pops him one.” “You remember that time he got us trapped in South side LA with a bunch of deadheads?” Rob snaps. Max shifted uncomfortably next to her, licking his lips and trying to smile. “Come on man,” he says. “Don’t be a dick.” “Fuck you Max.” Rob spat the words, letting his chair hit the ground with a loud thump. “Listen to yourselves. Sitting around painting the man like a fucking angel or some shit. Just because he named himself a Saint doesn’t make him one.” He made a face and then glanced over his shoulder to the last living Chapel in the room, a man sprawled across the pool table. “Or his family.” Max banged his fist off the table to draw his attention. He pointed at him with one beefy finger, a dark look on his face and his teeth baring like an animal’s. “Hey, that man did a hell of a whole lot for you. You should be fucking grateful.” Rob held up his hands, anger still darkening his face. “Look, I ain’t saying he wasn’t a good guy, but he wasn’t perfect. He was just a guy and now he’s just another dead guy.” He stood, kicking the chair back and sneering at Alex. She stared back at him with deadened blue eyes. “Hope you’re not too comfortable sweetie. Arthur’s gone now, and no one’s going to keep babysitting you. You just wanna fuck a Saint, I got no problems with that, but you don’t belong on the road.” Alex didn’t blink, blowing smoke out between her lips. “Go fuck yourself.” “Watch yourself, bitch.” He kicked the chair back away from him before stomping across the floor towards the bar. “What the fuck man?” T.J. said. He snorted and ran a hand back over his short Mohawk. “What’s his problem? He can’t say that shit…” He shook his head before grabbing for the bottle in the middle of the table. His eyes were starting to look glossy and she couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of crying or if it was from alcohol. “That’s just Rob,” Max said, before looking back towards T.J. “Hey, remember that time Chapel shot him in the foot?” A crash sounded, glass shattering against the floor as a man threw a beer bottle against it. A shout followed, his voice slurring with all the liquor swimming in his veins. “Get me another fucking beer,” he demanded, awful, loud laughter on the heels of that. The man was the last living Chapel, and he was currently on his back across the pool table with a blonde stretched across his chest. He kept alternating between kissing her and drinking, only now the line of beers next to him was empty. One leg dangled over the side, the other propped up against the green felt and tracking dirt and mud across its surface. Next to him sat Lou, his feet kicked up on the felt next to him as he tipped back in a wooden chair. “I think you’ve had enough,” the man said. There was a smile on his face but his eyes were dark, concerned. Just outside sat Arthur Chapel’s bike and it was still covered in black burn marks from the only one of his sons still living. Wes rolled his head to the side to look at his friend. The grin was still plastered on his face but there was something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “You think so?” He laughed before sitting up, his blonde hair mussed around his face. He put a hand to his head and then swung his legs to the side. Then suddenly his hand was curling around a beer bottle and hurling it against the wall. It shattered against the wood, glass raining down across the floor. The piano died, voices quieting and stilling as the man hurled another bottle after the first. “I’ll tell you when I’ve fucking had enough!” he yelled. “And I’m telling you I want another fucking beer!” “Wes,” Declan said quietly. The man lifted his head and the two of them locked eyes for a long, quiet moment. Roxanne was the first to move, moving to the tap and pouring a fresh glass for him. She plastered a smile on her face when she came out behind the counter, hips swaying as she sauntered over to the pool table and sat the glass down by Wes’s hand. “There you are honey,” she drawled. Her lips pressed against his cheek before she turned away. “It’s on the house.” A smile broke out across Wes’s face before he lifted the glass. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He held the glass high and for a moment the smile faded and died. “To Arthur Chapel!” he said, before tipping it back down his throat. Every glass in the room lifted in response. “To Arthur Chapel.” Something twisted in Alex’s stomach. She finished her beer and then left it there, pushing herself out of the chair and angling her way out of the door. Max caught at her wrist as she passed and she couldn’t help but flinch at the touch. It had taken her a long time just to get used to Derek touching her, and he wasn’t Derek. “You headed out?” he asked. “Yeah,” she said. She yanked her hand back, tucking it around her and ignoring what he was offering. “Goodnight.” The night air cooled her skin as soon as she stepped outside and it helped sooth whatever she was feeling. Her arms wrapped around her chest, fingers digging into her rib cage as she stared out at the town, moon striking the buildings and bathing them in silver light. This was the longest she’d ever stayed anywhere. She’d been here three years, since she’d first stumbled in bloodied and broken. The Chapels had taken her in. They’d given her a home and a family. For a year and a half she’d had Derek. Now that was all gone. She wondered where that left her, where that left any of them. She settled on the edge of the porch, lighting herself a cigarette and running her fingers back through the mass of dark hair. Derek’s bike sat in the line of them, white lines on a black background so that it looked like a skeletal beast. His father’s, littered with red crosses and fresh burn marks. He’d been head of the Saints, everyone’s leader and father, and now he was gone. It was the only thing she thought Rob had been right about now. He was just another dead man, another nameless stone in the desert and a pile of ashes. She pulled Derek’s jacket tighter around her but it didn’t smell like him anymore. |
| Wes woke to a fresh haze of light coming in through the window. It warmed his face and blurred his vision and for the moment, it was all he could see. Just a light, the world vanishing around it and he was content in believing everything was gone. It practically was. The pounding in his head was familiar and oddly comforting. His mouth was dry and disgusting, with the taste of beer, cigarettes and a blonde named Summer lingering in his mouth. His fists hurt and he was sore in his shoulders, the signs of a fight, but he couldn't remember fighting anyone last night except the wall and a few beer bottles. He closed his eyes and thought about just keeping them closed for the rest of the day. Or the week. Or hell, he could probably just clock out for the month and no one would blame him. Except himself. Letting out a sigh, he reached for Summer's arm, draped across his chest, and pushed it off of him. She was passed out beside him and he vaguely remembered her helping him up to one of the rooms above the bar. He was pretty sure he'd fucked her, but it had probably been sloppy, angry, and somewhat disappointing. He thought about waking her up and making up for it, but he wasn't sure he had it in him to redeem his manhood at the moment. He'd drink one less beer tonight and show her what he really had. Sitting up, his head swam and he wondered how much he'd had to drink last night. He'd probably drunk the town dry. At least that's what it felt like. He ran his hands over his face, knuckles still raw and bloody and he'd leave them that way. He was naked still and he looked dully around the room for his clothes. Drawing his pants and his t-shirt from a pile on the floor, he pulled them on quietly and didn't give the blonde in his bed a second glance before he closed the door behind him. He found his jacket discarded on the stairs and he picked it up, but didn't put it back on yet. The bar downstairs was a mess. He figured most of the broken glass was his own doing. The chairs were all pocketed together, and half of the Saints were asleep around the room. He twitched his mouth at the thought that none of them had been sober enough to get back to camp. They didn't live in this town. They barely called it home. It was more of a sanctuary. More of a fairy tale they were trying to protect from being tainted. A lot of them had family here. But none of them lived here. "Need a drink?" The question caught him off guard, although it shouldn't have. He didn't turn to look at Declan, sitting at a table by himself in the corner. He reached into the coat pocket of his jacket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He stuffed one between his lips, but couldn't find his lighter. Declan offered him his and Wes lit his cigarette before he finally glanced at Declan's face. The man looked tired. Wes wondered if he'd slept at all the previous night. He didn't find any comfort that the answer was probably no. Arthur Chapel may have been Wes's father, but Declan had known the man longer than any of them. He'd known him before Wes or even Derek had been born. Hell, Declan had been there to hold them as newborns. His loss, and the others over the past year, were affecting Declan as much as they were affecting Wes. The only difference was that Declan knew how to handle it better. "Shit," was the only answer Wes gave. It earned him a half smile out of the man. Declan pulled off his reading glasses and stuffed them in his pocket, closing the bible that was open in front of him. Wes recognized it as Buckley's. The pastor was nowhere to be found in the bar. He'd probably gone back to his church to pray, or do whatever pastors did in their off time. "You should eat something," Declan said. Wes let out a laugh, blowing smoke out his nose as he looked up towards the ceiling. "You're probably right," he told the man. "I like demon hunting on a full stomach." The smile slipped off his face as his voice took on a dark tone. He rolled his head to the side to eye Declan, who was eyeing him back, appraisingly. A sigh escaped Declan's lips, but he didn't look away. "I want to make that demon pay for what he did to your old man." "But you don't think I'm ready," Wes finished his thoughts. Declan nodded. "I don't think you're ready," he confirmed. Wes let out a bitter laugh, flicking his head to the side to whip his stringy blonde hair out of his face. He ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the scruff on his chin and he probably looked like the train wreck he thought he was. If he thought hard enough about everything, he'd realize how he felt his life was unraveling around him. He'd lost two brothers and his father and if things kept going the way they were, the last of the Chapels would be gone before the year was up. Saints were killed all the time. They were a dangerous group. Tight knit and loyal to a fault. Even before the demons came, there was danger around every corner whenever you flashed a Saints symbol on your jacket. Other gangs wanted them dead and since the demons came, nothing had changed except that now other gangs and the supernatural wanted them dead. They'd lost a lot of their numbers, but always found prospects to replace. Declan kept a list of all the names of those Saints who'd gone on before in his trailer, but it seemed as though in the last year, the only Saints to get killed had the name Chapel associated with them. "Vengeance waits for no man," Wes said around his cigarette. Declan leaned forward in his chair. "We just buried your Daddy last night, son," he said softly and it made Wes's shoulders stiffen. Declan only ever took that tone with him. That understanding, open tone. He hated it. He hated it because it meant that Declan was worried about him. He didn't want Declan worrying about him. He should focus on keeping the other Saints alive. Wes felt like he was a lost cause. "You're right," Wes said, pulling the cigarette from between his lips and pointing it at the man. "This demon should have been dead last night. We're slacking." Shaking his head, Declan leaned back and ran a hand over his face. "Stubborn ass," he said beneath his breath and it made Wes grin widely. He stood and came to stand beside Wes, looking out over the sea of Saints sleeping around the bar. Many of them had a woman at their sides, some of them two. Wes eyed his brothers in arms. T.J. and laid atop the bar, Max was sprawled near the dartboards and Lou had taken Wes's spot on the pool table. Roxanne was curled at his side and Wes smirked at that because Lou had been courting her for a while now. He wouldn't be surprised if she wound up being his old lady. "We need to convene at camp," Declan said. Wes nodded, knowing they'd have to hold council before hunting down the demon that killed his father. "I need you an Lou to pick some supplies up at the church." "Alright," Wes mumbled. "Take Alex," Declan said and started moving pass him. Wes frowned, his hand coming out to catch Declan's arm before the m an could move on. "Alex?" he asked. "Why?" "I need her to watch your back," Declan said calmly. Snorting, Wes shook his head. "And Lou? He there just to give me something fun to look at?" Declan's face remained calm as he said quietly, "Two eyes are better than one." Then the man pulled his arm from Wes's grip and Wes knew it was only because they'd just got done burying his father that he was allowed to grab at Declan like that. On any other day, he'd get a fist to the mouth. Declan clapped him on the shoulder and then moved pass him, heading towards the bar to start waking up the crew. "I don't like hidden agendas," Wes called to the man, stuffing his cigarette back into his mouth before heading towards the door. Declan didn't say another word. |
| The engine purred and roared as Alex drove through the desert. It left a cloud of dust behind her, billowing out in the hot morning sun. It made her glad for the goggles over her eyes, blocking out most of the glare as she headed back towards town. She’d woken up in a familiar and empty bed. She should have been used to it by now, but she still woke with the sensation that something was missing. Derek used to tell her the bed was too small, that any day now he was going to buy them a bigger one. Half the time she ended up stretched across his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her. It was the only time she could remember being completely at ease, and it was funny because now that he was gone all she could think was that it was too big for her. The thoughts made her uncomfortable. People dying all around her was something she’d gotten used to a long time ago. That was probably why most people didn’t like her. She’d been alone for a long time and now she was still trying to figure out how to act around people that weren’t demons and didn’t want to kill or do worse to her. She was still trying to figure out what she was supposed to feel when they went and died on her. When she pulled around the front of the bar, Wes and Lou were just making their way outside. Wes was squinting against the bright light, smoke trickling from the cigarette in his mouth. He was moving stiffly, his jacket slung over one shoulder. Lou didn’t look much better. He was scratching at his jaw and had one eye closed but he managed a smile when he saw her. “Hey Alex,” Lou called. He jerked his head at her in greeting as she stopped the bike in the dusty road. She returned the nod. “Lou.” Wes smirked, puffing away on his cigarette. “Hey,” he said. “We were looking for you. Wondered if maybe you hooked up with someone last night.” He waggled his eyebrows but winced halfway through the motion, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “He thought that,” Lou told her. “I didn’t think that.” She just shook her head. “No.” “Yeah well, whatever.” The smile had faded from Wes’s lips and he jerked his head up the road. “Dec wants you to come with us to stock up at Buckley’s, then we’re heading back to camp.” She just nodded her head. This was all familiar to her, the way they mourned and the way they came to terms with losing one of their own. It would involve a lot of bullets and a lot of blood and not one of them would stop until there was a dead demon at the end of it. It was probably the only part of it she did understand. It didn’t matter that more would always come, didn’t matter that killing one didn’t bring back the dead. It felt satisfying in ways that were deeply personal, a bandage on memories she couldn’t erase. He scrubbed a hand back through his blonde hair as he stepped off the porch and walked towards the still purring motorcycle. She wondered if she this was the part where she told him she was sorry about his father. She was, but everybody was, so she didn’t know if there was a point in saying it. She doubted he would welcome the words anyway, judging by the state of his father’s bike. The train of thought was cut off when he jerked his head at the motorcycle she sat on. “You go back to camp last night?” “Yeah,” she told him. She nudged the kickstand with her foot before pulling one leg up onto the seat with her. He snorted, his hand running down over his face. She thought he looked bad this morning, dark circles under his eyes and scruff covering his jaw. He’d probably drunk half the bar himself last night. She wondered if that helped. There was something broken in her and she knew she was never going to understand what he must have been feeling or the amount of loss he’d been through. Out of all the Chapels, Wes was the only one she’d never been close to. She knew him, because everyone knew Wes Chapel, but his brash attitude and sense of humor had made sure they were never close because she couldn’t relate to either of those things. “Then you didn’t drink enough,” Wes said. “Where’s your respect for the dead?” “Should I set shit on fire and throw bottles at the wall?” she asked. “Hey, that’s just how we mourn around here,” he said. “Thought you’d have figured it out by now.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, tilting his head and smirking at her. She could never tell when Wes was joking with her, but this time she thought there was more bitterness etched across his features than there was humor. “And besides, that wall had it coming.” Alex stared back at him, expressionless and cool. “I’m sure.” He glared at her for a long time before he smirked and took one last drag off his cigarette. “Bitch,” he said, baring his teeth in a grin. He flicked the yellow filter off into the dirt and stomped on it on his way to his father’s bike. “Asshole,” she shot back. She heard him laugh before it died out slowly and she didn’t have to look to know he was probably staring at his father’s knucklehead. It was written on Lou’s face, the bigger man watching his friend with concern crinkling his eyebrows. Pain contorted his features in a way she found curious. There was a noise from Wes, followed by a quiet “fuck.” “Wes,” Lou said. Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a gruff “shut up” and then the sound of his boot hitting something hard and metal. She watched Lou instead of the other man, listening as Arthur Chapel’s motorcycle roared to life. Lou sighed and ran a hand back over his head. He caught Alex watching him and offered her a small smile before heading to his own beast, dragging it out of the line up and starting it up. Inside the bar she could hear the sound of voices starting, groans and muffled curses. She hadn’t heard anyone else’s bike riding back to town last night and she could well imagine what the inside of the bar looked like this morning. The sound of tables grinding over the floor was statement enough. Declan’s came louder than all of them. “Alright you lazy fucks,” he shouted. She heard the sound of metal clanging loudly against metal. It was followed by thumping and curses, probably as Declan beat everyone back into line. “Time to get your asses up and get back to work. There’s a demon out there that doesn’t know it’s dead yet.” She slung her leg back over the bike as Wes pulled up next to her. He had his glasses on over his eyes and a smile she didn’t believe plastered on his lips. “You know,” he said. “It’s probably a good thing you never married my brother. It’s a bad time to be a Chapel.” She found herself frowning at that, but his eyes were hidden behind the dark shades. “Maybe it’s just a bad time to be a Saint.” That made him laugh. “It’s always a bad time to be a Saint.” He kicked the bike into motion, not waiting to make sure they were following. The frown lingered on her face as he took off down the road. Lou pulled up next to her, eyes following his friend. “He’ll be okay,” he said. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye but he still wasn’t looking at her. She didn’t think he was really talking to her at all. She nodded her head, not sure what she was supposed to say or think at all. She kicked Derek’s bike into motion, wondering if anyone in this world was really okay anymore. They drove up the road towards the small church, the engines roar echoing off the walls to either side of them. The town wasn’t big, but enough that it had drawn the bad kind of attention before she’d ever gotten here. She didn’t ask how the Saints had ended up taking the place under their wing, but she’d asked Derek once why they stayed. He’d smiled, toying with her hair because she’d gotten to the point where she’d let him. “It’s called keeping the dream alive, babe.” Just riding through town, she still didn’t understand what he meant. It was just a place. Wooden buildings and locks on every door, crosses hanging on most of them. It was only marginally safer than most of the places out here, and only then because it had the Saints looking after it. She wondered if that’s what he meant. If the dream was just supposed to mean some place safe. If it was, then her dream had died a long time ago. |
| Wes pulled his father's bike to a stop in front of the church. He couldn't remember where his own bike was, probably back at camp, but at the moment he didn't really care. He tried to ignore the scorch marks on the Knucklehead. Tried to ignore the fact that he'd almost destroyed the only thing he had left of his family. Well, maybe not the only thing. His eyes traveled briefly to the girl riding his brother's bike and wearing his brother's jacket and he wasn't sure what he was suppose to say or how he was suppose to act around her - but she was basically all he had left. His mother had died a long time ago, Cameron had been too young and wide eyed for a serious romance, but Alex? They'd never married, but Derek had taken her on as his old lady. And that meant something to Wes. He just wasn't good at this type of stuff. Swinging himself off his bike, he glanced up at the church. It was the tallest structure in Salvation, the town the Saints had claimed when they'd come through it. Except for perhaps the town hall building down the street, but it had been half demolished by a demon a while back and no one had wanted to rebuild it. The mayor had died years ago and the only leader other than the Saints Salvation had was the priest. Wes thought the townsfolk liked it that way. What better person to lead a people during the apocalypse than an old priest who still had faith? Walking up the steps, Wes started to pull his cigarettes from his jacket pocket, but stopped himself. It was habit to almost always have a cigarette between his lips. Derek used to joke that it kept his tongue from wagging. But Wes had come to an agreement with Buckley a long time ago that the church was a smoke free zone and Wes respected that wish. Lou and Alex followed silently behind and Wes thought he should be joking with them or barking orders, but he didn't have the heart to do it yet. He knew what was expected of him by the Saints. His father had been the leader. Declan had been second. Wes had been third. It was the natural pecking order. Now with his father gone, Declan was in charge and Wes knew what that made him. Second. He hadn't ever thought that would happen. Not in this lifetime. He thought briefly about telling Declan to choose someone else, but he squashed that thought almost immediately. The Saints didn't need a second guesser as their second. They needed someone strong and confident and Wes was going to be both of those things. It didn't surprise him when he opened the church doors to find Buckley sitting in one of the pews, reading a book. It wasn't the Bible, but Wes thought Buckley could recite the bible cover to cover by now. The man deserved to take a break and read something else every once in a while. It looked old and official, whatever it was. Wes could guess that if he tried to read a part of it, it would go over his head. He'd never been one for book smarts. "Hey old man," Wes called. Buckley turned to look over his shoulder at them. He smiled warmly, closing the book and pulling his bifocals off. "Ah," he said. "You look like shit." Wes snorted. "So everyone keeps telling me." He nodded his head towards one of the supply closets near Buckley's office. "Mind if we grab some shit?" Pushing himself up from the pew, the old man was walking like he'd seen better days. He probably had. Growing old during the apocalypse was rough. "I'll need more bullets soon," Buckley said. "We've used too many lately." Wes nodded to Lou and Alex to start grabbing the supplies. They didn't question and went to the closet, starting to unload the boxes of blessed bullets, holy water, and cold iron casings. He glanced into the closet and had to agree with Buckley. They were running low. They'd have to make a run soon. Before his father had died, he'd talked about raiding a town a few days ride away. Wes wondered if they'd ever run out of towns or places to raid. He doubted it. Somehow, one thing that was never lacking in the apocalypse was an influx of guns and ammunition. His father had said something about a fortress in Canada run by a small private army that was making a fortune off of selling guns to groups. They'd never gotten in with the army. They'd just stolen from the groups who did. If push came to shove, that could be a last ditch effort to stay armed. Buckley folding his hands in front of him and came to stand next to Wes, who leaned his hip against a pew. He'd known this talk was coming. He would have rather avoided it, but he wasn't the only one who'd lost someone important to them. Arthur Chapel had meant something to a lot of people. He'd been good friends with Buckley and if the priest wanted to try and console his only remaining kin, then Wes wouldn't stop him. "It's been a rough year," Buckley said. The words hit harder than Wes thought they would have. He'd expected Buckley to focus on just Arthur, not everyone he'd lost. The past year had been hell. Derek had been the first to die and it had been a deep, deep blow. Wes thought that he'd still been grieving Derek when Cameron had been killed that the death of his younger brother had been devastating and now his father, just over a month after Cameron's death. "I'm still waiting for it to sink in," he said quietly. He glanced up at Lou and Alex, carrying boxes and tried to keep his voice low enough so they wouldn't hear. He didn't want to worry them. Especially Lou. The guy was already nearly smothering with his concern. He wasn't sure if Alex even cared. She was hard to read. Always had been, ever since the day he'd met her. "I have to remind myself they're not just out on a ride. Like they'll coming riding back any day now." Buckley nodded. "You've been through more than any one man should go through." Wes let out a low breath and forced the smile on his face. "I'll be fine," he said. "Besides, I have duties now. Underlings." He waggled his fingers like a puppeteer and he saw a smirk start to line Buckley's features. The man had to physically stop it from doing so. "Don't be afraid to seek council," Buckley said. "No one will think you weak." "Thanks, Father," Wes said and pushed himself away from the pew when Lou waved that they were done collecting the supplies. He walked backwards as they headed back towards their bikes. "I'll feel much better when I've put down a few hundred demons." Buckley smirked. "Then slay one for me." Wes pointed a finger at the priest. "Will do." |
| In the desert, no one buried their dead. The demons didn’t care. They kept the bodies until they were done using them, and then they left them in the dirt for the scavengers. Whatever was left was gone by morning, nothing but bleached white bones sitting in crooked angels like a fortune teller’s runes. Alex always figured that’s what would happen to her. She saw white bones and thought there was her rib cage, there was half her jaw, there was what was left of her hips. The demons had caught her when she was still a teenager. She’d never had the luxury of hope, only the anger and hate that she kept locked behind a closed door. They fed on emotion, so she gave them none. She gave them nothing at all, not until the day one of them got stupid and dropped his belt and his guns on the mattress next to her. Then she’d given him death. It was the first time she’d screamed for them and she felt like part of her had never stopped. She didn’t tell anyone these things. Not even Derek. She’d killed the man who got stupid, killed the next one that tried to stop her, and then she’d met Derek. He had his brothers had gone back and killed the rest and she’d never had to tell him what she’d been through. If she had, he would have just gotten mad and then he’d have been the one doing something stupid. She’d be walking through the desert seeing half his jaw, a piece of his shoulder blade, the broken bones of his fingers. Instead he’d been turned to ash and left in the dust and the dirt. Every time she drove his bike, felt the wind and desert scraping by her cheeks she thought, that’s his heart, his hands, his eyes. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t anything but a reminder that everybody died. Burying the dead was a ritual just for the living. The dead didn’t care anymore. She wondered if it would have mattered to him, whether he was dust or a bleached white bone. The Saints made camp a few miles outside of Salvation. It was circled by a wire fence, inside a parade of trucks and trailers. On good nights they’d light bonfires that reached up towards the sky, drinking and howling to the moon like maybe that would bring God’s eye their way. On bad ones they’d keep all the lights out and a gun at every entrance and exit. On bad nights she slept on the floor with her hand on the trigger of the sawed off shotgun Arthur had given her. She thought this was going to be one of the bad nights. Already it was a flurry of activity, bikes roaring in and out of camp. A cloud hung over the place, crackling with tension. Things would be tense on a normal hunt and this wasn’t one. From what she’d been told, it was Declan and Arthur that brought them together, and now one of them had been reduced to dust and they wanted blood. She thought out of everything, she could understand that at least. She could understand wanting to kill the thing that had hurt them, so that it could never, ever do it again. Wes led the way in, his father’s bike marred and stained underneath him. She wondered if he would keep using it, or if that was against their code. She didn’t know. She’d stepped in and started riding Derek’s bike because that was all he’d left her with. Rob was the only one who’d said anything about it, and she wondered if he was right, if she would be out now that Arthur was gone. They were tightly knit, a family that looked out for their own. She just wasn’t sure if that included her. Declan was standing outside the trailer when they got there, his arms crossed over his chest and a cigarette between his lips. He was watching Max and T. J. carry out a metal case, dropping it heavily to the dirt. When they popped the latch it was full of guns. Wes pulled up right next to the man, spraying the other two Saints with dirt. Declan didn’t flinch, cool and controlled as always. He lifted his head, gaze shadowed behind the glasses over his eyes. “Get everything sorted out?” he asked Wes, pulling the cigarette from his lips. Alex didn’t think he was talking about the ammunition strapped to the back of Lou’s bike. Wes scoffed and climbed off his father’s knucklehead. “Between the three of us we managed to get by.” He jerked his head at the case Lou was pulling off his bike and adding to the pile of ammunition cases. “Buckley says he’s running low on bullets.” “We’ll get a run together when this is settled.” Declan clapped a hand on his shoulder, voice lowering. “But not what I was asking.” “I know,” Wes said. “Which is why I was ignoring it.” Declan snorted and slapped him a little bit harder on the shoulder. “Ass,” he said, and there was affection in the word. Then he jerked his head at the trailer. “Finish getting this shit unloaded.” Alex watched him as he strode past them, heading into the growing circle of motorcycles. He raised one hand and started waving the others in, every inch the same cool and collected man he’d always been. She slung her legs off the bike, pausing for a minute to light herself a cigarette. The end of it was just turning red, smoke filling her mouth, when Wes’s hand reached around and pulled it from her lips. “You heard the man,” he said, grinning as he stuck it in his mouth. “Start getting this shit unloaded.” She rolled her eyes, reaching back to grab the bag off the back of Derek’s bike. It clanked and rattled when she slung it over her shoulder, flasks of holy water knocking together. “The power’s going straight to your head,” she told him. “Yeah, and not the one on your shoulders.” Behind him Max chuckled, snapping open one of the metal cases. The inside was lined with weapons, handguns strapped into the lid and shotguns lay in the bottom of it. He grabbed one, holding it to his shoulder and squinting as he aimed down the barrel at T. J. The kid just rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Max,” he said. His hand came out, shoving the barrel aside. Max sneered at him, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder and slinging his other arm around T.J.’s neck. The kid let out a squeak as the bigger man put him in a headlock, jerking against the hold. “No thanks princess, you’re not my type.” Wes snorted and then he pulled the cigarette from his lips, pointing it at Alex. “Can’t believe you’d think for a second that I would abuse my power.” He shook his head sadly before turning his head to the other two Saints. “Now you two get your asses in there. I guarantee you Dec’s got more guns than this sitting in there so quit playing grab ass and get to work.” He paused and then jerked his head at the trailer door. “And get me a beer while you’re in there.” “No, you’re right,” Alex said. “I was totally out of line.” Wes laughed, lacing his fingers behind his head while smoke curled up around his jaw. It should have been painfully reminiscent of Derek, but it wasn’t, because they were almost nothing alike. Derek had been dark haired and dark eyed, and he’d almost never joked around with her. With his brothers yes, but never with her. “Hey, if I was abusing my power I’d have told you to get it.” She dropped the bag next to the cases of ammunition. “And you can guess where I would have told you to stick it,” she shot back, with deadpan seriousness. It drew a laugh from him anyway, quieter and more subdued than usual, but it almost made her feel better. “You’re a ray of sunshine Alex,” he said. “Never let anyone tell you differently.” Lou snorted and it drew Wes’s attention to him. “What are you laughing at?” he asked, forced cheerfulness in his voice and on his face. His hand struck the man in the shoulder on his way by, nodding his head at Declan. “Let’s go.” It looked like most everyone was gathered, shaking off their hangovers and focusing on what was coming. They could drink and laugh and joke but the reason they were all here hung over them, the death of a man they’d called father and brother. There was a thud as another box of guns hit the dirt behind her, but Alex didn’t turn around. She stiffened when Max slung his arm around her shoulder but she kept her eyes trained on Declan, the man finishing his smoke and tossing it in the dirt. “How you doing?” Max asked quietly. He leaned in a little too close and she told herself it was just him reaching out for comfort. “You ready for this?” “To kill demons,” she said. “Always.” |
| Wes pulled the door to Declan's trailer open. His, out of all of theirs, was the neatest and most organized. It could have easily been mistaken for a home. A bed sat in the back room and in his younger days, Declan used to share it with many women. Not so much anymore. The man was getting older and Wes would have teased him about not being able to get it up if he wasn't sure that Declan would knock him on his ass for even insinuating it. A table with an ornate ash tray sat in the small kitchenette, which didn't work. Near the door was where Declan kept most of his supplies. Boxes and books. It was small and cozy and Wes wasn't used to being in here without his father. The leaders always spoke before a council. This was the first one Wes had been to. Declan sat at the table, smoking a cigarette while he cleaned his gun with a dirty rag. Wes stood awkwardly for a moment by the door before he pulled it shut and licked his lips. "We're set to go," he said. "Just waiting on your plan." The man didn't say anything at first, but a smile crossed his lips. He finished cleaning the butt of his gun before he waved it at the bench seat across from him. "Our plan," he said. Wes paused for a moment to eye him, but then did as Declan gestured and fell into the bench across from him. "So I'm not sure how this goes," Wes said nonchalantly and for a moment he felt awkward and shy. He quickly tried to wipe that away with a cocky grin spread across his face. "Is this the part where my Dad would say something smart or wise? Because I'm not sure I have either of those in me." Declan kept the smile on his face as he put his gun down and leaned back, pulling the cigarette from his lips and snubbing it out in the ash tray. "Normally, we just talk," Declan said, finally looking up in his face. "We never used these meetings to come up with plans. Plans are for the group, to come up with together. That's why we have council. We normally have an idea, but...we need everyone's input." Wes nodded, running a hand back through his hair. It was still pulled back into a ponytail and he would give anything for a hot shower, but that wasn't really a luxury they had these days. Even in town it was rare to find. Salvation ran pretty much on its own, off of well water. Water heaters were a commodity and Wes never felt like barging in on the few people who still had o ne. "Okay," Wes said. "Well, what do we talk about?" "Life," Declan answered quickly. "The state of things. Sometimes we reminisce." Wes sighed and it only made Declan's smile grow. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on top of the table. "I know it still smarts, your Dad's death." At the words, Wes stiffened and looked down at the table, nodding in response. "And what I need to ask of you, it's not going to be fair. But I need you here. I need you with me, at my side, as my lieutenant. Not just for me. But for them." Declan jerked his head towards the door. "They need leaders. Not only people who will die for them, but people who will survive for them. They don't need someone who is going to run off and get themselves killed." Wes snorted. "I've made my peace with that," he interrupted and Declan's eyes widened ever so slightly. "I'm not scared to die, but I'm not in a hurry to do it either." Declan stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if he believed him. "Good," he said at last. "Your my second now. That means something to this gang and it means something to me." Declan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a chain. Wes eyed it, recognizing it immediately. It had belonged to his father. A pendant of a bronze dragon's fang. He'd never known where his father had gotten it or what it had meant. But Declan held it out to him. "We have nothing if we don't have family and this gang is a family. All of us. We hold it together." Letting out a slow breath, Wes reached forward to take the pendant. He ran it over in his fingers and nodded, feeling his throat choke up a little as he picture it around his father's neck. He wiped the emotion away quickly and pulled it over his head, letting it hand down around his chest. He looked up at Declan. "Let's go protect our family then." With a nod, Declan stood and the two of them walked to the door, stepping out into the peaking desert sun. It was burning and blistering today and Wes thought that seemed about right. They had to get this done before sunset. Demons held power in the dark. More than they did with the sun shining on them. Everyone in camp paused when they stepped out into the sand and Wes looked around at all of them. He'd practically grown up with most of them. Declan was right. They were nothing without family and even though he was the last remaining Chapel, that didn't mean he was the last remaining Saint. He'd meant it when he'd said he'd made peace with the idea of going down fighting. He had no wish to run into that demon's house like some sort of martyr. He had a family to come back to and he had a family to protect and he'd never felt stronger about that until this moment. He could practically feel his father passing the torch. "Fall in," Declan called and the Saints did so without hesitation. Declan crouched low in the sand and began drawing shapes and structures. Wes stood next to him, watching as everyone fell into place. Lou came to stand next to him and he was glad he had the man to count on to watch his back. Max and T.J. stood opposite them and Alex came to stand on the other side of Lou. Rob stood next to Max and Wes didn't miss the way he gave Alex a dirty look. He ignored it, for now, because they had important things to deal with, but he made a mental note to bring up that whole scenario with Declan to see what the man thought about it. It was no secret how Rob felt about certain things. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve and in that way, he and Wes were very similar. But that was his brother's old lady that Rob was giving death glares to. "The demon that killed Arthur Chapel is holed up in a cave not too far from here. It should only take a few hours to get there and we should have enough sunlight left to make our attack tonight. If it's dark when we get there, then we camp with patrols until the sun rises. We're not taking this fucker on in the dark." Declan drew the landmarks in the sand as he spoke. "The cave is full of tunnels and caverns. It'll be easy to get lost. No one goes on their own. Everyone has enough ammo for five reloads. You have holy water with you at all time. We're not fighting this bastard in the cave. Max, T.J and Rob, you'll lure him out, flush him out if you have to, but you'll bring him to us." "And if he doesn't take our bait?" Max asked, his arms crossed over his chest. "He will," Declan said confidently. "The rest of us will be outside, waiting." Wes smirked. "Then we have ourselves an execution." Declan nodded, looking up at everyone. "We make it bloody and we make it memorable. This is for Arthur Chapel and this demon doesn't live pass today." |
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