Exousia - The Patron Saints of the Damned -Book II

Brennan could see the outline of an old two-story home, past the thin line of pine trees that were illuminated by the orange setting sun. From where he stood, he could only make out the pointed roof but saw more details as they approached it. The old wooden structure was situated on the opposite side of a large field, filled with nothing but dead plants and loose dust. Stepping onto that acre of dead pasture made him feel slightly exposed. There were no trees to hide them from the monsters.

The house was covered in dried plants that grew from the cracks in the wood paneling, lost to time and neglect. More of the sickly vines and plants hung from the gutters, the windows, and up through the cracks in the wrap-around porch. The walls looked like they had once been painted white, but the old paint was chipped and dirtied to the point that it might as well not have even been there. The roof sank in several places, and most of the roofing tiles were missing.

Brennan and his friends soon made it across the field and found themselves in what had once been a front yard with several small gardens. The gardens were mostly raised flower beds, arranged with a lax sense of symmetry. The bed furthest from the house was a larger vegetable garden with a scarecrow. Those that lined the sides of the house contained trellises, with dead roses wrapped through them.

Now, they were close enough to see large holes in the unpainted wooden porch, as well as a busted-in screened front-door that hung ajar. Had there been any wildlife in the woods, there might have been a reason to fear meeting an angry raccoon, coyote, black widows, or copperheads. But it was doubtful that the house was any different than the woods.

The last detail that Brennan noticed was the one that made his heart-rate pick up. On the other side of the house was an old, rusted pickup truck that was parked on the end of a clay driveway. The driveway extended into a small dirt road, which seemed to go towards the same direction as the ever-increasing sounds of engines and cars. They had made it! Not all the way … but close! If they followed the packed clay road that formed the house’s driveway, they would make it to a major street in about a quarter mile, he guessed.

“We don’t have much time before the wolves make their last attack,” the Woodcutter said, breaking the silence. “They’ll likely wait until we get to the driveway. It will give them the advantage to hit us from any direction they want, and they will have maximized their time to corrupt your souls. But they won’t attack you once you are among other humans, as it would completely violate their laws about making themselves known. Once we make for the road, I will fight as many of them as I can and keep them distracted … but you may stand a better chance if you go inside and find makeshift weapons to defend yourselves.”

Brennan sensed his friends’ feelings of joy and relief succumb to the returning fear of the woods and everything within it. They wanted to believe so badly that it was over … not that the hardest part was yet to come. It really was tempting to just break and run for the road, come what may. But none of them had forgotten the albino wolf.

“You want us to go into that house alone,” Derrick said, pointing his finger. It seemed he had jolted back to life … and Brennan supposed it made sense. All he had left was his hatred for the Woodcutter. All else was a shell to him now. Rapidly, Derrick continued to shout, “Why? So you can stay here and let those things finish us off in the house? What if we decide we’d rather just scatter and run? I don’t think that you and your wolves would have as easy a time getting all of us.”

“Get a weapon or don’t,” the Woodcutter replied sharply, her voice revealing for the first time a tone of irritation that made her seem more disconnected than threatening. She sounded colder … like something had happened to change her disposition.

Brennan grabbed Derrick’s shoulder before he could reply, and began to move him toward the stairs of the porch. He said, “Not yet. We need to play it cool for now.”

At first, Derrick struggled and nearly said something.

But Brennan gave him an urgent look and said, “Trust me, we’re close … and finding weapons will make it harder for anyone who has it out for us.” He didn’t know if he meant the implied threat against the Woodcutter, but it was the only way he could get his friend’s cooperation.

Derrick gave in a little and began walking on his own towards the house, if at a painfully slow pace. He looked back, as if to make sure he’d heard what he thought he had. Then, once he’d gotten what he perceived as an affirmation, he moved a little quicker.

Brennan led them up the rickety steps. He was careful to step over the large holes in the wooden porch until they made it past the screen door and into the foyer. He looked to his left at the living room, where he saw antique furniture that one would expect to see in a traditional southern home—tables, chairs, and rockers made of wood. Most of these were knocked over, broken, and in the same state of disrepair as the house. He looked to the right, where there was a kitchen and a staircase that went up to the second floor. A little bit of evening light seeped in from the dirty kitchen windows, casting a red color onto the wood floors and peeling wallpaper.

Jodie spoke up first, his voice cracking as he did. “So … I don’t like it, but we might find what we need quicker if we just split up.” It was a little surprising that he, of all people, was suggesting the less cautious course of action.

“You don’t think the wolves will attack here?” Brennan asked.

Jodie bit his lower lip and said, “We need to move fast for the … poison. And, well, I think the Woodcutter probably would have warned us if there was anything dangerous here. She told us about everything else … and I don’t know why she’d set up a trap and kill us so impersonally after everything.” His eyes were bloodshot … which might have passed as exhaustion and stress to the rest of them. But Brennan knew that his body was beginning to react to the poison, which meant that he was more right about needing to move quickly than what he realized.

With a few nods of agreement between them, they split up and began scavenging the house of its contents.

Brennan’s first instinct was to go into the kitchen, but this seemed to be everybody else’s idea as well. So, he decided to walk left into the living room filled with broken furniture. Inside the room, he saw a fireplace along with all the tools used to maintain it. He slowly made his way across the room, stepping around sharp-looking pieces of broken wood and metal, and picked up a fire poker. The cast-iron rod had both a pointed end and a hook. The tool was heavy and seemed like a pretty good weapon.

As Brennan slashed through the air to test it out, he thought about what he could possibly do to change the outcome of what was about to happen. But what was going to happen? Well … knowing his friends, Sam, Megan, and Jodie would act out of the more noble part of their nature. They wouldn’t run into the woods and abandon the Woodcutter if it came to it. Marshal might stay with them as well, if motivated by nothing other than shame. Derrick … he would try to avenge his brother. And Billy would stay close out of fear.

Brennan decided that the best he could do until he received some sort of instructions or signal from the voice in the woods was to just keep them all together. The thought did occur to him that maybe his best chance would be to side with the Woodcutter. There was a chance that she would win this fight against the wolves. But … she had barely survived the battle at the tree. And sure, she looked cold and confident now. But what about the night before, when she had seemed so tired and unsure? Maybe the Woodcutter would win … but she would have to do it alone.

Brennan sighed and tested his fire-poker against the drywall of the living room–making a satisfying hole.

Marshal stepped into the living room to see what had happened. He held a particularly unimpressive piece of wood that looked like the leg of a broken coffee table. And it seemed like he barely had the energy to lift it over his shoulder. There was a broken and confused look in his swollen eyes. Was this because of what had happened with the poisoned bread? Or was it a result of his mind being messed with? Probably both.

However, Brennan still felt a small amount of anger towards him for having hit David with that bottle. But he knew that it was an accident … maybe even a merciful one. And he certainly hadn’t meant to destroy his friend’s mind or soul by tampering with his thoughts.

That was when a thought occurred to Brennan. What if his only hope for helping the rest of them was to break their minds like this so that they would abandon the Woodcutter to his fight? Could they be fixed after they were safe? Was it worth the risk?

Megan entered the living room as well. She had found what looked like a military trenching shovel. There was a small patch of rust and caked dirt on it that told him that it had likely been used for gardening more than for any serious project or warfare. Still, it looked heavy and sharp enough.

A few moments later, Sam and Jodie joined with cooking knives in hand—a long chopping knife and a butcher’s knife respectively. Both utensils looked a tad rusty but still deadly. Their wielders looked uncomfortable holding them, keeping them away from their bodies as if they were scared of cutting themselves. This was odd because both of them had used plenty of knives and even hatchets. It was as if the knowledge of what they would be used for made them more frightening.

Brennan passed all of them and walked back to the foyer, right as Billy was walking up the warped creaking stairs. It occurred to him that they were on a farm in the woods. There was a chance that a hunting rifle, a shotgun, a pistol, or some sort of firearm was hidden in the master bedroom. So, Brennan walked up the stairs to find the master bedroom. When he found it, Billy was already digging around the medicine cabinet of the adjoining private bathroom.

Brennan propped his fire-poker against the doorpost. The master bedroom was considerable in size. Against the far wall was a queen-sized bed on a wooden bed-frame, covered by mosquito netting. There were some broken lamps on the ground, an impressive wood-stained vanity, and a walk-in closet.

Brennan entered the walk-in closet. Inside, there was old clothing, shoe-boxes, and shelves. There were also slightly moldy cardboard boxes stacked from the floor up. He began to open them one by one, finding old magazines, more clothing, and several odd and end items. When he didn’t see a weapon in any of the shoe-boxes, he started to rummage through the clothing. He slid jackets and dresses from one side of the closet to the other and eventually began to throw them onto the floor, but there was nothing.

Brennan clenched a fist and punched another stack of large cardboard boxes. The pile, which extended up to the ceiling, fell and more books and hoarded items went spilling to the ground. He rested his hands on his knees as he fought his feelings of frustration, resisting the urge to put his fist through one of the walls this time. When he finally did look up at where the pile of boxes had stood, he noticed that there was a small upper shelf that had been hidden behind them. He stood on his toes and reached onto the shelf to see if he could grab anything that might be on it. His hand touched cold metal. Soon, he found himself holding a double barrel, sawed-off shotgun.

Brennan felt elated until he realized that there were no shells in sight. There had to be some ammunition somewhere! He searched again through the moldy boxes from the shelf and on the floor—and then shifted through the mess on the floor with his feet. But there was nothing. Then he noticed an old leather trench-coat with pockets that bulged just a bit. He reached inside the pocket and found that it did contain shells.

Instead of removing the shells from the pocket, Brennan decided to don the trench-coat that was about his size–mostly for the sake of the oversized pockets. He then fumbled with the gun for a moment, trying to figure out how to load the shells. He’d messed with shotguns before, mostly skeet shooting with his friends, but this model was a little bit older than anything he’d ever shot. He quickly figured it out, loaded two shells, and made sure the safety was on.

Out of curiosity, Brennan then felt for what might be in the opposite pocket. He pulled out an old photograph of a couple picnicking by a lake. Summer ’82. That was what was written on the back with a black-ink pen. He wondered, for a moment, what had happened to the people who had lived in this place.

Billy called his name from the master bedroom. Then, there were footsteps, and he appeared in the doorway of the closet.

“One sec,” Brennan replied. He put the gun under his arm and coat, just like he’d seen in movies. He knew that if he showed the weapon to his friends, it would increase the likelihood that the Woodcutter would find out about it. He then stumbled over boxes and exited the closet. Unfortunately, this ended up being a little bit more awkward than he expected, and he had to hold the barrel with his hand to make sure that the gun didn’t fall out of his coat while he shuffled out. He then turned to his cousin and said, “What is it?”\

“Check this out, man…” Billy said, pointing at the bed that he hadn’t really looked at before.

Brennan had to get close to the bed to see what was on it through the stacked quilts, the wooden frame, the dust, and the mosquito netting. But once he did, he saw two large, brown spots right beneath the pillows, both stains the size and general shape of bodies. The sight of it made him feel sick.

“Are you alright?” Billy asked, sounding a little concerned.

Brennan nodded and forced himself to swallow. He had to use his time in this house to figure out what he was going to do. His friends’ lives were at stake; this wasn’t a game. And after they walked out those doors, he would be out of time. So, he turned to his cousin and said, “I’m going to go downstairs to keep looking. Let me know if you find anything.

“Brennan …” Billy said, his voice hoarse. He didn’t have his normally inflated tone, just his heavy southern accent that came out with his exhaustion. “When we left the tree, I stayed behind to see if I could drink the water.”

Brennan turned to face him, arching his eyebrow.

“I wanted to impress y’all guys,” Billy continued, looking like he couldn’t decide whether he was more bitter or sad about that fact. “I got into some of the water, and it was poisoned. But wasn’t just poisoned; it made me hate … everyone.”

“You …. drank it?” Brennan asked. He felt his heart-rate spike as he imagined his cousin sharing in his terrible new powers.

Billy shook his head. “It just got on me. And it took the bad things that I felt and made them stronger. I felt crazy … but I think the Woodcutter was telling the truth. There’s something that wants to make us crazy and evil. It wants us to turn on each other. I know I’m … well … me. But I don’t want to kill you guys either. I don’t want to be evil like that” He pulled out a hunting knife that he had found somewhere.

“What are you doing, Billy?” Brennan asked, unsure if he needed to be ready to tackle his cousin and wrestle the knife away.

“Can you tell the other guys that you took it away from me or something?” Billy asked, grinding his teeth and wrinkling his face. He looked angry but also very sad. He dropped the knife on the floor. “I don’t want those monsters to make me feel like that again. I don’t want to do something stupid like I always do … but worse.”

Brennan didn’t know how to reply to the request. He understood what was being asked, but felt too shocked to answer. “Why do you want me to-”

“I don’t want them to think I’m a pussy who doesn’t want to fight, alright?” Billy said and then stormed back into the bathroom he slammed the door behind him.

More than ever, Brennan didn’t know what to do.

-O-

Marshal sat in the foyer of the house, his back against the front door. His designer clothes that were made to look scrappy were genuinely torn and dirty, now. His eyes were heavy and sullen, his face covered in layers of dirt and dry sweat. His medium-length brown hair stuck out in clumps that resisted all product in it from the day before. He had let the heavy wooden table leg fall to his side. He wasn’t thinking anymore; he was too scared of his own thoughts after what had happened at the table. They had betrayed him … made him do something terrible to yet another one of his friends. He’d always thought that his brain was his best friend, what set him apart from all the others. Now, he realized that it had just gotten in the way, slowly undermining his relationships with his real friends until it had the opportunity to strike.

Sam walked in, and his eyes widened a little.

But Marshal didn’t have the energy to create the illusion of control any longer. He was a disaster, and Sam was his one friend who knew the actual degree of it. He had been lost in his own insanity and made it out … just time to see the greatest mistake of Marshal’s life.

“Hey … are you okay?” Sam asked.

Marshal looked up at him with a listless expression.

“I know you were trying to save him,” Sam said, looking around to make sure that nobody was in earshot. Of course, if he knew about the poison, he likely wouldn’t have thought that. He didn’t know that he was looking in the face of a failure and a double-murderer.

“What if it wasn’t?” Marshal whispered, his voice cracking. His brain told him to stop, to hold onto his control. But he ignored it out of spite. There was something else that was stronger inside of him, now. A million emotions were poking him like a wave of hot needles towards the edge of insanity. He’d fought them before. It hurt, and he now preferred to just ride the wave. “What if I had poisoned myself like most of you would have done? Instead of sneaking around like a cowardly, spiteful little-”

Something clicked in Sam’s eyes, and he realized that the subject had been changed. “Megan volunteered to take that poison, man. That’s not on you. You told where the poison was, and we decided as a group that we needed the food and rest. We’re going to get her to a hospital.”

Marshal wanted to believe that … even though he knew it was Jodie who was actually poisoned. But the truth was that none of the knew what kind of poison the monsters would use. For all they knew, there was no cure. And that was assuming that there was even a chance that they could escape the woods or that the poison didn’t take effect before then. He said, “You can see the poison working, already; it’s in the eyes. And I know that I did it. If it had been Ted, or Megan, or Brennan, or Jodie … even you would have swallowed that poison before even telling the rest of us about it.”

“I would have been dead without you and the others,” Sam said, his eyes watering. “Jodie told me that you were the one who suggested playing along with the Woodcutter when we thought she was going to kill us. So, while I was checked out and terrified, you were making sure we stayed alive. And I wouldn’t have even thought about secretly taking poison for you guys.”

“I hurt Jodie,” Marshal whispered, the words coming out like a low whistle under his breath. He felt hot tears drip down his face while his lungs began to heave quietly. He wasn’t sure that his friend heard him until he noticed the long silence that followed.

It took Sam a moment to register what had been said. When he finally did, he didn’t stand up and leave like Marshal thought he would. He stayed there, without the words to comfort or reconcile what he’d been told. “We’re going to get him to a hospital. We’re almost out.” He took a seat as well and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

-O-

Exousia did not follow the humans into the house. She had no desire to ever enter that house again. She knew that while there was no danger in the home, there were the ghosts of memories. And she had no need to enter. No doubt, she had been brought here to remember yet another fight against a maddened follower of Ammon. But Exousia would not allow Ammon to get into her head any more than he already had. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the ground and closed her eyes. She was a few minutes in when she was interrupted by a non-threatening presence behind her. She turned and saw a familiar gray wolf with an unconcerned and meditative expression.

It was Dufaii … he had made it! He had left days ago to convince the Lightbringer to let him break one of the most sacred laws of demons, the murder of other demons. It was a rule that they had no intention of breaking, but that would make any demon think twice about an attack. It had seemed the only way to get any sort of reprieve from the incessant assassination attempts by Ammon’s followers.

“Were you successful in getting the Lightbringer’s help?” Exousia asked.

“Yes,” Dufaii replied with a slight nod. “The Lightbringer has allowed me to bend the rules to defend you. We’ll be able to destroy any demon who attacks. In fact, we could leave the humans in the house and take on Ammon directly, while we have the element of surprise.”

“Leave them?” Exousia asked. She knew that her teacher had a point; they would have the element of surprise if they attacked now. But then if there were any demons watching the house, the humans would be helpless. And that did not sit easily with her. “I … don’t know.”

“What happened to your head?” Dufaii asked, turning to inspect the purple knot in her temple, which had swollen badly beneath the green makeshift bandage.

“There was an accident,” Exousia replied. “I started passing out and hallucinating.”

“Hallucinating?” Dufaii asked. The wolf then stood and began to shift his body until it was of his true self, a demon clothed in assassin’s armor. He then started to untie pouches from his belt.

“Of the past,” Exousia said. “You know, the child.”

Dufaii worked in silence for a moment, mixing poultices from his pouches and then squeezing them between his fingers so that he created a paste. He applied it to the wound, and the relief that came from it was nearly instant.

“I think that Ammon might have used the memories to get to me,” Exousia continued, laying on the ground and resting her eyes for a moment. “The last time I went under I felt like there was someone else there, watching me. And I’ve been having these strange thoughts.”

“What kinds of thoughts?” Dufaii asked, still inspecting the wound.

Exousia thought for a moment and then replied, “Until I was in the dream, I hadn’t remembered that there was something wrong with me, as a human. Is it possible that the mental illness is still inside me, that maybe that’s why I can do this? Because I’m sick? Like my biological progenitors?”

Dufaii was silent. He turned and looked toward the dirt road as if he hadn’t heard anything that had been said. “We should attack now, while we have the element of surprise.”

Exousia felt himself nearly react emotionally to her fears being ignored, but she knew better. She calmly shook her head and said, “I need to get the humans out of here, first.”

Dufaii lifted one of his eyebrows.

“I have to do this,” Exousia said. She’d thought about the matter, about why she had to save the humans instead of leaving them to their deaths. It was what made her different from the enraged child of madness that she might have become. The answer was principle, order, to fight for an outcome that led to a better state of existence. It was without the demon soul inside her. Principle was what demons had fought for from the beginning … it was the reason that they now faced their eternal damnation. She said, “If I treat these humans like they’re just tools for us to use and leave them to destruction when they no longer serve me, then my actions are no better than the actions that made this war necessary. I’m getting the humans out of here.”

Dufaii gave her a look, then tilted his head back and ran his fingers through the black and gray hair on his chin. “Are you sure that this isn’t because of the girl?”

Exousia felt surprised and tried to deny it, but nothing came out of her mouth. This was when she first suspected that something was wrong, as she’d never felt so entirely unable to speak.

“You want to pretend like you have feelings,” Dufaii said, his eyes dark and unfeeling. As he spoke, his body began to shift … to become shorter, human, pale, a familiar monster from a past life. “You want to act like this thing you have become is more than that fragile, unfeeling creature you were as a child. That becoming something that isn’t quite demon or human saved you from the callous monster that you were supposed to be. You destroyed everything for everyone you’ve ever met … and it’s all you’ll ever do.”

Exousia wanted to reply but she couldn’t! She tried to sit up, but there was a tremendous weight on her body that kept her trapped on the ground. She rocked to the right, to the left, shouted, and then sat straight up with a sense of temporary blindness and disorientation. She was awake … which meant that she’d fallen asleep.

The humans were inside the house, and Dufaii wasn’t there. Her conversation had been nothing but a nightmare which left her feeling even more miserable …

… and alone.