Free Evil Eternal by Hunter Shea Page B

He thought he heard the creature shout in triumph and he was seconds away from passing out, hopefully before his head exploded or he spontaneously combusted.
    And then it stopped.
    The sounds, the searing heat, the agony of the last few minutes, all gone like an interrupted dream.
    The creature was baffled, staring at its hands the same way a baseball player glares at his glove when he makes a crucial error.
    Shane gulped the cold air and fell into the open garbage can. He saw that his jacket, which had been on fire seconds ago, was unmarked. A quick inspection of his hair revealed all was fine, no Kentucky Fried ends. It was like all of the agony had never even happened.
    “What the hell was that?” Shane said.
    The beast in human flesh stared down at Shane, seething with anger and something else that gave Shane hope. Confusion.
    “What are you?” the thing asked.
    Shane struggled to extricate himself from the garbage can, to no avail.
    “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he replied.
    It leapt for Shane’s throat, opting for a more visceral kill than the theater of the bizarre it had employed a moment ago.
    That’s when the giant priest with no eyes came thundering into the alley.
     
    Father Michael had run across ten blocks, crashing into countless people, when he was mystically drawn into a dank alley. Down at its darkened end were two men; one sitting in a refuse can, the other naked.
    The naked man lunged at the other man. Father Michael shouted, “Cease!”
    The naked man attempted to grab the other man’s throat but was repelled by some unseen force. He landed on his back, shouting in frustration. When Father Michael heard the man’s cry, he knew he’d found his adversary. Without hesitation, he hurled a crucifix-dagger at the naked man’s head. It hit home with a loud crack.
    “Holy crap!” Shane exclaimed.
    Cain collapsed to the floor, writhing like an eel on a hot skillet. Shane tipped the garbage can over so he could finally spill out onto the pile of newspaper he had used as a bed.
    Cain stopped flailing long enough to grab the crucifix and yank it from the   crown of his skull, immune to its mystical inscription. Blood spurted from the wound like a fetid water fountain as crimson and obsidian gobs of iridescent sputum and pustules splattered onto the pavement. He heaved it back at Father Michael, who caught it just before the blade buried itself in his chest.
    “Can’t a demon find a peaceful place to change around here?” Cain raged.
    Father Michael thought to retrieve his trident from his gunnysack, but he feared taking his eyes from Cain. There was a mortal life at stake here and, after the Vermont debacle, he was in no mood to witness any further “acceptable losses” on the battlefield. The mortal with the odd hair was back on his feet and pressed against the wall to Cain’s left. Father Michael saw him reach into a loose pile of refuse and pull out an empty liquor bottle. There was something different about him, something that Father Michael was sure the defiant yet terrified man wasn’t even aware of himself.
    “I thought you’d still be in that shitty town licking your wounds, Michael. Imagine my surprise when I feel you sticking needles in my head.” Cain wiped the blood from his eyes and shook his head like a dog after a bath. Blood splattered across the walls in tiny raindrops. “Well, what can I say? You found me. I’d like to stay and kill the mortal, not to mention carve out your eyes and feed them to a rat. Alas, I have more pressing needs that demand my immediate attention.”
    Cain’s body erupted into blue flame. The skin of the good-looking stockbroker melted away, forming a bubbling, steaming pool of blackened meat. Father Michael threw a pair of daggers. Cain shifted to his left to avoid them. They buried themselves into the brick wall with a loud thunk. Shane took that moment to break the bottle against the wall and jam it into Cain’s naked