Peter Grist - Flashback

The two groups faced each other. Finally, Sam Ryan, the motel owner raised his head. “I need a hospital, I’m bleeding to death here!” Ed looked at the welt on Ryan’s leg.

“Sadly it’s just a graze, you’ll live.” He beamed the light around the clearing until it came to the prone body near the centre. He walked over and wrenched the rifle from the body’s firm grip and threw it away. Ed then lent down and felt the neck for a pulse. There was none. John came over with a flashlight and swiftly beamed it along the body. Two holes in the upper chest oozed liquid, bright red under the torchlight, to confirm Ed’s diagnosis.

“That was me”, said John in a whisper. “It’s Ash Barrett from the Junkyard, I been huntin’ with him a few times. He’s a mean son of a bitch and a good shot too. He was aiming straight for you, I didn’t want to risk a leg shot and miss”.

“Thank you John, I think I might owe you a beer or two for that”. Ed replied with a sigh. They walked back to where the rest of the group were bunched together.

“What you gonna do with us?” asked Ryan.

“We ought t’ shoot ya, is what we should do, ya sick sons a bitches!” one of Buster’s friends replied while pulling back the bolt on his hunting rifle for effect. The noise of the cold steel of the rifle being cocked forced the murdering group to huddle even closer together.

Ed spoke next, pointing to the two that had been digging. “You two can get right back in that hole and carry on what you were doing. John? Keep ‘em covered. The rest of you sit down right where you are and put your hands on your heads. If you try anything, I can’t guarantee these folks won’t shoot you dead before the police get here, so best do as I suggest.”

The two younger men reluctantly retrieved the spades where they had fallen and crawled back over to the grave. John followed them, the shaft of brightness from his flashlight pointing out from the top of his hunting rifle where it rested along the barrel.

Ed turned to Linda. “Call 911 and ask for the detective branch of the County Police, or maybe State Troopers, just make sure you don’t get put through to the station in town. There should be someone there even at this time of night. Oh, and you had best ask for a medic for these guys.” He finished, pointing at the injured men. She turned away and walked a few feet from the group, dialling on her cell, her face illuminated by the screen on her phone. Ed looked at her silhouetted profile for a few seconds then turned back to the seated men and fixed his flashlight beam onto the rotund torso of Ryan. The jelly-like body shivered under the weight of the brightness.

“I have some questions for you before the cops arrive. How many of you are there?” Ryan didn’t answer. “Lost for words Mr Ryan? That’s not like you. Talk to me or talk to Buster when he gets back, it’s up to you?” Sam Ryan glanced across at the still unconscious figure of Bill Emmet lying spread-eagled over the ground and the dead body of Ashley Barrett.

“Twelve, there’ always twelve.” he murmured.

“Shut your mouth you old fool, they ain’t got nothing on us.” Spat another of the group near the back. Ed beamed the light onto the face that had spoken. He didn’t recognise the middle-aged man.

“I think you are very wrong about that” replied Ed. “Just being here is evidence enough, but you’ve seen the TV, once those CSI people start looking for DNA and hair and things, they’ll have all they need to send you away forever. Hey, don’t they have the death penalty in this State?” The man dropped his head back towards his crossed legs.

Ed turned back to Ryan. “You were saying?”

“There’s always twelve of us, no more, no less.”

“I counted only eleven, who’s missing? No hang on, let me guess Esther Mourn’s husband. What’s his name? Jed, right?”

“How the hell would you know that?” Ryan seemed genuinely surprised.

“Oh, just a stab in the dark. Does his leg play him up sometimes?”

A bemused look came over Ryan’s face.

“Let’s just say I bumped into him a while back.” A picture of Mourn and Ed in that brief tussle popped fleetingly into his mind. “So what are you, Klu-Klux-Klan or devil worshippers or something?”

“No!” replied Ryan indignantly. “Not at all, we are nothing like those hicks. We are ‘The Devout Thules.” He said rather proudly.

“The devout what?”

“Thule.” Ryan was getting some of his loquacious character back. He pressed on. “The Thule Society was started by some Nazis in World War Two, but we aren’t Nazis, oh no, we are a brotherhood, just trying to keep our country pure of contaminants like jews and nigg…” The word was halfway out of his mouth before he realized he was surrounded by a host of black folk carrying guns.

“Yeah, you go right on ahead and say it,” jibed one of Buster’s friends from the shadows. “And see if I don’t put a bullet through that thick head o’ yours, then you won’ have to worry bout our blessed country no more.” Ryan laid his large chins back on his chest. Linda had come back to rejoin the group. As she slipped her cell phone back into her jacket pocket she said, “I know a little about the Thule Society. They were an occult group started just at the end of the Great War by a German called Rudolf von Sebottendorff. Thule was the sponsor of the Nazis party in its infancy, Heinrich Himmler was a leading light as were a lot of other Nazis. Thulers believed in a lot of spiritual stuff and looked for secret weapons that they could use against the allies along with searching for the ultimate Aryan race. I think it still exists around the world but they don’t go around murdering kids; they’re more like a Masonic lodge now.”

“Well that’s true enough” agreed Ryan reluctantly, “but we aren’t the Thule Society, we are The Devout Thules, completely different.”

“Really?!” asked Ed disbelievingly. “How so?”

“Well we were one of their lodges many years ago but we were seen as too militant for them and I guess we were kinda ex-communicated, so we went our own way.” All the while he was speaking he kept a close eye on Buster’s friend. “They started letting all sorts of trash join so we were happy to go it alone. We wanted to go back to what the Society stood for between the wars and try and uncover the secrets that the extra-terrestrials had bestowed upon us but have been lost in time.”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Ed, “You guys are crazier than a pack of dogs in a hubcap factory.” The group fell silent, the only noise now coming from the critters in the woods and the grunts of exertion from the two gravediggers. Ed turned to Linda. “Did you get through?”

“Yes, I spoke to a Captain Dewhurst. He took some convincing but he’s getting a team together and thinks he could be here within the hour. I said one of us would meet them at the bottom of the foothills to guide them up.”

“Good thinking, I’m going to…”

He was cut off by two shots barking out in quick succession, amplified by the darkness and making everyone jump.

“Jesus Christ!” cried John, “What the hell?”

“John, are you and the others okay to keep an eye on this bunch?”

“For sure.”

Ed didn’t waste any more time. He turned and took off towards where Buster had followed Rosen and Willets, knowing the sound they had heard was the sharp crack of a pistol, and knowing too that Buster and George weren’t carrying pistols.

Buster stomped through the forest with a speed and agility that defied his size but he made no attempt to stay quiet as he bull-dozed after Mayor Willets and Sheriff Rosen. It was all George could do to keep up. They had already splashed through the water and were nearing the track where the vehicles were parked when Buster caught sight of a figure in the darkness. It was Willets. The old man was starting to flag and Buster increased his speed, quickly closing the gap. Ahead Mayor Willets was puffing heavily and limping on his arthritic legs but self-preservation kept him moving. He sensed more than heard someone behind him. He turned to see a dark mountain of flesh just ten feet away from him. He stopped dead and raised the old Colt revolver in his quivering right hand. He snatched at the trigger, once, twice, the sharp recoil pushing the barrel upwards. Some of the Mayor’s earlier arrogance returned for a fleeting moment but the huge man coming towards him barely slowed. Buster gave a deep growl, bent lower and barrelled into Willets with his shoulder like a football player. “Oomph!” The air was forced from Willet’s lungs as Buster hit the old man. The mechanic hit with such force that the Mayor left the ground completely, sailing six feet through the air before slamming into the base of a big old pine tree. As the old man flew through the air legs and arms akimbo and Buster thundering past he thought to himself, ‘I hit him, I know I hit him.’ It was the last thought he had as his head hit the tree, snapping his fragile neck in the process, the limp, lifeless body crumbling to the ground.