Brothers in Arms

CHAPTER ONE

The old man stared hard through the grimy window, liver spotted hands gripping the neck of the half-empty wine bottle with a shaky chokehold. His eyes were wide, the fingers of his left hand trailing slowly down the pane as if following a mysterious pattern.

Outside, demons stalked the night.

He knew these demons. He’d seen them before, many times. He was safe. They wouldn’t come for the likes of him. Like the hounds of hell, they rampaged through his unstable home, singling out fitter, younger specimens, always the sort who wouldn’t be missed and could be put to some future, diabolical use.

From his lofty and secluded vantage point, he watched, his fear and disgust jaded from untold years of existing on the streets. A tall demon, dagger in one hand, pistol in the other, strode carelessly among the fragile dwellings of the street people, smashing and crashing and hurling their precious belongings out of his path. His minions followed him with glee, cackling and capering, their tiny eyes alight with the reflected flame of the growing fire.

The homeless — the vulnerable and the lost — cowered in their wake, hoping the storm would pass them by. The old man brought the lip of the bottle to his mouth and drained the last dregs, making a deep sucking sound as he coaxed every last drop of liquid from the liter bottle. His gaze strayed momentarily across the rooftops, only a few hundred yards to where the Spanish beaches lay glittering under the moonlight, awash with surf. Soon they would be carefully groomed and raked, piled high with deck chairs and parasols, resources reserved for shameless tourists but never for downtrodden- locals.

Back in hell, the prey were scattering. The old man watched as the tall demon examined man after man, casting most aside like the rag dolls they were, not caring where they landed. The old man counted himself lucky that on this night, of all nights, he had chosen a different place to sleep and drink his wine, a place where no one might disturb or rob him in his sleep. The bad men down there didn’t care what damage they did. Hurt and pain and even death meant little to them. If ordered and paid handsomely enough, they would do the same in broad daylight at a popular beach.

The old man crossed himself, at the same time wishing his bottle hadn’t run dry. He might be lucky this time, but it hadn’t always been so — and it wouldn’t be in the future. The demons visited infrequently, but at least twice a year, seeking their candidates before moving on, taking the fittest kicking and screaming along with them. Where they went on other nights, he didn’t know. Did they visit other such places? He suspected they did, but it was not his job to speculate. Life had shredded his hopes and dreams long ago and he had no wish to jeopardize his long-accepted position by challenging what most considered the norm.

Once, months ago, he remembered being caught in the purge. He still recalled the feeling of bone-shaking fear and the metallic taste of dread that had filled his mouth. The tall demon had taken hold of him and shook him hard, making all his limbs dance like a possessed marionette. The stink of evil had clung strong to this man. Close up, he was Satan — the Devil incarnate.

The old man had been thrown to the ground, discarded for being all used up. Luckily, his limbs had only been bruised, not broken, or he might’ve died from his injuries. The demon had passed by, boot heels dragging through grit and dirt, scraping across the ground with a metallic rasp. And then, they had stopped. A menacing exclamation had scraped through the air.

“This one will do.” A thick, guttural accent. Others spoke Spanish, but this demon sounded Russian. Or one of those new breakaway states. The old man had no real grasp of facts anymore. It didn’t matter anyway for the demon’s next words froze both the blood and the marrow in his old bones.

“Do not fret, little rabbit. You have a little time left, yet. There is more than one country you must pass through before you end as — a lab experiment.” Harsh laughter tore at the very fabric of the air, echoing around the makeshift campsite long after the minions of hell had gone, leaving nothing but mayhem and despair in their wake.

And now, the old man watched soundlessly as history repeated. His eyes would not see; his mouth would not speak. His heart would break.

These days, the world was an uncaring, selfish place, not for the needy and dependent. Who out there would stoop down to help them?