Jack County Demons (2 page)

Cold footsteps on a cold floor, Commander Jacobs' boots were heard down the long, dark hallway. The sound stopped briefly as one of the guards fumbled for his keys, then more to open the door to the cells.

Commander Jacobs remained silent during this, and this very silence made the guard feel uncomfortable.

Finally, the guard twisted the key, and the door unlocked.

Relieved, the guard turned, not daring to make eye contact.

"This way, s . . . sir . . ." the guard mumbled.
Commander Jacobs said nothing. He walked past the guard and into the small room. It was dimly lit by two overhead lights. The room contained a bookshelf and multiple file cabinets, a desk and lamp, and two ten by ten holding cells.

Jacobs remained still. His posture was rigid, his eyes shifting around the room. He looked over the two cells, the guard inside, the contents of the room—and the lone prisoner.

Finally, his eyes settled. Jacobs stared into the open cell, past the guard. Jacobs glared intently as LT rose from his bed. Commander Jacobs was in his forties, his hair graying, making him look both distinguished and sophisticated. In many ways he looked like the average man, plain in his features. In other ways, Jacobs stood out. It was his persona, his outward charisma that stood out among the common man. There was something different about Commander Jacobs. He wore his Naval uniform with obvious pride. It fit him perfectly, and was pressed and clean. His boots were polished. Jacobs' jacket bore a variety of ribbons and insignias. They were unknown to the two guards, but they assumed the probable—Jacobs was an important man.

The second guard entered the room, clearing his throat. He rounded the Commander, giving him wide berth, and looked to his fellow guard, saying, "He's from the Navy." His words were fumbled and weak, insignificant next to a man like Jacobs. The mere presence of this stranger commanded respect, as well as fear.

There was just something about Jacobs that scared the hell out of the two guards. It was obvious Jacobs was well versed in the art of war. He was authoritative without having to speak a word, and dignified in how he levied such power. Jacobs was the best of the best, and made the Navy proud.

"I see," the other guard answered with a whimper. He looked away from LT, taking in the sight of a Naval officer who had obvious business here. The guard looked at his friend,
and then stepped aside. He paused, waiting for the Commander to speak.

Jacobs didn't mutter a word.
The silence was too much. The guard immediately spoke. He motioned to LT behind him, saying, "We brought him in last night, sir."

"The charge?" Jacobs asked, not even looking at the guard.

Finally, he spoke!

"Drunk and disorderly," the guard answered
timidly. By the tone of his voice, he was bashful. It was as if he was ashamed to have locked up LT. He rambled, making excuses, though not understanding why. "Sir, we were called out. This man put us in a bad situation. We tried our hardest—Ronny even tried to give the man a lift back to his motel. He wouldn't have it, though. We had to bring him in."

Commander Jacobs nodded, saying, "I understand."
This comment relieved both guards and they let out a breath.

Staring LT over, Jacobs nodded his head ever so slightly. This wasn't the first time he'd bailed LT from jail. It wouldn't be the last, either. "How many?" Jacobs asked.

"Sir?" the guard asked, tilting his head.

"How many did he engage?

"Sir?" the guard asked again.

The other guard, the older one, spoke up. "Earl, think he means, how many did this man fight."

"That's correct," Jacobs said, turning back to the younger guard.

"Oh, gotcha. Three, sir. He fought three guys."

"That's all?"

"Well, that was enough for the cops to be called," the guard responded.

Jacobs looked through the bars, staring at the grungy man before him. "LT, you must be getting old. Only three?"

"The other three didn't want to fight, I guess," LT said, grinning.

Jacobs grinned at this. Not for long, though. He turned back to the second, older guard, saying, "We'll be fine here."

"You sure, sir?" the man asked.

"Indeed."

The older guard looked to his comrade, shrugging his shoulders. "Chief says he's free to go. Already talked to
Lloyd and his friends. They ain't pressing charges. Now let's get on out of here. Lunch break," he said.

The younger guard remained silent. He felt it best not to voice his opinion. Instead, he turned back to
LT, grimacing at the notion of letting the man go. He inserted his key, twisting it in the lock. Then the man pulled the key free, and opened the door.

"He's all yours," the guard said, walking past the Commander and to his friend. The pair exited the room, closing the door behind them.

The Commander looked at LT, saying, "I have a job for you. That is, unless you're content here."

"Well, I do enjoy the smell of piss, and beating up guards."

"Do you want it or not?"

"I'm listening. Where are you sending me? Afghanistan? Ukraine?"

"Texas."

"Texas? Not sure I follow."

"This mission is in Texas. We have problems there."

"Where in Texas?" LT asked. "It's a big state."

"Jack County. Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say I have," LT replied.

"Not surprised," the Commander returned.
"It's hardly on the map. Beautiful, but isolated and lonely. Only thing is there are backward people, rodents and snakes, and demons."

"Demons
?" LT asked, chuckling.

"Yup, demons.
People changed when the demons moved in, churches closed, and people lost their faith. It was beautiful country, lots of churches and rolling hills. An orange tint to the sand and breathtaking views. But, somewhere deep in Jack County is a little town with a big problem."

"Demons, right?" LT asked sarcastically.

"Mayhem and death," Jacobs answered. "Men are being slaughtered. Young women are being kidnapped."

"H
ow often we talking?" LT asked.

"Few a week. It's getting worse, too."

"How many have been killed?"

"We estimate dozens. Maybe in the hundreds," Jacobs answered.

"No way!" LT exclaimed. "It would be all over the national news."

"It's not. People are careful about who they tell. Local authorities have kept things quiet. So has the federal government."

"That's why the military is involved, right? To keep the thing quiet?"

"Partially. We're here to investigate, too. To help the local officials end this madness."

"What are they saying?"

"The locals?" Jacobs asked.

"Yeah."

"Most the local authorities have been killed. The rest are scared. They don't want to talk about it. They just keep their heads down and their lips shut."

LT looked to Jacobs, trying to determine if the man was kidding or not. He didn't seem like the joking sort, but with this hangover, LT couldn't be sure. After a few moments, he came to the conclusion that Jacobs was dead serious. This disturbed the man who said, "So why you? Why me? Why not send in the feds?"

"The feds are in on it, but they're playing a support role. Major, people are dying in Jack County, and you can help. You'll have to be serious for a bit, though."

"Me?" LT replied. "Look Commander, I had a rough night. Bottle of tequila and a few drunk cowboys will do that, ya know? You mind telling me more than twenty words? You want my
help; you're going to have to explain this to me. If people are dying, who is killing them?"

Commander Jacobs looked at LT for a moment,
and then succumbed to the man's plea. "It's complicated. That's why I was brought in. I deal with . . . certain strange occurrences that matter to our government. Things that even the feds back away from. You see, there are local legends in Jack County. Always have been. Stories about paranormal activity, especially in some of the smaller, more remote locations."

"Paranormal? As in, ghosts?" LT asked.

"Negative. Ghosts don't mess people up like this. They're demons."

LT shook his head, letting out a hearty laugh.

"Fuck me!" he said in utter disbelief. Looking back to the Commander, he replied, saying, "Sir, with all due respect, I think you've found the wrong guy. Why don't you do me a favor and just let me on out of here."

"Can't let that happen."

"Fine, so be it. I understand," LT said, looking back to the bed covered in stains inside the cell.

"Leave me alone, then. Let me go back to sleep and you can go back to your X-files basement office and do whatever you do. I'm hung over and worse yet, I think you're being serious."

"Indeed, I am serious. And you may choose not to help. That is your will. And I'm sure your stay here won't be unbearable, given your . . . resume. However, before I go, let me say: If you don't help me, more people are going to die. As I understood it, you've been team leader for many years. Your actions have saved countless lives in the past. I guess you don't care anymore. . ." his words trailed off. Then, Jacobs turned to leave.

Quickly, LT spoke up. "Sir, I don't mean to be an ass. If I thought I could help I would. But you're saying demons and I . . . I can't wrap my head around this, sir. For the record: Demons are killing people in Jack County, right?"

"That's correct."

"And you want my help, right?"

"That's right."

"How?" LT asked.

But the Commander ignored his question at first. Instead, he explained the situation more. He knew he needed to, despite being a man of few words, unless he was yelling.

"They're targeting a small population," Jacobs began. "The majority are Mexican immigrants. Down there, in deep Texas, some missing illegals
aren’t news. Besides, it's been near impossible to even verify many of these deaths. They are undocumented people, killed in the middle of nowhere. This isn't on the major news networks because so few know there's a problem. And the ones who do know are either scared out of their minds, or work for us."

"Is it contained, or is it spreading?" LT asked.

"Contained. Always has been."

"Then why not leave it alone?" LT asked.

"It's on American soil."

"Fair enough," LT nodded. He knew they had to do something. "So what's the
mission objective, exactly?"

"
Mike Oscar is Infiltration. Go in clandestine. There will be no cover, no support, no backup. You'll be alone with a small team. Some will join you; others will assist from farther away. This job is black—get caught and they deny knowledge and all that."

"Been there before," LT said. "Who else knows?"

"Few at Langley. The Pentagon, of course. FBI and Department of Homeland Security know something is up, but we have a cover story working at the moment. Eventually, they'll know better, but that won't matter. We'll tell them to mind their own business and they will."

"Sure about that?" LT asked. "With the recent failures, the feds will want another chance to redeem themselves."

"Tough. They'll back down whether they like it or not. This comes from the top."

LT remained quiet a few minutes. He thought it all over. He weighed his options, wondering if he was ready for such a mission. He could stay here, probably a few more days. He could face charges, hire a lawyer,
and hope for the best. Maybe he'd get probation, maybe a few months in county jail. That didn't seem so bad considering the alternative—facing demons!

Then, LT caught a whiff of the cell. He looked at the stained bed, the urine dried on the walls, the thought of the bad food and this pounding headache.

Finally, he spoke, asking, "How many?"

"No idea. At least a half-dozen."

"I'll do it," LT stated, standing straight. "I have two conditions."

"Go on," Jacobs urged.

LT leaned in, lowering his voice, and told the Commander.

A moment later a
nd Jacobs leaned back, thought a moment, then replied. "I think we can accommodate that."

"Good. Then count me in," LT replied.



They called him Whisky. He was a massive man, a beast of gorilla
-like proportions. Solid muscle mixed with heavy endurance, Whisky was in peak physical condition, despite being in his forties. He'd been with the teams for almost two decades and was the type of guy you wanted on your side in a fight.

They called him Whisky, though it wasn't his favorite drink.

Even he didn't know why they did. He supposed it was something from his youth, but he couldn't remember. The name had stuck, and he didn't mind it one bit.

He was retired now. It was something he had long considered. And though he didn't have much of a reason, at the time, he decided it was best for him. He'd enter civilian life. Thought he needed
it.

Thought he'd benefit from it.
But things don't always work out the way they're supposed to.

Much like his failed marriage, Whisky didn't take to civilian life. He opted to steer far from private contracting. That would basically be the same thing. So, he went into something he remembered from a long time ago. As a teenager, he had worked in a restaurant. He remembered loving the work. Loving the atmosphere, the idea of filling
someone's stomach with a glorious feast.

The job sounded plain, especially to those who knew him. He had been an elite combat operator
for a long time, and this was a step down to most. But for Whisky, this is exactly what he needed.

Or so he thought.

It had been eighteen months since his retirement.

Nine months on this job. A small restaurant smack dab in the middle of a busy city. It was a small place, well known locally, and Whisky was hired to cook.

The problem was his boss. He thought his drill sergeant long ago was bad - this guy took the cake.

"You're moving too slow."

"Take out the trash."

"You did it wrong."

"You broke a plate, you have to pay for it."

Over the months, Whisky took the verbal abuse. He needed the job; Whisky had never been good at saving, and money was tight. Besides, he'd been an enlisted man. He knew how to take orders. He had suffered
through many dick-head officers.

What could some little Japanese guy really do?

How bad could he be?

Whisky began to think of seeking out new employment. Problem w
as, the economy in his city was stagnant at best. There weren’t many jobs. Besides, Whisky only liked two things: cooking and combat.

Whisky pushed open the heavy back door. He tossed six black trash bags out into the alley, stepped back inside and grabbed four more. Slamming the door behind him, he had just endured another barrage of insults from his boss.

I swear I'm going to kill him one day, Whisky thought.

He walked down the three steps and into the alley. Leaning down to pick up the remaining bags, something caught his attention.

Whisky dropped the bags, turning abruptly to face the nearby dumpster. Two men stood in the shadows. This wasn't the first time, either. He'd had two other robbery attempts over the past nine months, and as the economy worsened, he knew there would be more.

"Say fellas, I'd suggest getting on out of here," Whisky said firmly. He stood tall; flexing his muscles, hoping it wouldn't lead to another fistfight. There were two of them, and though he couldn't make out details, one of the two seemed tall and fit.

"Getting paranoid
?" said a voice.

"Paranoid? Nah man, I'm not. Just saving you from a serious beat down. Besides, this store
doesn't carry much cash. Neither do I. The pay is nothing. So move along and you'll keep your teeth."

There was a moment of silence. Whisky assumed the men were thinking the matter over. In his experience, standing up to bullies on the streets was always the best option. Nine times out of ten they moved along to pick on someone else.

But this time, the larger of the two men began to move forward. Slowly, he took a step, then another, coming out of the shadows and nearing Whisky.

Whisky widened his stance. He tightened his fists, ready to fight.

Then, the approaching man said, "Gonna hit an old friend?" The man then came from the shadows, revealing himself.

"LT?" Whisky said, his mouth forming a smile.

He couldn't help it. "That really you?"

"It is, brother. Been what, two years? I heard you quit the Navy. Didn't believe it, though. Figured you'd be teaching Seals, not quitting them."

"LT, I had enough. That chapter of my life is over."

"I see," LT said, nodding and looking at the trash bags on the dirty ground beside the man's feet. "So you've . . . you're doing dishes now, or what?" He wasn't attempting insult, merely baffled seeing his old friend there.

"Nah man, the trash is just part of my job description. I cook here."

"I see," LT said, nodding.

"You don't approve, do you?" Whisky asked, grinning.

"N
ot my business, bro. Whatever makes you happy."

Whisky nodded at this. Then, he pointed to the man behind LT, asking, "Who's that? A friend?"

"Not necessarily."

"Who then?"

"My boss."

"Boss
? You never came across as the sort who'd have a boss. Heard you've been out too. What's your line of work?"

"Just recently got this gig. It's
similar to what I've done in the past."

"Ah, I see. Private Contractor. I couldn't do it, man. Seems too much like paid
mercenaries to me."

"No, that's not it. I still work for the government. The military, too. Just a different department. This here is Commander Jacobs. He heads the department. Have a few operators on board, but mostly it's computer junkies and book nerds," LT explained, laughing. He beckoned behind him, urging the shorter man to come forward.

LT made introductions. Commander Jacobs was stout and tough, a man of great pride and vision. Whisky could read him instantly. He'd been around legends such as Jacobs his entire career with the Seals.

"Nice to meet ya," Whisky said, then looked back to LT. "So what brings you here? Doubt you were lost in an alley. And doubt you're hungry enough to come seek out this place. Our food is good, but not that good."

"Ha! You've always see through my acts," LT joked. "Came to see you, actually."

"I see. What for?" Whisky asked.

"To offer you a job."

"I already have a job," Whisky said.

Before LT could speak, Whisky's boss flung the back door open. He looked at Whisky, then the two men, and began yelling.

"You doing some kind of drug deal?"

"I'll call the cops."

"Toilet stopped up again. You, black man, you go fix it."

Then, his boss slammed the door, leaving the three men in silence in some dark alley.

"Ouch," LT said. "D
idn't mean to get you in trouble with your boss, bro."

"It's not your fault. He's just like that."

"Always?"

"Every
single day," Whisky admitted, hanging his head low.

"Why don't you
beat him up? Kick his ass a bit. Bet he'd stop," LT suggested.

"I need the job, bro," Whisky remarked.

"Well, I'd like to offer you one," LT said. "It can wait, though. If you need to go back in, that's cool."

"Nah man, I'm all ears. Not necessarily interested, but I'll hear ya out."

"What about your boss?"

"Like I said, he always does that. Now, what's this job?" Whisky asked.

Fifteen minutes later, LT had explained everything. The Mission, the fact that they were after demons, everything. As he told Whisky, he could hardly believe his own words. This supernatural craze just wasn't his thing.

The entire time, Commander Jacobs said nothing. He remained silent, allowing LT to convince the man.