BRIMSTONE
VS Episode #211
"Reassurance"
Written by Joel Rauch



Ezekiel Stone stood on the street as a fire engine went by.  “The 
sirens sound different then they used to,” Ezekiel observed to the 
fallen angel standing beside him.  “And I hadn’t seen any yellow fire 
trucks before, either.”

“Fifteen years in Hell, Mr. Stone,” the Devil said, “and you come back 
to earth amazed by fire trucks?  You’re easily impressed, aren’t you?”  

“So what?” Ezekiel said, watching as the emergency vehicle turned the 
corner, lights flashing.  “What little kid hasn’t wanted to be a 
fireman?”

“Uh uh,” the Devil corrected, waggling a thin finger at him.  “Fire 
person.  Are you really so sexist that you think a woman can’t fight 
fires?”

“What?”  Ezekiel asked, seeming lost by the change in topics.  “Anyone 
can fight fires.  What are you talking about?”

“You wanted to be a fireman?  Now’s your chance.”  From behind his 
back, the Devil produced a red helmet.  “Just around the corner, 
Ezekiel.”  He dropped the hat onto Ezekiel’s head.

Ezekiel took the helmet off.  When he did, the Devil was no longer 
there.  “Actually, all I wanted to do was drive the truck,” he said to 
no one in particular.  Carrying the hat, he walked off in the direction 
of the sirens.

				#

The Paxton Nursing Home was a squat brick building.  It had fallen into 
disrepair, and the flames billowing from the east side of the structure 
did nothing to improve its appearance.  

A loose group of elderly men and women in bathrobes and housedresses 
had gathered out front.  The staff was trying to count everyone.  
“We’re one short, Allen,” a man said.  

Allen, the head nurse, looked over the group.  “Has anyone seen Old 
William?”  No affirmation came from his staff, so he pointed to one of 
the other men.  “Tell the fire fighters that we may have a resident 
still inside.”

“Right,” the young man replied, dashing off.  The residents milled 
around.  Allen watched them, shaking his head.  This was the fourth 
fire in the last six months.  The insurance company’s representative 
had been through after the last one, and had made several suggestions 
for improved fireproofing.  Allen looked toward the TV room, where the 
flames were dying down under a concentrated barrage from several fire 
hoses.  What could have started a fire in there?  Everything was fire 
retardant.

“Excuse me,” a man said.  He appeared in his 30s, and wore a long 
trench coat.  He flashed a badge.  “I’m Detective Stone.  Could you 
tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Allen replied.

“Do you know how it started?”

“No, I don’t.”  Allen clenched his fist.  “I don’t know how they’re 
starting.”  

“Have there been more fires?”

“Three in the last six months.”  Allen looked at the smoking room in 
frustration.  “The arson unit hasn’t been able to find any accelerants, 
but they don’t know what’s causing the fires to start either.”  

“Are there any people,” Detective Stone paused, searching for the right 
word, “common to the incidents?”

“Detective, in case you don’t know, our residents don’t get out and 
travel much.  They’re pretty much together all the time.”

“Okay, thank you.”  The detective started to turn away.

“Well,” Allen said, “there is one thing.  The first two fires were the 
same week we got a new resident.  He’s a ward of the state, nobody 
knows who he is, or where he came from.”

“And you think he might have something to do with the fires?”

“No, I don’t.  He’s a confused old man, I don’t think he’s aware enough 
to plan something like this.  But it is a coincidence.”

“And his name is?”

“No one knows for sure, but we call him Old William.”  Allen looked 
embarrassed, and explained, “He seems to respond to William, and there 
are two other Williams here.”

“Could I talk with him?”

“Detective, no one can talk _with_ him.  He’s lost, he’s not aware.  
The most coherent things that he says are about a king.  And I don’t 
think he means Elvis.”

“And I thought he was the only King,” the officer replied.  

The head nurse raised an eyebrow.  “If you’ll excuse me, Detective, I 
need to see to the residents.”

“Of course, thank you for your time.”  

Allen turned to see the wisps of smoke curling from the windows of the 
TV room.  His boss was going to kill him.  

“Allen?” someone asked.  One of the young men from the staff was 
standing there.  “I found Old William.  He was wandering in the back.  
It was odd, though.  One arm of his robe was burned away, but he 
doesn’t seem to be hurt.”

“So he’s okay?” he asked, concerned.

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”

Once again, Allen stared at the building.  At least no one was hurt.  A 
small blessing.

				#

Stone watched the man with the charred robe.  He could see the skin 
that was revealed.  There was no sign of damage except for normal 
aging.  It must be one of the damned souls.  

113 souls had escaped from Hell last year, a mass jailbreak 
unprecedented over the millennia.  A policeman before he died, Ezekiel 
Stone had accepted a job working for the Devil tracking down the 
fugitives. 

Zeke tried to picture himself holding his gun on this old man, a man 
who didn’t remember his name or the sin he had been damned for.  No 
court here in America would send someone like him to prison.  But a 
higher court, one that left no chance of appeal, had sentenced him to 
eternal damnation.  And the task of returning him to his term of 
imprisonment had fallen to Ezekiel Stone.

He remembered Rosalyn’s grandfather.  Johan King, her father’s father, 
had suffered from Alzheimer‘s disease.  

				#

It was the winter of 1982.  A light snow had fallen, and his wife 
Rosalyn wore a gray sweater to protect her from the chill in the air.  
“It’s not right,” she told him as she paced back and forth.  “He’s my 
Gramps.  He always had a piece of butterscotch, he taught me how to 
throw a baseball, he bought me my first bike.  And you want me to lock 
him up in a home so we won’t have to be bothered?”

“Roz, it’s not like that,” Zeke said patiently.  “He needs help.  He 
can’t take care of himself anymore.  This is best for all of us.”

“It’s not fair,” she told him.  Her eyes burned with passion, as if she 
was daring him to contradict her.  

“It’s not,” he agreed.  “But it’s life.  We all get old.”  The two 
stared at each other from opposite sides of their thirtieth birthdays.  
“This is what’s best for him.”

“Is it? Why does it feel like we’re doing what’s easiest for us, not 
what’s best for him?”

“Where else can he go?  Susan can’t take him in, not to live with her 
and your stepfather.  He can’t live with us, not with all these stairs 
to climb.  He doesn’t have any other family, Roz.” 

“He’s not dead,” she said.  “We’re putting him away.”  Her eyes were 
moist with tears.

“Hey,” he said, “We’ll go and visit him as often as you like.  He’ll be 
with people his own age, and they’ll be able to take care of him.”  He 
crossed the room and hugged her, held her close.  

As her tears dampened his shoulder, she repeated her mantra, “It’s not 
fair.”

They had gone to visit Johan every week.  At least at first.  He 
watched the toll it took on Rosalyn, to be there with Johan when he 
couldn’t remember her name.  Their visits became more infrequent.  When 
they got the call six months later, telling them that he had passed 
away, it had been almost a month since they had seen him last.  

And the look on Rosalyn’s face, when she had received the call.  He had 
observed her, and behind her mask of sorrow, Zeke saw the expression of 
guilt.  And maybe, just maybe, there had been a twinge of relief.

				#

It was a hard thing, he thought, to be put away a home by your loved 
ones.  Even worse must be to be put away by people you don’t know, in a 
place and time that is loud and confusing.  To be lost, and not know 
who you are and where you are from.  

Did Old William remember the time that he spent in Hell?  Was this a 
relief for him, to be free, or just more in a chain of events that 
seemed random to him?  

It was hypothetical, of course.  There was no way he could justify a 
refusal to return Old William.  

When the emergency vehicles and personnel had cleared away, Stone 
entered the Paxton Nursing Home.  The smell of smoke was still heavy in 
the air.  

No one challenged him as he walked down the hall, past the sign that 
demanded ’All Visitors Must Check In.’  He peered into the rooms, his 
heart torn at the sight of the men and women who lived and would most 
likely die in these conditions.  

Near the end of the hall, he found Old William in his room.  He was 
strapped to the bed and mumbling incoherently to himself.  “King in the 
straw, light over the stars.”  Stone watched him, trying to bring 
himself to draw his weapon.  Old William peered at him with his bright 
blue eyes.  “I know you,” he croaked.

“You know me?” Stone repeated. 

“The snake, she told me.  You bring the King a burning cup of straw.”

“Why were you in Hell?” Stone asked.  “What did you do?”

“The golden fire, the burning cup.”  Tendrils of smoke began to climb 
from Old William’s bed.  Stone glanced around.  If Old William started 
another fire, others residents might be at risk.  “Pain, island of 
God,” William rambled.

Stone went to him and put his hands on the side of Old William’s face.  
His thumbs hovered above Old William’s eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

A tiny flame appeared on the bed.  Knowing he could not delay any 
longer, Stone pressed his thumbs down, feeling the flesh tear as his 
digits slipped wetly into the sockets.  Old William cried out as his 
soul burst from the twin punctures.  A single word escaped his lips as 
he was sucked back into the bowels of the earth.  A name, two syllables 
which would be taken as random or meaningless by the staff, but to 
Ezekiel Stone and the other damned souls it summoned an image of power.

“Ashur...”



ACT ONE


All the way back to the Irondell, Ezekiel kept replaying the scene in 
his head.  An old man, lost in his own head, babbling to himself and 
anyone who would listen.  Was he harmless?  Perhaps not, given his 
undead powers, but the staff at the Paxton Nursing Home certainly 
couldn’t have known about his abilities.  And they’d tied him down 
anyway.

Then there was the name that Old William had spoken with his dying 
breath, or more accurately his last earthly breath.  Ashur Badaktu.  
Ringleader of the escape, she was a Priestess of Asherah, the Serpent 
Queen, who had walked the earth four thousand years ago.  She had 
declared her intention of overthrowing heaven itself.  Of course, when 
they first met, he hadn’t known any of that.  Ashur had introduced 
herself as Delilah Ash, a Detective Sergeant with the LAPD.  They had 
been becoming romantically involved when he discovered her true nature.  

Ash had offered to give him a place at her side in the army she was 
building.  The last time that they had spoken, six months ago, she had 
told him how she wanted to have his child, a child who would someday 
depose the old God, and reign from the throne of heaven.  She had new 
skills, if he would only join her.  Since that conversation, he had 
learned about her current second-in-command, Jason Novak, a former 
police officer from Los Angeles.  Another escaped soul had told him 
that Novak had been given ‘the secrets of Hell’ by Ash herself.

He had seen Novak a few months ago, when Stone had been framed for 
murder.  Novak had claimed partial responsibility for the bloodbath 
which had left a half dozen people dead and Stone behind bars.  The 
main player in Novak’s charade had been a actress from the 1940s and 
50s, a woman named Mary Chaine.  With the ability to change her 
appearance, she had repeatedly gotten close to him, and managed to 
destroy an important friendship of his.  She was still running around 
free, while senile men like Old William were trapped in nursing homes.  

Stone found himself wondering why Ash, with her own abilities, had not 
given Old William the cognizance to be aware of his own surroundings.  
Again, he felt regret at removing Old William from the earth. 

There was a bright spot in his day.  As he entered the Hotel Irondell, 
his home here in Los Angeles, he found that his friend Samantha was 
working behind the desk.  She was twenty-five, and her hair color 
today, which she changed more frequently then the pages on her 
calendar, was yellow.  It wasn’t blonde, but the bright yellow that one 
might expect a kindergartener to use when drawing a picture of the sun.  
He smiled to her as he entered, and she returned it warmly.  “Hi, Sam,” 
he said.

“Hey, Zeke,” she said, “What are you up to?”

Ezekiel looked around the lobby.  From the game room adjacent came the 
sounds of the pinball game, and a frustrated groan.  He rested his hand 
on the desk, looking over at what she was working on.  She slid the 
loose leaf paper that she was writing on underneath other documents in 
the pile.  “We still on for a movie this weekend?” he asked.

“Sure.  What do you think about Being John Malkovich?”

“You want me to be who?”

“Being John Malkovich,” Sam said, grinning.

“Halloween was yesterday,” Stone said, confused.  “Why would I want to 
be John Malkovich?”

“It’s a movie,” she said, putting an end to her joke before it 
developed into an Abbot and Costello routine.  

“Ah,” Stone replied.  Then, proving that great minds think alike, he 
asked, “Who’s on first?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied.

They laughed.  “Thanks, Sam.  You always seem to cheer me up.”

“Bad day?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Stone looked around.  His friendship with Samantha had grown over the 
last nine months, but he had never revealed the true nature of his 
work.  His experiences over the year had proven the wisdom of his 
policy - damned souls had murdered one friend and destroyed the family 
of another.  Stone’s gaze settled on the computer that sat behind the 
front desk.  “Can you do a search for me?” he asked, sidestepping the 
question.

“Sure,” she replied.  She swiveled in her chair, turning to the 
computer and punching keys rapidly.  “What are you looking for today?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said.  “The name ‘William’.”

“Okay... and?”

“Ahhh, the word ‘King’?”

				#

“King William?  Here we go,” Sam announced.  She had grown comfortable 
with Ezekiel’s mysterious ways.  “We’ve got King William County, 
Virginia.  Or, we’ve got King William, one, two, three, and four.”  She 
looked to Zeke, who had come around the counter and was reading over 
her shoulder.  It was cute, actually, his noncomprehension of computers 
and modern technology.  His mistrust seemed to extend to razors, 
because his jaw line was constantly covered with stubble.  
        
“What can you find on the Kings?  Any pictures?”

“Pictures of the four King Williams?  I’ll see what I can do.  She 
clicked from link to link on the screen, searching.  “‘Portraits of the 
English Monarchs‘, this looks promising.”

She swiveled back to face him.  He was leaning over her, and he stood 
up quickly.  “Relax, Zeke,” she joked, “I’m not going to bite.  It’ll 
take a minute for the pictures to load.”

“Thanks, Sam,” he said, running a hand through his hair.  “It’s 
probably nothing.”

“No problem,” she replied, waving a hand around the empty lobby.  “It’s 
not like I’m busy or anything.”  

“What were you writing?” he asked.  “Another song for the Lost Souls?”  
He seen her band play at a local club, and seemed to enjoy it.  

“Yeah, just another song,” she replied.  Images were appearing on the 
screen now, and she scrolled through them.  “Here’s King William the 
First,” she said.  Stone shook his head.  “The Second,” another head 
shake, “the Third and Fourth?”  Again, Stone shook his head.

“What’s this about?” Sam wondered, “It’s almost like you’re expecting 
to recognize these guys.”

“No, of course I don’t recognize them.  They’ve all been dead for 
hundreds of years.”

Sam watched him.  “You’re disappointed about something.”  Their eyes 
locked for a moment before she continued, “I can tell, Zeke.  It’s in 
your eyes.”

He chuckled, the reaction that she had least expected.  “Yeah,” he 
agreed, “it’s in my eyes.”  

Sam stood, and walked around him.  She leaned against the counter, 
where his only exit would be to go past her.  It wasn’t much of a 
barricade, but she wanted him to talk to her.  She stared at him, 
waiting.

He held her gaze for a moment before he spoke.  “I visited a nursing 
home today,” he said slowly.  “There was a man there, and he didn’t 
know who he was, or where he was from.  No one did.  He was just lost.”  

“Were you trying to help him?”

“I wanted to,” Stone admitted.  “But sometimes, there’s nothing anyone 
can do.  No one will ever know his real name.”

She touched his arm.  “I’m sorry, Ezekiel.”  

He looked back at her, “I felt bad for him, he was so alone.  We put my 
ex-wife’s grandfather into a nursing home, and he died within a few 
months.  It just seems wrong, somehow.” He held her gaze tight, looking 
for reassurance.

“Come here,” she commanded.  She raised her arm to his neck, and pulled 
him towards her.  She wanted to hug him, wrap her arms around him and 
tell him everything would be all right.

He leaned into her.  As they came together, she found herself still 
looking at him, face tilted up to his.  Then he was pressing his lips 
to hers.  She felt his warmth, and the scruffiness of his chin as it 
rubbed against her.  “Zeke,” she murmured.

They released each other, slowly.  Her heart was pounding.  “Sam,” he 
began.

“Excuse me?” came a voice.  Both heads turned to find a middle aged 
woman standing there.  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to get a 
room.”

“Okay,” Sam replied, moving quickly to the window.  

“I’ll see you later, okay?” Ezekiel said.

“Okay,” she smiled.  Then she turned back to the waiting customer.  “If 
you could fill this out.”  Her gaze tracked Zeke as he walked across 
the lobby to the elevator.  He pushed the call button, then looked back 
to her before stepping inside.  

				#

His floor was deserted, just as it usually was.  He walked the short 
distance to his door, thinking about the kiss.  Sam was... unique.  He 
knew her to be a trustworthy and loyal friend.  Could he picture 
himself with her?

He slipped his key into the lock.  It fit perfectly, but when he moved 
it, something was wrong.  

His door was unlocked.

It was never unlocked.

Drawing his gun, he rotated the knob and pushed it open.  The odor 
assaulted his nose first.  Something was rotting in here.  There was a 
breeze, so a window must have been opened.  Was that how the intruder 
gained access?

Stone stopped in shock at the sight in his room.  It was so grotesque, 
he felt an involuntary cramp in his middle.  His mouth was dry as he 
surveyed the monstrosity.

The cross might have been made from railroad ties.  Each beam was 
fifteen centimeters square, and made of dark, rough wood.  They were 
attached in a normal proportion, but the height was slightly taller 
than his ceiling, so the cross was tilted forward about 20 degrees to 
allow it to fit.

The worst part was the body.  It was female, naked, and had endured 
much torture.  Iron rods ran through the wrists and ankles, protruding 
twenty centimeters past the skin.  As an added precaution, chains 
wrapped each limb to the cross.  

There was no room for movement, nothing to use for leverage.   The body 
was slumped as much as its restraints would allow.  Dark hair cascaded 
from beneath the executioner’s hood, covering the breasts.

The other piercings were gratuitous.  Three iron bars ran parallel with 
her arms.  One passed through her thighs, pins on it holding her legs 
clamped shut.  Another was threaded through her breasts, the weight 
causing them to stretch the skin as they sagged forward.  The final bar 
passed through her neck.  Like Frankenstein’s monster, this was a 
creature to be pitied.  

The knives must have been intended as decoration.  Two protruded 
through her elbows.  A third was buried to the hilt in her heart, her 
hair streaming down on both sides of it. 

Stone recognized the design of the knives from a case last year, when 
they had been found at burnt out churches.  There should have been a 
fourth knife here.  Was this a human sacrifice?  No blood appeared at 
the wounds, so this was probably a damned soul.  Unless the body had 
been cleaned before being brought here.

“Dear God,” he prayed aloud.  “Please, please don’t let this be Roz.”

He had to check the rest of his room first.  He had to.  This could be 
a trap, someone could be waiting.  But the need to know was all 
powerful.  His gut cramped again.  

Once, back in New York, he’d been called in on a homicide case.  The 
wife had caught her husband cheating on her, and she hadn’t taken it 
well.  She’d tortured him for an hour before he died from the blood 
loss.  When Stone walked onto the crime scene, the pile of flesh was 
almost unrecognizable as a human body.  The blood and strips of skin 
had been too much.  He’d managed to make it into the bathroom before 
emptying his stomach.  

It had been the worst act of depravity that he had ever seen.  But this 
was worse.

His hand was shaking as he reached his hand out to the mask.  The black 
fabric was rough, like burlap, instead of the traditional silk.  He 
pinched a fold between his fingers, and pulled back.  

The outer hood came with him, but a trail of fabric streamed after it.  
It caught on something, and slipped from his grasp.  With horror, he 
realized the streamer of material had been jammed down the throat of 
the victim.  It was caught on the fourth knife, buried in her throat.  

It wasn’t Roz, he saw with relief.  As bad as it was to view this, 
finding his wife under the mask would have caused him to snap.  

When the mask had been removed, the crucified woman had jerked her head 
back.  He recognized her - it was Mary Chaine, the woman who had caused 
so much trouble for him in her misguided quest for revenge.

Her eyes, full of pain and suffering, were wide open.  She had no 
choice in the matter.  As the climax in this scripted torture, pins had 
been inserted in her eyeballs, 13 in each eye.  Ether light leaked from 
the punctures.  The windows to her soul were unable to heal, and her 
soul seemed almost gone.  He wondered if that was why she seemed so 
weak.  

She was trying to speak, but unable to do so with the streamer of 
material clogging her trachea.  Stone pulled the fourth knife from her 
throat.  She retched, the iron bars quivering as her body shook.  The 
spasms were not enough to dislodge the obstruction.   

Stone pulled the remainder from her mouth.  Another meter of fabric 
came up before he reached the end.  Mary continued to retch, but 
finally stopped.  

“Kill me,” she begged.  Her voice whistled from the opening in her 
throat, but became stronger as the slit healed before his eyes.  
“Please, kill me, send me back to Hell, oh God, I can’t take it 
anymore, it hurts so much, God, kill me, please, kill me, send me back, 
she’s been holding me for months, kill me please, I’m sorry, please, 
please, kill me, kill me, oh God, end it, please...”

“Where is she?” Stone asked urgently.  “I’ll end this for you, help me 
find Ash!”

“Oh god, I don’t know, I swear, I swear, kill me, please, send me back, 
I don’t know anything, on my son’s soul, I don’t know, kill me, kill 
me, kill me, kill me-“

His gun spoke twice.  Flames from Hell burst from her eyes, although 
they seemed dampened.  There were no screams as she disappeared, only a 
sigh of relief as her earthly existence ended.  Stone boggled at the 
pain she must have felt for her to beg for the fires of Hell.

There was something pinned on the cross, where Mary’s body had been.  
It was an envelope, pink, with his name on it.  He tucked his gun away, 
and plucked the envelope from the dark wood.  He opened it with his 
shaking hands, noticing the Hallmark stamp on the back.  

“Happy Deathday,” the card read.  Inside, written in a feminine script, 
were the words, “Zeke, I know how much trouble she caused you.  I hope 
this lets you sleep a little better.  I’ll see you again soon.  Love, 
Ashur.”

“Damn,” he said to the empty room.  “This is crazy sh-”  The phone 
rang, cutting off his words.  

Stone eyed the phone.  Ash had called him six months ago, after her 
last ‘present’.  He could ignore it, at least until he checked the 
apartment, but it might be better to find out what she wanted this 
time.  

He picked up the phone and cradled it against his shoulder.  “Ash?” he 
asked.

“Who?  This is Sam,” came the female voice.

“Whoops, sorry,” Stone said.  He turned away from the cross, shifting 
mental gears.  “Is everything okay?”

“I forgot to invite you out on Wednesday.  I’ve got a mystery guest for 
you.  We’re meeting at the bar over on Twenty-Seventh.”

“I’ll try to make it,” Stone told her.  “Max and I went there a few 
times.”  Maxine was their mutual writer friend, who had given Sam her 
old job at the desk after she’d headed to Tibet in search of 
inspiration for her next novel.  

“Okay, just want to let you know.  Did you hear anything odd a minute 
ago?  Sounded almost like gunfire.”

“No,” he lied.  “Speaking of odd things, did you see anyone bringing 
anything large up the elevator today?”

“Just your new neighbor.  Had a couple guys moving in some crates.  
Why?”

“No reason.  What room are they in?”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“I’d just like to say hi.”

“Just don’t freak them out, Zeke.  Your new neighbor is in 412.”

“Sam, would I do anything like that?”

She laughed.  “On a daily basis, I’m sure.”

There was a pause.  It grew uncomfortable quickly, as each found 
themselves recalling their shared kiss a few minutes earlier.  

“How late are you working tonight?” Stone asked, desperate to say 
something.

“Ten,” she replied, eager to respond.  The conversation died again.  
Finally, they both spoke at once.

“I don’t want to keep you-”

“I’ll let you-”

“Go ahead,” Stone said.

“If you’re busy, I’ll let you get back to it,” Sam said.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”  Stone hung up the phone and surveyed 
his room.  The cross looked down upon him.  



ACT TWO


It was the first of the month.  Many in the country looked forward to it 
as the day their government checks came.  Other celebrated it as the 
day they turned to a new page in their Miss Hot Rod 1999 calendars.  
Gina Brayker knew it as the day that the monthly meeting of Blue 
Survivors was held.  

Many of the women in the group saw each other frequently during the 
month.  They all shared a common bond, and the friendships formed in 
this crucible were likely to last a lifetime.  In a tragic twist of 
fate, two of the groups founding members, Caitlin Palmer and Susan 
Gelson had been killed last by a serial killer.  Gina had found a new 
strength during the ordeal, and had held the group together.

Meetings were now held in her store, Azalia’s Flowers.  It was a brick 
storefront location, selling candy, stuffed animals, flowers, and 
generally anything a man might need to apologize to his significant 
other.  It was occasionally depressing to see all the men who came into 
her store.  The good ones, of course, were already taken.

Gina Brayker stood to call the meeting to order.  There were seven 
women other women here today.  There was one woman that she had not 
seen before, an older women.  She was in her forties, with dark hair 
that she wore pulled back.  She seemed nervous.  Gina wished she had 
had time to talk to her earlier, but the opportunity hadn’t presented 
itself.  

“Hello, ladies, thank you all for coming.  We’ve got a new face here 
this afternoon, so I’d like to introduce myself and our circle.”  She 
smiled warmly to the visitor, and said, “I’m Gina Brayker.  

“I’d like to tell you what brought us together today.  A little over 
two years ago, my husband Randall was killed during a bank robbery.  
Three of my friends lost their men the same day, and it made things a 
little easier for us to stand together.”

She sat down, and looked around the circle of ten chairs.  It was her 
tradition to always set two extra places out for Susan and Caitlin, who 
she felt joined them in spirit.  “Is there anyone else who would like 
to say something?”

“My name is Barbara,” the woman on her left said, as an introduction 
for the new woman’s benefit.  “My husband, Victor, was with the San 
Francisco Police Department.  We’d been married for eight years when he 
didn’t come home one night.  He had a heart attack during an 
interrogation.  Victor, God bless his soul, he always loved to play the 
bad cop.”

The other women murmured sympathetically.  The new visitor to the group 
spoke up.  “Hi, I’m Rosalyn.  It’s been almost sixteen years since my 
husband died.  He was with the New York Police Department.  His name 
was Ezekiel, by the way.”  She paused.

Gina stepped up in her role as host and moderator.  “What brought you 
here today, Rosalyn?”

Roz brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.  “There is a 
man...  I’ve been seeing.  He’s a widow also.  He suggested that I talk 
to someone.  I felt funny about going to a psychiatrist, so he found 
your group for me.”

The women waited.  Roz continued, “I’ve been missing Ezekiel quite a 
bit this year.  Wednesday is the anniversary of his death.  That’s why 
I came tonight.”

Another young woman, Lauren, spoke up.  “My boyfriend, when he died, 
the worst part was not being able to say good bye.”  The other women in 
the circle nodded.  “There were so many things that I would have liked 
to say to him that I never had the chance to.”

Rosalyn nodded in agreement, along with the rest of the circle.  The 
women continued talking for an hour and a half.

				#

Rosalyn listened most of the time.  Meeting others struggling with the 
same Herculean task had a calming effect for her.  She had made few 
friends out here in California, somehow unable to connect with people 
the same way that she had when she was younger.  Now, here was a group 
that she could belong to.  

As the meeting ended, the other women separated into small knots of 
conversation.  Roz, alone again, was heading for the door when the host 
stopped her.  “Rosalyn?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Gina Brayker.”

“Rosalyn Stone,” she said, shaking Gina’s hand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you before hand,” Gina 
said.  “I hope we’ll see you here again, if you’d like to talk about 
anything.  Or call me here at the store.”  She offered a business card 
to Roz.

“Thank you,” she replied, reading the card.  “Azalia’s Flowers.”

“It was Randall’s idea.”

“I came out here to go back to school after Zeke died.  I’d put it off, 
when we were first married.”

“Is Stone your maiden name?” Gina asked.  “Or was it his name?”

“I kept his name.  Why?”

“I met a man named Zeke Stone, last year.  He told me he was a 
policeman.  Just one of those coincidences, I suppose.  So you went 
back to school, what was your degree in?”

Rosalyn ignored the question, rooting through her purse with the 
ferocity of a lioness tearing into a kill.  Her hand emerged holding a 
collection of pictures.  “Was this him?” she demanded.

Gina focused on the wallet sized picture, six centimeters by eight of 
color.  The woman in the picture was Rosalyn, younger than she was now, 
but if it had been sixteen years or more since the picture had been 
taken, she had aged well.  The man, standing with his arm around her, 
blissful expressions on both of their faces, was a dead ringer for the 
Zeke Stone who had saved her life.

Their eyes met.  “Oh my God,” she whispered.  

“Is it him?” Roz repeated, her voice softer now, hoping against 
conventional logic.

Gina nodded.

				#

“Ace Movers,” said the cheerful voice on the phone.

“Hi, this is John Gonner,” Ezekiel Stone said, using his standard 
alias.  “You made some deliveries for my sister today, and one of the 
boxes was missing.  I wanted to verify that you picked them all up.”

“Okay, where were they delivered to?”

“The Hotel Irondell, room 412.”  He gave the street address.  

“And the pickup was made from?”

Ezekiel rustled his papers.  “I’ve got it here, somewhere.”  He waited.

“5123 NW Paper Street?”

“Yes, that was it.”  Stone smiled.

“Okay, they wanted four boxes picked up and delivered.  And you said 
there was one missing?”

“Four boxes?  My mistake, I thought she said there was a fifth.”

“No problem.  Anything else I can help you with today?”

“You’ve been very helpful,” he said with great sincerity.

				#

The teacher’s lounge was almost empty, but Roz knew that she would find 
Dan here.  They each had a free period this hour, and usually met here.

Dan Copper was a few years younger than she was.  He was bent over a 
stack of papers, grading them with a red pen.  His thinning hair gave 
her a clear view of his scalp.  She smiled.  

He looked up and beamed back at her.  “Hi,” he said simply.  She seated 
herself across from him.  Since her return from a visit to New York a 
few months ago, he had taken her out on several dates.  He was a kind 
and gentle man, and she enjoyed her time with him.  The spark she felt 
was nothing like it had been with Ezekiel, but she didn’t want to spend 
the rest of her life alone.  He was a good man.

“Bad news,” she told him. “Something came up tonight, and I won’t be 
able to make it tonight.”  They had made plans to attend a local dinner 
theater together. 

The disappointment flashed across his face, then passed quickly.  
“Anything wrong?” he asked.

What would he say if I told him I was going out looking for Ezekiel 
tonight, she wondered.  Dan was a widower also.  His wife Alexis had 
died in 1994 after falling down a flight of stairs.  But Dan had seen 
the body, identified it, something she had been spared with Ezekiel’s 
passing.  Maybe that small difference was what allowed her to cling to 
the hope that he wasn’t really gone, simply because she’d never seen it 
with her own two eyes.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she replied.

“How did things go last night?” he asked.  Blue Survivors had been his 
idea.

“Good,” she replied.  “Thank you for finding it for me.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand and folding his own over 
it.  “Maybe we could get together this weekend?”

“Maybe,” she said.  Anything could happen by the weekend.  Gina Brayker 
was taking her somewhere tonight, to meet someone who might be able to 
help her.  Who knew what could happen this week?

“Dinner Saturday?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she repeated.

“Okay,” he said.  He withdrew his hand, and dropped his head, 
ostentatiously to grade papers.  His pen traced a slow and erratic path 
down the paper.

Rosalyn watched, unwilling or unable to comfort him.  If asked, she 
would not have been able to say which.

				#

5123 NW Paper Street turned out to be in the warehouse district.  

The building appeared abandoned.  The doors had been boarded up, but 
Ezekiel’s patrol around the perimeter of the structure turned up one 
open doorway.  With his flashlight, he inspected the opening.  The 
patterns of light and dark on the outside of the door jamb indicated to 
him that it had only been uncovered recently.  

He entered the warehouse.  He heard the sounds first, the cheering, the 
yelling.  The light was well concealed, he followed the sound around 
two corners and down a flight of wide, shallow stairs.  

It was a fight.  Two men stood in the center of the room, trading 
punches with each other.  Around them, forming a loose circle, were a 
few dozen men cheering them on.  Several held beers in their clenched 
fists, suds foaming over the neck of the brown bottles when the holder 
punctuated a fierce movement in the center with a corresponding motion.  

Only one man noticed him as he entered, the man at the door.  North 
Ratare was seated in a chair, holding a fat cigar as he watched the 
crowd.  He turned toward Stone as he sized him.  At his left hip was a 
gleaming revolver, and as he turned Stone noticed that his right arm 
was missing at the elbow.  

The two men nodded to each other.  Stone, his hands deep in his 
pockets, joined the circle.  

The men who were the focus of attention were both looking tired.  The 
black man, thin but well-toned, was weaving on his feet.  His opponent, 
a Hispanic teenager sporting a dagger tattoo on his right forearm, was 
striking him in the stomach repeatedly.  The black man lowered his 
guard, and received a hard blow to the jaw.  He staggered back.  

The crowd censored itself, the volume dying off as they waited to see 
what would happen next.  The black man spoke into the quiet room, “I 
give.”

His adversary slumped his shoulders in relief.  “Good fight, man.”  He 
approached and the two men shook hands as the circle of watchers 
vocalized its approval.  They walked off together, where their friends 
waited with towels and liquid refreshment of the cold and mildly 
intoxicating kind.

The group turned its focus to a new man.  Ten Rudely, a man in his 
early thirties with a slicked back hairstyle, stepped out.  “Okay,” he 
said, “good fight.  I see some new faces here, and that’s good.  This 
is the beginning of something here, the beginning of something big.  
When you see your fellow man, kept down by the corporate big shots, 
tell them of this place.  This is a haven,” Ten said, “a haven, where 
we can be free of the chains that others try to shackle us with.”  

Some of the younger men shifted, the limit of their MTV attention spans 
reached.  Ten took no notice of this, and he continued to address them, 
his pitch rising as the excitement inside him boiled out.  “I was a 
doctor,” he told them.  “But I didn’t fit into their modern picture of 
medicine, so they pushed me aside when they couldn’t pigeonhole me.  I 
wasn’t just another interchangeable part to fit their giant machine, so 
they threw me out like yesterday’s soup.  I knew there were others out 
there, men who-”

“Ten,” said a voice.  Stone turned, along with the other men, to see 
who had spoken.  It was the one armed man seated by the door.  “Get on 
with it, will ya?”

“Right!  Thanks, North,” Ten said.  “We need a couple more guys out 
here.  How about you?” he asked, pointing to a white man with a large 
build.  “What’s your name?”

“Bert, sir,” he said.  

Ten grinned at the last word.  “Step on out here,” he said.  Bert did, 
dwarfing Ten.  He was a full head taller than the other man, with a 
pacemaker scar running down his bare chest.  He twisted his neck, the 
joints popping audibly in the quiet room as Ten surveyed the pool of 
candidates.

“How about you, Gus?” he asked, looking to a three hundred pound man 
hear the far wall.  

Gus shook his head.  “I’m fighting Theo this week.”

“I’ll do it,” said a volunteer.  A black man, with a medium build and a 
twisted nose stepped forward.  “I think I can take him.”  

Ten gauged the two men before giving his approval.  “Okay, partner, 
come on down.  What name should we put on your tombstone?”

The black man gave a thin smile as he shrugged out his vest.  The 
bright lights hanging from above reflected off of his dark skin as he 
stepped forward.  “That would be Paul.  Paul Robertson.”

“Okay,” Ten said, stepping between the two men.  “The fight is over 
when either one of you gives up.”  He looked to the Paul, the smaller 
man.  “Or, when you get knocked out.”  Paul nodded his understanding 
without removing his gaze from Bert’s face.  “Shake hands,” Ten 
ordered, “and good luck.”

The two men did, Ten retreated.  “Nothing personal, right?” Bert asked 
his opponent.  

“Right,” Paul replied.

Bert’s right fist pistoned out.  It caught Paul in the jaw, knocking 
him backwards.  Unfazed by it, Paul stepped back forward, his own fists 
raised.

Stone moved around, watching the men who were transfixed by the action 
in the center of the room.  He looked at their faces.  Some were 
bruised, veterans of previous nights, others were unmarred.  There were 
white and black faces, Hispanic and Asian features.  Each face was 
different and unique.

But a common thread ran through the profiles, one that Ezekiel noticed 
as he looked at each of the men in turn.  It was the look in their 
eyes.  The fight in front of them tied them to the present, and they 
lived in that time frame vividly as two men battled each other.  Only a 
few men lacked the quality, their features showing that their attention 
was not so finely tuned.

The one armed man, North, was among this latter group.  Stone, still 
watching as Paul stood up to Bert’s assault, retreated to the doorway.  
He stood beside the seated man, wondering how North could see anything 
from his low viewpoint.

“This your average sized crowd?” Stone asked.

North looked at him.  Stone held his gaze for a long moment before 
North answered.  “Bigger every week.  Course, it’s still a new thing.”

“Can you tell me anything about that man- Ten, was it?”

“Ten Rudely, yeah.  Friend of mine.  Who are you, asking about him?”

“The name’s John Gonner,” Ezekiel Stone said.

“North Ratare.”  Ezekiel had extended his right hand, and North grabbed 
it firmly with his only arm, his left.  He folded his fingers over 
Ezekiel’s and shook it.

“Have you know Ten long?”  Ezekiel asked.

“Not too long, no.  You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t you?  You here 
to fight, or what?”

“Just want to know what I’m getting myself into, that’s all.”  

“You put up a good fight, I’ll talk to you.  Hell, I’ll buy you a beer.  
But like they say, put ‘em up, or shut up.”

Stone returned his attention to the fight.  He walked towards the 
fight, ignoring the sounds of the men beside him.  This was barbaric, 
he thought.  In his younger days, he might have welcomed this escape 
into anarchy.  Now, however, he questioned the sanity of the two men 
who were beating each other to a pulp.  

Surprisingly, it was the larger man, Bert, who was losing.  His 
opponent was hitting him mercilessly.  Bert, having had enough, grabbed 
the approaching fist and turned it.  The deflected momentum vectored it 
towards Stone before Paul withdrew it, stepping backwards to regroup as 
Bert came at him.

Something was wrong.  Stone replayed the images in his head.  Paul’s 
fist, knocked off of its course, had stopped five feet in front of him.  
It had been tightly clenched, thumb wrapped over the joints in the 
fingers.  But the skin on the knuckles had been unbroken, even after 
many impacts into his opponent.

Stone looked at Paul with a dawning realization.  Was he a damned soul?  
It was certainly possible, there was no blood or other physical damage 
visible.  All of the damned souls, Ezekiel included, could only be 
damaged by other preternatural beings.  Fighting a mortal should be no 
challenge.

With the question burning bright in his mind, he watched Paul closely.  
The black man stood tall as his larger antagonist hit him again, this 
time across the side of his head.  He moved with the impact, but still 
appeared undamaged.

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” Bert asked, his fists raised.

“Something like that,” Paul replied.  “Good fight, man.”

Bert continued to shift his weight and move back and forth in front of 
Paul.  “Good fight, yeah, but it’s not over yet.”

Paul grinned and cocked his head.  “Good fight,” he repeated, “and good 
night.”  He launched a powerful right hook, battering through his 
adversary’s defenses to crash his fist into Bert’s jaw.  As he tried 
recover, Paul spun and aimed a roundhouse kick for the same place.  It 
connected solidly.

Bert crumpled.

The crowd cheered at this upset.  Paul stood over Bert’s motionless 
body.  He raised a knee, planning another kick to the head.  “Hey!” Ten 
yelled out.

Paul brought his foot down, but before it could connect, he was pushed 
off balance.  He stumbled two steps, running into one of the watching 
men, who helped him catch his balance.  Paul turned back.  

Stone stood there, his eyes cold.  “Didn’t anyone every tell you not to 
kick a man while he’s down?”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Paul said.

Ten knelt next to Paul and pressed his fingers under the man’s jaw.  
The room had grown quiet again.  “He’ll be okay,” Ten announced.  “He’s 
got a good, strong pulse.”  He broke open a vial of smelling salts and 
waved it under Bert’s nose.  Bert coughed, and opened his eyes.

Ezekiel looked to Paul.  “You up for another round?” he asked.  

“No one’s gonna stop me from pounding you,” Paul shot back.  “There’s 
going to be two hits - me hitting you, and you hitting the floor.”

Ten interrupted.  “Hey, cool it.  Let someone else take a turn.”

“Let’s take it outside,” Paul said.  Stone nodded his approval.

Ten changed his mind.  “Okay, it’s fine.  We all came here to see a 
fight.  You-” he addressed Stone, “no shirts, no shoes.  Lose ‘em.”

Stone complied, removing his coat and gray sweatshirt as several men 
helped Bert out of the center of the room.  Stone carefully hid his gun 
beneath his pile of clothes.

Paul was finishing a beer as Stone approached.  The concrete floor was 
cold beneath his feet.  Stone looked around.  The ring of watchers 
stared back at him.  For all the intensity they had had earlier, Stone 
wondered what they really saw.  Did they see him as an individual, or 
as just another person fighting?  Would anyone remember his face?

Dozens and dozens of tattoos were on his upper body.  The Devil had 
marked him with the names of the 113 fugitives from Hell.  As he 
returned them, one by one, the symbols burned away.  There were several 
clear patches now that one quarter of the marks were gone.

Near the door, North Ratare got up from his chair and walked out.

Ten was speaking.  “Okay, shake hands,” he said.  “And good luck.”  
Ezekiel Stone and Paul Robertson did, and stepped back to square off.  
Stone flexed his hand, trying to work out the pain he had felt where 
Paul had gripped it tightly.

“I’m going to mess you up,” Paul said, stepping forward and swinging.



ACT THREE


“This is for real, isn’t it?” Rosalyn Stone asked.  “It’s not a 
practical joke, or anything?”

Gina Brayker didn’t smile.  “Good God, no.  I don’t know if it was your 
husband.  But his name, and the picture you showed me.  It could just 
be a coincidence.  I prayed for you, last night.”

“Thank you,” Roz replied.  She was driving her car along the highway, 
Gina in the passenger‘s seat.  “I don’t know what to do, what to say.  
If it is-” she said.  She tried again to finish her thought, but was 
unable.  “If it is him-”

“He asked me about my husband,” Gina said after a pause.  “He wanted to 
know what I would do if Randall came back.”  

“What did you say?”

“I told him I would love him the same as always.”

“I would,” Roz said, her voice breaking.  “To see him again.”

Gina reached out a hand and laid it on the older woman‘s shoulder.  
“We’ll talk to the priest.  He can help us.”  

“Every time I give up hope, some other piece of evidence comes along.”  
Roz sighed.  “But it never seems to lead anywhere.  I’m afraid to hope 
any more.”  

“Is it serious?  With the man that you’re seeing?”

“Dan?  He’s more serious than I am.  He’s a good man, thoughtful.  But 
I always compare men to Zeke.”

“I’ve been fixed up on a half dozen dates in the last year,” Gina said.  
“I’ll never find another man like Randall.  I see all these men come 
into my store.  Some of them are pretty cute.  Of course, they’re 
usually buying flowers for their wives or girlfriends.”

“Dan brought me flowers.”

Gina smiled.  “Give him my card, will you?  I can always use the extra 
business.”

“I don’t know if it’s going anywhere.  I just don’t feel a big spark.  
We haven’t even slept together yet.”

Gina raised an eyebrow at this unrequested information.  “It's been a 
while for me too.  I met a guy over the summer.  What was his name?  
Bob?  Bill?  Something with a ’B’.  He wasn’t even that good.”

“Men,” Roz stated.  Gina nodded, in total agreement with this vague 
condemnation of males in general.  The car continued down the highway.

				#

The men who stood around him watching were a distraction.  Ezekiel 
found himself unable to focus solely on the man in front of him, Paul 
Robertson.  

Paul was swinging left and right at him, the strength behind his punch 
increased by his supernatural strength.  His eyes glowed faintly with 
the fires of Hell, a telltale sign that he was one of the escaped 113.  

Ezekiel defended himself, waiting for his moment.  In this fight, 
taking place in a warehouse basement, he might be at a disadvantage.  
In the larger fight, his quest to send the man in front of him and the 
others like him back to hell, he had the element of surprise.  Paul had 
no idea who he was.  As soon as he struck, causing Paul to feel pain as 
only another damned soul could, his advantage would be lost.

And so he dodged, weaving away and knocking aside the flurry of kicks 
and punches that Paul threw at him.  The audience, usually enthusiastic 
at the sight of two grown men beating each other, was vocal but 
discordant.  Paul’s display of ruthlessness after his last fight had 
left a sour taste with the crowd.  Ezekiel, on the other hand, was not 
fighting back.  

Paul was annoyed by this as well.  “Thought you wanted to fight,” he 
taunted.

“Thought you were going to hit me,” Zeke shot back.  Paul launched a 
roundhouse kick at him, but Stone brushed it away.  “How’d you find 
this place?”

“Friend invited me,” Paul told him.

“Want to know who led me here tonight?”  

“Not really.  You might be leaving feet first if you‘re not careful 
though.”

Stone grinned.  “Don’t you get tired of making these threats?”

“Are you getting tired of living?  I’m gonna mess you up!”  He lunged 
at Zeke, who sidestepped and twisted him away.  Paul stumbled, then 
caught his balance.  He turned around to face Ezekiel, rage boiling up.

“I loved living,” Ezekiel said calmly.  “I had a pretty good life, 
until some punk like you got trigger happy.”

Paul charged.  “I’ll punk you!”  Ezekiel saw his opportunity.  He 
struck out at Paul, catching him off guard.  He knocked the black man 
to the floor.  

The recognition flashed into Paul’s eyes.  He looked up at Ezekiel, who 
dropped down next to him.  “Go to Hell,” Ezekiel said, raising his 
hand.  He tucked his middle and ring finger down, then looped the 
Devil’s Horns into Paul’s eyes.

Blue flames burst forth as Paul screamed.  Ezekiel rolled away, 
stopping at the edge of the circle.  The men standing there backed up.  
As Paul’s body lost cohesion and his soul descended into the earth, 
Stone stood up.
        
				#
  
Ten Rudely knelt in the corner with Bert.  There was a dark spot on the 
floor where Paul Robertson had just been.  What had just happened was 
impossible.  Ten’s mind raced franticly, searching for an explanation.

He was not alone.  He watched the other men talk among themselves as 
they clustered together near the door.  

This was his moment.  They were a mob waiting to happen.  They would 
listen to him now, they would follow him.  He opened his mouth to say 
something, but no words came out.  The only thing in his mind was the 
image of Paul’s body disappearing.   

The tattooed man stood alone in the center of the room.  He reached out 
with his right arm, palm up, fingers open.  Ten sniffed in recognition 
of the faint scent, but he couldn’t quite place it.  As he and the rest 
of the room watched, wisps of smoke rose from the tattooed man’s arm.  
With a shimmer, one of his many tattoos disappeared.

Ten looked for North in the crowd.  His job was security, he should be 
securing this freak.  

He placed the smell.  It came back to him, from his internship at an 
inner city hospital.  A young woman had been brought in, badly burned 
in a kitchen fire.  Her arm had been charred and the reek of burnt 
flesh had been nauseating.  He could never forget that tangy sweet 
smell.

The tattooed man stepped towards the door, pushing the knot of 
remaining men together.  A few more men left, wanting to get free and 
clear of these walls, away from the freaky tattooed man.  Those who 
remained were the firm believers.  Or at least Ten thought, until he 
saw one of the men who had come every week to his fight club run up the 
stairs, wanting to get above and beyond this place.  Ten stood up, 
ready to seize the day.  Not that he really had any hope of winning a 
fight with the tattooed man.

North appeared.  “You don’t fight fair, John Gonner, do you?”  

The tattooed man picked up his bundle and walked towards the door.  The 
five men still standing there blocked his way.  He turned to North.  
“I’ve got no quarrel with you.  I’m leaving.”

“Afraid you can’t do that,” North told him.  He almost sounded sad.  
“The boss told me to make sure you stayed.”  That was an odd thing for 
North to say.  Ten was in charge of the fight club, and he hadn’t said 
anything about keeping this freak here.  

“It’s okay,” Ten said, “Let him go, North.” 

North ignored him.  He unbuckled his holster and withdrew his gleaming 
revolver.  The freak slid his own hand into his bundle of clothes.  Did 
he have a gun in there?

Ten was getting a bad feeling.  “Hey,” he yelled, and for the he got 
their attention.  They all looked to him.  “You’ve got differences, 
settle them with your fists.  This is a fight club.”  Everyone was 
still looking at him, so he added, “Fight.”

“I’m still going to pass.”  John Gonner said, stepping toward the five 
men blocking his exit.  None of them moved, but their eyes to seemed to 
glow.  John reversed his course, almost backing into Ten.  “Six against 
one?”

North drummed his fingers on the handle of his revolver.  “Can’t let 
you leave.  Orders.”

It happened fast.  John Gonner threw his long coat at the men.  It 
unfurled, like an eagle spreading its wings as it took flight.  North 
moved out of the way as it flapped into two of the men.  John aimed his 
weapon at the men blocking his path and opened fire.  He aimed high, 
and there were several explosions of blue fire, just like he had seen 
on the floor a few minutes ago.

North charged, tackling him as he continued to fire.  Ten watched as 
four of the men jumped onto the pile as John Gonner‘s weapon fell 
silent.  The fifth man was screaming and clutching his eyes.  Ten 
backed up, watching the writhing bodies on the floor.  They held down 
the tattooed man on the floor silently, but the man behind them still 
screamed, his body collapsing into nothingness.

“Hold him,” North said, standing up.  The four men each pinned a limb 
to the floor.  John Gonner flopped around like a fish out of water.  
“I’m going to mess him up a little.”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to hurt him,” said Luke, the man holding the 
right leg.  

“Tough.  He sent Mike and Paul back.  It’s going to cost him.”  North 
kicked out savagely, catching the captive between his legs.  “That’s 
for Mike,” he said. 

“Wait,” Gonner wheezed.  “I’ll fight you.  One on one.”

Bert was still in the corner.  He approached Ten, moving slowly, still 
drained from his fight.  “Hey, ain’t you gonna say something?”  Ten 
shook his head without turning, transfixed by the beating in front of 
him.

“That’s for Paul,” North was saying, as he kicked the prostrate man in 
the face.  There was no blood.  

“Hey,” Bert said loudly.  “Let him up.”

“Piss off,” North replied.  He put his foot on Gonner’s exposed neck 
and leaned into it.  Gonner was trying to say something, but couldn’t.

“Let him up,” Bert insisted.  

North continued to put pressure on the tattooed man’s neck as he 
struggled.  Gonner managed to pull a hand free, and used it to knock 
away the foot that held him down.  They tried to get hold of him again, 
but he got free and rolled away.

The tattooed man stood there, dirt and blood and grime from the floor 
caked to his back.  North and his four buddies circled him, guarding 
the door.  “Let them go,” Gonner demanded, pointing to Bert and Ten.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bert agreed, but Ten ignored him.  Two guys to 
a fight, that was the rule, but Ten waited, wanting to see the freak 
try to defend himself against five men.  Bert skulked around the edges 
of the room and bolted up the stairs.

“You and me,” John Gonner said, pointing to North.  “Let’s go.  One on 
one.  _Mano a mano_.  If I beat you, I walk away.”

North chuckled, unbuttoning his shirt left-handed.  “You’d like that 
wouldn’t you?”  He shrugged out of his shirt, and tossed it to one of 
his men.  “Fighting a cripple.”  He threw his gun next, a slow 
underhand lob.  “You won’t be walking away, I *assure* you.”  

It was something Ten had seen and done hundreds of times in his years 
as a doctor.  Blowing into one of the plastic gloves that were 
everywhere around the hospital.  Each of the fingers perked up, then 
the palm swelled out.  A little hand shape, the world’s easiest balloon 
sculpture.

North thrust the stump of his right hand out toward his opponent.  A 
single digit grew wetly out of his stump.  It was a middle finger, 
which North waved at Gonner.  The other fingers popped out one after 
another.  Ten stared in horror at the five fingers protruding from 
North’s elbow.  This was something he’d never read about in medical 
school.

A palm grew out, then a wrist.  It may have kept growing, but for Dr. 
Ten Rudely, everything went black.

				#

Stone looked from the regenerating arm to the slumped body against the 
back wall.  Ten had fainted.  North flexed his new right arm, the skin 
a much lighter shade than his tanned arm.  “That itches.”  

“Neat trick,” Stone said.

“Thanks.”  He clenched his left fist, then his right, alternately 
opening and closing them.

“Ash teach you that?”

“Not me personally.  She’s good to work for.”  

“Good benefits?  Health insurance, that kind of thing?”

North shadow boxed against an imaginary figure, then turned to Stone.  
“Funny guy.  You are Ezekiel Stone, aren’t you?  She’s going to pissed 
if I called her for nothing.”

“Maybe,” Stone said.  

“’Cause if you’re not, I don’t have keep you here.  I can just send you 
back.”

“You can try.”

North grinned.  “Do you know which of those tattoos is mine?  I’d like 
to cut it off, see what happens.”

“Sorry, they didn’t come with an instruction manual.”

“Paul got stupid, and you got him.  You got lucky, hitting Mike in the 
eyes like that.  You won’t get me that easy.”  With that, North 
approached, his fists raised.

Stone held up his own.  “Come on.”  

North threw the first punch, using his newly formed right arm.  Stone 
deflected it and looped his own fist out, North knocked it away.  It 
continued for a moment, neither man able to get through the defenses of 
the other.  Then North launched a combination of punches and kicks 
which sent Stone into a retreat.

He regrouped, and when North came at him again, he stepped inside and 
fired a flurry of short jabs to his adversary's ribs.  North grabbed 
him, and the two men grappled with each other, neither able to find 
good purchase.  North latched his hands together, pinning Stone in a 
bear hug.  

Locked in an embrace that would be comical if the stakes involved were 
not considered, the two men slammed into the walls, each hoping to 
knock the other loose.  North was able to use the wall as leverage and 
twist Ezekiel down onto the ground.

North’s friends stood back, watching.  They were four men, two white, 
one black, and one Asian.  No one noticed the blur of blue energy that 
floated silently down the stairs.  It drifted into the corner of the 
room opposite from the fight.  

				#

Picture an ice sculpture, the kind you might see at a wedding, bar 
mitzvah, or a charity dinner for starving kids in Africa.  It is in the 
shape of a woman, beautifully formed, her skin tight and muscles well 
defined.  Her eyes are deep and heavy, as though she carries a huge 
burden that she in unable to share.  Imagine a time lapse film of this 
sculpture on a hot summer day.  As you watch it, you would see the 
finely crafted lines and edges become smooth.  The form would become 
smaller and smaller, until it was nothing but a puddle of water.

Run the projector backward to see the process in reverse.  Where once 
there was nothing, a goddess now stands.  And so it was with the 
formless energy in the corner of Ten Rudely’s fight club.

				#

Ashur Badaktu, ringleader of most ambitious escape from Hell, stood 
there watching the men on the floor.  She tucked her blonde hair behind 
one ear and smiled.  Ezekiel had pinned North face down onto the 
floor, but was unable to reach his eyes without releasing him.  North’s 
minions watched restlessly as Stone slammed North again and again face 
first into the floor.  

From behind them came the sound of clapping.  North’s crew turned to 
the intruder first, ready to fight.  Seeing Ashur there, they turned 
back to each other, wondering how she had infiltrated the room.  

The fight on the floor stopped, and Ashur’s steady, monotonous clapping 
was the only sound in the room.  Stone still held his opponent, but 
turned to look up at her as she approached them.

“Let him go, please,” she asked.  Stone did a quick calculation of the 
odds, and complied.  

North got up, glaring at his foe.  “I see why you’ve had trouble with 
him.”

“He is resilient, isn’t he?” Ash agreed.  “How are you, Zeke?  It’s 
been a while.”

Ezekiel stood before her and the others.  He was aware that North’s 
role as leader had just been overtaken, that Ash was the undisputed 
director of things.  North’s stance alone told him that, how he stood 
subservient to her.  “Hello, Ash.”

She leered at him, at his half naked body.  “Have you been working out?  
Silly question, I know.”  She turned to her followers.  “Have the car 
brought around front.  Detective Stone and I will be taking a ride.”  
The Asian man nodded, and dashed up the stairs two at a time.  “Give 
him his clothes.”  

“Thank you.” Stone accepted them calmly, kneeling to put on his shoes 
first.  “So what do you have planned, Ash?  Up to your old tricks?”

“It’s the only game in town, and I play to win,” she said.  Pointing 
her hand at Stone’s discarded weapon, it jumped to her hand.  She 
ejected the clip smoothly, and expertly verified that both the chamber 
and the clip were empty.  Ash flipped the gun through the air, and 
Stone caught it.  

“Thanks,” he said.  

“Professional courtesy.  I know it’s a pain in the ass to lose your 
weapon.”

Stone pulled his shirt over his head, and slid into his coat.  “Your 
boys here, they don’t say much, do they?”

Ash ignored his question, and asked one of her own.  “North, are you 
missing a few men?”

Had North been alive, his face would have turned red.  In his current 
state, he expressed the same emotion through the tone and tempo of his 
voice.  “We lost Paul and Mike.  This guy got lucky.  But we remembered 
what you said, and we kept him here.”

Ash nodded her understanding.  “Zeke,” Ash said gently to him, “The car 
is here.  Are you ready to go?  We have some things to talk about.”

“And if I refuse?” Stone asked.

“Please?” she asked, smiling seductively.

Trying to fight his way out of this would be suicidal, he knew.  The 
only thing keeping him from a quick descent into Hell was Ash’s good 
graces.  Best to play along, for now.  Wait for a time when the odds 
were more in his favor.  “Where are we going?” he asked, tucking his 
empty gun inside his coat.  

“Tyrone, show the man to the car.  Go on ahead, Zeke, I’ll be right 
out.”  With that, she motioned North over to her.  “What is he doing 
here?” she asked, pointing to Ten’s body against the far wall.

Tyrone looked to Stone.  “This way, please.”  Stone marched up the 
stairs, followed by Tyrone.  He was a black man with a medium build and 
a shaved head.  He stayed two meters behind Stone, far enough to avoid 
being taken by surprise.

Outside, a black limousine was waiting.  Zeke leaned against it, 
waiting for his escort.  Tyrone, still shirtless, took no notice of the 
cool November night, and slouched against the hood of the car where he 
could still observe his charge.

Ezekiel Stone looked around casually.  The California landscape around 
him was relatively open, and did not provide much cover.  He was 
unarmed.  But this might be his best chance to make an escape.  Tyrone 
seemed to be paying little attention.  

“Good evening, Mr. Stone,” said a familiar voice from the other side of 
the car.  Stone turned to the see the Devil, nicely dressed in a 
tuxedo, looking at him over the car.  

Tyrone turned and did a double take when he saw who was there.  “Hey,” 
he addressed the Devil, “You aren’t supposed to be here.”  

The Devil turned to the black man and studied him for a moment.  
“Tyrone Donalds.  Sentenced to Hell for murder, rape, robbery, 
extortion, and let’s not forget the ever popular jaywalking.”  He 
chuckled.  “I’m kidding, of course, about that last, it’s not a mortal 
sin.  Although the records indicate you crossed streets illegally an 
impressive two thousand, one hundred and forty-three times before you 
were hit by a car.”

Tyrone looked down, shamefaced.  The Devil continued, “You could be a 
poster child against drinking and walking.  ‘Friends don’t let friends 
cross the highway drunk.’”  The Devil considered it for a moment, then 
observed, “Not very snappy, I know, but give it a chance to catch on.”

The Devil walked around the front of the car, clapping Tyrone on the 
back as he did so.  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d like to have 
a word with my employee.”

Tyrone looked around, glancing at several places on the roof and in the 
neighboring buildings.  “She’ll be up in a minute,” he said to Stone 
before sauntering back to the building.  

The Devil perched himself on the passenger’s side of the hood and 
directed his attention to Ezekiel.  “I was in the neighborhood, so I 
thought I’d stop by.  See how you are, shoot the breeze.  You know.”

Ezekiel looked around quickly and saw no one.  “You can stay if you 
want,” he said, “but I’m getting out of here.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” the Devil said firmly.  “You 
wouldn’t be underestimating our mutual friend, now would you?”

“What?”

“There’s a lot of paperwork and such if you get killed in the line of 
duty, Ezekiel.  I can’t actually help you here, you know, but I can 
clue you in on the fact that this is a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“Do you really think she would send you up here alone with only one 
guard?  This place is crawling with my children.  If you run, I’m 
afraid your escape would end very quickly.”

Ezekiel looked around.  “You’re messing with me, right?  I don’t see 
anyone.”

The Devil flashed his carefree grin.  “I forgot that you can’t sense 
your kind around you.  If you could, you'd know there are two there-” he 
pointed, “and there, and there.”  

“So what, you want me to just stay here and wait?”

“It’ll give us a chance to review what benefits you enjoy while you are 
in my employ.  Regular pay, health, dental.  All taken care of.  And of 
course, the big one.  A second chance at life.  Even redemption, if you 
are a good little hell cop.”  Ezekiel looked away, and the Devil got 
right in his face.  “I want you to remember, you work for me.  Your 
loyalty is non-negotiable.  You don’t have free will.  Cross me, and 
you will most sincerely regret it.”

Ezekiel looked back for a long moment, then a sly look appeared on his 
face.  “You aren’t nervous, are you?  Telling me, ‘you don’t have free 
will’ and then threatening me with what will happen if I decide to take 
a better offer?  You’re lying about something.”

“Test me,” the Devil said.  “Run for those trees over there.  See if 
I’m telling you the truth or not.”

“Hello, boys,” came a feminine voice.  Ash stood there, dressed in 
business casual wear and wearing her blond look.  “You two look like 
you’ve got some aggression to work out.  Come back next week for the 
fight club, you can settle your differences then.  Personally, that is 
a fight I’d love to see.  For now, Zeke and I have some catching up to 
do.”

North Ratare stood behind her, flanked by three of his four surviving 
minions.  He opened the car door for Ash with his left hand, and she 
climbed in.  He turned to Ezekiel, ignoring the Devil standing there.  
“I just want to make something clear.  Ashur isn’t going to threaten 
you.  That’s my job.  If you attack her, assault her, or do anything 
but sit there politely and talk with her, you’re going to regret it.  
You might be able to take her out, but we’ve got lists of people you 
know here in LA.  Every one of them will be dead by sunrise if I make 
one phone call.”

Stone shoved him.  His right arm had disappeared again, and North 
flailed with his stump as he tried to catch his balance.  “You and I 
are going to finish that fight someday soon,” Ezekiel said.  “And your 
boss won’t be there to save you.”

North pointed his stump at him.  “Anytime, pilgrim.”  The Devil 
watched, amused.  Stone climbed into the car and closed the door behind 
him.



ACT FOUR


The interior of the limousine was decorated in black.  Ash sat away 
from the door, her back to the tinted divider behind the driver seat.  
She was mixing a pair of screwdrivers from the mini-bar.  Ezekiel 
leaned into the leather seat and sighed.  

Ash rapped on the glass partition behind her.  The engine fired, and 
the limo rolled smoothly forward.  “Zeke,” Ash said softly.  The word 
hung there for a moment as each examined it, noting her tone and pitch, 
analyzing the single syllable for content.  She held out one of the 
drinks, and he accepted it.  

Zeke sipped his drink and watched her.  He could smell her perfume, the 
same flavor he had perceived in his hotel room earlier.  He found it 
mildly arousing, being here with her.  Best not to think about it. 

“I take it you found my gift to you, Ezekiel.  I hope you appreciated 
it.”

“Why?” he asked.  “Why surrender one of your own?  Mary Chaine taught 
you about acting.  You look a lot like she did in that movie, I forget 
the name.  If you wanted to send her back, great, you’re helping me 
out, but why torture her?”

“I was sorry to see her go, Ezekiel,” Ash explained, “But she disobeyed 
me.  Don’t you know?  I’ve given orders for everyone to stay out of 
your way.  No one is to harm your friends or family, or fight you, 
except in self defense.  Mary took a little too much initiative in your 
case.”  

Zeke was surprised.  “Thank you, I guess.”

Ash sipped her drink, then continued as if he hadn’t commented.  “When 
I offered to take her with me, all she wanted was one thing - to have 
her son come along.  Not her husband, the SOB who killed her, but her 
only son.  That was her idea of heaven.  And when you sent him back, 
she got a little crazy.

“She had some help, you know.  Changing appearances, that’s not a skill 
I just hand out.  Some one else helped her.”

Ezekiel considered this.  “Novak?”  he asked.

Ash studied him.  “Maybe.”

Looking to cause a rift between Ash and her second in command, he 
explained, “He showed up as Detective Harlowe after I got arrested.  He 
took credit for my being there.”

“He’s ambitious,” she said.  “Trying to start his own little faction.  
He’s on thin ice, but he’s still too useful to get rid of.  At least, 
until I have someone to take his place.”

Zeke shifted.  “What is this, a job interview?”

“Of a sort, yes.  I told you, the next time that we met, I’d make you 
an offer.”

“Look, Ash,” Zeke protested.  “I’m not going to fight a war against 
God.  All I want is my second chance at life with the woman I love.”

“The woman you love?”  Ash’s hair darkened and her face aged, and then 
Rosalyn stared back at him.  “This one?”  Her hair shortened, and she 
took on the Asian features of Nina Chow.  “Or her?”  Ash reformed to 
become Maxine, grinning impishly at him.  “Which woman, Zeke?”  She 
grew younger, taking the shape of Samantha, with hair color that began 
at one end of the spectrum and slowly cycled through it.  “You don’t 
have to choose, Zeke.  We could have so much fun, you and I.”

Zeke watched her performance silently.  His thoughts raged as he turned 
away to look at the skyline.  Two sides of him argued, one holding out 
for Rosalyn, if and when he could ever be reunited with her, and one 
counting the combinations and permutations of women that Ash could 
portray.  He could go to bed with any woman imaginable, and the idea 
held an attraction for him.  

Ash had returned to her familiar shape.  “‘The enemy of my enemy is my 
friend.’” she quoted.  “The Devil is my enemy, Zeke.  Holding us 
prisoner down there.  You and I, we’d only done what we knew to be 
right.  You can be my friend and his enemy, if you want.  You don’t 
have to stay with him.  You’re a free agent.”

“A free agent?  How do you figure that?”

She smiled.  “You’re walking the earth, Ezekiel.  He’s powerless up 
here.  He can send someone else after you, but there are no guarantees 
of anything.”

“And my second chance at life?”  

“This is it, Zeke.  You’re back.  It’s a second chance for all of us.  
But you’re spending your vacation time working.”  She reached out a 
hand to him.  “Live a little.”

“I made a deal,” Zeke said.  “A deal with the Devil, sure, not always 
the brightest thing to do, but I’ll stand by it.”

				#

“I’ve been here before,” Roz said as she parked in the lot for St. 
Rose’s church.  “The priest you wanted me to talk to, he’s not blind, 
is he?”

Gina nodded.  “Father Horn is blind.  Do you know him?”

“I think so,” Rosalyn replied slowly.  “I was here over the summer, 
when I was missing Zeke.  I told him my name, but he didn’t mention 
Zeke.”  They fell silent for a moment as Roz mulled this over.  “Do me 
a favor,” she asked, “Will you do the talking?  Don’t mention me.”

“Okay.  Is something wrong?”

“I just have a bad feeling about this.”

“Sure, it’s no problem.  I’ll just tell him that I wanted to see 
Detective Stone again.”

Roz smiled gratefully.  “Thank you,” she said.  The two women walked 
through the darkness toward the church.  
        
				#

Ash held out a deck of cards.  “Shuffle these, please?” she asked.  

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think you were that trusting.  You don’t have to 
shuffle.  Remember Las Vegas, Zeke, when we kept winning at blackjack?”

Zeke looked for a place to set his drink, settling on the floor.  He 
rearranged the cards, flipping through them three times, then looked to 
Ash expectantly.  

“We’re going to play a little game, Zeke.  You’re steering the car now 
with each card you turn over.  Black cards, we’ll go straight, diamonds 
are a left turn, and hearts a right turn.  Flip them one at a time, 
please.”

“Where are we going?”

“That’s up to you,” she told him.  She rapped on the glass partition 
behind her, and the driver lowered it.  “Luke, we’ll be taking a 
different path.”  To Zeke, she said, “First card please.”

Zeke played along.  The first card was the three of diamonds.  “Take 
the next left,” Ash directed.  

“What’s this about, Ash?”

“We’re looking for a church, Zeke.  Next card, please.”

				#

St. Rose’s Catholic Church had several people inside.  Gina looked 
around, not seeing Father Horn.  “I’ll ask for him,” she said.  She 
walked to the front of the church.

Rosalyn looked around.  Her parents had been C&E Christians, attending 
services on Christmas and Easter.  She’d never felt a need to visit on 
her own.  Even after the loss of her father, and then her husband, 
she’d found comfort in family and friends, not religion.  

Not that there was anything wrong with it.  She noticed the peaceful 
expression on an older woman’s face who was leaving the church.  Peace 
could be hard to find these days, maybe it was best to take it where 
you could get it.  

Gina spoke to another priest.  He nodded, and disappeared into the 
back.  Gina returned to Roz’s side.  “Father Horn will be out in a few 
minutes,” she said.  The women seated themselves in a pew to wait.  “I 
hope this helps you,” Gina said.  
        
				#

“A church?” Zeke echoed.  He turned over the nine of clubs.  

Ash waited for the next card before giving the driver directions.  
“Second right, Luke.”  She took a sip of her drink, then fixed her gaze 
on Zeke.  “I want your help, Zeke.  We would be so good together.”  She 
uncrossed her legs as she leaned toward him. 

“Why a church, Ash?  What are you planning?”

“I thought we could get married.”  Zeke snorted, and she grinned, 
letting him know it was a joke.  “You’re going to help me burn it.”

				#

“Zeke’s mother was Catholic,” Roz said.  “We never went, but I know it 
influenced him.”

“He lit a candle,” Gina said suddenly.  “Right over there.  I’d 
forgotten.  He lit a candle, and when I asked him who it was for, he 
said ‘himself.’”

“Aren’t candles just for the dead?” Roz asked.

“Yes.”

“Like maybe he was admitting he’d faked his death.”

“Maybe,” Gina said.  “There’s Father Horn.”  She rose, and Father Horn 
waited for her to approach.  

“Father Horn, I don’t know if you remember me, but Ezekiel Stone 
brought me here one night last year.”  

“Of course, I remember you,” he said warmly.  He stretched out a 
callused black hand, and Gina embraced it.  “I’m embarrassed to say 
that I’ve forgotten your name.”

“It’s Gina. Gina Brayker.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.  And your friend Maddy, how is she?”  He turned 
toward Rosalyn, who had not spoken.

Gina followed his look, and quickly replied.  “We’re fine.  I’m sorry I 
haven’t kept in touch.  I feel guilty, coming by to ask a favor.”

“It’s a pleasure to hear your voice again,” he replied.  “God’s hand 
was protecting you that night.”

“He was, He was.  But Ezekiel Stone, he protected us too.  We haven’t 
heard from him in several months,” which was technically the truth, 
“and I was looking for the address he gave me, so I could see how he 
was doing.  I think about him often.  But I’ve lost it somehow, and I 
was hoping you could help me get in touch with him.”

“I’d be happy to pass a message along, the next time that I see him,” 
Father Horn 

“Actually, I was hoping to stop by and see him, surprise him.  Could 
you help us?”

Father Horn paused, considering.  

				#
        
The limousine rolled to a stop in front of St. Rose’s Catholic Church.  
Ezekiel Stone looked at it through the tinted glass.  “No,” he said.

“Sometimes life deals us bad cards,” Ash said.  “Sometimes you make 
your own luck.”  She plucked the deck of cards from his hand and turned 
it over.  They were blank.  As they looked at them, colors and pictures 
formed on the faces.  “You chose this place, Zeke.  You led us here.”  

He denied it.  “No.”

“There’s a bag in the trunk.  Don’t pick it up by the handles, it’s 
heavy,” Ash ordered.  “Not that we’d notice.  Take it into the church 
and set it down there.”

“What?”  

“This is my offer, Ezekiel.”  As she spoke, she leaned in toward him.  
“Join me, tonight.  Prove your loyalty by burning this place of 
worship, this house of God.”  She spat the name.  “Destroy it, as He 
has destroyed so much.  If Novak is the one who helped Mary Chaine, 
destroy him too.  But take his place.  Be with me, Zeke.  Our child can 
end the old ways of doing things, and make it better, more fair.”

“Ash,” he said slowly.

She played her final card.  “I love you, Zeke.”  Inches from his face, 
she kissed him.  She pressed her body onto his, caressing him with her 
hands.

He pushed her away, softly, gently.  “Delilah,” he said.  “I can’t.”

Their eyes held for a moment.  Then she raised her voice, not to speak 
to him, but to the driver.  “Luke.”  The barrier between the 
compartments disappeared.  “Take the package into the church, please.”  
There was no response, but the divider grew back.  The driver’s door 
opened, then closed.

“Why are you doing this, Ash?” Zeke asked.

“Do you believe God is infallible, Zeke?”  

He thought it over.  “I guess.  I knew what I did was wrong.  And I 
paid for it.  I don’t think he made a mistake.”

Her eyes glowed green.  “Just before he dies, I want him to see me.  I 
want him to look at me and realize he made a mistake, 4,000 years ago.  
He was wrong to judge us the way he did.  Enok, Draku, all of us from 
the Temple at Tyre.  I want him to know he is just as imperfect as the 
rest of us.”

“Ash, you’re crazy,” he said wonderingly.

She smiled seductively, but did not reply.  She pressed her hand 
against one of the side panels.  It opened, and she removed a small 
box.  There was a knob on it, and two lights, one green, one red.  The 
red light was glowing softly.

“I’ll ask you again, Zeke.”  She offered the box to him.  “This is the 
detonator.  Flip the switch.  Burn the church.”

Ezekiel didn’t move from his seat, but downed the rest of his drink 
before responding.  “You didn’t mention that before.  What would you 
have done if I’d carried the package inside?  Set it off while I was 
holding it?”

“I would have told you about it when you came back.”

“When I came outside earlier, were there others waiting for me if I 
tried to escape?  Was it a test?”

“It’s always a test, Zeke.  Now take this.  We can be the parents of 
the new God.  You’ve turned me down once tonight.  Don’t make the same 
mistake again.”  She held out the detonator.

Stone looked to her, then the church.  “Okay,” he said, taking the box.

				#

Father Horn considered their request.  Gina and Roz exchanged a worried 
glance as the moment stretched out.  "Of course,” he said finally.  “I 
can’t write it down for you, but I can give you his address.  You’ll 
handle this with discretion, won’t you?  There are more men out there 
like the one that killed your friends.”

“I know,” she said.  “I just want to talk with him again.” 

“He lives at the Hotel Irondell, over on 26th street.  The front desk 
can give you his room number, I’m afraid I can’t recall it at the 
moment.”

Roz felt a shudder of relief.  After all these months, after all the 
signs and portents, she knew where he was.  An answer to the 
omnipresent question, an answer that spawned even more questions.  But 
those could wait, until she was reunited with her husband.  “Thank 
you,” she said, so calmed by the revelation that her vow of silence was 
forgotten.  “Thank you, Father.”

Father Horn cocked his head, trying to place the voice.  “I know you,” 
he said slowly.  Recognition crept into his face.  “Is it... Rosalyn 
Stone?”

Roz was still smiling.  “Why wouldn’t you tell me before?  Has he 
forgotten about me?  I just want to see him, to talk to him, to try and 
work things out.”  Impulsively, she reached out to him and hugged him.  
“Thank you,” she repeated.

Father Horn rejected her touch.  He backed away as though he had been 
burned.  “No!” he shouted, shattering the peace of the church.  “This 
is the Devil’s work!”  

Heads turned all over the church.  “What?” Gina asked.

“Satan has sent her.  He appeared to me, asking that I help reunite 
Ezekiel with his wife.”  Father Horn pointing a trembling finger at 
Gina, focusing on her with his sightless eyes.  “You.  You do Lucifer’s 
bidding, you are in his service.”

Gina, held the hand of her companion, tried to defend herself.  “No,” 
she replied, then repeated the word more forcefully, “No.  She is a 
good woman, searching for the man she loves.  How could there anything 
evil about helping her?”

“No good will come of this,” he pronounced solemnly.

				#

Stone smashed the driver’s side window with his elbow.  The glass 
shattered, half bursting out into the street, the other half collapsing 
inward.  He drew back his arm to throw.

Something snagged him.  He looked, Ash was sitting calmly in her seat.  
Around his arm was a coiled snake, intertwined with the seat, holding 
it fast.  More serpents boiled up from between the cushions.  He tried 
to transfer the detonator to another hand, but the reptiles moved 
quickly.  Snakes of all sizes covered him, restraining him.  Ash 
watched him, amused.  “That was very predictable, Zeke.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.  
She slithered over to him.  Her snakes forced his hand up, and she 
plucked the black box from it.

She grabbed his right hand, and forced it onto the knob.  “Do it,” she 
said.

“No.” A cobra balanced behind him looped down and bit him in the neck.  

“That’s twice you’ve turned me down, Zeke.  Three strikes, and you’re 
out.  We’ll call this one a foul tip.”  She twisted his wrist, moving 
the knob.

The green light lit up.

The night sky lit up.

The glass blew out from the force of the explosion, showering down into 
the street and over the steps.  The church roof came apart at the 
ridge, opening itself before God until the two halves fell back into 
the church.  The explosion ended quickly, but now fire was having its 
way with the remaining structure.

Zeke’s face was torn with anguish.  Ash’s crooked smile grew as he 
gaped.  “No one will ever praise God there again,” she said.


			TO BE CONTINUED