Chapter 18.

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When, lo, Metatron’s Morons thundered over the horizon, darkening the sky like a swarm of eagles. They landed on Hough, creating a hurricane-force wind, sending discarded papers and fast-food containers swirling down the street. The Morons stood shoulder to shoulder along the center lane, a granite fence between the opposing forces. Both Maquis projectiles and Partisan shells bounced off the granite angels, the ordinance dying on the street and injuring no one. After several minutes of useless fire, both sides gave up. The Maquis retreated to the shadows, and the tanks went silent their hatches popping open, disgorging dazed soldiers dressed, not in the Army greens and camo fatigues Frank had expected, but in navy blue, with ‘POLICE’ stamped on the back of their uniforms.

Unaware he’d been holding his breath, Frank breathed out, glad the angels had stepped in. They’d stopped the rioters from vandalizing businesses, thus sparing the innocents, who scurried away from the fighting and their burning homes.

The Maquis sympathizers were lucky that American Partisans drove the tanks and planes and weren't commies, Frank reckoned. Unlike Soviet leadership, who killed citizens for sport and sent dissidents to freeze and starve to death in desolate Siberia, Cent-Com would not order a slaughter on their own people.

Sure, there was collateral damage, with Partisan troops firing on unarmed Maquis. Frank assumed Cent-Com must’ve made an honest mistake. After all, Americans were the good guys, defending liberty, freedom, justice, and democracy. GIs weren’t brutes. They loved baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Jimmy Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life, not violence. So firing on innocent people had to be a regrettable mistake. Had to be. Cent-Com wouldn’t have ordered wanton destruction like that.

It seemed un-American.

But Frank replayed the battle in his mind’s eye and bit his lip.

Those retreating American citizens counted for more than American property to Cent-Com… Right?

Confused and doubting government, which he’d been doing more since Nixon shenanigans, Frank stared into the middle distance, his throat bone-dry. He realized Metatron had saved Americans from American troops and leadership. That was ghastly because, without divine intervention, the cops would have gunned down families fleeing the destruction Cent-Com had wrought.

Despite the heat, he shivered, wondering.

Metatron derailed Frank’s train of thought by raising his flaming sword in a stony-faced greeting. Frank nodded in reply.

With a solemn mien, Metatron took a knee and said in his deep, thunderous roar, “All praise the Lord of Hosts, the God of gods, the Nameless One who contains all names and reigns over the living and the dead. Thou shalt have no God before Him. And remember, ye bags of worm food, that whatsoever you do to the least amongst you, that you do also unto Him.”

Frank considered the bible passage… if it was scripture. Regardless, the speech sounded scriptural, and scripture got him all the time. So Frank beat his chest and lowered his eyes, replying with a reverent, “Amen.”

The Morons raised their swords in agreement, and Frank hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, leaned back on his heels, and grinned.

He sorta liked these idiots.

Sure, they were dumbasses, dense as the granite they were carved from, but they had gumption, valor, and the courage of their convictions. They’d show up and fight the good fight, ignoring the risks.

That took stones.

Feeling safe under the angels’ protection, Frank sauntered towards the alley, aiming to resume his rearguard post. But his breath caught, and he stopped, dead in his tracks halfway up the alley, glancing back. The blood drained from his face.

Because the Morons’ swords all pointed his way.

His heart skipped several beats as reality sunk in. The Morons weren’t protecting Club Seventy-Nine. Instead, they were protecting innocent civilians from him and the Partisan Army.

Yikes.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

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Horrified at the discovery, Frank scurried towards Club Seventy-Nine’s door, planning to turn in his gun and grab his discarded jacket when Metatron said, “Stop,” his booming voice rattling windows.

Frank halted, his face and neck flashing hot with annoyance. “Jaysus, Metatron, chill out. I get the message. I’m done, turning in my gun and heading home.”

Metatron said, “Not now. Look.” His gaze flicked towards the Eliot Ness campaign ad, and he chin-pointed to where Zac and the beefy slob kicked and stomped a defenseless man on the sidewalk.

Frank hesitated, considering the odds. First, he had tons to lose: his life, his wife, his family, and his granddaughter’s concert at Severance Hall, to name a few. Which made point two devastating: his chances sucked. Alone, Zac and Beefy outnumbered him two-to-one and outgunned Frank’s squirrel gun with two large-caliber hunting rifles. Frank’s odds plummeted when he factored in Partisan soldiers and cops.

Million-to-one? Maybe even a billion-to-one.

“It’s a fucking suicide mission,” Frank said to Eliot Ness’s unmoving visage under his breath.

“Now,” Metatron said, his voice quaking the earth and shattering the front windows of the duplex nearest him.

Frank snapped to, trotting up the street towards the Partisans as they kicked the Maquis. The man played possum, covering his face and head.

Zac and Beefy stepped back. With a flash of white coat and tight-checked pants, Frank halted, recognizing the chef. Frank’s eyes widened as Zac raised his rifle. Frank hollered at the top of his lungs to get their attention. No dice, so he sprinted fast as he could muster to stop the encroaching tragedy.

His legs burned. He gasped for breath. He tried moving faster, but couldn’t. And yet, he tried reaching deeper. Had to.

An innocent man’s life hung in the balance.

With Frank now half a block away and closing fast, Zac smirked sidelong at Beefy and cradled the gun to his shoulder before eyeing the sight. The safety clicked ‘OFF,’ and Zac finalized his aim. Now within ten feet, Frank launched himself like a linebacker at Zac as his hand tightened around the trigger.

The powder ignited as Frank hit Zac full in the ribs.

The gun fired, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs and guns. The blast rang Frank’s ears, and the burned sulfur stench of spent powder polluted his nostrils. Afraid he was too late, he sprang to his feet, dashing to the chef’s side. The man sat up, alive, and Frank’s gaze swept over his body, finding no bullet wound. Frank heaved a sigh, and his heart leaped in his chest, relieved. Zac had missed.

Standing between the chef and his attackers, Frank raised his hands and said through short, gasping breaths, “Wait. I was there. This guy’s innocent. Just trying to get home. To protect his kids.”

Zac stood, leveling his gun at Frank. “How do you know? Cops told us a black man in a chef’s uniform torched my car, and this scumbag’s a black man in a chef’s uniform. Can’t be many n****r cooks floating around.”

His breath steadying, Frank snorted. “I’ll tell you what I told the cops: it wasn’t him. He was helping me, and we watched the firebombers torch your Caddie. Together. No way it was him.”

His face pinched with disgust, Zac sneered at Frank, his eyes black and emotionless in the dusky summer night. “Bullshit.”

Frank squared, glowering at Zac. “The fuck it is, asshole. I saw what I saw. I’d testify in any court, swear on a stack of bibles.”

Zac snorted, aiming the barrel at Frank, who raised his hands.

Frank said, “Hold on there, boss. Don’t shoot the messenger, for Christ’s sake.”

With a rustle of fabric, the beefy slob also leveled his rifle on Frank.

Fuck.

“I call bullshit, too,” Beefy said, pointing across Hough. “You on their side? A turncoat, a n****r loving traitor against your kind?”

Frank narrowed his gaze. “Look, I ain’t got time for this schoolyard crap. I’ve got things I gotta do. Grownup things. Responsible things.” He raised his arms, his rifle pointing skyward, a threat to no one. “Look, guys, I’ve got to go. My granddaughter’s playing with a youth orchestra tonight, and I promised I’d be there, watching. So—”

‘Click.’ The beefy slob cocked his gun, saying. “Well, ain’t that just sweet. We got us a n****r-loving family man here. And a real swanky one at that, going the Severance Hall like a freaking Rothschild.”

‘Click.’ Zac also cocked, aiming.

Frank’s heart fell, his throat gone dry as the Mohave Desert. And then, he heard a roar from Club Seventy-Nine as a horde of Partisans accompanied by a legion of skeletal bikers on dragons swarmed their way. In the lead and riding a dragon that flew above them, the rail-thin man, his face pale as a carp’s belly and sunken eyes glowing red, bee-lined straight for Frank, his bony fingers outstretched like the claws of a carrion crow.

With a rush, Frank remembered the thin man’s words on Coventry: “They don’t need you,” meaning the coloreds. The thin man was wrong. The colored chef had needed Frank. Still did, since they'd beat him bloody and senseless.

Didn't matter, though, Frank reckoned, since they’d both soon be dead.

Fuck.