Good Intentions

Good Intentions By Eliott Kay Copyright 2011 Eliott Kay Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Cover photo by Jesse Means. (Thank you. Again.) Warning: “Good Intentions” contains violence, sexuality, nudity, inappropriate use of church property, portrayals of beings

divine and demonic bearing little or no resemblance to established religion or mythology, trespassing, bad language, sacrilege, blasphemy, attempted murder, arguable murder, divinely mandated murder, justifiable murder, filthy murder, sexual promiscuity, kidnapping, attempted rape, arson, dead animals, desecrated graves, gang activity, theft, assault and battery, panties, misuse of the 911 system, fantasy depictions of sorcery and witchcraft, multiple references to various matters of fandom, questionable interrogation tactics, cel phone abuse, reckless driving, consistent abuse of vampires (because they deserve it), even more sexuality, illegal use of firearms within city limits, polyamory, abuse of authority, hit and run driving, destruction of private property, underage drinking, disturbances of the peace, disorderly conduct, internet harassment, bearers of false witness, mayhem, dismemberment, falsification of records, tax evasion, an uncomfortably sexy mother, bad study habits, and a very silly white guy inappropriately calling another white guy “nigga” (for which he will surely suffer). Al characters depicted herein are over the age of 18, with the exception of one little girl who merely needs to get her cat out of a tree. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to her. She makes it through the story just fine. To Erica “You don’t have a soul. You have a body. You are a soul.” —C.S. Lewis

It would’ve been a beautiful spring morning except for the war. The sky was clear. A mild wind passed through the trees above him, sending ripples through their lush, full leaves. The only things keeping the birds from singing were the gunfire and the tanks. One rumbling tank, anyway. It was his tank, rolling on away from him. Beyond that was the fleeing enemy tank. The other German tank sat burning nearby. He could hear it, could smell the smoke. Simon lay on his back, looking up at the rustling leaves in the trees. His whole center seemed to be on fire, yet wet at the same time. “I told your men we would stay with you,” someone said. His eyes glanced to his right, where the old Gypsy woman knelt over him to gently pul the tommy gun from his grip. She set it down and took his hands in hers. There were other Gypsies nearby, but not close enough to speak. “I should be with them,” he coughed. She shook her head. “Your men will carry on. They will win. Your fighting is done.” The old woman brushed a bit of dirt from his forehead. “You look a bit young to be the leader.” “Officers kept getting kil ed. I got moved up to replace them. Battlefield commission. Guess I was doing something right.” “How long have you been fighting?” “Since North Africa. Two years? I guess three now?” “Hm,” she nodded. “Not as long as for us.” “No.”

“You could have turned away from this fight,” she said. “The Germans are done. Broken. Only a matter of time now before they give up. You were outnumbered. Why did you attack?” “They were going to kil you. And hey, my guys are winning, aren’t they?” The old woman smiled a bit. “I like you Americans. You know, not many of your allies would give their lives for Roma. We are not worth so much to others here. They see us only as thieves.” He managed a grin. “Oh, well , let me try this afternoon al over again then,” he coughed, plainly not meaning it. After a moment, he asked, “Do many Gypsies speak English?” “Not many. Nor do I,” she smiled sadly. The old woman looked down at his hands. “Do you play the piano?” “Huh? No. Never.” “Ah,” she said, then shrugged. “You have a musician’s hands.” Then her head cocked curiously. She touched the ring on his finger. “You are married?” “Engaged,” he corrected. “Got engaged in Paris.” “What is her name?” “Marie,” Simon said. “Librarian. Smartest girl I ever met. I guess I should’ve taken that staff job and stayed, but I couldn’t just abandon my guys.” The old woman nodded softly, saying nothing. “I’m not going to see her again, am I?” She was still looking at his hands. “I am sorry,” she told him finally. “You have been through this before…many times. You will be through it again. One more time, I think.” She had at first seemed as if she had seen too much sorrow and pain to cry for anyone, but a tear fell from her cheek onto his palm. “One more time. Then, maybe, you will be happy. Maybe. Maybe.”

No Good Deed…

Spooky as it was, the full moon and the stilllness of the night wasn’t the scary part. It wasn’t the cemetery just on the other side of the hedge, either. No, it was walking through the pools of direct light under the street lamps that freaked Alex out the most. By the second or third such spot, he realized that maybe he shouldn’t have dressed al in black to walk down the street in the middle of the night. After al , some cop might rol by and think, Hey, I wonder if that dude in al black with the black backpack and black gloves is up to something shady? Once he got to the thin al ley between the cemetery and the storage rental complex, though, he felt better. He lingered in the darkness for a few deep breaths, reminding himself that no, really, people don’t do crazy cult stuff in graveyards under the full moon. That was al just movie bul shit. The climb up the vine-covered iron fence wasn’t too hard. Alex wasn’t a serious athlete, but at least he was thin and in relatively decent shape. He was feeling good about the climb until it came to the three strings of barbed wire at the top that had been concealed by al the leaves. Okay, he thought, no problem. I’m not impaled, just scratched. I can afford another sweatshirt. Just go slow, haul it up, over and okay not there, that’s another barb, grab that overhanging branch, haul it up, ow ow ow my leg ow fuck! It was awkward. Had any of his friends been there, they’d have made fun of him and cal ed him a slowpoke, a klutz, a total pussy and a thousand other shitty things, but he made it over. His landing was surely less noisy than a car crash. Okay, that’s just nerves, he thought. I’m doing fine. Just a rustle and a thump. No big deal. Alley cats are noisier.

Nobody’s here. I’m fine. I’m fine. Total ninja. Then his cel phone went off. “Fuck!” he hissed, and clutched at his back pocket. The sounds of his Tool ring tone reminded him that yes, he was in fact a complete tool for forgetting to put the phone on vibrate before he went sneaking into a graveyard. He silenced it, then looked at the display while trying to cover up the light from the screen with one hand. It was Jason, who would probably keep calling until he got an answer. Alex cursed his friends for being nineteen and stupid…mindfully including himself on both counts. “What?” he hissed by way of greeting. At least the cemetery still seemed quiet despite the disturbance. No sirens, no floodlights or groundskeeper’s flashlights, no ghosts or zombies. Yet. “Yo, nigga, where you at?” “Jason, when you get your ass beat by some black guy who doesn’t like hearing white people cal each other that, I’m seriously gonna point at you and laugh.” “Yeah, if you ain’t runnin’. Seriously, where are you?” “Doing my photography homework.” “Hmm. Way to spend your Monday nights.” “I need night shots,” Alex said tersely. “I thought you only took that class ‘cause it was full of hotties?” “Yeah, well , the cute ones are al taking the class real seriously, so I guess I’d better, too. Jason, I can’t talk right now,

what do you want?” “Jus’ cal in’ to say we’re playing’ pool if you wanna come.” Alex sighed and rolled his eyes. The lesson here was to come up with his good photo concepts before his friends decided on something fun to do. “No,” he said, “not tonight. I’m good, thanks.” “Okay. What’re you doing, anyway?” Jesus! What part of “I can’t talk” is so unintelligible? “I’l show you later,” Alex said. “I gotta go. Later, man.” He flipped the phone shut, made absolutely sure to put it on silent, and slipped it back into his pocket. A minute of still ness later, Alex had his nerves good and settled. Nobody came out looking for him after al that noise. Whatever night watchman the place had was doubtlessly not really watching. Sacred Heart cemetery was fairly large, with ground that gently rose and fell and a few bushes and low hedgerows here and there. It was creepy and still at this hour. The only lights shining within the grounds were a couple of external floodlights at the large chapel at the center of the cemetery and a few more at the closed-up main gate. Seattle hadn’t given up on summer yet. It was still early September, with the usual rain still days or weeks away and the leaves still on al the trees. Alex kept low and moved slowly, still mindful of using whatever trees and bushes he could for concealment, just in case. His assignment was for night photography of still subjects. He could have picked a considerably easier site…but there were a couple of drop-dead hot Goth girls in his photography class. They seemed to like creepy stuff, so he figured—naively, he had to admit—some shots of the cemetery at night would at least be conversation starters. The cemetery groundskeeper hadn’t bought into it when Alex cal ed during the day to ask if he could do this with permission. The guy was uninterested in Alex’s assignment and probably hadn’t even listened. Alex wasn’t normally one for doing crazy things like this, but lately, that very factor seemed to chafe at him. He didn’t

take enough risks. He tended to play by the rules. Just boring, nice guy Alex, never with anything crazy to share at parties. Even now, his hopes that this little stunt could turn his life around were not high. A single act of trespassing wouldn’t change life forever. He was just out for a couple shots as icebreakers with Molly and “Onyx,” nothing more. Yeah, those are from Sacred Heart cemetery. No, they don’t al ow you to get in there at night. But if you climb the fence and stumble around in the dark anyway, you can get this really cool shot of this statue here. And you can sneak up on the chapel and get a pic of the steeple with the moon overhead, and it feels totally creepy and there’s this mist and stuff, and you almost feel like you can hear wailing… Alex stopped taking pictures and listened. Was that really wailing? It sounded like a scream coming from the chapel. A woman’s scream, in fear or pain or both. Alex stopped, listened and heard another one. It sounded like someone yelling “no.” His imagination ran away with him for a moment, but he quickly stomped on it. For al he knew the groundskeeper was inside watching a movie with the volume on full blast or something. still , Alex wanted to know what was up. He was more concerned than curious. If a woman really was screaming about something bad, the last thing he wanted to do was walk away because he was afraid of being yel ed at or maybe hit with a fine for a little after-hours photography. Slipping closer to the chapel—quickly now, as he was pretty sure whatever was going on inside would give him some cover—he thought he heard men chanting something unintelligible, muffled by windows blocked by curtains. A dim orange glow flickered behind the white fabric. Up near the wall s and windows now, he heard a sharp shriek of pain, probably a woman’s, while another woman distinctly yel ed, “You’ve got to stop this! You don’t know what you’re doing!” “Shut her up!” bel owed a man’s voice, breaking the chant only momentarily. There was a sharp crack, a grunt, and then the cries of agony from the first woman’s voice resumed. Alex’s did his best to stay calm as his heart raced. He suddenly felt out of breath. He still couldn’t be sure this was really what it sounded like, but he was positive this wasn’t someone’s television.

Alex stayed low and alert as he moved around to the back door. It was locked, naturally, and the windows were shut. Crazy as it was, he thought about checking the front door. There were lights there, but this place was truly dead outside the chapel. The noise wasn’t going to carry beyond the cemetery and the odds of someone looking right when he ran up were pretty slim. The first woman’s yelling stopped, leaving only the male chanting to be heard. It was quieter here, closer to the front of the building and away from the action. He heard the sharp “crack,” though, which elicited a yelp of pain, fol owed by another, and then another. He had never heard the sound of anyone being whipped outside of television, but that seemed to fit the bil . He decided to go for it. Alex slipped up onto the porch quickly, slowed down as he grabbed the doorknob…and found it unlocked. He had no more time to think now that he was exposed in the porch lights. Alex pushed the door open al the way and then slipped inside. The foyer, thankfully, was empty and dark, lit mainly by the intense glow of candlelight from down hall ways on opposite sides of the room, both leading to a central chamber. It had comfortable chairs and random pictures on the wall s and a shelf of books that probably nobody ever read. From down the hall ways off to his right Alex heard the sharp crack of the whip and the cries it forced from its victims, along with the chanting of those male voices. It sounded like there were only a couple of them. The air was thick and warm with a distinctly smoky, sulfur smell that overrode other stenches. “Why are you doing this?” a woman asked in a desperate, almost sobbing voice. “This is crazy! It’s beyond evil! You’re going to end up—argh!” Her inquiry ended in another scream. “You don’t know—!” The whip cracked. “Agh!—what you’re—” Crack. “Gngh!—playing with, old fool!” It was a different voice—feminine like the first, but lower and angrier. “I know precisely what I am doing, whore daughter of Satan,” said the deeper, clearly male voice. The others kept chanting. “How else did you get here? Why are you trapped? Why do you bleed?”