Order of the Shattered Cross: Pt. 02

I'm trying my hardest to keep a monthly release schedule, but holidays, family, work, is not always a great combination.

I'd like to thank Lastman for the edits like always.

--

The Chinese had finally withdrawn, allowing the Americans and their French allies a deserved rest. It was a short pause, because they immediately shifted their mission to casualty support operations. Men were pulled from foxholes, dead, alive, or too petrified in fear to readily identify a difference. The severely wounded were carried by helicopter to transport them to the rear for desperately needed medical care. Triage was established to stabilize the ones whose wounds were not immediately life threatening. Lastly, the dead were collected and lined up.

Lieutenant Hugo Arsenault was amongst the officers tasking men and assuring the wounded were found quickly. Hugo carried men himself. He dressed wounds. His uniform was soiled with sweat and blood after twelve hours of work without rest. Many French officers could never be lowered to such a task. These were no average Frenchmen. The French Battalion was all volunteers. The officers fought and bled with their men and their American allies. General Ridgeway and already spoken highly of these men, stating they had proven themselves the greatest soldiers in their national history.

At first the wounded were being pulled out by the dozen, but after half a day, that number was trickling down to only three in the last hour. Hugo relayed to his men it was time to start collecting the dead, and to move any survivor they happen upon. By the day's end the soldiers were amazed how low their casualty count was. The wounded were in the hundreds, but the deaths were only fifty-two. Dozens were missing, but everyone knew some would never be found. A direct hit from artillery rarely ever left much to be identified. Birds, bugs, and beasts had already begun to feast on the over one thousand Chinese dead. Their corpses littered the battlefield, dead to a ratio of twenty for every one they killed. The Chinese seemed to be keeping to their ancient tradition, hoping they had more bodies than the enemies had bullets.

Hugo pulled identification tags and tied them around the big toes of the dead. They were covered in a small sheet or blanket to offer the smallest protection for the elements, and to preserve some dignity. He pulled the blanket off the face of a man, more a boy, and saw his tags were destroyed. Shrapnel had butchered his torso. Shards from the size of razorblades to baseballs had stuck into his chest and stomach. Hugo only prayed the boy died instantly.

Hugo searched his pockets to hopefully identify him. In his right pocket he found a tin case for cigarettes with seven remaining. In his left pocket he found a deck of playing cards. The cards featured pinup girls in various poses wearing revealing feminine styles of military uniforms. Some even had revealed breasts and the beginning curve of pelvic regions. He slipped the cards back into his pocket but kept the cigarettes.

He marked the blanket best he could to show the body couldn't be identified as is. Perhaps someone would recognize his face, frozen in the shock of sudden death, but still untouched from what killed him.

Taking a cigarette, he crouched down to light it with a match, forming his body in a ball to protect the flame from the wind. Once lit, he inhaled deeply and looked down at the face once more.

"Repose en paix." The boy's eyes burst open, and the Frenchman jumped back in shock. "Merde!"

The boy shot up to a seated position, breathing erratically, before falling to his back in agony. He screamed in pain and tried to hold his chest and groaned as he felt the sharp pieces of metal protruding.

"Medecin! Medecin!"

Americans heard Hugo's cries but were confused as to his request. Hugo tried to think of the words he needed in English.

"Survive! Survive!" he shouted. "Doctor! Doctor! Help!"

"Get a truck ready, one of the stiffs is still breathing!" An American shouted, and suddenly the area was swirling with activity. A combat medic ran over and knelt next to the soldier. He couldn't believe the extent of his injures. At first, he believed it was a death rattle. Those final spasms and twitches before rigor mortis sunk in. Unless the dead tried to pull shrapnel out of their body while men held him down, this boy was still amongst the living. He thrashed about, landed closed fisted blows to several of his fellow soldiers. "For fucks sake, stop before you make it worse!"

"Shut up!" the boy shouted.

"What?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Weren't not even talking to you..."

"...don't bother, he's snapped. Shell shocked."

The boy pushed his palms against his ears and gritted his teeth. Besides the normal sounds of running engines and the breeze, there was no sound causing such a response. He acted like he was under the muzzle of a machinegun.

The medic opened his kit and removed the morphine syrette. He pulled up the boy's shirt and injected him in the stomach after pinching it to loosen his skin. He then pinned the small tube, so the MASH knew he had already been medicated. Morphine didn't work immediately, but it gradually stripped him of his fight.

"Jesus, finally," the soldier holding his shoulders said. "How the hell is this guy alive?"

"You just said it. Jesus. Guys got a guardian angel somewhere."

"What are you doing here, little girl?" the boy mumbled, as the morphine clouded his mind.

"Morphine's kicking in. Wrap what we can. We'll get a helicopter and get him to the MASH."

The boy was evacuated to the landing zone as carefully as possible. As the medic tended to him, the boy kept babbling as if in a fever dream. His eyes were fixed to thin air. There was no little girl. The fact she wasn't there didn't stop him from reaching out to her.

--

Timothy's companion from his previous night's escapades had departed before he woke up. She left no note, and true to his routine, he couldn't recall her name. Thankfully it didn't appear she stole anything either. They both knew last night was only casual fun. Forgotten as quickly as a dandelion blown into the wind.

He stretched himself loose, immediately noticing that unlike the morning, he wasn't soaked in sweat. The room was cheap, but at least the air conditioning worked. The digital clock on the nightstand told him he slept longer than he intended to. He owed his exhaustion to the events of the previous evening. It was almost ten in the morning.

"Damn," he said aloud.

"She left hours ago," the girl said, sitting on the chair next to the television. Timothy turned to her and sat up slowly. "She stole the Jeep."

"What?" Timothy asked. He leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up his pants from the floor. She missed his wallet, but the keys to the Jeep were gone. Timothy grabbed the pillow and shoved it into his face. "Fuck!"

"Looks like you're walking."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I'm not a clock. I can be. It would get dreadfully annoying though," she said. She then made continuous clicking noises with her tongue, creating the sound of a ticking clock with two notes.

"Please stop."

Tick, toc. Tick toc. Tick toc.

"Alright, stop!" Timothy shouted, throwing the pillow at her. It landed on the chair, and the girl appeared to teleport, sitting cross legged on the small table next to the window.

"Moody today?"

"Just, don't. Not right now." The girl huffed but did vanish in compliance.

Timothy placed his feet on the floor and ran his palms up his face, then his fingers through his hair. A knock came from his door, but Timothy looked at his feet.

"Sir?" Sister Frost's voice said from the other side of the door. "Are you there? The Jeep is gone."

Timothy searched the sheet for his underwear and hooked them on his ankles, pulling them up as he stood up. He found his pants at the foot of the bed and slipped them on before answering the door. Sister Frost flinched back, having turned away a moment prior, assuming he had simply left her.

"Morning sir," she said. The Sister was fully dressed in a fresh habit and coif without a hair visible. Her mouth slowly peeled open in shock at the sight of his scar ridden chest before sealing again. "Uhh, where's the car?"

"I was just about to ask you that," Timothy said.

"You had the keys..."

"...I know," he snapped, and was surprised she didn't baulk. "I'll call a cab if you call the police."

"That woman stole the car, didn't she?" she asked, and Timothy sighed deeply, his reply a solemn nod. "You call the police. You would be able to give a more thorough description."

Sister Frost walked back to her room and shut the door loudly.

"I'm starting to like her," the girl said from between their doors. "Put a shirt on, you're frightening that poor girl."

Timothy called the police from his room and finished getting dressed before they arrived. Sister Frost asked the clerk for a list of taxis in the local area, and he offered to make the call for her, which she greatly appreciated. The clerk offered them both a cup of coffee as they waited, which Timothy took black with two sugars to handle the burnt taste. Sister Frost carried packets of Bewley's tea in her bag and only requested a cup of hot water and milk if available. The tea wasn't yet available in the United States, but a large network of Irish Catholic nuns made short work of US Customs.

Two Leon County Sheriff's Deputies arrived after Timothy had finished his second cup of coffee. They stepped out of their patrol car, putting on their hats in perfect unison. Followed by their aviator sunglasses. Their bushy moustaches danced like a furry worm with a mind of its own.

Timothy started with the basics of the car. Make, model, year, color, plate number and state, along with distinguishing features. They both had removed their travel bags, so the only cargo was the milk crate full of exorcism supplies. He left a few details out. When it came to describing the woman, the Deputies looked at each other and almost laughed once Timothy finished.

"What?" Timothy asked.

"Highway Robinry," one said.

"Come again?"

"Harley Robinson," the other replied. "She's a grifter who's been drugging men and robbing them blind."

"Up and down the entire east coast. You might get some follow-on questions from the Marshals; they've been trying to arrest her for months. Did you drink anything she offered you?" Timothy shook his head.

"Good thing you don't drink," the girl said, sitting on top of the squad car. "Can I turn the lights on?"

"No," Timothy said to her, and thankfully they thought he was adding a verbal reply to his head shake. The girl ignored his reply and closed her eyes to focus. Suddenly, the lights of the car began to shine red and blue.

"The hell?" one officer asked aloud and walked to the squad car to check what was happening.

"We'll put a BOLO out for your car, other than that, not a whole lot we can do right now. You guys need a ride out of here. Hate to leave a Sister in a place like this."

"We'll be perfectly alright officer..." Sister Frost began.

"...Deputy," he corrected.

"Of course, deputy. There is already a taxi on its way."

"Well alright then," the deputy said, turning to his partner, wondering why the lights were still flashing on the top of the car. "What's wrong with the car?"

"Switch is down, don't know why it's freaking out."

Timothy tilted his head as he stared the girl down. He mouthed 'stop' to her, and she replied with an insidious toothy grin. 'Stop'. She stuck her tongue out, placed her thumb against her nose and wiggled her fingers. 'Stop'.

"I'm only playing," she said, and turned the lights off.

"What the...whatever," the deputy said sat in the driver's seat. "Hope you have a better day." Timothy unenthusiastically waved.

"Have a blessed day," Sister Frost said as they drove off. Her façade as a pleasant nun dissolved as she looked back at Timothy.

"Damn, if looks could kill," the girl said, joyfully skipping between the two of them.

"Good thing they can't, because right now, my profession would be staring."

The taxi arrived and Sister Frost flagged it down. She opened her room door enough to grab her heavy suitcase. The driver walked over and helped her carry it to the car. The Sister took the back seat while the driver closed the trunk and returned to the wheel.

"Saint Thomas More Cathedral please, thank you."

Timothy reached for the door, but the Sister slapped the door lock down.

"Really?"

"Call your own cab."

The driver shrugged and took off down the road. Timothy watched in disbelief that the same nervous girl from yesterday just abandoned him.

"Oh, I definitely like her."

--

Timothy had to wait an additional two hours for another taxi to make the drive out to the motel. He paid the driver outside of the Cathedral and grabbed his bag from the trunk before the driver departed. In pure frustration, he chucked his bag like a shot put into a bush before pulling the doors to the cathedral open.

"Are you really letting this Sister dig under your skin like this?" the girl asked from the frontmost pew. "I haven't seen you this flustered since Katrina. Same trend now that I think of it. She was submissive, then feisty, then she invites you into her room where she's spread naked, begging you to test her vows."

Timothy ignored her as he walked toward the altar.

"Only this Sister has an accelerated timeline. It could be days before she's tested."

"Don't forget, I can hear you as well," the Sister said. The girl turned and saw her at the foot of the altar, out of Timothy's immediate line of sight because of her kneeling position. "Fret not, I'm tested every day and require no additional trial of faith."

Sister Frost finished her prayer, gestured her final Sign of the Cross, and rose to her feet.

Timothy reached the front pews and sat down on the opposite side from the girl. She vanished and reappeared next to him, kicking her feet which didn't reach the floor like a bored child at service.

"You left me," Timothy said, his tone leaving it open if he was impressed or insulted. "That wasn't necessary."

"Bringing a harlot into your room was hardly necessary either."

"How was I to know..."

"...you weren't, which is why you don't. Contrary to the teachings of modernity, sex is not a fleeting event whose participants throw each other away to meet the next conquest."

"Big words for someone dedicated to never participate. Someone as independently minded as you, I'm surprised you don't believe in all that women's liberation stuff."

"The reacquisition of power by women claiming ownership of their bodies from their fathers or some other form of male, patriarchal authority? Women cried in horror if they were objectified yet commodified their flesh and called it power. Who really wants sex without consequence, men or women? You know the answer to that. Begs the question, who was truly liberated from societal expectation and obligation?"

Timothy laughed a little, taking a moment to form a response.

"You're surprisingly well versed in books not on the Catholic reading list."

"If you recall, I was born in a home for unwed mothers. My mother came with only a single suitcase filled with two changes of clothes and the complete works of Simone de Beauvoir. That poisoned philosophy has created more single mothers and broken homes than a village conquered by barbarians. In the case of the barbarians, at least the besieged women knew they were victims."

"So, your response was the opposite? A vow of chastity?"

"I didn't decide upon this life frivolously Mr. Augustine. The consequences of my mother's lifestyle left her desperate and myself an orphan."

"Do I sense resentment?"

"Yes," the Sister said, her honesty surprising him. Their first encounter had left him believing her incapable of this directness. "But that resentment isn't toward my mother. For her, I only have pity. I resent my father who left her, my grandparents who abandoned her. They never claimed her body which was cremated and buried in a grave marked with only her name. Sarah Frost, which may not have been her real name. Yes, I have visited before you ask.

"Do not presume to know me, Mr. Augustine. I may lack your experience, something I will often call upon, but do not use that as justification to underestimate my abilities. I can do things you can't. Quite frankly, I truly don't need your abilities, seeing how I already have them."

"I promise you Sister, I am capable of much more than merely conversing with the dead," Timothy said, standing from the pew. "Don't leave me again. You have a problem with me, hash it out like an adult. Don't storm away like an angry toddler."

"Your nightly escapades are not my concern, but I also have no desire to hear them. What you do in the darkness is your own business, but leave me out of it."

"Put a pillow over her mouth, got it," Timothy said, and the Sister scowled. "I have taken no vows, so you can pucker all you want."

"Respect costs you nothing, Mr. Augustine."

"Not to disrupt this lovers quarrel, because it is fun to watch," the girl said from the pew. They both turned to her in perfect unison. "We do have more pressing matters to address."

"Yes, we do," the Sister said, and stepped away from the altar. Timothy followed with a sigh as the girl returned to his body. The Sister led them down the hall to the office of Bishop Reed. The Bishop was at his desk, pen in hand, signing the back of checks from the flock. Sister Frost gently knocked on his door to gain his attention.

"Your excellency," Sister Frost said as a greeting, and invited herself in. Timothy followed, and the Bishop's expression dropped into severe irritation.

"What have you learned Augustine?" The Bishop said. He placed his pen on the desk, and stood up from his chair, using the desk to push off. "What manner of creature did that to Father Rover and Theodora?" Timothy closed the door, suggesting to the Bishop the urgency. "That bad? Demon?"

"I don't know what it was," Timothy said, and the Bishop paused in disbelief. He had requested Timothy Augustine by name because of his reputation. What did it mean that this man had no knowledge to provide?

"Yes, you do," the girl said, perched on the window seal with an ear-to-ear grin. The Bishop paced, cutting off Timothy's line of site to the girl who vanished and reappeared on the Bishop's chair, standing on its cushion with her palms on the desk. "Just say it. The Void. The destroyer of creation."

"Best guess?" The Bishop pleaded.

"The Void your excellency," Sister Frost pronounced. The Bishop turned to her, then back to Timothy, before returning and locking eyes. His expression would make one believe she had said she witnessed a circus clown shoving a balloon up the Pope's ass.

"Did you really just say, The Void? Was bigfoot involved?"

"No form of exorcism was effective..." the Sister began.

"...because you're greener than spring grass. Just because you were out of your depth, it's automatically a monstrosity the Church doesn't believe is real?"

"Father Rover was hardly a rookie, and Theo had as much experience as an exorcist before she left her vows. I watched her, myself, successfully perform last rites to spirits. It didn't fear the cross, and was deaf to verse reading, Latin and English, which if even incorrect verses were read should have at least given it pause. Nothing. My exorcist's abilities are not in question."