The Glooming (Wrath of the Old Gods Book 1) by John Triptych Page B
Authors: John Triptych
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facing the three men before coming to a full stop. Both detectives grabbed flashlights and buttoned up their coats as they got out of the vehicle.
“Hey, over here!” the man who was kneeling down said as he waved to them. The rain had died down somewhat, but it was still enough to partially obscure everything. The sidewalk where the three men were was strewn with trash. There was a knee-high fence behind them with some open square spaces that used to have some grass growing on it. Now they were used as garbage dumps since the breakdown of waste collection services in the city. The towering apartment blocks of Baruch Houses were spaced about thirty yards apart and loomed over them.
Myron pointed his flashlight at the man’s face while his other hand gripped his Smith and Wesson M5906 that still lay snug on his side holster. “NYPD, can I see your hands, sir.”
“I’m the one who called it in, officers,” the black man said calmly as he raised his hands. He was bald and had a grayish beard. Valerie noticed that he had on a clerical collar.
“I’m Detective Jones and my partner, Detective Mendoza. Reverend Beekman? Is that you?” Myron said as he walked over to them while putting on his blue plastic gloves. While the gloves were normally used for forensics work, they could double as medical gloves too. “What happened?”
Reverend Beekman knelt down beside the two other black men as Valerie put on her own gloves. Both men were barely conscious and breathing heavily. They were cut up bad. Open gashes, cuts, and stab wounds on their arms, legs, and torsos. Myron saw that their hands were torn up the most, probably defensive wounds in an attempt to block the edged weapons their attacker used. Both detectives noticed that there were pieces of green glass strewn about. Valerie ran back to the car and grabbed the first aid kit, as the Reverend and Myron used their handkerchiefs to staunch the deepest wounds on the two wounded men.
“I was at the nearby church and I heard some screams out here so I ran over,” Reverend Beekman said as he pointed to the church no more than thirty paces away. “I didn’t see who it was that attacked them.”
Myron looked at the men while trying to apply pressure on a serrated chest wound. “I know these two, they’re local gang members. Two of the Bloc Boys.”
Reverend Beekman nodded. “Yes, Detective. Believe it or not, these boys have been behaving themselves lately. They even started to attend my church just a few days ago, ever since the worldwide troubles started. I had hoped that the rumors about demons running loose in the world would bring these boys back in the fold of God. But now I see that it’s come to affect us all. When is the ambulance coming?”
“It should be on its way,” Valerie said as she started putting tourniquets on the men’s arms. “You sure you didn’t see or hear anything?”
“I didn’t see anything because I was inside the church, but I did hear screams and some foreign language I didn’t understand,” Reverend Beekman said.
“Reverend, you know Spanish, right? Are you sure it wasn’t that?” Myron said. Hispanics were the largest ethnic group in these tenements.
Reverend Beekman shook his head. “I know the language, and it wasn't Spanish I heard it. The only two words I remember from the shouting sounded like ‘quihahuit’ or ‘quinnaquilook’ or something like that.”
Valerie turned to him with a surprised look on her face. “What? Are you sure those were the words that were shouted during the attack?”
“I think so, I think there were more words spoken, but that’s all I could remember,” Reverend Beekman said.
“You know those words, Val?” Myron said to her as he tried his handheld radio, all he got was static.
“The reverend is right, those words aren’t Spanish. They’re actually Nahuatl, the language of the Aztec,” Valerie said as sounds of thunder roared above them. “Quihahuitl means rain and
“Hey, over here!” the man who was kneeling down said as he waved to them. The rain had died down somewhat, but it was still enough to partially obscure everything. The sidewalk where the three men were was strewn with trash. There was a knee-high fence behind them with some open square spaces that used to have some grass growing on it. Now they were used as garbage dumps since the breakdown of waste collection services in the city. The towering apartment blocks of Baruch Houses were spaced about thirty yards apart and loomed over them.
Myron pointed his flashlight at the man’s face while his other hand gripped his Smith and Wesson M5906 that still lay snug on his side holster. “NYPD, can I see your hands, sir.”
“I’m the one who called it in, officers,” the black man said calmly as he raised his hands. He was bald and had a grayish beard. Valerie noticed that he had on a clerical collar.
“I’m Detective Jones and my partner, Detective Mendoza. Reverend Beekman? Is that you?” Myron said as he walked over to them while putting on his blue plastic gloves. While the gloves were normally used for forensics work, they could double as medical gloves too. “What happened?”
Reverend Beekman knelt down beside the two other black men as Valerie put on her own gloves. Both men were barely conscious and breathing heavily. They were cut up bad. Open gashes, cuts, and stab wounds on their arms, legs, and torsos. Myron saw that their hands were torn up the most, probably defensive wounds in an attempt to block the edged weapons their attacker used. Both detectives noticed that there were pieces of green glass strewn about. Valerie ran back to the car and grabbed the first aid kit, as the Reverend and Myron used their handkerchiefs to staunch the deepest wounds on the two wounded men.
“I was at the nearby church and I heard some screams out here so I ran over,” Reverend Beekman said as he pointed to the church no more than thirty paces away. “I didn’t see who it was that attacked them.”
Myron looked at the men while trying to apply pressure on a serrated chest wound. “I know these two, they’re local gang members. Two of the Bloc Boys.”
Reverend Beekman nodded. “Yes, Detective. Believe it or not, these boys have been behaving themselves lately. They even started to attend my church just a few days ago, ever since the worldwide troubles started. I had hoped that the rumors about demons running loose in the world would bring these boys back in the fold of God. But now I see that it’s come to affect us all. When is the ambulance coming?”
“It should be on its way,” Valerie said as she started putting tourniquets on the men’s arms. “You sure you didn’t see or hear anything?”
“I didn’t see anything because I was inside the church, but I did hear screams and some foreign language I didn’t understand,” Reverend Beekman said.
“Reverend, you know Spanish, right? Are you sure it wasn’t that?” Myron said. Hispanics were the largest ethnic group in these tenements.
Reverend Beekman shook his head. “I know the language, and it wasn't Spanish I heard it. The only two words I remember from the shouting sounded like ‘quihahuit’ or ‘quinnaquilook’ or something like that.”
Valerie turned to him with a surprised look on her face. “What? Are you sure those were the words that were shouted during the attack?”
“I think so, I think there were more words spoken, but that’s all I could remember,” Reverend Beekman said.
“You know those words, Val?” Myron said to her as he tried his handheld radio, all he got was static.
“The reverend is right, those words aren’t Spanish. They’re actually Nahuatl, the language of the Aztec,” Valerie said as sounds of thunder roared above them. “Quihahuitl means rain and
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