Jack County Demons Read online

  Jack County Demons

  AK Waters

  Vincent Hobbes

  Jack County Demons

  AK Waters Productions LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2014

  Kindle Edition ISBN: 9978-0-9907537-1-1

  (AK Waters Productions LLC)

  Written by: AK Waters and Vincent Hobbes

  Created by AK Waters.

  This product is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without written, express permission of AK Waters Productions LLC.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.

  For more information visit: www.AKWatersProductions.com

  Published in the United States of America

  In the beginning . . .

  Jack County was a moral place, one filled with hard working, Bible believing Texans, where worship of a loving God was as much a part of life as anything else. The people of Jack County were decent and loving. It was a place where you cared about your neighbor, where your soul meant more than your paycheck, and where the little things in life mattered most. There was no need to impress others, for everyone understood they were on equal ground in God’s eyes. In Jack County, churches were as common as gas stations, crosses filled yards, and conversation was more often about religion than celebrities. People were blue collar, liked country music, and allowed their faith to lead them through life.

  Then, the demons moved in. Their power was unheard of, so strong; it drove out the decent people. They burned down churches, they scattered the crosses, and they soiled the once fertile land. The demons were a plague, there was no stopping them, and for quite some time, they ruled with an iron fist.

  That is, until the Navy Seals came to give the demons a fight of epic proportions.

  Jack County - the battlefield of good versus evil.

  Chapter 1

  "Sheriff, get a load of this," Pete said, with a Texas drawl and a dip in his lower lip. He stared through the binoculars one last moment before handing them blindly to the man standing next to him.

  "What you got, Pete?" Sheriff Braxton asked, bored and hot. His undershirt was already soaked in sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, keeping the sweat from dripping in his eyes and rubbing dirt on his face in the process. No matter he had spent his entire life in Texas; he just couldn’t get accustomed to the heat.

  "We got runners, Sheriff."

  "Well then, let me look," Sheriff Braxton replied, reaching for the binoculars. He grabbed them from Pete's hands, and then raised them up to his eyes. "Huh," he muttered, looking through.

  "What do they think they're doing?" Pete asked.

  "Who knows," the Sheriff replied, chuckling under his breath.

  Four hundred meters in the distance was a group of seven. They were running, sticking close together, and making their way over small rises in the landscape.

  They were running hard, fast. Some of them looked back as they ran, and the Sheriff watched as one tripped while doing so. In an instant, the man was back on his feet, aided by others in the group.

  The Sheriff pulled the binoculars from his face, and looked to Pete for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. "What the hell?"

  "Guess they don't see us, boss," Pete replied.

  "Must not, or they wouldn't be running our way."

  "Must not," the Sheriff repeated. He pulled the binoculars back to his sweaty, dirty face, watching with great interest as the group ran. A few moments later and their direction changed some.

  They now ran to the east, their course somewhat passing the Sheriff and Pete. "Don't think they saw us," he muttered.

  "Looks like they're slowing a bit?" Pete said casually.

  "Perhaps."

  "Getting tired?"

  "Yeah, maybe . . . can't have that, can we?" Sheriff Braxton said. He sighed, shaking his head. "Crank 'er up," he finally said.

  Pete reached inside a black pack, pulling out a smaller case, laying it on the orangey, sandy ground. He unzipped it, and pulled out a large light. He handed it to the Sheriff, who fumbled with the buttons. Then, after flicking a switch, a red light appeared.

  It cast an eerie, pink glow across the landscape, peering over the low shrubs and scattered rocks. The light must have attracted their attention, for the group turned, and the Sheriff and Pete stared at one another immediately.

  "What the hell!" the Sheriff exclaimed.

  "I don't believe it," Pete sounded. "They're running toward us, Sheriff. Toward the light."

  "That can't be right," Sheriff Braxton said, fumbling for his binoculars.

  "Sure is. They're coming right at us," Pete said with a chuckle. "Idiots."

  "Y'all running the wrong way, hombrés," Sheriff Braxton said aloud. He, too, was chuckling. In these parts, searching for illegal immigrants was a fulltime job. The Sheriff turned to Pete, asking, "Don't they know who we are?"

  "You'd think so? What do you make of it, Sheriff?"

  Before the Sheriff responded, he took another long glimpse at the group. Watching them run, he noticed something . . . something was off. Something wasn't right. He stared now, focused, watching carefully.

  The group closed in. They were now two hundred meters away. As they reached the top of a small ridge, the Sheriff could make out their details. Three men, all in their late twenties, led the group. They also seemed unconcerned about the four who followed, almost seeming to ditch them. Those must be the coyotes, the Sheriff thought.

  But them behind them, the Sheriff made out an older male, perhaps in his fifties. He was panting hard, his shirt sweaty, his pants and shoes dirty. He urged the other three on, tugging at a woman approximately his age.

  The Sheriff assumed correctly: this was the father and mother. They ran about twenty feet behind the three younger men, huffing as they ran. The man carried a young child, a boy, maybe three or four years of age. The mother, frantically tried to keep up, her hand clasped with another female, this one a young teenager. Her daughter, the Sheriff assumed.

  The three older family members carried large, black backpacks. As they came over another ridge, the mother and daughter discarded theirs, leaving them on the dirt, not looking back.

  "That's odd," the Sheriff said.

  "What's that?" Pete asked.

  But the Sheriff didn't answer. He kept watching, curious now. As the group neared even closer, he could make out their faces. Then, he saw something that didn't sit right with him.

  Terror on their faces!

  "They're running from something, Pete. Don’t know what, but something is scaring the bejesus out of that family. Something bad enough to make them come right at law enforcement."

  "What?" Pete asked, straining his eyes, looking into the distance and wishing he hadn't forgotten his own binoculars.

  "No idea, but they're changing direction again, steering over that small hill," the Sheriff said, pointing. The pair watched as the group rounded a bend, then ran down a small crest. Now, they were out of view of the pair, a puff of dust in their wake.


  "Where'd they go?" Pete asked.

  "Down there, in that small ravine. They should come out on the other end."

  The pair watched. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

  "Something ain't right, boss," Pete said, looking to Sheriff Braxton for answers.

  "No kidding something ain't right," the Sheriff replied.

  He kept gazing through his binoculars, waiting for the group to pop up. They didn't. At first, he figured they were hiding. Maybe hoping the two officers didn't see them tuck down, hoping they could wait it out.

  But that would be impossible. The group had seen the pair. They knew they were busted.

  "Maybe they're waiting to ambush us?" Pete suggested.

  "Don't be a drama queen," the Sheriff replied.

  "This ain't the movies. They seem like the type to ambush us?"

  "Well, no . . . just saying."

  "Did you see the look on their faces? They were terrified, Pete. Something was chasing them, though I can't for the life of me figure out what."

  "What do we do, Sheriff?"

  "Let's get on down there. Start up the truck, Pete. I'm tired of standing here anyway. We'll drive down and pick 'em up . . . see what the problem is."

  Pete nodded reluctantly.

  

  He turned in the uncomfortable cot, springs creaking. One whiff of the mattress and he smelled urine and vomit.

  LT shot up. His feet swung around, hitting the warm cement floor. Seated upright, LT grabbed at his head. It was pounding. This was perhaps the worst headache he had ever had. Rubbing his temples, LT heard the approaching footsteps, but the headache caused him such pain he disregarded the approaching two men.

  The small jail cell must have been decades old. There was an adjoining cell, and a small room that hosted a desk and a cabinet littered with papers and a lamp. The other cell had been empty, though LT hazily remembered a drunken man in the other room the night prior. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks, but he seemed to remember speaking to an elderly man about the current situation in Iraq, and ladies in South America.

  The footsteps grew louder. LT heard two men speaking to one another, but couldn't detect what they were saying outside the heavy door to the office. It worried him not.

  LT kept rubbing his temples, looking around the cell, inspecting it closely. Rust coated the blue bars on three sides and the far wall was also painted a fainted blue. The room was bone-chillingly cold, empty, and LT couldn't remember a fouler smelling place in his life. He did notice a random Bible sitting on the bed of the empty cell, and he found this surprisingly reassuring.

  He looked down to his dirty clothes. LT wore three-day old jeans, ripped at one knee, with dried bloodstains on his thigh. His simple flannel shirt smelled of body odor and dust, it hadn't been washed in days. He did his best to brush off the dirt. Smelling under his armpit made him gag, and he laughed at himself as daylight suddenly filled the small cell at the opening of the door.

  "You have a visitor," the guard said.

  "Your mom again?"

  "You just shut up!" the guard screamed out. He was sick of this man's attitude.

  "Relax bro . . . was just messing with ya."

  The guard relaxed a bit. He was on edge, and wanted to smash this prisoner's head in. "Just be quiet."

  "Don't worry man, she liked it. I always treat a lady right."

  "Shut up!" the guard shouted once more.

  "Ya, she said you were a spoiled little brat. But damn, those legs . . ."

  "Enough!" said a man's rough voice. LT rolled his eyes. He knew that voice. He wouldn't ever forget that voice. "Hey Commander," he said, lowering his head, grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter 2

  Cold footsteps on a cold floor, Commander Jacobs' boots were heard down the long, dark hallway. The sound stopped briefly as one of the guards fumbled for his keys, then more to open the door to the cells.

  Commander Jacobs remained silent during this, and this very silence made the guard feel uncomfortable.

  Finally, the guard twisted the key, and the door unlocked.

  Relieved, the guard turned, not daring to make eye contact.

  "This way, s . . . sir . . ." the guard mumbled. Commander Jacobs said nothing. He walked past the guard and into the small room. It was dimly lit by two overhead lights. The room contained a bookshelf and multiple file cabinets, a desk and lamp, and two ten by ten holding cells.

  Jacobs remained still. His posture was rigid, his eyes shifting around the room. He looked over the two cells, the guard inside, the contents of the room—and the lone prisoner.

  Finally, his eyes settled. Jacobs stared into the open cell, past the guard. Jacobs glared intently as LT rose from his bed. Commander Jacobs was in his forties, his hair graying, making him look both distinguished and sophisticated. In many ways he looked like the average man, plain in his features. In other ways, Jacobs stood out. It was his persona, his outward charisma that stood out among the common man. There was something different about Commander Jacobs. He wore his Naval uniform with obvious pride. It fit him perfectly, and was pressed and clean. His boots were polished. Jacobs' jacket bore a variety of ribbons and insignias. They were unknown to the two guards, but they assumed the probable—Jacobs was an important man.

  The second guard entered the room, clearing his throat. He rounded the Commander, giving him wide berth, and looked to his fellow guard, saying, "He's from the Navy." His words were fumbled and weak, insignificant next to a man like Jacobs. The mere presence of this stranger commanded respect, as well as fear.

  There was just something about Jacobs that scared the hell out of the two guards. It was obvious Jacobs was well versed in the art of war. He was authoritative without having to speak a word, and dignified in how he levied such power. Jacobs was the best of the best, and made the Navy proud.

  "I see," the other guard answered with a whimper. He looked away from LT, taking in the sight of a Naval officer who had obvious business here. The guard looked at his friend, and then stepped aside. He paused, waiting for the Commander to speak.

  Jacobs didn't mutter a word. The silence was too much. The guard immediately spoke. He motioned to LT behind him, saying, "We brought him in last night, sir."

  "The charge?" Jacobs asked, not even looking at the guard.

  Finally, he spoke!

  "Drunk and disorderly," the guard answered timidly. By the tone of his voice, he was bashful. It was as if he was ashamed to have locked up LT. He rambled, making excuses, though not understanding why. "Sir, we were called out. This man put us in a bad situation. We tried our hardest—Ronny even tried to give the man a lift back to his motel. He wouldn't have it, though. We had to bring him in."

  Commander Jacobs nodded, saying, "I understand." This comment relieved both guards and they let out a breath.

  Staring LT over, Jacobs nodded his head ever so slightly. This wasn't the first time he'd bailed LT from jail. It wouldn't be the last, either. "How many?" Jacobs asked.

  "Sir?" the guard asked, tilting his head.

  "How many did he engage?

  "Sir?" the guard asked again.

  The other guard, the older one, spoke up. "Earl, think he means, how many did this man fight."

  "That's correct," Jacobs said, turning back to the younger guard.

  "Oh, gotcha. Three, sir. He fought three guys."

  "That's all?"

  "Well, that was enough for the cops to be called," the guard responded.

  Jacobs looked through the bars, staring at the grungy man before him. "LT, you must be getting old. Only three?"

  "The other three didn't want to fight, I guess," LT said, grinning.

  Jacobs grinned at this. Not for long, though. He turned back to the second, older guard, saying, "We'll be fine here."

  "You sure, sir?" the man asked.

  "Indeed."

  The older guard looked to his comrade, shrugging his shoulders. "Chief says he's free to go. Already talked to Lloyd and hi
s friends. They ain't pressing charges. Now let's get on out of here. Lunch break," he said.

  The younger guard remained silent. He felt it best not to voice his opinion. Instead, he turned back to LT, grimacing at the notion of letting the man go. He inserted his key, twisting it in the lock. Then the man pulled the key free, and opened the door.

  "He's all yours," the guard said, walking past the Commander and to his friend. The pair exited the room, closing the door behind them.

  The Commander looked at LT, saying, "I have a job for you. That is, unless you're content here."

  "Well, I do enjoy the smell of piss, and beating up guards."

  "Do you want it or not?"

  "I'm listening. Where are you sending me? Afghanistan? Ukraine?"

  "Texas."

  "Texas? Not sure I follow."

  "This mission is in Texas. We have problems there."

  "Where in Texas?" LT asked. "It's a big state."

  "Jack County. Ever heard of it?"

  "Can't say I have," LT replied.

  "Not surprised," the Commander returned. "It's hardly on the map. Beautiful, but isolated and lonely. Only thing is there are backward people, rodents and snakes, and demons."

  "Demons?" LT asked, chuckling.

  "Yup, demons. People changed when the demons moved in, churches closed, and people lost their faith. It was beautiful country, lots of churches and rolling hills. An orange tint to the sand and breathtaking views. But, somewhere deep in Jack County is a little town with a big problem."

  "Demons, right?" LT asked sarcastically.

  "Mayhem and death," Jacobs answered. "Men are being slaughtered. Young women are being kidnapped."

  "How often we talking?" LT asked.

  "Few a week. It's getting worse, too."

  "How many have been killed?"

  "We estimate dozens. Maybe in the hundreds," Jacobs answered.

  "No way!" LT exclaimed. "It would be all over the national news."