Running on Empty (Journeyman Book 6) Read online

  Running on

  EMPTY

  JOURNEYMAN SERIES SIX

  by

  Golden Czermak

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. All Rights Reserved.

  In accordance with the United States Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, or sharing of any part of this work without the permission of the copyright holder is unlawful theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  Cover Model: Caylan Hughes

  Cover Photography and Design: FuriousFotog

  Editor: Kellie Montgomery

  Formatting: Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  This book is for mature readers only. Not for children. It contains adult themes, violence, coarse language, sexual situations, nudity, and paranormal themes.

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  One Year Later

  Other Books by Golden Czermak

  Main Cast of Characters

  “A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.

  And all plans, safeguards, policies and coercion are fruitless.

  We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

  — John Steinbeck

  Thank you to each and every person who was there from the beginning.

  This book series was possible because of your support, which pushed and fueled me along the way to reach for incredible goals, like the Journeymen, against insurmountable odds.

  THE HOOD OF AN old truck clanged shut, knocking loose some of its scaly topcoat while a rust-coated towing hook jostled at the end of a long boom. A fetching young man stepped away from the vehicle, rubbing his calloused hands with a rag that had already seen way too much grease and grime. Unbothered by the muck or the smell of oil, Justin White finished wiping his hands across his otherwise clean tank top. Bending the brim of his baseball cap, he turned it backwards with his well-built arms and raised his gaze to the dusky sky. There he saw the stars just starting to appear from behind wisps of lilac haze.

  The time we've all secretly feared is here, he thought as some kingbirds flew past, wishing he was ignorant to the fate of the world like they were. Everything is about to change, forever…

  Even out in rural Texas, just outside Huntsville, things were getting turned upside down and inside out by the Noctis, whose numbers and power had managed to rise exponentially. Demon signs were on the rise – cattle mutilations and missing persons reports for the most part – as the demons themselves were doing a good job of remaining hidden.

  The Order and its alliance of monsters had countered the threat with growth of their own, but there was no denying the demons had done well for themselves. At least to those in the know. Despite all the evidence, there were some in the general population that held onto the belief it was all some sort of dream, or prank, or even mass hysteria over something ordinary.

  Yeah, since we all know that packs of crazed werewolves, or smoking creatures a dozen feet tall are perfectly normal, Justin thought as he dipped his head, spit, and strolled over to a short stump.

  Picking up his favorite red checkered shirt, he slid it over his broad shoulders, looking over to a rusty metal building not twenty feet away. There was an open garage bay, warmly lit in stark contrast to the chilling night. Inside was an older man, propped up at a small workbench closing out the day’s logs.

  “Glad you handle that mess,” Justin said as he approached, hands shuffling into his pockets. “Paperwork’s never been my thing; makes me go all cross-eyed no matter what’s on the pages.”

  The old man set down his yellow ink pen – there was a nifty handcrafted skull on the top of it – and turned. His wrinkled lips curved into a smile when Justin came into view there in the middle of the opening. The old man was known as Steffen to his friends, Lancer to other Journeymen, and to Justin: Pops.

  “Well son, maybe it's time you went and got some glasses down at the clinic,” said Mr. White, followed by a deep cough, “or laid off the Budweiser to help that vision of yours. It’s not like I'm going to be around forever and you need to start learning the other aspects of the buisness.”

  “You know that my eyes are just fine Pops, and Bud ain't going anywhere anytime soon,” Justin replied, wanting to change the subject from his dad’s well-being. He stared at his ailing father, not knowing what was worse: this sudden illness coming in and threatening to take him away, or demons doing the same goddamn thing. Either way, it hurt like a knife in the chest. “I… uh… got that new pump you bought installed. Though you think my eyes are bad, at least I’m good with my hands.”

  “Not according to that last girlfriend of yours,” Steffen replied, chuckling with a cough. “But good to know you can handle the mechanical things. I was honestly afraid ol’ Rich had given me the wrong part and admittedly, the ol’ noggin’s not what it used to be.”

  “No worries. She fit like a glove and I eventually got her purring like a kitten,” Justin said, leaning back on one of the tool chests. He kicked back a boot, gently rocking. “Hey, I heard about some crazy-ass shit happening down the road in New Waverly. You happen to get wind of it?”

  His dad nodded, pointing to the Order radio on the back corner of his desk. Stacks of loose paper rested across on top of it, while tools were laid at its side.

  “Heard it there earlier. A damn pack of hellhounds,” Steffen said. “They tore through the supermarket and some nearby houses from what I gather, slashing everything in their way.”

  Justin crossed his arms, squeezing them together tightly.

  “Yeah, it was brutal from what I heard. Pieces of people everywhere; nothing a place like that ever would expect to see. Nor should they, but shit’s only gonna get worse from here on out,” he mumbled.

  Mr. White hacked, spitting into a small, silver garbage can under the workbench. His voice was croaky as he said, “It definitely will, and wouldn’t you know: some people still will say monsters aren't real. All those deniers can take a seat at the top of Mount Stupid; crazy-ass motherfuckers will just slow the rest of us down.”

  Justin chuckled at how blunt his dad could be, but most of the time agreed with what he was saying. He was no doubt his father’s son.

  “Ain't that the truth. I hear Montgomery and Roop were the ones who felled the pack; kudos to those ladies.”

  “Yeah, tough bitches for sure. Got the job done,” said Steffen as he reached for the radio, all this talk making him curious if there had been any updates. “You know a lot of us, especially in the Order, are going to be pushed to our breaking point in the coming days. We need more folks like them to step up to the plate; poor souls denying these nightmares are around are about to get one rude awakening.”

  “Just like the Incursion,” said Justin.

  “Or worse. Something tells me the largest supernatural battle we've ever seen is on the horizon,” Steffen said without an ounce of enco
uragement, twisting the dial.

  The radio sprang to life and the analog display glowed faintly, an amber light skirting across the table. Static crackled from the speaker and after a few minor adjustments, shrill tones started to blare. Justin covered his ears with a start.

  “We interrupt this programming for a national emergency,” said a cold and robotic voice. “This is not a test. Important instructions will follow.”

  Another shriek came; the voice continued.

  “The following message is broadcast at the request of the United States government. At five twenty-six p.m. Eastern Standard Time, the West Coast cities of, but not limited to: Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, and Portland came under attack by unidentified aerial forces. NORAD reports a second and much larger wave is inbound for the East Coast.

  “The United States Armed Forces have mobilized to counter the attack. All residents along both coasts are asked to shelter in place until the threat has been neutralized. All other citizens should remain vigilant and be prepared to take shelter, or evacuate at any time…”

  Steffen switched it off, his eyes closed.

  “I thought that was an Order radio?” Justin asked, his face scrunched tightly.

  “It is,” Steffen answered, “but the EBS can come in if Gold Channel isn't active. HQ must've been listening in to the broadcast, just like we were.”

  “Apparently so. Sounds like humanity now knows about the threats the Order has been secretly dealing with, considering the military is involved. Unsure what that means for the future…” Justin watched his dad’s face draw down, disheartened, and he placed an uplifting hand on his shoulder. “Pops, this might be really weird timing, but why don't we get something to eat? I'm starving, and know for damn sure you’ve managed to eat less than me today.”

  “Yeah, but the stuff in the fridge is probably no good,” Mr. White replied.

  “Meh, I wasn't wanting leftovers anyway. I was thinking more like the Lard Have Mercy,” Justin answered.

  “It’s quite a drive down into Houston for burgers, son.”

  “So?” Justin said with an eager smile. “It’s time that I get to spend with you and that can't be a bad thing. Besides, after hearing that broadcast, who knows when we’ll ever be able to get back there… or if it'll even be there. Come on – whatever you want, it’s on me.”

  Steffen smiled proudly as Justin cocked his head in the direction of the truck, already making his way toward it. Steffen rose out of his seat and trailed behind, taking a long and seemingly last look at his surroundings. Striding over toward the opening, he snatched his coat off a hook and mashed a button, the garage door tilting closed.

  Far off in the distance, thunder rumbled, but a steady rain began to fall over them. Justin cranked the engine and after some coaxing it roared, sputtered, then roared again. The soggy soil squelched under the tires as father and son pulled away from White Line Towing Company, heading off for what would be their last road trip together.

  IT WAS NEARING seven o’clock and the Council was in their high chamber, perched around their curved conference table, the lights of New York City peering in through a deluge of rain – like tears of the grieving – on the windows.

  The room was dimmer than the mood, lit mainly by screens that had descended from slots in the ceiling. On them, news reports were running from around the world – some live and some recorded – all showing devastation spreading like a cancer across the planet. Close to home, both coasts of the United States were aflame; demonic rune stones, drakes, and chimeras having wrought havoc from the air.

  Jane Carter sat in the center of the table, rifling through a week’s worth of documents that had been generated in the past hour alone. Her eyes were fatigued and as each printed word passed, they blurred into the next until all was incoherent.

  From what she could ascertain, the department heads were quick to lay the blame for all the recent happenings right at the Council’s feet, faster than they had ever blamed Dajjal for anything. Citing their unbridled affinity for Gage Crosse, they believed it left the Order ill-prepared for Dajjal’s moves and were planning an inquiry once the Odyssey returned. Despite the falseness of those accusations – the Order was far more prepared to fight against the demon army than they ever were before – and the lunacy of an inquisition this close to an impending war, Jane was ready and willing to take full ownership.

  The six other members were just as perturbed, having risen from the table to spread their thought and anxiety around the room, lest it drown them.

  Evans fidgeted with an uncomfortable dress shirt, appropriately blood red in color, as he approached the corner windows. Leaning his back on the glass, the coolness offered some reprieve from the stress, though very light. He looked out at his fellows mournfully and it didn't take long before his eyes met with the gleaming yellows of Quileth’s, already meandering in his direction.

  “What a day it's been!” Evans greeted as the feline came up to his side, surprisingly without a hookah in sight. “Now there's something I never would have expected to see; no smoking tonight? Seems like recent events would offer the perfect reason to partake.”

  “Don't remind me,” Quileth said with a swift sigh, twiddling his empty claws. “The one time I neglect to refresh my stores; demons make sure the world comes crashing to an end.”

  Both monsters chortled, hiding their concerns quite well.

  “Speaking of the demons,” said Evans, first to return to business, “is it just me or has there been no rhyme or reason to the attacks? Though bold in intent, they seem completely random.”

  “It certainly serves to throw us off,” Quileth responded, clearing his throat while his cat-like features looked almost angry. “Plus, it instills terror in the population. They have no idea what the next attack will be, nor if it will be far away in a big city like New York, or just outside their front door.”

  “Do we know where that snake has slithered off to?” Evans asked.

  “No,” Quileth grimaced, “but from the data Gabriel and his team were able to grab, we know that ultimately the doom of Earth will be decided at Megiddo.”

  “Ah yes, as was prophesied in human literature. It sounds like we are planning to wait until that time then?”

  “For now,” Quileth replied, so desperate for a smoke that even his tail was swishing. “The Order will ultimately meet him head on, despite some earlier reservations about not tipping our hand. All is in the open now for everyone to see. Jane is going to mobilize responses to these latest attacks; focus on aid. Truth be known, it's my hope that Dajjal surfaces again, and soon, so we can hammer him all the way back to Hell before the endgame plays out.”

  Evans was caught off guard by the vigor in Quileth’s words, the Felidaen normally quiet and relaxed, at least all the times he had seen him before. However, it wasn't unexpected, especially with morale so low amongst the Journeymen and the divide the department heads seemed to willingly cleave. They would be looking to their leaders – the true ones – for strength.

  Evans strove to be one of those leaders, but a thought plagued him, persistent like a sickness. If Dajjal and the demons were this potent a force now, capable of inflicting such atrocities, what would happen should they actually open the gates of Hell? Evans could only entertain the question for a second at most, being horrified by the answer for much longer.

  “Well, things should take a turn for the better,” he said reassuringly.

  “Really?” Quileth asked, wanting some of Evan’s enthusiasm for himself. “How so?”

  “Things always seem to do so when Gage is around. He's due back in a few hours from Paris, right?”

  Quileth’s eyes dropped to the carpet, the color seeming to drain out of them. Evans immediately knew something was wrong.

  “I certainly wish I had my hookah for you,” Quileth said, taking in a lungful of air. His tail had stopped moving entirely. “You must have missed the latest reports; I only just got them an hour ago myself. It pains me m
ore than anything to say, but Gage is not amongst those who are returning from Paris…”

  THE ODYSSEY LED the fleet of airships on their return journey to New York, sinking beneath dark clouds that had spread out over the Atlantic. She was flanked by her sister ships, the Homer and Iliad, as they soared gracefully through the night sky.

  Nathaniel Cole stood on the deck in his uniform, accompanied by creaking wood and a gentle breeze, though it was cold enough to cause goose bumps on his forearms and neck. At each side stood his teammates, Gabriel Shepard and Sean Dean, all three looking up to the Homer with awe. There was a large dent in the side of her hull, shining in the bright moonlight.

  “That… thing back in Paris was huge,” Nathaniel whispered, recalling the towering grotesquery the team had battled.

  “Did it really punch the side of that ship?” Sean asked, pointing up high. Deep down, he hoped that it was an exaggeration.

  “From what I heard, sure enough,” Nathaniel confirmed, followed by an impressed whistle. “We lost several good operatives when it happened.”

  “Jesus Christ. I've never seen anything like it,” Sean continued, rubbing his eyes as if to clear his vision, “and don't think that I want to ever again.”

  “None of us do,” Gabriel said, his Southern twang always evident, “and the only way that happens gents, is if we succeed at stopping that red-eyed fucker, Dajjal.”

  “That’s definitely in our plans,” Nathaniel replied, bracing himself against the rails and twisting them in his grip. It was like he needed the extra support for what he was about to say. “Do you think that this will be more difficult… now that Gage is –”

  “Gone?” Gabriel blurted out matter-of-factly, where in truth it pained him awfully. “Yes. I do. This shit is gonna downright suck without him.”

  “He was a great guy,” Sean muttered, cringing at having to use the past tense. Knowing him for the least amount of time in person, Sean found the reputation that preceded Gage was true.