There Is No One Else

From the Files of The Belle Haven Shooting Club

Part I

Paul Wilson felt like he was dying.

He was in fact, not dying…he was only jogging.

Although Paul hated physical exertion, hiking or skiing in the mountains being the rare exceptions, Paul also believed in balance.

Paul smoked a pipe daily. He felt that the only way he could justify putting smoke into his lungs, was by expelling a lot of air out of them, hence, he subjected himself every morning, rain or shine, to a 30 minute jog through Rock Creek Park.

He finally made it back to his Toyota as the sun burned off the morning cold and mist.

He tuned into WTOP when he got into his Camry. Paul liked staying up to date on the news of the day. Most of it was the ongoing military operations in Afghanistan and the continued security surge within Washington, DC. Some streets were still blocked off and occasional HumVEEs, bristling with guns and soldiers, rumbled through the streets of Northwest at all hours.

One news story did pique his interest. Six months ago, on what the news programs were now calling 9/11, the old Van Buren Hotel near downtown had burned to the ground. Initially, it was thought to have been done by another radical Islamic terrorist cell but it appeared that the hotel’s inhouse detective had destroyed the hotel deliberately.

No other staff or guests were hurt but several unidentified bodies, burned and mangled beyond recognition, as well as riddled with bullets were also found in the smoldering remains. Paul didn’t even realize that hotel detectives were still a thing, an odd job in the 21st century, along with a very weird situation.

“Probably had to do with insurance money, only sketchy people stayed at that place anymore, that real estate has to be worth a fortune,” he mused out loud. Paul loved talking to himself, it was how he formulated ideas and arranged his thoughts on a variety of subjects.

His undergrad students thought it a bit bizarre but they chalked it up to academic eccentricity.

However, Professor Wilson would not be teaching that day.

It was spring break at Catholic University in Northeast, Washington, D.C. and all the students were off frolicking in warmer climes. This gave Paul some time to catch up on grading some essays for his Latin class and prepare the final exam for his more advanced students in his Theology of Medieval Europe course.

But, on this Tuesday morning, that was all on hold. He had an appointment to keep.

After showering and putting on his chinos, a tee shirt and a light colored cardigan sweater, he got into his Toyota and aimed it south towards the Key Bridge and then east towards Alexandria.

The traffic was light at this hour and in no time, he was pulling into the old red brick neighborhood of Belle Haven. Paul parked outside a very non-descript mid-century brick building. Only a small placard near the heavy steel-reinforced wooden door identified the purpose of the large bunker-like structure: Belle Haven Shooting Club, est. 1975. Members Only. No soliciting.

Packed in an old battered, black leather physician's bag was Paul’s beloved Colt Diamondback, the 2.5 inch barrelled, blue model used by Steve McQueen in the movie Bullitt. The revolver even had the same Colt Detective Special grips as the one in the movie.

Paul did not take it out to shoot often but this was a special occasion. He was going shooting with the president of the club himself; Shane Anderson.

“Here he is…my pistol packin’ professor…in the flesh!” Shane, a tall well-built older man with an iron grey crew cut, quipped when Paul walked into the club’s meeting room. Paul smiled wryly.

“You really do need better jokes, Shane.” Paul fired back as he began unpacking his revolver from his unusual range bag, taking out his range earmuffs as well. Since he already wore heavy framed glasses, he had no need to bring eye protection.

Shane gave a wide, healthy smile and just shrugged.

“Why did you want to meet up with me anyway?” Paul inquired as he took a 50 round box of .38 wadcutter ammunition out of his bag and placed it on a metal table. Shane shook his head in response to the query.

“First we shoot, then we talk.” Shane stated and took out his own eye and ear protection, along with a Glock 19 out of his black vinyl range bag. Once both men were ready, they headed towards the cavernous range room.

For a half hour, both men blasted at paper targets set up in their respective shooting stalls. They switched firearms at one point but Paul soon gave Shane back his Glock, he hated the feel of the polymer. He owned several revolvers but not a single semi-automatic.

Neither man spoke much, only the sounds of gunfire and the automated target retrieval system moving back and forth could be heard outside the range area.

“One time, you joked to me that your Greek was better than your Latin and you hoped that your students would never find out about this.” Shane asked once they were back in the club’s meeting room, both men drinking sparkling water.

“Yes, very true. Most universities don’t even bother with Greek anymore, fewer and fewer of them are even bothering with Latin. Latin will probably disappear from all post-secondary education in about 20 years or so. State of the world. Everyone wants to be a computer programmer nowadays.” Paul audibly sighed.

“Just so. Paul, you know that I have certain…interests. Interests outside of running this club and my consultancy business. Some consider them strange and off-putting and I admit I have lost a few members over the years due to these unusual interests.”

“Shane, how could I not? Since I‘ve been a member for the past few years, you have asked me some really bizarre questions centered around occult rituals and ancient secret sects on several occasions. Not really my area of study but I do admit having some fascination with those subjects.” Paul grinned and the shooting club president grinned in reply.

“Well, I can always recognize a fellow traveller. You have an open mind and an inquisitive nature, Paul. I knew that since the first time we met back in ‘98. After your divorce, you needed a hobby and a social outlet outside of academia. I found you to be a very erudite scholar.

Paul stared down into his Perrier bottle. The mention of his ex-wife was still a somewhat sore subject. Elaine was still an English professor at American University. Five years into their marriage, she decided she was a lesbian and had begun an affair with a Gender Studies professor at AU in secret. The divorce had been messy with a lot of bitterness. The shooting club had helped him process his anger and loneliness.

Shane recognized that this was not a subject to linger on. “I have asked a few odd and curious questions in the past but this time…I need your research talents, professor.” Paul looked up and arched an eyebrow, now he was curious.

Shane went back to his range bag and dug out an object wrapped in a large piece of waterproof canvas. He placed the item on the table between them and unwrapped the canvas.

It revealed a large book or more specifically a tomb or tractate. It was quite old. The brown leather binding was stiff and cracked. It had no title or symbol on the cover. It smelled of both loam and mold.

“This is a Greek copy of the writings of one Abdul Alhazred. Known widely as the mad Arab sorcerer who infamously wrote the Necronomicon or The Book Classifying the Dead.” Paul chuckled before Shane could go any further.

“Yes, I am familiar with the ol’ mad Arab; whose name isn’t even of Arabic origin. No such person ever existed, all copies of the supposed Necronomicon have been shown to be fakes. Books designed to sell to gullible occultists who want to converse with the dead or otherworldly entities. I hope you didn’t pay much for this book, Shane.”

Shane looked down at the ancient text and grew very serious. “I didn’t pay any money for this tractate, Paul. But it was paid for…by a man with his life.” Paul stopped laughing and frowned. Shane continued.

“Yes, there are many fake Necronomicon texts out there, maybe they all are…I don’t know. But this is real and it was written by a true sorcerer, maybe not an Arab. Perhaps the real author was a European who needed an oriental nom de plum to hide from church authorities.”

“Okay, what do you need from me, Shane?” Paul asked point blank.

“This book is not only written in Greek but it is also in code. I won’t tell you how I know but I know before you went to graduate school, Paul…you worked, for a time, in cryptography at the NSA.” Paul didn’t bother trying to deny his previous employer before becoming an academic.

“Your sources are very good, Shane.”

“So what I need, Paul is a Greek scholar and a code breaker. If this tractate is fake, then so be it. But if the knowledge in this tome is real, I can’t allow it to fall into certain deranged hands.”

“Why do I feel like I am being recruited into something that you have been testing me for…well, for a while.” Paul remarked.

“Because I have Paul, you see this club isn’t just a social club. Many of the members here are a part of something, something I started a long time ago, when I was confronted with it. Something that almost took my life, along with that of my wife. I stopped it briefly but only one part of a much larger whole.” Paul made another sigh, this time out of annoyance.

“You are being too mysterious, Shane.” Shane threw up his hands.

“I know, I know and I am sorry for that. Look, consider this your final test, Paul. If you can crack the code and translate the Greek, I will tell you everything I know about what is going on. Until then, you will have to deal with the covert nature of what I am asking of you.” Paul was silent for a moment, he drank the rest of his water and made up his mind.

“Alright, since it is Spring Break, I have some free time. I will take a swing at it this week. Do you know what it might be? You mentioned someone died getting it to you? Who?” Paul queried but the shooting club president continued being obstinate.

“I believe this tome lists various summoning rituals for entities not of this material plane of existence. As for the man who paid for it. He was not a member of our club but had an interest in DC occult lore and was responsible for securing a hotel with some very dangerous secrets.” Paul’s mind went back to the news he heard earlier in the day.

“I see. I have a few errands I need to run today. I will call you if I discover anything important. I still have your private number.” Shane agreed and rewrapped the leather tome in canvas. Paul noticed the canvas smelled like smoke as he placed it in his leather physician’s bag.

Part II

It was dark outside when Paul unwrapped the leather book in his small study. He turned on his office lamp and directed a strong ray of electric light at it. The leather cover seemed to soak in the light. The shadows around the light seemed both darker and sharper in contrast.

Paul took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“I am too tired to be pulling a Nancy Drew,” he muttered to himself.

He thumbed through the book. He confirmed it was Greek but it was all gobbledygook. Shane was correct, it had been written in a type of code.

Paul threw himself into the work. He used every cryptography trick he knew in determining the cipher for the code. Nothing worked.

Then around 1 am, Paul remembered something. Something very obscure he once read in a book attributed to Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. A German renaissance physician, knight and known scholar of the occult. Agrippa did not write in Greek but in Latin as far as Paul knew but in his early academic years, while being accused of heresy, he came up with a simple code. This code was used to keep his writings secret until he had enough powerful political patrons, who could protect him from the Catholic inquisitors.

Paul went to his extensive library and found what he was looking for, a slim volume bound in linen and cotton, written in 1906 by an obscure Oxford educated historian of the European renaissance. The author discussed Agrippa and the code he used in his initial writings on demonic magic.

A whole new world now opened up to Paul.

His eyes feasted on dreaded ceremonies to unnamable gods, summoning rituals for beings who viewed man with contempt and pacts to bind oneself to creatures from antediluvian eras.

He read until his vision blurred, until darkness departed and the sun ascended a blue sky. Only when direct sunlight shined through the bay window of his study, could he finally pull himself from that accursed tome.

Paul felt more fatigued than he ever felt in his life, as if the book itself were a vampire, draining his vital life force. He took the book and locked it in his gun safe. The safe itself was hidden behind a reproduction of a painting of The Four Apostles by Albrect Durer.

As Paul walked to a coffee shop four blocks from his Adams Morgan rowhouse, he felt something else besides fatigue. Paul felt as if he was being watched.

While stopping in front of a used book store, Paul looked at the various selections in the window display. All the classics were there: Frankenstein, Moby Dick and the Scarlet Letter, as well as several biographies of various politicians and historical figures.

But Paul wasn’t there to admire the old collection of books by publishers long out of business. Instead, he used the reflection of the glass storefront to look behind him. It was an old spycraft countersurveillance trick. Paul didn’t have to wait long.

A man dressed in sneakers, black sweats and hoodie was tailing him. The man appeared to be dressed for a chilly March morning jog. Conveniently, his hood was up and Paul couldn’t make out any facial features. But he was stopped by a lamp post looking towards Paul.

At some point, he realized that this was suspicious and began a series of half-hearted stretches, as if limbering up. Paul would have been amused, if he wasn’t feeling so tired and now…paranoid.

He continued on to his favorite independent coffee shop run by two Vietnamese immigrant sisters. After the terror attacks, they had decorated both the inside and outside of their shop with American flags and old World War propaganda posters. God help you, if you went to either of the sisters and complained about the gaudy display of patriotism, they would verbally knife you.

Paul ordered a double cappuccino and sat on a small leather loveseat that faced a mirror in the corner of the shop.

Finally, he was able to get a good look at his shadow. The man was a young caucasian male with long curly brown locks, he could have easily been one of Paul’s students. The young man appeared uncomfortable, frightened even. This wasn’t his line of work, clearly he was no private eye or surveillance agent. His soft, brown eyes kept scanning the coffee shop, as if HE was worried he was being followed.

Sipping the hot, caffeinated liquid, Paul felt more calm now. He relaxed somewhat and grabbed a DC City Paper and read about some of the local upcoming Cherry Blossom Festival events. Paul’s relaxed state of mind didn’t last long. The young man answered a Nokia cell phone and spoke into it briefly. He hung up, looked around one more time, put up his hood again and left the coffee shop, leaving his untouched coffee on a table by the front door.

Initially, Paul thought about following the young man, but why? He was no secret agent or private detective. He was a divorced professor of humanities at Catholic University of America, no one of consequence would be interested in his life. Hell, sometimes, he wasn’t interested in his life.

After several minutes, Paul finished his drink, wished the sisters a good day and walked back to his home. No one appeared to follow him this time. Paul reached his front door and pulled out his keys.

“Hey, neighbor! Did you get that gas leak solved? I gotta tell you, I was SO anxious when those gas company techs told me about it. I immediately checked my stove. I think it's okay but I’m considering calling the company and having them send over a tech anyway…you can’t be too careful, right? You okay, Paul?”

Paul stared at Lloyd, his very fey next door neighbor. He was watering some flowers near his front stoop. They would chat on occasion. Lloyd worked for the US State Department and spent a lot of time away from DC. Lloyd’s rowhouse seemed to be a revolving door of young interns with model looks who came and went. Paul always knew when Lloyd was back home, due to the elaborate parties he threw with these same young men. Lloyd never invited Paul to these galas and Paul was fine with that state of affairs.

Now he felt sick. Paul’s stove was electric, he never used natural gas. He quickly made some calculations and now understood why he had been followed and watched. Hoodie was there to make sure he did not go back home until his compatriots were finished.

Paul recovered quickly and planted a fake smile on his face.

“Just something I ate at the sisters’ coffee shop, Lloyd. I wanted to give those guys some time to work and solve the issue,” Paul stated as he unlocked his front door. He made a mental note to get a deadbolt installed as soon as possible. Lloyd clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval.

“You should go to the new Starbuck’s on Columbia Road, those two Asian bitches have gone overboard with that ridiculous, vulgar display of Americana,” he stated testily. Paul merely nodded noncommittally and walked into the foyer of his rowhouse, shutting the door.

They were good. They had been careful not to disturb much. They had left some expensive items alone, coins and jewelry that Paul had accumulated over the years were left untouched. It was clear they had been looking for something specific.

But they did not find it.

Paul checked his safe behind the Durer painting. Everything in the safe, including the tractate, was accounted for and unmolested. Paul let out a long sigh of relief. He made a call to Shane but he did not pick up. Paul left a short message about the mysterious break-in at his home where nothing was missing. Paul decided not to mention the headway he was making about the book yet. He wanted to tell him directly.

After making sure his townhome was fully secure. Paul decided to grab a nap on his couch. He tucked his .38 Colt revolver under his pillow; just in case his interlopers came back. The morning sun became obscured behind some rain clouds and a light drizzle from outside soon put him fast asleep.

Paul was out for several hours. It was already early evening when he awoke. He prepared his pipe and decided to order a pizza for delivery. He was still groggy from the long nap and didn’t want to go back out due to the earlier break-in, as well as the rain getting heavier. It pounded against his windows.

Shane had left a message on his answering machine while he was asleep. The message was simple and concise: assume you are being watched at times, take every precaution for your personal safety. Call me daily and let me know you are okay. I will answer.

Paul decided to keep the revolver on him at times. He slipped it into the pocket of his houndstooth tweed jacket that he put on due to the slight chill in the air.

He contemplated the day's events while smoking his corncob pipe.

When the pizza arrived, he checked the peephole of his front door. Only a slightly bored young latino man could be seen in a wet, dirty uniform on the other side. When Paul opened the door, he noticed an immaculate white utility van parked across the street. He paid for his pizza from the disinterested delivery driver and quickly shut the door.

“You’re being paranoid, Paul.” He stated aloud. “There are half a dozen reasons why that van is there. Maybe somebody is having some renovations done…but on a Saturday evening?”

He decided to set it aside for now. If the van was still there tomorrow, he would let Shane know.

Paul had decided to make it a working dinner. He scarfed down slices of cheese pizza while translating the book. He kept a large notepad nearby in case he wanted to write any of the translations down.

The tome revealed its secrets to him.

The rituals and spells within were right out of a horror movie. One passage described summoning a demon that harvested the seed of men. The details were salacious to say the least. All these demons offered either power directly or advice on how to obtain one’s unholy desires.

Another chapter described a ritual that included ingesting a certain rare fungi that when consumed acted as a gateway for a most horrific entity to burst into material existence. This particular demon didn’t seem to offer its summoner anything but eternal death and suffering.

“Why the hell would anyone want to summon that thing?” Paul asked himself.

The least dangerous of these various summoning rituals seemed to call upon a demon known as The Prestor. It could answer any question, name forbidden knowledge.

A demonic version of a search engine on the internet. It could only sustain existence in this plane of existence for a few brief moments. But it was also one of the shortest and easiest rituals to enact.

In less than a minute, it was decided. Paul wrote the instructions down on his notepad. He made a mental inventory of all the required materials needed for the summoning: salt, candles, silver bowl and knife.

Paul had all of these items in his home.

He put the rest of the pizza in his fridge and gathered the accoutrements for the ritual. Shutting off his electric lights and lighting the candles in his study seemed to put it outside of time, almost another realm.

The only distasteful part of the ceremony was the ritual cutting of his left hand by the knife and bleeding into the bowl. He quickly staunched the wound with some gaze and athletic tape though and began a prayer in Greek.

The light from the candles dimmed and the air grew frigid as if he turned on his air conditioning.

In the darkness of one corner there was even more absence of light, if such a thing was possible. A small black hole where all light and color was swallowed. The hole began speaking to him in a voice so cold and ancient that Paul found himself clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth.

“You think you know man, scholar? You know nothing about men. I have seen entire civilizations swallowed up by the wrath of God.” The inky blackness in the corner grew. It became man shaped, a looming shadow. The ungodly voice boomed louder.

“Men…men whine all the time about wanting freedom. THEY do not. Responsibilities always come with true freedom, with it: duties and difficulties. So men do not want it. No, what men truly want is to do what they will without consequences. This is not freedom, this is chaos…this is what men truly want…to be slaves to their eternal, unyielding desires. Yesss…slaves to desire…therefore, I will never die. I can show you things, scholar…many things…let us talk again…”

The shadow cackled long and hard. The noise it made grated on human ears. But just as suddenly as it appeared, it winked out of existence. The darkened corner was once again nothing but a prosaic part of a simple decorated office. But the silence was deafening.

The air warmed and Paul turned on his lights. The blood in the silver bowl was gone, not even a stain to show what had been there.

Paul suddenly took a deep breath, he hadn’t even realized he had stopped breathing during the brief exchange. He wanted to both laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, he ran to the bathroom and evacuated his bowels. It was while on the toilet that Paul realized that he had completed his very first summoning ritual.

Part III

There was a pregnant pause from the other end of the phone.

“Damn, that is quite the find, Paul.” Shane had immediately picked up his cell phone when Paul called him the following day.

“Yeah, and that was the least dangerous ritual I found in that blasted tome. This tractate is a damn nuclear weapon for anyone with nefarious intentions, Shane. What the hell are we gonna do about this?” Shane made another brief pause.

“Were you able to sleep last night, did anything else happen?” He inquired.

“If you are asking about uninvited visitors, no. That white utility van is still parked across the street. It looks like it hasn’t moved. I don’t know of any contractor who works on Sunday. Last night, I slept with a .38 in my right hand and a frickin’ crucifix in my left. I finally fell asleep from exhaustion. In all honesty, I am terrified right now.” Paul took a long pull from his cup of strong black coffee before continuing.

“I’m no warrior, Shane. I am an academic who blundered into this…whatever this is.” Paul blurted out.

“I understand, Paul. But my club needs someone like you. A keen scholar who can dig into ancient texts, who may not always have answers but knows which direction to look, a man who can search for potential solutions when pure violence just isn’t enough.”

Paul didn’t answer, just looking out his front window, watching the parked utility van, willing the sham gas company technicians to show themselves. But they didn’t.

Shane continued his sales pitch.

“Look, I have been fighting these people almost my entire adult life. After all these years, I have figured out that all I am doing is knocking pawns off a chessboard. I may never get to the king or queen but it would be nice to knock a few bishops and knights off the board as well.”

“There has got to be someone, an agency we can go too.”

“There is no one else, Paul. There is no law enforcement or intelligence agency that is capable of dealing with this threat. If anything, some of them have been corrupted by various chthonic cults which seek what we have found. You saw what lengths these cults will go to, in order to gain forbidden knowledge.” Paul remained silent battling his rising anxiety.

“Paul, I’m having more secure lockers built at the club. I am also in the process of improving both internal and external club security. I can build a safe home for that damned book.”

“It pains me to say this as an academic but I think we should destroy it.” Paul admitted.

“I know how you feel but we may need it. Even a nuclear weapon has its uses even when it is never detonated, especially when it is never detonated.”

“Ok, but I think…” It was then that Paul heard the faint but distinctive click. He was no expert but he suspected at that moment that his uninvited guests had left something behind. “Shane, did you..” But he was cut off.

“Yes, damnit it, they bugged your fucking phone! I should have known this! I am in Southeast DC, I am headed to you, RIGHT NOW. Grab a weapon and barricade yourself in your home.” Paul heard an engine being gunned and abruptly the phone went dead.

Paul unscrewed the microphone portion on the handset of his old rotary phone. It had been his parents and he loved using it. He installed it in his upstairs bedroom. Paul found the bug right away. Throwing the small device on the floor, he crushed it under foot.

He already had his revolver stuffed in the pocket of his tweed jacket. Going to his dressing wardrobe. He took from a small ornate lacquer box two speed loaders for his revolver. Each of the speed loaders carried 6 Fiocchi FMJ rounds. He slipped them both into his jacket.

For years Paul had constantly told himself that he would repair that one wooden stair coming up the first landing. It always groaned loudly whenever weight was put on it. On that Sunday, Paul thanked Christ that he did not get around to having it replaced.

The stair suddenly screamed out in protest. Paul, who was not known for his speedy response time, was on point at that moment. He drew his revolver and cocked the hammer. He peeked beyond the bedroom door, attempting to show as little of himself as possible.

A dark figure slowly ascended the landing. Like his shadow from the day before, this one was wearing all black, except he was bigger than the kid who had trailed him. This home invader was also wearing a baklava over his head, along with black leather gloves. The gloves held some kind of polymer semi-automatic in both hands.

Although Paul felt confident in his shooting abilities, after all the hours he had put in at the range. He had never conceived of the idea of actually shooting someone. Fighting blood thirsty occultists had never entered his imagination.

But Paul found a work around to his hesitation about shooting someone…he imagined his target being the one person who had hurt him the most in his entire life.

He imagined this intruder was his ex-wife.

He squeezed the trigger ever so gently with a heart full of pain and anger. The results were deafening and immediate. The cream colored walls behind the ascending stairs of the 2nd level of the townhouse were now painted rouge.

The body fell backwards, apparently striking a second man who cursed. This time there was no hesitation. Paul came sprinting out his bedroom and down the hall to the second landing. He couldn’t see much and simply emptied the other 5 rounds in the direction of the stairs.

More yelling and cursing. Someone whined about being hit and someone else clearly stated: “I think he’s dead.”

Paul did not waste time. He ejected the spent rounds from the cylinder and reloaded with one of the speed loaders. He could hear the small group retreating back from the stairwell.

He risked a peek down the stairs. The dark walnut wood of the stairs was now stained red. An unfired Smith and Wesson Sigma also lay in a small pool of blood. Paul crouched and continued moving down the stairs, his wool slippers soaking in the trespasser’s blood.

Finally, he was at the end of the stairs and risked another peek around a corner. A bullet flew past his cheek and buried itself in a picture of his parents hanging on the wall behind him. There were three of them. Again, all in black, including gloves and backlavas. One was being fireman carried by his compatriot out the front door. The body poured blood out of it like a broken pump. Paul had scored a hit to a major artery.

The interloper covering his two buddies was bleeding freely from his right shoulder. He was having difficulty aiming with his right hand. He fired a second shot at Paul but it went too wide for it to mean anything.

The other two were out the door. The third was almost through the door when Paul snapped off three parting shots, aiming for the center of mass of the figure directly in the doorway.

The would-be prowler howled with pain and grabbed his left thigh with his left hand. He stumbled out of the doorway. Limping after the others. Paul was high on adrenaline and not thinking very clearly. He gave chase and just before he got to the front door. Splinters began flying everywhere. Paul dropped to the floor and squirmed out of the doorway. More bullets ripped into the open heavy oak door and door frame.

Just as quickly as the cacophony had started, all was silent. Paul moved up against the wall and quickly looked outside. A fourth man in black was detaching a banana magazine from an AK rifle. From a long black trench coat, he was fishing out another magazine.

At that moment, Paul’s neighbor decided to make the worst choice of his entire life. Lloyd threw open the front door of his own townhouse. He was dressed in a terrycloth bathrobe with soft slippers in the shape of rabbits. He held an NPR mug in one hand and was clearly hung over.

“What the hell is going on here?!? Are you all setting off fireworks?! On a Sunday morning…” Lloyd’s voice trailed off when he took in the scene in front of him. Three bloodied men in black climbing into a utility van and a fourth man loading what Lloyd would have called a scary rifle.

Lloyd’s coffee mug blew apart. His face showed an expression of surprise. He then looked down at the large red stain that slowly blossomed across the lower midsection of his bathrobe. He only uttered one quiet word: “Oh.”

A second bullet from the AK took off the upper part of Lloyd’s head. Everything above the bridge of the nose simply disappeared in a red cloud of bone, brain and blood particles.

The corpse fell down the stoop and flopped onto the sidewalk. A broken automatron.

“Damn!” Paul simply stated at witnessing the total carnage of his neighbor’s death.

The roar of a powerful engine was heard from the other end of the street. The masked gunman turned his attention from the townhouses. He began firing intently at someone on the street. The new target answered back with several rounds of his own. The man in black squeezed his trigger but nothing happened. Whether he was out of ammo or his rifle jammed, Paul did not know.

Instead of reloading, the rifleman beat a hasty retreat into the van. The van’s engine came to life and veered off in the opposite direction, careening down the street, clipping parallel parked cars as it fled. Red stains now decorated the exterior of its white paint job.

Paul left out a sigh of relief and lowered his revolver. A red Jeep Cherokee with several brand new bullet holes pulled up in front of Paul’s townhouse. Shane jumped out with some sort of custom built 1911 .45. He took one look at the crumpled, bleeding corpse of Lloyd.

“Damn! What a way to go. Any more left?” Shane asked. Paul shook his head. He stood up and slipped his revolver in his jacket.

“I hit two of them. One is probably dead. They didn’t get the book.”

“And they didn’t get you, Paul.” Shane added with a grin. Both men heard sirens in the distance.

“Paul, listen to me. I have a little juice with the DC metro police that I am going to squeeze. Still, it would be better if you alluded to today’s events as a home invasion robbery gone bad.”

“But it was a home invasion robbery gone bad, Shane!” Paul protested.

“Yeah, I know…but these detectives aren’t going to buy that you were shot at by middle-class white cultists with a penchant for forbidden knowledge. You understand me?”

“Ah, got it. These guys were from Anacostia. They’re looking for cash, jewelry and anything else they could sell. Sound about right?”

“Exactly, lots of DC armed robbery crews operate nearby. The only difference is that today’s home invasion happened during the day, these guys were brazen. Trust me, they’ll buy it.” Shane stated with confidence.

Both men stood on the stoop of Paul’s townhouse waiting for the coming first responders.

“Congrats, Paul.” Shane pulled out a pack of crumbled Lucky Strikes. Lighting one with an old Vietnam zippo lighter.

“For what?” Paul asked.

“You’ve just become a full member of the Belle Haven Shooting Club.” Both men snickered. It wouldn’t be the last time both would laugh while surrounded by spilled blood. In his heart, Paul had found a new purpose. A purpose that would one day lead to a grisly death.

But for full members of the Belle Haven Shooting Club, such is the cost of fighting monsters.