Order of the Shattered Cross: Pt. 01

This is the story within the story from my 'Home Sweet Home' series. Consider this the version of Shattered Cross that Riley Blake couldn't publish without editing out certain portions.

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

--

Corporal Timothy Augustine quietly watched Chaplain Johan Weber as he knelt in prayer over the body of a dying American Solider. The sun was stretched across the rugged terrain of the Korean Peninsula. They had moved the young man into the light to bask in its warmth one last time before he departed from this world. Mortar and artillery bombardment scarred the land after a fierce Chinese attack on American and French Forces during the night. A haze of smoke still lingered hours later, the air smelling of sulfur and blood.

"...in this we pray, in Christ's name, amen," Johan said. He held his wooden cross to his lips, and traced a cross from shoulder to shoulder.

The Soldier, barely a man, a boy not a day past nineteen, held the Chaplain's hand, a small measure of comfort as the warm darkness of death enveloped him. It wasn't cold. It was like falling asleep in a sun baked blanket. Johan lowered the boy's hand to his chest and let him drift into his eternal rest.

"We need to push back to Battalion, sir," Timothy said. Charlie Company had taken the brunt of the assault. Johan had a terribly dangerous habit of wishing to be where the fighting was. The men needed their last rites.

"We're exactly where we need to be," Johan said in a thick German accent. His family felt the political wind of Germany shift in the 1930s. They immigrated to America and settled in Idaho before the war started. Johan fought in the war for his adopted country. It was on the battlefield he found God. "Hundreds of men lie ahead of us."

"Hundreds of Godless communists," Timothy said. Just ahead of them, lay an open grave of an ill-fated Chinese charge. They underestimated the size and determination of the defenders. Machine gun nests, artillery, and air bombardment had broken the waves, one after the other.

"You can close your eyes to God, it doesn't make him blind to you," Johan said, using his knee to push himself up to a standing position. He returned his helmet to his head, a white cross painted where any other officer would have his rank. Timothy had admiration for the Catholic Priest who returned to service. Admiration with a pinch of irritation at his lack of concern regarding his own self-preservation.

Timothy sighed, knowing he wouldn't be returning to the relative protection of Battalion HQ anytime soon. His job as a Chaplain's Assistant was to protect his Chaplain. Where his Chaplain went, he went. During the bombardments and the multiple charges, they hunkered down in foxholes with the infantry. During the long stretches of boredom, which was most of war, he played cards with a deck featuring the best paintings of pin up girls by Alberto Vargas. When the war resumed, Timothy took a fighting position and fired toward the darkness and screams of the Chinese line. Their war cries echoed for hours until they realized the defenders were too entrenched.

Timothy removed two rolled cigarettes from their tin case and put both between his lips. He lit them with the same match and extended the second to Johan. The Priest seldom smoked, and nothing in his vows forbade him from doing so, so long as it never crossed into a gross indulgence.

"How do you do it, sir?" Timothy asked.

"Do what?" Johan replied, closing his eyes as he inhaled, and then slowly released a cloud that haloed around his head.

"Stay out here. On the line. You have more courage than the infantry. Some of the men cower, clutching their rifles as if they were their mother's hands. You remain at work with bullets crossing inches from you."

"God gives me my strength."

"What good is God against an artillery shell?"

"A question asked by a man who survived last night?" Johan said, taking a final slow drag before dropping half of the cigarette on the ground. The man had the control to measure his impulses. Timothy only saw wasted tobacco.

"We're merely lucky it hit his hole and not ours," Timothy said, pointing at the soldier dead on the ground. The medics had arrived and were now preparing to move his body to Regiment.

"We are surrounded, outnumbered, nearly out of ammo, and yet we hold the ground. You think it's merely luck the Godless men could not uproot us from this position?"

Johan always found a way to answer Timothy's questions. Timothy wasn't a man of faith, and only requested to be a Chaplain's Assistant because he believed it was a relatively safe duty after he was drafted. He quickly learned how wrong he was. Johan's dedication always put them in harm's way, and he saw no shortage of close combat because of a man who didn't carry a weapon of his own.

American air support halted the Chinese in the day. They would likely resume the attack at dusk. Johan worked through the day, praying for the men and providing comfort to the dying, ally and enemy alike. The Chinese soldiers could not understand a word he said for them, but faith was a universal language. Some held his hand as their life faded, a small token of appreciation for his efforts.

Timothy found a foxhole and used his helmet as a pillow. If the Army had taught him anything, it was how to sleep anywhere regardless of the conditions around him. The men slept in shifts, until the sun vanished behind the Korean hills. Dusk was announced with artillery. The impact of the first shell throttled Timothy awake. He curled himself into a ball. There was nothing a man could do until it stopped. It sounded as if the shells were tracing the hills and climbing to him. As fast as it started, it ended.

The quiet didn't last. Whistles and bugles announced the enemy charge.

Timothy lifted his head from his hole, his eyes searching for his Chaplain.

"Johan!" Timothy shouted over the war raging around him. American planes dropped flares to illuminate the darkness. He saw the Chaplain two hundred meters ahead of him, in the direction of the Chinese advance. All he could see were shadows and faint outlines of a human shape, but Johan's silhouette was distinct. He was on his knees, holding his rosary and cross, softly speaking a final prayer to a soldier. "Goddammit. Johan!" It appeared the man was unaware of the machine gun fire cutting across the battlefield. "Shit."

Timothy climbed out of his hole and sprinted into the open.

"Johan! You stupid sonofabitch, get down!"

A mortar hammered the earth far enough to not kill Timothy, but close enough to throw him into the sky like a kite in the wind. Timothy crashed to the ground, the sound of battle replaced by a deafening ring. His body ached, and he felt he was going to vomit from pain but pulled himself to his feet and pressed on.

"Johan!" Timothy shouted. He couldn't hear the artillery firing from behind him. The Americans were returning fire. Dangerously close to their line. "Johan!"

Johan finished his prayer, and turned to Timothy, now twenty meters away. He gave his assistant a smile immediately before the shrapnel from an American round turned him to mist before striking Timothy in the chest.

--

Timothy jolted awake from his bed, grasping his chest as if the shrapnel had pierced his flesh mere seconds ago. He was out of breath, like he was running in his sleep to save his Chaplain. He had tried to save Johan many times over many years. A nightmare he never became accustomed to.

The bed was damp with his sweat. The ceiling fan above his bed provided little in terms of lowering the temperature of the room. Savannah was horribly humid in the summer. It wasn't much better in the fall. August had begun with a sticky heat, the sweat holding onto the skin, creating a slimy layer of moisture.

"You mumble in your sleep."

Timothy turned and saw the woman he brought home last night. Maybe her name was Colleen. A recently divorced brunette eager for any male company that wasn't her ex-husband. Divorcees were more fun than the still married ones. The moment that ring came off, they immediately got to work losing the weight they let themselves gain while married. Younger men became their favorite playthings. At least, men who looked younger than themselves.

"Sorry," Timothy said, lowering his head to his pillow. The woman ran her index finger around the scars on his chest. "The war."

"You were in Desert Storm?"

"Yeah," Timothy said. It was easier to believe than the Korean War. For Timothy that was forty-one years ago. He didn't look a day over thirty. The Gulf War which concluded last year was his most recent excuse for his scars. He had reliably used Vietnam in the seventies and eighties.

"Thanks for the night. Makes a woman feel good knowing she's still attractive," she said. Timothy reached across her body and grabbed her opposite hip. She giggled as he pulled her toward the center of the bed. He positioned himself between her legs and kissed her. He left her lips and tasted the sweat on her neck. "I have to pick up my kids from my ex soon."

Timothy ignored her and continued downward. Her breasts were supple and sensitive to his mouth. "I really need to go." His fingers twirled inside of her, and she released a deep exhale. "I don't have time."

"I don't believe you," Timothy said and positioned himself for entry. "Make time."

"Fuck me like my husband couldn't." That was the most enjoyable quality of a recently divorced woman. Romance wasn't on their minds.

Timothy had her any way he wanted. Nothing was off the table. Her on top of him. On her hands and knees, her hair being reins to control the force and tempo. He fingered her ass in preparation for the finale. Nothing was off the table after all.

"I've never done that," she moaned as he inserted a second finger. "Come in my ass."

He slowed down in the beginning, but he gradually felt her become accustomed to this new activity. In only a few minutes, he resumed with the same rhythm and depth. Timothy pulled her back and pushed his hips forward, releasing himself as deep as he could. Her body spasmed in response to his pulsation.

The woman departed his home in the southern historic district of Savannah. He felt a mild sense of accomplishment by the way she walked to her car. She was already late to pick up her kids. Once she left in her vehicle, Timothy started his day. He made his bed and then took a cold shower just to lower his body temperature. A hot shower only guaranteed he'd need another one immediately. Once bathed, he dressed in cream-colored pants and a white linen button up shirt.

When dressed, he assured that the top button hid his chest completely. His chest resembled the surface of the moon. Deep craters and valleys with distorted skin, colored in several shades of red. A permanent reminder of his death in 1951. A brief demise reversed by what the Brigade surgeon said was nothing short of a miracle. They believed him dead, until he jumped awake in the line of bodies ready to be shipped home in caskets.

Timothy Augustine would be fifty-nine in only a week's time. He appeared to most a thirty-year-old man. The only external sign of his age was the salting of his brown hair he kept neatly trimmed and combed. He was conventionally handsome, if otherwise plain. His eyes were dark as if someone squirted a fountain pen into his cornea.

"You dirty old man," a young female voice said. Timothy couldn't see her reflection, because she wasn't really there. Few could see her. Her voice could only be heard by him, and those like him. He looked over his shoulder, at the girl sitting on the edge of his bed. A petite girl with straight raven hair that dragged across the floor like a cape. She wore a black dress much too provocative for her perceived age of prepubescence. Much like him, looks were incredibly deceiving. The girl had been in his company since the day he refused to die.

The first thing he heard when he came back to life was her voice. Laughing in manic joy. Thanking him for finally giving her a vessel. For many years after, he thought the war drove him insane. That he was suffering from shell shock. In truth, when he briefly died, his soul scattered out of his body. When he came back to life, and his soul returned, she came with it. Timothy had become a Fractured.

"You're up early," Timothy said, debating on a tie.

"You know I don't sleep. I just, leave you alone from time to time. Your love making is rather atrocious. Like watching a car crash. Not my cup of tea."

"Your sippy cup of tea," he said, making her tilt her head. "What do you know about fucking?"

"I admit, in my time amongst the living I never did partake in the joys of the flesh. Hard to, considering my perpetual adolescence. The kind of men I would attract I'd rather not speak of. That being said, I don't need to be a pilot to watch a plane crash and determine something went wrong with the landing."

"She seemed satisfied," Timothy said, deciding a tie with short sleeves made him look like a Mormon, so went without one.

"After her failed marriage, anything harder than a marshmallow would suffice," she said. The girl stood up from the bed and walked across the room to the window. Her steps produced no sound. "Is it Tuesday?"

"It is," Timothy replied.

"You're going to be later than that woman if you don't pick a pair of shoes soon. Might I recommend the only pair you own?" Timothy owned one pair of shoes. Grey athletic sneakers starting to fray from age. If the stitching became more undone, the large toe of his left foot would begin to poke through.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Timothy said.

Timothy left the bedroom and stopped in his living room. The woman from last night confused him as an academic, or a scholar of some sort. Books littered his coffee and side tables. His shelf was filled with books of varying shapes and sizes. When he ran out of space, he started a second row with books laying cover down and stacked on top of each other. His desk, which was pushed against the wall next to the window, had more books and loose documents. There was a couch, shockingly not messy considering the rest of the room. It was against the wall and under a hanging lamp for reading. Timothy didn't own a television or any music.

Under several books on the coffee table was a small wooden box containing a chess set. The pieces were inside, and when you folded it open, it formed the board. The board was treated mahogany while the pieces were made from polished white and black granite. He slid the books off the board as he lifted it, tucking it under his arm on his way to the front door. He passed his scant kitchen, taking an apple from the bowl as he walked. At the door he held the apple with his teeth, slipped on his old shoes, and left the door without locking it. He had nothing worth stealing anyway.

--

The humidity of Savannah caused Timothy Augustine's clothes to stick to his body from the thin layer of sweat that manifested on his skin seconds after leaving. No matter how long he had lived in Georgia, it never failed to annoy him. His shirt was darker around the collar and pits from the moisture within minutes. His balls stuck to his leg and his thighs were chaffing. Sweat clung to his forehead, the droplets stubbornly refusing to slide off his face.

Timothy stood at a bench along the path that led to the Forsyth Park Fountain. He carefully opened the case on the bench, the chess pieces inside tumbling to the seat, the white bishop rolling off and landing on the ground. The bishop was paid no mind as he set up the rest of the board. After a minute, all but the white bishop was in their place. He scanned around the area and retrieved it once he saw it under the bench.

A young woman, enjoying a well-deserved rest on a bench from her morning jog, found him handsome, and his behavior unusual. She felt her shoelaces were loose and looked down to begin tying them. When she looked up seconds later, a second man was now standing in front of Timothy. She looked around, wondering where he came from and how she did not see him arrive. The man arrived carrying a small wooden box and decorative wooden chair that was implausible to carry around in that manner.

"Morning Timothy," the man said, then immediately picked up the board and flipped the black pieces to himself. He lowered the board onto the box. "You know I play black."

Never had a more impeccable looking gentleman existed. There was something otherworldly about him. He had the smile of a politician, and the suit of a Baptist minister. Shiny black hair that appeared wind combed by driving a convertible with the top down, making it presentably mangled. The chin of a fashion model. A nose so sharp he could cut glass with a sneeze.

"I always took you as someone who'd like to make the first move," Timothy said, leaning over the board as the man situated himself in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket to sit more comfortably.

"Nonsense. I like to let other people make the first mistake," he said, gesturing for Timothy to play. After three moves, he laughed. "You love your Ruy Lopez, don't you?"

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't know you always played e-five in response to e-four," Timothy said. The man smirked.

"You're predictable. You then play knight to f-three, and I reply knight to c-six to defend. Then comes across the bishop to threaten capture of my knight. Ruy Lopez. You are predictable," he said.

"You did what I expected you to do."

"I do, because you're expecting it," the man replied, and thought about his own third move. "How's about I flip you, the Bird." Knight to e-four, threatening capture of the knight and the bishop.

"I hate Birds," Timothy said, amused at the play. "You haven't played this in a while."

"I think you took with knight last time. I took with pawn, and you castled like a little bitch," the man said, making them both laugh. "What's your move?"

"How about, knight to c-three," Timothy says, and the man tilted his head.

"Why?"

"Because I can," Timothy said.

"I take your knight, checking you, and you then must respond with pawn defending. Then what? We're both down a knight with nothing to show for it," the man explained.

"Nothing to show? I have two pieces across line two, including the king color bishop and a knight, while you can only move one knight and one bishop, over line seven. I own the board."

"I can see that logic. But now that I know, do I still play into it? Do I let you play to my arrogance? Tell me what you're doing so I do it, just to prove it doesn't work, even though I don't know that for sure?"

"You tell me," Timothy said, and the man's face crumbled in thought. He played into it, and fifteen plays later, he flicked his King off the table in frustration.

"As always," the man said, crossing his arms and leaning into his seat. "It's a good thing I don't come for the chess. I come for the conversation. Sorry to hear about your latest ward, truly. You'd be pleased to know Peter didn't hold the gambling against him. I can tell you liked Owen more than the others."

"He was a good exorcist," Timothy said while he gathered the pieces and placed them back in the underbelly of the board. "If a little overconfident and complacent. Didn't do his research on the structure."

"Didn't bother to know the corrupted spirit was a fourteenth century Dutch slaver?" the man asked, and Timothy nodded. "It is easy to forget that verse reading only works on spirits who understand the language of the translation. You can compel them without speaking. He can't exorcise a Dutchman in English. I didn't make the rules."