The Gathering Chapter 8
The Mox Jet
Urbana, Illinois. For the longest possible while, it looked as if Micheal had fallen into a coma in which he would remain in forever. Thankfully, it was simply a mild concussion he had suffered from cranial strain. What the physicians of the Urbana hospital didn't know, however, was how it got to the point in which one would just pass out for three days straight. Despite the staff's finest efforts to restrain him, Micheal left the hospital in his 4Runner with George in tow.
All that mattered to him now was Samantha.
"Hello, I'd a listing for a Samantha Chere please," Micheal said over the phone in their motel room. "C H E R E! Chere!"
As Micheal continued to lose his patients with the operator, George sank down into an easy chair, flicking through the channels on T.V. He yearned for something positive transpiring in the world's current affairs. But every time he got to another channel, a completely different yet nonetheless burdensome report was all he got. The old man sighed audibly.
"I'm sorry, sir. There aren't any listings under that name. Are you sure that she isn't living under a different name?"
"I don't. . .wait! Johnson! Samantha Johnson! Are there any listings of her?"
He did, though not nearly as patient as last time.
"There are three listings for female Johnson's in the area. One of them is Samantha and the other is listed simply as 'S. Johnson.'"
Micheal immediately scribbled down both and thanked the operator for her assistance. Hanging up, he turned back to George.
"Don't wait up for me, professor. I've got a date with destiny."
Absently, George just shrugged his shoulders as he went on cycling through the channels of poverty, sickness, and death."
Micheal's 4Runner, which had suffered minor damage back in New York, pulled up along the boulevard in which Samantha's house was situated. Number 294 lay just to his left and he was, for the most part, a nervous wreck. What was he supposed to say to her? Nothing of what had already transpired would suffice. Something else. . .something special was needed to be done. He swung open the driver's side door and began his long approach towards her house, though not in the fashion he had hoped.
His clothing was askew from the long journey as was his hair. Clouds had begun to gather that hinted at a coming storm, but the moon was still visible. With images of Kaervek dancing in his head, his progress hastened. Coming to the door at last, he slicked his hair back with the sweat of his palms and rang the doorbell. A moment of silence passed before a dark-faced man answered. One that was slightly more attractive than Micheal.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Uh. . .I'm looking for a Samantha Johnson. Is she here by any chance?"
"No, but my fiance, Samantha Smith, is. Just hand on a second."
But Micheal was ready to just leave in seeing that man kiss the woman which he thought would wait for him. How foolish he was! Samantha caught sight of him, but his back only, just before he gave the diamond ring a pitch into the already-soaken grass.
"Mikey? No, Mikey, come back!"
But he made no such action. Micheal was already in tears, driving out of her life forever. She couldn't help but feel like crying herself. Her husband-to-be wrapped his arms around her while she quietly sobbed to herself.
"What's the matter, baby? Who was that?"
"Nobody. . .anymore, that is."
But her pain stayed.
Micheal drove on. On through the urban areas and down the streets of Chicago. Past all of the prostitutes looking for business. Beyond the arena where Metallica played on with 'No Leaf Clover.' But nowhere so far that he could elude the coming storm. He wound up on the curb adjacent to an emporium which sold forbidden artifacts of the occult. Unusual it was that its proprietor knew all about such rituals involving this particular form of invocation. Unusual it wasn't what Micheal was readying himself to invoke.
A matter of minutes remained before midnight that night. The moon was full yet became obscured as storm clouds raced past. A wooden glen shone brightly with the headlights of Micheal's 4Runner. Rain pelted down in a million fists of protest. And before the hood of the vehicle stood Micheal Cole himself, the torpor of his condition overshadowing his poor judgement.
Down at his feet was a stone tablet painted with various colors and shapes that marked its place in the essence of invoking the Mox Jet. Atop the slab of stone was a voodoo doll, the paint of its limbs corresponding precisely with the shapes beneath it. Micheal genuflected, placing his hands on the doll. It was better to satisfy Kaervek than to satisfy Samantha's fiance.
Palnud, Reelox, Tooley, Precon,
Cantry, Felvek, Aurguy, Treton.
Micheal lifted his hands from the voodoo doll and up to the incandescence of the moon.
"Bind me to thee, my soul to thine. I am your servant and your slave. I shall hunger for your word and thirst for your blessing. Blood for blood, flesh for flesh, Leshrac, my lord."
But unfortunate for him, the rites did not go according to plan that night. . .
Pay no mind to the distant thunder
Duty fills his head with the wonder
Then, it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
Is just a freight train coming your way. . .it's coming your way.
'No Leaf Clover' by Metallica