Page 57 of Revelations

There!

The car nearly pulled up into the parking lot and parked itself. The building was about as ramshackle as one could get, even in a military town. As soon as Greylyn stepped into the rundown honkytonk, located off the main drag through town, the tingles along her spine spiked. Her hand shot up to rub away the pain along the knotted muscles in the curve of her neck.

This was the right place. Hard rocking country music blasted her eardrums. Most restaurants and bars were now smoke-free. Clearly, this joint had not gotten the memo, as the nicotine and tar-laced fumes assailed Greylyn’s nostrils, causing her to cough.

But it was not the smoke, the ear-splitting steel guitar, or the stench of sweat and stale beer that pressed on her senses—it was an electricity. Goosebumps erupted up both of her arms to the nape of her neck. Evil lurked nearby, waiting. She still had time to find it before something truly heinous went down.

Marines? Check. Military groupies? Check. Demons? No check.

Zigging and zagging her way through the party revelers, she arrived at the enormous circular bar in the middle of the facility. “Jack and Coke, please. Oh, and I don’t suppose you have a food menu? I’m famished,” she yelled over the music to a pretty waif of a bartender with strawberry blonde hair, its hot-pink streaks pulled into a tight knot on top of her head.

“Sure do, sugar,” the girl replied in one of the deepest Southern drawls Greylyn had heard since her last visit to LA—Lower Alabama. Less than a minute later, her drink and a sticky plastic menu were slapped down on the bar. “Better order soon. Kitchen closes in a half hour.”

Placing her order for chili-cheese fries and sipping her watery beverage, Greylyn surveyed the room. Nothing too untoward going on, just scantily clad women flirting with off-duty Marines, judging by the buzz-cuts and toned bodies.Those physical activities they endure daily sure pay off… God Bless America, boys!

The oppressiveness of something demonic weighed on her. Humans would not be able to sense it, but to her it felt like being trapped inside a tank in the middle of the Iraqi Desert. Sadly, she actually did know what that was like from experience.

With her torn jeans, ratty Bon Jovi “Runaway” concert t-shirt, and sneakers—not to mention what the North Carolina humidity had done to her hair—she realized, not without some chagrin, that the Marines’ attention would not be falling on her tonight. Not with the short-shorts, mini-skirts up to their asses, and deep cleavage revealing tops adorning the rest of the ladies in the establishment. It was for the best, anyway. She was not in a particularly flirty mood.

“Jack and Coke for the little lady here,” an authoritarian voice cut through the typical noise of the bar.

She half expected the drill sergeant fromFull Metal Jacketto appear. Another drink was in front of her before she had time to turn to thank the gentleman.

Well, he was not R. Lee Ermey, but the man was tall with broad shoulders, dressed neatly in a black t-shirt and khaki pants, with speckles of gray throughout what remained of his close-cropped hair. There was no disguising what this guy did for a living. He was a soldier through and through.

However, his eyes failed to complete the package of the tough Marine. Aquamarine blues peered out at her, as the corners of his lips curled up in a smile to reveal perfect teeth set in a deep-tanned face weathered from years of exposure to the elements.

Greylyn stuck her hand out. His grip was firm, and he held on longer than she would have normally liked, but she sensed nothing sinister from this man.

“Lieutenant Colonel Josiah Redmon, at your service.” He curtly bowed his head, never breaking eye contact.

His smile was downright contagious as the creases around his eyelids deepened.

Greylyn caught herself grinning back. “Most obliged, Lieutenant Colonel Josiah Redmon. I’m Greylyn MacLeod. Nice to meet you.”

His chuckle lightened the tightness in her chest. “Please, just Joe.”

He stood with a rigid spine and hands at his side. She blushed when she realized that he was waiting for an invitation to sit down. Joe was a career military man. He would probably stand at attention for hours. He would never presume. This made him all the more likeable.

“Please, have a seat, Just Joe.” She waved to the empty barstool next to her.

His laugh was pleasant—normal. She had forgotten what normal sounded like.

“I’ve been stationed here for the last five years, since my last vacay in Afghanistan. I spend every Friday night trolling the bars making sure my men aren’t getting into any trouble. Seen lots of pretty girls. But you…are new.”

Hey, he thinks I’m pretty despite the attire and frizzy hair.

They chatted and sipped their drinks while the music and noisy bar patrons seemed to fade away. Joe was an interesting guy. He had been in many conflicts, saved many lives, had his life saved more times than he cared to count… And now he enjoyed the relatively easy life of training recruits at Camp Lejeune, rather than active duty deployment in another warzone.

Deep in conversation, Greylyn nearly forgot why she was there in the first place. It all seemed so normal.

An hour passed easily before someone jumped on the stage to the back of the bar. The shrill whine of an ill-tuned microphone pierced the air.

A young man, probably in his thirties, announced a special show for those assembled tonight. “Straight outta El Paso, Texas, please give a big Lejeune welcome for Rowdy Rick and his Redneck Crew!”

Apparently, the band was already popular with the patrons, as everyone let out wild screams of excitement. Quite a few of the girls promptly forgot the men on whom they had been clinging as they rushed the stage.

A cold wave crept up her spine and a sharp pain shot through her head, right through the eye like a migraine. Rowdy Rick and/or his Rednecks were up to no good.

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