Chapter 16 – Captured by the Order

The house continued burning in the distance, the flames a harsh orange glow against the night sky. Alex could only hope that James and Wheeler would survive and that they'd find each other again.

For now, though, they had no choice but to keep moving.

As the boat engine sputtered to life, Alex, Adam, Elle, and Lillian drifted away into the mist, their gazes locked on the burning house. They could still hear the gunfire from the machine guns, the occasional echo of a shotgun blast from Wheeler, and the crack of James's rifle providing cover.

The fog swallowed the boat as they pushed farther into the lake, the crackle of fire and the cult's muffled shouts slowly fading into the distance. Alex knew that James and Wheeler were still back there. He stared at the burning house until it disappeared behind the fog.

Back at the house, the cultists were relentless. Wheeler ducked behind a fallen beam, pumped his shotgun, and fired off another blast at the advancing cultists. "We need to move, James!" he shouted over the chaos, beginning to choke on the smoke.

James, his rifle still aimed through the shattered window, took another shot, managing to down a cultist who had ventured too close. "I know!" he yelled back, his eyes scanning the fog for any sign of movement. "Just a little longer…"

But before he could take another shot, there was a sudden rustle behind him. His instincts kicked in too late, a cultist, who had snuck into the house during the firefight, lunged at him from the shadows. The weight of the attacker slammed into James, knocking him off balance and sending his rifle clattering to the floor.

"James!" Wheeler called out, but he couldn't break cover, not with the bullets still flying around them.

James grappled with the cultist, fists flying as they wrestled for control. The cultist snarled, trying to overpower him, his hands grabbing at James's throat. James grunted, using all his strength to shove the attacker off him, but the cultist was determined, his eyes wild with the same fanaticism that had driven them all to this point.

They struggled across the room, crashing into furniture as the fire roared all around them. The cultist grabbed James's rifle, trying to turn it against him, but James fought back with everything he had. Sweat and smoke blurred his vision as they wrestled for control, the rifle clattering between them.

The air in the burning Shepherd house was thick with smoke, the stench of gunpowder mixing with the suffocating heat. Wheeler crouched behind a half-collapsed wall, his shotgun raised as he fired off another shot at the cultists advancing on their position. "James, we're running out of time!" he shouted, his voice strained over constant gunfire. But James wasn't responding.

James was locked in a deadly struggle with the cultist who had snuck in, their bodies crashing into one another as they fought for control of the rifle. They tumbled to the floor, the rifle clattering between them as they grappled with each other. Sweat and smoke blurred James's vision, and the cultist snarled, his eyes wide with frenzied determination as he tried to turn the rifle's barrel toward James.

Wheeler glanced over, his heart pounding. He had a clear shot at the cultist—but James was too close. If he fired, he might hit James instead. He gritted his teeth, his hands shaking as he weighed his options. "Come on, James, get out of there!" he muttered under his breath.

James's face was contorted in a mixture of rage and exhaustion as he struggled against the cultist's grip. The man's wild eyes gleamed with fanatical intensity, and James could feel the cold metal of the rifle pressing into his side. They wrestled for control, both men straining with every ounce of strength they had left.

Then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, the cultist gained the upper hand. He shoved James back, pinning him to the ground with the rifle in hand, the barrel aimed directly at James's chest.

"James!" Wheeler roared, abandoning his cover and rushing forward, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to act.

With a desperate lunge, Wheeler charged at the cultist, tackling him to the ground just as the rifle fired, the bullet whizzing harmlessly into the wall behind them. The cultist grunted in surprise as Wheeler slammed into him, sending them both sprawling across the floor. James rolled away, gasping for air as he tried to collect himself.

Wheeler landed a few quick punches, his fist connecting with the cultist's face in a flurry of desperate strikes. But the cultist was strong, stronger than Wheeler had anticipated. He growled, blood dripping from his mouth as he shoved Wheeler off him, reaching for something at his side.

Before Wheeler could react, the cultist pulled out a knife.

"Wheeler, look out!" James shouted as he struggled to his feet.

The cultist lunged, the knife flashing in the dim light. Wheeler tried to dodge, but he wasn't fast enough. The blade sank into his side, and a sharp pain shot through him. Wheeler gasped, stumbling back as blood began to pour from the wound. His vision blurred, the world tilting around him as the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

The cultist sneered, pulling the knife out with a sickening twist, readying for another strike.

But James wasn't about to let that happen. Fueled by anger and desperation, he grabbed his rifle from the ground, ignoring the pain in his limbs as he raised it and aimed at the cultist. His hands trembled, but his aim was steady. "Get away from him!" James growled, and with a quick pull of the trigger, the rifle fired.

The cultist froze, a look of shock crossing his face as the bullet tore through him, sending him staggering backward. He dropped the knife, his body crumpling to the ground with a dull thud. The fight was over.

James rushed to Wheeler's side, dropping to his knees as he examined the wound. Blood soaked Wheeler's shirt, his face pale and his breathing ragged. "Stay with me, Wheeler," James muttered, his hands shaking as he applied pressure to the wound. "You're going to be fine, you hear me?"

Wheeler groaned, wincing as the pain flared up again. "I'm… I'm not done yet," he rasped, his voice weak.

James could hear the distant shouts of the cultists outside, the sounds of gunfire still echoing through the house. There wasn't much time. "We need to get out of here," James said, his voice urgent. He hoisted Wheeler's arm over his shoulder, helping him to his feet. "Come on, we have to move."

With Wheeler leaning heavily on him, James led them toward the back door, slipping through the burning remnants of the Shepherd house. The fire crackled around them, and the smoke was thick, but they pressed on, determined to make it out alive.

As they emerged from the house, the fog closed in around them, swallowing them whole. The boat that Alex, Adam, Elle, and Lillian had taken was long gone, lost in the mist. They were on their own now.

But they had survived. For now.

And they weren't done fighting.

James gritted his teeth as he struggled to pull Wheeler out of the burning house, the weight of the injured man pressing down on his already tired and aching limbs. The flames crackled behind them, casting an eerie glow over the night as smoke mixed into the fog. Wheeler muttered weakly under his breath, "Just... leave me behind, James. I'll slow you down. You need to go."

James shook his head. He hadn't known Deputy Wheeler for long, but he was a good man, they had been through too much together already. There was no way he was abandoning him now, not after everything. "Shut up, Wheeler," James growled. "We're getting out of here. Together."

Wheeler groaned in protest, but James wasn't having any of it. He hoisted Wheeler, his muscles screaming in protest as he carried him through the night. The distant sounds of gunfire had faded, replaced by an unsettling quiet, save for the occasional crackle of fire from the burning house. But they didn't make it far.

Suddenly, dark shapes began to emerge from the fog, surrounding them in every direction. Cultists. They were armed with a mixture of crude weapons, from pipes, crowbars, and machetes, but some of them carried shotguns and rifles, all pointing at them. Their eyes gleamed with a malevolent purpose. James could feel the tension in the air, the danger pressing down on him.

James's grip tightened on Wheeler, and his mind was racing. He glanced around, looking for any possible escape route, but there was none. They were surrounded. Before he could act, the sound of engines rumbled from the distance. James turned just in time to see the two trucks roll up, their headlights cutting through the fog. Mounted on the trucks were the 50-caliber machine guns, the barrels pointed directly at them. A spotlight swept over James and Wheeler, blinding them for a moment as a loudspeaker crackled to life.

"A burst from a 50-caliber machine gun can rip a man in half," a voice boomed from the truck. "Surrender now, and you won't be fired upon!"

James cursed under his breath. He knew exactly what those weapons could do. There was no surviving a fight against them, no hope of running or hiding. If they tried to resist, they'd be mowed down in an instant. He looked down at Wheeler, who was barely conscious, his wound still bleeding. They wouldn't make it ten feet before being cut down.

James took a deep breath, feeling the situation crash over him. There was no way out of this. Not for them.

Slowly, he made his decision. With a heavy heart, James tossed his hunting rifle to the ground. "Fine," he muttered, his voice bitter but resigned. "We surrender." Slowly, he let go of Wheeler and he raised his hands in surrender.

As soon as the rifle hit the ground, a group of cultists surged forward. One of them stepped up to James and struck him hard across the face with the butt of a rifle. Pain exploded through James's head as he was knocked to the ground, his vision swimming as darkness threatened to overtake him. He tried to stay conscious, but the blow had rattled him hard. He could feel rough hands grabbing him, dragging him across the dirt as they pulled his arms behind his back before zip-tying his hands and feet.

Wheeler groaned beside him, barely able to protest as they zip-tied his wrists together. "Damn it," Wheeler muttered with pain. "Should've left me, James."

James blinked, trying to shake off the dizziness as his vision darkened. "Shut up, Wheeler," he muttered, his voice fading as the cultists lifted him to his feet. "We're... we're in this together now."

Before he could say anything more, the world went black as another blow knocked him unconscious.

James woke up to the cold, hard ground beneath him and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back, the zip ties cutting into his skin. He blinked against the harsh light of a spotlight, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Wheeler lay a few feet away, equally restrained, his face pale from blood loss but still alive. One of the cultists was tending to Wheeler's stab wound. He would die, but only under their terms.

The cultists surrounded them, their masked faces and dark robes blended into the fog. The trucks loomed in the distance, the massive 50-caliber machine guns still trained on them. But everything went to black as a cultist forced a burlap sack over James's head.

James's world was spinning, his thoughts muddled by pain and confusion. He struggled to make sense of his surroundings, but the first thing he noticed was the suffocating, almost claustrophobic pressure of a bag over his head. It smelled of mildew and sweat, and the rough fabric scratched against his skin with every slight movement. His hands were still bound tightly behind him, the zip ties biting into his wrists, leaving his fingers numb.

He tried to move, to get his bearings, but the hard surface beneath him was jostling and bouncing. The faint rumble of an engine filled his ears, and it took a moment for him to realize that he was now in the back of a truck. The uneven rocking and the occasional bumps made it clear, he was being transported somewhere.

Wheeler. His first thought was of the deputy. He remembered seeing him, pale and bleeding, back at the house before everything went dark. But now, he couldn't hear Wheeler's familiar grumbling voice. The dull ache in his head throbbed harder as panic began to creep in. Where was Wheeler? Was he even alive? James couldn't remember the last clear thing before being knocked out. Everything was a blur of chaos, cultists, and blood.

His heart pounded against his ribs as the truck hit another bump, sending him sliding against the cold, metal floor. He heard the low hum of voices around him, muffled by the thick bag over his head. The cultists were talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. His pulse quickened, each beat thundering in his ears, blocking out any hope of understanding their words.

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he could in his current situation, but the zip ties only tightened around his wrists, sending pain up his arms. He gritted his teeth, trying to remain calm. He couldn't let panic set in, not now. He had to keep his wits about him, for Wheeler's sake. For Alex's sake.

Alex. His nephew had escaped with Adam, Lillian, and Elle. That much he was sure of. They had gotten out. He'd watched them run toward the docks before everything went sideways. James clung to that small hope. They were still alive, and as long as they were free, there was still a chance.

But that meant he had to survive this.

He took a deep breath, trying to clear his thoughts. The cult had gone to great lengths to capture him and Wheeler, so they weren't planning to kill them outright, not yet anyway. But whatever they had in store couldn't be good.

The truck continued to rumble along the dirt roads, the engine growling as it climbed uphill. James's mind raced, trying to calculate their direction based on the jerks and turns, but with no clear sense of how long they'd been driving, it was impossible. He thought back to Margaret Holloway's smirk, the way she had calmly threatened them back at the house, the way she calmly gestured at him to fire at her heart, and it sent a chill down his spine. She was playing a game, a dangerous one, and they were her prisoners now. Her hostages. Her pawns.

The truck slowed to a stop, the brakes screeching against the silence. James tensed, his muscles coiling as he prepared for whatever was coming next. He could hear the cultists moving around outside, boots crunching on gravel. The rear doors of the truck clanged open, the sound echoing in the confined space. Rough hands grabbed him, yanking him to his feet. He stumbled, his legs weak and unsteady, but the cultists didn't care. They dragged him forward, his feet scraping against the floor.

He heard Wheeler groan from somewhere nearby, a reminder that his comrade was still alive, just barely. Relief mixed with dread in James's chest. They were both prisoners now, but at least Wheeler hadn't been left to die back at the house.

James was roughly hauled out of the truck, the ground beneath his boots shifting from metal to gravel. The cold night air bit at his skin through the fabric of the bag, and he could hear the shuffling of feet all around him—the cultists, no doubt, surrounding them like a pack of wolves ready to devour their prey.

With a hard shove, they forced him to his knees. Wheeler was dropped beside him with a loud grunt, his body landing heavily on the ground. James wanted to reach out, to check if he was okay, but the restraints made that impossible. All he could do was wait, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the cultists circled them.

Then, a voice broke the silence.

"Remove the bags."

The bags were forcibly yanked off their heads, and James blinked against the sudden light. His eyes adjusted to the dim glow of lanterns scattered around the clearing. They were outside, in some desolate part of the woods.

He glanced around, trying to make sense of their surroundings. Wheeler was slumped beside him, his face pale, but his eyes were open. He was alive, for now.

Ahead of them stood a figure James recognized all too well, Margaret Holloway. Her face was calm with that same unsettling smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She was flanked by more cultists, some wearing the strange ram-skull masks, others with their faces hidden beneath black hoods. Curtis stood nearby, his usual nonchalance replaced by something darker, more serious. He wasn't wearing the cult garb, he never liked it, but his allegiance to the Order was clear enough now.

"Welcome back to reality, outsider," Holloway said, keeping her voice smooth, almost amused as she first addressed James and looked over to Wheeler, who lay next to him. "And Mr. Wheeler. I trust the ride wasn't too uncomfortable?"

James glared at her, his body tense despite the fatigue weighing him down. "What do you want with us?" His voice was low, edged with anger, but Holloway only smiled wider.

"All in good time," she replied, her eyes gleaming with something sinister. "First, I think it's time we had a little... discussion." She glanced over at Curtis, who remained silent, his arms crossed. "After all, we have so much to talk about."

James's stomach twisted. Whatever was coming next, he knew it would be bad. The cult had taken them alive for a reason, and he could only imagine what Holloway had planned.

As he stared into her cold, calculating eyes, he realized something, this nightmare was far from over, and they had a long night ahead of them.

James's mind raced, his heart pounding. They were captives now, at the mercy of the Order.

He had no idea what would come next. But he knew one thing for certain, he and Wheeler were dead men. But if what little he learned about the Order from Adam was true, it might be better if they were.