Chapter 1
The humidity of the Gulf Coast clung to Father Maximo like a second skin as he wrestled with a rusted pipe beneath the Hernandez family’s kitchen sink. At thirty-five, Maximo didn't look like your typical cleric; his biceps, mapped with faint scars, strained against a grease-stained t-shirt that had long ago replaced his Roman collar for the day.
The Weight of the World
With a final grunt and a twist of the wrench, the leak stopped. Maximo slid out from under the cabinets, wiping his hands on a rag. Maria Hernandez sat at the small kitchen table, staring at a stack of utility bills that seemed to grow every time she blinked.
"The seal was dry, Maria. It'll hold now," Maximo said, his voice a warm baritone. He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out two heavy bags of groceries—rice, beans, fresh produce, and a gallon of milk.
"Father, we can't keep taking from the parish," Maria whispered.
"The parish didn't buy this, Maria. A friend did," Maximo lied gently. He pulled up a chair, his expression turning serious. "Listen, I know you love this place, but the American dream shouldn't feel like a nightmare. Everything is pricey—the property taxes alone are predatory. Honestly? Sell the house. Move into one of those smaller bungalows over on 4th. You’ll cut your costs in half."
He leaned forward, tapping the table. "And tell Jorge the Post Office is hiring city carriers. It’s grueling work, but the benefits and the pension are real. In this economy, stability is the new luxury."
He offered a quick blessing and a firm handshake, but as he stepped out onto the porch, the air changed. The scent of ozone and rotting lilies hit him. He looked toward the hilltop cemetery. A sickly, necrotic green light was pulsing against the twilight sky.
The Parishioner of Lead
Maximo didn't go back to the rectory. He drove his beat-up black pickup to a secluded trailer park on the edge of town. Inside his silver Airstream, the "priest" disappeared.
He kicked aside a stack of bibles to reveal a floor safe. From it, he pulled a tactical vest and a pair of customized 1911s, their slides engraved with the Benedictine Blessing. He checked his magazines—silver-core rounds tipped with holy water extract.
"Not today, you bastard," he muttered, sliding a combat knife into his boot.
The Midnight Mass
By the time Maximo reached the town square, the chaos had started. Shambling figures, their skin the color of wet parchment, were clawing at the doors of the local pharmacy.
Maximo didn't hesitate. He vaulted over a parked car, guns barking in a rhythmic, deadly cadence.
Bang. Bang. Two heads snapped back, disintegrating into ash before they hit the pavement. He moved like a dancer, a lethal blur of black denim and tactical nylon. He carved a path through the main street, his eyes fixed on the cemetery gates where a figure in tattered velvet stood atop a mausoleum.
The Necromancer was a gaunt thing, chanting in a tongue that sounded like grinding bone.
"Return to the earth!" Maximo roared, diving behind a tombstone as a bolt of necrotic energy shattered the marble above him.
He flanked the sorcerer, using the shadows he knew so well. As the Necromancer raised his staff to summon a fresh wave of corpses, Maximo leaped onto the roof of the mausoleum. He didn't use the guns this time. He drew a vial of consecrated oil, smashed it against his combat knife, and drove the blade through the Necromancer’s chest.
"Ite, missa est," Maximo hissed. Go, the mass is ended.
The Necromancer erupted in a pillar of white flame. Across the town, the risen dead collapsed instantly, returning to simple, silent remains.
The Morning After
An hour later, Maximo was back at his trailer, cleaning the carbon scoring off his pistols. His ribs ached, and he had a fresh cut over his eye.
The sun began to rise, casting a gold glow over the town. He changed back into his black suit and fastened his white collar. There was a 7:00 AM mass to lead, and he needed to check if Jorge had actually filled out that Post Office application. The supernatural was easy to fight; it was the everyday struggle that required the real miracles.
