READ THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS: Order of Dust by Nicholas J. Evans

We’re all a little broken, aren’t we?

Jackson Crowe is dead.

Or, at least he was. After his death, he awoke in the North-Lane and found himself at the crossroads of life and the beyond. The higher beings gave him a choice: move on, through the North-Lane and into the universe for your next chapter. Or, return to earth and claim revenge. Now, Jackson is known as the Order of Dust, with the task of hunting the ones who take possession over human bodies and return them to the higher beings. Jackson, both grizzled and pained, looks to find who took his life, and the life of his love. To do this he will need his two pistols; one for humans, and one for demons.

On September 22nd, Nicholas J. Evans’ ORDER OF DUST will debut with The Parliament Press!

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Parliament House Press

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Dream Awake

THERE WAS NO SOUND, as if the world had lost noise in its entirety. As if nothing but silence had ever existed, and the world was just starting anew. A bird, newly hatched, that hadn’t yet flapped its small, weak wings. A heartbeat would be as thunderous as an explosion here, if there were a heartbeat to be found.

Jackson Crowe opened his eyes and found himself in a vastness of bright white. He felt weightless as he kicked his arms and legs around him like swimming in the deep end of a pool. Every direction he looked there was nothing but the white. It was blinding. He touched a hand to his temple and felt the warm liquid that painted his face. The tacky, crimson leaked from his wound, streaming down his neck. The wound was still fresh and stung as his calloused fingertips gently slid over the open hole. He could feel the knotted, melted flesh burned in a hollow circle.

“Hello... Jackson...” a feminine voice called out from the light.

His eyes scurried around the emptiness to find the source of this disembodied call. That was when a dark silhouette appeared from the nothingness. It was the form of a beautiful woman graced with pale skin and flowing blonde hair. She moved slowly towards Jackson, and hovered. A translucent cloth wrapped her body, streamed over her narrow shoulders and fell over her breasts. There was a shine under the cloth, it came in brief flashes as she approached, shifting from her nude, porcelain skin to something else entirely. A warrior with flowing hair that brushed over golden shoulder pauldrons, and down a gleaming breastplate. The armor came and vanished in uneven intervals like the blinking static of an old screen, and at her hip hung an oddly large blade that vanished again before Jackson could see it clearly. Her wide, soft eyes offered a brief reprieve as her hand extended towards him. Fingers caressed him, ever so lightly rubbing over his wounded temple and down his face. When she pulled her hand back the glossy red liquid coated her colorless fingertips and dripped down her palm.


“Welcome... to the Paragon...” her sultry voice whis‐ pered once more. “It is...a resting place... For those who have started their ascendance through the North-Lane..”

“So... I am dead then? And I guess I am about to enter the universe for my next chapter or something?” Jackson urged confusingly. “Like what Fortega said?”

Jackson, or what was left of him, recalled an odd man in a suit with a large grin and shaved head standing on a stage before a sea of people waiting on his words. His name was Jonathan Fortega, or that was the body’s name at least, and his words would soon drop on the world like a bombshell. On that stage, to the entire planet, he announced that he was in fact not Mr. Fortega, and was instead Terrance Greene, a young man from Queens who was caught in the crossfire of a shooting. He explained that when he died he met two beings, and refused to say their names. Terrance/Jonathan announced the Dusts, the possession of this body, and of the white space he found himself in where he learned of the North-Lane. Now, according to Jackson's parents, this was nothing but a crazy man’s ramblings for years before others came forward, and then powerful officials backed it, then even‐ tually the scientific community as a whole. With it being nearly proven, the world adapted as best as it could.

He was young back then, and took this information as well as any one of that age could. He did not question it, he took it like a large pill and swallowed it just as others from his generation had. If there were any truth to what his assassin said, then Fortega, or Greene, did have that ‘purpose’ he spoke of. He would go on to lead the revolu‐ tion against organized religion, gain followers and others who revealed themselves. It was a hungry great white amongst a school of writhing fish, ready to consume all they knew and offer truth in the form of blood-soaked teeth.

Even in the purity of adolescence. Jackson knew the truth. He understood why Fortega, or Greene, was the first to announce the truth; most Dusts who return are back for the wrong reason.

At only six years old, Jackson had witnessed the closing of the last church. Each one had either become a place for people to gather and discuss the North-Lane, or a place for the homeless to gather and protest their hunger. These relics, once beautiful and powerful, became just as forgotten as an old abandoned building someone would pass by without thought. Years passed and even with all the knowledge gained there still was no way to decipher who was the real person and who was possessed by another. The fear that spread caused a hate for the Un-Ascended and a term, buried amongst the pages of dust-covered books, came to as a slur towards their kind: Demons.

“You certainly could Jackson... But not many Dusts have this opportunity... to meet us here. At the Paragon,” she said once more as she floated back a few feet away. “Like... Terrance Greene...”

“It’s like winning the lotto, kiddo. Bingo, here’s your prize,” another voice called out from behind him.

Jackson turned and viewed the new stranger who had joined in this phenomenon. He was tall and lanky in a tight-fitting pinstriped black suit. His pointy black shoes rested flat on a floor of nothingness and a black fedora rested on top of his head. Under the brim Jackson could make out a large pointed grin not unlike that of his assailant, except this man had stiff blonde hair that bled out from the bottom of the hat and pinkish skin. His fingers were long and pointed, and his eyes were sunken yet frightening. He made his way a step at a time around Jackson and to the side of the glowing woman. The two stood next to one another staring at Jackson in the contrasts of light and dark. A perfect juxtaposition, like that of Ying Yang; Jackson did not know who to fear more.

“Since Usra has so rudely ignored introductions I guess I’ll jump right to it then,” said the man. “First off, nice to meet you, Jackson Crowe.” He removed his hat, placed it to his chest with his pointed fingers, and leaned in for a bow. The man, who seemed to be something more than human, carried a mobster-esque accent. He never once broke eye contact, and never removed his smile. “My name is Azazel, The Ender.”

“And I...” the soft voice rang, “am Usra, The Creator... and we are the start and the finish.”

“I... uh... I don’t get what is happening here... who are you people?” Jackson asked nervously.

“We are... Everything. The founders of the North- Lane... the Creators of the Dusts–”

“The end of your meager lives!” Azazel interrupted.

Jackson remained puzzled. So, they were life and death? If that is the case, why meet Jackson? He spent his life waiting for something that would never happen. Like watching a television commercial with no idea what show was coming on. His mundane existence should not have awarded him this meeting, and he, in fact, did not think he would ascend to begin with.

“We... have a task for you Jackson Crowe. One that required our meeting... One that–” Usra had begun.

“Yea, Yea. I’ll speed this up. She likes to drag a little bit,” Azazel interrupted again. “We got us a middleman of sorts. A gray area if you will. Ya see, I deal only in the dying, the dead, and the Un-Ascended. That lovely lady right there deals only in the new life, the Dusts ascending, and the North-Lane. But... Earth... Well it don’t play by the rules too much. That's where you come in.”

Jackson once again floated there, in the empty white, completely confused.

Me? Shit. You people have the wrong guy, Jackson thought to himself.

“On the contrary... we believe we have... the right guy...” Usra said with a smile.

What?! They heard my thoughts?

“It’s the Paragon, man. Open space. We all share everything inside of this world. So do not come here if ya need some alone time, get what I’m sayin’?” Azazel chimed in sarcastically.

“Jackson Crowe... you are to become... our forceful hand... against the Un-Ascended...” Usra continued as she hovered gracefully toward Jackson with a gentle hand extended. “Our... Order of Dust.

Order of Dust? I really do not understand...

“It ain’t too hard, kid.” said Azazel. “The position is called ‘Order of Dust’ like the lady said. We can’t act against mortal business, and sadly that includes the Dusts that stuck around. Gotta send ’em home.” He slowly stepped toward Jackson.

“But... why me?”

A feather-like pale hand fell onto his cheek and ever so gingerly held his face in its palm. Usra looked into his eyes, her beauty stunning him for a moment. She smiled as her hair flowed around her lips. Then a sharper hand with a red hue rested firmly on his shoulder and the beady eyes of the suited man pierced his own. In their silence, Jackson felt warm yet frozen, calm yet panicked. All at one time he felt the rush of dormant emotion evoking just from the presence of these two beings.

“You were... dealt a cruel injustice... one in which we could not intervene. And in that moment, we sensed something from you... A chill... Revenge...”

Jackson looked within himself. There was anger, maybe even revenge, and mostly fear. It was an iron pot of bubbling stew that boiled at his depths, but he was so tucked away that it seemed as though he could pass by it or forget it all together. Though, it almost seemed to speak from within him, as if it were alive and full of fury. In his truest self he knew this was not him, these feelings were not the Jackson Crowe that had held her, loved her. But he could not pull himself from this odd calling within him even if it was not rightfully his.

“And us being the great entities that we are decided to give that revenge a purpose there, Sport,” said Azazel with arrogance. “Wanna kill that tan-suited assassin? Wanna prevent others from that same end? Then come on down because YOU are our lucky winner.” He leaned in close to Jackson’s face and whispered in a low, raspy tone, “Time to claim your prize...”

“I can’t... I am not a killer, or a hunter, or even a strong enough man for this. I’m just angry... anger can warp the mind... that is all.” Jackson paused. “Even if the anger is... new.”

“Jackson Crowe... we can... make you a strong man...” Usra said, as gentle as a whisper, as chilling as thunder. “We can... channel... these new feelings...”

“Don’t be weak, Jacks,” Azazel mocked.

Jackson clenched his fists, and felt his unmoving blood boil, “I’m not weak...” he growled behind clenched teeth. He was beginning to not recognize who he was inside, but something burned at his every nerve. “I’m not... fuck‐ ing... weak...”

Azazel moved around him, as smooth as a dance and as slow as a predator. His horrid grin flashed in the scorned man’s face, and his eyes pierced him as if to chal‐ lenge his statement. He chuckled, and snickered, and laughed as he watched the absolution of hate within Jackson grow and expand.

“A strong man gets his revenge, boy,” he said as he circled him like a whirlpool. “But, a weak man? Well that fella is the kind to let his lady die and do nothin’.”

Jackson forced his eyelids closed and pushed away the foreign emotions, the thoughts of cold blood and fiery hatred. Become, something said within him. Become... the Order of Dust... Jackson fought a war within himself against emotions that now spoke as if sentient. Kill... the Un-Ascended...

“It’d be a real shame if that pretty girl of yours watched you be such a fuckin’ coward,” Azazel muttered behind his painted smile. “All I’m sayin’.”

A fire broke inside of Jackson. Rage unchained like nothing he had ever felt and boiled in him like an over‐ flowing cauldron. Was this his own emotion or something the beings had placed within him? He looked in Usra’s starless eyes once more then to Azazel.

“I’ll be your Order...

Suddenly the white space swirled with vibrant colors of deep, rich purples and oozing greens. They enveloped him and soon all he could see were the beings who continued to hold him. Usra moved her hand to his chest and a warm, red glow ignited within him.

“This... is... the Heart of the Creator.” she said as her palm glowed. “May it heal your wounds... and sustain your life...”

Then Azazel placed his palm over his eyes and his head began to feel clouded, heavy. “Eyes of the Cruel. They will help you see the Un-Ascended who take up residence inside the bodies of innocents. Let’s say that you’ll see a different smile now.” Jackson began to grunt loudly as the pain swelled inside of his skull.

A finger placed over his lips and Usra’s voice rang sweetly in his ears. “Symphony of the Wise... to commune with the Order of Ascendance... Angels are what your people called them... and me... long ago.”

Guts of the Strong will give you some strength and endurance that your kind would normally not possess. You’re welcome, kid.” Azazel thrust his palm into Jack‐ sons stomach who he let out a cough, winded from the blow. “And before I forget, here’s something important.” He placed his hands over Jacksons ears and leaned in with his toothy grin. “Echo of the End...” he whispered, “now you can call on me whenever you need to.”

Jackson fell back as his eyes grew heavy and began to close. He laid and floated in the nothingness around him. As his consciousness drifted, he felt a cold, metallic weight on his chest. The item was dense as it pressed into his torso. His eyes fully closed and Ursa laid beside him, pressing her face to his. She placed a hand over the object and whispered in a way that reminded him of a short breeze on a summer evening. “Arm of the Savior...”


Damn it... my head is killing me, Jackson thought to himself. Jackson sat up, finding himself in his own bed. His apartment lay thick with dust and the air held a musty scent. As he rose to his feet his body felt different, more mature and stronger than before. He slowly walked outside of his room, pushing the door with a force previ‐ ously unknown to him. With each solid thump of his steps small clouds shot up from the raggedy carpet. He entered the hallway and passed a mirror that his fiancée had hung as a decoration. He hated it. When his eyes met his own, he did not recognize the reflection staring back at him. The face was doused in wrinkles of a long life which he had not had. Thick, gray stubble adorned his once smooth face and long graying hair hung from the sides of his head onto his broad shoulders. He raised a hand to touch his jaw, rubbing his chin and then pushing it through his hair. Even his hands had grown rougher. What truly threw him was the lack of a bullet wound on his head. Jackson touched a hand to the glass and outlined the reflection of his face; the man who looked back at him. If this was him, he thought, then time as truly changed him. He stormed off toward the living room where he saw a sight that brought on familiar emotions.

“No...” Jackson grumbled low.

In the center of his living room sat a large red, crusted stain. It coated the carpet having solidified into a circular pattern like old paint thrown onto a canvas then left to dry. It was not until he abruptly stopped that he felt some‐ thing hanging on his side, and hit against his thigh. He reached down, grabbed it, and held it up. The object was a large gun that appeared very old, with a fantastical design. The metal was a smooth, shining amethyst color with decorative gold-swirling accents across the barrel. Jackson grabbed the dark, stained wooden handle and felt its cold surface on his palm as his finger glided along the trigger. He remembered Usra’s words, gentle in his ear as he quietly drifted away. Arm of the Savior, he thought to himself, a weapon to remove the Un-Ascended from a host.

In a moment, he felt the eerie creep of déjà vu crawling over his consciousness, as if he had held this gun before. Many times before. Somewhere far from here, in a place where life and death have a neutral place to meet. Muscle memory of his hand pulling that trigger so many times before, and the thoughts blurred as he tried to collect them. He stared long at the weapon, but nothing came; not yet.

After admiring its beauty, Jackson placed it back at his hip as he continued his journey towards the pool of dried dead memories. Jackson examined the gray carpet as it transitioned to deep red and had become rigid. While everything else in his apartment seemed untouched, even dormant, there was something here that had not been there prior; and it was not the weapon at his side. A small white box with a letter folded on top sat in the center of the dried blood. He knelt beside it and, with his now hardened, aged hands, snatched the letter from its surface.

“Well good morning, Sunshine. Welcome back to life. Ya may have already noticed this but it’s been 19 years since your train left the station, so to speak. We kept this place completely untouched for ya, including the friendly reminder here of why you became The Order. In the box you’ll find a little something I couldn’t give ya with Usra right there watchin’ us. You already got one for the Demons, so here is a little something for the rest of em. See ya real soon, kiddo.”


“Nineteen years...” Jackson said aloud. His large, old fist clenched and released quickly as he grinded his teeth. “This body... it doesn’t feel like me... Like a shell. Maybe, it was just hollow for too long. Is that the price of an Order, Azazel? Does your world destroy mine?” He spoke to no one, but inside he spoke to the Ender himself. Somehow, he felt that maybe he heard it.

Jackson removed the lid of the box to see something shining back to him, reflecting the light that crept in from between the curtains. The hard, silver metal glossed over the barrel and rested with a black grip. A much more modern weapon, for a much more modern problem. The barrel read “Beretta. Cal 9mm. Made in the USA” with a warning disclaimer about its loading. Jackson raised it up and held it in front of his worn face.

“Hmph,” he grunted. “I hope... this doesn’t get much use, Azazel.”

Utilizing an old kitchen knife with a rusted sharp point, he went to work. His new armaments lay before him on the counter as he hacked and sawed at the metal. Each line let out a shearing screech that pierced the hollow silence of his home. Flakes of metal built small piles like ant hills along the sides of the weapons and he let out a deep, warm blow from his lips scattering the shavings. Throwing the knife to the side, Jackson smiled at his handy work. He stood once more before the large mirror as a different man than the one who had laid bleeding on the floor nineteen years prior. A long, tan trench coat adorned him with a collar covering his dark‐ ened face. The graying hair rested at his shoulders and from this mane a furrowed brow stared back from the reflection. Each of his hands held a different pistol. With an engraving carved alone the barrels.

For Humans.

For Demons.




FROM JUST OUTSIDE OF the door the air hung in thick, rich smoke and the smell of tobacco.

“Come on, let’s get this party started already!” said a robust, round man in an ill-fitting suit.

He sat in a row of chairs that faced a brightly lit, yet small, stage. Each seat held a man with a more sinister snarl than the last, with various upscale attire adorning their bodies. Clouds of heavy smoke rose towards the ceiling as they took deep, long drags of their cigarettes, and the streams of gray haze rose and twirled around them leaving a dense fog that filled the room.

A stage such as this one had no business being here. It had beautiful glazed wooden flooring with a thick velvet- red curtain draped over it, blocking a door that was just out of sight. Surrounding the stage was the rest of the room; stained grey concrete walls, furnished with the smell of mold and blood. It lay windowless with only the light from the stage offerings a glow on the disheveled audience. Behind the row of seating was a single steel door with no handle.

There was no escape from the inside. That is how they wanted it.

While so much of this world had changed, the most unfortunate part was that this city never changed.

Crime had not changed in abundance, only in its victimization. New Ashton had once flourished during the industrial boom, with each block becoming a thick jungle of office buildings, apartment complexes, and corner stores. There was a time when this was prosperous, but with commerce came criminals. New Ashton soon had lost the title as industrious, and traded it for new terms such as overpopulated, unemployed, poor, and, of course, murderous. Over the decades, once the great truth of the North-Lane came to pass, the Un-Ascended grew rampid. And, with supply comes demand, which was when the Scarabs crawled their way in.

“Get this auction started, Carter!” said a man, seated beside the round one.

Carter emerged from behind the curtain; tall and thin with a bone-chilling smile and eyes that mimicked that of a lifeless doll. His tight, black suit of velvet stretched across him and matched his slick, black greasy hair.

“Gentlemen...” said Carter in the silky tone, heard only from someone with years of dark dealings. “I apologize for the delay, but let us begin.”

Carter motioned his hand as the curtain opened slightly revealing a dark, opened doorway. The sounds of hastened breathing and sniffling echoed softly within the rich darkness.

“Our first item up for auction,” said the silver- tongued Carter.

A burly figure emerged, large in stature with a stoic face, and a shiny head. In his hand he dragged the arm of a young, almost nude man. He was visibly trembling with his hands bound by duct tape matching his covered mouth. His eyes flew back and forth in fear, and he hunched as he walked to the center of the stage.

“Stand up straight,” growled the burly man as he turned back to the dark room and disappeared.

“Some information,” said Carter as he slowly skated around the boy on the stage. His eerie presence clearly made the young man much more nervous. Carter placed a pale, cold hand on to his shoulder.

“With his physique you can see he is athletic... captain of his college baseball team. Twenty years old, almost old enough for the drink. This young man comes not only with youth and vigor, but also a wealthy family involved in law.” He wrapped his face close to the frightened boy, “And let us not forget...” he said with a sinister smirk, “he also has a gorgeous young lady by the name of Venus who is just mad about him.”

“Five. Hundred. Thousand.” A man from the row stands and shouts.

“Six hundred thousand!” screamed the man beside him.

“Stop the child’s play,” interjected the round man who hobbled up from his seat. “Two million dollars for the boy.”

A hush silence fell in the small room. A few men looked around to one another. The boy stood, shaking in his blue boxer-briefs.


The round man approached the stage.


He stood at the edge, staring at his prize.

“Sold,” said Carter with a haunting whisper, and a bone-chilling grin.

The steel door flung open and crashed into the concrete wall beside it. The silhouette of a man in a long jacket stood amongst the pouring fluorescent lighting behind him. Straggled hair, coarse and flared, outlined a dark unrecog‐ nizable face. He took a large slow step into the room.

Seven chairs sat before him, facing a stage in the short distance. Seven men stood at these chairs and turned to face him. Two more stood on the stage; one was thin, with ghastly features and a marionette expression, the other young, nude, and bound.

“Scarabs...” a low voice, as thick and raspy as gravel, came from the entering stranger.

“GUARDS!” shouted the round man who had re- entered the line with the other six beside him.

A metallic flash ran before them in a blur of shining purple and brilliant gold. The item was visible to them for only a brief moment as it pointed from the stranger’s hand.

Seven men stood, facing the stranger.

Seven bursts exploded from the barrel of the purple and gold weapon.

Six bodies fell to the ground.

In their place stood humanoid figures of a speckled sand with no distinguishable features. The specks moved within their human shape and those shapes were as still as snowmen. Out of the seven men who waited at the chairs, only one remained who now stood by the six figures of Dust. His face bent in horror, and beside him the face of Carter contorted with an odd excitement as if he fed on the thrill of danger, and the meal had just been served.

“Oh my,” said Carter in a cheerful tone. “You must be the strange man who keeps attacking my gatherings. I was hoping you’d make our little party here.”

“Hmph...” the man said as he walked closer, the stage glow revealing his true features. His tan trench coat, his grizzled face, his hardened stare. “Six demons, one human.” He grunted.

Jackson had been working these cases for a few months now, hunting Un-Ascended and searching for Scarabs. “I’ve learned a lot from hunting you,” he said taking another step closer. “One lesson stands out more and more at every one of your fucking parties.” He stepped once more and stood before them. “Some humans are no better than Demons.”

In his other hand he slowly raised a more familiar weapon of steel. A loud pop crackled through the small warehouse room, bouncing off each wall in a deafening boom. The bullet entered the last man through the fore‐ head with a perfect circular hole leaking a thick crimson liquid. His eyes rolled back as his knees buckled and he fell limp over the back of his chair.

“Azazel...” muttered Jackson.

In an instant the dark presence revealed himself from a thick cloud of black smoke that wreaked of fire and ash, wearing a similar large grin to that of Carter. He leant over in a bow. “Thanks, Jackie.,” he said, turning back toward Carter. “See ya soon!”

In a flash Azazel had disappeared as quickly as he came, taking the six Dust’s with him. Now Jackson’s cold eyes met the fires of Carter’s anxious ones.

“Ah, so you prefer Jackie then?” Carter said with a serpentine