The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  Baxter waited for the pain in his head to fade, then carefully proceeded. Soon he could trace the dim shape of the veranda at the back of the study. Lights burned within, though a heavy drape obscured all but the thinnest of the room's margins. Baxter found himself wondering if Ashton was inside and decided that would only make sense. He slipped up close to the window and peered through the crack between the curtain and the wall. Yes. Ashton sat alone, the plate of food before him untouched. He sipped from a glass of wine while idly turning the pages of some old, worm-eaten tome. A new thought came to Baxter then, one that once would have been unthinkable. He turned it over in his mind, weighing the odds.

  If Ashton remained absorbed in his reading, if Baxter were to catch him unawares, there was a chance. Slim at best, but still a chance. Did he dare gamble, taking such a risk with everyone's lives? Zak would call him a fool and give him ten reasons it wouldn't work; then again, Zak was perfectly willing to sacrifice all of their lives with no chance of escape for anyone. Baxter understood that only one choice could be made. Once he committed to a decision there could be no turning back. Did he take this opportunity now, discarding their carefully-laid plan on some random act that may or may not work? Or did he ignore this chance, passing on a one-time opportunity to finally end this madness once and for all?

  A sense of inertia swept over him and Baxter sank to his knees. Too many choices, too many paths… he found himself suddenly stuck, overwhelmed by the possibilities before him. He realized he'd been trapped. It was only doubt which bound him, his inability to choose a course leaving him rooted to the spot. Whereas the other members of the circle would simply react, Baxter was forced to consider and re-consider, his imagination opening endless avenues of possibility. But Paq'q lay at the end of every one, thriving and malign, bloated on Baxter's wasted energies. Baxter felt himself weaken further and knew he had to move. In moments he would be down, in His clutches, unable or unwilling to rise again.

  Baxter staggered to his feet. He advanced step by impossible step, dragging himself down the path. After what seemed like hours his hands finally fell across the craggy wall of stone. Relived beyond words he allowed himself to drop down into the dust before the Rock of Faces, letting out a ragged sigh. It was only then he removed the small wooden box of matches from his shirt pocket and scratched one along the strip of flint. The warm glow of the fire was reassuring after his trip through the endless dark. Baxter relished its yellow-orange light and the sight of familiar things before recoiling in sudden terror.

  The crow was enormous, easily the size of a full-grown pig. It steamed in the chill air, the stench it radiated hot and dense. It craned its enormous head toward him in a gesture suggestive of feral intelligence. If he didn't know any better Baxter would have sworn the damn thing winked at him. Before he could react the monstrous bird dipped its over-sized beak into the "mouth" of the stone wall and withdrew the plastic baggie Baxter had hidden there.

  "NO!" Baxter swung wildly, reluctance to touch the thing draining the strength from his punch. Nonetheless his blow connected, striking the crow squarely in its wide breast. Crying out, the great bird's beak scissored open and the bag dropped to the ground. Baxter dove, clawing desperately at the shadows. Before his fingers could close around the baggie the crow darted forward and Baxter felt a blinding pain in the back of his hand. Reflexively he drew it to him. Blood streamed from both sides of the wound, the crow's filthy beak having punched clear through his palm. Making a fist with the damaged hand Baxter swung at the bird again, this time with no restraint.

  The blow slammed against the side of it, just above the wing, and the crow went sideways with a squawk. The match went out then, plunging the scene into darkness. Unable to locate the baggie, Baxter scrabbled for another match, striking it unevenly against the now-dented box. In the flash of light he saw a wall of shadow move towards him, wings so wide they swallowed the night itself. A great weight fell upon him them, slamming him face-first into the choking dust and scrub. Wind whipped around him as talons tore his arms, neck and face. Baxter felt the beak repeatedly strike against his collarbone and cried out in a voice unrecognizable as his own. Catching a fist full of greasy feathers Baxter knocked the fetid thing from him and rolled to one side. He could not breathe, his burning lungs refusing to inhale despite his best attempts to convince them. He was down.

  For long moments nothing happened. The crow had him now, could tear out his throat if it chose to, but that wasn't why it was there. Baxter's shaking hand lit another match and he watched grimly as the misshapen parody waddled over to where he lay. The firelight reflected back in the lamp-black eye that faced him, a bulging thing with no trace of life left within. From the creature's beak came a strange little cry, a creak of triumph as it scooped up the fallen pouch. Slowly it trotted forward, head up and wings open. A wind began than, strong and sudden from the east. Catching the willful current, the crow's massive wings began to beat. In the space of a moment it was away, just a swatch of receding darkness against the cold October sky.

  ~*~

  "I blew it."

  Zak looked at Baxter quizzically. "Huh? What do you mean? What the Hell happened to you?"

  Baxter dabbed at his face with a fistful of toilet tissue. The twin furrows that had been gouged down his left cheek were still bleeding like crazy. "Pain pills. You offered?" Zak nodded. Pulling a satchel from the arm of his chair he rummaged through one of the many pouches. Removing an amber-colored bottle he tossed it to Baxter.

  "Only take one of those. They'll knock you on your ass."

  Baxter opened the bottle with practiced ease, chucking a handful of the tiny red pills down his throat before Zak could protest. Swallowing hard, he shuddered and dropped into one of the study's overstuffed chairs.

  "The equipment. I lost it."

  Zak's face fell but he did not speak, waiting for Baxter to explain himself. For long moments Baxter said nothing, simply staring at the floor. Zak wondered if his friend was going into shock. He had lost a lot of blood. It caked his tattered clothing, as well as the bandages that had been used to close his previous wounds.

  "I'm sorry. There was… a crow. A fucking huge crow. It attacked me. It did this." Baxter held his hand up palm out.

  "Jesus!" Zak grabbed Baxter's wrist and gently pulled it close. The hole in the palm was the circumference of a nickel, a ragged thing that still oozed despite being clotted with gray earth and detritus. The crow's beak had missed the significant arteries but just barely; there was no question the wound would need cleaned and dressed immediately. "Son of a bitch, Bax. I'm sorry."

  With this Baxter looked up. "Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for? It's my fault, Zak! I'm the one who screwed us! A bird kicked my ass! Oh, man, I just, I can't believe I…" Baxter clenched his fist, a move that was clearly agonizing. He gasped.

  "Bax, come on! Relax for a second! Breathe. Just breathe."

  Baxter sagged in his seat."What are we going to do, Zak? What can we do?"

  Before Zak could speak another voice answered. "You will do what you are destined to do. Take your place in the circle and join your brothers and sisters in welcoming our Father home." Ashton strode into the room, Metathias in tow. Zak noted the now-familiar medical bag the old man carried. Without a word he began dressing Baxter's wounds.

  "Would you like to tell me where you found this?" Ashton asked, dangling the plastic baggie distastefully between two fingers. He looked at the two men, but they remained mum. Ashton nodded. "I understand. Well, let's just say I have a good guess as to who provided this for you. I just want you to know it would have made no difference. These trinkets possess no real power."

  "OK. Fine. I'll take 'em back."

  Ashton smiled at Baxter's request. "No, I think not. They would only be distractions. I need you sharp, the both of you. You'll need to be at your best for the ceremony. Strong. Focused. Bandaged." He approached Baxter, tilted his chin up to face him. "Those are nasty scratches, Brother. How on earth d
id you get them?"

  Baxter laughed. "Cut myself shaving. It's those cheap razors you've been stocking the bathroom with. And while you're here I wanna complain about the slop you've been dishing up. Surely you can do better for old friends like us. I mean, after all we're doing for you."

  Ashton let go and sighed. "Yes, about that. My apologies. It seems Paq'q's effects grow more pronounced as time goes on. His hunger is great." He looked at the two men squarely. "The last time we gathered we made a terrible mistake, in our Binding the Way. It was very rude of us to open the door only to slam it closed in His face, wouldn't you agree? When we did we split a part of Him from himself. Just a tiny bit, really, what would be a few cells to you or I. Still, they were enough. These have been His seedlings, preparing the soil if you will, laying a space so that Paq'q may at last be brought through. Which is why we must re-open the Gate and once again offer ourselves to Him. It will be glorious, brothers. Paq'q will live as He never has, brought at last into the flesh. After an eternity bound on the other side He shall be free to reap these fertile lands, to bring His Word to the faithful and transformation to the waiting world."

  Zak shook his head. "I don't fucking believe you, man. After all that's happened. After all the pain and the misery and the bullshit. I mean, I understand Adam. He was always a dupe. Chloe? Sure. She's a head-case. But you… you, I just don't fucking believe."

  Ashton did not reply. He simply walked over to Zak and backhanded him across the face. The power of the blow was considerable, knocking the frail man sideways and out of his wheelchair. Baxter tried to leap up but something suddenly clamped down around his wrist. Metathias held him at an angle, his leverage preventing Baxter from standing without breaking his own arm.

  "Bastard!" Baxter snarled, attempting to pry the old man's hand away. It made little difference; his grip was iron, unyielding in spite of Baxter's best efforts. Metathias' face was emotionless, as if he were performing some mundane household chore. He watched disinterestedly as Zak struggled to rise.

  "Believe it, Zak." But Ashton's face changed as he spoke, his smile souring slightly. Baxter realized he was listening to something and only then noticed the ghostly music had again begun to play. It came from both near and far, an echo that whispered. It brought with it the old fear and the slow creeping sensation that spread up the back of his neck. Baxter found it hard to believe there was ever a time before he'd heard it. The music had become a part of him, a cancer that had lain benign down the years, just waiting for the opportunity to once again bloom. It seemed to mock Zak's efforts, a lilting counterpoint to his pain. If Metathias heard it he gave no sign. Letting go of Baxter's wrist he returned his attention to the first aid kit, removing a plastic-wrapped roll of gauze.

  "We will gather together tomorrow to feast. There I will tell you all you need to know. Do not struggle. Do not try to escape. Embrace your destiny and you will enjoy His rewards forever. Resist and…" Without finishing Ashton turned and walked away, leaving Zachary where he lay. This time Metathias did not stop Baxter from rising to help his friend. Gingerly, Baxter boosted Zak upwards, allowing him to slip back into the chair.

  Blood ran from the corner of his mouth but, amazingly, Zak was smiling. "Well, that could have gone better."

  ~*~

  Baxter felt no pain. Zak had been telling the truth when he'd said the medication was powerful. The effect was overwhelming in combination with the brandy he'd conned Metathias into giving him. Now it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. The edges of the world had faded, his suffering forgotten in a quiet pile on the still-made bed. Baxter thought of Zak; his friend lived with pain much worse than his every day. His was a future of paralysis, organ failure and death, yet life was so precious to him he was willing to live it in a shell of his former self, imprisoned in a body that could only suffer. All Baxter wanted to do was give up, to stop fighting and stay down. He tried to rise, to focus, but his mind kept drifting.

  Strange ideas came to him, visions he knew did not originate in his own mind. Looking down at his body Baxter shuddered. So weak. So defenseless. So utterly pliable. He imagined changes to come, his flesh stretched, shrunken, knotted into hard, bony ridges, twisted into wings, fins, flags bearing Paq'q's standard. Baxter felt the first tingle of new sensory organs, the ache of nerves as they knit together, the burn of cells firing and dying through endless mutation. He saw the others of the circle as they would be, transformed in the service of their Master, sensual and hideous things that would help usher in a new age of terror for humankind. Baxter forced his eyes open in a bid to banish his visions. It was only then he realized he was not alone.

  Though straining to make no sound, Baxter could hear the lurker in the moments where silence was less than total; a thin slip of breath here, the infinitesimal creak of a floorboard there that added up to an uninvited visitor. He picked the darkness apart, finding the space that was one shade deeper. Less than silhouette, only the barest of contours might be seen by straining. Baxter tried to speak but could not, his tongue unmoving in his mouth. He could only watch and wait.

  It seemed to take her forever to step forward, detaching from the blackness to drift towards him. In the feeble light of the window he beheld her form. Gracefully she moved, hair streaming behind her, feet barely touching the ground. In a moment she was at his side, a titan of shadow, her form filling all. He stared mutely, willed himself to move. Somehow he half-rose before a hand fell upon his trembling chest, gently but insistently pushing him back to the mattress. And that hand was cold.

  Baxter groaned as she slid into bed beside him. He felt his body temperature drop immediately, flesh going chill beneath his clothing. Her hand returned to his chest, sliding up his shirt and across his breastbone. His skin crawled as she caressed him, the sensation akin to being rubbed with a funeral urn. Baxter hissed, struggled to push her away.

  "Stop," she said, and he did. While he still wished with all his strength to resist her, Baxter's body no longer responded to his commands. A languor had overtaken him, an inability to move, much less struggle against her. Her hands were on him again and this time it was all business. She quickly unbuttoned and removed his shirt, then slipped his pants off in one fluid motion. He wore no underwear, making what she did all the easier. She slid down his body, taking his cock into her hand. It had shriveled out of fear, was a bit of numb putty between his legs. She began to manipulate him in a way Baxter could not explain, bringing immense pleasure in spite of his serious misgivings. Within moments he was erect, hot and swollen in her cold hand.

  She slid down his body and began softly speaking. Baxter was unable to make out the words, the language unfamiliar, his ears filled with the roar of his own rushing blood. She began to pump him faster, the cadence of her voice changing, becoming more insistent. From somewhere far off came the sound of thunder. The reply she'd been waiting for, she ceased to speak. Her mouth was on him then. Without hesitation she swallowed half his shaft, then began to bob up and down vigorously between his legs. He felt her cool hair on the inside of his thighs, felt her hands sliding across his now-chilled flesh, felt himself come like he'd never come before. Baxter bucked, cried out though his body remained unresponsive to his desperate commands to move. She swallowed all of him, left him cold at his core. But she was not done.

  She began to manipulate him again in the singular way she had previously, keeping him hard despite his stunning orgasm. When satisfied he would remain aroused, she threw her legs over his hips and drew him in. Her sex was as cold and unyielding as porcelain, a tight socket more oiled than wet. It felt wonderful to Baxter though he knew it shouldn't. She rode him slow, deep, drawing him further inside of her than he imagined possible. Baxter willed himself to fight back, to make a fist and knock her away, but his hands were on her hips, pulling her to him instead. She was making little sounds now, tiny cries that both thrilled and repulsed him. The two rose and fell, flesh straining against flesh, endless moments of frozen rapture wrought upon the d
usty, twisted sheets. Baxter felt them move beneath him, writhing with a malign half-life loathsome to any right-thinking man. He noticed the drapes moving as well, swaying though no breeze blew. The entire room was clearly imbued with Paq'q, a reprehensible, voyeur-like energy that hissed and sputtered in the darkness about them. There was a sense of something coiling about them, entwining the two in some damnable psychic vegetation, binding them to the insidious scene.

  She was coming. He knew it by her low but rapid moaning, by the flutter of her muscles squeezing him like some lovely vise, by her nails which punctured his chilled flesh. Tiny pools of warmth bloomed, spilled down his arms, chest and into the dusty bedding. The sheets squirmed beneath him, sucked up the blood greedily as it flowed. Twin sensations fought for domination, ran parallel as she fucked him, disgust and mind-shattering bliss co-mingling in an unspeakably repellent fashion. Harder and harder she rode, taking him to the hilt again and again until, at last, he surrendered himself to her.

  His orgasm was wrenching, torn from him impersonally. Baxter's vital fluids flooded her channel, but it was as if he was ejaculating into a vacuum. As it spilled, his seed was instantly gone, drawn up somewhere inside deep inside of her. They were screaming together now, she in pleasure, he with soul-shattering realization. Her muscles continued to work him, dragging the last dregs of semen from his aching testes. And then, when nothing was left, she somehow took more. Baxter could not explain it but he felt it go, vanishing as if it had never been. Broken, spent on the purring bed, only then was it over.

  She rolled off of him and quickly rose, and though he could not see her, Baxter knew Chloe was smiling. She said nothing, slipping back to her place in the waiting darkness. Baxter felt the mattress beneath him shudder and stop, the once squirming-sheets falling back into latency. They were ice cold now, stiff and dry as paper. He shifted to one side, watched the rectangle of yellow open out into the relative normalcy of