“Melody,” she says over her shoulder. She keeps walking. He watches her until she disappears into her office. “Melody,” he repeats, liking how the name sounds on his tongue. The smile returns, and he proceeds to the exit so he can find his motorcycle and go exploring.
He cracks open the glass door to the outside world, and he stops in his tracks.
The sheer size of the gathering in the lot surprises him, even shocks him. The jeering begins—boo, hiss, boo.
“Go home!” shouts a masculine voice enflamed with anger.
Basil’s brain registers the blur of an incoming projectile. He winces as the object smacks his forehead where the flesh meets the base of his injured horn. A purple sphere rolls on the concrete, mimicking the curling arc of a C. The unmistakable tang of chopped onion finds his flaring nostrils.
Chapter 12
Slightly Crushing Pain
The Harley rumbles to a stop in the shade of a Kentucky coffee tree. A veil of road dust follows close behind. Basil kills the engine and brings the motorcycle to rest. “My little noisemaker,” he says as he pats the rounded fuselage, which reminds him of the curve of Kamala’s belly. He puts a hoof to the kickstand and parks the bike, nudging a crumpled-up Budweiser can out of the way.
The parking lot is strewn with red-and-white empties, as well as an ashtray’s worth of spent cigarette butts, a used condom and a few dirty diapers, all balled up and waiting—just waiting—to be unfurled, like left-behind landmines. Dried loaves of dog shit skirt a rusted metal trashcan with an affixed canister offering complimentary trash bags for responsible dog owners. The lip of a green trash bag flaps in the gentle breeze. He dismounts and lets his body wander, to catch up with his roving mind. The cooled remains of a small campfire include half-burnt logs and more empty Bud cans, the aluminum charred black.
He feels uneasy, moody, as he ponders the day’s mixed blessings. He’s thrilled at having nailed his presentation for the Big Bair campaign. Even better, he finally had a meaningful encounter with the elegant brunette from the office building’s first floor. Best of all, he learned her name: Melody. Melody, his mind repeats.
He sneers at the lingering stink of onion juice. The whole left side of his face feels sticky, reeks of an unwashed armpit.
The memory of the scene in the office parking lot—his first truly hostile welcome—has him vexed, even disturbed. Even the bikers at the Beak Tavern extended good tidings at first; sure, the conversation went irretrievably south and he had to destroy them, but the interaction started out with such potential, such promise.
The small mob in the office parking lot hadn’t afforded him the courtesy of speaking his mind—nothing but open hostility, without so much as a hello. He had to tiptoe through a gauntlet of more than twenty people, each of them shaking a fist, wagging fingers in his face, yelling hurtful epithets. Some of them waved signs bearing needlessly cruel tidings such as “To Hell With You,” “Keep the Devil Out of Beak” and “Jesus Hates You.” The most memorable sign read, simply, “Go Off and Die, Anywhere But Here.” One of the protestors, a sixty-year-old fuddy-duddy in an orange trucker cap, blood-red suspenders and a gray T-shirt with a sweat stain running from the neckline to the protruding nib of his belly button, spat at Basil’s hooves. Basil fought the instinct to slit the man’s distended belly east to west and let the grayish snakes of intestine wriggle onto the asphalt. Instead he backed away, climbed onto his noisemaker and thundered away, toward the safety of isolation.
He has found solace here, though his skull throbs with the nut of a headache he knows could turn into a crusher. He craves the consolation of cool water to wash the pain away, and maybe to wipe clean the memory of the sign-waving, finger-pointing mob seemingly intent on spoiling his sacred space: the workplace.
A thin ribbon of dirt draws him beneath the umbrella of a lush, green canopy. After a half-mile, he hears the first suggestion of the prize he has been seeking: the burbling of water. His pace quickens. The trail widens and brings him to the edge of a stream, perhaps fifty feet wide from one bank to the other. As he exhales, his lips curl into a smile.
The softness of wind, the rustling of tree leaves, the rush of water over split rock—together they push any ills from his mind. All evidence of mankind recedes. Birdsong fills his ears. He abandons the trail and steps into the pastern-deep water. He looks in both directions, upstream and down, and sees no movement other than flitting birds, the lilting of chokecherry branches and the poetry of water.
A plane roars overhead, a mile above, but he smiles knowing the machine will come no closer.
He cannot escape the sound of human movement. He imagines a long, slinky dragon, made entirely of metal, scrabbling across the plains—iron skin, well-greased gears propelling every joint, its fuselage-like torso dragging a chain-link tail. As squat as a badger, the dragon belches lava-hot coals and farts contrails of black smoke, its claws carving up the soil and mowing down acres of wheat quills. Black ooze seeps from every metallic pore and fills the ruts in its clamoring wake, the ooze turning to asphalt as it cools. The dragon then sprouts blade-like wings from grooves in its back and takes to the sky, painting cottony clouds with the filthy soot of industry.
Basil clops downstream. The water deepens, rising to his fur-covered calves. His tail dips into the water and swims like an eel. The coolness travels up his spine to his brain, and for some reason the sensation makes him want to cry.
He leans forward and cups his hands into the water so he can splash the oniony stink from his face. The fraction of an image flashes into his mind, followed by the feeling of falling through blackness, of floating, and then burning in the cold, the knowledge of sure death. It’s a snapshot plucked from one of his dreams, however brief, though this is the first time he has experienced it while awake. He gasps to steady the drumbeat in his chest, and his panic slowly subsides.
“What in Cthaal’s name was that?” he asks. He then answers: “I wish I knew.”
He straightens, calf-deep in the stream, waiting for some other surprise to wallop him. When it doesn’t come, he refocuses on his surroundings: wind, water and sunlight, the roving clouds of ragweed pollen. Still, he frets over a possibility that seems to be more and more certain: Something incendiary lurks within him, practicing great patience, and one day it will do its job of exploding.
“A problem for another day,” he utters, yet he knows the task of pushing this far-off threat from his mind is not as simple as he wants it to be.
For now he has chosen to immerse himself in this place, and here—in this sylvan sanctuary on the edge of the Sand Hills—he can make a home, however temporary: away from humans, from demons, from responsibility, from evil of any sort, just him in the midst of the natural world and the perfect circle of death and rebirth.
The thought returns him to his own creation, wondering if he is doing what is intended of him, according to a maker—or, respectfully, a Maker—with intentions. With everything that has happened in recent days, everything he has become, he wonders if he is following the proper path or simply making a grand mistake worse with each passing day. Either way, he knows it does not matter, because it seems no one will show up to undo any of the deeds he has done.
A raptor soars noiselessly overhead. What a glorious place. How sad that so few of his kind will ever have the opportunity to see such beauty. How unfair that, barring a handful of the named Chosen, his people will spend their lives staring at the same boulders of blackened rock and tongues of eternal flame. Guilt tugs at him, but he knows one thing: Demons belong where they belong. The few beautiful souls wandering among them deserve better, but they cannot be helped.
He eases his body into the stream and lets the water flow around him. Organisms live and die around him: silvery minnows pecking at microscopic mites, a thick-bodied water snake struggling to swallow a crayfish that refuses to go without a fight, flies buzzing in tightly knit swarms. He leans forward and dips his face fully into the water, this time without inc
ident. His mouth opens, and the creek flows into him, down his gullet, becoming part of him, even for just a short time.
Despite all the horrors he has seen, despite the suffering he has brought to so many, he feels privileged, fortunate, loved—godlike.
His thoughts turn to Kamala. Jealousy stirs in the hollow of his chest as he wonders how she is faring in his rightful place. He pictures her ample bottom nestled in the crook of an imaginary throne of bleached bones. All must be going fine below, he concludes, given the fact that none of the three imps he anointed as messengers has found him, no dire warnings of an insurrection or any other looming tragedy.
A bank of dark clouds creeps in to blot out the sun, and shadow consumes him.
Basil alternately rues and craves a return to Our Fiery Home. He knows he will have to go back someday. When he does, a foe will be waiting.
His thoughts shift to Lubos and his appetite for havoc.
A sense of unease builds in his gut. Something tells him the world is about to be turned on its ear.
Chapter 13
Sunlight for a Stale Dungeon
The fire knows all. It has yet to steer Kamala astray. The tongues of flame tell her the time has come, and she agrees.
She strides across the cavern, making sure every demon bears witness to her procession. Her loving acolyte, Kindness, trails her by a pace. He scampers like an underweight ape, knuckles scraping at her hooves. Others fall in line behind them, so they move as a pack.
“We will transform this place,” she tells Kindness. “We must.”
“They will want a plan,” he whispers, his voice shaky. “You must address the needs of the many and the few.”
“I know what I must do. To remake this place we must have the Council’s blessing. Without it, we will have no order, no progress. The shift will fail.”
“Shift, my queen?”
“The awakening I intend to bring to life. Only through peace can we secure our future.”
“They crave their precious violence. They cling to it like an infant to its mother’s throbbing teat.”
“To what end?” she asks. “What purpose does their hunger for destruction serve?”
“It’s what they know. It’s all they understand.”
“Only because a better option has not been handed to them.”
“I’m not the one who needs convincing, dearest,” he adds. “These brutes trust in the old ways.”
“Change has come. Basil saw to that. Not everyone will survive what’s to come. Not everyone should.”
Kamala and Kindness share a look, an understanding. Many will be left behind—some banished, others destined to be broken and fed to the furnace.
“Those who wish to share in our vision will be welcome,” she says. “They will have a place at our communal table. Those who oppose …”
Kamala wields Basil’s spear as proof of her authority. A modest horde falls in line behind her. Dozens of imps scramble underfoot, chirping excitedly. Two troglodytes, all muscle and bone and plate-like scales, not a single complex thought in the spongy space between their ears, serve as imposing bookends—fitting accompaniment for her first act as the master of Our Fiery Home.
Though paltry, her band of rebels will gather ranks. It must. Together they skulk toward the Council’s chamber, the Hall of Ignoble and Prodigious Elders, where Basil’s long-serving bureaucrats congregate—to eat, sleep, shit, fuck—the ancient ones, the storytellers, the keepers of Our Fiery Home’s history.
Throughout her life they have shared their knowledge selectively, keeping secrets, lying. Still, they have value. They have more worth alive than dead. If she has their confidence, she can rule without war. If not, the mass murder that follows will be her one and only act of bloodshed. The Council will offer no sane alternative to her plan. They watched the ceaseless parade of horrors under the rule of Basil and his predecessors, but even they must see Lubos and his warlords as a collective threat. Warlords lack the sensitivity to govern, after all, having no interest in preventing their brittle society from unraveling.
Yes, each member of the all-male Council of Unerring Wisdom will have a choice: The Hall of Ignoble and Prodigious Elders will either remain a tidy workplace or become a tomb. Killing is not her first choice, but she can accept selective murder as a path to peace. Root out the villains and leave the decent to breathe life into this stale dungeon.
She stops short of the entrance to the Hall of Ignoble and Prodigious Elders, ready to shape this world into something better. The handle of Basil’s well-worn spear sweats in her grip. She smiles, because she knows her fate is about to turn.
As she steps through the darkened doorway, a foul smell tingles her nostrils. Her hoof slips on something wet and spongy. In the firelight she sees unmoving shapes dotting the slick chamber floor. As her eyes adjust, she recognizes lifeless bodies—hollowed out, emptied of their precious organs—mingled with amputated limbs and disembodied heads. A severed hand drags itself across the floor, like a dying spider clinging to the last fibers of life. The hand trails a clutch of noodle-like veins and tendons, shiny in the firelight, in a fruitless bid to escape.
“Kamala, dear,” says a voice, like a door with rusty hinges. “Do come in.”
Lubos steps into the center of the chamber. He licks blood from two of the three remaining fingers on his ragged hand. A septet of brawny demons shadows him, each bearing weapons of iron and bone. One slithers in to snatch the spear from Kamala’s grip.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Lubos adds. He places a hoof atop the severed head of Calvin, the elderly demon who once headed Basil’s inner circle. The strands of Calvin’s long beard, once gray, are stained red and black. “The Council of Unerring Wisdom had been expecting you too, as I understand it.”
“I am rightful ruler, Lubos,” she insists. “Basil saw to it—”
“Basil’s will matters not,” he snaps. “You’ll never see him again, nor will any of us. His reign might as well have never existed. He’s irrelevant. By definition, so are you, I’m afraid.”
Kamala knows not to speak. She realizes her ambitions no longer matter. Her gaze catches a new piece of art: Basil’s pet, the crippled Damir, tacked to the wall in the shape of a Y; two spikes pin each of his clawless stumps to the pane of rock, two more through his shoulders, one driven through his mouth. Damir blinks at her, still wanting to live. She considers this horror her punishment for not heeding Damir’s warning.
“Let’s assume, for one playful moment,” Lubos continues, “that Basil has any influence over anything. Considering his uninspired governance, I do believe the Council of Unerring Wisdom would have let you have your way. If you had heard any of the drivel they had been spouting since Basil stepped into the wilderness, I do think Calvin and the others would have agreed to whatever silly ideas you put forth. Such a pity we’ll never know.”
Lubos pads toward her and warms to her sleek body. He folds into her, their genitals nearly in alignment. He brings a bloody hand to her head and cradles her naked skull. His snakelike erection stabs her, the tip moist and sticky against the soft skin of her belly.
Kindness whimpers, looking nervously from one side of the cavern to the other. He crawls closer to Kamala, perhaps to protect but more likely to seek her protection.
Kamala exhales and shuts her eyes tightly, because she knows what’s about to come. She will endure pain. She will bleed. She will be broken and reduced to nothing. But she will survive, because this is the way of their world. She will make a good pawn, even a trophy. The same cannot be said of her love, the meek Kindness. He is unnecessary, and no one but her will miss him. Tears wet her eyes. She should have left him behind, to hide in the shadows until all was safe.
His blood will be on her hands.
“You will enjoy your time beneath me,” Lubos whispers into her ear. “I will enjoy hurting you, and watching others do the same.”
He turns sharply and rakes Kindness’s face with the claws of his free h
and. Kindness’s lower lip sails across the room and drops to the floor with the weight of a wet sponge. Kindness collapses, sobbing the broken syllables of Kamala’s name.
“Shut him up,” Lubos says to Kamala.
“Get up, Kindness,” she says, doing her best to soothe. “Kindness, dear …”
Curled into a tight ball, Kindness murmurs and sobs.
“He seems to lack the proper motivation,” Lubos says.
Kamala watches as Lubos pounces, straddling Kindness. Lubos’s claws slash, left to right and back again. After a moment, a heaving Lubos retracts and studies his attempt at art: Kindness’s wretched face, now a slab of bloody meat—lip absent, cheeks ragged, one eyelid sliced down its middle, an ear hanging by a morsel of cartilage. Lubos waves his henchmen over and makes a crude motion with his hands, moving his palms together and then apart.
Four ogre-like demons step forward, and each clasps one of Kindness’s limbs. It happens slowly—the tearing, the popping of tendon and bone, the horrid screaming of unimaginable pain. One of Kindness’s arms tears free, followed by the other. Warm blood wets the walls. Two of the oversized demons play tug-ofwar—a leg in each meaty grip. The left leg pulls free, the game of wishbone won. Kindness’s torso falls to the gore-soaked floor. The screaming stops abruptly, leaving a gentle gurgling to fill the void.
Lubos presses his tongue into Kamala’s ear and then drags the forked tip across her cheek until it swipes her bottom lip.
“Your end will come in the Room of Contrition,” he tells her. “Every wretch will take a piece.”
“No!” screams Kindness, showing courage despite his dismemberment.
“Drag that waste of a thing off and drown him in the stew,” Lubos says. “His flesh will become tomorrow’s gruel.”
The winner of the tug-of-war hauls Kindness off by his one remaining leg. With each passing second, Kindness’s screams grow softer, farther off.
Dear, sweet Kindness. His cries echo in Kamala’s ears. She will mourn him at a better time. She studies the chamber floor, committing these horrors to memory.
Burn, Beautiful Soul Page 12