by Greg Chapman
He followed the flow of people to a street corner and the beacon pricked at his urge with incessant vigour. The pack of meals waited for the walk signal to change and when it did, they walked across the street in unison. The beacon waned so Thomas stayed behind.
What should he do—should he follow? When should he feast?
He looked to his left, back up the street, past a market stall, past a thin man playing a guitar for money. The beacon arose again, a call for him to walk in that direction. He strode up the street determined, past the market, past the busker, watching the steady flow of cars, waiting for the urge to speak once more.
The urge eventually came to him, from an unexpected, yet vital place. The entrance to the underground subway opened like a cavernous wound and drew him like an addiction. Thomas smiled to himself, it made so much sense—the subway had been his first hunting place when he was young, so naïve and innocent, like a cub in the wild. He didn’t resist the urge, instead walking straight down into its comforting dark.
The platform bustled with potential meals, but still the urge found none suitable. Plump faces, flabby arms, tired eyes, nothing appealing at all. The 4.45pm train was imminent and his two companions urged him to wait and want with patience.
The scent of ozone was thick and far off Thomas heard the approaching call of the train, the spark of electricity on the tracks. Meals checked their watches, undoubtedly thinking of impending dinners, the promise of physical love or the numbing embrace of television. Yet Thomas, the monster standing unseen among them, was waiting for a sign—his time to shine.
The 2-8-9 train emerged from the tunnel like a bullet from a gun barrel, wheels screeching on the tracks. The meals funnelled in and took Thomas with them. He closed his eyes and relished the collective smell of their flesh, the intermittent contact, even the stares of concern on their faces when they looked at him—noticed he was out of place.
Thomas joined the crowd on the third carriage, standing shoulder to shoulder with his prey. Apathy was rife, the commuters with earphones headphones in their ears, noses in books or eyes to the floor. Thomas chose to stand and observe, waiting for that one command to seek and kill. He studied a man reading a newspaper, thin-moustached, engrossed in the spiralling state of the economy. His flesh was dry with blemishes of stress-induced dermatitis about his cheeks and hairline. Then there was the attractive woman standing beside him, clinging tight to the ceiling handle, expensive silk blouse, pale pink, think grey woollen skirt suit, luscious dark hair about her shoulders. Any Flesher would have died to indulge in her flesh, but no, not Thomas.
Patience was key so Thomas stood in the carriage, watching them disperse, one after the other at each station. Few were picked up along the route and those who were, Thomas paid no attention. The hours ticked by, but his resolve never wavered, it couldn’t because he had the virtue three-fold now—he was three times the hunter.
The afternoon sun steadily drooped beneath the city skyline. Out the windows, Thomas watched lines of cars and trucks blur by on the freeway, flocks of pigeons headed back to their roosts. The moon, that goddess who had guided him on the evening hunts, began to turn her gorgeous face to the world and Thomas partook in observing her with wonderment.
Before he knew it, the time had gone past 7 pm and carriage number three was empty. He thought of moving to another carriage, but he heard No, stay, your time will come. The train began to slow, crawling to the end of the line at Caxton Station. As it came to rest, the urge swirled in Thomas’ throat, rising to his head, begging him to look to the platform—where he found his prey.
Through the smeared glass windows, the woman looked pained, but endearing. She was short, about five and a half feet and she carried an extra twenty pounds. Her wavy hair was flecked with long veins of white, evidence of physical or mental anguish. As she approached the carriage doors, Thomas noticed a limp or a sway in her step, as if she was bearing a heavy, yet invisible burden.
The doors hissed open, the electronic wine of the announcer kindly asking passengers to stand clear. A cool breeze followed the woman inside and when she saw Thomas, she found the courage to smile.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Thomas replied.
The woman sat down in a seat that ran parallel with the wall of the carriage and immediately began to stare out the window at the passing city, there was so much sadness in her gaze. The electronic announcer reminded passengers to keep away from the closing doors and the train pulled away from the station, but back in the direction from whence it came.
Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes off the woman and not simply because she was his prey, there was something about her sadness that compelled him to watch her, talk to her. There were so many lines on her face, her hair was thinning, but still her eyes, despite their mourning, shone with determination. She turned her gaze in his direction and caught him staring.
“Can I help you?” she said with a furrowed brow and slight recoil.
“I…I’m sorry,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to stare—you just look so…upset.”
The woman looked shocked to have been caught out in a moment of weakness. She wrung her hands together, trying to smooth out the creases.
“Oh, yes…I suppose would,” she said.
The carriage swayed as it changed tracks and the overhead lights flickered on and off.
“Are you all right?” Thomas said. The woman looked to him, more curious this time. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry—I’ll leave you alone.”
The woman smiled and shook her head gently. “No, no it’s fine—I do stand out like a bit of a sore thumb, don’t I?”
Thomas smiled and she softened a little. “I couldn’t help but notice, but you look like you’re in pain.”
She smiled again and a tear ran down her cheek. “I am in pain—I have cancer.”
Thomas’ jaw dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry…please forgive me for intruding—”
“It’s all right, you weren’t to know. It’s stomach cancer and it has spread to my lungs now. The doctors say I don’t have much time.”
Thomas was overwhelmed by how much courage she had, despite her fate, now he knew why Okin and Braegan had led him to her.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Madeline.”
Thomas offered his hand. “My name’s Thomas.”
Madeline accepted his hand, her skin wrapped tightly over arthritic knuckles. “It’s nice to meet you Thomas.”
‘I’m very sorry about your cancer.’
“Yeah, it’s a son of a bitch, but I’m nearly seventy-five—I’ve had a good run. Had the husband—no kids though—been barren all my life.”
Thomas’ heart was being wrenched in two by this woman’s tragic story.
“Where is your husband?”
“He died about five years ago now—heart attack. Silly old bugger did love his booze though.” She cocked her head at him. “Isn’t it funny how life turns out?”
Thomas chuckled “Yeah, it is.”
“And what about you—you’re young and fit-looking—anyone in your life worth talking about?”
Calea came to his mind, the lover that he’d never really known.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Oh, modest are we? What’s her name then?”
“Cal—I mean, Stephanie.”
“You’re not sure of her name—or have you got two girls in waiting?”
Thomas shook his head in dismay and moved to sit in the seat opposite her.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ve only worked it all out just recently. Like you said, it’s funny how life turns out.”
Madeline’s sadness returned. “Yes.”
This was Thomas’ chance; his chance to prove his worth to his soul companions—to prove that he wasn’t a monster at heart.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” he said.
Her eyes said it all. “I’ve been on morphine for about a month now, but it only works for
a little while and then the doctors have to up the dose. They told me today that I need to think about going into a hospice.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“They’ve told me how it’s all going to happen—blow by blow. The pain will get worse and I’ll lose control of my body…” she began to shudder with grief. “I don’t know if I want to end up like that…so hopeless.”
Thomas reached out and held her hands and Madeline gladly took them in hers and squeezed.
“Why are you even talking to me? We’re complete strangers,” she said.
Thomas smirked. “No one’s a stranger in this world, Madeline—we’re all born of the same flesh.”
“Who are you?”
“I’d like to help you, Madeline—if you’ll permit me?”
Confusion and apprehension surfaced in Madeline’s eyes and for a moment, Thomas feared he was about to lose her.
“Help me?” she said. “I don’t understand—”
Thomas squeezed her hands again. “I want to help you—to help rid you of your pain.”
She pulled her hands away. “What are you talking about—what are trying to do?”
“Please, Madeline, you have to believe me when I tell you that I mean you no harm. I want to offer you something.”
Madeline got to her feet and moved to the centre of the carriage. She scanned the world outside the train, trying to discern where she was on the line.
“I think I should get off the train—”
The Flesher stood, staying calm, arms at his sides. “Madeline, please listen to me—I can help you.”
“What are you, a druggie or something? I don’t need any more goddamned drugs!”
“No, Madeline I can give you much more than that.”
At first there was another wave of confusion on her face, but beneath that fog there appeared a realisation.
“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll scream for security,” she said, more demanding this time.
“Madeline please, just sit down and I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?”
Thomas gestured to her seat and she looked to it and him. Seconds passed, the train passed through a tunnel, the carriage suddenly flooded with artificial light and then once on the other side, Madeline moved to sit down. Now it was she who couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“Are you an angel?” she said, her voice trembling.
Thomas smiled. “Yes and no. I’m new and I have a purpose now.”
“What purpose?”
“To make this right. To end all the suffering,” he said.
“But how can you do that?”
“In my old life I made people suffer, but now I’ve been given the chance to turn all that around.”
Lashings of pain shot through Madeline’s abdomen and she clenched at it. Thomas reached out and held her, just as she was about to fall. He helped her sit down.
“Why…do you want to help me?”
“Because you deserve it—and in a way, you’ll be helping me. Will you let me?”
Madeline began to sob. “You’re not tricking me are you—you wouldn’t do that to a poor, cancer-riddled old woman like me?”
“No, Madeline—you’re beautiful and I want to take all that ugliness inside you away.”
“But how?” she said.
“Let me show you something and please don’t be afraid.”
Thomas smiled and the flesh of his Phagun face shifted ever so delicately. Madeline saw the features of his face change—to a pale-faced, square-jawed man and then to a face made of crystal and imbued with light. Before she could comprehend whether it was real or illusion, Thomas’ face returned.
“You are an angel!” Madeline gasped.
Thomas put a hand to her face. “If that’s what you want me to be, then let me grant you grace.”
Madeline closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“No Madeline—thank you.”
Madeline’s face, the flesh of her entire being, wavered, but not into rot—rather the flesh of her body faded away and beneath the bone and muscle—and cancer—Thomas revealed her soul and willingly devoured it. Inside himself he felt Madeline’s humanity—a powerful force he was about to pass on to his Flesher kin.
30
The under-city, and every stone and speck of dust within it, trembled.
Five thousand Skiift feet marched across the dust and over the rocks, so thick and so regimented that, from afar, they would have looked like a wave of congealed blood laying swathe over the land.
Side-by-side they strode, the insatiable appetite for war and victory stirring them on, step by step. Their skin was their armour and the hides beneath, their swords. Each warrior was patient, waiting for the command to conquer. With just one word they would unleash their animal natures on the Phagus and wipe their scourge from the face of the Flesher Kingdom.
Yet, if their leader, who walked ahead of them, wanted to make a choice, he would have ordered them all to turn and run. Re-Kul knew what was to come, the horror of it in his mind like a foul aftertaste on the tongue. He had seen the prophecy and he saw no hope of altering its course. They were all marching to their deaths.
Re-Kul had instructed his Skiift army to enter the under-city and its maze of tunnels without hesitation. Why avoid the inevitable? Why try to conceal what they were destined to do? The thunder of their feet upon the dust had become like the pounding of the drums of war, the beating throng of their hearts—hearts fuelled by hateful blood.
So many wars they had fought, Re-Kul realized. So much bloodshed, so much hatred, all for nought and all the while the Great One was looking down with sadness in his soul. This would be the final battle, the human race had declared war on each other a multitude of times over the eons—one had even been named the war to end all wars, but this war, this secret war, could very well end the greatest civilisation mankind had never known.
Once the army reached the passage to the Sederunt gates, Re-Kul raised his hand to halt the men. The silence of their feet, the postponement of their pilgrimage was like death, an endless void that only accentuated every breath, every thought and pulse of blood.
The Skiift leader waited and watched. Ahead, the gates of the Phagun city, and its revered Sederunt, stood tall, born out of the very rock, bleak and cold. Such a cold-hearted tribe, Re-Kul thought—in stark contrast to the hot-blooded nature of his own people. And the Stygma? They were neither hot nor cold, for they only wore their souls on the sleeves of their wasted robes. Yet, Re-Kul knew that fact made the Stygma the most feared of the tribes and when they came—which they surely would—the end of all wars would come like the rising sun.
Re-Kul turned and stared at his radiant warriors. Living blood, concealing a plethora of horrors beneath and when those horrors were revealed for the last time there would be no time for negotiation, no time for forgiveness or regret. No, all there would be to consider was life and death. Right and wrong would play no part in this.
He could see that certainty in the eyes of his tribesmen, so he turned back to stare at the gates. He slipped off his robe, the second skin of the counsel he had hidden behind for so long. It felt so satisfying to be free of it, to feel the caress of cold air on his red-hot scales. Each scale screamed at him for their own release, so loud, he had to silence them with calming thoughts.
It wasn’t long however, before those thoughts turned back to the gates and his enemy on the other side—the timid king who never stepped into the field of battle—until this day.
Malik had never seen so many Skiift—on any battlefield, let alone at the doors of his very home.
The King’s son peered at the red army through the porthole of the Sederunt gates and instinctively began to size up their numbers. There must have been more than five thousand Skiift—Skiift that could multiply two, or three times over in a heartbeat.
Yet, despite their overwhelming size, the Skiift waited, but for what—for the Phagus to attack? Why, when th
e sheer number of the Skiift could topple the gates in an instant? When Malik turned to look at his minions—five hundred of them—he saw the same question in their eyes.
“Why do they not attack?” Malik heard himself say. “What are they just standing there for?”
The Phagun men looked to each other, a shudder of doubt lingering in their pale faces, paler still from their fear.
“My Lord,” one of them said. “Did you dream last night? We all dreamed—the same dream—did you dream it too!?”
“Stop it!” Malik said. “Take hold of yourself and prepare for the onslaught! Pay no mind to dreams!”
“But My Lord we haven’t dreamed in so long and now Okin grants us dreams of destruction—”
Malik drew his sword, the steel slicing the air on its way to the minion’s throat where it came to rest.
“Enough! Stop being so weak! You are a soldier and you will be ready to fight or die!”
A booming voice forced the army to turn in the direction of the throne:
“There will be no war, Malik!”
His father stood near his throne, Stephanie by his side, but still in chains. Malik pushed the minion aside and strode past the Sederunt flame to face Gavenko.
“Father, you must call your men—the Skiift assemble at our door and they seek to destroy us!”
“They cannot breach our walls, Malik—not in one hundred years have they ever come close.”
“Father, there are five thousand of them out there—even if only ten of them take one of their ungodly shapes then we are doomed! We must assemble every man who can fight—”
“No!” Even Malik’s men flinched at the ferocity in their King’s voice. “I have heard enough out of you, boy! I am tired of your insolence and your attempts to thwart me! You are no better than your treacherous sister!”
Malik looked to Stephanie and saw she wore bruises on her face. “Did you hit her, Father?” he said.