by Tony LaRocca
The door was gone.
Matthew stared at the cinder block wall. Had Asher betrayed him yet again? He took a deep breath. Right now, it did not matter. The pain in his arm did not matter. There was only one way out, and that was forward. He turned around.
A woman’s face loomed inches from his. Her skin was the color of chalk and had an oily sheen, as if she were made of wax. She was bald, and naked. She tried to cover her breasts and pelvis with her arms and hands. She twisted her body away from his, while she looked back at him from over her shoulder. Great puckered scars, like blanched mouths, lined her neck and chest. Branded into her forehead was the scribbled number seven, or was it a sloppy letter S?
A memory flashed before his eyes. He had woken inside the monks’ base camp, newly resurrected, and crawling in darkness. Something had gone wrong. His mind had felt incomplete, lost in a nightmare of madness and pain. This woman had tried to help him, but her words had sounded like screeching gibberish to his agonized brain, and he had struck out at her —
The memory vanished, and another took its place. He had been back in the painting, a two–dimensional image composed of nanomachines. A cross–section of a hand had appeared. It had been cybernetic, its enhanced nervous system reminding him of flowers. She had tried to augment his zhivoi–paint, he was sure of it. This woman had tried to interact with him in the real world.
She possessed his painting, his true self.
“You’re her,” he said. “You’re the one who tried to resurrect me. You’re Sister Theresa.”
Her eyes shone with a pale, blue glow. A muscle trembled beneath her jaw. She seemed about to speak, but stopped, and drew away.
Matthew held his hand out to her, wincing at the soreness in his arm. “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.” He looked her up and down. “You’re a second generation Cyleb, aren’t you?”
She nodded, shaking with what seemed like silent laughter. She pulled her hand away from her pelvis. Matthew tried not to look, but could not help himself. Although her figure was feminine, she was sexless, like a plastic doll. She placed her hand on his left shoulder. He stared down at it. It was not cool, but it was not warm either. He laid his hand on top of hers, and smiled.
Thorns erupted from her palm, driving into his skin. He tore away, crying out as microscopic needles pierced his muscles. She examined his face, her eyes wide, her head cocked, as if curious. He dug his fingers into the cleft in his shoulder, and ripped down.
His personal time–frame accelerated. The candle’s flame took on a red hue. Everything was red now. Her face, beautiful, terrible, and doll–like, was devoid of expression. Her milky eyes met his as a viscous tear ran down her cheek. Matthew staggered back to the alcove where the soldier lay, and exchanged his candle for the saber. The vines along the wall sprung out at him, but he managed to whirl from their reach. The tip of one just raked the skin of his hand as he pulled it back, and raised the blade.
He could barely lift it. He peered into his shoulder’s divide. The barbed thorns within his flesh had given birth to minuscule shoots. They grew in sharp–angled, geometric patterns. Matthew yanked at the tear in his joint with all of his strength. More than ever he needed to rip off his arm and become the Serpent, but he could not. In this Sage, all he could do was slow time to a crawl.
The crypt spun around him. He felt dizzy and nauseous, as if there were worms squirming within his stomach. He forced his shoulder to remain separated, and dug his right fingers into his torn flesh. He had to get the invader out before it dug its roots in any further. His heart felt like ice. He had made a terrible mistake. This woman did not want to help him, she wanted to destroy the center of his power, the essence of who he was. He grabbed onto the thin, wiry vines, and pulled. He had to be slow and sure, so as not to break the thing and leave any of its spindly tendrils inside. With a final, deliberate tug, its barbed shoots came free.
Even within the frame of Matthew’s accelerated time, it writhed in–between his fingertips like a demented daddy–long–legs. It wanted to burrow within his division. It wanted to grow.
The flickering red–shifted light brightened behind him. He turned back to the alcove. The candle had lit the tattered rags of the soldier’s uniform. Roiling scarlet tongues devoured his remains at a leisurely pace. Matthew flicked his wrist, tossing the thorny, spindly creature into the flames.
The woman did not make a sound. Her doll–like lips remained sealed. But her glassy eyes… was there anger in them now? Pain? Indifference? Matthew could not tell. She ran towards him in slow motion, her hands extended. Furrowed pores within her palms opened, and a score of thorns pushed their points through her skin.
He switched the saber to his right hand. The effort needed to keep his shoulder separated by force of will made his head ache. He squinted and blinked as he fought to keep his eyes in focus. He needed to end this. She closed the gap between them, her face expressionless.
He swung the blade upward.
He had hoped to warn her off, to make her stop. Instead, he sliced through the front half of her face. The sword, though pitted and rusted, cut straight through her jaw and nose as if they were made of dry potatoes.
She stopped moving, and stared at him as the front of her face hit the stones with a wet slap. There was no blood, just a viscous, dripping sap. Her visible, neatly bisected cartilage, teeth, jaw, tongue, and muscles were not animal tissue, but cellulose. It was like staring into a surrealistic human dummy made out of vegetables.
Her glassy eyes rolled back in her head, and she took a step back.
Matthew could not take the strain any longer. He closed his shoulder, and time snapped back to normal. He stumbled a few feet, careful not to touch the wall. The soldier’s charred skeleton had become twisted and black. The flames began to lick at the moss on the stones. He fought against the weakness that sapped every muscle in his body as he raised the sword again.
The woman’s eyes shined with incredible sadness. She shook, her naked arms and legs trembling like waxen branches. He let out a low groan. His muscles ached, and felt like rubber. The pixelated line in his shoulder had sealed, although the skin alongside it was a punctured mess.
She turned to face the burning moss. She raised her hands toward it, silhouetted by the growing flames. Heat caressed Matthew’s face. He did not have the strength to fight, not like this. He dropped the sword, its sap–stained steel clanging on the cobblestones.
He ran for the far side of the crypt with a lurching, stork–like gait. It ended in a wall of stone and brick. A splintered, rotten door squatted at its center. He dug his fingers into its wormy wood, and tore it open. He snuck a glance over his shoulder.
The plant–woman, backlit by the inferno, stared back at him. She hung her head as the flames devoured the moss and vines of the catacombs. Was it all a part of her? He did not know. He decided to leave the door open. He had no desire to harm her any further, he just wanted to be away.
He ducked through into the blackness, and ran. His feet pounded first on stone, and then on dirt. He was afraid to touch the walls for fear of more moss and more thorns. Was this the Cathedral that he had been sent to find, or was this just some twisted game of Asher’s? Maybe it was neither. Maybe it was what lay “beneath the surface” of the boy’s conscious mind. But in that case, was his pursuer Sister Theresa, or just Asher’s fear of her, reconstructed beneath the earth? He did not know. He needed to rest, and to heal the damage done to his body. He did not feel any more intruders burrowing beneath his skin, but every footfall made his muscles ache.
A brilliant orange glow flared in the darkness behind him. He looked back. There was no sign of the celluloid woman, but the fire had burned through the doorway. By its light, he could see that he had entered yet another tunnel. The flames that had followed him licked at its walls and arched ceiling. It was like watching golden water flow upside–down. The vegetation here was thick and would burn quickly, but after it was consumed…
He grit his teeth, and tried to pick up speed.
The vines and roots ahead of the flames twisted into figures and faces, creating a living bas–relief that stared at him from the walls. Monks of bark, their cloaks of flesh wrapped around their naked bodies, tilted their heads back to let forth wasps of sawdust. Their children swarmed, erecting skyscrapers, convertibles, computers, and sofas. The scenes moved along with him, a zoetrope of vegetation that performed as brick and stone whizzed by beneath.
He could not see the end of the corridor through the smoke, there was no way of telling how far it went. A stitch formed in his side. He stopped, leaning on his knees while he tried to catch his breath. The animated play remained alongside him. Its monks resurrected people now, from babies crying as they suckled wooden breasts to old men crouched over canes and walkers. A coven of bald girls wrote, or perhaps drew upon what was either a mural, or a giant canvas. It divided itself into scrolls, its ever–changing glyphs cascading down the walls.
The light grew brighter behind him as the flames began to consume the organic display. It was as if they were teasing him, pushing him onward. Did he want to see more of the floral visions, or be left alone in the dark? He felt a pang of guilt for unleashing such destruction upon these wonders. But beneath the apparitions, the walls were made of cobblestone, which meant that this was not a natural tunnel. Stone and brick hallways had to have been built to lead somewhere. He studied the arched ceiling above. There were no crossbeams or supports, which meant that he was probably not too deep underground.
He heard the echo of footfalls in the distance. He turned. He could not see his pursuer, because the flames had already devoured the passage behind him, and left it in darkness. She could be fifty feet away, or she might only be twenty. He turned back to the direction he had been going, and ran.
The display of roots, bark, and vines matched his pace. A face towered over him from the top of the arch. It took him a few moments to realize that it was Asher’s. The visage was not emaciated, nor did it jerk and tick. His features held an expression of arrogant mastery, a sneer of over–confidence. This, he realized, was the boy before whatever fall had overcome him. Then the image broke into a swarm of sawdust wasps. They flew on ahead, sculpting a new scene as they passed.
A likeness of Sister Theresa lay on a hospital bed, her skin composed of pale, white bark. Unlike her bald vegetative and religious counterparts, she had long, thin hair made of wild grass. It flowed around her head like a halo. Her stomach was distended as if to give birth, but it was hollow. She held her hands around its gaping hole, threw back her head, and laughed. Even in pantomime, Matthew could tell that it was not a laugh of joy, but of madness. The scribbled seven or S–like figure that he had seen burned into her forehead danced and swirled around her.
Two soldiers approached, their faces obscured by hazmat masks. Even woven from dancing roots and moss, their uniforms identified them as NorMec Regular Army special operatives. They raised their rifles toward her. Then they took a rope, and tied her hands and feet together while stuffing a gag into her giggling mouth. One grabbed her hair, and the other her wrists. They dragged her away down the beckoning tunnel. Matthew ran, trying to keep up, trying to see. He caught a glimpse of her wriggling, bound legs —
The flames took on speed and shot ahead, consuming everything they touched. They burned themselves out within seconds, leaving him in darkness.
He cursed. He reached out to the wall, and brushed his fingertips along its jagged brick stones. The charred remains of the foliage crumbled beneath his fingers. He stretched his other hand out in front of him. The last thing he needed was to snap his nose against a wall as he tried to evade his pursuer.
He deliberated his choices. He could try to communicate with her again, but that had only left him open to attack. Whether she was a Cyleb or just a figment of Asher’s imagination, there was no doubt that she meant him harm. Was it necessary to kill or maim her? The idea made his stomach twist, but he was not about to let her drive her thorns into his flesh again.
His breath felt hot and thick in his chest. It was hard to run without pumping his arms, even though they were aching and sore. He reached for the cleft in his shoulder, and pulled it down a tiny bit. He probably had lost months if not years of his life in the past week alone, but he needed to heal. Besides, while moving faster he could walk instead of running, and be more silent.
His mind wandered to thoughts of Asher. Despite all of his apologies and promises, the monk had abandoned him and locked him in these catacombs. Matthew tried to build up his rage, but could not. Asher was just a kid, and had been genuinely terrified of what lay beyond the cellar wall. Besides, Matthew had to admit that he was technically an enemy soldier with his own agenda. The boy’s retreat was forgivable. There was the possibility that this had been some sort of trap all along, but he did not think so. Asher had cunning, but he was not clever. He could not see further than the first, obvious outcome of his actions.
Matthew’s extended fingertips pushed against brick, snapping back his wrist. He pulled his shoulder open further, and tried to divert his momentum to the side. The effort came a split second too late, and he collided with a wall. White stars exploded before his eyes as he sprawled in the dirt.
He pushed himself to his feet, and felt along the barricade in front of him. It had been built with actual bricks, not stone. His mind raced. How old was all of this, before it had been destroyed and written into a scroll? He wondered again why someone had bothered to save the aspects of hidden passageways that no one knew of. He sighed. He had no answers, just questions piled upon questions.
He turned his head. He could hear Theresa’s footsteps in the blackness. To his accelerated ears they were seconds apart, but they were getting closer. He laid his palms against the brick. His ability to transform this Sage had been hamstrung, but it was still possible.
Water, he thought. There’s a hundred years of ground water pooling right above this wall. Dripping down it, soaking it. His shoulder burned and stung. He let his anger and irritation at his handicapped state crest over him. It did not matter. A hundred years of ground water, he repeated to himself, separating his arm further. A hundred years…
He gasped as an aching spasm twisted and jerked through his left arm. It felt as if a glowing poker were digging into his shoulder. He clenched his teeth, and forced himself to embrace his pain instead of fighting it. He visualized the ground water, years of accumulation from rainfall, gathering in a spot right above his head. But why?
The ground was weak here, he decided, because of burrowing animals. He imagined snakes, gophers, and rabbits digging warrens above, until the weakened ground eventually collapsed into a sinkhole. That sinkhole had formed a funnel for the rain over the decades. And it all came here, down, over, and into the brick wall that stood before him.
The rough blocks beneath his palms, dry as bone mere seconds ago, grew cold and slimy. Matthew visualized the rain. Even arid lands have their rains, and this was where those in San Domenico accumulated. He felt a trickle now, slow and steady against his fingers. But this has been going on for years, he reminded himself. For centuries, water has been pouring over these bricks, eroding their grout, making them weak, and breaking down their microscopic bonds.
The footsteps grew louder. Now he heard one every five seconds. He could not tell how near the maniacal, floral nun was. For all he knew, she could be right on top of him. The smell of her sap filled his nostrils. He imagined the cross–section of her ruined face leering at him while her palms opened with tiny, thorn–filled mouths.
He could not wait any longer. He spun, and kicked the bricks as hard as he could.
A shock ran up his leg as his boot broke through the now–crumbling wall. A gentle breeze wafted through, accompanied by a faint crimson light from the other side. He kicked it again. The softened bricks fell to the moist earth. He knelt in front of the hole he had made, and crawled through.
The walls of the tunnel o
n the other side were also covered with roots and vines. It curved to the right, the ruddy glow that he had seen flickering from around the corner. Would this vegetation come to life as well, and reveal more secrets? He pulled himself to his feet, and looked behind him.
Theresa peered through the edge of the hole. She stared up at Matthew, her waxy face devoid of expression. The thick, oily tears that dripped from the corners of her lids ran down her cheeks to mix with the sap of her bisected visage. She cocked her head from side to side, her bulging, shining eyes never leaving his. Then she began to crawl, wriggling her shoulders inside.
He turned, and ran down the corridor. A handful of beetles ran up the sides of the wall, disappearing within its cracks. Had they come from the church? The haphazard brick tunnel formed a maze that seemed to wind inward upon itself in a never–ending spiral. The ruddy glow danced ahead of him, always just around the bend. The musty breeze carried the faint aroma of charred, rotten meat. Something was burning.
He turned the corner, and found himself back in the catacombs where he had begun. The soldier in the alcove was once again aflame. He saw himself standing before the blaze, sword in hand. The woman, once behind him, was somehow now in front of him, her creature of thorns struggling to take root within his doppelganger’s separated shoulder. He saw himself reach into the wound, and claw it out —
The crypt spun around him. He felt dizzy and nauseous, as if there were worms squirming within his stomach. He forced his shoulder to remain separated, and dug his right fingers into his torn flesh. He had to get the invader out. He pinched its thin, wiry vines, and pulled. With a final, deliberate tug, it came free.
Even within the frame of Matthew’s accelerated time, it writhed in–between his fingertips like a demented daddy–long–legs. It wanted to take root in his cleft. It wanted to grow.
The flickering, red–shifted light grew brighter behind him. He turned back to the inferno, and tossed the thorny, spindly creature into its flames.