Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  Followed by the disgruntled Scotsman grumble, “Bloody hell. He’s right blootered.”

  Chapter 17

  Fading in and out of lucid thought, I was having one hell of a ridiculous dream. Giants. Angels. A cloaked society of sword wielding flamethrowers. Prophecies. A chef named after a farm animal. A monogramed Barbara Streisand look alike. A kilted highlander. Fourteen years in the future — and I was dead but not really.

  It was the definition of insanity. Nonsensical. Laughable. And there was this tiny pig. Cute little bastard.

  Good lord — I really needed to stop drinking. Good guys. Bad guys. Bullets. That’s all there is to it. My life. A soldier’s life. Simple.

  The odd sensation of tiny teeth nipping on my ear coaxed me back into active consciousness. Slowly opening my eyes in a dimly lit, really large room, I found myself sprawled out on an oversized leather chair. That was odd. I should have been lying on my cot. Where the hell did this chair come from? As my eyes focused I realized that a brown spotted, miniature feral hog was sitting squarely on my lap. With tiny hoofs propped up on my chest, it was anxiously licking my face.

  “Oh, Hi Duncan. What’s up, little guy,” I happily muttered in slurred speed while patting his little piggly head.

  Wait. What the fuck? “Duncan?”

  Throwing the piglet clear off my lap as it squealed in protest, I sat up in a state of pure panic and looked around. As the familiar scene registered with my half functioning brain, I once more accepted the peculiar reality of my situation. This was no dream.

  “Aw, hell,” I grumbled as I jumped to my feet, “It’s real. Son of a bitch.”

  “Take it easy, bro,” said the mellow mansquatch standing opposite me. “No need to be tossing Lil’ D around. He was just trying to help, man.”

  “Oh, ah, my bad,” I said now fully conscious and feeling rather badly about launching his pocket pet clear across the room. “Caught me off guard is all. You’re, ah, Caveman, right? I’m Dean.”

  “Yeah, man. Everybody knows who you are,” he said holding out his shaggy hand. “Been waiting for you to wake up — for like, ever. Things are getting bad, bro. Name’s Mick. Mick Baskerville. But everybody calls me Caveman. Me and Lil’ D handle entertainment around the QM. Do some other stuff too. You know, like odd jobs.”

  “Gotcha,” was the only thing that came to mind as I did my very best not to stare at the dark mane of manscaped hair that covered pretty much all of his exposed skin.

  Sporting a raggy yet stylish pair of faded jeans and an olive drab ‘RoosterBragh, Get Crow’d - World Series 2004’ tee shirt, he was an easy six-foot-two of furry muscle. The abundance of hair atop his formidable head was all schwooped up like a primal Elvis. His beard basically started right under his eye sockets and was like a well sculpted shrubbery covering the rest of his square-jawed face. His teen wolf-like arms were giving the constraints of his tee shirt a solid run for the money as they flexed and bulged with the slightest of movement. But his eyes were soft. Somewhat gentle even.

  “Where’d you learn to play guitar like that?” I muttered feeling the need to say something else. “That was pretty incredible.”

  “Oh, thanks, man,” he graciously replied. “Picked it up back in the fifties. Learned from the best, bro. Good times. Really bummed out when we had to send Elvis into lock down though. Played together all the time before I had to —”

  “Hey, that’s great. You’re awake — again,” said Rooster as he arrived at the scene purposely interrupting Caveman in mid-sentence while giving him a ‘not now’ glare. “You, ah, mind watching the bar for me, Mick? Big A and I need to talk with Dean.”

  “Sure, bro. No problemo.” Giving me a furry nod, he said, “Take her easy, broseph. Good to meet you. Hope you, like, stop passing out and all that stuff.” Turning as he curiously sniffed the air like a animal locked on a scent, he called out, “Lil’ D! Time for breakfast, big guy. I smell scones.”

  As the sound of tiny hooves was heard scampering from under one of the tables, they casually strolled together toward the bar. A caveman and his piglet. Not sure there’s any getting used to that.

  Suspiciously looking at Rooster, I said, “He’s not, ah, a real caveman, right?”

  “A real caveman? No such thing, man. He’s something else. A barghest to be specific.”

  “A what?“

  “Hold that thought,” Rooster said delicately. “We need to bring you up to speed on a few things. How about some coffee? And scones — you like scones? Just pulled them out of the oven.”

  “Just coffee. Not sure I’m sophisticated enough for scones.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said while heading to a table next to the massive tree at the far end of the room, where a brooding Abernethy sat by himself sharpening his mighty claymore broadsword with an oversized whetstone. Pulling out a chair for me, Rooster said, “Make yourself comfortable. Be right back.”

  As he disappeared in the direction of the empty bar I reluctantly took a seat opposite the large Scotsman. After a few awkward seconds of watching him artfully run the stone up and down the other worldly blade, he looked up at me with a troubled expression.

  “Seven hundred and nine years,” he said solemnly. Not sure how to respond or if a response was warranted, I simply sat there and looked at him. Turning his attention back toward the sword, he muttered, “Ne’er have we seen a time like this, lad.”

  As Rooster appeared with a steaming pot of coffee and three stout mugs, Abernethy sheathed the longsword in the leather scabbard hanging from the back of his chair and fixed me with an intent gaze. Placing a mug in front of each us, Rooster dispensed some incredibly aromatic coffee, and enthusiastically said, “Ok, So let’s talk.”

  Sipping my drink while giving him a sarcastic glare, I muttered, “Is this like a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting?”

  “Jesus? Nae. He’s not been to the Quartermaster in at least a century,” said a pensive Abernethy completely missing the reference.

  “Oh, good lord,” Rooster grumbled while shaking his head and taking a swig of java.

  As he was about to say something else, we were interrupted by an anxious looking Caveman striding toward the table with great haste.

  “Sorry to bother, gents,” he said sternly, “The Alpha’s messenger is here. He needs to see you, Big A. Like now. Something’s up.”

  “Aye, Mickie,” said a solemn Abernethy rising to his feet and strapping the scabbard across his back. “Be right there, lad.”

  Turning to Rooster, he said, “Hold the fort, Jackie. Explain to Master Robinson what ye can. And do it quickly. The enemy’s on the move. I can feel it.”

  “You got it, boss,” Rooster replied.

  “I know what yer feeling, Dean,” Abernethy said firmly grasping my shoulder. “But there is nae time for doubt. These are dark times — none darker in my seven centuries of service. Ye are a Deacon. The Seventh of Seven. Clear yer mind, lad. Accept. Believe. Until ye do, ye are nae help to us — or yerself.”

  Turning toward the ancient door that subtly appeared to the rear of the table, his cloak manifested in a spectral flash around his massive frame. Stepping across the threshold, he called back, “And laddies, don’t do anything daft in my absence.”

  As the door vanished in a flash of light I turned to Rooster.

  “Daft?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Scottish thing,” he replied while systematically glancing at the endless row of TV screens lining the walls. “You’ll have to excuse Big A. These are rough times. In the past fourteen years we’ve lost more Deacons than in the past fourteen centuries. We’ve never seen anything like it. He’s taking it hard. Especially hard.”

  “The Alpha. He’s going to see Stephen isn’t he?” I asked a somewhat distracted Rooster.

  “Yes. Yes he is,” he replied while shifting focus from screen to screen.

  Studying his intense gaze, I asked, “So what’s with the wall to wall TV sets?”

  “Technically, they are
TV sets but not quite in the sense you’re thinking,” he muttered. “Although we did watch the ‘04 and the ‘07 World Series on them. It was epic. Red Sox and RoosterBragh. Freak’n epic. We actually had tee-shirts made.”

  “Whoa, wait one. What was that?” I said feeling like somebody just shot my dog three times after kicking me square in the balls. “Are you telling me the Sox made it to two World Series while I was floating down the River Styx on a fourteen year involuntary hiatus?”

  Still studying the various screens, he matter of factly replied, “Firstly, you were floating in the Water of Life which is fundamentally different from the River Styx. And secondly, the Sox won two World Series. First time in eighty-six years. It was epic.”

  “What? Seriously? They won — twice? And I missed it? That is wrong, man. So — incredibly — unbelievably — frigg’n wrong.”

  “Ah, right — forgot you were a huge Sox fan,” he awkwardly said shifting his attention back to me and realizing he’d inadvertently stepped on a land mine. “So, ah, the TVs — they’re scrying pools. Mirrors into the world, so to speak. Visions of things that are, things that were, and things that are destined to be. Unless, of course, a bit of divine intervention happens to supersede.” Pausing for a nervous sip of coffee, he added, “It’s a direct feed from Tenth Heaven — compliments of the all seeing eyes of the ophanim. This is how we monitor the Balance on our sector of Earth. We call it throneView. Or simply tV. Lowercase ‘t.’ Capital ‘V.’”

  “tV, huh? That’s cute.” I said, still highly pissed that I missed not one - but two - Red Sox world series championships after a lifetime of heartbreaking let downs. “Bet you guys were up all night thinking of that one.”

  Shifting his attention back to me, he said, “The Alpha did warn us that your sense of humor was matched only by your prowess as a swordsman.”

  “Touché,” I muttered with a droll glance.

  Fixating on one screen in particular where a shady looking, portly security guard happily puffed on a cigarette while polishing off a bag of cheesy poofs and a six pack of beer, I said, “Hey, I know that guy. He was at Fenway — he mentioned the Guild. Knew I was a Deacon. He was scared shitless.”

  “Yeppers,” Rooster said looking at the screen. “That’s Uncle Skip.”

  “That asshole’s your uncle?”

  “No,” he replied chuckling, “That’s just what everybody calls him. Bit of a local fixture. We keep a close eye on him. He’s a metamorph class nepher on the Guild’s watch list. Straddles the line between light and dark. Never actually breaks the Rules but doesn’t exactly abide by them either. But, to be fair, it’s kind of in his nature. Metamorphs are shape shifters. Bit of a rarity, even in the nepher community. Been hanging around Boston for at least a couple centuries to the best of our knowledge. They say he’s originally from Baton Rouge or something.“

  As Rooster’s words somewhat registered with my befuddled brain, the slovenly figure on the screen morphed from a Jabba the Hut looking mall cop into a frail elderly Asian woman.

  “What the hell?” I muttered in astonishment. “Did you see that?”

  Putting on some ratty clothes and thick framed old lady glasses, he — or rather she — grabbed a cane and headed out the door of the apartment. As the scene transitioned to the street, the old woman stood hunched over on a busy corner hitting up passers-by for pocket change.

  “And just like that, Uncle Skipper’s your Aunt. The ‘poor old blind woman’ gag. Classic Skip. You should see him as a stripper. It’s actually —.”

  “Oh, hell no,” I blurted out, stopping Rooster in mid sentence. “That’s a mental picture I can do without, thank you very much.”

  “Right,” he replied amidst a subtle laugh. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.”

  “A shapeshifter? For real?” I said looking back at the row of people and images flittering about the various tVs. “Who the hell are the rest of these people?”

  “Well, that’s the rub, my friend. They’re not exactly people. They’re nephers.”

  “Heffers?” I asked. “Like fat chicks?”

  “No, no. Not like fat chicks,” he impatiently replied, “Nephers — nephil, as in nephilim. Angelic half-breeds. Hybrid beings.”

  “But — the nephilim are a race of giants,” I said shaking my head in disagreement.

  “Correct,” he smugly replied sitting back in his chair.

  “But these jokers are not giants,” I said pointing at the screens.

  “Also correct,” he said with a satisfied grin.

  “Ok, Yoda, cut the shit. Is it written somewhere in the Guild handbook that you guys have to be insufferable smart asses? Answer the damn question. What am I missing?”

  “Well, somebody’s grumpy,” he mumbled. “I thought you might figure it out is all.”

  “And …” I grumbled while shooting him my very best ‘piss up a rope’ glare.

  “Ok, it’s like this,” he said rising to his feet and waving his hands as he spoke. “As you know, the nephilim are a race of hybrid beings spawn from angel and human breeding. They nearly ate everything on the Earth … blah, blah, yadda, yadda … until God had enough of their shit. With encouragement from Gabriel they wiped each other out, a and God sent the flood along just in case any of their sorry asses were still kicking around. You with me?”

  “Yes,” I impatiently replied.

  “Ok. Now this is the part where it gets interesting. Angels shacking up with humans didn’t just create giants — it created an aberration in the human genome, I.e. The nepher gene. A unique, recessive strand of DNA that spread through the human race like an STD gone viral, compliments of some old testament debauchery and associated acts of ill repute.”

  “That’s just disturbing.”

  “Yeppers,” he replied nodding. “Think about that for a second. Not the debauchery part but the other part. Imagine the limitless permutations of nepher genes passed through generation upon generation of humans over the course of thousands of years. The best and worst parts of divine beings at the molecular level weaving its way through the ancestry of humanity itself. Evolving — mutating — crossing with other tainted strands — it’s seriously mind boggling. I mean, mathematically speaking, that would equate to —”

  “Ok, Einstein. I get the picture. So what next?” I grumbled looking around for some more coffee.

  “Oh, right. Sorry, sometimes I get carried away. At any rate, it wasn’t so good for the home team if you get my drift. The only way to preserve the human race was to take a big step back and start over — from scratch.”

  “And that’s when God sent the great flood.”

  “Yeppers,” he said taking a quick pause for some coffee. “So after binding the spirits of the slain giants to the Earth to forever plague mankind, and remind them that hooking up with angels was frowned upon in his establishment, God rebirthed the human race through Noah and his three sons, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why Noah, you ask?”

  “I didn’t ask that.”

  “Well, that’s an excellent question,” he said ignoring me. “Aside from being one hell of a nice guy, good with animals, and a snappy dresser, was the fact that his lineage somehow remained 100% human, i.e. uncontaminated by the nepher gene. He and his three sons were the real dealio. So in theory, the flood should have cleansed the human race. Right?”

  “Somehow I’m guessing the answer to that is, No,” I dryly replied, wondering where the hell he was going with all this.

  “Not bad for a guy that spent his entire mortal life jumping from airplanes and dodging bullets,” he shot back with a modest grin.

  “I’m really starting to not like you, Chickenman,” I said with a stoic glare. “How does this story end?”

  “Moving along then,” he awkwardly muttered. Taking what appeared to be his last slug of coffee, he boldly declared, “It all comes down to Ham.”

  “Ham?”

  “Yes. Ham.”

 
; “Not chicken?”

  “Not ham as in ham,” he said shaking his head while letting out an exasperated sigh. “Ham as in the second son of Noah.”

  “Oh, right. That Ham. Sorry. Please continue,” I said rather satisfied that I was able to shut him up for two whole seconds.

  “Ham’s wife was a nepher,” he said still shaking his head. “She carried the gene onto the ark and hence the cycle simply started over in the post flood world. But curiously, it seemed that the diluted gene was not capable of producing the big guys. The giants, or anakim as we’ve come to classify them, could only be created through direct angel and human breeding — first-gen offspring. Pure blood nephs, if you will. Named for Anak, the oldest nepher giant known to mankind, and one hell of a powerful being. But you already know that from first hand experience, don’t you? That was totally sweet by the way — when you put the smack down on his big ass — epic.”

  “You saw that?”

  “We watched the replay on throneView. Super cool in slow mo. I can play it if you want?”

  “Thanks,” I said with a disturbed glare. “But I’m good.”

  “Right. Probably some bad memories there. Anywho, since the fallen Watchers have been in the divine slam for the better part of six thousand years, there’s only one angel still cranking out little Anaks.”

  “Azazel. Nice hair. Likes to run his mouth,” I muttered while taking a seat and again cycling through the various tV screens. “So, all these people are not actual people. They’re, ah, nephers. And nephers could be giants but could also be these shapeshifter things like Skippy the Rent-a-Cop slash the Little Old Chinese Lady from Southie.”

  “Well, sort of,” he said joining me at the table. “But you’re missing the big picture, man. Think about it like this. No two humans are exactly the same, right? Height, weight, build, eye color, skin color, hair color, strength, agility, intelligence level, etc. Now, despite what you may think, the same principle applies to angels, but the variations run the gamut of supernatural abilities and other worldly shit that would absolutely blow your mind. So, nephers are part human, part angel, and/or any variation of abnormality in between, resulting from millennia of cross breeding.”