The Creation: Let There Be Death (The Creation Series Book 2)

by The Behrg

  “I don’t know who you are or why everyone wants you, but I know something about monsters.” She stood up straighter, taller, stepping from the bars farther into the cell. “I had a girlfriend when I was young — Patty Cakes, we called her — who I went camping with one year. Junior high, this was. Sixth, or seventh grade. Her dad and his girlfriend brought me along on their vacation to Moab. This was after I had my first introduction to monsters, thanks, in part, to the biggest monster of them all. Well we slept outside that first night, under the stars, Patty Cakes and I, but the following morning she woke to a face covered in mosquito bites. On her ears, her lips, her nose … covering her neck and forehead like a plague of acne. The things had feasted on her. She had slept in her sleeping bag with only her head sticking out while I had fallen asleep atop my bag — the heat there was miserable — but you know what? I may have had only one or two bites on my entire body. For some reason those bloodsucking ectoparasites were drawn to her.

  “Well it’s not mosquitos that are drawn to me, it’s monsters. Men who have lost their humanity, who are no more human than the mosquitos piercing flesh to feed. And not just men, women too. Patty Cakes’ father, Dennis? And his girlfriend? There was a reason they brought me along. Between the pair, they had just enough of a conscience to not drain the life force from Dennis’ own daughter. But not enough to spare her friend.”

  Faye suddenly grabbed at her tank top, pulling it over her head, moving to the edge of the darkness in the cell. She wanted him to see the monster she carried with her at all times, the demon she could never rid herself of. With a quick snap, she unlatched her bra, letting it fall to the cavern floor. The tattooed claw on the side of her head wound down to the body of a dispirited djinn, its other claw grazing her left breast. It’s mouth was open in an eternal snarl, its face contorted in fury.

  But it was the eyes she wanted him to see, the only part of the demon-djinn that looked human. Eyes she thought the Shaman might recognize.

  They were the eyes of her father.

  Painstakingly inked into her own flesh.

  So that she would never forget. Who the real monster was.

  “I know what monsters are; I’ve always known. I was raised by one.” She exhaled a harsh breath, almost a laugh but without the mirth. “He deserved to die, I know that. I wanted to do it myself. So I guess that makes me a monster too. I would have destroyed him a thousand times just to make this world a little safer, but that … that’s the same bullshit line he believed; that every sacrifice, every death was justified because of what it accomplished in the end. Or what he thought it accomplished. I’ve hated him for so long that I never saw. I’m just like him.”

  Faye stepped further into the darkness, not caring what or who she bumped into. She was done being a victim.

  “But you’re not innocent either. Are you? Did you deserve to be hunted? Are you a monster like he was? Like these men who brought us here? Like me?”

  Only silence answered her, with the far-away dripping of water into some stagnant and putrid pool.

  “Maybe that’s life’s greatest truth,” she continued, preferring to hear her own voice over that raging silence. “We’re all monsters. And the things we fear the most? They’re inside us. They’re what we know we will become. Maybe we all deserve to die.”

  “No.”

  Instinctively, Faye brought her shirt up to cover herself before lowering it back down. It didn’t matter. But the confirmation of the Shaman’s voice so close to her brought a rush as strong as a quick hit. “You think we deserve to live?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She couldn’t make out what direction his voice had come from. It just seemed to exist, as if the walls were speaking rather than a man.

  She turned around, backing further into the cave, away from the bars. Toward the darkness. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

  The response was delayed but the same. “No.”

  Despite herself, despite the circumstance in which she was in, she laughed. And once she started, she found she couldn’t stop. The laughter was infectious; tears streamed from her eyes. Her body shook with abandonment until the air around her changed and she felt the presence of someone near.

  A thin fingertip pressed into the center of her forehead.

  “Don’t touch me!” She swatted the Shaman’s arm away, taking a step back.

  “I wish you no harm.”

  The words were like an image, like water running through her mind. Though the old native spoke in his foreign dialect, Faye understood him as clearly as if he had spoken English.

  The Shaman continued. “All are gods and devils, rising from the same dirt, branches reaching to both ends.”

  “What do you want?” Faye asked.

  “What do you want?”

  Faye found she was crying. Tears leaking down her cheeks. She couldn’t remember when her laughter had ever turned so quickly to sorrow. “I wanted to make a difference, to do something that mattered.”

  “No! What do you want?”

  “I wanted him to know how much I hated him! For what he did. For what he didn’t do!”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know why!” she shouted, beating against the Shaman’s frail chest with both hands, one wrapped in her shirt. “Why he hated me, why he left me, why this — all this, and you — were more important than his own family! Than his only daughter.”

  A shiver swept through her body as she pulled away from the man who had brought so much out of her. This time she did cover herself. She no longer wanted to be seen. Not by him. Not by anyone.

  As she pulled her shirt back on, she wiped at her face, removing the tears. They were the last she would shed for the man who had been her father. Far more than he deserved.

  “Inktomi lives.”

  Faye recognized the word as a name for her father, not knowing how she knew. She took another step back, her side brushing up against the wall. Rough stone pressed into her palm as she gripped the wall to steady herself and keep from falling. “He died. I saw him.”

  “You saw but you did not see. Do you wish to see?”

  Another shiver coursed through her. As if she needed a reminder of how little she was in control. “I … I don’t know.”

  “Inktomi sees.”

  “What does he see?”

  “You … are woven into the pattern of his web.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Can the Spider blind He Who Sees All? This, even I cannot see. Inktomi must deceive the Grower.”

  [Consumer]

  The word struck Faye’s mind like a brilliant flash of lightning.

  “The Maker.”

  [Destroyer]

  Faye pressed one hand to her head, pain trying to force its way out from behind her eyes. The Shaman’s words were splitting into two, radiating with opposing forces. Simultaneously pushing and pulling.

  “You must help him.”

  [Stop him]

  She gasped in pain.

  “The Creation …”

  [Destruction]

  “… Has begun. Seven days and all will die. Nothing remains of what was. First He forms the Earth …”

  [The Temple]

  “… Then the Light …”

  [The Darkness]

  Faye pressed against her skull with her open palms in an attempt to alleviate the blinding pain that bore down on her. A steady crashing of waves.

  The Shaman continued. “This is but the beginning. The waters, plants, beasts; all will lead to the Abomination which shall be born. Man.”

  [Death]

  “Fashioned after His image. The image of Pain.”

  With the Shaman’s final words, Faye temporarily lost consciousness. She found herself on the cavern floor, great swaths of light bleeding from behind her eyes.

  Pain. Death. Destruction.

  The Shaman might wait to introduce his new world to the others, but he was bringing it to her now.
Live. Before its time. Screw the seven days; he had her alone in a cell no one could monitor and in this moment, she knew he wouldn’t just kill her, he would devour her.

  She crawled through the splattered remains of what had once been men in an effort to escape. The Shaman’s words came after her, like arms reaching to pull her back. “Daughter of Inktomi. The Spider’s Fangs.”

  “Stay away!” Sticky gore gripped to her arms, clinging to her bare stomach and shirt as she pulled herself forward, but the Shaman’s voice remained where it had always been.

  In her head.

  [Do not accept the healing]

  Faye tried to scream but found she had no voice. As if the air were solidifying around her.

  [Embrace the Pain]

  She lashed about on the cavern floor, unaware of the blood and gristle clinging to her face, her body, her hair.

  [Become Hari’chauk]

  A priestess.

  [Hari’chauk]

  A savior.

  [Become —]

  The Shaman’s words cut off, the pain in her head instantly abating.

  Faye gasped, air returning to her as the darkness stopped its spinning. She crawled to the wall, following it until she could grasp the rotted metal rungs of the locked gate.

  “Help! Get me out! Please God, help!”

  She banged against the bars, rattling the gate back and forth in desperation. Her voice trailed away, bouncing through empty corridors. The only answer came from behind her. The Shaman, speaking with his own voice, no dementia-inducing translation needed.

  “Hari’chauk,” he said. With the word Faye’s mind grasped its true meaning. It was what she had always feared, the tattoo draped around her body a warning of not only what she was running from, but what she was bound to become.

  A monster.

  Verse XVII.

  With the aid of the multi-sensor thermal imaging lenses, the day looked fairly normal to Kendall. Well, considering the dirt trail and surrounding forest were painted in a gray tinge from the FLIR goggles, it was anything but normal. But at least this was an abnormality he could understand. This was a world he was comfortable in. He had never believed in a world of black and white with clear delineations. Only a world with varying degrees of gray.

  The purr of the Zongshen engine of his Apollo dirt bike sped to a mewling whine as he hit the throttle, making sure to stay ahead of Chupa. There was no way he’d be sucking dirt behind the other man.

  They had chosen a back road into town, the trail barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Illegal loggers typically crowded this path, which connected to an outpost where they could purchase their fake credentials prior to dropping their loads at the lumberyard. With the new light of day, not surprisingly, they had yet to encounter another soul since they had left.

  Inventory had been taken at the Facility, resulting in a Dugan that was none too pleased. Of the two Humvees and four Jeeps, not a single one was operable. Only charred and mangled metal carcasses remained. Debris from the explosions had damaged or destroyed most of the dirt bikes as well. He and Chupa had taken the only two that were in any condition to make the trip into town, wherein they would hopefully find a suitable “upgrade.”

  Kendall had spent enough time in town to know their pickings would be slim. Only a handful of residents owned vehicles, none of which would be particularly helpful in an assault. But he had known their real destination as soon as they had discussed the need for transportation.

  His bike skidded, RPMs momentarily climbing, before the treaded tires once again gripped the hardened dirt. Probably another dead bird. Their tiny limp bodies were scattered on the trail like fallen leaves. At least once every ten or twenty yards he would hear the loud pop of a skull crushing beneath his wheels.

  Hovering branches and leaves opened up as Kendall careened out of the scraggly brush and onto a wider dirt road on the outskirts of Santa Elena. Kendall didn’t slow as they passed collapsed shacks on either side. Mud sprayed up from the grooves in the road, wet pockets of rainwater yet to be fully absorbed from the previous day’s storm.

  As they drew closer to the center of town, Kendall began to see the real effects of the unnatural light. Stray dogs lifted their heads, sightless eyes following the noise of the bikes passing. Other animals — chickens, roosters, even a few pigs — wandered listlessly, one young pup rocketing across the road in front of them and smacking headfirst into a fence post.

  Then there were those residents who hadn’t made it inside.

  The streets of Venezuela, while full of trash and refuse, were littered with two things above all others: diseased dogs, and just as diseased drunks. Men sat against rock walls or lay prostrate on the ground, a few wandering with arms outstretched, hands becoming their new mode of sight. They passed a woman, sobbing into a sheet that had been torn down from a clothes line. But far worse was the sight of so many blinded children.

  Most of them were alone, stumbling in their own personal darkness. What chance did any of them have for survival? Kendall wished he could gather up their parents, lay them down on the ground, all shoulder to shoulder in a perfect and straight line, and then ride his wheels over their skulls.

  Pop. Pop. Pop - pop - pop.

  He drew up at an intersection, waiting for Chupa. The Somalian brought his bike to a grinding halt, dirt whipping out from beneath his tires. More of the homes were standing in this part of town, windows boarded over or blocked with the remnants of broken furniture.

  “Did you see those two dogs stuck together?” Chupa asked.

  “What dogs?”

  “We passed them, two blocks back. The bigger one running while the small bitch was pedaling beneath, stuck. Like superglue. We call this back home a permanent hitchhiker!” Chupa laughed, deep and throaty.

  Kendall, for once, didn’t join him.

  “In Somali, the women poke holes in the condoms to try to have babies. They think it will keep a man around longer. But men in Somali, they are like the male dog. Once they finish, they will run over the woman without a seconds thought.”

  “Yeah, sounds like a lovely country.”

  “It’s a shitty country in a shitty world. Here? The Divided States? Somali? We’re all just trying not to get trampled.”

  “Unless we’re the ones doing the trampling.”

  “Your mood is sour,” Chupa said.

  “Just like the milk from your momma’s teats.”

  Chupa roared with laughter.

  Kendall glanced around warily. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were exposed out here in the open, like they were being watched. The fact that anyone who could see them was hopelessly blind didn’t help. “Come on.”

  “You know where we can find something suitable?”

  “More than suitable. I know where we can find revenge.”

  Chupa’s smile was all teeth. “The alcalde won’t be in his little station. Not with this prisoner.”

  “No, he won’t. And I doubt he’ll be home. But his wife will be. And his daughter.”

  “Sour.”

  Kendall revved his bike in response, the back tire swinging out behind him, tossing dirt into the air. The general’s palatial home was only a few minutes from the town’s center. The ten foot high surrounding walls topped with coiled barbs and the crude spiked iron gate may have been a deterrent to the townspeople, but it was an open invitation to any of Dugan’s crew. And from what Kendall had heard from a few locals at the tavern, the general’s daughter was a looker.

  Maybe she was adopted.

  The fool, Kendall thought. Having something you cared about — or someone — was like going into battle with an exposed and opened artery. You were just asking someone to rip it out.

  And rip, he would.

  It always surprised Kendall how few understood that life’s greatest freedom came from owing allegiance to no one. Even Dugan was now under the restraint of needing to save his daughter alongside the Shaman. Kendall’s strength came from loving onl
y himself. Friends were temporary, family non-existent; lovers like cigars, to be enjoyed, then snuffed out.

  He swerved his bike closer to the road’s edge, extending his left leg out. His boot thudded against the skull of a mud-soaked canine, the dog’s harrumph following it down. He wondered if he would see a heat signature from the beast upon their return. Either way, he was looking forward to another pop.

  The cool stucco walls approached, Gutierrez’s home visible behind the wrought gate. A dark jeep inside, its heat signature brighter than the tall grass and manicured bushes within. Kendall fingered the line of frag grenades attached at his hip.

  It was about to get much brighter.

  Verse XVIII.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Kenny stood at the bottom of the curved stairwell, a black felt sleep mask strung over his face. “Well, it’s not ideal, but we can probably throw some tape on the edges to make sure no light leaks through.”

  “Tape? You look like boy Robin ten years on the job,” Donavon said. And eighty pounds overweight. “You’re gonna get yourself killed out there.”

  “First off, I think we’re overreacting. This light is probably something that happens down here all the time, like those swirly lights in Alaska.”

  “The aurora borealis?”

  “Yeah, I bet this is nothing to the locals. They’re probably all out and about, business as usual, you know?”

  “Everyone’s heard of the Alaskan lights, but I’ve never heard of light that could nuke your eyes out in Venezuela. This could be radioactive, for all we know. It could cook you alive.”

  Kenny pulled the mask down, letting it hang around his neck. “You got any other ideas? Or should I just sit around and wait for your leg to go gangrene from that bite? Look, I’m the one who’s going out in this. The least you could do is try to be encouraging.”