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

by The Behrg

  But she is whole.

  This went beyond controlling weather or summoning the elements, beyond miracles or magic, what had happened — what Dugan had asked for; begged for — was as unholy as the demon who could make such a request come to pass.

  “What are you?” Dugan had asked after everything was done, after his daughter’s crushed and shattered body had been fully restored. But the being inside the native had slipped quietly into the shadows, leaving only an ancient and confused man to shake his head in a lack of understanding. Now he trudged alongside Kendall and Oso, water splashing with his every step rather than walking on dry ground. All signs of divinity and power had fled, but Dugan had no doubt they would return.

  They passed several barred cells, many vacant, but others occupied. Dugan didn’t slow, barely glimpsing at the destitute women within. They shook the bars, screaming their hoarse cries, their pleas falling on deaf ears.

  I won’t leave without the women.

  Conscious of his promise to his daughter, he was grateful she was unconscious. Her idealism had yet to bend beneath the weight of reality. While Dugan was a man of his word, he also knew he had promised his daughter only that they would do everything within their power to help these women. That everything had become nothing wasn’t his concern.

  They passed a fallen guard, his head cracked open and bleeding. Proof that Zephyr had been here. Then, as they moved through a long corridor, two men leapt out from the darkness, having hidden in a deep alcove. Dugan spun, shielding Faye by keeping her pressed against the opposite wall, but these weren’t enemies.

  Or at least one of them wasn’t.

  Zephyr stayed back, closer to the shadowy alcove they had dropped out from. He looked better than Dugan had seen him since his injury and Dugan wondered if the man had gotten what he came for. But no, his arm still ended in a stump.

  “Had to be sure it wasn’t more of the general’s soldiers,” Rojo said. “I see you found our Shaman?”

  “And I see you found our traitor,” Dugan said.

  Rojo glanced back at Zephyr. To see his reaction? Or to make sure the man didn’t launch into an attack?

  “He screwed up,” Rojo said. Kendall remained oddly quiet.

  “You did more than screw up,” Dugan said, bypassing Rojo as mediator. “You may have cost us everything.”

  “I’m the only reason you’re alive and not still trapped behind that room,” Zephyr said. “And how quickly we forget staring up out of a metal tank filled with gasoline, not a prayer left for any of you! You would be dead without me. And instead of leaving you when I had the chance, I came back! Because you need me. Has no one questioned why there aren’t more soldiers chasing us down here in these tunnels? Or are you all so busy trying to get yourselves killed that you haven’t even considered what’s waiting for us? You think a cave-in is bad? And what, some water? You don’t have a clue how to get out of here alive.”

  “And you do?”

  The question came from Kendall.

  “Like I said, you need me.”

  Rojo stepped aside. “It’s your call, Dugan.”

  But before Dugan could even say a word, a blade flew through the air, plunging deep into Zephyr’s chest. He staggered back, spitting blood. Breathing with heavy gasps. Oso stepped forward, goading Zephyr on, but the blade had been driven in almost to the hilt. Zephyr leaned against a crook in the wall, closed his eyes, chest heaving.

  “None of you … will make it … out alive,” he said.

  “At least we won’t die with a traitor in our midst,” Kendall said.

  Rojo shot him a sharp glance. There was something there, something Dugan had missed.

  More blood spit from Zephyr’s lips. “Sorry … Doog …”

  Dugan lifted Faye from his shoulder, handing her to Rojo. He then approached the man he had come to rely on for so long, the man he always knew he would never be able to fully tame.

  “I tried … to do you right.” Blood bubbles burst at Zephyr’s lips.

  “I know you did.” Dugan grabbed the man by the shoulder, then took the hilt of Oso’s blade and pulled it back out, wrenching it free with a twist.

  Zephyr groaned in agony, then slid down the wall, unable to remain on his feet. His life spilling from the wound in his chest and back, the long blade having pierced all the way through.

  One more name for Dugan’s book. One he regretted having to inscribe.

  “Let’s move.” He would give Zephyr the dignity of not having his friends watch his last breath. As they continued forward at a slow jog, Dugan held the black blade out to Oso, but Oso refused it. Dugan understood. He let the blade go, its tainted metal slipping beneath the water. Some deaths couldn’t be wiped clean.

  They continued through the tunnels without any resistance, the slope beginning to ascend.

  “She was okay?” Dugan heard Rojo ask Kendall. But he didn’t hear the response.

  “Think they’ve rigged another trap?” Rojo asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about Zephyr’s words, his warning; why they haven’t sent a dozen more men in after us.”

  “Because they’d all be dead by now?” Kendall said.

  “No. Because they don’t need to chase us. Not when we’re going to them.”

  “So they spread out around the exit and we, like blind fools, run head on into a firing squad,” Kendall said.

  “Precisely.”

  “You think he really had a plan? How to get out?”

  Dugan took a moment before responding. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “I think I’ve got one,” Rojo said.

  But Dugan had one forming already in his mind. “No, this time Faye has the plan.”

  Verse XLIII.

  The men raced back through sections of tunnel they had already passed. Twice. But with them this time was an army.

  The women — some no older than girls — splashed through the river that now ran through the winding tunnels. An older woman fell in the water, two younger girls rushing to help her back up. Shouts and laughter echoed through the halls. In their minds, they had been saved. They had yet to learn what they had been saved for.

  At least this way they’ll have a chance, Dugan thought.

  Some of them, anyway.

  Collectively, Dugan and the others had four semiautomatic rifles between them, taken from the corpses of fallen soldiers. But only one of those rifles had a clip anywhere close to full. The others held two to three shots each; not enough to stop a ranged firing squad. But with a mass of bodies flooding the gates, it would hopefully be enough to cause confusion.

  Ahead, Oso motioned for the women to continue. Several girls rushed past, their rags clinging to their wet bodies. Dugan even saw one or two babies, wrapped in dirty cloth and clutched tightly to bosoms. The enthusiasm of these captive women, now set free, was contagious. Even if most were marching to their deaths.

  The Shaman stayed by Oso’s side, silently walking with his head down. Dugan saw that Faye was starting to stir, still draped over Rojo’s shoulder.

  As the corridor continued to slope gradually upward, less water found its way beneath their feet. These halls would eventually flood completely, leaving any who had been left behind their own exit strategy. Just one not of their choosing.

  The tunnel grew darker, shadows stretching until it appeared as if the darkness were about to swallow them whole. They were close.

  The women and girls slowed at the gradual change, their enthusiasm waning. Kendall came back from the shadows, his goggles wrapped over his eyes. “Steps ahead. Leading up.”

  Dugan nodded. It was time to make use of their human shields. He only hoped Chupa was somewhere above ground, waiting for them.

  “This darkness you see is nothing more than night,” he said, speaking in Spanish to the crowd of women who had clustered in the halls. “You know we’ve come to free you, but my companions and I don’t have the resources to get us all out alive.”

  Whimpers sounded aro
und them.

  “The man who kidnapped you and took you from your homes and families is waiting for us, outside these tunnels. His men are armed. But so are we.” No need to tell them how little ammunition their weapons actually held. “Back here, you die a slow and terrible death. But if we act as one, rush the guards, we can overwhelm them! Stop them! Some of us may die, but you were dead already. And those that do, will be dying for a purpose. To let others live.”

  Frightened faces stared back at him. A young girl stared at the rifle in Kendall’s hands with a shudder. What Dugan needed was a leader, someone in this group the others would trust, follow. What he needed was his daughter.

  “You see the woman my friend here is carrying?” He motioned to Rojo. “She’s my daughter. She risked her life to set you free. Don’t let her sacrifice go to waste! We can do this, if we do it together.”

  Several of the women turned back toward the open tunnel. A bright eyed girl, one of the ones that had helped the fallen older woman, stepped nearer. She carried a small bump at her waist, though it was impossible to tell how far along she might be with how malnourished she looked. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

  “I would rather die than be a slave one more day,” she said in Spanish.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Luz.”

  Dugan looked from the girl to the others standing nearby, waiting for him to send them to their deaths. He looked at their faces. Met their eyes. Saw the determination behind the fear. “When you step into this darkness, remember Luz!” he shouted.

  “Remember Luz!” Rojo yelled, Kendall echoing the charge. And then the women began to take it up.

  “Remember Luz! Remember Luz!”

  Dugan couldn’t have planned it before. The word “luz” being the equivalent to light in English, he knew these women would cling to the idea while racing through the darkness. He stepped past Oso, weaving between a few of the women to stand next to the Shaman. “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he said.

  The Shaman only stared back at him, so little of life registering on his face.

  “It’s time,” Dugan said. He raised his weapon and fired into the ceiling, shouting as loudly as he could in Spanish — “Remember Luz! Remember Luz!”

  The women rushed forward as a mob, fear temporarily forgotten. Dugan grabbed hold of the Shaman’s thin arm as he followed him and Oso into the darkness. The thundering stampede of feet overwhelmed his senses; bodies jostling together in a confused swarm. Some falling, others trampled, but the mass of bodies kept pressing forward, it’s momentum unable to stop.

  Dugan felt the cool air before he hit the stone steps, their placement in the dark causing him to fall against them onto his knees. But he still clung to the Shaman, pulling him down with him. Dugan rolled them both toward the wall of the cavern to avoid being trampled, then he felt Oso step in front of them, shoving women aside.

  “Dugan, give it a minute,” Rojo shouted.

  “They’re clearing the top,” Kendall said.

  Dugan waited for the gunfire to begin, but heard nothing beyond the huffing of those women climbing past.

  “Go, go, go!” Kendall shouted, ushering them up.

  “How’s Faye?” Dugan asked.

  “Starting to come around,” Rojo said.

  More women raced past, and still no sign of resistance from above.

  “I think we might just make it out of here,” Kendall said. “We ready?”

  “Oso, lead the way,” Dugan said, rising back to his feet.

  And then the massacre began.

  It came all at once — not a line of men firing, but a battalion, equipped with much heavier artillery than a corrupt official should have been able to acquire. Bodies were slung backward, hurtling down the stairs and bowling into those still making their way up. Bullets, sounding like angry hornets, zipped past, clods of dirt raining down from above.

  “Down!” Kendall shouted.

  But his cry was barely heard. And much too late.

  A body slammed into Dugan’s back, having never even hit the stairs, another rolling past on his right. And then, just as quickly as the firing had started, silence returned. Except for the wails of those misfortunate enough to still be living.

  “Muku!” Kendall shouted.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder washed over them, combined with the heavy scent of death. Oso pressed something into Dugan’s hand; his goggles. Dugan let go of the Shaman, bringing the goggles up, wondering if this was something he even wanted to see.

  Bodies of women lay, one atop another, climbing all the way up to the top of the stone steps. Their strewn out forms were riddled with holes; limbs missing, heads blown in. Blood oozed out from the swollen belly of a woman near his feet.

  This is what you brought. What you bring. Only death.

  He lifted his gaze, looking across at Rojo and his daughter, who now stood beside him. Despite the darkness with which she was enveloped, she stared directly at him.

  A small cluster of women huddled together near the bottom of the stairs, only each other’s voices for comfort, phantom arms and shoulders to cry upon. Just past their perimeter, Dugan counted six women whose bodies had fallen or slid all the way to the bottom, the glow of their bodies not yet registering their stopped hearts.

  “Any other bright ideas?” Kendall asked.

  “He’s forcing our hand,” Dugan said.

  “What about the Shaman? They might not care about the women, but if we come out there with him, they won’t shoot. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Neither is putting his life in danger.” At least not yet, Dugan thought.

  “You think he can do something?” Rojo asked. “Swallow them in the earth or make their blood boil or something?”

  “Make their blood boil?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Dugan did know what he meant. He looked down at the thin native standing a step below him. “I’ve already bartered away more than I ever should have. I’m not willing to reopen negotiations.”

  Faye hugged in closer to Rojo’s body, as if for warmth. He placed an arm protectively around her.

  Do you realize what I’ve done to save you?

  Dugan had a difficult time breaking his gaze away from her, seeing her stand there, alive and healthy — so full of life. How could such an unfathomable power to save, to cure, be anything but good? Righteous, even, if there was such a thing.

  But are you sure that’s still your daughter?

  The thought came snapping at him, but he had learned to drown extraneous reasoning long ago. She glared back at him with unforgiving eyes, no doubt blaming him for the carnage around them. She still hated him, ergo, she was still his daughter.

  “So what do we do know?” Kendall asked.

  “We wait.”

  Verse XLIV.

  The way Chupa handled the jeep reminded Grey of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. Constant starts and jostling stops, his body slamming against the side door or dash of the vehicle, only to be propelled forcibly back into his seat. He half expected flames to suddenly rise up out of the darkness, or sharp shafts of air to shoot out at him from all sides. With the consuming darkness around him, Grey had to admit, the flames might be a welcome sight.

  The only problem was, there was no Indiana Jones here. No hero to overcome incredible odds, coming to the rescue in the nick of time; just a blind boy, criminal priest, murderous mercenary and, of course, Grey, drowning in depths he should never have swam into.

  He cursed the lack of a seatbelt for the hundredth time as his head collided with the side window. It could always be worse, he told himself. I could be back out there with the jaguars and God knows what else, hopelessly wandering in the dark.

  “They’re moving again,” Chupa said. “We’re getting close.”

  “What is the plan when we find them?” Father Shumway asked.

  “There is no plan. Only adaptation.”

  Father Shumway
grunted in response. He dangled something over Grey’s shoulder. “Here, slip these on. At least you’ll be able to see what we’re getting ourselves into.”

  Grey grappled at the strap and heavy goggles the priest had handed him. After adjusting the strap, he placed them on, though he still couldn’t see anything. “They’re not working.”

  Grey’s face suddenly slammed into Chupa’s arm, the goggles pressing into his skull and delivering an instant headache.

  “Stop whining like a baby.” Chupa fiddled with Grey’s goggles until the world swam into a murky gray view.

  “Oh, freak, watch out!” Grey shouted.

  Chupa jerked the wheel of the jeep, narrowly missing a tree trunk the color of ash. This time Grey knew which way to lean, counterbalancing the movement and keeping his face from returning to Chupa’s arm or shoulder.

  “You’re familiar with an entrance here?” Chupa asked.

  “No,” Father Shumway said. “Not at all.”

  Grey was surprised to see the priest holding some kind of wicked looking shotgun, its barrel pressed into the back of Chupa’s seat. Apparently his trust of the man behind the wheel didn’t extend far. He wondered if Josue was aware of the priest’s doubts. The blind boy sat beside Father Shumway, facing straight ahead. He hadn’t said a word since they had gotten in the vehicle.

  Chupa glanced at a handheld mapping system, held in his hand at the wheel. They were converging upon the dot at its center. As they climbed the remaining incline, thick vines ripping from the trees as the jeep tore through their roots, Chupa said, “Help me find the entrance.”

  But no help was needed.

  As soon as they crested the top of the rise, the entrance to the cave was visible. A large opening, at least twenty feet across, in an otherwise sheer face of a crumbling hill, was guarded by some of the thickest and strangest trees Grey had ever seen. Rather than ending in trunks rooted to the ground, these roots lifted up like tentacles to the body of the tree which hovered several feet off the ground. At a quick glance, it gave the impression that the trees were walking, or had been caught in mid-step.