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

by The Behrg

  “So what the hell do we do now?”

  Dugan turned to face his men — his team — but someone answered before he had a chance to speak.

  It was a child. A boy Dugan hadn’t even known was in the vehicle with them.

  “We’re going to stop him,” the child said. Dugan recognized the boy with the deformity on his face. The priest’s helper.

  He looked at each of the men who remained with him, their bodies sitting atop each other in the cramped space. What amounted to his new crew. Chupa, Oso, Rojo and Kendall. And then their new recruits: his daughter, one of her tree hugging friends, a drug lord turned priest, and a young and innocent child. They all stared back at him, some with hope, some resentment, and some a roiled mixture of the two.

  Dugan nodded at his little group. What may pass for the last defense against an unfathomable destruction. “We are going to stop him. Because we’re the only ones who can.”

  Whether it was the darkness through which they were still seeing or the distraction of a million thoughts running through his head, Dugan failed to notice the light gleam of green haze that swirled out from his daughter’s mouth before she closed it with a sharp snap.

  Not all of Dugan’s team was united in the same goal.

  Epilogue

  Almost two hours had passed since General Gutierrez had opened the levee to the underground river, flooding his dungeon, his penitentiary, in which much of his resources had been expended. In that time, so many parts of the mine had collapsed beneath the pressure of water and the corroding of the tunnel walls as to make any future use of the prison impossible. Even one of the upper rooms made of concrete and steel had collapsed, a sandcastle crumbling beneath the growing tide. With reports that Dugan and his team had made it to the mine’s entrance, Gutierrez had been assured that they would make it no further.

  Assured.

  Guaranteed.

  His men committing their lives, and — whether they knew it or not — the lives of all those they loved. Dugan and his men were fish in a bottle, he thought the expression went, with nowhere to go but up and into the open.

  But then more reports had begun coming in. Assassins in the woods. Explosions. Gunfire. And then the reports had grown less and less frequent, the last one coming in over a half hour ago, by Gutierrez’s watch. Radio signals still active, but no one left alive to answer his call.

  Gutierrez had fled to the only room in which he knew he would be safe — the storage room. Hidden behind a rock wall and closed off with a steel door, it was where their merchandise was kept. Fifty pound bags were stacked, one atop the other, on crates that lined the back of the room. Not filled with sugar or flour; this white substance was worth much more.

  Though it was a fraction of what Gutierrez had been promised for the man he just let escape.

  The pounding at the door had ceased, replaced with the electric flash of a blowtorch. A dark line expanded along the steel door, as if the invisible hand of God was finger painting.

  The one room in which he knew he’d be safe.

  Yet he wasn’t.

  He had never been.

  When the torch was finished, the door came hurtling inward, falling with a heavy clang to the floor. Gutierrez fired his automatic rifle before the dust even settled, shooting into a dark and cloudy space. Instead of shouts and cries all he heard was the ricocheting of rounds. He ejected his spent clip, letting it fall to the floor, but before he could replace it, hands were on him, throwing him to the ground.

  His breath left him with the force of his body striking the floor. Still, he tried to turn over, grappling for the pistol which had fallen beside him.

  A heavy spiked boot stepped directly onto his hand, pinning his flesh to the cement. Gutierrez couldn’t help the scream which escaped from his lips.

  The man the boot belonged to looked down at him with light gray eyes, stringy silver hair falling to his shoulders. He had a long face and a bony chin that stuck out much too far. Like the face of one of those evil jack-in-the-boxes with the jester’s caps. While Gutierrez didn’t recognize the man, he saw that the man recognized him.

  “What is da meaning of this?” Gutierrez asked, trying to regain at least the semblance of control.

  “E’o bastardo de gordura,” the man said, speaking Portuguese. While Gutierrez didn’t speak the language himself, it was easy enough to understand. Something about the fat bastard.

  “Get him to his feet.”

  The voice was soft yet commanding. Immediately Gutierrez was raised up, the task requiring three men, including the white Brazilian. All thoughts of a struggle were quickly swept away when Gutierrez realized who had come to his door.

  El diablo quemado.

  “Per our agreement, I’ve come for the Shaman only to discover, out of either negligence or ineptitude, you let him escape.”

  “No! No, we will, uh, get him back.”

  “Your men are dead. All of them. And, seeing this plateau we now reside on is — in my opinion — no longer a part of your country, you’ve lost not only your power, but your authority as well.”

  “Please, I know where he is going!”

  “I’ll find where he’s going. What I wanted from you was to keep him from going.”

  Gutierrez hung his head, his shoulders held by the men at his side and behind him.

  “Now, we had an agreement, and though we’re done … trading … it’s important you realize I always keep my end of the bargain.”

  A shorter man with a smile much too wide for his head crept forward with a bottle of tequila. But it wasn’t the alcohol that had Gutierrez writhing against the men who held him, it was the vial the man had in his other hand. And what that vial contained.

  A host of giant balas.

  Bullet ants.

  After they had forced him to swallow no less than a hundred of the small beasts, Murdock Iglesias — el diablo quemado — sat across from Gutierrez in the room that had been converted first from a storage room to a treasure room, and now to a crypt. Gutierrez knew it would be his final resting place.

  The man with skin like a lizard, whose ears were nubs pasted to his bald and leathery head, whose fingers had fused together from the flames, or — if one was to believe such tales — from his trip to hell, a trip which he survived; this man who had come to take the Shaman, stayed with Gutierrez rather than leaving him to die alone. But it wasn’t because of any sympathy, nor was it because Murdock didn’t have better things to do.

  It was simply because he wanted to watch.

  ***

  The water in the tunnels had slowed to a trickle. Either the wide stream had caused another cave-in with the softening of the cavern walls, or one of the general’s men had finally shut it off.

  Zephyr rubbed at the wound on his chest, the tissue sore but knit together. Like a bruise, it was but a memory of what should have been his death. Had Dugan known that by removing the blade he was granting Zephyr another chance?

  Immortality.

  It was actually within his grasp. And he was willing to trade an arm for the eternal life of a god. He knew he wasn’t fully there — not yet — but the healing had been but the first step. Dugan had failed to understand.

  As he crept up stone steps, littered with the bodies of barely clothed women, his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him. He could see everything. But no one could see him. He walked past a soldier standing guard at the mouth of the cave, moving slowly, silently. Even with the man’s night vision apparatus, Zephyr was a ghost and passed by unseen.

  And to think, his powers were just beginning.

  But they would grow. And he would have his revenge.

  ***

  The man that had been Kendall stood in the entry way of the astronomer’s house. If levitating an inch above the ground could be considered standing. Wisps of black smoke curled off his arms and legs, tendrils stretching then disappearing off his entire body. His face, should he have cared to glimpse it, would have shown nothing bu
t shadows — an emptiness, with no eyes or mouth or features to mark him as human.

  He no longer was.

  The native woman, Tulesh, had withdrawn into the far corner of the room. Fear and an unequaled adoration caught in her eyes. She was worshipping him. His birth. His reign. Which had but begun. She did not yet understand that nothing would remain of what was.

  Nothing.

  Despite his featureless face, the man that had been Kendall felt himself close his eyes, even if it was his imagination. And then he grew, claiming the table and couches, the end rug and rotted wooden frames adorning the walls. Stretching until he had reached the stairwell, Tulesh screaming out before no longer having a voice to scream with. Everything within his path ceased to exist with his expansion.

  He was Darkness. He was Night.

  He was Death.

  End of Chapter Three

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  This book has been an intense labor of love in so many ways. I’m grateful to all those who have helped in the development of this series, in one form or another. To Kealan Patrick Burke, thank you for the excellent cover designs and encapsulating the ideas I wasn’t sure how to put into words (not sure what that says, considering I’m an author). To my beta-reading team — you know who you are! — thank you for looking at a rough draft with such a critical eye and forcing me to step up my game in order to deliver what this series deserves. Special thanks to Kim Yerina, for her insightful commentary, which led to some major changes and much needed restructuring of the novel’s ending.

  And a special thank you to you, the reader, for continuing to follow this journey in The Creation Series.

  As always, if you’ve enjoyed this novel, please take a moment to leave a review on your favorite book site. By so doing, you’ll have a direct impact on my work and may help some other unfortunate soul discover this series for themselves.

  Stay tuned for news on the next book in the series by signing up for my newsletter or visiting my website: thebehrg.com.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Behrg is the author of dark literary works ranging from screenplays to ‘to-do’ lists. His international best-selling novel, Housebroken, was a first-round Kindle Scout selection and semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Awards. He has had numerous short stories published both online and in print anthologies, though he has yet to complete his ‘to-do’ list (much to his wife’s chagrin).

  A former child actor turned wanna-be rock star, The Behrg served a mission for his church in Venezuela where his newest series, The Creation, takes place. He lives in Southern California with his four children, pet Shih-Tzu, and the many voices in his head.

  Stalk him at TheBehrg.com.