Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz

by Tim Marquitz

  “You all reek of it.”

  Even at a whisper, the voice boomed like that of an ancient god.

  “But you less than most. The others, their fear is overwhelming, a cloying musk that brings bile to my throat. Cowardice. Yours ... ”

  It trailed off, inhaling deeply.

  “Your fear is tightly controlled, a quivering ball surmounted by sweet rage and bitter hatred. For me?”

  The face hidden in the depths of the cowl seemed to shift, revealing the hint of a smile, perhaps imagined.

  “I shall end you last.”

  Andreas struggled to breathe, feeling himself losing consciousness with the giant’s fingers clamped around his windpipe. When a brilliant white light filled his eyes, he felt a moment of peace, thinking he was finally going to join his lost father and brothers at the feet of God.

  Thoughts of the afterlife were shattered by the screech of rusted metal as the roller shutter was thrown open.

  “Kill that Russian bastard!” Herr Volkard cried, his men opening fire with their rifles even as two of their number aimed army-issue spotlights into the inky blackness, targeted directly at Andreas’s assaulter. He had never seen a more heroic sight, the Scharführer and his men garbed in their splendid uniforms, weapons raised.

  They had come to save him; to save them.

  The hooded head snapped toward the garage door, the bright light profiling a face that looked far too human to belong to his monstrous tormentor.

  Andreas was flung aside, the single hand holding his neck launching him against a nearby assembly line with contemptuous ease. He hit the waist-high piece of equipment hard, somersaulting uncontrollably, screaming as he felt his shoulder dislocate during the tumble.

  The back of his head struck the concrete floor, tears filling his eyes at this further agony.

  The spotlights exploded. Shards of glass and burning metal scythed through Volkard’s men. War cries turned to shouts of agony as the brilliant light was suddenly transformed to utter darkness.

  Andreas lay in the pitch blackness, blinded, unable to tell if his inability to see was caused by the sudden removal of the spotlights or blood leaking into his eyes. It was hard to care. The pain of his wounds was all-encompassing, a pulsing, throbbing agony. It took all his concentration not to wail at the top of his lungs at the spasms wracking his body.

  Panicked gunfire sounded from the upper story of the building, throaty shotgun blasts accompanying the whip-crack of a rifle. Andreas did not bother to look up.

  The gunfire stopped, the fresh silence punctuated a second later by the sound of shattering glass.

  A body landed messily at his feet, launched through the second floor office window like a rocket. He reached out blindly, numb hand scrabbling in the dust until he finally touched the shattered skull. He gently dragged the corpse in close, blood seeping between his fingers, and cradled its head in his lap.

  He determined from the short, wiry hair it was Oswald who the monster had killed this time. He had never liked Oswald very much. The younger boy had always seemed arrogant to Andreas, always pushing to take charge and be accepted by the older youths. It had been Oswald who led them to attack a group of Soviet looters in broad daylight. That impetuousness had gotten them caught, dozens of enemy soldiers pouring from the nearby buildings to give chase. It had been an ordeal that ended with them fleeing across the ruins of outer Berlin for several terrifying hours, losing two of their fellows in the process. The pursuit had only ended when Volkard had found them, his men making quick work of the lightly armed and unprepared Russians.

  Andreas had never quite forgiven the other boy for that, but even still he felt a pang of sadness wriggle its way into the strange detachment he was feeling.

  “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose,” he mumbled, not realizing that he spoke aloud. “We’re all dead anyway.”

  “Fire!” roared Volkard.

  Andreas sucked in a breath through bloodied teeth as he saw the impossible.

  A shrouded figure stood in the window of the prefab structure above, highlighted by the muzzle flashes of the German weapons, body rocking from the impacts of multiple bullets. The all-encompassing cloak it wore caught fire, perhaps struck up by a spark from an errant round.

  The flames spread quickly, engulfing the entire robe and throwing an eerie red light across the building. The figure toppled forward, landing prone on the catwalk above, blood seeping through the cloth to ooze with glacial slowness through the mesh. As the shooting ceased, the drip-drip-drip of the liquid was surprisingly loud in the cavernous darkness of the warehouse.

  “You two, up those stairs,” ordered Volkard. Andreas wanted to shout a warning, to cry out that this was not how such monsters were killed, but he could find neither the words, nor the will to speak them.

  The soldiers reached the burning corpse above. They trained their weapons on it the entire time, fingers on triggers in case it somehow sprang back to life. One of them moved closer, daring to prod the body with a foot.

  The soldier drew back the hood with the bayonet mounted on his rifle. The flames engulfing the corpse spat with renewed fury, the sudden light revealing the burnt, bullet-riddled corpse of Fabian shrouded in the enemy’s cloak. Andreas whispered a silent prayer for the soul of his last squad mate.

  The flames engulfing the body roared outward, forming a fireball to rival any of the bombs that had fallen upon the city. The explosion engulfed the supervisor’s office, taking most of the northern catwalk, and the two unfortunate Schutzstaffel members with it. A few of the ancient chemical vats ruptured, little geysers of volatile liquid spraying dirty flames across half the building.

  Andreas sat there, watching in silence as the far wall of the factory caved in with a rumble of falling bricks and the tortured groan of collapsing girders. Screams erupted behind him. Their hunter had finally had enough of toying with its prey.

  “Not going to die lying down,” Andreas muttered.

  He found that the pain of his wounds was almost gone, a dull ache in his skull and a dangling left arm the only sign he had been hurt at all as he tried to drag himself up. After an eternity, he managed to prop himself up with his right elbow on the nearby machine, swaying drunkenly to his feet.

  He blinked and stared at the man he had sought to murder.

  The so-called Russian, finally revealed, seemed to dance amongst the German soldiers, towering over them as an adult over children. He moved like a serpent, long hair flying, the skilled blows and gunshots of his victims rendered clumsy in comparison.

  The gigantic, now-nude, body rippled with muscle. Pale, flawless skin glowed in the ruddy light cast by the burning building. It looked like an artist’s impression of the human form, figure proportionate and yet somehow greater than even the most genetically pure of humanity. This creature—this monster wearing human skin—made Andreas think of the sculptures of ancient times; of the artistic works claimed by the warriors of the Third Reich as they had conquered Europe.

  With one key difference: Jutting from that perfect form, glistening wetly between bulging shoulder blades, were a set of leathery black wings, like those of a bat rendered monstrously huge, a nightmare made flesh.

  A sword appeared as if from nowhere in the winged man’s—the creature’s—hand, liquid shadow made manifest in a blade longer than Andreas’s entire body. The sword howled as the beast swung it, and it seemed reality itself shrieked in agony at its passing. The brutal weapon separated one of the veteran soldiers from shoulder to hip in a spray of gore, even as another man was gouged with the barbed tip of a wing, loops of intestines and other viscera torn free with a single, carefree pull.

  Alabaster skin was splashed in blood, rendered black in the firelight.

  Andreas lurched forward. He stooped as he moved, managing to grasp a discarded pistol in uncooperative hands, pulling it free from the death grip of a soldier who had literally been disarmed.

  Andreas paused now, carefully bracing against a battere
d machine press, and raised the revolver. He managed through sheer willpower to aim at the back of the beast as it slaughtered the soldiers, hands shaking from the effort.

  Even as Andreas’s finger pulled the trigger, the monster leapt aside, the sudden move causing the shots to go wide. He watched in horror as Volkard fired his own pistol into the melee, the shot missing the intended target and snapping back the head of one of his own men.

  The monster did not pause, burying its sword in the skull of Joachim, one of the Scharführer’s best men. It left the screaming blade wedged in Joachim’s head, hilt protruding from the center of his ruined face. It thrust both hands towards Hartwig, another of Volkard’s elite, fingers writhing. The big man crumpled to the ground, seemingly untouched, a moan escaping his lips.

  Andreas was still swinging his pistol around to take another shot, amazed and horrified at the speed with which this creature could move, when a dagger of living darkness—a smaller version of the sword even now chewing its way downward through poor Joachim—appeared in its grasp.

  Andreas saw the beast smile as the blade left its hand in an underarm throw.

  Blood bubbled instantly to his lips, the sudden impact so shocking that for one fleeting instant Andreas thought there would be no pain. That hope was dashed a heartbeat later, and he could not keep a gurgling scream from tearing its way forth as the agony of his impalement struck him.

  He tried to shift forward, damaged hands scrabbling at the blade until they were a bloody mess, but he was stuck, pinned to the machine at his back.

  Andreas watched helplessly, delirious from the pain, as Hartwig’s body tore itself apart.

  The monster drew the sword from its makeshift scabbard in Joachim’s skull. The fire threatening to engulf the factory threw the scene into stark relief. The creature pivoted on the ball of one foot, gutting the last of the SS troopers with a spray of mangled flesh.

  Only Herr Volkard was left, dropping to his knees to beg for mercy from a creature that obviously had none.

  “Please, mein Gott, please!” Volkard blabbered, sobbing. A wet patch spread slowly down the Scharführer’s leg, black against black.

  “You dare invoke that name?” asked the monster, the angry words at odds with the dry, always-calm tone. The creature’s pale flesh glowed crimson in the light of the flames, the top of its head wreathed in a halo of smoke.

  “Whatever you want, take it!” cried the Scharführer, voice shrill. “Take my men, the women, the children, the city! Take it all, please, just spare me!”

  “Pathetic,” whispered Andreas, the effort of speaking causing hot blood to gush down his chin, joining the steady stream pulsing from his chest with every weakening beat of his heart.

  “Pathetic,” the monster echoed as it placed the palm of one massive hand upon Volkard’s brow, as though in benediction. It was smiling again, teeth glittering.

  “No, no, please, nononono — ”

  The sound of Volkard’s skull shattering echoed through the cavernous factory. Andreas watched the headless corpse fall, and felt not the slightest shred of pity.

  The beast wearing human skin stalked slowly toward him, head cocked as though unable to understand how this pathetic little being could still be alive. He watched as the shadowy sword evaporated in a swirl of mist, like it had never existed.

  “Still amongst the living I see,” it said. The creature stood just outside his reach, leaning forward so the over-large gray eyes, set into a surprisingly handsome face, were even with Andreas’s own. It had long, pale hair, matted with gore and sweat. Up close, Andreas could just make out tiny horns, curled like those of a goat, jutting from its temples.

  “Not for long,” said Andreas.

  “Not for long,” it agreed.

  The flames had closed in further, the ammunition scattered about the fallen beginning to cook off. The pall of black smoke sunk lower still, beginning to worm its way inside his lungs.

  “What are you?” Andreas asked, a bloody cough wracking his body.

  “I am many things,” said the beast.

  Andreas shook his head at the evasive answer, the movement making his head swim. The heat was almost unbearable.

  “You disagree?” It laughed. “Tell me then, what am I?”

  “A monster,” he whispered.

  “That too.” It smiled crookedly.

  “Why did you do this to us?”

  “Why did you plan to murder me?” It covered Andreas’s mouth with a huge, bloodied hand as he tried to respond, the grip surprisingly gentle. “Oh no, do not deny it. Why?”

  The creature removed its hand. Andreas struggled to breathe, the smoke and pain making it hard to speak.

  “Orders,” he managed to whisper. He spat, the bloody sputum hitting the floor near his captor’s feet.

  “So you would murder one at the word of another, and for what?”

  “Not murder; war.”

  “War? What is your war, if not murder on a grand scale?” The creature laughed at this, wide eyes reflecting the flames consuming the building. “You seek the approval of those who have committed genocide, and yet you would name me monster?”

  The creature grasped Andreas by the chin, bones creaking from the force of those massive fingers. He gasped as the otherworldly blade transfixing him disappeared.

  “You would name me monster,” it said, voice murder-soft. “You, who would have gleefully slaughtered me.”

  The giant hand began to squeeze, the grip threatening to dislodge Andreas’s jaw.

  “You, who have fought me so bravely, not from a sense of righteousness or morality, but so that you could go on killing in the name of your golden calf.”

  It paused for a moment. Andreas’s teeth were grinding together. His skull felt like it was going to burst from the pressure.

  The flames drew ever closer, the entire building now alight.

  “You, the child of a regime who has done our work in this realm more thoroughly than I ever could have predicted, plunging your entire world into a conflict that has slaughtered millions.”

  The handsome face pressed against his, nose to nose. Massive eyes peered into his own, their endless depths flaying his soul.

  “You would name me monster ... yet others once named me angel.”

  Andreas tried to shake his head, but the inexorable, vice-like grip would not allow it. The flames roared closer, almost touching them both.

  “D-De-Dev—” he stuttered, unable to say the word. He was shaking, and he knew it was not from his injuries.

  “Oh, no,” the giant hissed triumphantly, relishing the moment. “I am not He. But I am one of His.

  The creature lifted Andreas once again by the throat, the fire now licking at his dangling heels, iron fingers squeezing the life from him.

  “You sought to murder Azazel, a lord of Hell. Know there are consequences for your actions.”

  Andreas began to weep then, tears cleansing the blood from his cheeks before they evaporated in the heat of the flames. Great choking, shuddering sobs overtook him, his mind overwhelmed.

  “You wish to be a soldier?” he heard the creature—the demon—whisper. “That is why I came here. Another war approaches. My kindred have need of such ... ”

  Andreas felt monstrous fingers dip into the gaping wound in his chest. He could not even summon the strength to whimper at this latest agony.

  “ ... fresh blood.”

  The inexorable grip was released.

  Andreas plunged, screaming, into the inferno.

  Born of Darkness

  Stacey Turner

  “We can’t keep her, Jeb.” Cassie ran her fingers through her hair. “She’s not a puppy that followed you home.”

  “She’s just a child, Cassie.”

  “But she’s not our child.”

  “I can’t turn her away. She showed up on our doorstep for a reason, and we have a Christian duty to take care of her.”

  “A what? Did you hear yourself? There are no Christ
ians. There is no God. Take a look around you!” She gave a strangled laugh dripping with defeat. “Where was your God when the clouds covered the Sun? There’s no light. There’s no God. And if you keep taking in strays, we’re going to run out of supplies and … and die.”

  The argument was familiar. Cassie was right. His first duty was to his family, but he didn’t feel right turning away survivors not bent on doing harm. There were some who’d come through, cold people out to get what they could, and be damned to whomever stood in their way. They were the reason he kept a shotgun by the door and another at his side. They were lucky enough the farm was far from any city or large town. He only remembered what he saw those first few days on the television: the breakdown of civilization, riots in the streets … the chaos. God only knows what happened once the power dropped.

  He made a mental note to check the generator before turning in.

  Since the clouds rolled in and the world was plunged into darkness and cold, people went one way or the other. They either followed the path of the light they could no longer see, or they immersed themselves in darkness. Good vs. evil—with no more in-between. Jeb’s choice was simple, even if the result wasn’t. There was no way he’d turn to the dark, but he worried about Cassie. Oh, he knew she didn’t harbor evil in her heart, but the darkness still tempted her. He didn’t like to admit it, but there it was. Sometimes she’d stare into the endless night with that depressing half-smile of hers. He did his best to help keep her feet on the right path, but you couldn’t renew someone else’s mind, only your own.

  He was often reminded of the verse:

  “... the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone practicing evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed ...”

  John 3:19,20.

  Only it was the other way around—the dark had come upon the world, shutting out the light. Those who loved evil were thriving.

  He didn’t know much about Cassie’s life before the clouds; he’d found her half frozen and starved in the back pasture a week after everything went dark. Bringing her in, he and his mother nursed her back to health. The recovery had been slow, mentally and physically, and they’d spent a lot of time just talking. But somewhere along the way, he’d come to love her, and she’d developed strong emotions for him. His mother had performed a simple marriage ceremony. He figured it would be binding in God’s eyes as he didn’t have a clue where to find a preacher. Besides, his mom was a righteous woman, and when it came down to brass, who’d married Adam and Eve?