by C. J. Sears
It made wet plopping noises as it shuffled toward them. Were its feet slicked with mucus or slime? That would explain the squelching.
More of its features became clear as it emerged from the black into their view. Its body was a gray-green color and the skin leathery like an elephant’s hide. Its arms were disgustingly thin and stringy, devoid of bone or structure. The legs jointed at the knee like a human’s but suction cups lined the slippery feet. Like an octopus.
The face could’ve been a man’s except for the mouth. Instead of lips, its orifice funneled outward into a gaping, bulbous mass. Definitely not human. The way it lurched, it reminded him of an ailing plant.
Something like an alligator hiss crossed with the howl of a jackal erupted from the freak’s cavernous hole. Ortiz and Cranston screamed and sprinted up the steps. Cowards. Grayson stood his ground.
What the hell was this thing?
The creature made up for what it lacked in speed with its grotesque features and haunting cry. It was provocative and alluring; the freak invited him closer as if he might observe it for a clinical study. A biologist’s wet dream. He thought better of that idea.
He wasn’t naïve. This thing was a genetically engineered monstrosity that stepped straight out of the movies into reality. His reality.
But who had made it? Why was it being kept here, locked up in the hidden basement of an abandoned mansion? And why was it streaked with blood as if fresh from a kill?
Grayson stepped back as the creature angled toward him. The computer chip and its contents were far from his mind. He needed to follow Ortiz’s and Cranston’s examples and get the hell out of here.
“Stay away from me you mutant freak,” he shouted at the monster. As if it would listen.
He turned and leapt up the steps two at a time. The humanoid chimera followed, slow but purposeful. Everything about this beast screamed late night horror flick and Grayson didn’t like it one bit.
The study was empty when he reached the top. Ortiz and Cranston were gone. He could no longer hear the alarm. The auxiliary power fizzled and died. Darkness encased the mansion once more.
He clicked the flashlight on and shined the beam behind him. No shadows, no monster. But he didn’t breathe a sigh of relief, knew better than to take for granted that he’d escaped.
The first floor window in the kitchen was his best bet. Grayson could get there in three minutes, two if he ran—which he did.
He thanked God that for all his musings about B-movies that this was real life. If it wasn’t, he might’ve tripped down the stairs to let the killer catch up to him. As it was, he bypassed them completely, hopping over the railing and rolling as he landed.
He kept his momentum at a breakneck pace and skidded into the kitchen with the finesse of a professional skier. Grayson could see the window past the island counter in the middle of the room. Ortiz or Cranston had closed it, but that was no problem since he’d pried it loose.
His fingers barely grazed the tip of the windowsill when he heard the suctioning footsteps. No, that was impossible. It couldn’t have caught him. Not as slow as it moved.
He glanced behind him, his flashlight disrupting the dark. Nothing. No octopus man. He was hearing things. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t hurry and get out of the house.
A clear glop of viscous liquid landed on his shoulder. Grayson shut his eyes. More of it dropped, oozing down his body. No, no, no.
He forced himself to open his eyes. He inclined his head back so he could better see what was coming.
Yellow-green irises with horizontal black pupils glinted down at him. Toad eyes.
It hung from the ceiling, its feet securely in place, and folded its useless, pointed arms like bat wings across its body.
The aberrant creature opened its maw.
Grayson didn’t scream. He said nothing but a silent prayer as the monster swooped down from its roost.
He died alone in the dark instead of on a battlefield in the middle of the desert.
HARBINGER OF DEATH
“‘For God loved the world in this way: He gave His One and Only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world that He might condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through Him.’ John 3:16-17. The hope is in Him, brothers and sisters. Amen.”
“Amen,” the parishioners replied, sitting upright and attentive in their respective pews.
Nestled in the last row, in the darkest corner, sat Llewyn Finch.
Every Sunday, for the past two months, he attended services at Fox Creek Community Church. Located outside D. C., the remote and rural town was little more than a glorified hamlet, home to less than five hundred people. Nobody recognized him here. No one suspected what he had done.
No one knew he was responsible for the deaths of over four thousand people. He’d wiped an entire town off of the map and not one person in this church had a clue.
What would they do if they knew the truth? Would they shun him? Would they cast him out for his sins? It was bad enough living with himself without adding the scorn of righteous folk on top of his own misgivings.
He’d found the church by chance—missed his turnoff—but for whatever reason he felt compelled to stay and listen to the sermons rendered by Pastor Bob Hartman.
An eloquent yet simple speaker, Hartman glowed with energy and passion for the teachings of Christ. He was not the fire and brimstone type, preferred to focus his message on one of hope and salvation, but his love for the gospels was plain. And he loved to share anecdotes.
“The other day, while I was shopping for my wife’s anniversary gift, a homeless man approached me outside the venue. His clothes were moth-eaten, his hair was disheveled, and several teeth were missing. He asked for change. I obliged. I didn’t know what he would do with the money. Maybe he would spend it on liquor or drugs. I cannot say. But that was not the only gift I offered. His struggle was heartbreaking. The best counter to a difficult time in one’s life is always good news.
“He asked me, perhaps seeing the cross I wore, ‘How can you believe in that God stuff? Look at me. I have no one. I own nothing. What has your God done for me?’ The pain in his ragged voice nearly brought me to tears. But I answered him, ‘Everything.’ The man laughed. ‘Right. I guess He hates me,’ he said, not understanding what I meant.
“I clarified, ‘The Lord has paid the ultimate price for you. For your soul. God sacrificed His only Son so that your sins might be forgiven and that you should have the hope of eternal life. In time, all your tears, all your sadness and hardship, will be wiped away. You will be given a new flesh, a new body. You need only place your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.’ The man wept and confessed to me the abuses he’d suffered, how he’d lost his job, his wife, and his children. I told him the promise our Lord has given of forgiveness for our sins, the blood price only He could pay.
“I didn’t know for certain whether I helped him. Only Christ can save a man from himself. But I believed in Him and placed my trust in His teachings. But Pastor Hartman, you ask, what am I trying to say? The point is simply this: no one, born high or low, rich or poor, in good health or sickness, is without the hope of eternal life. So long as you believe in the message of our Lord, that He took His place upon the cross and bore the weight of sin, you are born again. The Holy Spirit will dwell within you, sanctifying you, preparing you to meet the way, the truth, and the life that is our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Hartman stepped out from behind the podium. He walked into the church’s other room, which Finch presumed was his office. Moments later, he emerged carrying a cracked silver basin.
“I know we’re all going through rough times here in Fox Creek. Sadly, it takes some doing to maintain this church. No one should feel pressure to donate too much! But please, give what you can.”
The bowl flittered from person to person as they each placed what money they
could spare inside. Tithes. Finch couldn’t help but notice the largest bill was only five dollars and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
He had been fortunate in his previous visits to avoid this scenario. Now he had no choice but to participate. Well, something had to come up. He’d have to cut and run when the services were over, get as far away from these people before he brought ruin to them too.
His neighbor, whom he’d spoken to only once during these proceedings, passed the bowl to him. He surreptitiously dropped a hundred and passed the bowl down the row toward the aisle. Pastor Hartman collected the money and returned to the podium to resume preaching.
No one in the congregation noticed nor batted an eye at his contribution. Good. Attention was the last thing he needed.
Thirty minutes later, Finch sidled into the crowd of departing churchgoers. He felt like a wolf among sheep, but they seemed unfettered by his presence. No one knew that the harbinger of death lurked in their midst.
“You there,” called the familiar voice of Pastor Hartman, “can I have a word?”
His car was within reach. There was nothing stopping him from ignoring the man. Finch hadn’t meant to get involved in the church’s operations. He wanted to remain a ghost, a spirit lost in the approaching winter fog. The battle between his heart and his regret waged. He wished he could retreat to a fox hole.
But his conscience won the war. “Yes, I suppose.”
He followed Hartman back into the church and into his diminutive office. A nook would have been a more accurate descriptor. The bathroom in Finch’s apartment was larger—and cleaner.
Handwritten sermons, Bible excerpts, and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich formed the clutter on the pastor’s desk. The tithe bowl teetered on the edge of the desk. Its contents, while slim pickings, had been emptied into a zippered bank purse.
All that remained was the image of Ben Franklin that Pastor Hartman held in the palm of his hand.
“This was yours, correct?”
No point in lying. “Yes, it was.”
Hartman studied the bill, peered up at his unknown benefactor, then folded the cash in with the rest and locked the bag. He gestured for Finch to sit down as he reclined in a frayed swivel chair.
“Can I ask what’s troubling you, Mr.?”
“Llewyn,” he said, realizing that it was pointless to obfuscate such details, “Llewyn Finch.”
“Right, Mr. Finch. I take note of every newcomer that passes through my door. A lot of folks come and go as they please though you can see we have a pretty loyal base. But these part-timers don’t spend a hundred dollars like they’re treating everyone at the bar to a round of drinks. So I ask again: what’s troubling you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Finch said, slipping back into the lie.
Hartman sported a sorrowful smile. “I think you do. This was a cry for attention if I’ve ever seen it. But perhaps it’s not time for us to discuss the past. Not yet.”
Finch squirmed. He felt like he was in high school being interrogated by his principal about some prank he’d played. But Hartman was not unkind.
“I like to know my flock. So let’s start with something simple: where are you from? We’re a tight knit bunch and you’re definitely not native to Fox Creek. You have the air of the city about you.”
What was that supposed to mean? “I was raised near Lake Erie,” he answered, deciding not to be too specific, “but I moved out to D. C. about seven years ago.”
“A Washington man, huh? Didn’t expect that. My grandfather lived there in the 1950s. Said it was cozy. I don’t think it stayed that way.”
“No, I don’t think it did.”
“You have family nearby? A wife? Kids?”
“No. My parents live in Florida. I don’t have any siblings. No spouse, no children.”
“So what brought you out here? We’re not exactly a thriving metropolis.”
Finch shrugged. “I guess I’ve grown fond of country living.”
Well, that was a half-truth. But Hartman didn’t know.
“Has its charm, doesn’t it? I’ve always told my wife that the hustle and bustle of the big cities dilutes people’s perception of what a simple existence can do for their health.”
“Yeah,” Finch agreed. Unless you lived in Lone Oak. Then you suffered a fiery death. It was his fault, damn it. Why was he even here having this conversation with a pastor from the boondocks? He should’ve burned with the rest of them.
Hartman clasped his hands together and said, “Mr. Finch—actually, can I call you Llewyn? I’m not really the formal type.”
“Sure,” he said, admiring the cold beauty of the outside world he glimpsed through the smudged window. The weather man claimed a storm was brewing that would blanket the Atlantic coast with a foot of snow. With the frigid temperatures and prevalent grey skies, Finch believed it.
“Llewyn, have you lost someone recently?”
Four thousand five hundred and eighty-five people, in fact.
Finch sidestepped the question. “You could say that.”
Hartman nodded. “I see. You blame yourself?”
Was this man a therapist or a preacher? “I’d rather not discuss it. I’d like to leave if you don’t mind.”
The pastor didn’t push. “Of course. Feel free to drop by next Sunday after service. Maybe next time you’ll sit closer instead of hiding.”
He wanted to say there wouldn’t be a next time, and that he’d had his fill of the church and Hartman’s amateur psychology lesson. But that’d be lying. As far as Finch was concerned, the lies had festered and boiled past their due date.
“See you Sunday,” he said, unable or unwilling to stop himself.
He left the room, closing the door at Hartman’s request. The church lacked hardy insulation. He doubted they could afford a proper heat and air system. But at least they’d make it through the week, God willing.
Winter’s chill penetrated the thick faux fur-lining of his coat. A faint heat smoldered within his body. It warmed his heart against the encroaching blizzard.
*
He drove the sleek black sedan into the underground garage of the otherwise nondescript building where he worked. Finch hated the car. It made him feel like the wheelman for a bank job. His employers had bought the vehicle to replace the one he’d left behind in Lone Oak. He missed his Jeep.
Finch killed the engine and strapped on his gun harness. He tossed his coat in the backseat and struggled into a black suit jacket. Already regretting leaving furlough, he exited the car.
“I never thought I’d see Llewyn Finch walk into a church.”
A shapely figure leaned against a pillar behind his car. Darkness permeated the garage, obscuring features, but he recognized that voice even without seeing her face.
“Kasey?”
She stepped out of the shadows, her blonde hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in a maroon-colored pantsuit and impractical high heels. Last time he saw her, what little she wore would’ve made Pastor Hartman blush.
“So, Mr. Dreams and Premonitions can recall the past.”
He hadn’t had a dream or a so-called premonition since that night in Lone Oak. Only nightmares. But what did she know? The two of them hadn’t spoken in five years.
“You were following me? Why?” He didn’t mean to sound so suspicious, but recent circumstances had him questioning nearly everyone’s intentions.
“Why, you almost sound like you have something to hide,” she said, sauntering toward him. “But that can’t be; the Llewyn I remember didn’t have time for a private life. Or life, for that matter.”
Ouch. Kasey Alexander always had a way of driving the stake right into his heart.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, since you don’t want to play, I guess I’ll get to the point. Assistant Director Sinclair wants to see you. Us, actually.”
Finch frowned. “I thought you were workin
g JTTF with the FBI. Said you didn’t have the stomach for what we do. What’s changed?”
“I got bored,” she said, tying her hair into a ponytail, “and in case you haven’t turned on the news, most terrorism these days isn’t domestic.”
“If you say so,” he said, thinking of Lone Oak and how readily what happened there disagreed with her appraisal.
“Come on, Llewyn, where’s your sense of adventure? It’s always exciting to hear what the dinosaur has to say. Don’t you agree?”
“That joke’s never been funny, Kasey.”
She feigned being hurt by his words. “Wow, what unkind things you say to me. I think I’ll go cry in the corner. Seriously, what crawled up your ass?”
Finch softened. She was right. He was being a prick. Her way with words bore too easily into his soul.
“Sorry,” he said, checking his watch, “my last case was hell. I didn’t want to come back.”
“Must’ve been. Since when did you get religious? I didn’t think you even owned a Bible.”
“People change,” he responded. “Well, except for Kasey Alexander, apparently.”
She laughed. “That’s right! I’m a regular fossil. They’ll be putting the words ‘frozen in time’ on my tombstone.”
Finch groaned. “Please don’t mention fossils.”
The click of her heels on concrete led Finch into the elevator. She perched on the railing as he punched in the number for Sinclair’s floor. Not quite top level but you could spit from the balcony and catch passersby unaware.
With every ding of the elevator Finch tried to disregard the fact that Kasey kept staring at his buttocks.
“I see you still work out,” she said, her voice decidedly husky. “That’s a pressed ham I wouldn’t mind chewing on.”
“Kasey.”
“Llewyn,” she replied, parroting his tone.
He sighed. That sedan must’ve been a DeLorean in disguise. He’d gone so far back in time it was like he was dating her all over again.
Finch turned to face the panel and watched the lights flicker between floors.