by K Helms
“You don’t even touch me anymore,” she said ignoring his question and grabbed him roughly by the crotch. Her voice took on an evil gleeful tone as she screamed “Are you gay or something?”
“I'll fuck the bitch!” yelled the muffled voice from upstairs.
The truth was that Hito had no desire to have sex with a woman that acted like she hated every single thing about him. Even sex was a chore; what was supposed to be a mutually pleasurable experience always ended up being about her. He was too gentle. He was too rough. His breath smelled like coffee. He hadn’t showered good enough. His hair was in her face. The list was endless, and he would, honestly, rather be asexual than deal with yet another of her list of irritations.
It wasn’t just the sex or the sugar on the counter or the slurping of coffee either. He didn’t do the dishes or the laundry the right way. He didn’t mow the yard in the correct pattern. He didn’t put the trash cans out in the right order. He left toothpaste spatter on the mirror. His shit smelled remarkably like shit. His feet stank. He didn’t cut his hair the right way. She coached him at everything and his heart had grown full of resentment. At times like this his heart was pierced by a dagger of hatred.
“Are you going to say anything?” she demanded, still nose to nose and screaming; spittle dotting his face.
Friday wouldn’t be Friday without having the cops stop over and see the marks on him and his clothes torn. He would have to see the look in the cop’s eyes as they shook their heads in distaste; mockery in their eyes.
Victoria grew silent, but, her words echoed in his mind…pecking and pecking like water torture.
Suddenly she changed her tone and backed off. “You’re going to have to order a pizza for dinner, I’m not cooking tonight,” she said as she turned to look at the television. Just like that the switch had been flipped, making his head spin.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for pizza,” he said, shaking his head in amazement as he walked toward the bathroom of their little two bedroom apartment. He just wanted to lie down and take a nap.
Victoria snapped again and flung the television remote at the back of his head. The plastic remote control missed him by inches, slammed into the wall beside him and the battery cover broke open, spilling its contents on the floor with a clatter as they rolled into the corner.
“Don’t you ever listen to me, you stupid asshole? I said I am not cooking. I’m not your slave,” she screamed. Victoria stood and then ran after him, pushing him from behind again, this time making him stumble.
He regained his balance and said over his shoulder. “Vic, I don’t want to fight, I just want to go to bed. If you want pizza then go ahead and order it, but I’m not hungry.”
“I told you to order the flippin’ pizza. If I had wanted to order it I would have already done it. You are such a pussy! I suppose you’re scared to talk on the phone, is that it? God, I hate you! How did I ever marry a nutless freak like you?” Victoria screamed at him. This was the first time Victoria had come out and said those words and he was stunned for a moment.
He could hear the neighbors upstairs yelling for them to shut up. He honestly felt sorry for them because this sort of thing happened all the time. His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why you married me either Victoria. I really don’t.” Hito could hear the whine of sirens above the stomps of their neighbor and figured that he wouldn’t be getting to go to bed after all.
Prologue Part 5 - Hangar 18
Wright Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton Ohio
Far below ground was the above top secret installation of many myths and legend. Hangar 18 was by all appearances just another enormous aircraft hangar, but it was what lay below that had inspired countless movies and novels. The underground installation led to various other buildings by way of a system of secure tunnels and rooms. The walls were unpainted concrete and unadorned but for the clusters of electrical conduit, junction boxes and gray breakers.
“Sir, The ship is online.”
The Officer of the Day, Lieutenant J.P. Fischer spun on his heel and looked incredulously at the wall of monitors that showed every angle of the alien spacecraft “What?” He marched purposefully over to where the junior scientist sat in front of his computer. “I don’t hear anything and the ship hasn’t moved.”
The scientist shook his head. “Sir, the sensors have picked up an energy signature, it is in a range I have never seen before.”
“You’d better be right Rix or it’s your ass,” said the Lieutenant ominously. He grabbed the red handset from the phone on the wall. “I need to speak to General Bradshaw,” he said then waited for a moment. “Sir, this is Lt. Fischer in Section 5. We are getting energy readings from the ship.” The scientist could hear a string of expletives through the phone where he sat then heard a click as the Lt. winced and gently replaced the handset to its cradle. He eyeballed the man in the white lab coat as he chewed on his bottom lip nervously. “The Response Team will be here directly to relieve us. Following a briefing we’ll be quarantined indefinitely,” said the Lieutenant and then added, “My wife is gonna be seriously pissed.”
Prologue Part 6 - I See You (not I.C.U.)
Mercy Hospital
Charleston, West Virginia
Regeliel raised his head from his starched, white pillow and his long red locks hung over his bearded face and fell past his shoulders. He squinted as the morning sun glinted sharply into the two man room and he ran a large calloused hand over his scarred face and tugged at his braided beard. He had been on the sixth floor of Mercy Hospital for two weeks now and although the staff was generally caring and friendly they also treated him as if his cheese had slid off his cracker.
He shared a room with an older man of about forty years or so. The man in the next bed was still in pretty good shape, but his face was a road map of thick pink scars that stood out brightly against his pale skin. One of the man’s eyes, around which the majority of scarring was, was milk white, blind Regeliel knew. The one-eyed man spoke with a strange accent that Regeliel recognized from the cartoons that he incessantly watched of one amorous skunk that had a fetish for cats, and much like the cartoon skunk, he spoke a broken form of English. Napoleon was his roommate’s name: Napoleon Bonaparte; or Your Imperial Majesty as he seemed to prefer. Regeliel quickly realized that The Emperor became wildly furious when some of the staff got him confused with another patient named Earl. The staff made this mistake often and it would unfailingly send the Emperor into a tirade of name calling. His favorite name to call them was idiot (which sounded like eediot) and more foul profanity, until they were forced to plunge a needle in his shoulder. Only after those measures would he relax into a state of calm and soon after, drool would hang from his lips in copious drops as he stared at the cartoons that had transformed into a psychedelic blur of bright colors on the television.
Regeliel always called him Your Highness. Regeliel believed that you had to pay royalty their due; it was the noble thing to do. Napoleon enjoyed watching cartoons on the television and so Regeliel, who had never watched them before, had taken up that pastime as well. The Emperor waved the remote control like a scepter and Regeliel could only imagine that the staff had taken the Emperor’s weapon away from him fearing violence. Regeliel had noticed Napoleon’s small but fit stature and thought it odd that he would be a great leader. Regeliel himself was an imposing figure of a man. He stood at a towering seven feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds. His face was ruddy and scarred and covered in a thick red beard that matched his long, shoulder-length mane. He was thickly muscled and the straps that they secured around his wrists at night could barely go around their thick diameter. The staff had to shave the thick coat of red hair from around his wrists so as not to pull the hairs when they strapped him in each night.
Today he was scheduled to talk to his physician Murashell Rangwalli for what would be his tenth session.
Dr. Rangwalli was a dark-skinned man originally from Pakistan. He accent was thic
k and Regeliel had heard other patients and the resident staff talking about not being able to understand a word that came out of his mouth, but Regeliel understood him perfectly. He thought that the doctor had a musical quality to his voice and that maybe Rangwalli had missed his calling.
Rangwalli was enthralled with Regeliel’s stories and especially the armor and heavy broad sword in his possession when the massive red haired man had been brought into the hospital two weeks before. The red haired giant had been shot twice by a large caliber hand gun, probably a .44 magnum, but had recovered in what Rangwalli called a remarkable fashion, “unheard”, of he had said. The doctor had Regeliel’s armor standing on display in his office; in its two steel gauntlets was held the enormous broadsword before the suit, its deadly sharp point piercing the tile floor.
Two orderlies escorted Regeliel into the doctor’s office and sat him on a couch that was made for much smaller people. Rangwalli’s face lighted up with genuine joy when he saw the gentle giant, his teeth bright white against the darkness of his skin. Regeliel smiled back; he enjoyed talking to the doctor. In Regeliel’s estimation Rangwalli was brilliant, somewhat misguided, but brilliant.
Rangwalli stood from his desk, circled around it to stand in front of Regeliel and reached up to put his hand on the giant’s shoulder. “Good to see you again, Regeliel. How are you today?”
“I am well, Doctor. We are well met.”
Rangwalli laughed gleefully. “Yes, yes, we are well met, indeed.” The doctor backed up to his desk and leaned against it. “And how is our illustrious Emperor doing today?” he asked of Regeliel’s roommate.
“He is well. At present he is eating ice cream and watching Tom and Jerry.”
The Doctor laughed. “I too happen to enjoy watching that odd pair on occasion.” Still smiling, he motioned for Regeliel to sit as he took his place at his desk and said, “Now at our last session you were telling me about your kingdom and the Nephilim. Please, tell me more of this race of people. I find their story fascinating.”
Regeliel nodded, accustomed to this routine and thought that if he told the doctor everything he wished to know, then maybe they would allow him to take his leave and find the help he was searching for.
“The Nephilim are a race of giants, mighty men of valor, and the descendants of angels. The angels descended from heaven when they found that the daughters of man were beautiful and took them as wives. Their offspring are Nephilim, as I am Nephilim,” said the giant.
“Are all Nephilim as noble as you?”
Regeliel shook his head a sour expression on his face. “Nay, we are like any race. There are evil ones as well. Great evil that would destroy all that is good in your world.”
The doctor’s eyes were full of concern. “Sadly, you are the only Nephilim I have ever seen, my friend.”
“My wish is that you never meet the other kind, Sir Murashell.”
Rangwalli listened to the giant as he spoke of his home, of how he missed his betrothed, but that he would first need to find the sons of David that would aid his people because most of his own people were fearful of the renegade Nephilim, Baliel the Lich of Ba-al, who was a follower of Lucifer.
Eventually Regeliel and Rangwalli settled into a conversation that was reserved for friends, where Rangwalli told Regeliel of his own wife and of his children. He told the giant how he also felt as if he were an alien in a strange world, that his family still lived in Pakistan and that he missed them more than words. Regeliel knew that the doctor spoke truthfully; he could see the sadness in his eyes when he spoke of them. When he spoke their names it was as if he were savoring the way each name tasted upon his tongue.
At the end of his session the giant stood and the doctor hugged the lost knight. The giant, Sir Regeliel, patted one enormous hand gently against the doctor’s thin back before the orderlies escorted him back to the room he shared with His Imperial Highness, the Emperor.
The orderlies helped Regeliel back into his bed while Napoleon cast an annoyed glance in their direction, clearly not amused with the noise they were making.
Suddenly the cable went to black and white static on the television and the Emperor threw the remote at the screen cursing it. Regeliel had not known there to be that many curses but he supposed that a wise Noble such as His Highness would know more than most.
The shrill voice of Napoleon suddenly calmed from its diatribe and his tone softened to an eerie facsimile of its normal incarnation. “I see you Regeliel…I see you well.”
Regeliel knew that dialect. It was Nephilim. He turned to look at Napoleon. That one milky white eye stared at him, daring him to respond. It seemed to Regeliel that his roommate had been taken over, possessed by a sorcerer that Regeliel knew well.
“Yes, Regeliel, I see you well,” repeated that high sinister voice.
Regeliel met the stare and would not glance away. “Then we are well met, for I see you as well.” Regeliel said with a shudder as he pictured the decomposing face of Baliel, of Ba'al the necromancer.
Prologue Part 7 - Gold Fillings and a Box of Brass
Farrell Company Fun Factory
Parkersburg, West Virginia
Mike Dunlap was thirty-five years old, but his face was lined and wrinkled well beyond his years. His eyes were hard and a pale blue color that made for a piercing stare. Dunlap liked to use their odd appearance to intimidate others when he felt threatened. Today the stare hadn’t worked as he was unceremoniously ushered into the small office and instructed to wait there until the man arrived to deal with him properly.
He intertwined the fingers of both hands as he contemplated the decision of which seat to take. It really wasn’t much of a choice.
There were two chairs sitting at odd angles but facing the front of the desk. Dunlap chose the one on the left.
He always picked the one on the left. It left him with his strong side exposed and he felt less vulnerable for some reason. He felt more in control. A man should always feel in control even when the powers that be threatened to define your role. He was not a sheep and refused to be herded as such. The choice of chairs was a small comfort that he allowed himself at all times, even if he had to ask someone to switch places with him. Dunlap would admit, though, a small, petulant part of him wanted to lay claim to the overly large cushioned chair at the other side of the desk. He noticed that the chair on the other side of the desk was not only wider and plusher, but it also sat a few inches higher than the others. Imagine his amazement that the boss man wanted to appear bigger, more imposing, and more powerful than the little man that was fortunate enough to be given a glimpse of his task master’s domain.
The enormous desk looked like a barricade, possibly to protect the big shot behind it from the primates he was forced to oversee…at least until he climbed the monkey ladder to a new more impressive rung and got an even bigger status symbol.
The glossy black lacquered surface was polished to a mirror finish. It was, admittedly, a fine piece of furniture and it must have cost the company a small fortune. His eyes were drawn to it and it seemed to beg for his attention, so he took a moment, out of curiosity, not vanity, and observed his reflection mirrored in its surface. It reminded him of a photographic negative. Dunlap’s face was not distorted in the least and was in perfect proportion; as if he were staring back at himself, but somehow, the exact opposite and his mind captured a fragment of nostalgia; there was something fascinating about staring into an abyss and having the abyss stare back into you.
Faintly in the reflection he thought he saw something. There was something other than him staring back from the depths of its smooth surface. He squinted his eyes and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, he saw that there was something wrapped around his dark reflection. It was his face, but spread over it like a gray-black gossamer shroud he saw another. He shivered, and in his heart he knew that it was Envy incarnate. The image morphed his expression into a sneer, full of bitterness and rot. He felt his heart hammer within his chest, a
prisoner threatening to break through its bars made of bone. Then as mysteriously as the image appeared it faded and he saw only his own face, though it still possessed that sneer, which transparently exposed the rot within his heart. The sneer slipped from his face like melting wax and he wondered what he had become. He almost gave in to the vertigo that made his head swim.
Control,
He shook his head and felt that familiar smirk cross his lips again. Why shouldn’t he be envious? It seemed almost a righteous emotion, especially in this case.
He absently rubbed the small burns on his hands. They would heal and turn calloused in time. It was a common thread of the working man. Calluses and broken down boots. You can learn a lot from looking at a man’s hands and boots, but most people don’t care to look that close, unless there is a designer label affixed to it.
Dunlap surveyed the organized clutter upon the desk, but it wasn’t the paperwork that caught his eye, instead it was the polished silver framed photographs that caught his immediate attention. Dunlap recognized the man in the photo as one of the bosses he had seen earlier this morning. The boss had immediately dismissed Dunlap as he hurried past, careful not to make eye contact. The man in the picture stood beside a stately home that was immaculately kept, waving at the hidden photographer.
Dunlap knew that type of hand. That same type of hand that had shaken his in the guise of camaraderie and unity, they had the same slimy, fleshy feel to them of softness and greed. It was like shaking a salamander.
Dunlap never for a moment presumed that he deserved this lavish a lifestyle, but neither should this schmuck. After all, it had been his sweat, his abused body and others just like him that had helped the fat bastard pay for it.