by J-F. Dubeau
The creature quickly adjusted its attack, however. It poured its essence into Sam Finnegan’s aging body. From Randy’s point of view, the madman looked to be having a full-blown, grand mal epileptic seizure. An ocean of hatred and death flooded into the flesh in which Audrey had taken refuge, every drop of it now intent on consuming and destroying her.
This it tried, with all its immortal might. The god tore her soul apart only to have it coalesce again and again. There was no pain, not as the living would understand it, but instead an agony of loss, sadness, and existential despair. Without nerve endings to communicate the physical trauma, Audrey was rent and broken by her emotions. All the while, the nails in her feet kept her grounded, immune not to harm but to finality.
Just as Audrey began to give in to the never-ending assault, it was over. As quickly as it had arrived, the ocean of hate receded, and the little girl found herself standing beside the old man’s spirit.
Once more, the god was trapped. Instead of a prison of promises and oaths, it was now held in one made of flesh. Confined by its own hatred and hunger.
Audrey looked up at Sam. His soul seemed serene, almost at peace. Glad to have sacrificed himself for a worthy cause.
“You did wonderfully,” he said.
RANDY
THE GOD’S PHYSICAL form stood frozen, bent rigidly over the old man. The web of fleshy tendrils and bony tentacles quietly fell apart, no longer animated by the baleful will of the creature. The childlike figure that had stood inside fell over and burst like a water balloon, spraying the walls in black ichor.
Quiet fell over the jail room, with only the sound of a slimy blob of coagulating blood splattering onto the ground to break the silence.
Randy was frozen. As a medical examiner, he had studied the human body in almost every possible postmortem condition imaginable. Between his personal experience and the vast catalog of images found in medical reports and journals, he had seen just about every conceivable horror the mortal form might be subjected to. And as an amateur practitioner of necromancy, he was also no stranger to the supernatural. While he’d always shied away from truly delving into the actual art, Randy had toyed with the minor reanimation of small animals, out-of-body experiences, and whatever else his father’s notes could teach him.
In spite all of his accumulated experiences, however, Dr. McKenzie had never seen anything as unimaginable as what had been done to Erica’s body.
Perhaps it was that he’d known the young psychologist so well, or that he’d always seen bodies after they’d been mutilated, burned, or torn apart. Maybe there was just no way to find the detachment necessary to process what he’d just witnessed. Either way, sometime during the god’s attack, he had fallen to his knees and clutched the iron nails he’d hammered into a dead girl’s eyes. He found himself trembling like a dry leaf, hopelessly clinging to a branch in autumn.
Hearing nothing but his own heartbeat drumming in his ears, the medical examiner took stock of his surroundings, trying to piece together what had happened. As far as he could tell, Sam Finnegan, the Saint-Ferdinand Killer, had somehow tricked the god into his own body. Randy studied Finnegan’s body, wondering what was going on beneath its skin. How much of his soul had the old man given up to forge this new prison for the malevolent god? How would the door to this new cage remain locked?
Suddenly Sam’s eyes opened and Randy understood. It wasn’t trapped. The creature was in there, of that there was no doubt. Empty blue eyes looked out of Sam Finnegan’s skull, drinking in the situation, understanding it.
Without thought or hesitation, racing against the intellect of a far older creature, one with a complex and alien understanding of reality, Randy tightened his fists on the iron nails and then plunged them into those of Sam Finnegan’s body.
The first one slid into the soft tissue of the old man’s eye and brain with surprisingly little effort. Randy, ever the medical doctor, attributed it to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
The second nail was more of a challenge as the body, animated by pain, shock, and a supernatural presence struggling for freedom, thrashed about and sought to fight back.
All Randy could see in that blue void of an eye before he plunged the second nail in was hatred, hatred and death.
As soon as both of Finnegan’s eyes had been replaced by the black iron spikes and pooling red blood, the body collapsed back onto the ground, leaving the medical examiner to stare at it.
“I gotcha,” he said in a dry, exhausted rasp.
“No,” came a smooth and relaxed voice from behind him. “I have him.”
Randy McKenzie turned around slowly, trying to put a name to the vaguely familiar face. Flanked by Hector Alvarez and Gédéon LaFrenière, whom the doctor knew were part of Crowley’s Sandmen, stood a young man. He wore a sharp but mud-stained suit, his features handsome despite the bruises and blood that darkened his face.
“Dr. McKenzie, I presume?” The man walked into the jail room, casually stepping over the leftover flesh and tissue that had been part of the god’s extended form. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Chris . . . I mean, Francis Lambert. It’s a pleasure.”
He crouched down to look Randy directly in the eyes, cordially extending a hand. The doctor took it automatically, dumbfounded by the turn of events.
Meanwhile, the other two men went to pick up Sam Finnegan’s body. LaFrenière was a sickly shade of green and gave the impression that he might void his stomach at any moment.
“Wait. What are you doing?” Randy tried to interrupt, but Lambert’s cold hand held him firm.
“Don’t worry about it, Dr. McKenzie,” the young man said with sincerity. “We’ll take care of everything from now on.”
Once the two Sandmen had left with the body, Lambert finally let go of Randy’s hand. He stood, taking a calm look around the room and methodically drinking in every detail.
“Who are you?” Randy inquired, dark suspicion digging a pit in his guts.
“Your father knew my grandfather, Dr. McKenzie. I’m here to do what neither of them could.”
“You’re going to kill it?”
“Kill it? I’m going to use it.” Lambert made his way back to the entrance of the jail room, both hands comfortably in his pockets. “Not in the clumsy barbaric way my father intended, however. My plans are far more ambitious.”
His eyes finally settled on the body of Erica Hazelwood. She was buried under the putrefied remains of the god. Broken and limp. A bubble of blood formed at the corner of her mouth then burst. She was breathing.
“Tsk . . . what a shame. I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
Erica was breathing! Ignoring Lambert’s retreating footsteps, Randy crawled to his protégé’s side. The strange young man was right: her chances didn’t look good. Soon Lieutenant Bélanger would be back. He needed to escape, but he also couldn’t leave Erica like this. Leaving her in the hopes that she might be found and saved in time wasn’t an option. His mind flirted with putting the young woman out of her misery, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He wouldn’t become like William and Beatrice, consumed by the need to bring back the dead. He wouldn’t have to. Randy knew a little of the darker arts. He knew tricks. Parlor tricks if performed on rats. Miracles if he could pull it off on a person.
Shivering from an unnatural cold, the medical examiner began to pull at the tendrils of dead flesh, digging to free his student’s body from the clutches of a dead god.
EPILOGUE
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Venus said, squeezing Katrina’s bony hand.
For two weeks the young girl had stood vigil over the old fortune-teller. At first, the gunshot had appeared relatively harmless, boring a hole right through Katrina’s shoulder. But when she saw the amount of blood pouring out, Venus realized an artery must have been damaged. She’d done her best to put pressure on the wound, soaking her arms to the elbows in hot, crimson liquid. It reminded her of the
first time she’d seen the god she’d caught in her shed.
For a while it had seemed to work. By the time paramedics made it to the circus, Katrina still had a pulse, albeit a weak one. However, her old age and blood loss conspired to create a chain of complications that culminated in a series of organ failures and her current coma.
During that time, Abraham had come back from Sherbrooke. Harry Peterson was recovering remarkably well, as Ezekiel had foretold. Chances were that the old farmer would be back in Saint-Ferdinand within a few weeks. Abraham was hoping he could convince his father to move away.
Daniel, on the other hand, had completely disappeared. Before any of the authorities had arrived, he’d simply gotten in his car and driven off. Who could blame him? He’d been forced to kill his own father only minutes before. Much to Lieutenant Bélanger’s frustration, the circus workers stonewalled him about Daniel’s whereabouts and involvement.
There was also no trace of her uncle. Rumor had it that the jail room at the police station had been turned into a veritable slaughterhouse. Copious amounts of Erica Hazelwood’s blood had been found at the scene, along with bones and organs from an unidentified number of other victims. Of the psychologist, Randy McKenzie, or Sam Finnegan, there was no trace.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Penny slipped her head through the doorframe, holding a bag from a local fast-food joint. The older girl had changed since the events at the circus. She’d snapped out of her grief and had focused her energies toward rebuilding her life and supporting her friends. Between meeting with lawyers and notaries to settle her mother’s estate and serving as Abraham’s chauffeur, she’d had very little time to devote to Venus directly. Indirectly, Penny had enlisted the help of a family friend and colleague of her mother to help ensure that the younger girl would keep financial control of everything her parents had left behind.
“How is she?”
“Dying,” Venus replied.
“You think she knew this would happen?” Despite everything they’d seen over the summer, Penny had yet to be convinced of the old woman’s prophetic abilities. She’d already voiced her opinion that, until they had further evidence, Venus should assume her parents were still alive.
“It’s not over, you know,” Venus said. “We’ve inherited this.”
“You have. And Abraham and Daniel, maybe, but I don’t think my parents were involved in any of this.” She paused, putting down her bag of food. “Though if that crazy old man is to be believed, the scars from coming in contact with a god run deep, and there is no question that I’ve been cut by this one.”
“Whatever it touches is changed forever. And we’ve all been touched by it. Some more thoroughly than others.” Venus half-hoped that her meaning would be caught by her friend and half-hoped it wouldn’t.
“Yeah,” Penelope answered. “I guess I was covered elbow-deep in that thing’s blood.”
“Does that mean you’ll help?”
“Aphrodite, please.”
Venus frowned at the nickname but welcomed the reminder of simpler days. “Good,” she said. “I need you to take care of stuff for me.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Everything. At least for a while.” She waited for a reaction, which came in the form of a raised eyebrow. “I’m going away for the winter.”
“Venus McKenzie, skipping school? You have changed,” the older girl said.
“I need to find the other Craftsmen, the ones who are still alive. I know a few of their names from that list I found in my uncle’s office, and I have to meet them. That thing is out there somewhere, free and angry. I don’t know why it hasn’t done so yet, but someday it’s going to come after us, and I refuse to be unprepared.”
Penny considered her friend’s words carefully and then nodded.
“Sure, I’ll hold down the fort. Abe’s father probably has some of the answers you’re looking for too.”
“Talk to him and Abe. Learn as much as you can.”
“Wait. When are you leaving?”
“Probably later tonight. I’m going to take a bus to Montreal and maybe try to catch up with Ezekiel from there.” She looked down at the dying old woman. “I’ll have nothing keeping me here by then.”
The girls fell quiet. Both turned to look at the old woman lying in the hospital bed. If not for the machines showing her faint signs of life, one could have mistaken Katrina for a corpse. Venus was both sad and angry to see her slip away, especially since she’d barely gotten to know her.
“I have one more favor to ask you,” Venus said, breaking the silence.
“Don’t get greedy,” Penny warned her.
Venus nodded to Katrina. “Can you see that she gets a proper burial? Nothing fancy, but my family has a small plot in the Saint-Ferdinand cemetery, where my grandfather is buried. I think I’d like her to be buried there.”
“I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but shouldn’t the people from the circus handle that? She’s one of them, after all.”
Venus bowed her head and turned toward the foot of the bed, unhooking the chart that hung there. On it was a long list of medical information, including the dying woman’s diet and prescriptions and the hours for her nurse’s visits. With a shaking finger, Venus pointed at the top of the chart, to the name under which Katrina had been admitted. Elizabeth Lussier. At first, Penny didn’t understand, but looking into her best friend’s watery eyes, she remembered—Lussier was Virginie McKenzie’s maiden name. The fortune-teller was Venus’s grandmother.
Penny reached out, wrapping her arms around her best friend. The younger girl dropped the chart to the ground, returning the embrace with a sob.
“I’m sorry, Veen,” said the older girl. “I didn’t realize you two were connected.”
“Neither did I,” said Venus.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THESE THINGS are always a chore to write. On one hand, I don’t want to diminish the impact of those mentioned by making my acknowledgements boring, but I’m also not one to layer gimmicks on top of my words. This goes without mentioning the burden of a forgetful mind. I will miss a few names, and only once all is said and done will my negligence be brought to light. That’s when the guilt will start.
Anyways, if you’ve enjoyed A God in the Shed, know that you owe everyone here a dash of gratitude, for they all participated.
Obviously, I’d be a monster if I didn’t acknoweledge my family. My parents have shown the support and encouragement you’d expect, but they have, in their own way, gone above and beyond, providing me with the positive ground upon which to walk on this journey. Between my mom’s peerless cooking and my father’s eagerness to participate in any way he can, these two turned out to be pretty good at the job.
My brother is a specimen all his own. Thorough and pitiless, he’s one of my best critics. His ruthless analysis and attention to detail is an indispensable tool when finalizing a manuscript. Never go soft on me, Phil.
On the opposite side of the scale is my best friend, David. The guy can’t find flaw in anything I do. We’ve been through a lot together, and I’m proud to have him in my corner. Dave, why do you have to live so far away?
Speaking of living too far, Amy has been as hard-core a fan as one could hope to have without it being weird. I’ve come to depend on her unquestioning enthusiasm for whatever project I set my mind to. You’ve become quite the accomplice in many of my most hare-brained shenanigans, Amy.
Then there’s the members of the Tadpool, the most supportive, distracting bunch of freaks on the Internet. I wouldn’t have gotten this or any other book published if it weren’t for them.
A similar accolade goes to the Diamond Club, a force of nature that leverages its will into improving the world in the strangest ways. I am thankful to be part of the collateral in this. To Justin and Brian, who spearhead the Diamond Club through their own creative efforts, I have a huge debt of gratitude.
Another luminary from that group is Ren
aissance man Andrew Mayne, who’s shown unexpected and undeserved support of my work. Receiving the encouragements of such an accomplished individual fuels the fires of motivation.
I keep saying that none of this would have happened without this or that person, but I have to raise a glass to the people who helped me pull this story out of the cold, dark void and make it into a real thing: the folks at Inkshares. From the incredible opportunities that Adam has found for me, to the guidance Avalon gives all of us authors, the crew at Inkshares have shown passion and professionalism beyond what should be expected. You guys are awesome. I’m glad I hitched my fortune to yours.
It would be disingenuous to thank Inkshares without thanking the community. Brian Guthrie, my friend Paul Inman, Tal Klein, Amanda Orneck, and so many others that form our clique of Inkshares authors have become a core upon which we lean as we hew careers from the ether.
A special tip of the hat goes to Tom and Veronica of Sword & Laser. I got my start because of you guys and I’ll never stop thanking you for it.
I need to drop a small thanks to Nicole, who caught mistakes that might have slipped by unnoticed. You are indeed an excellent and adorable human.
Finally, I can’t forget Angela. From the very beginning, she’s been there, gently nudging me forward on my path. I wouldn’t have started—let alone achieved—anything as a writer if it weren’t for her. She’s always shown incredible patience whenever I get consumed by this or that project. I don’t think I know how much you’ve sacrificed to be this supportive of me, Angela, but I will always appreciate it.
LIST OF PATRONS
Adam Gomolin
Amy Frost
André Brun
Angela Blasi
Angela Melamud
Avalon Marissa Radys
Brad Ludwig
Brian Guthrie
C. D. Oakes
Clayton J. Locke
Dave Barrett
Diogo M. Santos