March till Death (Hellsong Book 3)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  The breathing that had sounded like wind stopped. Then someone shouted.

  “Nephysis!”

  The shouter had been in the crowd, one of the members in the front row.

  “Nephysis!” shouted another.

  The corpse eaters began to chant that strange word, their fists pumping in the air.

  I’ve heard that word before. The corpse eater I interviewed—what was his name?—said Nephysis was God.

  It must be Nephysis then, who stood on the stage, and that man raised his hand. The chanting stopped, and all was silent. Then, his arm still held high, he walked along the back of the stage behind the women, stopping in between the center two. He raised his other hand as well.

  “You asked for freedom, and I have given it. You asked for rapture and I have given it. You asked for ecstasy and I have given it! Yet it is still Friday . . . but Sunday’s coming.”

  The last part confused Martin. Who cared what day it was?

  The lepers cheered.

  Nephysis took a step towards the crowd. His robe swirled about him as he motioned to his people. “I have delivered unto you these four women. Are you not thankful?”

  The crowd answered in a roar. “Yes!”

  “You should be, Gods be damned. They tortured you. They broke you. They stole parts of your body with rust rock so that they would not regrow. They raped you. They did things to you which no human could withstand. You thought them invincible, but here they are . . . Maab’s priestesses. Their Minotaur-blood potions offered them no protection. Their spells and incantations failed them. Their God, Ahuramazda, abandoned them.” There was a long pause. “And here they lie. Are you not happy?”

  The crowd roared again. “Yes!”

  “You shouldn’t be.” Nephysis sudden reversal of expectation quieted them all. “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

  Martin felt his heart thudding in his chest. He tore his gaze from the spectacle and looked back behind him to see if any of his men had come up this way, but their shadows remained in that distant purple light which outlined the arch at the base of the hill. They had not come. They would not come, somehow he knew that. They had heard Nephysis’ voice and were afraid.

  “Did you hear me?” Nephysis called out to his people. “I said it’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. Is it fair that these women who lied to you, who did so much wrong to you, got to escape the wrath of your revenge?”

  “No!” answered the lepers.

  “Is it fair that these people who robbed you of body parts escaped dismemberment?”

  “No!”

  “Is it fair that these people who tortured you escaped torture?”

  “No!” The air was crackling with the lepers’ passion.

  Nephysis voice lowered. “Is it fair that those who raped you not be raped themselves?”

  “No!”

  “Amen,” Nephysis said. There was a pause after he said the word, an intake of breath, as if the crowd feared that the utterance of those two syllables would bring about some terrible calamity. “Amen, my brothers and sisters. It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.”

  Silence, fear, anticipation, ecstasy. Martin could feel the energy of the crowd.

  “But would it mean a damn thing if you were to remove the body parts of these unfeeling corpses? Would that do anything to sate your lust for your rightful and righteous retribution?”

  “No!”

  Martin felt himself shaking his head with them. Whomever these women were, desecrating their bodies would do nothing to their souls.

  “Would beating and torturing these dead priestesses of Maab cause them any pain?”

  “No!”

  Nephysis’ voice lowered again. “Would raping these still, cold bodies give you any pleasure?”

  “No!”

  “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. Can I get an Amen from you, my children?”

  They were too terrified to say the word. Martin understood why. This did not seem like the time to be invoking God.

  Nephysis walked up to the front of the stage and paced to the left. “But I promise you, there is a way we can go on hurting these women. There is. Can I get an amen for that?”

  “Amen,” a man in the front row said.

  “You’d pray for that wouldn’t you?” Nephysis said, stopping in front of the leper who’d spoken.

  Even from this distance, Martin could see the leper shrink back in his seat.

  “I’d pray for that. Remember there was a time, not so very long ago, when I served Maab, too. I’d pray that these women could have lived long enough for you to murder them, dismember them, torture and rape them a thousand times over.”

  “Amen,” a few spoke this time.

  “I’d pray that you were the ones who had a chance to do that.”

  “Amen!” the crowd spoke as one.

  “It’s Friday,” Nephysis boomed, “but Sunday’s coming. Know you that there was a time when the Jews hated one of their own so badly that they were willing to see him crucified. They beat him and tortured him and stabbed him, but they were fools, because they beat him too badly. Crucifixion on its own is a slow death, but these people had cheated themselves of their revenge, so eager were they for blood. That Lord on his cross looked up to the uncaring stars and said ‘oh God, why have you forsaken me!’” Nephysis paced back across the stage and stopped near the middle. He leaned in towards the crowd and spoke to them conspiratorially. “That was on a Friday.”

  Oh, shit.

  The crowd began to cheer. They raised their hands and stood, hooting and hollering. Only the corpses remained in their chairs, but Nephysis raised his hands and even they stood.

  Nephysis paced back amongst the four bodies of the dead women. “And God looked down upon that tortured man and thought that perhaps he deserved more. Perhaps that crucified Lord deserved to be tortured for all eternity, so He used His might and sated the violent lust of those Jews. He brought that bastard back to life so we could kill him all over again—oh, if only it were that way now! If only there were some god that would look upon your anger and bring these women back to life. Oh! Oh! Oh! The horrible things we’d do to them.”

  Nephysis drew a dagger and slit the sash which tied closed the robe of the first woman. “If only there was some way that these bodies could be reattached to their souls so that you might wreak your revenge. If only there was some God who would take pity on your wrongs and let you get your fair retribution.” He spread wide the priestess’ robe revealing that the woman’s torso had been split in two and that her intestines had been removed. “Well if you’re looking for a God like that, I’m your huckleberry. I tell you, brothers, amen.”

  “Amen,” the lepers responded.

  “I tell you, amen, brothers.”

  “Amen!” the lepers shouted.

  He walked along the sepulchers, opening the robe of each woman, showing that they had been similarly prepared. Then Nephysis pulled out a red colored pouch. “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. And did you know that on that third day they came to the tomb and found that Jesus had been raised from the dead? Did you know that? Did you know that?”

  “Amen!”

  “I say to you that it’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. Say it with me now!”

  “It’s Friday,” the crowd chanted, “but Sunday’s coming.”

  Nephysis opened his bag and reached in. “Say it with me now, children.”

  He withdrew his hand from the bag and threw red dust up into the air. It hung there in a long arc, ten feet or so above his head, motionless.

  “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.” The dust sprinkled down upon the dead bodies as the crowd shouted out its mantra. “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!”

  “Witness then,” Nephysis’ voice filled the huge chamber, “the miracle of the resurrection. It may look like you’re down. It may look like your soul has taken its last beating, but by my magic, I tell you, that ain’t right. You may be dead, but I hold for y
ou the promise of everlasting life. My brothers and sisters. My children. People who have slaved under the dominion of Maab for so long that you’ve lost yourselves, Friday can’t last forever. Now know this, Sunday’s coming. Can I get an amen from you now?”

  “Amen!” they shouted, and Martin even found himself mumbling the word along with them.

  “Amen,” Nephysis shot back at them.

  “Amen!”

  Nephysis put away his pouch and drew another. He threw its contents into the air. “Amen!”

  “Amen!”

  White dust drifted down upon the bodies. Nephysis’ hands shot back up into the air and shouted to his people again. “Sunday’s coming!”

  The dust settled, and for a moment, all was still. Then one of the dead women’s feet twitched. Nephysis’ raised his hands again.

  “Amen!”

  And again.

  “Amen!”

  And again.

  “AMEN!”

  “So be it.”

  The first woman stood. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a corpse eater charged the stage. He was followed by many others, and suddenly Martin could not see the women any longer. Finally, one appeared, as if cresting the wave of lepers. Her clothes had been stripped off. She was screaming in terror even as the last pieces of her guts fell away from her body. They were raping her. They were raping a corpse, or a Kyle-thing, or a resurrected body, Martin did know what, and he didn’t care. He turned and ran back down the dark slope.

  “Run!” he ordered his men.

  “What’s going on?” Huxley’s shaky voice asked as Martin ran by.

  “I said run!”

  Screams of terror ripped Michael’s attention away from the chess board. He leapt to his feet and charged to the balcony, tearing aside the curtain that blocked his vision. Only once before had he heard screams like this. Once when Charlie had been the leader of Harpsborough—when a pack of dyitzu and hounds had broken in while their hunters were out. The reason, or one of the reasons, why Michael had gunned him down in cold blood was that it had been Charlie’s decision to leave the village undefended—and somehow Michael had made the same mistake. Martin and the best hunters were out scouting the Carrion, leaving the village all but undefended.

  “Please!” a villager was shouting, “please!”

  His first thought was for the Fore. As soon as he took stock of the enemy, he had to get a gun and guard the doorway. The villagers could come in and hide here, or, assuming Klein could find someone to help defend it, they could shelter in the church. He charged along the balcony and looked out over Harpsborough’s motley hovels towards the entrance. He came to a stop.

  What the hell?

  The villagers had formed up in a half moon around the entrance. They were leaning back, terrified, though one woman stood apart from the others. She was shouting.

  “Please! I beg you! Don’t hurt my Marcus. Please don’t hurt him.”

  The two hunters responsible for guarding Harpsborough were on their knees, their hands behind their heads. Standing behind them were two people covered in body armor. They were wearing what looked like the helmets riot police wore in the old world. Even at this distance, Michael could tell what kind of rifles were leveled at the back of his hunters’ heads.

  They were M-16s.

  Infidels.

  There were four of them. Two, who were pointing guns at the back of his people’s heads, and two more; a taller one with broad shoulders, and a small, diminutive one. The small one took off her helmet. It turned out she was facing the balcony, as if she knew to look for him.

  “My name is El Cid, Michael.” The little woman’s voice echoed across Harpsborough.

  She knows my name. The infidels know my name.

  She strutted forward, her rifle swinging at her side. She stopped before the pleading villager. “And don’t worry, Miss, I’ve come to talk.”

  Galen led them up into an enclosed series of chambers, some of which were no larger than coffins. The lighting here was as dim as in the rest of the Carrion, and the cool thick stone around them served to enhance Arturus’ feeling of oppression.

  “Where the hell are we?” Avery’s voice was shaky.

  Arturus looked back at him. Galen had given the hunter a cloth to make sure that he wasn’t leaving a trail of blood. The cloth made an odd bulge in the man’s pants.

  Thank goodness I’m not injured like that.

  Johnny was wheezing badly. His burns looked serious.

  Aaron, though, seemed as strong as ever. He was almost untouched. With Galen around, it was easy to forget how capable a fighter Harpsborough’s Lead Hunter was. Aaron’s jaw was set, his eyes peering fearlessly into the darkness.

  Kelly seemed also to be gaining in strength.

  Her ribs must be nearly healed.

  “Rest here,” Galen ordered.

  “Will we be safe?” Aaron asked.

  Galen shrugged. “I don’t know. This place was once a part of the City of Blood and Stone, centuries ago. Slaves lived in here, once, but it has since been abandoned. It is as safe a place as I can find on short notice.”

  “I don’t think One Horn was killed when the Furies came,” Arturus said. “He’ll be looking for us.”

  Aaron looked at him and nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “Be that as it may,” Galen’s deep voice intoned, “Tamara must be either rescued or killed. Johnny and Avery must rest and heal. The devil men said that Tamara was in Cul’ Nahedran. I will attempt to save her. If I fail, then I will make sure she doesn’t give away Calimay’s position.”

  Avery sat down gingerly, leaning against a stone wall that separated two coffin sized cubbyholes. “Who gives a damn about Calimay? Let them find her. We just want to get home.”

  “Do not forget that we need her guide to navigate the Lethe,” Galen said. “Don’t forget that Calista has Turi’s child growing in her belly. And don’t forget that Harpsborough needs someone on their side in the Carrion, lest they be conquered by the armies of Maab or the City.”

  Kelly looked at him suddenly. “You care for her, don’t you? Calimay, I mean.”

  Galen gave her a wan smile. “There are slaves there too, remember.”

  Kelly nodded.

  “Now I’ll seal you in when I leave,” Galen continued. “If I’m not back in two days—measure them as best you can—then leave this place and search for food and water.”

  Aaron sat down next to Avery. “If you don’t return, what chance will we have to make it home?”

  Galen looked at him gravely. “None. Come with me, Turi. I’d speak to you for a moment before I go.”

  Arturus followed his father through a small maze of corridors and rooms. Galen turned around at one point and then knelt. Arturus also dropped to his knees.

  Galen reached out with both of his hands and put them on Arturus’ shoulders. “Son, it is possible that the Minotaur will find you here. You will hear him coming when he breaks down the door and slaughters your friends. Take Kelly and run down this corridor. At its far end is another sealed off stone passage. You will be able to lever it open. It will lead you through the ruins of the old city and into the City of Blood and Stone itself. You will be a slave there, but you will be alive. It is possible that I will come and find you, but it is not likely. As a slave, Arturus, I have found it is best not to have hope. It hurts too much. You won’t be able to help yourself, I know, but try. If there is a resistance, join it. Convince its leader to help you escape. Find Rick.”

  Arturus nodded. “Do you think it’s likely? That I’ll have to run, I mean.”

  Galen looked over his shoulder into the dark corridor. “I don’t know, Son.”

  “It’s still okay for me to have hope now, though, isn’t it?”

  Galen’s head turned back towards him. Arturus noticed that his father’s beard was a bit unkempt. “Find Kelly. Make sure she’s near you so that you two can escape together. Tell her how you feel. You might not have an
other chance.”

  Galen stood and walked back to where the others were resting. Arturus couldn’t get his father’s response to Aaron’s last question out of his mind.

  “If you don’t return, what chance will we have to make it home?”

  “None.”

  Michael ripped his Winchester down from its display and tossed it onto the table. Chess pieces scattered, bouncing and rolling across the floor. He whipped open a cabinet and pulled out his body armor. He slipped it on over his shoulders and fastened its buckles.

  Kylie ran up to him. She was close to tears. “Michael, don’t go down there.”

  Michael shoved his hand into the cabinet and brought out a fistful of bullets.

  “Michael!” she shrieked. “Don’t go!”

  She clutched at the bullets in Michael’s hand, sending them scattering across the floor.

  Michael shoved her away. She was propelled backwards into the wall, banging against the mirror. She fell to the ground amidst the bullets and looked up at him, tears in her eyes.

  “Who then?” Michael demanded, pointing to his own chest. “Who would you send other than me?”

  She no longer looked like she was about to cry. Her lips pursed as if she was thinking. “No one.” Her eyes narrowed as if in thought. “No one, Michael. You’re the one I trust to handle this.”

  Michael grabbed another handful of bullets. Kylie made no move to get up. Michael left her there, charging down the stairs. He stopped in the waiting room on the first floor to jam a couple of shells into his rifle—then he chambered one round.

  Mancini came up behind him. He was not alone, the rest of the Citizens were gathering in the hallway or were huddling up in the stairs. They wouldn’t dare go out and show their faces, Michael knew that much already.

  And why should they? That’s the promise of the Fore. Once you’re in, you’ve seen the last of danger.

  Only, for some reason, that had never applied to him.

  “Anyone going with me?” Michael asked.

  No one volunteered. Mancini looked away, and then at the floor, and then away again. The bastard manipulator was never around when you really needed him.