Jack glares at Catarina.
I will flip open a blade and create new space in that wretched thing you call a womb.
Catarina furrows her brow. As if she heard the thing in Jack’s head.
So she punches Jack. Again.
Tears streams in torrents down Jack’s face. Gore falls onto his lap. Onto his knees. Onto Catarina’s shoes. Jack’s hands work against the taped bonds they’re in. His face contorts into scenes of agony.
“Oh, God. Jack,” Catarina says. Breathless as she tugs on the leg.
You’ll scream that and other things when I get at you. Oh, you’ll scream.
Caleb swings again. Eyes dry. Gun within reach.
Another few centimeters. Another gout of blood.
Akil turns away from the door. Zarifa snaps her fingers at him. “Don’t look.”
Caleb swings again.
Catarina grunts.
Jack screeches like an animal at slaughter. He tries to stand. Catarina kicks him. The hole in his shoulder widens. A horrific birth canal. The slimy, poisonous black leg of the spider tears the flesh of his frame.
Then it’s out.
Catarina falls backward with the force of her efforts. The severed appendage clamped between the teeth of the pliers. She lands on her ass with a thud and lets go. The leg skitters across the pristine floor.
Caleb gasps. He drops the mallet. Picks up the cowboy Colt. He places it against Jack’s skull. Steadfast.
Jack slumps forward against the backrest. He vomits with enthusiasm onto the cement floor of the garage. Bile mixes with the fallen blood. Creates something that looks like modern art bullshit.
He sighs. Coughs. His face a portrait of exhaustion.
The poison’s voice isn’t there anymore.
Jack says, “If I didn’t love you guys so much, I swear I’d kill you.”
Caleb says, “Is it you?”
“I need a cigarette. And more Jameson. Yeah. Yeah. It’s me.”
Jack’s vision swims. The voice of the poison is gone. But there’s still the echo of another. He’s too fuckin tired to think about any of it. “I wanna go home.”
Caleb wraps his arms around his kin’s bloody body. He plants a kiss on Jack’s forehead. For the second time that night.
“All right, all right. Let’s not be all weird about it,” Jack says.
Catarina spins on her heel. Clicks open the utility knife.
A confused look takes over Jack’s face. “No, wait, whoa, I’m okay now. Seriously.”
Catarina says, “Turn away kids.”
They do.
Caleb trots to Zarifa’s side. Puts an arm around her.
She accepts it
Catarina kneels in front of Jack and then slices the duct tape around his hands and feet.
Jack touches the sore skin around his wrists. He stands. Turns the chair around. Flops against the backrest. He can probably throw up again without much effort. “Fuckin hell.”
Catarina lets her hands fall along the sides of Jack’s head. She picks up his hat. Sets it on his head. She leans and caresses Jack’s lips with her own. Fleetingly. Teasingly.
She sits on Jack’s lap.
Jack checks his hat. Puts his hands around her waist. He ignores the pain. He hesitates. Then glides his fingers. Around and then up along the small of her back. He touches her neck and cheek. Sees goose bumps rise on her skin.
“I love you,” Jack says.
Catarina says, “I know.” She grins. “Nerd.”
They kiss. Their lips part. Press. The two teens full of heat and yearning. What feels like eons of ache are fulfilled in that moment.
Neither wants to let go.
Akil cocks an eye toward his sister and Caleb. Then toward Jack and Catarina. “You’re all gross.” He frowns. “Hope you know you’re infected with cooties now.”
Chapter 12: Half Past Dead, but Better
Jack pours Jameson over the hole in his shoulder. It hurts like a motherfucker. The Red is still there, but faint.
Battle brings the Red. Now that the battle’s over, the Red fades.
The pain Jack had been able to ignore before burns fresh. He tosses some Advil down his throat. Follows that with a long pull from the whiskey bottle.
His head’s quiet.
Catarina wraps Jack’s naked shoulder with the torn strips of the Hanes undershirt. Blood blossoms appear. Jack doesn’t complain or cry out. Catarina uses duct tape to secure the mess.
She kisses Jack. Hard.
Jack’s body throbs. Angry. He puts the rest of his clothes back on. Spins the Colt Peacemaker on his index finger.
The gun’s weight feels proper. Like it belongs in Jack’s hands. He spins it one more time. Goes back to the tool boxes and cabinets. He wants to find something he can use as a holster. After a few moments, he finds something made for a power drill.
Jack cinches it low on his blue jeans and makes sure he can quick-draw. He stuffs extra ammunition into the pocket of his jacket. The weight of the bullets tugs his jacket down on his right side. He balances it by stuffing more ammo into the left pocket.
Catarina nods at the Man With No Name nametag still affixed to Jack’s jacket. “Guess your costume is finally complete.” She pokes his hat.
Jack grunts.
The children wait by the door.
Jack wonders. If his psycho response to violence is actually some semi-tangible thing that a creature can identify and desire, what gift sits inside Caleb’s skull?
He arches his eyebrows. “That’s how he gets all those A’s.”
Jack’s own voice pops up inside his head, You know the answer to that. You were never Sherlock Holmes. Caleb always was. Your Red is only there to ensure his safety.
Jack smiles in spite of himself. He doesn’t find the thought unappealing.
He knows he and his brother are special. Knows Catarina’s a hard woman born of hard times. The rest he can’t explain. But he realizes he doesn’t have to. People are better than he gives them credit for. Tougher than he gives them credit for. He’s glad to have these people with him.
Well, Jacky boy, the sky is falling. Let’s at least acknowledge that much.
Jack acknowledges it. If Chicken Little is right, all kinds of other terrible shit can be right as well.
“We need to get home,” Jack says. He studies everyone. His right hand unconsciously caresses the butt of the revolver on his side. “One more push to get back to the house. That’s where our families are. No more stopping. We go. We kill everything in our way.”
The children stare. They don’t wanna go back out. The night’s already taken a massive toll.
Akil slumps to the floor. Cries. Zarifa rushes over to hold him. He leaves smears of blue genie paint and tears on her shoulder.
The young boy bawls. “I want Mom here now.”
Zarifa hushes him. She pats her little brother’s hair. She turns her pleading eyes to Jack.
He offers her no sympathy.
Jack’s heart is still there, but he also knew what they need to do.
Akil shrieks.
Caleb kneels next to Zarifa and Akil. He puts his arms around both of them. He brushes the hair away from Zarifa’s face. Whispers something into her ear.
She lets go of her brother.
Caleb sits cross-legged in front Akil. He leans forward. Rests a firm hand on Akil’s neck. Pulls Akil’s head to his chest and rocks the eight-year-old from side to side. Caleb whispers in his ear. Akil’s cries slow.
Jack and Catarina watch with impatient eyes.
Jack twirls his finger. Let’s go.
Akil sniffles. Says to Caleb, “Promise?”
Caleb nods. “Promise.”
Akil jumps up. Hatchet in hand. He tests the tool’s weight. “Let’s go home.”
Catarina shrugs. She herds Akil and Zarifa toward the garage exit. She reaches for the lifting handle that’ll bring up the heavy doors.
Jack helps Caleb to his feet. “What’d you tel
l him?”
“He’s eight years old,” Caleb says. “Eight-year-olds get scared plenty quick, but eight-year-olds can also get unscared real fast if you say the right things. So...I just said the right things.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Care to share?”
Caleb’s smile is sweet and genuine. “Same kinda things you used to tell me. I told him he was my brother and that I would never let anything bad happen to him. I also promised him we’d play video games together.”
Jack chuckles. He claps Caleb on the back. “Let’s go, Einstein. Night needs to end.”
Caleb walks to the rear of the garage. “No argument here.” He’d spied a crowbar on top of a steel tool chest before. He grabs it. Twirls the tool in his hands. Feels the metal—
The back door bursts open. Splinters and glass fly. Caleb is showered in sharp shards.
Darkness stands in the doorframe. A man’s figure takes shape out of the black. The thing that enters the garage has grey-green tentacles with pulsing pink suckers from the neck up. A growling squid freak born from the throat of a man.
The beast runs on its still-human legs and uses its two still-human hands to choke Caleb. The younger Svoboda lifts his crowbar. He slams it again and again and again against the writhing mass of feelers and suckers snatching at his face. Thick strings of gore cling to the curved tool.
The thing’s tentacles work their way around Caleb’s neck. He can smell the hot stink of its angry maw. He can see inside its mouth. Row upon row of human teeth grinding like some cylindrical machine. A chewing insanity that gets closer and closer to his flesh.
Jack draws his Colt. He’s a blur. Kinetic. He holds the trigger down with his right index finger. Fans the hammer with the flat edge of his left hand. Four great explosions of thunder boom in the garage.
Zarifa, Akil, and Catarina cover their ears.
Caleb feels the air hiss. Bullets whizz by him. That angry insect whine of a near miss.
The monster holding Caleb lets go. The twelve-year-old falls backward. He clutches the ichor-covered crowbar. Lands with an undignified fart.
The squid-face creature tumbles and falls dead with an equally undignified splat. Jack’s four shots turned it into mush from the chest up. All that’s left are curiously human legs donning Dockers khaki cargo pants and a shattered, leaking frame that no doctor would ever mistake for a man.
Catarina says, “I didn’t know you could do that.”
Jack shrugs at her. “I didn’t either.”
He lifts Caleb from the ground. Bumps foreheads with his younger brother. Makes sure the boy was fine. Then reloads his machine. “Seriously, we need to go.”
Chapter 13: Abyssus abyssum invocat
(Deep calls to deep)
Monsters are back on the streets.
Down the road, the Tribe recognizes the shambling gait of what damn well has to be several zombies. Behind the marching undead are another of the galloping human-greyhound stilt-walkers.
“At least we know how to kill zombies,” Catarina says to the children. “Just like the video games. Shoot them in the head.”
The little ones nod—almost enthusiastically.
Zombies they understand, thanks to pop culture.
Jack checks his cellphone. It’s just after three a.m. The witching hour.
Six hours... Maybe six hours since they left home. Still doesn’t feel right. Time’s a malleable thing that speeds up and slows down depending on what horror they’re facing.
They march up toward Ridge Boulevard. It’s the straightest path home. Across the street stands that discomforting Greek Orthodox Church. It’s still brilliantly lit. Still waiting for people to come inside.
But something’s different. The lights are stuttering like strobes.
The Tribe stops to watch.
There are sounds coming from inside the once-silent place. Muffled speech. Things that are almost words, but not quite.
Jack and Caleb look to each other. Both think of the almost-voice that penetrated their brains when Patrick died.
Is this a lead? Is there something in the church that got into their heads?
Jack checks over his shoulder. The walking dead are still slow idiots. The stilt-walking thing is after other prey. Then he set his eyes on the church. He nudges Catarina. Tells her with his eyes that he’s got every intention of approaching.
She shakes her head. No.
Jack pats the gun on his hip. Motions for her to stay with Akil and Zarifa. “Scariest thing to me on most days is entering a church. But we’ll be fine.”
He and Caleb cross the street. Jog up the first set of drab concrete steps to the church’s yard. They wait. Watch. Listen as the lights paint the holy place’s exterior with flashes.
They hear gunshots in the distance. The howls of some large animal drift through the air. But nothing comes for them. So they jog up the second and third sets of stairs until they’re in the white, columned archway of the church’s dark front door. Above glitters a golden, embellished cross design that catches the crazed strobe of the yard lights.
Jack pushes open the heavy front entrance. The sounds become clear. It isn’t muffled speech. It’s muffled cries and pleas. Amid the choking, gasping exhalations of pain, they hear children...singing. No. Not singing. Chanting. Praying with words neither brother can understand or identify.
They also can’t see. Not through the little crack of an opening. They do notice the smells, though. The metallic scent of fresh blood and the sickly sweet stink of incense.
Jack and Caleb throw the doors wide. They hope to bring some light to the wretched interior and get a look at what’s going on.
Both regret the decision.
Darkness doesn’t just flow. It comes in torrents. A flood of black punctuated by dim little candles that line the aisle up to the altar. The crosses that flank the altar are singed and scorched as though they’ve been through a terrible fire.
The brothers step inside. Two great flames grow to life on either side of the altar. The iconostasis—the painting-laden screen that separates the sanctuary from the nave—is burned. The eyes of Jesus Christ and St. John the Baptist are blacked out. Over their faces, someone’s scratched O’s with X’s through them. The golden gates that lead to the church’s sanctuary from the altar are melted and twisted and bent into bizarre shapes.
Candles flicker. Shadows crawl.
Darkness falls from the ceiling in what looks like huge, wet drops.
Caleb says, “This is a terrible idea.”
The benches are lined with large black shapes. Adults, the boys figure. They’re not the source of the young choir. Each one wriggles. Struggles. Weeps and thrashes. The Svobodas can hear them fighting to get free of whatever’s blocking their mouths. It’s impossible to tell how many are in the inky, Stygian sea.
Jack walks up the aisle to the first row of pews. He draws his Colt.
Caleb waits by the exit. Not because he’s afraid. Because both brothers have seen enough horror movies to know that somebody should watch the doors at all times.
Jack reaches for a man’s shoulder.
The man whips his head around. Barbed wire wraps around his face. Dull grey spikes drive themselves into his neck and through his cheeks. The metal thorns dig in deeper when he moves. More wire—some running around his wrists, some running through his wrists—keeps him tethered like a pig to the pew in front of him.
Blood spills from the man. It hits the floor like soft rain.
Just like at that house, Jack thinks. That house that Patrick and I stumbled into. The girl, strung up in the kitchen. And we ran. We left her...
Guilt gnaws at Jack’s mind. But the guilt becomes something else.
He adjusts the Stetson on his head. Looks up. Heads of the hostages turn toward him. Mothers and fathers sit with grandmothers and grandfathers. Their eyes are bright with fear. They reflect what little light there is in the abomination of a sacred structure. Their mouths convulse against barbed wir
e.
Barbed wire mouths. Barbed wire faces. Desperate eyes.
Jack lifts a boot. Sees that he’s standing in the lifeblood of the trapped and tormented congregation. Liquid pitter-patters all around.
But where are the kids? He can hear them. The droning chants send shivers up his spine. The weird prayers. They’ve gotta be in this damned church somewhere.
Jack turns in a slow circle. Keeps the revolver up. He strains his ears to locate the children by sound. He squints to see through the blackness of the church. To see if the children are just outside the light’s reach. He has to help them first. The adults can wait.
He senses movement behind him. Red springs to life in his head, but he isn’t fast enough. He catches a fleeting glimpse of a long, slender shape. Then it fades into the darkness. Something pure black. Something that’s part of the darkness.
Caleb appears at his side a heartbeat later. “Something’s in here with us. I thought it was a man at first but…”
Jack says, “No shit. Who’s watching the door?” He cocks his head. Catarina’s there as exit-watcher. Behind her huddles Zarifa and Akil. He offers them a curt wave.
Catarina points at one of the church’s walls.
Jack aims the Colt. Still too slow to nail the shape. Just another glimpse.
The brothers walk up the aisle. They avoid the eyes of the moaning men and women. Try to avoid stepping in the spilt blood.
Caleb tugs at Jack’s arm. Directs the gun movement.
Jack sees more this time. Shadowed tentacles that flare and wiggle. At the end of each is a clenched hand.
The Colt moves without conscious command. Jack’s hands become a swirl of motion. He thunders off three shots into a darkness that actually has mass and makes a sound: a surprised, annoyed grunt. The tendrils quiver. Shrink away. The fists unclench and slither into more darkness. They leave something behind. Something they were carrying.
A little girl.
She might be five. With long blonde hair in pigtails. She slams her head against the wall. Each hit leaves a small starburst of blood. Thud thud thud.
It’s a far more terrifying sound than the chanting or the moaning. The muffled screams of the men and women inside this new hell are nothing compared the sickening thuds of this little girl.
Emergence Page 9