Emergence

by William Vitka

  He uses bodies to lure the hairless apes. Lure them for feeding. He is always so hungry now. So hungry that it hurts. He grinds corpses. Every ounce of nutrition that is in them goes into his many bellies. But the hairless apes are small. Not enough. He needs (wants) more.

  He waits. Watches. Uses the corpses to spy. Slides his tendrils into their brain heads and turns their eyes on. He sees that the apes are so good at killing each other that he does not need bother hunting them. They can do the work. And under each battlefield, Caleb waits. He watches them murder each other. He only wants the meat. And the meat he gets.

  A tentacle here. A tentacle there. Nobody ever notices. He dines. Caleb tastes how delicate the skin is. The blood. So sweet.

  Long pale swine.

  The mammals. Some of them are special They can hear as he does. A scant few.

  The music of the universe.

  He does not eat those special mammals. Caleb does not even try to. He wants to be friends with them. Wants to talk to them. Wants to end this

  insane

  loneliness.

  Where are his own kin? He does not know. They are slumbering. Keeping their own lives and accounts. Each is dimly aware of the others’ existence, but they rarely, if ever, communicate. And their slumbers, each spanning hundreds of years, are never in sync.

  Caleb reaches out. When he does, he makes the special mammals hurt. He does not want to make them hurt. He sees them crumble when he touches them. Reduced to mad ramblings. Like his own kin who have gone to the skies and then the…

  Dark.

  No.

  They knew what they were doing and wanted it.

  No.

  The mammals.

  Special.

  They are intriguing. They hear but do not hear. They use it like a tool without knowing or understanding or realizing. The quickest. The smartest. They react faster. Predict.

  The special mammals see reality before others because they are in tune. They play the right keys in the cosmic symphony.

  Caleb is a boy again. He and his small frame. He reaches out in the only way he can.

  He thinks.

  Caleb sees it all at once. Eons of progress followed by regress. Loneliness. A love of family. A greater love of knowledge. Betrayal. Fear above all. He’s able to process it. All the information. All the chaos. He knows the Hroza. Knows their collective nature now. The immense knowledge they maintain.

  He knows how their wretched winged kin left for the dark. Not needing, but wanting. Not seeking, but abandoning. A millennia of thought and knowledge and worry is sifted through by his

  E N G I N E.

  Yes. That’s it. Caleb’s Engine. He doesn’t process it in a disconnected, bullshit, deus ex machina way. Not in a fake religion way. In a true way. He understands the reality of it all.

  All those years in school being made fun of. Knowing without trying. Learning quicker than anybody else. His mind is built just right.

  There’s nothing supernatural about it. In fact, these things were perfectly natural—if you count the inherent insanity of life and the quantum. The probabilities. The possibilities. Even the most improbable is still possible.

  Jack and Caleb simply are this way. Biological mutants.

  Jack’s a physical, emotional creature. His (Red. He calls it his Red) mutation protects him. A mental blockade. Like a computer’s firewall. And without a conscience in the way, Jack’s reptilian reflexes and violence are allowed—encouraged—to take over. He’s not a graceful being. He’s a brute. Dodging. Moving. Absorbing punishment. Ignoring pain. Finding kill zones... The gun. The precious Colt...

  Caleb’s the same, but not. He has a slight variation. A genetic toss of the dice that resulted in a separate mutation. For him, it’s mental. All those A’s in school. Just evolution and sexual reproduction doing the best it can. Caleb is fluid. He adapts. He’s the ballet to Jack’s blood. Where his brother gets through things by beating them down or destroying them, Caleb thinks around and through them.

  The youngest Svoboda catches himself then. Realizes that he’s defining himself in terms of what his brother is or isn’t. As though either is defined by being or not being Jack / Caleb.

  Or are they?

  There’s another. A third partner. Another mutant. He just doesn’t know who...

  The Hroza. It’s consumed by responsibility. The task of carrying on knowledge. It’s sending out a signal to both Svoboda brothers, though Caleb is the only one to really hear it.

  Why?

  Why is the titan so worried?

  Caleb knows.

  The dark ones.

  The Corrupted.

  Coming back home. They’re coming back to take what they believe is theirs.

  Caleb and his Engine start.

  Chapter 17: .45-Caliber Diplomacy

  The shape at the door isn’t Patrick. Not really.

  Yeah. It’s his body. But the intelligence behind it? Unrecognizable.

  Jack senses the alien nature of the thing in front of him. But he doesn’t put bullets in it. Not yet.

  Bill and Mary O’Connor find their way to the door. For a moment, both rejoice. They’re sure there’s been some remarkable mistake. Their boy. Their Patrick. Alive. He found his way home—abandoned and left for dead by these other assholes.

  Jack doesn’t notice either parent until Bill trundles by him.

  Everyone, except Jack and Catarina, seems oblivious to the fact that the teen’s shoes don’t touch the ground. The thing on the doorstep hovers. Leaks and hisses like a faulty balloon.

  Jack sneers.

  He grabbed the back of Bill’s collar and yanks the father aside.

  Mr. O’Connor looks like a confused chimp.

  Jack whirls to face the man. He plants the barrel of his Colt against Bill’s forehead. “Don’t.”

  Bill stares. Shocked. On the verge of crying. “But—”

  Jack cocks the gun. “I mean it.”

  Elie doesn’t seem sure of anything. But he remembers the corpse that came floating up to his own house. How it moved. How it stared.

  Viktor watches his son with growing mistrust. But he feels something. Hears something in his endless headache. It forces him to stay where he is and let Jack do what Jack has to do.

  Bill hesitates.

  Mary shrieks at Jack. “Bill’s sorry for hitting you. He’s sorry. Leave him alone. What is wrong with you people? Don’t you goddamn dare touch him. Patrick’s here. He’s here. You left him for dead, you bastard, but he made it.”

  Jack keeps his mouth shut. He eyes his mother and father. Eyes Bill and Mary. He nods his head to Catarina with a slight smirk.

  She understands.

  Dierdra consoles a grieving, terrified Mary as best she can. Works to prevent the woman from doing something stupid. Viktor and Elie take Bill’s sides to prevent him from doing anything dumb.

  Jack says, “That ain’t your boy. I saw Patrick die. Watched someone I love go away. They don’t fade.” He stares Bill and Mary down. “They just go.” He twirls the Colt on his finger.

  Catarina joins Jack. She’s liberated a large butcher knife from the Svoboda kitchen.

  She nods.

  Jack pulls the trigger.

  The top of Patrick’s skull pops. The hair on the teen’s head flutters. The body dips back. Then it comes to rest again. Straight-up.

  Mary cries. “You killed him. You killed him!”

  But the others see. Even Bill.

  They see the unnaturalness of a rocking, standing corpse.

  “He was already dead,” Jack says. He holds the Colt out. The machine wavers in his grip. Only because of how drained he is.

  The Patrick-thing doesn’t move. It hisses. Expels a foul-smelling odor. Bobs.

  Catarina spied the black tendril hanging from Patrick’s head and elbows Jack.

  He sees it. Slides the barrel of the Colt into the fresh head hole he made moments before with a .45 slug. It enters with a slurp. This is not
their friend. In any form. “I’m too tired for this.”

  His finger presses down on the trigger.

  A voice cries out from the living room, “Stop.”

  Caleb commands his brother. “Don’t do it.” He rolls off the couch. Sprints. He grasps his older brother’s jacket sleeve. It’s not the same desperate clawing he’d used in the church. This is authoritative.

  Caleb’s Engine roars. “We need it. Don’t damage the brain.”

  Jack cocks an eye. “I already shot it in the head.”

  “You shot it high. Speech center’s lower. Would have killed a living person, but that’s not what we’re dealing with. It... The tendril attaches at the base of the brain stem—”

  The Engine thrums. Runs hot.

  Caleb says, “The monster wants to talk. And we’re going to listen.”

  Mary faints.

  Bill goes into shock.

  * * *

  “I broouught body... Back. To. You.”

  The voice from Patrick’s vocal cords is stilted. Drawling. A bit dumb. It’s slow in the same way a confused child’s might be. Odd as hell, too.

  Jack wants the creature to hurry up and find the words and then leave. Or, better, die.

  He, Caleb, and Catarina stand just inside the door. They watch as the body of their former friend hovers. Catarina marvels at how strong even a thin tendril of the beast must be to hold the corpse for so long.

  Jack’s machine waits holstered at his side. Catarina dangles the kitchen knife. Neither is anywhere near relaxed, but they have no intention of attacking, either. Not unless Caleb gives them the go-ahead.

  The boy’s in charge now.

  Elie and Viktor tend to Bill in the living room. On the couch next to them, Dierdra watches vigil over an unconscious Mary. Dierdra switches between checking her friend’s pulse and leaning to spy on the insanity in the kitchen. Benham and Afshan are upstairs with Akil and Zarifa, who take turns showering.

  “Thisssz. Body is fresh. Enuff to use... Talk. Annnd I thought you would want see body of friend. Again.”

  Jack growls. “Not like this.”

  Viktor sits cross-legged on the ground in front of Bill. He checks over his shoulder to see what his sons are up to. Elie fingers his shotgun. Seems eager to use it. Bill stares out the window. His eyes follow the flashing police and paramedic lights as they shoot down the street. The catatonic father mumbles something about the “cleanup” process. Other than that, he’s silent.

  On the television, local news channel NY1 plays wall-to-wall coverage of last night’s chaos. The sound is muted, but it’s clear what they were talking about. HUNDREDS DEAD reads one headline. MASS HYSTERIA BLAMED FOR DEATHS reads another.

  The screen switches from a talking head to AMATEUR FOOTAGE from Bay Ridge. Shaky video inside a house. The camera peers out the window. The elongated, skinned-human shape of what Jack calls a “stilt-walker” prowls the front yard. It turns the fleshless skull that sticks out from its horrible body toward the lens. A moment later, it takes off in a gallop.

  Another switch. Something from YouTube filmed outside. A writhing mass of red tentacles takes center screen. They shake and sputter. Eyes and teeth bloom on them. It blinks and bites at the air.

  ELABORATE HOAX

  DRUGS IN WATER

  SHARED DELUSIONS

  MASS HYSTERIA

  VIRAL VIDEO

  MOVIE TIE-IN

  The real Patrick would have laughed. But the fact remains: People are dead. Lots of people.

  The Patrick-thing wobbles. “Waahted to. Speak before with small human. In park. Can not find woards. Ape has small brain. Confusing. Hard to traverse. Traverse is good word. This brain much more good.”

  Jack opens a bottle of Jameson he snatched from one of the cabinets. He takes a hefty swig. Notices in this brief moment of odd quiet that the Red is constant now. He lights a cigarette and wonders how the floating corpse of Patrick has gone unnoticed by neighbors so far. He decides not to care.

  He hands the bottle of whiskey to Caleb. Caleb hands the bottle to Catarina.

  “I don’t like this thing,” Jack says.

  Caleb grimaces. “You’re turning into a hard guy to like yourself.”

  “So are you.”

  The Engine stutters.

  “Stop,” Catarina says. “Don’t even start with that crap. Christ.”

  Caleb shuts his mouth. He glares at his brother with a hint of mistrust. Part of his mind works out how to control Jack and use Jack. Another searches for ways to feel for Jack. He understands the violence that wants to explode from his older brother. But he needs Jack to keep his capacity for relentlessness in check. At least for now. “You’ll get your chance, Jack. But we need this thing to keep talking.”

  Jack crosses his arms. “Why?”

  “Because there’s something worse coming. And we need its help.”

  “Fine.”

  Caleb addresses the Patrick-thing, “Before we go any farther down this rabbit hole, what are we supposed to call you? Mr. Monster?”

  “Name? We do not have name. Identify by smell. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Kin,” says the Patrick-thing. Its speech is still stilted, but it’s getting better. Fast learner. “I am. One of six. Remaining here.”

  Catarina’s voice chokes with dismay. “There are six of you?”

  “Yes. Six. On sphere. Brothers slumber. Hundred of years. They sleep now. Can hear them little. Can. Not talk to them. Awake soon. More outside. In the black.”

  Jack nudges Caleb. “I’m assuming the ones in the dark are that ‘worse’ thing.”

  “Safe guess. Pick a number between one and six.”

  “Three.”

  “That’s your name, Mr. Monster.” Caleb looks to Jack and then Catarina. “You’re Three. Just like we’re three.” He smiles.

  Catarina lifts the whiskey to her lips. “Hello, Three. Now, what do we need to know?”

  Three says, “It be. Easier...if. In person.”

  Chapter 18: Veritas odit moras

  (Truth hates delay)

  The house stinks.

  “You can’t go,” Dierdra says. “You just can’t. I won’t let you.”

  A stench floats and floods the Svoboda kitchen. A reek compounded by human sweat, dried blood, decay from the corpse, tears, smoke, and whiskey. Life-smells and death-smells.

  Viktor says, “I think they have to go.”

  Patrick’s body lies on the kitchen table. It’s wrapped in a blue blanket.

  Dierdra snaps. “Why the hell are you in favor of our children risking their lives?”

  “I’m not. But I believe what they’ve said. I believe what we’ve seen.”

  The Dajanis went home hours ago. Benham and Afshan, though grateful for the Svobodas’ assistance, hustled Zarifa and Akil out the door once it became clear neither child would be getting any rest. They could tell things were getting worse. Weirder.

  There were hugs and—at least on Caleb and Zarifa’s parts—sorrow at the separation.

  Catarina’s alarmed at the fact that she isn’t alarmed. Even after everything. She leans against the kitchen counter near the sink. Elie’s hand on her shoulder. She watches Caleb, Jack, Viktor, and Dierdra shout back and forth at each other with acerbic words.

  Evening arrives. The day’s dying light dribbles into the room. It seeps, sickly yellow, through the blinds and curtains. The modest chandelier above the kitchen table paints soft shadows against the walls.

  Bill and Mary O’Connor wait alongside the body of their boy.

  Catarina plays the previous night over in her head. She realizes she’s coping well. In fact, it isn’t coping. It’s a perverse kind of excitement. A feeling deep down inside that she’s meant to experience this madness first-hand.

  There’s something else. Something she’s not comfortable admitting to anyone—same as Jack had felt before when the poison coursed through him: she can hear the voice of Three push through the thick fog in her mind. Three an
d the murmuring others outside.

  Quantum Monster FM.

  Jack has a gift for fighting. Caleb has a gift for thinking. She hopes she has a gift, but not one stereotypically female. And she takes some solace in the fact that nothing she’s said at this point is quite as crazy as what Jack and Caleb are barking:

  Hey, Mr. Viktor Svoboda. Reason you’ve been having those headaches your whole life? Well, you and the boys are genetic mutants who share a similar trait with enormous ancient monsters. The trait? Has to do with hearing the fluctuations of quantum filaments that vibrate across the universe.

  Also just so happens that those strings determine reality. How they shake and shimmy modifies what we perceive to be real. Some super funky kinda string theory. The fighting and the thinking? Oh, well, that’s got to do with being more in tune with the music of the strings, see. Has to do with “hearing” reality a bit quicker and better than everyone else.

  The bad news? Right. Well, the bad news is that the ancient monsters had kin who went batshit nuts seeking the core strings themselves. Yeah, the main ones. Like, the strings. At the center of the universe. No idea. They went up, circling the planet, using wings and air bladders, getting higher and farther away from Earth’s gravitational pull generation by generation until they escaped into the darkness of space. Yeah. They live for a very long time.

  And they’re insane. And they’re coming back. And we’re sorta worried that they’re gonna destroy life as we know it. Why would they do that? Well, they want the planet back. They think they’re the only ones who deserve to hold domain over Earth. And their race thinks humans are tasty.

  Is there any more beer?

  Someone pounds on the door. The coroner. Here to take Patrick’s body. They’ve got a gurney and body bag. Grim faces. Neither the medical personnel nor the sheriff’s deputy that accompanies them is surprised by the strange violence done to the teen’s flesh. They’ve seen a lot of weird in the last twelve hours.

  “I saw hell open up last night,” the slim, grey-haired deputy tells Elie. “It swallowed us whole. I don’t give a damn what they’re saying on TV. Evil came to Brooklyn.”

  Elie can’t disagree.