Emergence

by William Vitka

  Catarina blinks. She’s is back in her father’s study. The lights are still on. She looks down at the “Grace” note she scribbled to herself.

  She bolts to the wooden door. Throws it open. Sees on the other side of it the horrific scratches Three made when he tried to intrude. She’s glad her determination kept him out.

  Just outside the study are a series of switches on the wall. They’re all up. In the green. On. She pulls them down. Into the red. Off.

  Then she’s in the sewer. She blinks again. “I think I did it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.” Caleb turns and continues down the sewer.

  “Well, what about you?”

  Caleb puts a hand up to his head and rotates it like someone shutting off a car. “I’ve got the Engine. I know I can turn mine off. Just curious about yours and whether all this will work.”

  Catarina offers him a sarcastic Heh. “Keep moving, smartass.”

  They crawl. Through the shit and the muck and the unmentionables. Certain that even if Three or his kin want to, they can’t track them.

  When they come to the hole above the Hroza burrow, they let themselves fall slack against the sewer walls.

  Caleb leans out the hole. Looks down. Pulls himself back.

  Catarina makes an emphatic hand gesture. So what do you see?

  Caleb mouths something. Spreads his hands out. Puts up six fingers.

  Catarina mouths, What? Six. Big? What? She points to her ears.

  Caleb rolls his eyes. Raises a hand. He points to Catarina then himself.

  With his right hand, he raises his index finger. With his left hand, he makes an “O” shape with his thumb and forefinger. He puts his index finger through the “O.”

  Catarina pressed her lips together. Until they’re a thin line.

  We’re fucked.

  Chapter 36: Cowboy from Hell

  Jack guns the Charger. Takes the Verrazano Bridge onramp on the Brooklyn side. He plugs his phone into the digital line he and his father installed under the radio. He cranks Pantera’s “5 Minutes Alone.”

  Red claws across the sky. Chases away the black.

  The Hudson River below reflects all the colors. It looks angry.

  He’s doing seventy-five when he blows through the toll plaza on Staten Island.

  Red and blue lights flash in his rearview.

  Jack lights a cigarette. “Yeah, follow me. Not gonna like what you find.” This is not part of the plan. “We’re going to Bayonne. High speed. Across state lines. Pull up to the glamorous Bayonne Golf Club. See some monsters. It’ll be fun on a bun.” He rolls down his window.

  Caleb had told Jack where Litost was hiding. He’d sneaked into Litost’s brain and figured it out. This was also part of the reason Caleb had been caught off guard when the monster grabbed their mother.

  The Engine had been distracted.

  A police cruiser surges forward to Jack’s left. It matches the Charger’s speed. The cop keeps pace. Lowers his window. Shouts to Jack across the air and the ground, “Pull the fuck over, you’re trying my patience.”

  Jack smiles. “Well then, you must try mine sometime.” He pushes the gas pedal to the floor. Gives himself a solid lead over the cop.

  He blazes down 278 toward New Jersey. Music blares. The Charger hits ninety-five miles an hour. Dawn squirts across the sky.

  This fifteen-mile chase toward doom is a hell of a thing.

  Jack thinks, You realize you’re gonna get a bunch of innocent cops killed, right?

  Says to his brain, “If they’re smart, they’ll run away when they see it. I just need the noise behind me to draw Litost out. We don’t have time to play hide and seek.”

  You gonna get them killed.

  “If they’re dumb enough to stick around, that’s not my problem. What’s the alternative? I waste my time with the NYPD, then the Corrupted come down and slaughter everyone anyway. We need to kill Litost. He’s their ace in the hole, and we need him gone.”

  You’re insane.

  “Well, I am talking to myself.”

  He barrels off 278. Takes exit 9 for North 440. Cranks the tunes. Lights another cigarette. Nears the Bayonne Bridge... And a police barricade at the toll area. Three blinking cruisers. Half a dozen cops. Their guns drawn. Aimed at the Charger.

  Jack mutters to himself. “They clearly do not know who they are fucking with.”

  He slows from ninety to sixty. Pulls his machine from its holster. He isn’t used to firing the Colt left-handed, so he gives himself an extra blink to find his targets.

  A hundred yards. His aim is still uncanny. The gun roars. Six bullets spiral through the air. Each one impacts at the feet of one of the six officers standing in front of the barricade. They scramble for cover.

  Jack reloads with special ammo. He takes his foot off the gas. Leans out the window. Waves his gun. He screams, “Get outta the way.” He fires a warning shot. A .45-caliber tracer round. Right into the engine block of one of the NYPD cruisers.

  The cops get the idea.

  The Charger slows. The cop cars chasing behind gain.

  There’s a gunshot. A bullet twangs off the driver side door just beneath Jack.

  He turns. Sneers at them. Still halfway out the window. Gives his pursuers the finger. “Do not shoot my goddamn car.”

  Jack turns back to the front. Puts five white-hot tracer rounds into the gas tanks of the police cruisers. Ducks into the Charger.

  The three cop cars explode. The toll lanes flood with fire.

  The flaming wrecks part before him. Moved by the force of the booms.

  Jack says, “I am Moses with a .45.”

  Flashing lights stay on his ass, though.

  He guns the Charger again.

  Somewhere along 440 in Jersey, he decides he’s sick of the music and only wants to hear the growl of the car. He kills the tunes. The engine talks to him. The V8 urges him on.

  He stops paying attention to the cops trying to rear-end him. Thinks only of killing Litost. He sees it in his head. It makes him happy.

  Jack hangs a sharp right onto Lafante Drive. Blows through the wooden arms at the gatehouse of the Bayonne Golf Club. He follows the road all the way around. Beside him rushes hole after hole where rich white dickheads spend their time. He does have to admit that it’s kind of pretty. Even for Jersey.

  At the end of the road is a walkway. A helipad. And, a sign tells him, hole sixteen. It all sits out on a peninsula. The Hudson River surrounds everything.

  He knows Litost is here somewhere.

  Jack jumps out of the Charger. Goes for the trunk. He starts to shout. “I’m here. I’m here, asshole. Come and get me!”

  Cop car lights paint the place red and blue.

  There’s a voice over the loudspeakers, “Put your hands above your head.”

  The pain in Jack’s head tells him that Litost is surging up. He grimaces. Grabs the Husqvarna. Stuffs more .45 rounds into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  Jack turns to face the cops. He puts the chainsaw down on the ground in front of him.

  The voice from the loudspeaker screeches again, “Put your hands above your head or we will open fire.”

  Seven cop cars slide into place. Fourteen cops with their guns drawn and trained on Jack. He’s attracted a crowd.

  He smiles. Puts his hands above his head. Then falls to his knees. Not because he’s complying. Because Litost is howling. Some mental, sonic terror. The static in Jack’s head is too much for him to bear.

  He wobbles. His hands hover at his temples. “Least the plan worked.” He totters forward. Lands hard on his elbows. His breathing is ragged. It pushes up plumes of dust in the gravel.

  The Hudson boils. The cops don’t hear it at first, but Jack does.

  All those tentacles. All that madness. Roiling so close to the surface.

  Jack shouts into the gravel. “I suggest you run.”

  Litost erupts from the river. Expl
odes like a black volcano of winged flesh.

  Jack’s still doubled over on the ground. Static in his head crippling him because there’s no Catarina nearby to filter it.

  Litost towers over everything. A hundred feet. More. A vile living spire glistening in the morning sun. Its giant mammalian skull open-mouthed, screaming. Wings unfurl. It’s the size of a jumbo jet. Tentacles whip in a frenzy. Legs tap against its carapace the same way a pissed off lobster does. Water falls from its enormous bulk like rain, drenching Jack and the Charger. Even managing to get the cops wet on account of how huge the creature is.

  The first of its legs crash down a dozen feet away.

  The second, near the New York and New Jersey officers.

  The cop’s now saying:

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “No way. No way. Oh, my God.”

  A few just losing their shit at the sight. Standing motionless.

  Jack’s Red fights the static. He gets to his feet. Face scrunched into a portrait of anguish. He dips and grabs the Husqvarna. Holds it with his left hand. He draws the Colt with his right. Spins it once to feel the weight. To center himself.

  “Run,” Jack shouts again. He waves the gun from side to side. “Drive. Go. Get the hell out of here.”

  One of the cops fires. Tries to put a bullet in Jack instead of the monster. But the officer misses.

  Jack shoots back, not thinking. Not capable of thinking with the Red. He doesn’t miss.

  The cop’s trigger finger flies away. He drops the gun. Howls.

  Jack thinks, Sorry.

  Litost makes a noise very much like laughter.

  Jack screams. “Run. Away.”

  Another leg comes down. There’s a cannon blast of noise. This one right on top of the cop with the bullhorn. The noisemaker squelches once before dying.

  Litost peers down at Jack. Seems so happy that this dumb little monkey thinks some reinforcements can stop the inevitable.

  Jack realizes that the space dick doesn’t have a clue. He laughs back.

  Then that voice of conscience in Jack’s brain: I told you. You’re getting cops killed. None of these men deserve to die. Do something. You have to protect them. You used them. Help them.

  Jack calls to them. “You need to go. You need to call in the army.”

  The cops blink at him. Gawk at the nightmare of Litost. Then pile into their cruisers. Peel out. Sirens blaring.

  Jack yanks the starter on the chainsaw. It growls to life. Chugs in his hand. He jukes to the side as another chitinous leg comes down, tossing up gravel and sand.

  Litost focuses on Jack. A question emerges from the mental static, What do you think you are doing? Your friends have left you. You are all alone. You are not going to live. Pathetic waste.

  Jack says, “Just needed them to get you above ground.”

  The Red works overtime to keep Jack moving. He’s happy that the overgrown squid doesn’t seem to know what he’s planning.

  He grits his teeth. Dodges another leg. The whole process is like trying to stay out of the way of a moving building. Ridiculous.

  The Colt and chainsaw both beg to be used. Jack spins his six-gun. Fires a tracer into one of Litost’s shoulder joints. The fiery bullet pierces the soft under-flesh. Burns. Bursts. Cooks the monster inside. Smokey gore rains down.

  Litost shrieks.

  Jack sidesteps as another tree-like leg comes down. “Peace through superior firepower, motherfucker!” He holsters his Colt. Raises the chainsaw above his head with both hands. Drives it into the chitinous appendage. He rams it down until the leg releases a flood of blood. He drags it across. Tries to bring the leg down like a logger.

  Red-yellow fluid pours. Sloshes against the ground.

  He yanks the chainsaw out. The leg retreats up.

  “Just a fly in the ointment, Hans,” Jack says. He tries to annoy and frustrate Litost more than anything else. Get the bastard to use one of those feeder tendrils. Get the bastard to snatch him up and toss him down his gullet.

  He drives the chainsaw into the other leg. Starts shredding it. Swings the Colt out. Puts another burning tracer round into a different joint.

  The Red fills him with rage. Prepares him. It’s a fury so strong he isn’t even wincing at the static that batters his brain. “Killed my parents. Killed my best friend. Thinking you can make us quit.”

  A thin feeder tendril comes down. Coils itself around Jack’s waist. Starts lifting him up.

  He cut through it with the Husqvarna. Doesn’t want to give himself away on the first try. Gotta play hard to get.

  More screams as he pushes those angry metal teeth through the tentacle.

  Litost drops him. Jack rolls. Runs for another leg. Puts the chainsaw to it.

  A second tendril plucks him away. Squeezes him. Angry. Frustrated.

  Perfect.

  Litost raises Jack high off the ground. Shakes and turns him so that Jack vomits all over the tentacle. It squeezes him again. He feels his floating lower ribs crack. He laughs. Inhales harsh and wet. Coughs blood out on top of the vomit.

  Another question rises through the static, Do you think you can win? Against me?

  “Hey, worth a try,” Jack says. He raises the Colt. Drills a hot tracer into Litost’s left eye.

  Litost doesn’t expect it. The tracer dives deep. Carves a flaming channel. The entire ocular cavity bursts. There’s a beautiful explosion of white liquid that shimmers in the sun.

  Litost tosses Jack into a mouth the size of a subway car.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 37: Indigestion

  The Red helps Jack avoid Litost’s gnashing teeth. He plays defense. Kicks. Slams his boots against molars as they clench to grind. He rides a huge disgusting tongue down.

  Then he’s in the throat. Peristalsis forces him toward the stomach.

  None of the squeezing here is as bad as the tentacle outside. Almost pleasant. Almost a massage, comparatively.

  Jack lands on some weird outcropping of bone. Maybe some part of the beast’s rib cage.

  Problem now is the goddamn digestive fluid. Green shit bubbles. Gotta avoid that. And it’s hot as shit. Hundred degrees at least. Dark, too, but there’s a faint glow all around. Bioluminescent innards.

  Jack coughs. It’s a noxious atmosphere. Blood bubbles up in his mouth. He spits into the green sea of juice around him. It hisses in response.

  He gives himself a minute to think. Well, you’re here. Now what?

  Caleb theorized that a human can withstand about a half an hour inside a Hroza before their internal organs start to sizzle away.

  So Jack’s gotta move.

  He slips a pair of leather gloves over his hands. Clicks on a little LED flashlight. Pans it around.

  Litost’s stomach is enormous. A fleshy, dripping digestive factory. Through the center of it flows the river of green acid. The walls pulse. Tufts of thin tendrils that look like black grass grow in patches. They shudder in the light beam.

  Gotta avoid those things too.

  Jack feels Litost shift to one side. He loses his footing. Lands hard on his chest.

  The river of acid burps. Overflows.

  A few droplets land on Jack’s gloves. The leather there is eaten away. Penny-sized smoking holes. The burn approaches his skin, but stops shy of dissolving Jack’s flesh.

  “Gotta get this sonuvabitch some Tums.”

  Jack stands. Spots a bright red protrusion the size of a car on the stomach lining. It’s round. Beating. He hears it, too. It makes a telltale thump-thump, thump-thump. Not big enough to be this beast’s heart, but maybe one of the major arteries. Or connected. Whatever it is, it seems important. That makes it ripe for pruning.

  Jack hops from one outcropping of bone to another. Waves his arms to stay balanced. Tightrope-tiptoes along. Until he’s right in front of the throbbing thing.

  He starts the Husqvarna. Lets the machine chew into Litost. The red flesh of the pro
trusion jiggles. Splits. Massive chunks shear off and land with wet splashes around him. Blood gushes from the wound like a river. It flows around his boots. Collides with the toxic green digestive juices.

  There’s static in Jack’s head. Litost screaming. What are you doing?

  The fleshy ground moves under Jack’s feet. The kraken writhes in anger and pain.

  Jack steadies himself. “And behold there was a great earthquake. And the sun became as black as sackcloth and the moon became as blood. And the seas boiled and the skies fell.” He’s not sure if he’s quoting Revelation or Ghostbusters. Probably Ghostbusters.

  The chainsaw blade is streaked with viscera.

  When the artery’s spill of fluid slows to a trickle, Jack pulls it open. Spreads its lips. He gauges the fit. Sees he can squeeze inside. He holds onto his hat and pushes himself into it. Heads up.

  There’s more blinding static from the titan.

  Jack grunts. Claws his way up. Uses the chainsaw as a climbing tool to secure his route. He punches it into the inner wall of the flesh tube and pulls himself with it. “I’m gonna tear your heart apart, Litost.”

  A fresh flood of fluid gushes through the artery. It pummels him. Soaks him in thick, slick gore. Makes him think he’s drowning.

  Jack’s lungs seize. Spasm. He needs oxygen. Bad. He coughs so hard that his diaphragm aches and his stomach pulses with puke. His eyes water.

  The clock’s ticking.

  Jack keeps on. Follows the bloody tube through twists and turns. Until he saws through a pale valve and tumbles out into one of the chambers of Litost’s massive, horrible heart.

  He stands in two feet of thick red liquid. The chamber is eight or nine feet high. Ditto width and length. The size of a big bathroom. Difference being, this has pink striated walls of monster muscle. He knows the only reason it’s mostly devoid of blood is because he’s created a massive pocket of air in the thing’s circulatory system.

  Too bad Litost hasn’t succumbed to an embolism yet.

  Not that it matters at this point.

  Jack revs the Husqvarna.

  * * *

  Litost thrashes. His mind fills with rage.

  Rotten ape tricked him. Him.