Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  Rory slipped around the corner before they could see him and made his way to the front of the general store. He leaped up onto the porch, coming face to face with the black barrel of a revolver.

  “Don’t shoot me!” He dropped the garrote and raised his hands defensively, looking into Anna’s frightened eyes.

  She dropped the revolver, hands shaking as she choked back sobs. “Rory!” She hugged him, flooding him with relief. “You’re okay.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, aware of her trembling against him, aware of his deep relief that she was all right. But his reprieve was short-lived as he took in what was before him.

  Clinton was sprawled on the porch, his long legs hanging down the front steps. His ashen face glistened with sweat as he attempted to smile. Nicholas sat near Clinton, pressing bloody towels to his side. Rory’s look strayed to a trail of stained dirt from the middle of the road to the porch.

  “What happened?”

  “A Nephilim,” Myrtle whispered. “Nicholas’ father tore part of Clinton’s side clean out.”

  “We’ve got to get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death,” Anna urged.

  Rory nodded. He looked into Clinton’s mottled, wet face, and a flash of something there scared him. Clinton was a strong man, steady and methodical, unwavering in his need to get to the truth, whatever that might be. But Rory saw a new emotion etched on Clinton’s features – fear. As if Clinton knew the end was in sight, an end he didn’t want any part of. Rory looked up into the road. The Nephilim were gone, called to the gatherer. It was a tiny shaft of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation.

  Something strange pulled within him. For an instant, he wanted to give in to the Nephilim. To do so would be something wonderful, captivating, if he just let go and listened to their call. Then he wouldn’t have to worry any more.

  • • •

  Myrtle watched a pall cross over Rory’s face. It was there for just a moment, a foreign presence swirling in the deep eddies of his eyes. Then it disappeared, and he was back, staring at her with slight confusion. His broad shoulders stooped, and he reeked of weariness.

  She waited only a moment before she jumped into action. She grabbed Anna. “Get Clinton’s keys and I’ll drive him to a hospital.” Anna obediently went over to Clinton and fished around in his pocket.

  Myrtle turned to Rory. “We’ll take Clinton’s car,” she said. “It’s the best of the lot.” He stared at her. She put a hand to his face. “Brewster?” He averted his gaze and shook his head slowly. Myrtle fought back a growing sense of despair. “He was a good man,” she said simply.

  Anna returned with the keys and Rory went and got the car and parked it in front of the porch steps. Clinton grimaced as Rory and Anna helped him into the back of the car. Clinton’s face was a deep gray, and his clothes were as wet as if he’d showered in them. Nicholas continued to press the cloth to Clinton’s side. Clinton was losing blood quickly.

  “Need to…get out.” It took all Clinton’s strength to get out the words. He clutched weakly at Rory’s shirt. “Don’t wait.”

  “Rory and I will take care of the bodies and then leave,” Anna said, helping to position Clinton more comfortably.

  “Hold this,” Myrtle took Clinton’s hand and made him press down on the wound. He scowled in pain.

  Myrtle backed away. “Dear God, he’s going to bleed to death,” she uttered despairingly as she stood up. Anna waved Nicholas over. “You sit here in the back with him,” Anna instructed. “Keep that cloth pressed over the wound. Press hard, okay?” Nicholas nodded mutely, crawled into the back seat, and sat down near Clinton’s knees. He leaned forward, placed his hands over Clinton’s and applied pressure on the wound.

  “Will you be all right?” Anna asked. “Yeah,” Nicholas whispered. She shut the door.

  Myrtle prayed silently that the boy would stay with them mentally. Lord knows he’s been through enough, she thought. She shaded her eyes as she went around to Rory. “It’s going to be dark in a while.” She could hear her voice cracking, could feel her strength waning with the setting sun. “How long will it take you and Anna to sink the bodies in the lake?”

  “We’ll hurry,” he said, trying to ease the concern that showed in her eyes.

  “What if they come back?” she asked.

  “Come on, get going.” Rory herded Myrtle over to the driver’s side of the car. He held the door open for her, waiting as she got in and started the car. “You take care of Clinton. Leave the rest to me.”

  “And me,” Anna said, coming up to them. “I’m staying to help you finish this.” Rory opened his mouth but her firm stance and grim, determined look indicated that argument would be futile. “You can’t do this alone.”

  Rory shrugged and turned to Myrtle. “You drive like it’s the Indy 500, you hear me?” He shut the door and stepped back.

  “What about Boo?” Myrtle suddenly cried. “He’s still in the store!”

  “I’ll get him.” Rory ran into the store and emerged moments later, carrying Boo. He hurried over to the car and put the dog in the front passenger seat.

  “Thank you, Rory,” Myrtle forced a smile. “Hurry up,” she said. “I don’t like the idea of you and Anna up here alone.” She held to the steering wheel tightly so he wouldn’t see her trembling hands. “Hurry,” she repeated, then pressed the gas pedal and the car leapt forward, kicking up dust. Clinton groaned in the back seat. She looked frantically in the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Nicholas.

  “He’s okay,” Nicholas said, but his frown told a different story.

  Myrtle sped over the bridge, leaving Taylor Crossing behind. Fear kept Myrtle’s foot on the gas pedal, all thoughts of caution gone. The car bounded over the rickety bridge, bouncing on the uneven boards. The car rocked and Clinton emitted another pain-laced moan. Myrtle clutched the wheel, her hands white. Then, what all the townspeople had feared might happen, happened.

  First came a single pop of dry wood snapping in two. A horrible crunching sound rose over the back end of the car, a breaking, scraping sound that shook the whole car. Even as she looked quickly over her shoulder, Myrtle knew. The bridge was going.

  “Hang on,” she yelled. She stamped her foot on the gas and the car flew with tires squealing. In seconds they were across the bridge.

  “What happened?” Nicholas hollered from the back seat.

  “The bridge collapsed,” she yelled in terror.

  Myrtle glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a brief glimpse of the bridge. She could see it leaning precariously to the side, the far end completely separated from the rock. There was no way a person could even attempt to walk across it now, let alone drive a car. Even as she thought this, her car rounded the bend and the bridge disappeared from sight.

  “Oh my Lord.” She threw a hand to her mouth and fought the tears that were already cascading down her cheeks.

  “Aren’t you stopping?” Nicholas hollered from the back seat.

  “Rory and Anna will have to make do,” she said through tears. “We’ve got to get Clinton to the hospital.” For the first time in her advancing years, she noticed an aching in her limbs, letting her know she was too old for this.

  “He doesn’t look good,” an alarmed whisper came from the back seat.

  “I know,” Myrtle answered, not needing to see Clinton to really know. His raspy breathing said it all. She pressed harder on the gas pedal, and as the car careened down the road, a new ache, filled with the worst kind of dread, gripped her whole body.

  CHAPTER 64

  Rory and Anna had watched with alarm as the bridge collapsed, and Clinton’s squad car disappeared around the bend in the road. They ran up to the bridge.

  “Now what will we do?” Anna took a tentative step toward the edge of the ravine and peered down. Rory didn’t like the worried edge in her voice, not because of the tone itself, but because it fed his own growing feeling of desperation.

  The far end of the bridge had torn clean aw
ay from the rock, creating a ten-foot gap, the cross beams broken and falling away. Pieces of support beams poked into the air like pickup sticks, jagged edges hopelessly mangled. What are we going to do? He’d barely thought this when a rending creak made him jump. The bridge heaved further to the side. Weathered boards fell down to the bottom of the chasm.

  He was about to answer when another disembodied cry echoed from higher terrain. Ed was calling again. Rory pulled Anna to him, covering her head.

  “Will we be able to cross over?” she wailed.

  He bit his lip. “We don’t have much choice.” But he didn’t relish the thought. The sides of the chasm were steep, with jagged outcroppings and very little foliage; it would be rock climbing, without the carabiner gear. And now the ravine was bathed in deep shadows, hinting at the coming darkness.

  He wiped damp hands on his jeans. “We’ll worry about that later,” the sentence reminding him of Scarlett O’Hara. Hey, she survived, he thought derisively. Let’s hope we’re that lucky. He turned back toward town. “Let’s take care of the other.” He didn’t want to say out loud what they had to do, as if not addressing it would make the task easier.

  They hurried back into the Crossing, wary of the Nephilim returning. But they saw no one. A tranquil breeze rattled the aspen leaves as they neared the general store, adding to the uneasy hush. For a moment, the town seemed at peace, as if people were enjoying an afternoon siesta inside, away from the heat. Then the fetid smell of death drifted to them, a stark reminder of the evil that had befallen the town. Rory glanced to the east, to the road out of town, then to the lake. The silence was so void of normal human sound that it was deeply disturbing.

  “Where are they?” Anna asked. He shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, but an urgency loomed before them. When would Ed and the others come back? Or would they?

  “Let’s get started,” Rory said. He retrieved Myrtle’s .38 Special from the porch of the general store and tucked it into his belt. Then he stalked across Main Street, past the Jeep, still parked in the middle of the road. The body of a man lay flopped at an awkward angle between the Jeep and the store porch.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Anna whispered, moving up beside Rory. Her anxiety was obvious.

  He grabbed her hand to reassure her and went to the body. A clean bullet hole right in the forehead stared at Rory like a third eye. A thin trail of blood ran down past the man’s nose and onto the ground. “Damn,” Rory frowned. “His blood has been spilled.” He cursed sourly.

  “We didn’t have any choice,” Anna said defensively. “He was coming at us, so Clinton shot him.”

  He stared at a second body, that of Gino D’Angelo, who had a dark spot on his chest. “Blood there, too.”

  Anna nodded. “I did that.” Her voice cracked, but she quickly regained her composure. “We had to shoot them.”

  “I know.” Rory grimaced. “It just feels…hopeless.”

  The words settled like scattered ashes around them.

  Anna took a closer look at Gino’s body, his face twisted in a terrible grimace, the lips pulled back, exposing yellowish teeth. The corpse was well on its way toward mummification.

  “What’s happened to him?” she asked, clearly shocked.

  “The same thing happened to the one I killed up in the woods,” he answered with a shrug. “It’s like the body’s been dead for a long time, and once the spirit leaves, it shrivels like that.”

  “I recognize his face,” Anna said, pointing to the first body. “He came up here a lot to hike.” She stared down at the body. “We don’t need to put him in the lake. The spirit’s gone. I saw it leave.”

  Rory shrugged. “Let’s get the others.”

  Anna’s trepidation was visible as she followed him to the well. Rory stooped next to the body of a heavyset woman who had drunk the pure water. She was lying near the cistern, a tortured expression on her puffy face, her eyes glazed over. Even with all that, they immediately recognized her as Mary D’Angelo.

  Anna blinked a couple of times and wiped a tear from her cheek. Rory fought against a feeling of surrender that pulled at him. He rubbed at the grit in his eyes, then squeezed Anna’s hand, willing her to stay strong. They had a job to do, whether they wanted it or not. Then he let go, bent down, and grabbed Mary’s shirt collar. “Let’s get her over to the dock. We can weigh down the body there, then dump it in the lake.”

  She moved to action, carefully grasping Mary by the arm. Anna scrunched up her face in revulsion, but she pulled the body along with him. “Ugh!”

  The body emanated a gut-churning smell of body odors and rotting flesh. Rory breathed through a slit in his mouth as they dragged the body across the road and up onto the dock.

  “The cinder blocks,” he instructed. They went to the pile that they had prepared, what seemed so long ago, and each brought two blocks back to the body. He took the rope attached to his cinder blocks and tied the loose ends around Mary’s neck. Anna did the same with other bricks, lashing them to the ankles.

  When they finished, Anna bent down and helped Rory push the body over the edge of the dock. It hit the lake with a crack, followed by a couple of smaller spatters of water as the blocks went down. Rory jerked back as drops splashed on him, but he watched with a childlike fascination as Mary’s body slipped beneath the surface, creating a stir of bubbles and ripples.

  “That’s one.” He leaned back on his haunches and wiped his face. Anna turned to him, and he didn’t like the bleak expression there. “Don’t think about it,” he said, standing up. “One at a time.” As he stood up, the revolver in his belt fell out, landing with a clatter. Anna jumped. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll leave it here for now.”

  Anna quietly followed him to the next body, a thin man who had drunk the pure water. She scowled, but reached for the man’s arm. They had an easier time with his body than with the bulkier Mary D’Angelo, but were still breathing heavily once they’d gotten him into the lake.

  “Come on,” Rory said, hurrying back down the dock. “Just a few more.” He was worried about the coming twilight because the dark would make the journey across the ravine almost impossible. Anna was behind him, but as he stepped onto the dock, a murky mist that appeared over the trees to the west of town startled him. It was just like in New York City, the mist that had pulled him into this madness.

  “Oh no!” Anna said, bumping into him. “They’re doing something. The Nephilim are preparing again, aren’t they?” Her voice bordered on hysterical.

  “Hurry,” he urged her. “Let’s get these bodies in the lake, now!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Anna clutched at his arm. “Leave the bodies! Let’s go!”

  The cloud grew thicker, a mass of blackness centered over one small spot above Taylor Crossing. As Rory watched, a sudden rush of force overwhelmed him. He thought of the bodies. Bodies and strewn blood. Blood from wounds mingled in the dirt. The cycle would continue, a part of his destiny. Stars crossed his vision and his head tingled. His muscles tensed.

  “Rory, what’s wrong?”

  Would this madness ever end? he thought. He was the chronicler; they would come for him, relentless, unyielding. Did he have any hope of conquering them? He should’ve let the cloud win, should’ve surrendered in the first place. He felt his will going. “Submit,” a voice rattled in his head. It was vile, horrid, and very real.

  Then Rory saw a vision. Ed was standing in the clearing, seething, the spirit pent up with rage. The Nephilim had lost their moment in time, and enlightenment would wait again. All because of him. He had resisted the calling, but the spirit in Ed vowed that this would not happen again. Ed would find the chronicler, and he would annihilate him.

  Ed worked the dark forces, conjuring them to seek out the will of the chronicler.

  “Submit,” Ed chanted. “Submit.”

  There was another presence, a Strong One, the One from before. Ed raised his hands, working against it. He would not let the c
hronicler succeed.

  “Submit.”

  Just as quickly, Rory saw another image, as clear as a photograph, of Burgess Barton, a rugged man, a fighter. He had battled to the end, taking as many necessary ones as he could. And he chronicled it, so the generations to come would know, so that Rory would know. So he could keep the evil from invading the earth. “You are that one,” Rory heard an old voice say. It was timeless. But very clear. Then the other force assaulted him, as if his insides were being rendered in two. Darkness and light waged war in the battlefield of his body and soul. Evil clawed for him, but he fought against it, knowing he didn’t want it to end that way.

  From somewhere far away he heard Anna’s voice calling to him. “Come back. Rory, listen to me. Come back.” He willed himself to breathe, and his eyes focused again. Anna was holding him by both shoulders, speaking calmly but urgently to him. “Stay with me.”

  “I’m okay,” he muttered.

  “What happened?” She appeared calm, but her hands trembled as she held him.

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He noticed the dark mist had vanished. But his vision was clear now, and he knew his purpose. He turned to her. “The Nephilim will return. And we have to stop them.”

  “It’s hopeless, then,” she said tersely, looking around carefully.

  “No,” he shook his head and forced a smile. “And you know it’s not. There’s always hope.” Anna stared at him. “Barton fought them, and so can we. They win if we give in to them. You’re father knew it. Brewster knew it. I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s bigger than us. And we can’t let it win. We can’t let it go on. It’s up to us.”

  He watched a myriad of emotions cross over her face: confusion, pain, anger, and finally resolve. “All right. Let’s get this over with. Just don’t let anything happen to you. I can’t do this alone.”

  Rory shrugged and grabbed the shirt of another poor soul who drank from the cistern water. “Smells awful,” he gasped, noticing that Anna had grimaced at the odor. But she took part of the shirt and with some effort they managed to get the body onto the dock. They weighted this one in a similar fashion to the other bodies, dumped it into a deeper part of the lake, and returned to the road.