Rising: The Second Death Prequel

by Brian Rella

  A soft gurgling noise escaped her lips, and the edges of her vision grew dark. Her eyes fluttered. Blood and drool leaked from her parted lips as her heart took its last beat.

  16

  HIM

  Realm of the Second Death

  * * *

  At the edge of the Canyon of Dread, a pack of imps had claimed the high ridge. The imps scavenged for smaller creatures, sacrificing them to their leader, who devoured them, filling his round belly. For his entertainment, he threw them the scraps of their killings and reveled in the enjoyment of their fighting over the morsels.

  The imps formed a circle, hissing and shouting at each other. Bickering turned to bloodshed as two larger imps cleared the center of the circle and snarled at each other. Their backs rose and fell in a show of dominance. Their leader encouraged them to fight for his entertainment by sweetening the pot. The prize: a blas-wormonger captured by the leader’s lieutenant. It was still alive, its head pinned to the ground under the blackened foot of the imp lord.

  The imps circled, hissed, and slashed at each other as the game began. In and out, in and out, they attacked each other with ferocity, their indigo blood splattering the crowd as they brawled for a meal. The tribe screeched and shrieked at the combatants, their savagery rising. The loser would be their meal, and so all would but one would win in this contest.

  The air was charged with the blood of victory as one of the imps fell and was unable to rise again. The other imp straddled him. Violet drippings splashed on the loser’s mangled face. His claws raised above his head, his face a twisted snarl, the victor was poised to finish the contest with one final strike to remove his opponent’s head. The tribe was frenzied, smaller fights breaking out among the observers in eagerness of eating one of their own.

  BA-BUM

  A thunderous boom echoed up from the canyon walls, reverberating through the ground, giving the wretched creatures pause. The imp lord screeched, commanding silence from his pack. The ridge of the Canyon of Dread grew quiet, the only sound coming from the relentless howling wind that forever pounded the creatures of the Realm.

  BA-BUM…BA-BUM

  The imp’s ears pointed back behind their heads, their dog-like snouts pointed toward the ground, and they began to whimper as the booming cadence grew louder and faster.

  BA-BUM—BA-BUM—BA-BUM…

  From the depths of the canyon, a slender black tendril crested the ridge and slithered along the ground, searching for something. A curious imp approached cautiously, sniffing at it from a distance. Its hound-shaped mouth curled to a grin. It lunged at the tendril, teeth and claws first, with a hiss and shriek.

  The tendril rose to meet the attacker and struck out with a blur of speed. In a flash, it had wrapped the imp in a death grip, coiling around the creature, flexing its lithe muscles. The end of the tendril faced the spectating tribe of imps and opened wide, revealing ringed rows of teeth slick with green ooze.

  The booming cadence quickened from the depths of the canyon walls. The mouth of the tendril attached itself to the face of the whimpering imp. The head of the imp was ingested, and the imp’s whimpering was muffled by the flesh of the thing. The tendril flexed, the shape of the imp head under its skin flattened with a snap, and the body of the imp was pulled down to the depths of the canyon below.

  The imp lord shrieked over the heads of his pack and the pack responded in kind, their voices echoing across the barren Realm. The tribe scattered, vacating the ridge. It was no longer theirs.

  It belonged to Him.

  17

  JESSIE

  October 17, 2015

  Beauchamp, Louisiana

  * * *

  “Is that the last of them?” Jessie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the mover said as he went to the truck and placed the last box in the back. He reached up and grabbed the strap hanging down, pulling the door closed.

  “Wait. Could you open it again, please?” she asked. The man grumbled as he slid the back door of the moving truck open again.

  Jessie reached into the first box on the truck floor and pulled out a book. She needed something to read on her flight. She looked up at the mover to thank him and found he had an annoyed look on his face. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. The mover looked frightened and put his hands in the air. Jessie calmed herself before she spoke to him again. “How long will it take you to get to Chicago?”

  “About fourteen hours, give or take,” he said.

  Jessie smiled. She was flying there tonight. At the back of Arraziel, she had uncovered a hidden map of the world. The map showed no country borders, just topography, but there were markers on the map with strange names all over the world. What looked like Chicago on the map was the closest. Pasmet was the name written on the coast of the long finger of Lake Michigan—right near Chicago. Jessie intended on going there, and finding out what Pasmet was herself.

  “Good. Don’t take too long,” she said as she dropped the book in her bag and got into the waiting taxi.

  “Airport. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

  18

  FRANK

  October 17, 2015

  New York, New York

  * * *

  The sirens had been blaring for the last ten minutes in the NYPD’s show of force up Third Avenue. Frank understood why they needed to show their force. The NYPD was one of the biggest police forces in the country, but the criminals forgot that sometimes and needed a reminder.

  Everyone needs a reminder now and again, he thought. He sipped his beer, slurped back his shot of whiskey, and called Trish over.

  “Trish, be my best girl and hit me with another shot,” he said.

  She brushed her curly red hair back away from her green eyes and leaned in with the bottle in her hand. “Now, Francis,” she whispered, “you know I am your best and only girl, an’ dontcha’ be forgettin’ dat.” He loved her brogue, and imagined she must have been something in the sack in her younger years.

  She poured the shot expertly, the brown liquid brimming the short glass.

  “That you are, Trish…that you are,” Frank said and tipped his head back, dumping the whiskey down his throat in a swift motion. The glass smacked down on the bar and he pointed at it again. Trish grinned, poured him another, turned, and walked to the other end of the bar to chat with some old timers.

  The sirens continued outside as the entire NYC police force raced up Third Avenue, but most of the patrons in McGuire’s Pub remained unaffected. Frank started counting the cars as they flew past the window, the alcohol buzzing in his head.

  But it wasn’t only the alcohol buzzing. He glanced down to the stained wood bar and saw his phone shimmying across the wood. Someone was calling him. He flipped the phone over to see who it was. Brennan.

  Frank sighed. This won’t be good. He picked up the phone and moved to the back room of the bar, away from the sirens, and then answered the phone.

  “Brennan,” he said. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. He should have stopped drinking half an hour ago.

  “Frank,” Brennan said. “I need you to come in. We might have a problem.”

  Frank looked at his shoes. He leaned his arm against the wall and brought his forehead to it and closed his eyes. Unconsciously, his left foot started tapping the base molding.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know if it’s anything yet, but I think it might be something, so please come in.” Brennan sounded agitated.

  “I need some time. I’m indisposed.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Look, Olga hasn’t checked in in a while and I can’t reach her. I don’t know what’s going on down there. I may need you to go down. So sober up and come in. Okay?”

  Frank tensed. He unconsciously kicked the wall again and sank his boot up to his ankle into the plaster wall. Chunks of the wall crumbled to the floor and lay by his foot. The sirens from outside stopped. The room was suddenly quiet.

 
; “Yeah, okay,” Frank rasped.

  “Say hi to Trish for me. See you shortly.”

  “Yeah, see you,” Frank said and ended the call.

  Frank removed his boot from the wall, stood up straight, and tucked his shoulder-length brown hair behind his ears. “Fuck,” he muttered.

  His motorcycle boots scuffed the floor as he strode back into the main bar room. Trish looked up at him and met his eyes. He paused in the doorway, looking at her. His lip curled up the side of his cheek.

  “One more for the road then,” she called to him.

  He nodded and clomped to the bar. He slugged back his shot and Trish refilled him. She looked at him levelly. “You be careful, Franky. We’ll be waitin’ for ya when ya get back.”

  Frank chuckled and stared into her green eyes. “Some things never change, huh, Trish,” he said.

  “Some things don’t, others do. You ain’t the changin’ kind,” she said and shot him a wink.

  “See you soon, I hope,” he said, slugged back the other shot, and headed for the door.

  “Be seein’ ya soon, Franky,” Trish said.

  Frank walked slowly back to Fifth Avenue. Where had Olga been going? Louisiana. Hurricanes and Mardi Gras. Great.

  Sneak Peak: Watchers of the Fallen

  PROLOGUE

  October 14, 1983

  Garrison, New York

  * * *

  The Indian summer sun baked the front yard, leaving a sloping hill of powdery dirt at its edge. The mound was perfect for making an outdoor racetrack. Frank and his younger brother, David, had dug a track all morning from between the mailbox and the pine tree at the edge of their property. It was complete with hairpin turns and tunnels made from sticks and flat rocks from the garden.

  Frank’s white Mustang Mach 1 cruised around the track and David’s red Firebird followed close behind. The mimicked sounds of screeching tires, revving engines, and changing gears floated in the air. The young boys circled the track on all fours, pushing their Hot Wheels cars around and around in a never-ending race.

  Frank’s T-shirt was filthy from wiping his dirty hands on it, a corner of the yellow Atari logo hidden behind brown stains. David wore a mud mask below his nose and on his chin, his face caked with dirt and mucus from his endlessly running nose.

  The Mustang rounded a high turn and shifted into high gear, speeding up along the stretch of open road. Errrrrrrrrrrrr… Ahhherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… David trailed behind Frank by a few car lengths, his short, three-year-old legs scraping along behind him, trying to keep up with his five-year-old brother. He was fast as a crab on all fours, following Frank, imitating his every move.

  A flash from across the road, deep into the woods, caught Frank’s eye, pausing the race. It was the second time in the last few minutes he had seen something flickering beyond the tree line.

  “Come on, Fwanky. You blocking the twack,” David said as he tried to push past.

  Frank sat still. What was that? Was it fire? Fire has smoke. I don’t see smoke. He stared another moment while David protested. Shrugging, he bent down to his car, screeched the tires, and continued along the length of the track, downshifting into a turn.

  The big tunnel was up ahead, before the long bend of the track, down toward the street. “Don’t forget to turn your lights on, David!” he shouted back toward his brother.

  “Okay!” his brother yelled back.

  He pushed his car under the miniature tunnel of stick and rock. From behind him, David made a crashing noise and shouted, “Booooom!” throwing his car at the dirt. It bounced once, knocking down the tunnel and burying Frank’s car and driver alive.

  “Hey…David, you broke the tunnel!”

  “Cwash!” he shouted. “My cawr, cwashed,” he said, his voice rising into a whine, his hands turned palms up in front of him.

  “Ooooooh, now I have to build it again,” Frank said, whining too.

  “Sowwy, Fwanky.”

  David made a sad face, toddled over to Frank, and hugged his older brother. Frank hugged him back. “Come on, let’s build a bigger one. Go get a big rock from Mom’s garden, flat like this.”

  “Okay, Fwank,” he said and sped off.

  Frank gathered the twigs and rocks from the old tunnel and set them aside. He took his Mustang and ran it back and forth several times across the dirt to make the groove deeper and wider to accommodate a larger tunnel.

  Something flashed again across the street, grabbing his attention. It was brighter and closer this time, but he still couldn’t see it clearly through the trees.

  Frank shuddered as a shadow moved through the trees – something big, just out of his sight, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  “Mom?” he called, backing away to the house, glancing over his shoulder. She didn’t respond. “Maaaaa-ooooom!” Frank shouted louder.

  “In the back,” she yelled.

  Hot Wheels in hand, Frank ran to the back yard where his mom and dad were gardening. His dad was on a ladder pruning an apple tree. David was underneath the tree and had an apple in his hand. Tiny bites freckled the earthy, red skin, and apple juice ran down his cheeks and chin, leaving tracks in the mud mask he was wearing.

  “What is it, honey?” his mother said, leaning over a shovel at the other end of the garden.

  “I think something big is on fire in the woods,” Frank said. “I’m scared.”

  His parents looked at each other and then at Frank.

  “What’s that, kiddo?” his dad asked.

  “I think something’s on fire across the street. There’s a big shadow and something keeps flashing.”

  His dad stepped down from the ladder and flitted his eyes to his mom. She returned his glance, shrugging.

  “Come on, kiddo. Let’s check it out,” he said and took Frank’s hand. His mom picked up David and they all walked to the front of the house where David and Frank had been playing.

  Their house was in the middle of two others on the dead end road. The Hendersons were to the left. They were older, their children grown and moved away. Their house was all the way down the road and barely visible from Frank’s front yard. They usually weren’t home on the weekends. Mrs. Henderson liked to go into the city.

  All the way on the other side of Frank’s house, past a row of tall pine trees, were the Duffys. The Duffys’ house was hidden from Frank’s by the dense trees between the properties. It was the last house on the block at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Across the street from Frank’s house was a large plot of undeveloped land. There were thick woods where the boys played sometimes. Beyond that were the Hudson Highlands, a big park along the Hudson River in New York. Frank’s dad said it went all the way from Peekskill to Beacon and down to the Hudson River. It was really big, and people from New York City hiked and picnicked through the park on the weekends a lot. The boys never played too far into the woods across the street. They had to stay close to hear mom or dad if they called.

  Frank’s father looked across the road, squinting into the woods. “I don’t see anything, kiddo. Where’d you see fire?”

  Frank pointed across the street from where the boys were playing. “Over there.”

  “Stay here,” his father said, letting go of Frank’s hand and shooting his mom a don’t worry face. He walked to the edge of the property and paused, looking both ways, and crossed the street. He stood at the edge of the road, one hand on his hip and the other above his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. His head swiveled back and forth, and then stopped.

  He bent slightly at his knees and leaned forward. Frank saw the shadow again. It was closer now, nearly in front of his dad, maybe the length of two school buses away.

  “Dad,” he said. ‘There it is. Do you see it? It’s right there in front of you.”

  His dad looked back at him. “I see something, buddy, but…” he said with a confused expression on his face. His eyes moved to the boys’ mom and she shook her head.

  “Dad, wat
ch out!” Frank shouted as light flashed closer to his father. It was so bright that Frank flinched.

  From the tree-line, long green sticks, taller and thicker than his father, pushed aside tree branches. Something bulbous and green, with two shiny black globes on top of it, and squirming parts under it appeared from between the trees. It glistened in the sunlight. The sticks were attached to the…head? Are those antennas?

  The green head rotated and fixed on his father. Beneath the giant head, two enormous, green, folded forelegs that looked like verdant, serrated swords appeared from the woods and onto the road.

  A praying mantis?

  It was the size of the small yellow bus Frank rode to kindergarten during the week. Frank saw the rest of the body behind the forelegs. The mid-section was long and thin, and supported by four larger, tree-like legs attached to the thicker hind section. As the giant bug emerged from the woods, Frank’s mother screamed, grabbed his arm, and yanked him toward her. The giant mantis took another step from woods and lurched for Frank’s father. His father fell and rolled before the sword-like arm came down on his torso.

  “Run!” Frank’s father yelled, scrambling along the ground toward his family, trying to get to his feet. His mother stood there, mouth open, unmoving, watching his father find his feet, and run away from the towering giant.

  Another mantis swooped over the trees, its flapping wings creating a gust of wind that blew Frank’s bangs away from his forehead. His mother shrieked and his father stumbled to his knees.

  “Mommy,” Frank moaned. “Mommy, come on, let’s go,” Frank said, pulling her away.

  His father tried to regain his footing, his face a mask of terror. He slipped on the dirt track the boys had built and fell to the ground. David started crying.