Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “Buddy,” he said loudly. “Sure could use your intimidation for a meeting like this.”

  Adamant ran and pawed at his collars hanging on the wall, then pulled down a mean-looking spiked collar.

  “Good idea,” said Setsa. “Let's go.”

  There was some confusion down in the garage as Setsa could not find or even contact his driver, usually a dependable super-soldier. All of his guards were gone as well, and Setsa decided that he was being sent a message by his corporate handlers: “We protect you. Without us, you walk the streets.”

  The city was unnaturally dark. Instead of the endless hum of activity, he heard what he could have sworn was screaming and the occasional pop-pop-pop of gunfire. The southern horizon was tinged with deep red. Adamant paced about, nervous, growling. He checked his data link but couldn't connect with anything, then a call came through on an emergency signal.

  “Setsa, damn it!”

  “Who is-”

  “That dragon! He's gone berserk!”

  Setsa recalled a pudgy face that the voice belonged to – a politician's aide who worked closely with advertising executives.

  “Ouroboros?”

  “That goddamn monster you created with that freak friend of yours! He's… he's killing everyone! Him and a bunch of-”

  The communication cut off. Setsa set off for the facility with Adamant loping along beside him.

  ***

  A dead man sat before security camera footage of the laboratory halls, where Setsa, now completely disheveled, beat at strange dog-like creatures with a long steel pipe. The creatures leaped in and out of dark halls, like hairless wolves wearing down their prey. In raced Adamant, roaring and swatting the things aside. The two made their way down the halls, stepping over dead bodies chewed and torn to shreds, just as they'd done all night.

  Just as Setsa found it hard to believe that Ouroboros had left the aviary and attacked anyone, he now found reality itself hard to believe. Monsters – that was the only way he could describe the things. Monsters had poured out of some mythological hell and were running through the streets, killing and shrieking like mad. He had seen plenty of super-soldiers, but none of them were fighting monsters. Instead they were attacking wealthy neighborhoods, looting businesses, or loading trucks full of poor laborers with stories of taking them to safety, but it was obvious that only attractive women and a few boys seemed to be allowed to come with them.

  As Setsa fought his way through the lab alongside his friend Adamant, he could not help but think that Cecil was to blame. If this night was real, if it wasn't a dream, then had Cecil turned his mind toward creating monsters? But why? Was it Setsa's fault, perhaps for abandoning Cecil and their work together and spending his time with the girl with red hair? Surely not. And yet he felt it must be true.

  They came to the place where no camera could watch, the private sanctuary of Ouroboros. As soon as Setsa flung open the door he stumbled and fell into a warm lake of blood. Ouroboros lay dead in a heap atop his computers and a perching structure, mouth hanging open to reveal a tongue lying on shattered teeth. Monsters crawled on him, chewing on his corpse. Something like a black mantis as large as a man looked up at the newcomers, licked blood from its chittering vertical mouth, then resumed eating.

  Adamant roared as if struck, then raced through his friend's blood so that he could rage and kill the feeding monsters. Setsa felt empty and stumbled away, following a shrill cry. As Adamant tore through monsters and tossed them through the air, Setsa found Tiamat. The little dragon laid in a corner, her pale scales shredded, eyes gone, gasping and crying in fear.

  “Oh, baby,” he said. “Oh, Tiamat, no...”

  Setsa closed off part of his heart, lifted the metal pipe over his head, and put Tiamat out of her misery. Adamant roared; he stood atop the corpse of Ouroboros, and all the monsters who had desecrated his corpse now laid crumpled and floating in blood. In a daze Setsa walked through the halls, and Adamant followed.

  Setsa realized he had been a fool to ever think that Ouroboros would ever give in to some kind of stupid, dull-minded rage. He would never run wild and indiscriminately hurt anyone. He decided that it had also been foolish to ever doubt Cecil. Not only would his maker never create mindless monsters, he did not have the time to do so even if he wanted. Cecil was aging, and while he had never relented in pushing Setsa to think in a productive manner, it was now Setsa who pushed Cecil when it came to work hours. Cecil grew tired after a few hours of work, and he hadn't pulled an all-nighter in years. It would have been impossible for Cecil to switch gears and focus on creating a bizarre race of monsters without Setsa's help, or perhaps Ouroboros’s. The few friends that Cecil had outside of their circle were computer and information specialists, not biologists; Cecil tended to think that other genetic engineers were either hopelessly naive virologists who reverse-engineered viruses created by rogue government agencies, or amoral tools who worked for anyone who could sign a check.

  Cecil didn't create these things, Setsa thought as he stumbled out of the lab into the cold, dark night. The only other logical possibility was that a corporation or a government agency was staging a coup and wiping out opponents, and they were using genetically engineered monsters to do it. No direct attempt had been made on Setsa's life, therefore he must be considered useful by the enemy. When communications came back online, they would most likely try to contact Setsa, pretending to help him in order to control him. Ouroboros had taught him enough about psychopathic power-mongers to know that these monsters most likely had short lifespans, and that whichever group of politicians or corporate controllers pretended to create a targeted virus in order to kill the monsters were themselves the ones who had created them in order to take power. Setsa and everyone else would end up thanking the ones who had attacked them in the first place. Then a chilling thought gripped him as he remembered the words of Ouroboros.

  All they can do is kill everyone close to you… it's the only option they have available.

  “Kill everyone close to me!” he muttered, nearly falling to his knees. Adamant raced up to him, concern written on his face. Setsa could not shake the image of Ouroboros dead, torn to pieces, and imagined poor Adamant also murdered. Would Setsa end up shaking the hands of the men who would murder Adamant and Cecil? Would he thank them for protecting him, for isolating him, for enslaving him and killing his family?

  Setsa put his hands on either side of Adamant's head. Setsa did not have Adamant's strength or the cunning of Ouroboros; what could he possibly do to protect his friend, his only friend? If he could save Adamant by killing himself, he would do so. But the only thing he could think of that could save his friend would be much more difficult.

  Setsa pulled away from Adamant and rose. “Adamant,” he said. “Go away. Leave. I know you can understand me. Stay away from me. Go that way. Go that way.”

  Setsa turned away, horrified by his own words. He walked quickly toward downtown, then heard Adamant padding softly behind him.

  “I said go away! Leave! I know you understand me!”

  He could not bear to look at the lion's face, so he stared down at his feet as he shouted, then turned and continued walking. He heard something like a short bark behind him. Forcing his heart down into a well of darkness he picked up a stone and threw it. It bounded off the lion's head, making him wince and push his head down between his shoulders.

  “Go away! You stupid animal, go away! Stay away from me!”

  Setsa picked up stones, threw them, then took his lead pipe and chucked it at the yipping lion until it finally bounded away, howling in confusion. It may have understood his words but it could not understand why the place once full of people who waved at him and smiled was now a place of horrors, why his giant dragon friend was now dead and picked over by monsters, and why his best friend who held so much space in his heart had turned on him. He ran and ran. He could have bravely faced any monster if his friend had been by his side, but he could face nothing, not even the smal
lest mouse, if he could not trust the love of his friend.

  ***

  As in a dream he stumbled through the burning city. He saw people attacked by monsters and roving gangs of super-soldiers and he felt only envy for the dead and dying.

  “I like that jacket! Hey, sir! Excuse me, sir, I want your jacket!”

  “That's a faggot's jacket!”

  “No it's not!”

  Setsa had been fooling with his data link, trying to contact anyone, and found himself face to face with two super-soldiers. They were armed with heavy rifles and black fatigues, though one of them was naked from the waist up save for a bandage wrapped around his chest. They approached him, smiling and waving, but he could see that they had murder in their eyes.

  “I'll take that jacket, if you don't mind, sir, if it's all the same to you, as they say. Oh and any hard money you've got on you as well.”

  Setsa stared, unable to grasp how far the world would go into utter absurdity.

  “Let's keep things civil,” said the other super-soldier. “Just strip down, friend, and find yourself somethin' else to wear. That jacket's dirty anyways. No one has to get hurt-”

  Setsa pushed the man down with enough force that his head cracked open on the pavement. The shirtless goon grasped the knowledge that his friend was dead surprisingly fast, and raised his rifle to fire at Setsa. Setsa jerked the end of the rifle forward and slammed the edge of his palm into the super-soldier's throat hard enough to crush cords and fracture bone. The goon fell to his knees, silent, hands outstretched on the ground as if bowing to the inevitable.

  Rage filled Setsa, rage at the stupid fate of the world, rage that their protectors and leaders were equal parts conniving and incompetent. He heard an unearthly wail in the center of the city, a horrid shriek that sounded as if the Earth itself was splitting in agony. The sound broke off into many notes, like a demented chorus of gods singing as all creation fell into a bottomless black pit. Only a few moments before he would have run, but killing the super-soldier louts had shown him that he was not entirely a victim. He slung one rifle over his back and held the other in his hands, not sure how it worked but willing to smash the butt of it into something's face at the very least. He moved to leave but something held his pants leg. Turning, he saw the shirtless super-soldier, staring at his with pleading eyes, unable to breathe and unsure what to do with himself.

  “You need help?” said Setsa, stooping to his eye level.

  The super-soldier worked his mouth, tongue hanging loose.

  “I understand,” said Setsa. “I also needed help.”

  He bent and removed a heavy serrated knife from the super-soldier's boot, then held his jaw with one hand and jammed the blade into the side of his mouth, sawing until tongue fell free and lips jerked about in all directions. He dropped the bloody remains of the mutilated man and turned in the direction of the horrible sound.

  Through black smoke as he ran, keeping his eyes focused on a haze of red while pushing against a flood of people desperate to be away from the burning heart of the city. He came upon rampaging monsters and fired, in awe at how easy it was to kill the beasts with the high-powered rifle. The monsters seemed to understand, all at once, that he should be left alone.

  He heard high-pitched laughter. Even over the roar of flames, the shriek of automated aerial fighters and bombers, the blasting cannons of automated tanks, he heard insane laughter. He dropped one rifle and covered his mouth with his torn jacket, unable to breathe through the smoke. Static electricity stood his hair on end. The street shook, then he turned a corner and saw, atop the elaborate, carved roof of the capital building, the girl with the red hair. He could not comprehend why she should be there, much less why she should be laughing as she walked along the ledge. It made no sense. He was distracted as automated tanks and bipedal gun platforms moved around him, firing at monsters, one overturned by some giant horned thing that moved like a blur despite its size.

  She was in unbelievable danger, nearly engulfed in flames. He called out her name again and again, but she ignored him, laughing, her eyes closed but somehow able to dance along the edge of the rooftop. Then the streets quaked once again. He could not see through the smoke, but could make out something like hideous black tentacles waving on all sides, large enough to crush the city's automated defenses among falling bricks and rubble, delicate enough to close around the girl with the red hair, still laughing, still somehow reveling in horror.

  Setsa slipped as the street fell inward before him. His throat clasped shut on him; he could cry out no more, nor even breathe. He turned and ran. The heart of hell before him made no sense, a warped nightmare that bent the mind and threatened insanity from its contemplation. He ran and lost himself in the dying city.

  ***

  Setsa sat alone atop a flat stone in the desert. A jeep came down the cracked, sand-covered highway, then stopped before him. Cecil adjusted his rifle against his seat, took one last look at their surroundings, then stepped onto the sand.

  “I think they nuked the city,” said Setsa. “Do you think they-”

  “I'm sure they did, but we don't really have time to talk about that. There's still plenty of those monsters around. They're attacking other nations and no one is offering asylum. Here, take this. This is the control for the remote viewing network,” said Cecil, handing him a surprisingly heavy computer. “I've already sent the upgraded genetic parasite to both our destinations. You've been to your seed cave, then? You've seen that it's functional?”

  Setsa nodded slightly, eyes roving over Cecil’s face.

  “We have to split up,” said Cecil. “Some of those monsters were behind me. If we both die, it would be a shame.”

  “What is this?” said Setsa, his voice distant. “This computer. And the… parasite…?”

  “Damn it, Setsa, can't you piece it together? We don't have a lot of time.” Cecil exhaled and glared at him. Setsa held his gaze but, like he a child, he only wanted to cry. “Alright, Setsa. The remote viewing network. Turns out it was real. I was able to get in touch with some tech friends and we took over the network. It was easy to do, most of the people managing it have fled or were killed. You'll be able to view any location in the world as long as the satellite system holds up. And the seed caves were developed by artificial intelligence programmers and nano-engineers. They're bunkers, basically. They might not look like much now, but they're living environments. They'll grow, given time, if their design is true. We'll see. Unfortunately, I don't think word of their readiness was spread effectively. I know some soldiers have been keeping people from entering, but they haven’t gone in themselves, either. Ah, stupid, stupid. And the genetic parasite, well… I finished it.”

  “You finished it?”

  Cecil nodded. “Using your notes and ideas, really. It was just brute force effort. I wished you could have been there, but, at least it's done.”

  Setsa was amazed. He'd assumed the project was over as soon as his life had become entwined with the girl with the red hair.

  “Hang onto that thing, Setsa. It's the holy grail. Humanity's done for now. But if you ever see humanity coming back, use it on a promising couple. Turn their child into… well. Do you have any water?”

  Cecil grabbed Setsa's backpack and opened it up. He froze for a moment, then silently removed the heavy glass containers of high-grade alcohol and, one by one, broke them on the bed of gravel at their feet. Setsa said nothing. Cecil removed a bag of purple-threaded angel crystals, tore it open, and scattered it in the wind. He found a white powder kit, put the syringes in his own bag, and tossed the powder aside.

  “Old habits, I suppose,” said Cecil. “Two gallons of water? I could have used more than this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I'll take the jeep,” said Cecil, turning to go. “Your legs are better than mine.”

  Cecil turned the jeep about and drove away. Setsa watched the swirling dust of his friend’s final path, then he slid off the stone seat and walk
ed the other way. It was the last time they saw one another.

  ***

  The ragged, weary superbeing kicked over the sign that marked the entrance to the bunker, then descended into the dark entrance. He keyed in the locking code, then the door sealed shut above him. He knew that the dust storm would cover the entrance, hiding him perfectly in his dark tomb.

  He turned on the dim lights and sat in silence, looking at his crates of food, his water recycling system designed to keep dozens of people alive for months as they waited out some national emergency. He hooked up the portable computer, with its remote viewing operating system, to the bunker's computer system, and on his large array of monitors he watched the world. No doubt it had taken many people to devise the system and thousands of people to put it into orbit. Now, he was the only living being monitoring the network.

  He watched as the monsters, which later came to be called flesh demons, attacked one city after another, then crossed borders into other nations. More than once they stopped, disappeared underground while frantic news of them spread, then they returned and attacked in greater numbers. Setsa spent days before the computer monitors watching, omniscient yet impotent, as the flesh demons overran anyone who opposed them. They ignored frontal assaults against fortified military positions in favor of civilian centers, allowing military lines to fall apart when supplies stopped coming. Some communities had the idea to sacrifice prisoners and political dissidents by binding them and leaving them outside their communities. The demons fed, and even took male prisoners, but allowed the communities to survive unscathed. Word of this tactic spread and it was widely emulated.

  Intellectuals were blamed. The people were already angry that so many scientists and engineers worked for defense contractors creating new weapons, viruses, drugs, gene-freaks, and torture devices for the rulers to use in their endless wars. Reasoning that the demons had to be a product of that industry, the educated soon joined criminals in the sacrificial rites. Superstition and a sense of obedience replaced reason, creativity, learning. It happened surprisingly quickly.