Dead Religion

by David Beers

  Maux went inside Itself. Proceeded to Its core, to Its own soul—if it had one. Fear—real, honest fear—came over Maux for the first time. A feeling It had never known or even imagined, something strange and alien. Maux looked on in dawning horror as Its purpose, the only reason for Its existence, was thwarted by a mortal. It could not overlay itself onto the human; with each renewed try, Alex shrugged It off—refusing to be brought in, refusing to feed Maux, to allow the last piece to fall into place so that It could complete Its transformation. Maux had allowed the rewriting to happen in a secondary fashion, much like breathing—just automatic. It went in now, actively trying to force the connection, trying to force him to join. All of Maux’s power focused on this one act, centering millions of years of life, knowledge, and growth on one human and his connection. Maux felt pressure building as the human continued dying and fighting. Maux felt his chance fading.

  The God bore in, unrelenting and unforgiving, singularly focused on completing the sacrifice.

  Jaimie Reyes held two pounds of cocaine in his book bag. The total was around one hundred and twenty thousand dollars; running away with the loot never entered Jaimie’s mind, because that was a death sentence. Maybe one day he would be in charge of that kind of wealth, but now he was a messenger boy. Jaimie ran errands, but isn’t that where everyone started? They did, so Jaimie ran errands with hopes of one day having errands ran to him.

  Cops practically lived on Mexico City’s streets; cops that didn’t operate like the cops Jaimie heard about in America. Cops that would stop and search you for no other reason than they felt like it. So Jaimie dressed like an American of Spanish descent, like an American with money. A college student, maybe. He wore khaki shorts, a Ralph Lauren shirt, sunglasses, and sandals. He was just a tourist walking the city, heading back to his hotel. That was the story he tried to portray to anyone who might be watching. He even deferred to traffic while natives walked the streets allowing cars to only honk in anger.

  The thing that mattered was getting this bag inside The Hotel Indigo. If it didn’t, Jaimie wouldn’t live too long.

  He had awoken to his cell phone ringing, before the sun had come over the horizon even. Jaimie always slept with his phone on; errands waited for no man. If he didn’t take it, someone else would, and if he missed enough, he wouldn’t even be called anymore. So Jaimie heard the call, breaking through his slumber so fiercely it was almost scary.

  “Hello?”

  “7:30. Bag pick up. The store across the street.”

  The phone went dead; no one on the other side waiting for an answer. He would pick up in two hours or he was out of the game. Maybe out forever. Jaimie set an alarm on his phone for thirty minutes before the pick up; he’d get the rest of his instructions when he showed up at the store.

  Now, eight hours later, he stood across from The Hotel Indigo. He was constantly searching for police or anyone else that might interrupt his passage, but behind the sunglasses and his cavalier attitude, few could tell. In just a few minutes, he would be inside the hotel and dropping the bag off with some muscular thug, then sent back on his way. The thousand pesos he made for the job were virtually nothing compared to the price of the bag—but then again Jaimie was concerned about future profits, not current ones.

  Jaimie felt the collapse before he saw it. His mind released the façade he was projecting and quit the constant worry about the blow in his bag—he only cared about the rumbling under his feet. An earthquake, no doubt, as his legs began to vibrate. Jaimie’s hands shot out to his sides as he tried to keep his balance on the shaking earth. He looked down at his feet, hoping—actually praying—that this was just a momentary shake. When the street cracked, simply lifted up under his feet while the road in front of him remained in place, he realized the prayer meant nothing.

  The shaking rose in intensity, and as Jaimie looked up (understanding coming to him that he might actually die here) he saw the epicenter. The rumble grew out from the bottom of the hotel, from under the hotel. The tower shook, just like Jamie did, but dust showered off of it—the bricks beginning to crush under the movement. Waves, actual fucking waves, were stemming from the hotel, like someone had tossed a rock in a pond. Except these crumbled streets and moved cars as they rolled out from the hotel.

  The cocaine in his bag would never enter Jaimie’s thoughts again.

  People fell; the concrete currents ending them.

  The wave reached Jaimie. He tried to time it, to jump it, but ended up on his hands and knees, bleeding from both. He looked up from all fours, his eyes finding the hotel. Wave after wave flowed out of the tower and Jaimie understood he would die on this street. The hotel wasn’t shaking anymore; it swayed, moving six inches to a foot in all directions. The metal supports began cracking at the bottom, snapping—spraying dust and fragments outward. The swaying went on, but the building was shrinking, falling downward.

  The waves came for him, almost at timed intervals. He thrashed and turned, trying to avoid them and somehow trying to watch the beautiful destruction in front of him.

  Until a large cascade of rocks, dust, and shards decided he no longer needed to see.

  32

  Present Day

  James & Brandon

  James Allison lifted the cab’s trunk.

  “Fucking Christ,” he said, looking in. “Fucking Goddamnit.”

  Only one bag was in the trunk. The other…James sighed. Where was it? Had he left it at his hotel? At that woman’s apartment? God, not that. If it were there, whenever the cops got to cleaning that place up—they would find his gun in the bag. He would be linked to the scene.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He searched his pocket for the cell phone Samuel Taylor had given him. He had to call someone. They had to get that bag, grab it before the cops could. If not, either a lot of lies would need to be generated or James’s career was over—at the least.

  James took the bag and shut the trunk. He only wanted sleep, but this couldn’t be put off; the consequences were beyond grave and time short. James paid the cab driver and then immediately pulled his phone out.

  He turned to the house, not noticing all the lights were off.

  He didn’t see the blinds upstairs being pulled down slightly either.

  The phone Taylor had given him always connected to someone; he had to hope it still would.

  He reached the door to his house and finally looked up, slowly pulling the phone from his face—hanging it up on the way down.

  The door stood open, with fragments of the frame lying scattered across his foyer.

  Fuck this heat, Hector Ruiz thought. Even at six in the evening, this shit was ridiculous. The air conditioner in the police cruiser ran on high, but couldn’t keep Hector from sweating. He didn’t hold any delusions about what he and his partner were walking into either; the call about these apartments had come in nearly a week ago and this cruiser was the first making it out here. The description in the call made it sound like a body lay in these apartments, and that meant it had sat in this heat for at least a week. If rodents hadn’t devoured the body, he and Miguel would be looking at whatever was left.

  Hector opened the passenger door, stepping out and pulling the small rag from his back pocket. He wiped his face.

  “These people are goddamn animals,” Miguel said as he shut the driver’s door.

  Hector said nothing, hating his silent agreement. Drugs were ravaging his country, turning a strong people into little more than dogs. He was one man in this fight and he understood the minimal role he played. Still, walking the steps to the body upstairs was part of that role—his place in turning his people back to the nation they had once been.

  “Let’s go,” Hector answered, placing the rag back in his pocket.

  The smell hit them before they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  James placed his bag down next to him slowly, quietly. His thoughts went to Brandon, who would have surely been inside—Brandon knew James was coming home tonig
ht. He wouldn’t be at a friend’s or hanging out somewhere late. Not tonight.

  That thought kept him from calling the police. James had to get to his brother and any time spent not doing that was unacceptable. He took a step inside—the floor creaking under his weight.

  “Don’t come in here!” Brandon called from upstairs.

  James felt terror and hope at the voice. His heart rate rose as his mind understood who spoke.

  “Brandon? What’s going on?”

  “Stay down there. Don’t come up.”

  James walked forward, stepping on the small pieces of wood that had been his door frame.

  “Why?” James asked without a thought of staying in the foyer.

  Hector wiped the remaining vomit from his mouth with the rag. Miguel was doing the same, both of them looking in at the apartment but unable to walk through the door just yet.

  “We need fucking masks for this,” Miguel said.

  “You’re right. Go on in and I’ll get the masks.”

  “Yeah. Go fuck yourself.”

  They both looked on for a few more seconds as their bodies tried to normalize the smell of death.

  “You think we even need to go in there? I mean what are we going to do? We need a clean-up crew and that’s it. No one is hanging out inside,” Miguel said.

  Hector turned around and walked to the railing on the balcony. Miguel was right; they had no real reason to go inside. The only thing inside that apartment was a body, or multiple bodies—but nothing alive. Hell, no one probably lived in the entire complex with this smell permeating everything. That didn’t matter though; when they called it in, they needed to know the facts. Not only a dead body, because when more than one turned up, how did they explain it? The truth would be they let paramedics inside without having made sure the place was safe.

  “Yes, we have to go in.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Grab your rag.”

  Hector put his to his mouth, hoping to God the smell of his vomit would mask the smell of the apartment.

  “Please, James. Please stop.”

  James heard his brother and paused midway up the stairs.

  “Why?” he called back.

  “You have to leave,” Brandon said, obviously in tears.

  “What’s happening?”

  It doesn’t matter. His own thought, but did he summon it? It felt like it wasn’t his creation, as if dropped into his synapses from somewhere outside of his skull.

  “I can’t tell you. You just have to leave—you can’t be here.”

  I should go up.

  “I’m coming up, Brandon.”

  “NO!” The scream rang down the stairs.

  I’m going.

  He resumed walking, his steps a bit slower this time—he didn’t want to frighten Brandon anymore. James reached the final stair and…

  Was that Mark Dawkins?

  “Mark?” he asked, his eyebrows arching.

  “Please, please, please,” Brandon cried, his voice a whimper now. He sat on the floor beyond Mark.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  I should go check.

  James moved, intent on getting Mark out of his brother’s room.

  Until he saw the dried blood on Mark’s chest, then he stopped.

  “It might be too late, but you have to try and leave. You have to.” Brandon stared at his brother with red and puffy eyes.

  “What happened?” James asked, unable to look away from the blood—not even Mark, just the blood on him.

  See why Brandon’s crying.

  James no longer noticed the uncalled on nature of the thoughts; his senses were overloaded with what lay ahead. He walked in, stepping over Mark, his eyes fixed on his weeping brother.

  Hector ran from the apartment still holding his rag over his nose and mouth. Miguel ran ahead, both holding guns in their right hands out of habit rather than any need. They had to get away from that smell.

  Both leaned over the balcony, not removing their rags because the smell didn’t dissipate in the open air. It hung almost as heavy here as it did over the dead body.

  “You gotta make the call,” Miguel said and then vomited over the railing. The milky substance landed with a plop on the broken asphalt below. He breathed in for a second before he lurched out more stomach acid and half-digested food.

  Hector nodded. He’d make the call, then sit in the fucking car with the air conditioner running and not come back up until he absolutely had to. That was just fine by him. He turned, planning to leave Miguel puking from the balcony, but he saw the suitcase leaning against the wall.

  “What’s this?” he asked from behind his rag.

  He squatted down, left hand covering his mouth, and lifted the bag. It wasn’t light. He waddled a few feet closer, still squatting, so that his knees touched the front of the case.

  Miguel didn’t look over as Hector began unzipping it.

  James took in the shadowed room. His dead neighbor lay to his right, Brandon in front—still lying on the floor, and another boy on the bed. The boy might be dead too; he wasn’t moving. In the darkness, James couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

  “No, no, no…” Brandon whispered over and over.

  “What’s happened, Brandon?”

  It doesn’t “matter what happened.” The thought began in his head like all the rest had. Right inside his skull but finished in the open air. Except James didn’t speak—something on the bed had.

  James could see it squatting, hands on its knees.

  “It doesn’t matter, James. It’s happened and it’s time to finish this little happening.”

  “No, no, no…” More whimpers from Brandon’s mouth as tears leaked from his eyes.

  James tilted his head as he tried to figure out what spoke to him from the bed. The dark shaded much of it, but it looked like…like knives hung where its teeth should have—like some kind of mutant barracuda teeth.

  “What the fuck?” James went forward, heading to the bed, to grab whatever sat there and—

  He knelt on top of Brandon. His younger brother no longer lay curled on his side, but flat with his arms penned beneath James’s knees. Brandon’s eyes were wide and watery, but he was silent now.

  How had he ended up over Brandon? Why the fuck was he pinning him to the ground?

  James heard no movement, but felt the thing with those fucked up teeth right behind his back. Felt It put Its head on James shoulder so that they were cheek to cheek, both of them looking down at Brandon.

  “Tell me you remember, James,” It said.

  Hector saw only plastic. He kept unzipping and more plastic lining flowered from the suitcase.

  He opened the bag and a human head rolled out, hitting his right foot.

  Hector fell back on his ass just as the arms and legs followed the head out of the suitcase. Blood covered everything: the bag lining the case, flowing out onto the concrete balcony, on Hector’s fucking foot now.

  The eyes on the head were open, staring at Hector’s chest. He knew the woman inside had paid dearly for her sins; the face Hector looked at was flayed too.

  “You remember, don’t you? Remember cutting that woman’s throat, hearing her scream until you cut through her wind pipe and the air rushed from her neck instead of her lips. You remember cutting off her head, her heart still pumping and spewing blood all over you. You remember using the axe on her arms and legs, don’t you?”

  James did. Everything. Every second of what he had done. Flaying her skin while she lay tied, peeling it until it ripped from the underlying flesh. He remembered her begging, pleading, and finally only crying. He remembered shoving his clothes, the body parts, everything inside his bag. James remembered.

  “Why?” he asked, no longer seeing Brandon below him—his consciousness swam only in his mind now, trying to keep his head above the memories.

  “It’s not important, James. Finishing this is.”

  “Please,” Brandon called from somewhere di
stant. He looked up at James with eyes full of love and fear, admiration and terror, brother and victim.

  “Why?” James asked again, weaker this time.

  “Shhh…it doesn’t matter,” the teeth clicked next to his ear.

  Then James saw that it didn’t. His hands went to his brother’s neck, and he squeezed. Spit bubbled from Brandon’s mouth and wet gargles sounded in his throat, but James understood those things didn’t matter either, so he squeezed harder. Brandon’s thin chest pushed up from the floor and his arms squirmed underneath James’s legs, but not for long. The love and terror in his eyes extinguished after a few minutes and still James held on to make sure they wouldn’t return.

  He stood up then. The face with those teeth gone, no longer needed.

  James went to the kid on the bed and performed the same necessity on him; the boy gave no struggle.

  When James found the knife lying next to Mark, his mind was almost blank. Nothing existed but a single want and that felt right. James knew all the acts he had committed in this room were the truest, best things he had ever done. As he took the knife across his own body, James was truly happy.

  Epilogue

  Hector Ruiz sat up in his bed. Darkness drenched the room; the clock on his wife’s side of the bed read three in the morning. Hector didn’t look at the clock though, or his wife. He got out of bed, his movements showing no concern for whether or not he woke her.

  He stood, staring at the floor, for quite some time. The clock ticked past four, nearing five, and Hector finally walked from the room. He went to the small office down the hall and sat at the computer.

  While it booted, Hector sat with his hands on his lap staring at the blank screen.

  A few moments later he logged in and loaded up his email. He found his contacts, added them all to one message—over four thousand—and typed one word into the body.