by Rockow, B.
“They’re not going to help you,” Boul said. He approached Luciana, picked her up, and brought her to his bed. He found some rope in a closet and hogtied her, making sure to wrap the rope around her mouth several times, preventing her from letting out anymore screams.
“Our greatest opponent was the dear wife of Kublai Khan,” Boul continued. “Her name was Chabi, the emperor’s favorite wife. It’s amusing in retrospect, because at first we got along great with Chabi. We helped her bring Marco Polo in from Venice.” Boul paused and realized the irony of that. Luciana wasn’t aware of this finer, secretive point of her own nation’s history.
“I speak the truth,” he continued. “The Orobu ferried and shuttled Marco Polo across Eurasia, on the behest of Chabi herself. Well, that was all fine and swell, but Chabi still turned on us. She developed a compassion for the native Chinese, which the Mongolians normally didn’t possess. She convinced Kublai Khan that the policy of turning Chinese farmland into pastures for Mongolian livestock was wrongheaded. This was, of course, tough on the Orobu. It cut off our supply of human meat. Our stockpiles dwindled. So what did we do? We killed her.”
Boul stood above Luciana on the huge king size bed. He disrobed and held his member up to her gagged mouth. “We killed her in the most cruel way imaginable,” Boul said. “It’s exactly how I’m going to take care of you.” Boul flashed a smile. His jagged yellow teeth glistened. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell you how I’m going to do it. You’ll just have to experience it for yourself.”
The screams of pain and torture that came from Boul’s room that night were unique and unprecedented. Boul remembered Chabi screaming bloody murder the same exact way. But that was eight hundred years ago. Luciana’s hellish howling only served to inspire Boul’s cruelty. Her every orifice was destroyed. Her body laid limp on the bed, like a heap of discarded rags. After finished up his deed with the Italian, Boul fetched another female captive.
His appetite was insatiable. It grew after every ravishing. Each fresh body was fuel to the fires of his torturous debauch. After destroying the fresh body of each model, his vigor grew. Finally, he finished with the last captive.
Boul collapsed onto his bed. He was soaked in sweat. His muscles pulsed with adrenaline. The defiled corpses of each model surrounded him like wilted rose petals.
The twins slept well into the next day.
Their dreams brimmed with wondrous visions.
They were both visited by a great winged serpent. It was twice the size of the ocean’s largest whale. The beast’s scales were silky and black. Its breath was sulphurous and blazing hot. It cruised above mountains, and soared through the clouds.
With its fiery breath, the magnificent dragon destroyed every city on earth.
And then, in a final display of its power, the beast shot straight up.
Up and up it went, until the dragon disappeared into the vast blackness of space.
All that was left, was a star.
Chapter Seven
Darts and Bullseyes
Jones viciously smoked cigarette after cigarette. He hadn’t slept for over thirty hours, and he had no intention to at this point. He replayed the home invasion in his mind over and over again. He was obsessed. He was a fiend. In his mind’s eyes, Jones studied the outline of the giant’s every shadow. Every one of its moves, every sound it made, was branded into his brain.
And so were the last images of Emma Jo, slung over the giant’s left shoulder, reaching out to her papa with tears.
Jones couldn’t take it. This was torture. He went through two packs of Marlboro Reds in less than two hours. He left his apartment only to pick up a carton of smokes and a couple corn dogs. He figured that would hold him over.
Every once and awhile, Jones inspected the dead giants at the foot of the stairs. Rigor mortis had set in. But strangely, there was no odor. Those nasty white worms infested both bodies. They crawled out from the giants’ ears and noses,, and were making good progress as disappearing the flesh. Jones scooped a few of the worms into an empty cigarette pack.
Jones ran the facts through his head. He started from the beginning. Here were his notes:
He first encountered these giants in Afghanistan. His team killed two of them. The giants were military, and had a base of operations in a sophisticated tunnel beneath that boulder. They were in possession of hundreds of skeletons belonging to US service members. The giants were intelligent enough to track Jones down, and launch an attack on his family and home. Before the attack, an unknown agent indicated that this was part of a game. Fifteen minutes later, he lost his Emma Jo. Vanessa was gone, too. And Junior.
Jones sat at the kitchen counter and stared blankly at the bouquet of roses he got for Vanessa. They were starting to wilt. Their deep red petals were fading, their vibrant color disappearing along with the emptiness of the home. A petal fluttered off a rose and landed next to his hand.
A normal man would throw up his arms and give up. One must know one’s enemy to achieve victory, and Jones knew that these monsters were in another league. Jones vowed not to falter. He couldn’t. Not now. His back ached horribly, his heart was crushed, but he had to fight. He had to find his family. Jones picked up the glass vase and smashed it against the wall. The dying roses went flying in every direction. Shards of glass sprinkled on the floor.
How could they do this to Emma Jo? She was absolutely innocent and vulnerable. And Vanessa? She had been unfaithful. But that didn’t matter. Not now. She was pregnant with Junior. Was he still alive? He had to be. He had to be safe in Vanessa’s womb. But there was a possibility that they gutted her. The thought made him violently ill.
Jones killed another cigarette. And another. He was going through the cancer sticks by the minute. Jones paced the room racking his brain for something, anything that could lead him in the right direction. The vein running across his left temple bulged. Stress and nicotine soaked into his bones. Jones thrived on this level of intensity. It was the closest thing to the tactical challenge of the battlefield without actually being there.
Jones scrounged around in his jacket’s pockets and pulled out the cigarette pack that he put the worms in. He opened the pack and dumped the worms on the coffee table. Their fat, milk white bodies writhed around on the glass. Jones picked up a bowie knife and stabbed one of the worms right in its guts. Jones knew that it wouldn’t do any good, but he also knew that these worms were intimately connected to the giants. He had to find out how.
Jones raised the knife, with the worm impaled on its end, up to his face for closer inspection. The worm had four sets of black dots circling its gaping mouth. It seemed be looking right at him. The worm flicked its rear end and opened its mouth wide. A slimey pink proboscis slid out from its mouth and probed the air, searching for something to latch onto. The worm was ready to feed.
The worm dislodged itself from the end of the knife. Jones saw it fall, but he didn’t see where it landed. He jumped up and brushed off the front of his shirt and pants. He took off his boots and shook them out. Jones bent down on his hands and knees and looked around everywhere for the worm, but couldn’t find it.
Meanwhile, the other worms on the coffee table had nearly made their own escape by slithering to the table’s edge. Jones made quick work of them, smashing them all with the flat of the blade, making damn sure that none of them survived.
Jones was worried about the worm that escaped. His worry turned into paranoia. It felt like the worm was crawling up his leg, then his abdomen, then his neck. But everytime Jones felt the creep of the worm on his skin, he checked and found that it was only a phantom.
It wasn’t until a half minute later that he felt a pressure in his left ear. Jones panicked and dug the tip of his pinkie into the ear canal. He wasn’t sure how it got there. The worm was quicker than Jones. It burrowed deep into the dark cavern leading to his brain before Jones could catch it.
Jones ran to the bathroom to look at his ear in the mirror. He couldn’t see anyt
hing. Whatever that worm was, was now inside him.
Jones took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had to center his focus back on the task at hand. He’d worry about the worm later. For now he had to find his family.
An image on the TV caught his eye. The Channel 6 News was on. The headline was “Terrorist Incident Outside of Pittsburg, Kansas.” That’s where Big Boy was from. Jones paused, and took a seat. The blond newscaster looked prim and proper. Her hair and makeup were stylish and fresh. She had to perfect the image before delivering the message, Jones thought. How quaint, considering she looked like a sack of rubber. Jones was itching to hear what she had to say.
“Thank you for tuning into Channel 6’s noon broadcast,” she said. “My name is Stacy Klempe, and here are our top stories. There are reports out of Kansas that there’s been a mass abduction of children headed to a church camp. Three adults, the church camp’s leaders, were also found dead at the scene. Authorities say one adult is still unaccounted for. Search teams are scouring the state for any trace of the victim.”
“God damn it,” Jones said. He slammed the TV remote into a pile of grey cigarette butts. They flew off the table in every direction, landing on the carpet. At this point he didn’t care what served as an ashtray. A hunch crept up in the Sarge’s mind; he wanted to hear more. “Tell me more,” Jones said to the TV. “What news do you glorified rubber dildos have for me.”
Stacy Klempe read the teleprompter with concerted precision and concern. “The family that discovered the bodies spoke at a news conference of regional and national media outlets today. In their own words, even the most psychopathic among us wouldn’t have been able to stomach the scene. For more on the events unfolding in Kansas, we take you to our news correspondent John Abrahamson, who is reporting from Pittsburg, Kansas.”
Jones picked up the TV remote and pounded the power button a couple times before the TV turned off. He paced the apartment in an attempt to gather his thoughts. A mass abduction just outside of Pittsburg, Kansas. This wasn’t a coincidence. Big Boy was from that town. He always wanted to bring Jones out that way and show him the family farm. Were the giants bringing revenge onto his fireteam?
Jones didn’t have much time to rationalize his realization. In fact there wasn’t much time for navel gazing at all. He had to move, and quick. Jones picked up his cell phone and dialed Roddy. The call went to voicemail.
“I need you to call me back ASAP,” Jones said. “And that’s a direct order.”
Jones glided through his contacts and realized that he didn’t have Wimpy’s number. That wasn’t as big of a deal to Jones at the moment, however. Roddy had a family. Wimpy was a one man wolf pack. Jones would try getting in touch with Roddy again, but first he needed sleep. He hadn’t paid a visit to the sandman in nearly a day and a half. Jones flung his shirt and pants off and plopped down on the couch. All he needed was shut eye and a pillow.
A blink or two later, and Jones was out cold. A deep sleep took hold of him. His body refreshed itself in the stillness. Its pains relaxed as it shut out everything that had happened, everything out in the world. Despite this much needed rest, Jones was a man of war. His very cellular composition was built on it. He thirsted for conflict.
Considering the madness that had suddenly injected itself into his life, the Sergeant’s dream that afternoon was oddly quiet. There were no adrenaline pumping chase scenes. There were no gunshots or jumping out of aircraft. There was no final showdown, mano a mano, with the giant freaks.
There was only a room. A dark room illuminated by a single incandescent light bulb hanging from above. In the center of the room, beneath the soft fiery glow, sat a large beast. His body was wrapped in a sack of skin that looked like it had been to the deepest of hells and back. It was calloused, scarred, leathery, and its color was an alabaster white. His eyes were a captivating shade of forest green.
The giant was old and on his last legs. He had lived a life that took him to the four corners of the globe and back again. The giant gave off the stench of impending death. The smell overwhelmed Jones. He knew this smell very well. It was a smell that always seemed to pay a visit just before a raid on an insurgent compound. It didn’t discriminate between innocents and terrorists. It was the smell of the beyond.
The giant was completely nude. With his left hand he flicked a lighter, and with his right hand he beckoned Jones to come closer, closer, closer. The Sergeant was sucked into the old giant’s calling. The creature was so perverse and disgusting, yet Jones couldn’t resist the invitation to draw nearer. The giant’s weathered tongue lolled out from his gray lips. He wanted to speak. He wanted to tell Jones the truth. Great stories swirled in the beast’s heart, waiting to burst open. If only somebody would listen. Somebody like Jones.
Closer, closer, closer. The beast snagged Jones with his mind and pulled him into the room step by step. Each step echoed like lonely thuds in a humid chamber. Closer, closer, closer. The giant flicked his lighter. The beast gazed forlorn upon Jones. His massive naked body filled the Sergeant’s vision. The beast was a fleshy mountain, a corpse with breath and nothing else. The lighter was his magic. Closer, closer, closer.
Jones realized that they weren’t alone. The floor became alive with the grubby little worms. They brought Jones closer to the beast. They moved beneath his feet, like little wheels along a conveyor belt. They delivered Jones to the giant, as if the beast was their master.
Jones felt helpless. At the same time, he felt compelled to bow to the beast’s feet. He cowered at the power and presence of this ancient giant, this living relic who seemed so alien, this specimen of a dominant species. The giant rested his hand atop the Sergeant’s head. Jones looked up expectantly. The beast parted his lips to speak. Jones was imbued with the feeling a faithful son has for his honored father. He was filled with a curious devotion to this monster’s strength, courage, vision, wisdom, and brutality. Jones didn’t know what this beast was, but he felt his power. He understood that this giant was his enemy. This was the force that he was up against. One’s greatest enemies deserve an equally great amount of respect.
The monster parted his mouth wider. His gray tongue flapped up and down. The giant’s throat shook as he tried to unleash his words so that Jones could hear them. But all that came forth was a bone crushing cry.
Worms flew out from the beast’s mouth. They covered Jones body, and started wiggling down his shirt and pants and shoes. They squirmed into his ears and around his tongue. They roared, just like they did in the tunnel back in Afghanistan.
Jones was powerless. He attempted to swat and brush the worms from his body, but they kept streaming out from the gaping mouth of the monster. Soon they covered the Sarge’s entire body. They inched their way into his every orifice. A splitting headache overtook the Sarge’s consciousness. He felt woozy, and couldn’t move. The giant let out one last blood curdling cry, and shut his mouth. The worms and the headache disappeared.
Jones woke up to the ring of his iPhone. He shot up from the couch to answer it. His head was groggy, with a twinge of that headache, and his body was drenched in sweat. The waking world was nothing but a kaleidoscope of confusion. It stood in jarring contrast to the preternatural weirdness of his dream. Jones shook his head and gave his face a good slap to bring him back to the present. He picked up the phone and saw a familiar name. He clicked the green answer button.
“God damn buddy,” Jones said. “You woke me up from a dream funkier than your wife’s undies drawer.”
Roddy chuckled. “Only you would know how funky they really are.”
“It’s damn good to hear your voice,” Jones said. He didn’t want to sound panicked. He tried to keep his cool. “Haven’t since we came home. What’s going on Roddy?”
“Just returning your call,” he said. “Life’s been good since I’ve been back. Just getting used to life on the base again.”
Jones smiled. He really was happy to hear Roddy’s voice. It assuaged part of his pain. “How�
��s your novel?”
“Let’s just say I’m taking it to the next level,” Roddy said. “The war taught me a lot. And it’s done wonders for my storytelling.”
“That’s the truth,” Jones said. “Did Lieutenant Hocks receive my good word?”
“He did, Sarge,” Roddy said. “Thanks again for that. I just don’t know about doing another tour as a grunt.”
“You’ve got potential,” Jones said. “You know I’ll stick my neck out for you any day of the year.” Sergeant Jones had sent word to his higher ups that Rodriguez was a fine choice for Officer Candidate School. The opportunity would give Roddy a chance to become a commissioned officer. Out of all the grunts Jones served with, Roddy was one of the few he would consider recommending. “Do you have an ETA on when you’re in?”
“Not yet,” Roddy said. “But Lieutenant Hocks will be in direct correspondence with me from here on out. Sarge, I owe you a million. This is going to be a great move for me and my family.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Jones said. “And it fills my quota, too. I had to recommend one of you. I figured that it might as well be you.”
The two men shared a good laugh. But Jones quickly went quiet. An uncomfortable silence hung between the two men.
“Everything alright, Sarge?” Roddy asked.
“Yeah, it’s all good, man.”
Roddy picked up on the Sarge’s uneasiness. Roddy was accustomed to the Sarge’s stability and even keel during the most trying circumstances. The incident with the giants back in Afghanistan was the first example that came to Roddy’s mind. But right now Jones was holding in a lot more than that. He wanted to keep it all in, keep it all to himself.
Jones didn’t say a word.
“Go ahead, Sarge,” Roddy said. “You’ve got my trust. Signed, sealed, delivered.”
Jones shook his head. He strained his throat in an attempt to tell Roddy the truth of what was going on. He didn’t want to. He wanted to swallow it all deep down and shit it out someplace in the woods. But he had to tell Roddy. “I’m going to put it simple for you, Roddy,” Sarge said. His speech was calm, but Roddy picked up on the fact that he was deeply unsettled. “Your family’s in danger. You need to get your stuff packed immediately.” Jones sat back down on the couch. He let his body sink into the cushions. “That’s an order.”