The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic

by Peter Meredith

  When they shook their heads, a groggy Jack Dreyden said: “They’re going to be in for a hell of a surprise if they hang around. Let me go talk to the pilot.”

  He was gone for what felt like a long minute as the crew stared at Cyn as if she was a witch who was considering turning them all into toads. Jack had come out of the magical darkness, stinking of evil. His sword was blackened as if from a fire, his armor was scraped up in a number of places with what looked like claw marks from some alien being, and he had that look in his eyes he got after spell casting.

  It was a look that made people turn quickly away.

  Cyn was being treated as guilty by association. Thankfully, the engines began to work themselves up to full power and Jack came back, pointing for them to get off the chopper. They both stepped out and hurried over the buried bodies of what was soon to be Jack’s army, while behind them the pilot didn’t waste a second and heaved the helicopter out of there, nearly clipping a cherry tree in his haste.

  And then the world was suddenly and eerily quiet. Far off they could hear the explosions and gunfire and even further away was the confused noise of traffic as a million people fled this part of France, but up close there was an air of unpleasant expectation around them.

  The feeling had them looking around; Jack with a hand on the hilt of his sword, Cyn with a little quiver as goosebumps flared across her skin under her armor. “Is it me or are we being watched?” Jack asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I think it’s both of us,” Cyn replied. They spun in a slow circle, staring out, hoping to see who or what was spying on them. Spying was very much the operative word. It felt as though someone was peeking out from behind a curtain at them. “At least it’s not the dead.”

  The eyes that were on them were not coming from below, which was something of a relief. Jack pointed at an elaborate crypt that was just about thirty yards away. It had been fashioned from the whitest marble and, with the carved figure of an angel that seemed to stand guard over it, it stood almost eight feet in height.

  “He’s over there,” he said, his sword coming all the way out. “I can feel him…yes, it’s a male.”

  Cyn had her gun up and she stood on tip-toes, craning her neck. “Is it Dr. Loret?”

  Jack, who was far more in tune with magic, shook his head. “No, it’s something else. Come on.” He jogged toward the crypt, but by the time they got there the feeling of being watched had vanished. They went round and round the crypt a few times, but there was nothing and no sign that anything or anyone had been there.

  “What the hell?” Jack asked in a whisper. “Was there an invisible person here? Is that what that was?”

  “I don’t know. I kind of doubt it. There was a ‘seeing’ vibe that didn’t feel simply like an invisible person. It was more like an invisible spotlight, you know what I mean.”

  Jack grunted out a “Yeah,” and then sheathed his sword. He went around the crypt one last time. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now and we’re wasting time. Those French guys can’t hold out forever.”

  There was a sidewalk nearby; it was properly smooth and wide enough for Jack to work with, and as he got down on his knees and swept away some dirt and sand with his bare hands, Cyn unzipped a pouch on her belt.

  Inside of it were three razor sharp jack-knives and ten short-handled paintbrushes bundled together with a rubber-band. She grabbed one of each and held them out to Jack, her hand shaking slightly. The blood-magic always got her excited in an ugly way and it was an effort every single time to ignore the feeling.

  Jack took the blade and cut himself on the left forearm—one quick slash and the red just poured out of him. Cyn turned to look at the serene and quite beautiful graveyard. It was one of the prettier ones that she had been to. The flowers by the tombstones were fresh, the trees hung delicate shade over everything and the grass was a soft green.

  She concentrated on that instead of Jack and the mumbled words: “Hrr vahl Evi ah hurrumm fd. Hrr ah huroon ksa hrer, mkr, hrr fd fdhra.” He started with what she had always considered to be “her” spell. He then went quickly to the spell that opened the portal into the Duat—the underworld. “Hrr vahl Evi ah hurrumm fd. Kul hrr hrer hrrfhk. Ahk kul, ahk fd, ahk thul ah fherd.”

  The casting took only minutes and then an ugly metallic tone erupted in their minds and their stomachs went sour with disgust—the first of the four sets of spells was complete. Jack took a swig of the pepto as they hurried away, heading to the easternmost edge of the cemetery. Once there, Jack cut himself a second time and began painting blood.

  He was normally stoic; however his face was now twisted. She knew that the spells not only hurt terribly to paint, they were also draining…and yet this time he seemed almost haggard by the time he was done.

  “It’s different for some reason,” he said from his knees. “It’s harder than it’s ever been before. Like there’s something trying to stop me.”

  Cyn had felt something strange about the casting as well, except with her the hunger was greater and the angry edge that came with it was sharper. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, wanting to get the spells over with and at the same time she wanted to experience the next spell so bad that she helped him to his feet and practically dragged him two miles south to the third point of the compass.

  “Two down and two to go,” she told him as she lowered him down to his knees and thrust the knife in his hands. “It’ll be okay.”

  The third cut went off without a hitch; he bled like a stuck pig, but the spell was a trial. He was oddly pale and he began to shake and the further he went around the circle of glyphs the more out of it he seemed, almost as though he were sleep walking through the spell.

  “Come on, Jack. The lower part of that glyph is supposed to be a triangle. Focus or you’ll force me to do it for you.”

  “No way. You can’t,” he said, his words slurring like a drunk’s. “Where would you get the blood? If you take mine…”

  He had been pulling away from her and so she grabbed him. “I’m not going to take anything. I’ll guide your hand is all. Here, I’ll wrap my hand around yours; it’ll be easy.” And it was easy, too easy. It was almost as if she were doing the spells. She drew out the symbols, whispering each word as she finished it. As she went around the twin circles, she could feel the power of them building.

  When it was done and the third tone rang, he could only stand with her help and it took them twenty minutes to cross to the westernmost part of the cemetery. She wanted to help with this one, too, but Jack rallied his strength. “I’ll do this one on my own. Turn away.”

  “Turn away? Why?”

  “Your face,” he said, pointing. “It’s not the same.” She touched her cheeks, wondering what he was talking about, and only then felt the lines and the tightness; she was grinning like a maniac. It was how Jack looked when he had been working his necromancy in New York—when he was murdering people.

  Even with the realization that something was wrong with her, it took an effort of will to turn away. She had always been drawn to the spells; they were her birthright as much as they had been Jack’s; however, now the pull was stronger than ever. It wasn’t even a demand within her to finish the spells, it felt like a command.

  “It’s her,” Jack said. “She wants you to kill me.” There was no need to elaborate beyond the pronouns of her and she. They both could sense that the Mother of Demons was exerting her will.

  “Yes,” Cyn agreed. “I’ll go. I’ll wait over there.” Saying it and doing it were two different things. She placed her hands on the sidewalk to push herself up, but suddenly her palms felt glued to the cement. “I’m stuck. Jack! I’m stuck! I can’t move my hands. She won’t let me.”

  Cyn was suddenly beyond scared; she was close to panicking. She was close to ripping her hands off the cement even if it meant leaving behind the flesh of her palms.

  Jack must have heard the fear in her voice. “It’ll be alright. I get the feeling tha
t the Mother won’t hurt you. She wants your soul. She wants you to commit your soul to her by using these spells.”

  “I won’t do it,” she told Jack in a whisper.

  He was ghost white and when he nodded, it was a bare motion, an inch up and an inch down. “Then close your eyes and don’t watch.”

  Like a child who was afraid of a scary movie, Cyn scrunched her lids down as hard as she could as Jack drew the last set of symbols. What should have taken a minute took nearly ten and during those minutes, he grunted and groaned and made swallowing noises as if he was dry swallowing the skin of a pineapple.

  He seemed to be in agony, and things only got worse when the blood-glyphs were drawn and drying on the sidewalk. He had to force the spell from his mouth one word at a time and then there came the tin ringing, in their heads and Jack slumped over. Cyn’s hands were suddenly free and she went to him.

  Jack made no attempt to get to his feet. He just lay there, looking up at the blue sky. “She wants to drain me to nothing so that you’ll be forced to finish the spell,” he told her.

  “I already said I won’t do it.” She felt that it was such an easy thing to say, but was it the truth? The temptation had never been greater.

  Again he read her. “I’ve been right where you are, feeling the need. It’ll take you over. It’ll change you.”

  “I said I wouldn’t do…”

  He stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

  Cyn smirked, knowing what he was looking for. “I won’t do it!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. It was a strange feeling screaming into what seemed like a dead world. Her and Jack were the only humans within miles and yet there were houses just over the fence, and there were cars in the streets and tricycles sitting in yards.

  The two of them were in a city, except there were just no people…unless she counted the ones in the dirt. Despite the fact that they were soulless and unanimated, the dead seemed to be looking up at her. There were empty eyes on her, watching and waiting with eager expectations. But she wasn’t going to give it to them. “You hear me you bitch? I’m not going to give any of myself to you.”

  “Now walk away,” Jack said. “I’ll be fine. But you need to walk away while you still can.”

  She didn’t leave him. She knelt back down next to him and kissed his lips; they were cool and stiff. He was in pain; she could feel it coming off of him in waves; it was strangely, horribly alluring.

  He must have felt it as well. “Don’t give in, Cyn. Remember this isn’t you. The Mother is trying to use you. Get going and don’t look back.”

  A hundred excuses to stay sprang to mind and she opened her mouth to recite them, but Jack shook his head and pointed. He was right. These were foreign feelings and alien urges; she knew it and yet it took all of her will just to take one step back.

  The moment she did, she felt ten times better. The step represented a victory. It meant her soul was still her own. I am still me, she thought to herself and to prove it she forced the smirk back where it belonged and asked Jack: “Can I at least whistle while I walk?” Not only did she whistle, she gave an extra sway to her hips as she left. In her tactical armor she was sure she looked ridiculous, and when Jack’s chuckle carried through the still air to her, she was sure of it.

  Each step away was easier than the last and smirk became genuine as she made it to the fence. She followed it around the perimeter and not once did she look back to where she had left the man she loved. It was one of the most difficult things she had ever done. Not only was the hunger for the spell heavy on her, so was her fear for Jack.

  The Mother wasn’t just weakening him, she was punishing him and Cyn honestly didn’t think he’d have the strength to finish the spells; however, he proved stronger than she could have guessed.

  She could sense in some deep crevice of her soul that new blood was in the air and that the final spell was being drawn. The air in the cemetery became suddenly sharp and putrid; the smell made her stop and clutch her stomach. “Okay. I’m not going to vomit. I’m not going to bloody vomit. I just have to keep walking.” Fifteen steps further on her strength left her and she knew that she had lost the fight against the growing nausea churning in her guts.

  Still, she was a lady. She hurried through a gate and went to the nearest car and, as if she were admiring it, she put her hand lightly on the fender, bent over as though inspecting the tires and heaved out a gout of stomach acid. It burned her throat coming up and the stench had her heaving even more.

  She tried to fight it; however Jack was getting closer and closer to finishing the spell and the need in her was terrible. There were two choices open to her: run back to him slit his throat and finish the spell as it was meant to be done, or puke up her stomach and cry.

  Her hands became claws that scritched over the surface of the car. To be so close to the blood magic was a trial. It ached her soul like a rotten tooth. Time dragged out and the pull became so unbearable that she found herself clinging to the car as if it were an anchor.

  “Come on, Jack. Finish it, please!” She had no idea what sort of ordeal he was going through and frankly couldn’t have cared less at that point. She was being tested, with her soul on the line. To give in meant becoming a necromancer; a true necromancer like her cousin, Robert. It meant the craving for blood would never leave her and yet it also meant power and strength.

  How Jack had managed to hold on in New York, she didn’t know. When he had been put to the test, he’d had every reason to give in, and he’d had every temptation right in front of him. She had told him to fight it, but now she knew how silly she had sounded. There was no fighting this. There was only blood and the ruin of souls and the destruction of all creation. There was only one God and she was the Mother of…

  The tin sound filled the air, stopping all thought, save one: Jack has opened the gate to hell!

  “Thank God,” she whispered, the need now suddenly and wonderfully gone. Cynthia Childs had passed her test. She cried as she knelt on her hands and knees next to the car. It was a warm day and sweat mixed with the tears that ran along the curves of her face and dripped from her nose to land in the splatter of vomit.

  It was a pretty day and all she could see was the mess she had made.

  Blearily, she looked around as if expecting the world to be filled with corpses, but the nearby cemetery was still serene, at least for the moment. She knew that soon the souls would come piling up out of the gate and then Jack would send them on to fight Robert’s army and France would be saved, and if they were very lucky, they would find Robert in all this mess, and they’d be able to kill him and be done with the entire sordid affair.

  In her heart she knew that wasn’t going to happen. In fact, it wasn’t her heart telling her this. Some other part of her, what felt like that same part of her soul which could sense when the spells were being used, was ringing a shrill tone of danger within her.

  It felt as though something was wrong with the spell…or there was something wrong with the gate or there was… “There’s something wrong with Jack!” She scrambled for the shotgun she had mindlessly let fall earlier and then ran for the cemetery gate in a full out sprint.

  If Jack was dead or dying then no one would be in control of the gate…no person at least. It would be open to the dead to come and go as they pleased and in no time the world would become just another aspect of hell. She ran, thinking that she would have to shut the gate or die trying, but after a mile, when her heart was hammering in her chest and her breath was like fire, she saw Jack far off.

  With the distance, he appeared no larger than a toy soldier and yet she could see him climbing to his feet. In front of him lay the gate and from it souls poured out in a pale, glowing fountain. They were gauzy wisps of nothing that soared in every direction; most slipped beneath the earth to find bodies to claim; however a good number, a thousand or so, raced right at Cyn!

  Given any chance, they would take her body and soul. O
ne thing that worked against them was a blessed cross. She had one, of course, but she also had a problem with it. It was strung on a heavy silver necklace and sat nestled very comfortably between her breasts—under both her shirt and her armor.

  “Oh, hot damn!” she hissed, digging at the front of her vest. She saw very clearly that she wasn’t going to get it out in time. In desperation, she flung herself back with a cry as the air warped and shimmered in front of her face as the souls massed there. Perhaps in vain, she held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The souls were nothing like she expected. They appeared as soft as morning mist and yet they felt like nettles, cutting and pinching her, getting at every inch of her exposed flesh. They hurt, especially around her ears as they dug deeper and deeper until she couldn’t stand it any more.

  “Bugger off!” she screamed, spastically thrashing around with one hand while still digging with the other for her cross. Finally, her finger hooked the chain and out it came. Just like that, the damned souls sped away, leaving her sprawled on the ground.

  Her relief was short lived; beneath her the ground began to twitch and shimmy—the dead were digging their way to the surface. She didn’t want to be above them when they did. Again she plucked her shotgun from the ground, and sped off toward Jack, who must have heard her cursing and was stumbling in her direction. That felt wrong to her. He needed to be at the gate. The warning feeling was still within her and now that she saw he was alright she knew that there was something wrong with the gate itself.

  “The gate!” she cried. Her voice was so weak and her breath so ragged from the sprint that there was no way he could have heard. She began pointing until he finally turned to look back the way he had come; by then it was obvious what was happening.

  When they had first touched down in the helicopter, the cemetery had the same gentle appearance as the rest of France: the land was beautiful with gentle swells and easy valleys that looked softly green. Now the cemetery was rising up in a great mound with the gate as its peak.