She had come to him, though he didn’t yet realize it. It was Kelly’s shriek that alerted him to her presence, her lithe body emerging from the other dark shapes in the recesses of the wall. She was beautiful, childlike in the curious way she took Tanner’s arm; then she bit down to the bone.
“RUN!!!” Tanner screamed. Ray pushed Kelly through the hole as the current fought back. He got his little brother through, then grabbed either side of the opening and slung a leg over its lip.
He was knocked out of the wall into the sea, nearly striking Kelly. He turned to see Dad, only Dad’s arms were flailing for purchase and his stomach was stuck on a shard of wood and his face was white and dead and he roared.
Ray pushed Kelly again, this time toward the boat. Tanner continued lunging for them long after they were gone. Ray never looked back again, but he knew. In the yellow, feral eyes he’d seen nothing but hunger. The memory of it would never leave him.
A Carrion To Wounded Souls
When a man’s identity is fractured, a dark carrion begins a lazy circle over the incomplete parts. Twilight Man had felt the encroaching presence of the winged thing, and he knew that his days were numbered unless he was made whole again.
Just what, exactly, cast that encroaching shadow was as much a mystery to Twilight Man as his former life. He knew intuitively that it had been a life of greed and folly; even now, the hunger gnawed at him. But it was the hunger that had placed him in such peril as he was.
Sunset on a Tuesday evening. Sycamore Park, a new subdivision on the fringes of suburban sprawl. Twilight Man was sitting in a blue pickup loaded to capacity with landscaping tools. It had been left here over the weekend in front of an unfinished house.
He’d been on the move for several months; it was July, and his last respite had been at the end of a bitter winter, when he broke into a condemned townhouse in the city.
February
At the time, it had not been long since the fracture, and he was still badly shaken, half-conscious as swollen hands tore at the boarded-up window. Inside the cold and grimy sanctuary, he immediately collapsed, pulling himself into a tight ball. Twilight Man scraped numbly at the dried blood on his hands; he almost didn’t remember its source, although The Act had only been an hour prior. Where he expected to find satisfaction on the filthy floor of this dead house there was only confusion and patches of memory. Several hours passed in a blur.
Then the police. He knew it was them as soon as the pounding on the door began. In his former life, they had not been a concern. But in his present state, he must have been laughably unorthodox, easy to track. Looking again at his blood-caked palms, he heard high-pitched screams in his memory, screams that had surely brought the police to the scene of The Act, and now to this empty townhouse.
The door was boarded up tight and it would take quite an effort to break through, but they didn’t want to chance using his entryway. Of course, there would still be a man waiting under the exposed window, gun trained on the void. So Twilight Man staggered on rubbery legs to the back of the house, where a large window at the end of the hall was poorly covered. Two kicks, two boards sailed out of sight. He heard the front door yielding under the police’s assault and threw his body against the rest of the barricade.
Late evening outside. Knees hit the snow and drove knives into his thighs. The slap of stinging cold. It was a narrow alleyway, open on both ends. The cops were all around the front now, pouring into the house---
“HOLD IT!!”
He stopped in mid-rise. Such a young voice. This was a rookie behind him, but inexperience was a door that swung both ways: Rookie hadn’t radioed yet for backup, however his gun was drawn, and the sounds of his feet in the crisp snow told Twilight Man that he was shaking badly.
“I’m not the man you want,” he said. Rookie was fumbling for his radio now. Good boy. Twilight Man spun, both hands flailing out for the place where he imagined the gun to be.
Twilight Man never made contact. Nevertheless, the weapon spun out of the cop’s grasp as he was torn from the snow. His body bounced off the side of the townhouse, then he dropped facedown into the snow.
There were two deep, wide gashes in Rookie’s back, running from his shoulder blades to his belt, as if talons of ungodly size had swiped him aside. And in fact, it was the darkness itself that had wrought this horror, a black figure that disengaged from the night and stepped over the corpse.
Twilight Man didn’t see a face. He only felt the overwhelming presence of the figure, heard its hollow vacuum of a voice.
“Run,” the carrion rasped.
Twilight Man ran. He ran, he ran out of the city, he ran until it seemed that he’d pumped every drop of blood from his body, his shoes soaked and weighed down with the thick red stuff.
July
He fought exhaustion in the stifling heat of the blue pickup. He’d broken into the truck without fear because it afforded him a view that was all-too-perfect to be coincidence: by sinking down in the driver’s seat and adjusting the rearview mirror, he could see the girl’s house and the girl, alone on the porch steps.
Twilight Man knew that in his former life, he would have quickly and messily consumed her, much like the girl in February. It was love that bred his hunger, but that love was often forgotten in The Act. The immediate gratification in voraciously tearing and tugging at her raw, unblossomed terror...then the silent, shameful disposal of the remains, and the hunger always began its gnawing again. But not this time.
Hopefully, the carrion thought otherwise. Hopefully it expected him to strike with the usual reckless abandon. Then, while his back was turned, his focus on the girl, it would make its own strike…On the other hand, it had let him run, let him regain bits and pieces of his mind; it wanted prey that was worthy. The carrion’s presence was palpable now as the sun dropped from view, and Twilight Man sank further into the seat.
Fishing through his grungy jeans, he pulled out the few clippings he’d taken on the road with him. They had been his favorites. Each article had a grade-school photograph at the top; looking back on the girls now, tasting their flesh in his mind - he felt like a once-great king humbled by a punishing fall.
A silent vow: he would take his time with this one.
He exited the truck and began a lazy stride toward the girl. Conscious of his grimy threads, he reasoned that filthy blue jeans were a common sight in a neighborhood under construction. The girl hadn’t even looked up from the porch as he entered her yard. Her attention was devoted to a book in her lap. Blond strands of hair falling in front of her face were highlighted brilliantly in the sunset. Twilight Man paused to appreciate it.
Upon noticing him, her glittering green eyes darkened. She stiffened slightly. Only natural. Twilight Man offered a polite wave and took a few steps forward. “Mind if I use your telephone?” NO GODDAMMIT! Came the bellowing from his recesses of his memory. ASK IF HER PARENTS ARE HOME. YOU KNOW THEY AREN’T BUT GODDAMMIT YOU HAVE TO ASK THAT FIRST!!
Her lips parted, and he quickly interjected, “Are your mom and dad home? I work for the builders. I just need to make a call.”
“Um…no.” Her voice was sweet. There was a bit of huskiness to it too, and noticing that detail was, for Twilight Man, like bringing a beautiful painting into focus: he saw that the tension in her upper body was poised, athletic. She was older than he’d first assumed. Fifteen, maybe, and a tomboy. Wouldn’t mind living in the new subdivision, by the open fields, under the summer sun.
“I mean no, my parents aren’t home,” she said awkwardly. He’d left her in an uncomfortable silence. Twilight Man cleared his throat. “Okay. Would it be all right if I just stepped in and made a phone call?”
Her fingers curled on the pages she’d been reading. She was thinking of closing the book and standing up. “Well…”
“Do you have a cordless? You could just bring it out here if you want. I don’t mean to be a bother.”
He smiled. It was a genuine smile. He loved her so mu
ch.
“Hold on.” She stood up, set the book down in her place, and walked inside.
Twilight Man went ahead and ascended the porch steps. The book was a spiral notebook and Faith was written in the upper left-hand corner. Her name? He said it a few times in his head. It was an interesting fit.
“Sir?” She was repeating herself. He snapped to attention. “Hmm?”
“Here.” Faith handed him the cordless. Propped in the doorway, her arm dangling before him, it was the perfect opportunity: throw her back into the house, slam the door and enter The Act before she realized what was happening.
The carrion’s shadow filled his vision.
NO! His mind screamed. Twilight Man took the phone and, turning away, fumbled with the number keys. That was fucking CLOSE. Had he really grown so much only to backslide that fast? Once restored, he’d have to remember to thank the carrion - its circling menace kept him on his toes.
January
This was the moment of the fracture.
He’d been thrown across the room. His skull cracked off the hardwood floor. It was mid-afternoon, the sun amplified by a wintry sky and glaring through the windows of his loft.
Hardly able to see straight, he cried out and kicked his legs. But the blurry man before him stepped back and shouted something that rang dully in his ears.
Who was the man? He couldn’t remember. A cop? Couldn’t be. Someone’s father? Maybe…head was too heavy to think. He settled back on the floor and felt a wetness against his cheek.
The blurry man left. Before long, memory had drifted away, too.
Twilight Man sat up and gingerly prodded his injuries. Busted cheekbone, maybe; the lump on the back of his head felt like a grapefruit. Curious fingers came away stained red.
He did a staggering dance across the living room and, slamming gracefully into a plate-glass window, Twilight Man forced his aching eyes to stare down at the city. A woman got into a cab. Some teenage boy was cutting through traffic to cross the street. A bald man in a tattered coat walked away from the tenement.
The pressure in his head was too much, it felt as if his mind had been forced into a box three sizes too small. His senses were choked off, dull. Twilight Man suddenly felt trapped, and watched by someone whose identity was cloaked by this nightmare amnesia. Away from the windows!
Up the staircase. Into the bedroom. He tore shakily through the dresser drawers: a little cash, clothes that fit his frame, a scrapbook full of news clippings. Grabbing the few that seemed most familiar, he flew from the apartment.
July
In the months since the fracture and February’s folly, Twilight Man had had ample time to reflect, and Faith…she was too perfect. Murmuring nonsense into the telephone, he closed his eyes and chose her. No turning back now. He gave her the phone. “I’d like to see your room.”
Terror stabbed into Faith’s eyes. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Twilight Man moved her into the house with lightning-quick speed; his foot caught the door and closed it quietly.
Her mouth dropped open. One hand clapped over her lips, and Twilight Man moved like an accomplished dancer to bind her left arm between her shoulder blades. The phone clattered on the floor.
She kicked wildly at him, striking his shins with her heels. Twilight Man silently counted the bruises as he swept her into the hallway. “It’s all right,” he said in response to her muffled cries. “I’m not going to hurt you, Faith.” Even as the words whispered through her hair, he felt the hunger growing.
The first door he picked was the right one; entering her room, he took in the plastic track & field trophies and the pile of spiral notebooks on her desk. Journals? He’d take them when he left.
The back of Faith’s head smashed against his nose. Twilight Man swayed but tightened his grip. Grabbing a handful of her long hair (not too hard, he made a promise remember) he shoved her face-first into the bedsheets and listened to his pounding heart. “Okay, okay.”
Her squeals were losing their strength. He concentrated on holding her upper body down, allowing her bucking thighs to move against his growing erection. KEEP IT COOL, GODDAMMIT. THE HUNGER CAN WAIT…He felt more empowered by the second. The long-suffering carrion would have to fuck off and find weaker game. “But enough of that,” he smiled, twisted Faith’s head to the side a bit. “Breathe.”
She was sobbing now. The fear of anticipation was a delicious slow burn, and Twilight Man savored every whimper. The Act was upon him. “Control,” he whispered intently as he moved his hands from her head to the small of her back.
Two burning knives drove into his shoulders. He immediately knew them for talons and cried “NO I DID BETTER!!” As he was sent backpedaling through the air and crashing down on his tailbone.
The carrion lowered one of its obsidian wings. A silvery talon dangled precariously between Twilight Man’s legs, glistening with his blood.
Here, in the soft glow of sunset, the carrion was a rich tapestry of blacks and greys, and an orange-tinged claw flew out to tap Twilight Man’s throat as he marveled at the thing.
“Better?” it asked of him. It had a white face with pink eyes.
“I – I did better. I took her slowly---“ He craned his neck to try and see Faith on the bed, and the carrion threw a black wing out to obscure his view. “I’m not like I was before! I’m whole! But I’m better!”
“Now, now.” The carrion knelt and drew the talon from his throat, scraping up along his weathered cheek. “Don’t you think that I know you’re lying?”
Twilight Man bit hard on his lower lip. What would come of crying in front of this beast? But it was all he wanted to do.
“I tried. You didn’t give me enough time!!”
“Time is mine to give and mine to take away.” Pushing back the dark plumes on its head, the carrion stood up and turned from him.
It spread its wings out before Faith. Twin talons flashed in the orange light.
Twilight Man screamed his throat raw and fell on his face. “Look up,” the carrion rasped. “Look.”
He looked. Faith dangled half-conscious from a claw in the base of her neck.
“See.”
The other claw slit her from groin to gullet. The horror splashed out across the floor and over Twilight Man’s legs.
“I would never have hurt her,” he wept, “NEVER.”
The sun faded unceremoniously from view. “You don’t know what pain ism” the carrion answered. “And there is no love without pain. Look at her now, and understand.
“I’ll leave these here,” it concluded, removing its talons and placing them on the bed, twin scythes bound by a chain. “And this”---it handed Twilight Man a long-barreled revolver---“is yours.”
He actually didn’t consider the revolver until the carrion suddenly left the room. He knew that it had left because it had already consumed him. He was already dead, dead and numb all these long years. Twilight Man tasted the cold steel and briefly felt his mind freed of its terrible trappings.
Birthright
Beelzebuth, who was a wingless, blackened shell and who moved only in the shadows of Hell’s darkest corners, was the first to report the death in the market at Tartarus. He slithered through one of the arched windows of the Set’s high court and crawled across the ceiling, hissing:
“An angel has perished in the market! Her belly opened like a rotten apple; she danced the dance of a thousand agonies, her body bowing and splitting at every seam, and she at least came apart like a rag doll in a thresher, littering the shopkeepers’ bins with her innards!”
Beelzebuth was nothing if not a poet. The officers of the high court whispered amongst themselves in a panic, some fleeing the chambers, until finally Abezeth slammed his gavel against a stone pillar, loosing a torrent of sparks. “Order! Enough! Beelzebuth, explain yourself!”
Abezeth was one of the few fallen who had chosen to keep his God-given name; though there were those who called him Hellequin behind his back, he was only Abazeth whi
le standing in court and his cry demanded rapt attention.
“There’s naught to be explained,” the fallen angel rasped, a cracked and bleeding tongue dragging over broken teeth. Beelzebuth’s obsidian eyes glittered in torchlight. “Go to the market at Tartarus, and see for yourself – the angel Rachel is dead. Something tore itself from her virgin womb and skittered across the cobblestones. Many saw it, but only I have come before the high court – praise be to Satan!”
Beelzebuth was a troublemaker and had gotten on the Devil’s bad side one too many times, one of the reasons that he kept to the shadows. He obviously hoped to gain favor with Lord Satan by rushing to report the occurrence in the marketplace. But this concerned Abezeth little – if the account was indeed true, then a fallen angel had perished in Hell for the first time in millennia.
The angels had lived in relative peace and comfort ever since the War. Not the War in Heaven, which saw them cast into the bowels of this underworld; but the War in Hell. For God had created Hell long before Lucifer’s rebellion. Intended as a place of eternal suffering for sinful humans, Hell had been ruled by demons under God’s command. When Lucifer and his legion fell, they overthrew the demon hierarchy and established their own version of Hell – a place of refuge for those angels and men who saw God for the childish tormentor He was.
The demons had put up a long, bloody fight, but were eventually relegated to positions of servitude. Those who refused to bow before Satan were slain and cast into the Fire Sea. The rest walked Hell’s cobbled streets day and night, performing any task demanded by any passing angel. They were a hideous lot; scaly, weeping flesh, monstrous fangs, and spiraling horns. They stood out in sharp contrast to the angels who, while scorched and scarred by hellfire, still retained an air of regality, of holiness.
Abezeth had tumbled through the heavens with a spear in his gut and roasted in the Fire Sea for hours before being rescued. His skin was bleached white, and painful sores shed years of pus with every movement of his body. He covered his face with ceremonial paint, hiding the disfigurement there; and, with only burnt stumps where his magnificent wings had once been, he wore heavy robes to cover his shame.
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