The Next God

by MB Mooney

  He didn’t know what love was, didn’t know if he could, but he knew that this was the closest thing to it that he ever experienced.

  Her hands were on him now, on his chest and shoulders, touching and exploring him. He held fast to her face, the ends of his thumbs moving across her cheeks, wiping the tears from them. Her tongue licked his lips, and he opened his mouth to it, to the need of her to kiss him deeper, for the intimacy that it would generate. She grabbed at his sweater, a hunger flowing through her to him, and he moved his hands finally from her face and embraced her neck, feeling her body closer to him, the press of her breasts against him. He was aroused, feeling the rumble in his body.

  His desire grew, as well, and he pressed on her, loving every sense of her, the smell of her hair, the silkiness of it as his hands moved through it now, his fingers touching the back of her head. He heard her breathing, and he concentrated on it for a moment, the basic sound of it drawing him nearer to her.

  She reached around him, and he shifted his weight, their lips parting for a moment. Her hand found the lever on the side of the seat, and the back of it moved back to a laying position. She laid her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently. He fell away from her, and she was on top of him, the weight of her comforting him.

  “You’re not afraid of me?” he said, barely able to talk above a whisper.

  She answered with a kiss, her hair falling down in his face and mixing with the kiss, sudden and intense. His arms embraced her, enfolding her as best he could. Her hands took a hold of her hair, and she flung it back behind her, pulling it back where it would stay. The movement of her body above him, on top of him, the fullness of it, bathed him in the thought of her, the feel of her, the smell of her skin, the taste of her lips and tongue all new and exquisite.

  Matt became more comfortable with her body and the arousal he felt, sure that she felt it too. She had a fistful of his sweater, now, and she lifted it off of him. He sat up just a little as it went over his head, extending his arms as the kisses were momentarily interrupted. She leaned back after tossing his sweater aside, and she took off her coat, then her shirt. They kissed again and again, pausing only to remove clothing. The softness of her skin dazzled him, and he wanted to touch very part of her, know her body like he knew his own. His heat raced.

  A pack of matches fell from his jeans. She leaned back then reached down to pick them up. She held them up to the light.

  Matt grinned, slightly embarrassed. “From our first date. The place we ate.”

  She smirked and put the matches back into the pocket of his jeans, leaning down to continue kissing him.

  And the whole moment, the warmth of the car, the feel of her naked body above him, the kisses, the touches, the excitement, the danger, the sadness, the pure emotion, was all with him, and it broke his heart. He wanted to cry, but he wanted her more.

  The intimacy grew in intensity and emotion until they were now one. Matt was unsure exactly how it had happened, just that she had led him, taught him the whole way patiently and slowly, leading him to an intimate place, and he knew warmth and love and peace and hunger and fulfillment all at the same time, in the same feeling. And as it ended, came to a close, Matt felt his heart more than any other part of him, rushing him like tempest waves of a stormy sea crash against the white sand of a beautiful beach, with natural abandon.

  He lost control of himself. His eyes closed, and she was his only thought. He heard her sounds of pleasure, and he said something of his own, but even he didn’t know exactly what. His heart beat so full and fast, that he truly thought he might die, truly thought that he was dying, but he knew the death was worth this feeling. But the thunder of his heart scared him.

  And she nestled against him, holding him, kissing him, but he became more and more aware that he slipped away, falling into some unknown darkness, as if he were somehow losing consciousness. He held on as best he could. But wrapped in her embrace, in the warmth of the moment, he wanted to be lost. He heard her comforting words. “It’s okay,” she said as his breathing slowed and his eyes were heavy. “Rest. Sleep. It’s getting late.”

  And Matt did rest, sleeping in this unknown peace that was finally his.

  Chapter 18

  The Postman stood in the middle of an empty room, an empty apartment, his right hand holding the 9mm, the other holding the sheathed sword. There was no furniture, no pictures on the walls, nothing to indicate that anyone lived here. He was shocked, no, dumbfounded at the amazing gall of this boy, this little backwoods boy that he was about to kill, to maim, to send into this next life in a whole world of pain. “I told you,” the Postman said, low and serious. “I told you not to screw with me.”

  A fearful face stared back at him. “This is the place. I swear I thought this was the place.”

  The Postman raised the 9mm at Marcus and fired, hitting the wall right next to the boy’s face. “I told you not to screw with me!” he yelled, almost a scream. The boy covered his ears with his arms and cowered. The Postman fired again, and a bullet hole appeared to the left of Marcus. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said. “Maybe it’s the wrong one. We could check some of the other apartments …”

  “You miserable, miserable piece of shit, I’m gonna kill you so damn hard.”

  “I thought that this was it!” Marcus screamed, his voice high and squeaking. “I swear it! Why would I lie?”

  “Because maybe this kid, this Matthew Walker kid is one of your friends, and you don’t want him to die. Maybe you don’t want me to kill them.”

  “That’s bullshit! I want them both dead, maybe more than you do!”

  The Postman reared back his hand across his body, the one holding the pistol, and smacked Marcus across the face with the side of it. Marcus cried out as he fell to the ground, reaching up and grabbing his face.

  “It doesn’t matter, really, my friend, because you're just one more. One more will never matter to me, not now, not ever. I’ll kill this whole apartment complex, hell, search and kill the whole world to get that kid, that boy, because his daddy took something from me and my daddy. We were born enemies.”

  The Postman kicked Marcus in the side, hearing one of the ribs snap. Marcus drew in a desperate breath. “And now you die, you see, and death comes dressed as my hand.”

  -----

  When the lights and the television suddenly cut off, all at the same time, Richard didn’t panic. Power cut out all the time in the winter, but usually a storm accompanied the problems. They sat together in the dark for a moment. “Okay,” Richard said, sitting still, waiting. “I guess it’s not coming back.”

  “I guess not,” Heather said.

  His eyes adjusted as he stood. He walked out to the window. “The whole complex is dark, not just us.”

  “Maybe you ...” But she was interrupted by two thundering waves of sound that came from somewhere nearby, next door, close enough to shake the small apartment. It took Richard a moment or two to recover from the shock of it. “What was--” And by the time he heard Heather begin to speak, he grabbed her and put his hand over her mouth.

  He bent down and whispered into her ear. “Those ... were gunshots. Be quiet and still. I think the front door is still locked. Stay here.” His feet barely made a noise as he raced to the small entryway of the apartment. He unlocked the door, desperate to not make any sound, but he didn’t think that it mattered because of the yelling. Someone shouted in the next apartment, someone that Richard didn’t know. He thought that apartment was empty.

  Cracking the door, just enough to get his head into the open, into the cold, he saw what he had feared. The apartment beside them was the cause of all the commotion.

  Then he thought of the power and the lights.

  He rushed back to Heather, a little less conscious of the noise he made, so sure was he that she could hear the yelling, as well, and he whispered to her, leaning close again. “I’m going to go see what that is.”

 
“No, don’t, you ...”

  He shook his head. “Look, I’ll be okay, I swear. Just when I move, you run down to the end of the building. There’s another stairway back there. You have your phone?”

  She nodded and pulled it out of her back pocket. He saw three bars of reception.

  “Good. I want you to go and hide and then call the police. Call 911.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice strained and cracking.

  He touched her hand. “I’ll be okay, I swear,” he told her, and he led her back to the front door of the apartment. He turned to her. “Now, when I open this door, you turn to the right and run, run like hell and do as I told you. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the door.

  He heard her footsteps on the landing as she ran away from him.

  He walked to the front of the apartment next door.

  -----

  He kicked Marcus again and again, twice in the ribs, once dead in the chest, once in the face, and then in the head, the back of the head as Marcus curled up into a defensive position. The Postman thought of his brother, Kevin, and how they beat him until he died, and he resigned himself to doing the same to this boy, even though he didn’t know the boy from Adam. It didn’t much matter.

  Nothing much mattered now but violence and revenge, oh, sweet revenge, if only there were more to do, more to kill, more responsible for Kevin’s death. He would die, yes, die for the chance to put a gun to their head and pull the trigger, to see the blood plaster the wall of their homes or their friends. Like an artist he would kill them, one by one, maybe beating them like this, yes, this was good, to feel his fist or your body punish another, that was a good thing to do, to have.

  He stopped beating him, for a minute at least, his breath coming in short bursts. “Boy!” he said to Marcus, leaning over him. “That’s some good friggin’ aerobic exercise. I should make a video of this and sell it to all my friends.” He stood straight now, watching the still Marcus cringe in a curled position, groaning in pain, and he pointed the pistol three or four feet from the back of the boy’s head. “Say hello to Stevie when you get to hell, my boy, my friend. I have a feeling he’s going to need the company.”

  And when he felt the hands on him, the strength surprised him. He cursed as he felt himself being physically lifted and thrown against the wall behind him, losing a hold of the pistol as he tried to regain his feet. The first punch glanced across his jaw, minimal pain but effective nonetheless. The next punch caught him square in the eye, and his head bounced off of the wall he stood against. He flailed with his arms, just to get this man away, disoriented, but his arms met only air. The sword, still in its sheath, was knocked from his left hand.

  Another punch landed on his cheek, and he wondered how bad the cut would be as he took his opportunity to lunge forward. His first impression when he met the man’s body was that he was tall, thin, but strong, not too unlike himself. They were approximately the same size. The Postman got his arms around the man and tried to take him down, to get him on the ground where he might have an advantage. This guy was too quick, too strong on his feet, and the man bent over, took the Postman in a firm headlock, and lifted the Postman’s body into the air, using the backwards momentum in his own favor. The Postman cried out as he lost control of his body, being twisted and thrown against the floor, bouncing and crying out in a stream of foulness. A sharp pain ran its course through the Postman’s knee.

  The man's hands left him, though, and he stood as quickly as possible, given his injured knee, recovering to a defensive position. He saw the man in full frame now, only for an instant, the long hair, the thin features, and the Postman blocked a punch aimed at him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Marcus struggle to his feet. If he didn't take care of this long-haired guy now, then that boy would get away, and he couldn't allow that. No, not at all. That would be bad.

  The next punch he blocked, the years of street fighting and Army training finally making themselves useful, and he used the block as an opportunity to punch back, feeling his fist connect with his opponent's jaw. But the other man countered immediately with a strike just as forceful. The Postman caught another in mid-swing, reaching out with desperation and holding the forearm of the other man with both of his hands. He shifted his left hand to grab the shoulder, and the Postman threw the man against the wall, seeing the long hair fly through the air as the man's forehead bounced off of the dry wall.

  The Postman punched this man twice in the kidneys, pinning him against the wall with his left thigh and hip, the Postman outweighed him by a bit, and then elbowed him sharply in the back of the head.

  The man fell to the floor, barely conscious, groaning and crawling, attempting to get to his feet.

  The Postman looked around.

  Marcus was gone. He ran out of the apartment and stopped at the railing. The BMW roared to life and peeled out of the parking lot, Marcus driving away.

  He stuck his hand in his coat pocket.

  “That little shit. He stole my keys.”

  -----

  Heather ran as fast as she could around the side of the building and then towards the back and down the staircase there. She could see her breath fogging in her face, but it blew away as she ran through it. She traversed the staircase with caution; it was a wooden one, not like the one made out of concrete and iron at the front of the building, and she found the narrow trail through the woods with ease, the trail that led through the brush to a nearby neighborhood.

  She didn't see any lights.

  But she kept running, tripping twice on roots and the overall rough terrain, which slowed her down. She had heard the yelling and the gunshots, God, the gunshots that had scared the Jesus out of her. She had been so frightened, that she allowed Richard to tell her to leave. She had just listened to him. Why? Why the hell had she listened to him? But she was down the driveway to a house in the next neighborhood, limping and bleeding slightly from a scrape on the bridge of her nose, before she realized how much trouble Richard was probably in.

  She dialed 911 on her phone. It was busy.

  She reached the house and knocked on the door with one hand and rang the doorbell with the other. “Help! Please, help!” The house was dark like the rest of the area, but she could hear people in there. She stepped back as the latch clicked and the door opened. A confused pair of older people peered at her from the crack in the door.

  “We have to help him!” she said. “Someone has to help him!”

  Chapter 19

  Matt was in a dream again, although different this time. The darkness gave way to shapes and colors, and light slowly came. He was alone with a figure, a man,who approached him. Not the killer, but Matt recognized him. “Kalil. What are you doing here?”

  “Where are we?” Kalil asked.

  “In my dream, I think.”

  “Then I should be asking you. What am I doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m doing this, or anything.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “I don’t feel human.”

  Kalil frowned. “You are human, but more than human. You are what humanity was created to be. At least, in part.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You have power you do not understand, cannot understand for years yet. That is why you must come with me and let me instruct you.”

  “Shouldn’t I go away with my – with Jim and Alice?”

  “What can they teach you? They have done a poor job so far, in my estimation. They will only send you to others that confuse you and lead you down the wrong path. No. The only hope of changing your fate is to come with me.”

  “What fate? What is my fate?”

  “The same as us all, darkness or light. Only with you, the consequences are greater. You are wasting time. End this dream and leave this place.”

  Matt narrowed his eyes. He felt something, a knowing within him of the secret of the angel. “Wait. You know something. You sa
id that the people I love are in danger, too. What did you mean?”

  Kalil shook his head. “You must not do this. You are not strong enough. There is no time.”

  “Strong enough to do what?”

  Kalil brought his hands to the side of his head and closed his eyes. Matt searched his thoughts.

  “Someone is in danger. Who?”

  “No. Do not do this! If you start on this path …”

  “Who is in trouble? Tell me.”

  Kalil dropped to his knees. “You aren’t strong enough for him, yet.”

  Matt took a deep breath. “Richard. Whoever is trying to kill me found him, didn’t they? Richard is going to die because of me.”

  The angel grit his teeth.

  Matt grabbed Kalil by the shoulders. “Who is it? Who is after me?” The angel began to fade and dissolve. “No! Who is after me and how can I stop him?”

  The angel disappeared, and Matt fell to his knees, staring at empty hands.

  He wanted out of his dream, and he got out.

  -----

  Marcus drove away. He didn’t really know the direction, just away. He was dizzy and faint, beat within an inch of his life twice in as many days. The car swerved as he tried to keep his attention on the road. The school was far behind him, and he reached a stretch of road with fields on either side. His side was in blazing pain, spots in his narrowing vision.

  Where could he go? Not home – his dead stepfather waited there. His mother would be devastated. He grasped at the distant thought of driving all the way to L.A. to see his dad. But that would be near impossible in his current condition.

  He realized he was passing out as his sight shrunk to a circle but somehow managed to get the car over to the side of the road. The BMW crashed into a wooden fence at the edge of a field and came to a hissing stop. Marcus slumped over in his seat, falling into unconsciousness.