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The next two days passed in a blur of sleepless activities. Much of what Gareth needed, as specified by Rezlaquin's instructions, was ordered from amazon, etsy, and a few less known sites that catered to the arcane dabblers of the modern world. There were some things that simply couldn't be gotten through the mail though. The location of the lab, hidden beneath a university, alleviated this dilemma somewhat. Many of those items that Gareth couldn't obtain legally were gathered by Rezlaquin. Presumably from the storehouses of the college campus above. Those ingredients that couldn't be obtained through the internet, or by the wizard, required Gareth to seek them out on foot throughout the many underbellies of Chicago that housed the local magical communities.
One incident of particular note, insofar as it rattled the young shaman to his core occurred during those two days. He had been making inquiries regarding stem cells through a not-so-public chat room that he frequented, when he felt his heart jolt in fear. For just a moment he was back on the street, fleeing the unseen footsteps of the Aswang. It only took a moment for him to recognize the sound that had triggered him as the impatient tapping of Rezlaquin's cane on the concrete floor. But when he turned around, and looked at the wizard the sound came to a sudden halt, and with fear and confusion Gareth saw that the wizard was without his cane; just silently standing with arms crossed, and watching Gareth work. Rattled, the shaman chalked the incident up to trauma, went back to his shady enquiries, and did his best to put that horrible sound from his mind.
At the end of those two days, eyes shot through with the angry red of sleep deprivation, Gareth sat in front of his work station. He was cataloguing the ingredients that were spread out before him, or trying to. He'd been at it for half an hour, and had started over more than once. He was reaching his limit, and his brain was putting in orders for a manual override; leaving him foggy, useless, and stubbornly awake. Eventually, with the help of pen and paper, he was able to verify the presence of each needed reagent.
There was an ounce of mercury for fluid strength, a vial of powdered opiates for the calm restraint of sedation, a canister of liquid nitrogen for transformative states, a microscopic amount of human stem cells for growth and regeneration, a small bottle of acetone for the removal of mistakes, a jar of varnish for the solidification and encasement of intent, a sock of Rezlaquin's for recognition of self, a few flakes of metal scraped from the old fission reactor for the power of separation, a pile of shattered rubies for broken ties of blood, and shavings of gold for the preservation of purity.
It was easily set to be the most potent potion that Gareth had ever cooked up, and the most difficult. There were ingredients of such contradiction within it that it would take all of his skill to keep them stable. The slightest mistake would lead to disaster. Wearily, Gareth laid his head upon the cluttered table, and let exhaustion take him. All too soon it would be time to brew the potion, and to finally learn just what his savior was really up to. Concoctions such is this one were not for those of idle intent, and pleasant histories.
Gareth fell asleep, and dreamed of footsteps. When Rezlaquin woke him the clock showed that he'd only been asleep for a bit over five hours. His neck and back were stiff from sleeping hunched over the table, and the cheap office chair had added all too little comfort. Even so, the young shaman would have much preferred to have continued his uncomfortable slumber.
Rezlaquin briskly shoved a steaming mug of coffee under Gareth's nose before his drooping head and closing lids could make it back to the table.
"Time to begin. I'll give you a few minutes to wake up while I finish with the last of my own preparations. Have some more coffee, and get yourself ready. This is a time sensitive matter, and the clock is ticking." Rezlaquin pointed to a battered coffeemaker atop a rickety end table, made sure that Gareth was in compliance, and then purposefully strode from the room into an adjoining chamber from which inhuman screams briefly escaped before the wizard closed the door behind him.
"Right. Coffee." Gareth forced himself to stand, and made his way to the coffee pot. He refilled his mug. Nearby was a small pile of sugar packets. He dumped three in for good luck, swirled the mug a bit, and stumbled back to his work station, and the daunting task that lay ahead.
By the time Rezlaquin returned Gareth was setting up burners, hot plates, test tubes, a small microwave, and other such tools of his calling. The shaman heard the tap of the older man's cane—but being lost in that single-minded engrossment of work that can only come from being pushed to exhaustion, deprived of sleep, and then heavily caffeinated—for once the ominous sound brought neither fright nor memory. Rezlaquin stood next to Gareth with his hands resting upon the ornate cane, and watched the shaman finish assembling his equipment and begin carefully placing the ingredients. Gareth barely noticed; his eyes were tensely focused, his hands rigidly steady, and his mind absolutely focused upon the task at hand.
They remained like that for hours, but it felt to Gareth as if time had simply ceased, and that all of existence was bounded within his labors. When he was done the sudden cessation of purpose caused his body to stagger, and his mind to reel. He was exhausted; mentally, physically, emotionally, and magically. Before him, on the work table was a lone beaker set carefully apart from the clutter that now dominated most of the work space.
It had been a success. It had taken everything that Gareth had, and more. to pull it off. At some unidentifiable point Gareth had noticed Rezlaquin standing beside him chanting words of power. As the wizard incanted, Gareth could feel his own powers being augmented, and his own body being kept focused and functioning. That strength was gone now.
Gareth slumped down into his chair, careful not to jostle the table. Next to him Rezlaquin was breathing heavily. He didn't look exhausted though. He didn't even look tired. The wizard looked exultant, euphoric, and just a touch mad. Despite the clear success of their creation, and his still strong appreciation for his recent savior Gareth felt obligated to warn Rezlaquin one last time. The need to do so was all that kept him from dropping into to mindless sleep where he sat.
"I can't think of a curse in the world that this spell wouldn't cure, but it could easily kill you as well. Whatever it is you're trying to rid yourself of, please; it can't be worth this risk. We can find another way." Gareth's intent was filled with meaningful emotion, but his voice came out mechanical and monotone; his body too depleted to accomplish anything more.
Rezlaquin cackled with mocking laughter. "You still don't see. You craft this beautiful magic, and yet you only barely grasp its purpose?" The wizard snatched the beaker up with one hand, and before Gareth could further object, drank the entirety of its viscous contents. With a grin of triumph, he threw the empty beaker across the room, and the shattering of its glass mixing with the tone of his mirth.
"You want to know my secret? You want to know what you've done? Pray that you don't find out, shaman. For if you do it will mean that you've failed, and doomed us both. A long and painful death for you, and eternity as a monster for me."
Gareth's brain sluggishly tried to make use of the adrenaline being blasted into it. Working to identify the danger signs that had it jittering like a cornered hare. An inevitable conclusion began to form.
Rezlaquin let out a sudden, inhuman howl, and hunched over in agony; clutching his stomach. When he uncurled, standing straight again, there was a wet smear of blood and gore seeping through his shirt in a circle around his waist. There was the squelching tear of flesh, accompanied by the ripping of cloth, and thrashing tentacles of intestine came whipping madly forth from the torn remains of Rezlaquin's midriff. His eyes had turned to the dark absorbing blackness of death's approach, and his face had grown splotched, leathery, and chalky pale as the concrete floor.
Gareth bolted from the chair, throwing sideways into the Rezlaquin-turned-Aswang. As he ran across the room to the nearest door, Rezlaquin's private lab, he hastily clawed through his pockets until he found a small red vial. Behind him
he could hear the tap tap of steps, and the swishing air dispersed by writhing entrails. The Aswang was coming for him. Gareth pulled the door open, and charged through.
The sight before him nearly brought him to a terrified stop, but the fear of what lay behind was stronger. The room was much like the other, with work tables and implements scattered about. It was different in one very striking regard, though. At the center of this room was a large iron cage. Easily ten feet tall, and just as wide. Inside the cage was a sight from Gareth's nightmares. It was just as he'd seen it that night. A visage of dread that he would never forget.
Gareth darted past the caged Aswang, narrowly avoiding the intestinal limbs that grasped for him through the bars, and towards a door on the far side of the room. An old neon EXIT sign dangled above it; broken and dull. He turned as he neared the door; lifting the red vial, and throwing it at the ground before the giant cage. The vial shattered with an explosion of fire that met the pursuing Rezlaquin head-on, and blasted the front of the cage into a broken heap.
Both Aswang roared in pain, but only one screamed manic violence in English. Rezlaquin had protected himself with the tentacles of his torso, and the horrific appendages were now little more than smoldering stumps wiggling about his waist. The wizard a powerful incantation. Before he could finish, the second Aswang tore through the feeble remains of its imprisonment, and landed upon the wizard with a shriek of unadulterated hatred. The two fell to the ground in a messy grapple of claws, teeth, and tentacles.
Gareth ran. He opened the door, slammed it behind him, and blindly fled up the stairs that greeted him on the other side. As he climbed into the building proper a blast from below shook the structure. He held onto the railing until the world righted itself, and then redoubled his speed. He didn't stop running until he'd found the main the building, gotten out the exit, and made it three blocks from the campus. If his heart hadn't been clenched like a convulsed fist he would have run farther, but he eventually had to collapse against a wall, and let his desperate lungs gulp down air while his brain frantically screamed for him to keep running.
Two minutes later he was on the move again. Even after finally stopping late into the night, renting a room from a questionable motel, and truly sleeping, Gareth couldn't get the fear of that monster from his mind, nor the tapping of its feet from his ears. Within a week he was two states away. For months Gareth lived from place to place, one hotel at a time; never staying anywhere for more than a night.
Eventually he found his way to a small town in northern Minnesota. It was a place that he'd never expected to return to. There, old friends took him in, and stood forceful vigil; restraining him in the dark hours of the night when his nightmares would awaken him with a tap tap that he couldn't help but flee.
The End.
Prey to the Aswang Page 3