The Serpent and the Light

by Bo Luellen

As Henry reached back for the doorknob, he replied, “I’m really sorry, guys. Maybe someone can play my character or something.”

  With a surprising burst of speed, Juste plucked up his character sheet and offered, “I’ll catch you, bon ami.”

  Dallas looked at the paper as the Cajun held it in front of them, and Henry realized she was reading the words “R-U-N.” She looked at Henry with a cold glare as he bolted out of the door and dashed down the steps. He cursed himself for not having taken the paper with him, and now his friends would be passing it around.

  He walked down the drive to the street and thought, What exactly am I supposed to RUN from? Someone is pulling my strings, and I feel out of control.

  As he waited, he saw someone peeking out at him from the living room curtain but couldn’t get a good look at who it was. After five minutes of standing in the cold, the Uber driver came around the corner in a black Toyota. He suddenly realized he hadn’t checked to see where his destination was set. Opening his phone, he saw the ride was programmed to take him to the Tulsa International Airport.

  Bewildered, he let out a, “What the hell! The Airport?!”

  The Uber driver rolled down his window and yelled, “Hey, are you, Henry Jekyll?”

  Closing his eyes tight in frustration, he replied, “Yes, but there has been a mistake. I need to go home instead of to the airport. Can you do that?”

  The driver shrugged and confirmed, “Sure, man. My name’s Mitch, and I’ll be your driver. Just put the new address into the app. Which way should I head?”

  As Henry programmed in his home address, he gave the driver the general direction. He settled into the back seat, and took out his phone to check the time. It was well after 10 PM, and there wouldn’t have been any planes taking off at this time anyway.

  He looked out the window and wondered, Why would this enigmatic “H” want me to go to an empty airport?

  Suddenly, he was short of breath, and his chest felt like a vault was sitting on his sternum. He put both hands over his breastbone and felt like he was going to pass out. His mouth started watering as his vision blurred, and the world began to spin.

  The driver looked in the rearview mirror and asked, “Hey, none of my business, but you’re not looking so hot. You okay? You’re not going to throw up in my car, are you?”

  The older man behind the wheel had a bushy greying beard and a muscular frame. His eyes conveyed genuine concern, as he kept glancing in the rearview mirror at him. Henry looked up at his driver and mustered enough control to give a somber nod.

  He thought, I might throw up any second, but if I can keep it together a little longer, I’ll be home. Once I’m there, I can get some things together and go rent a room at a hotel with the money I found.

  The older man continued in a soothing tone, “You look like you’re having a rough night. Do you need me to get you somewhere else, like a hospital or urgent care?”

  Henry gripped the back of the seat and answered, “No, man. I’m going to be okay. I just need some air and a good night's sleep.”

  Mitch rolled down the back window, and Henry felt his stomach settling a little at the cold wind whipping on his sweaty face. The drive home took ten minutes, but to him, it felt like an instant. They parked just outside of his complex, and he slowly worked his way out of the car.

  The Uber driver rolled down his window and asked, “Would you like some help to the door?”

  Henry felt a little better, but the anxiety attack had hit him hard and exhausted his body. He slung on his backpack and extended a friendly handshake towards the older man. Mitch smiled and started to say something as a sharp popping sound echoed off the surrounding buildings and caused Henry to jump. The top portion of the bearded driver's face exploded right in front of him. Thick bits of brain matter coated Henry’s face and body, as steam instantly came off the warm tissue. Henry was in shock and watched the twitching body slump its chin out of the car window. Blood was pouring out of the baseball-sized opening in the driver's forehead, and the remaining parts of his face were a mingle of involuntary muscle spasms. As he stood frozen in place, Henry caught a glimpse of movement from the empty lot across the street. Under his crimson mask, his white eyes watched as three men were fast walking towards him. They were wearing black tactical uniforms and holding rifles in his direction.

  He took a step, dropping his backpack and throwing up the pizza on the street. Henry looked at the vomit mixed with the blood and brain matter on the ground, then hurled again. Small chunks of Mitch's skull dropped off his face and into the puddle of sick at his feet. Henry felt himself slipping away from consciousness, and his vision narrowed to a small tunnel.

  From some corner of his mind, he heard cruel laughter pulsing into his head. The voice sounded like the scraping of fingernails on a chalkboard. He watched his right hand move on its own and make a fist in front of his face. Henry fought to bring his hand down and found he was not in total control of his own body. Henry’s feet moved on their own, and he circled out from behind the Uber car to face the oncoming men. He rode as a passenger in his own body as he watched the three men stop in their tracks and take a knee.

  The lead figure pressed on his neck microphone and reported, “Elder, the target has seen us and is approaching. I believe the target may be taking over control of The Vessel. Do we have permission to open fire?”

  Henry heard the words reverberating in his mind as if he was in a dream state that he couldn’t escape. Everything in his field of vision was fuzzy, and he was losing the fight for control of his limbs. His body was still slowing moving towards them, becoming less zombie-like and more graceful with every passing second. His hands waved in a series of strange gestures in the air, as he became fascinated by the beautiful fluidity of movement.

  His mouth opened, and strange words came pouring out as he cast, “Invidia! Occidere Eum”

  The lead man raised his voice and announced, “Sir! The target is attempting to use his spells, but our countermeasures are holding up. We need orders!”

  Henry felt himself bend at the waste and every muscle in his body flexing at odd angles. The veins in his arms were now raised, and he could see his blood pumping as red light snaking through his body. His forearms and biceps had grown and become more defined, as a craving for the taste of these humans' blood overwhelmed his thoughts. Henry felt an impulse to see what the men’s ribs would look like if they were plucked one by one from their spine. He tried to shake the awful intention but found whatever had him was winning him over to darker delights. He took another step towards them and felt the grass around his foot wither and die. The lust for their flesh grew by the second, and he couldn’t help but be excited by the coming meal.

  A pain in his back violently shoved him back in control of his body as the feeling of cruel hate washed away. He turned around to see a dark-haired man standing behind him with a big smile on his face and wearing similar black tactical gear. Henry looked down and saw a black-handled knife buried to the hilt in his side. It felt like he was being burned, and white foam bubbled out of the corners of the wound.

  With eager enjoyment, the man put took hold of the handle and turned the blade inside of Henry’s abdomen. He had never felt the pain of that intensity in his life and fell to his knees. All the power and rage was gone, as was the enhanced musculature. He felt cold, and a sense of weakness soaked into his core.

  The knife-wielding stranger commanded, “Shut him down.”

  The sting of the multiple projectiles hitting his back was quickly followed by a series of electrical surges that coursed into his body. He lurched forward onto all fours and caught himself from falling. The cords from the stun guns dangled off his back, and he felt the sprain of multiple muscle pulls.

  Henry looked up at the dark-haired man and asked, “Why?”

  His answer came at the point of a boot as it punted his head and drove him into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 10: John III

  Broken Arrow, OK -
Thursday, October 18th, 2018 – 8:46 a.m. CST

  John Utterson sat silently in his wheelchair and sipped on a cold cup of Starbucks coffee. He was dog tired, running on pain pills and four hours of sleep. The aching from the broken ribs was agonizing if he breathed heavily or shifted the wrong way. This made sleeping problematic, as he would roll over in the night and snap awake when he hit the ribs wrong.

  Johnston walked back from the front door of the funeral home and reported, “Looks like no one is here yet. I guess the dead need their beauty sleep.”

  Utterson looked at his watch that read 8:50 AM. He itched the edges of his leg cast as a black minivan pulled up into the parking lot and parked next to their car. He watched a muscular looking woman in her mid-forties step out of the driver’s side and straighten her knee-length grey skirt and a white top. The passenger side door flew open, and a heavyset man with a dark beard and a red plaid shirt rolled out of the seat.

  The woman strode up to them and announced, “I’m Dr. Amanda Lanyon, this is my husband, Larry. It is good to see you again, Officer Johnston.”

  Johnston shook hands and gave a grateful, “We really appreciate your help. This man sitting next to me is Detective John Utterson.”

  Utterson nodded and then told them, “Call me John. I appreciate you arriving on time, but we are still waiting on the funeral home staff to make it in.”

  Larry looked at the building, saying, “I guess the dead need their beauty sleep.”

  Johnston’s eyes fixed on Larry and exclaimed, “Oh my God! Finally, someone with a good sense of humor. John has the warmth of a broken oven. Congratulations, you’re now my new best friend. I’m calling you every five minutes.”

  The two men laughed, walked away from the detective, and engaged in a conversation about the dating life of a funeral home embalmer. John ignored them and pulled out a case file from a backpack he wore on his wheelchair. He pulled out stacks of reports organized by last name.

  Amanda shook her head and quipped, “Trust my Larry to make friends after spending ten seconds with a stranger.”

  Utterson shuffled the folders and remarked, “Terry’s green but a good judge of character. His brother was the same way.”

  She looked at the mounting stack of paperwork on his lap and asked, “What is all that?”

  He handed her one and answered, “Johnston and I spent all day yesterday at Bell’s House Shelter taking statements. It seems a rising number of homeless are going missing in Tulsa, and we believe it might be connected to Lewis Turner’s murder. I convinced my Captain to assemble this task force, but make no mistake, Doctor, we are it. The department only allows our unit to function as a way of creating a buffer in case the media picks up on the story. Our Chief will want to report that the TPD is on top of it, and measures were taken.”

  She crossed her arms and observed, “So they don’t look like they were sitting on their hands or caught unaware. It takes the Chief off the hook.”

  The Detective took another sip of his stale coffee and replied, “Correct. It should be noted that if we don’t make some strong connections, and the news gets out, we own the hook to which we will be impaled on. Still, want in?”

  Lanyon put her hands defiantly on her hips and answered, “I hate politics, and I really hate bullies. I’m in. Now tell me what you discovered from the interviews?”

  Utterson gave a half-smile and answered, “Over thirty homeless stated they had friends who just vanished. No discussions of moving locations, no gang violence indicated, and no hint of foul play. They just ceased to exist in Tulsa.”

  Amanda opened the folder she was holding and inquired, “Were there any police reports filed or witnesses to any of the disappearances?”

  John pulled out a file and handed it to her, saying, “The only police reports that were filed were by Nancy Bell, the owner of the shelter. The family members of the missing have been mostly silent, and understandably so. These are drug addicts who have struck out so many times, they can’t remember the last time they were sober.

  As for witnesses, yes, we have some reports. One lady said a UFO dropped down from the sky and beamed up her buddy. An old vet claimed their friend left to become a rock star and now tours with Neil Young.”

  She held up a report and stated, “One eyewitness was a former Marine. He told us his friend was assaulted by six men in black tactical gear. The witness says he managed to escape, but his buddy was thrown into the back of a white van. Normally, I wouldn’t take this account seriously, but our Marine drew this…”

  Pulling out a piece of paper from the folder, he turned it around to reveal a rough sketch of an octopus-like symbol and asked, “Does this look familiar, Professor?”

  She looked up from the sketch and replied, “Obviously, this is evidence of a stronger connection. Is this enough to get us more help on the task force?”

  Utterson gave a flat, “No, the witness is still a crack addict, and Captain Andino isn’t going to give us much room if we don’t provide hard evidence.”

  He thought, All of this is potentially worthless. If these witnesses were contributing members of society, the FBI would be involved already.

  The front door to the funeral home opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties yelled out, “Y’all can come in.”

  The lady had dark hair pulled back and wore a pair of denim jeans. Utterson spun his chair around and made for the open door. After she brought them inside, the woman scanned the parking lot suspiciously and locked the door behind them.

  He noticed she had a bulge in her waistband and asked, “Are you Willow Young?”

  She moved away from the window and replied, “Yes. I’m short of time, and I’ve already given a statement. I have a body to prepare, and if you want to talk, it will have to be while I work.”

  Terry put up an index finger and inquired, “Excuse me, body to prepare?”

  Willow breezed past them, “I’m embalming a deceased father of three. The family wants it done right away, so if you have a weak stomach, stay out of my way. Feel free to leave anytime. I honestly don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  Utterson wheeled after her and reassured her, “Everyone will be fine, and we won’t take up too much of your time Ms. Young.”

  Larry leaned over to Johnston and asked, “Is it me, or does she have a Wednesday Addams thing going on?”

  The tall black man whispered, “You know, Wednesday was a freak.”

  A few minutes later, they were huddled in the corner of a large room, with Utterson and Professor Lanyon out front. Johnston and Larry stayed next to the doorway and refused to come any closer. On a metal table was an elderly man in his late 70’s, who had a crown of white hair that circled a liver-spotted bald head. A hose leading up to a large gauge needle was stuck into the brachial artery on the corpse's left arm.

  Utterson took out his audio recorder and announced, “Interview with witness Willow Young, 9:15 AM. Mrs. Young, can you tell me about the break-in?”

  The mortician punched a button on a suction machine, and a slurping sound filled the room. Dark red fluids began to flow out of the body, down the tubing and into a clear container. A layer of gelatin blood shot into the bowl and elicited a strong reaction from the two large men at the door.

  After a few minutes of running the machine, she switched it off and removed the large needle from the man’s arm. The limb leaked fluid from the opening and dotted the floor with puddles of necrotic blood. Willow took a bit of medical glue, slapped it on the opening, and sealed the wound.

  Johnston covered his mouth as Larry muttered, “She’s a vampire.”

  The mortician replied to Utterson’s question, “Yeah, two armed men scared the shit out of me. They broke in, mangled a corpse, and that is it. Anything else?”

  The detective moved the recorder around in his hand and thought, She’s scared of something and masking it with anger. She’s too intent on getting us out of here, which explains why we’re being treated to this macabre show.
He rolled his wheelchair around the table, through the gelatin-like blood and up to his witness. She gave him an indignant glare, as he invaded her space and evoked a gross-out moment from Johnston and Larry.

  He held the recorder out towards her face and then remarked, “Well, we wish there were more you had to say. Whoever this didn’t have a problem getting in here, which makes them very capable. They disabled the power and the cameras, which means they didn’t want any witnesses to their actions. You are a courageous woman to go on with work like you are. I would be worried these people might mistake you as someone who could jeopardize their plans.”

  Willow turned to one of the cabinets and slid it open. The embalmer withdrew a three-foot-long metal pipe, just slightly bigger around than a pencil. On the handle was a nipple she attached to a rubber hose, which led back to a strange-looking device with a reservoir tank full of pink embalming fluid. Willow held up the end of the pipe to reveal to everyone in the room the device’s sharp point, which resembled a rapier.

  Johnston let out a squeaking sound as Larry took a step back, exclaiming, “Oh, what the fuck is that?”

  Willow’s eyebrow raised as she looked at the two men and replied, “Oh, this is a trocar.”

  Amanda looked white as she asked, “What exactly are you going to do with that?”

  The woman waved the wand to the side and held an index finger on a point on the corpse's abdomen and answered, “I’m going to use it to extract the fluids from this man’s body.”

  In a smooth, practiced motion, she drove the trocar’s point into the lower portion of the corpse's abdomen. A collective groan came from the two men standing in the back. She angled the wand literally, and with a single thrust, she drove it into the stomach. The device's path made its way up towards his right ear, traveling through organs and tissue. The body pulsed with each jab into a new organ, making its skin squeak on the silver table.

  Johnston put his arms around Larry and yelled, “Oh, Lord Jesus, No!”

  Utterson ignored the display and asked, “Where exactly were you hiding when the suspects entered the building?”