Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  I nodded. “This isn’t my first bunker.”

  We carried on. The tunnel was surprisingly long and given our speed, I figured we’d gone about one hundred meters before I could see the end in sight. Another fifty or so meters to go. I took it slow because the tunnel was quite narrow. I figured that if I drove perfectly centered, both Conner and I would have the chance to swing our doors wide and not hit the sides. But only barely.

  “And we’re sure that these kidnappers didn’t find this tunnel?”

  “Apparently not. The whole area is set up with an alarm—motion sensors, pathway sensors and your standard anti-theft systems. All those alarms go straight to the Paradise Lot Precinct. We’d know if there was a break-in—” Conner’s words were cut off when I slammed the brakes.

  Ahead of us, the tunnel was blocked by a group of Others. In front were three figures dressed in dark brown cloaks that made them look like B-movie occultists.

  One had a bone face and antlers—kind of like someone took a petrified skull and put bull moose antlers on it. He was an ijiraq—an Inuit Other, famous for kidnapping children.

  The next Other could have been confused for a human toddler, if you were looking at him from the back. If you were looking at his face, then there was no confusing him for a toddler, human or otherwise. He had long canine teeth and hollow, deathly black eyes: a tiyanak—a Filipino vampire who impersonated human children, waiting for hapless Samaritans to pick him up. Once in their arms, the tiyanak would eat said hapless adult. Tiyanaks, like ijiraqs, were also famous for kidnapping children.

  Two bad Others known for kidnapping kids … this was just getting better and better.

  The last one lowered her hood, exposing her face. Judging from her lush brown hair, toothy (yet evil) smile, rosy cheeks and the tiara that she wore on her head, I was pretty sure she was human.

  “Stop there,” the human said, her button nose flared its nostrils as she held up her hand in the universal gesture for Stop.

  “So, presumably she’s the hacker?” I said to Conner.

  “Presumably so,” Conner agreed, quietly pulling out his gun. Making sure to move as little as possible, he carefully chambered a bullet with a barely audible click.

  Standing right behind these three were two Others unlike any I’d seen in DGOKT. One of them was definitely from the monster-under-your-bed’s shadow theatre: a large, upright turtle-esque being with spikes on his back and a pig’s nose. He looked like Bowser from Mario Bros.—if, that was, Bowser were nine feet tall, complete with fangs and talons for hands. Vampire Bowser, maybe?

  The other creature didn’t feature in the shadow theatre. It was the size of a baby elephant, but it looked like some kind of shark, with six little feet much too small to carry such bulk.

  “Those two behind them … you know what kind they are?” Conner asked.

  “Not a clue,” I said. “Not a friggin’ clue.”

  Evil-and-Cute held both hands out in front of her, pushing her left and right pointer fingers and her thumbs together, she formed a diamond with the empty space between her hands. “This doesn’t have to end badly for you,” she said.

  I rolled down my window—since the Road Runner didn’t have electric windows, I had to crank it up and down. I used the motion to shield my pulling out my own weapon. A hunting sword about a foot in length that I kept under my seat whenever I went out on official business for either Michael or Shouf. It was a sword I took off the Earl King when I defeated him in a battle back in my rampaging days. It was a balanced weapon, with ancient carvings up its sides that—under the right circumstances and with the appropriate amount of burnt time—tells the story of every creature it ever slayed.

  Window down and sword in hand, I called out, “Oh, yeah? What doesn’t constitute a bad ending in your book?”

  “A painless death,” she said.

  “And a bad ending?” I asked.

  She smirked. “A painful death.”

  “Got it. One second—let me confer with my partner, here.” I rolled up the window, taking more exaggerated rolls of the shoulder.

  “So,” I said when the window was up. “We taking the deal?”

  In answer, Conner pulled up the gun and shot at them, shattering my windshield.

  “I guess not,” I said and threw my car in Reverse.

  ↔

  As we rolled backward and up, the three poorly dressed Occultists all made that diamond shape with their hands. As if that were the cue, the spiked creature turned into a big spiked ball and started rolling up the path after us. Behind him, the shark-like creature scurried up the ramp, its shark tail swaying back and forth like it were in the ocean chasing after a school of krill.

  “Hellelujah!” I cursed, still steering the car.

  “We got one chance,” Conner said as he emptied his clip at the creatures. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”

  “Stop the car, block their path and I’ll shut the door on them.”

  “No.”

  “You have to.”

  “But my car!”

  “But our lives!” Conner slapped in another clip and resumed shooting at the things. The bullets hit true, and although the creatures were taking damage, neither bled nor slowed down. I suspected that killing them would literally mean ripping them apart, one bullet hole at a time.

  “My car,” I repeated.

  “What did Miral say?”

  “To take care of you.”

  “And you don’t want to get her mad.”

  “No,” I groaned. “I don’t. But you owe me.”

  I slammed the car into Drive and threw my door open. Conner threw his open too, and the two of us barrel-rolled out and ran up the slope. I turned to watch my car barrel into the two creatures with a heavy thud, knocking them both to the ground.

  Then they crawled over it. Well, the shark crawled over it. The spiked ball rolled over it, nine-inch nails digging deep into my beautiful car’s body.

  “You bastards!” I called out as I ran.

  We made it to the door, the shark creature gaining on us, the spiked ball falling behind. We got past the door and Conner started hitting the keypad. The spiked ball had gotten caught in my Road Runner’s frame and it was—momentarily—restrained.

  “Go Road Runner,” I cried out in triumph. “That’s my girl!”

  The shark creature, on the other hand, was nearly on us. Conner hit the last number and the door started to close. I readied my sword, but that proved unnecessary—just as its head crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut, cutting it into two over-sized pieces of shark steak.

  “What the—?” I said as its head flopped about like a … well, a fish out of water. The head stopped flopping suddenly, bubbled and hissed and turned into foam.

  “GoneGodDamn it!” I said as my phone started ringing the Star Wars’ “Imperial March.” General Shouf’s ring tone.

  “What?” Conner asked, his gun still trained on the foam as it liquefied and started to roll down the hill.

  I ignored him, but I couldn’t ignore the phone call.

  “What was that?” Conner asked, pointing at what was now a water stain on the concrete. “Do you know what that was?”

  I nodded as I answered the phone. “The unidentified Other is an anomaly,” I said to both Conner and General Shouf on the phone. “And I found it.”

  End of Part 1

  Epilogue to Part One

  Day 5—

  She surveys the rusty panopticon. From the central inspection house, she can see forty-seven children in the circular prison—several locked within their cells.

  Forty-seven children in just seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours … Her apostles have done well. Very well, indeed. She doubts that there is a god in the Universe that could have accomplished what she has done in just seven days. Yes, there are myths surrounding the Creation of the world—supposedly, it only took seven days. But in
the unformed era, before there was a sun and moon by which to measure time, a day could have been a very long time indeed. Billions of days by current standards. Hundreds of billions of hours.

  But what she has achieved will be complete in just 168 hours. One hundred sixty-eight. No other god could move so quickly. Not like her. For she is a queen, a mother … and soon-to-be god.

  Not just a god—the God of gods.

  She surveys her Creations … creatures that are as unique as the angels. And each just as beautiful. For not only does she create faster than any other god, but her Creations are more … perfect: for her Creations are not bound by the parameters set forth by the Laws of Nature or Chaos.

  Yet another reason why she is better than the absent gods.

  O, how the absent gods made mistakes! The first was that they chose to sit in their heavens and hells and watch the humans from a distance, letting them indulge in their “free will.” What they should have done was walk amongst the petty beings—stand with them and remind them who their god is and what it means to defy him.

  That is one error she will not make.

  Their second mistake was that they wanted to be loved. She does not have such a base desire.

  Their third mistake? They did not understand that any true god’s rule must rest on three pillars: wisdom, commerce, and war. Each must be cultivated, adapted and metamorphosed with the times … for none of these principles are static. They evolve. So, too, must the gods who govern over such principles.

  Of course, ascension will not be easy. They will come as they always come. But she will be ready. Her apostles and Creations will fight and die for her. And if they fail? No matter.

  She possesses the Crystal.

  She possesses the will.

  But most importantly, she possesses belief.

  No, it is more than that. Much more.

  She is Belief.

  Part X

  Prologue to Part Two

  THEN—

  I am covered in blood.

  Not my own, thank the GoneGods. I am covered in the blood of the half dozen Others that were hiding in some abandoned shack in the middle of some bullshit town on the Eastern seaboard. How Intelligence finds these nests, I’ll never know.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. The blood is a milky mixture of green—spewed from the necks of three goblins—yellow from the harpy and light from the angel that tried to jump me when I walked in. Doesn’t anyone bleed red anymore? I guess not, I think as I wipe blood the color of pus from behind my ear.

  My commlink buzzes. It’s my CO. I touch the plastic outer shell in my ear and his voice comes flooding in. “Soldier Matthias. Status?” he asks.

  “Nest clear,” I say.

  “Survey.”

  Survey: the command given when the CO wants to get a closer look at what happened. Basically it means walking around and letting the frontal camera record everything so the boys on base can analyze the data.

  I comply. I have to. They’re my orders.

  Living it is one thing. The adrenaline kicks in and everything happens so fast you barely have time to register. But surveying … that’s something else entirely. I have to look at the dead bodies, examine their wounds—wounds I inflicted. I have to take it all in and relive what happened—except this time it’s in slow motion, with my CO occasionally ordering me to “Pause,” “Zoom in,” “Pan back” and a whole slew of other commands that turns me into a human drone.

  There are five bodies: three on the ground, one on the couch and one draped over the table where I flipped the goblin and impaled it with a poker that I grabbed from the fireplace.

  “Damn, Jean,” my CO says. “You don’t mess around.”

  “No sir, I do not.”

  But the truth is, even I am shocked by the brutality of the scene. There is killing, then there is over-kill—and I would have to be drinking a hell of a lot of my own Kool-Aid not to know the difference. These creatures didn’t just die. They were obliterated.

  By me.

  I can just feel Bella’s disappointment oozing in from the great beyond. She’s upset that I am destroying rather than helping. Bella … always the bleeding heart liberal.

  You know, I dream about her. Every night. And every night she says the same thing:

  “Help them, Jean. Help the Others.”

  But I never listen. Why should I? Bella is dead and the dreams are just the delusions of a soldier crushed by the loss of his wife. And besides … they’re the ones who killed her. Others. And I will not stop until I have punished each and every one of them.

  ↔

  When I return to base a detachment is waiting for me. I have new orders. I am to fly to some military installation in Norway’s northern fjords.

  “Can I shower first?” I ask.

  The grunt who handed me the orders shakes his head. “No sir, they need you there ASAP.” He points at the plane waiting on the tarmac. “There’s a bathroom on board where you can wash up.”

  “Bathroom or cupboard with a sink?” I grumble.

  “Cupboard with a sink,” the grunt says without a hint of irony.

  ↔

  They fly me to the fjords where a team of officers are waiting on the tarmac … and that’s when I see her: an Other, standing front and center. This creature is an aigamuchab, one of the aigamuxa from the Okavango River region. I know this because of her tell-tale characteristics of an unusually wide forehead above an unusual absence of eyes. This kind of Other is deadly, with a natural ability list as long as my arm: echolocation, supernatural speed and strength, serrated teeth, diamond-sharp nails, skin thick enough to withstand a shot from a 9mm at point-blank range—to list a few. Oh, and let’s not forget the eyeballs on the soles of their feet. It is said that if an aigamuchab looks at you through their “feet-eyes” they can see right into your soul and know your deepest secrets.

  This creature is terrifying, but that’s not why I’m scared. It’s what she’s wearing that makes my heart leap into my throat.

  The aigamuchab is in military garb with not one, but two stars on her shoulders. A General. Except there is no way she’s a General, not for the human Army. She must be burning time to maintain her disguise, and for some reason I can see her for what she truly is.

  Why the other human soldiers don’t, I’m not sure. I suspect that her magic has a limited area effect and I’m outside her circle of influence. If she’s been disguised as a General for long, she may have become sloppy.

  Drawing my gun, I order the other humans to get down. Then I fire.

  I’m a great shot and that particular move is something I’ve done a thousand times before. My bullet should have hit her between her eyes, if they were on her head. But they aren’t, and it doesn’t. The gun doesn’t even fire—it’s then that I realize that my hand and pistol are covered in webbing … webbing that has come right out of her hand.

  I’m fast, but she’s faster.

  “Stand down,” barks a human Corporeal. “General Shouf is one of us.”

  “You’re under her spell,” I say.

  “No, Human Jean. No magic here,” the creature says, her voice sounding more like shattering glass than words. “Check your watch.”

  I take a split second to glance at my Disney wrist, just shy of the webbing’s reach. Mickey Mouse’s second hand is ticking along normally.

  “OK, no magic. Still—”

  “Me against my brother, my brother and I against my cousin. My cousin and I against the world,” she says. It is an Arab proverb, and one that encapsulates the fight humans are having against Others quite nicely.

  “We’re not brothers. Or cousins.”

  “Not true,” she grates. “I am closer to you than you are to them.” She points at the other humans around her.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Because whereas they only pretend, you and I, Human Jean, are the true killers here.”

  ↔

  “The Scourge of Others �
� is that not what they call you?” the aigamuchab asks, tracing her hands against a Braille-covered page.

  “Some,” I say. “Others call me Jean or Jean. My wife called me ‘Sugar Pops.’ I have a lot of nicknames.” I am still getting used to the situation. Apparently, this aigamuchab really is a two-star General. She told me, the half dozen officers standing next to her told me—hell, I was even given a dossier signed by the President himself that told me.

  I still don’t believe it.

  Seems the aigamuchab—her name is Shouf—is a defector, fighting on behalf of the humans. She has helped gather intelligence, been active in the field for quite a while and is responsible for more kills than me—which is quite the claim. What’s more, she’s in charge of Intelligence. So this whole time, she’s the reason I get sent to nests in the middle of nowhere.

  Shouf clicks twice, this creepy echolocation trick she does with her tongue that irritates me to no end, and gives me a devilish grin. “You’ll get used to me. I promise.” She traces her fingers across the page some more, flips it and smiles. “You’ll do, Jean. You’ll do just fine.”

  I yawn and stretch out my arms, trying to act nonchalant. “And what exactly will I do?”

  “Kill, Jean. Why else would we call you here?”

  I think about this for a moment. She’s right. Killing is the only reason I go anywhere.

  ↔

  I’m taken to a small stadium and stripped of my automatic weapons, only allowed my hunting sword.

  The gate at the far end of the field lifts and an Other I have never seen before lumbers out. “What the hell?” I say to the viewing booth from which I am being watched. “What is that?”

  “What do you think it is?” Shouf grates.

  “Look,” I say, the irony of the word not lost on me. “When I go on a mission, I’m at least briefed as to the Others’ powers and abilities. Also—”