Dark Exodus

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “What will be done with it?”

  “The bodies? They will be prepared . . . embalmed. The fluids inside drained and replaced with a preservative to slow the decaying process and prepare them for burial.”

  “Such a waste,” the demon lord said, licking its chops. “They should be going into the bellies of the damned instead of into the ground.”

  David didn’t really know how to respond. He’d tried the taste of human flesh once, and it really didn’t appeal to him, but then again, he wasn’t a demon of Hell.

  “Well, perhaps when darkness falls across the Earth, then maybe . . .”

  “Yes, maybe,” the Cardinal said, its attention returning to the task at hand.

  “The map,” it insisted.

  David moved past the embalming tables to the very back of the space, where boxes of supplies were stacked. He moved the boxes aside to expose a clear area of wall. Reaching down, he applied just the right amount of pressure, and a secret door popped open with a click.

  “Right in here,” he said, motioning to the Cardinal and his assistant.

  David went in first, turning on the light, which was a single bulb hanging from an extension cord. He wanted to make sure the room was presentable for his special guest.

  Everything looked as good as it was going to, the last of the map sewn in only two days before. He remembered the message that he’d received earlier in his dreams, announcing the Cardinal’s coming, and almost began to cry all over again.

  So much time leading up to this.

  He hadn’t really even had a chance think of the reward that had been promised him by the infernal beings that he’d been obeying for most of his life.

  It was something to look forward to.

  “Enter and behold,” he said rather dramatically, regretting the decision as the Cardinal ducked its head to enter.

  The map was presented in the center of the small room, hung by hooks, stretched taut by its four corners.

  The Cardinal’s eyes fell upon the sheet of flesh and approached it with what David hoped was a look of awe.

  Extending its hand, the demon traced the faint scarring where the innumerable patches of flesh had been stitched to one another, to eventually heal together, leaving only the hint of a mark behind.

  A miracle of the infernal.

  “You did amazing work,” the Cardinal told him, studying every single inch . . . every single piece of flesh that had merged together to form a sort of tapestry that would soon bear the map.

  The Cardinal drew closer to the taut flesh, almost sniffing the patchwork canvas. Its eyes were closed, and David heard a strange, gurgling sound come from somewhere within the old woman’s body.

  David looked over to the other one, the Cardinal’s driver, and saw that the man was just standing there, arms by his side, watching intensely.

  The Cardinal’s mouth opened far wider than the human body should allow, and a strange, grinding sound, followed by a muffled pop, filled the air. David was reminded of the great South American snakes that he’d seen dislocating their jaws to consume their prey.

  But the Cardinal was not preparing to take anything in, it was letting something out.

  The cloud was black, and slick, like oil, and it seemed as though there should have been weight to it, but there wasn’t. It floated—snaked—from the Cardinal’s open mouth, writhing in the air as it expanded outward. The mass hung there, growing larger as it continued to emerge from the old woman’s mouth.

  It was now an enormous mass of undulating black, and just when David wondered how much there was of the oily substance, the Cardinal stepped back, placing a liver-spotted hand beneath its obscenely extended jaw and closing its mouth with a snap.

  They were all watching it now, the floating oil slick as it writhed in the air before the canvas of patchwork flesh.

  The way it moved, it seemed as though it were alive, contemplating its purpose. Tendrils of black extended outward from its mass, gently brushing against the skin, caressing the multitude of flesh.

  David wasn’t sure what he was seeing but guessed that it was something monumental in the scheme of what was coming. He had no idea what these dark forces had in store for the world but imagined he would be a part of it, with his reward and all.

  He had been totally loyal all these years; of course he would receive something of value for his troubles. It hadn’t been easy hiding his true nature for all that time, he mused, watching the weightless black mass familiarizing itself with his handiwork.

  He had had to look the part of a compassionate soul, a caring man who grieved along with his customers, feeling their pain as he offered them solace, as well as a good deal on a coffin and embalming for their loved one’s burial. He should have won an Oscar for the performances he’d given throughout the years.

  Nobody ever knew, nobody ever suspected that he was revolted by them all, each and every one of them. And that he took joy in their pain and sadness, and he wished them more until they, too, were in his funeral home, on one of his embalming slabs, their pathetic lives at an end.

  But now he didn’t have to hide it anymore because something wonderful was about to happen, the world was going to be changed forever, and he would be a part of it.

  The floating cloud of oil seemed to suddenly understand, retracting its tendrils, the body of the thing swirling and churning as it hung there.

  “Now,” the Cardinal said. “Now it is time . . . now we will see.”

  And with the last of its words, the black liquid surged at the canvas of flesh, colliding with the taut surface and spreading across it, making its indelible mark upon the canvas of skin.

  David didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the colorful spots started to dance before his eyes. He was in awe over what he was seeing, the black acting as a kind of ink, permeating the various pieces of flesh to leave its mark.

  To provide the Cardinal with the location it needed for . . .

  David had no clue.

  It was no doubt a map taking shape before him, but it was the strangest map he had ever seen, the markings and coordinates made upon the skin moving and pulsating with a special kind of life.

  It was mesmerizing.

  David found himself moving toward the map, extending his hand to touch the skin that he’d worked so hard to stitch together.

  The Cardinal reacted, its own hand reaching out to take hold of David’s wrist.

  “None but a Lord of Hell may touch the map now that it has been drawn,” the demon said, its grip upon David intensifying. He got the idea and nodded quickly as the pain continued to grow, fearing that his bones would soon be reduced to powder, just as the Cardinal released him.

  David pulled back his hand, rubbing at his sore wrist furiously, attempting to massage away the pain.

  The inky black continued to flow across the flesh, intricate lines and shapes like fine capillaries appearing across the surface.

  “Yes,” the Cardinal said, stepping closer yet again to take in all the details as they appeared.

  “What does it tell us?” the driver then asked, beating David to the punch. The funeral director was glad this had happened, not wanting to further incur the wrath of the demon lord if possible.

  The Cardinal turned toward the man and glared, and David wasn’t sure if the demon was going to share.

  “This map shows us the whereabouts of six pieces,” the Cardinal said, raising its hand, one of its long, arthritic fingers tracing the multitude of lines across the map’s surface. “Pieces that, once collected, will create a key.”

  “A key?” David asked. “A key to what?” He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but the need to know was too great.

  The Cardinal again turned its dark, moist eyes toward him.

  “A key to a brazen vessel,” the Cardinal told him. “And through t
his brazen vessel there will be a passage.”

  “A passage?” David asked, feeling his excitement building. “A passage to where?”

  The Cardinal smiled, the gesture appearing totally unnatural upon the face of the old woman that he wore.

  “In due time,” the Cardinal purred. “In due time, but first . . .”

  Its fingers stroked the surface of the map.

  The driver came closer as well, and David expected the man to be rebuked, but the Cardinal allowed his presence.

  “We’ll have to find the pieces of the key first,” he said, staring at the bizarre markings upon the map. “These will tell us?” he asked.

  “These will tell—me,” the Cardinal said.

  “Of course,” the driver agreed, accepting the Cardinal’s word.

  David couldn’t hold himself back, he had worked on creating the canvas for so long that seeing it finally becoming what it had always been intended to be was nearly too much for him. He wanted to know everything about what he’d had a part in creating.

  He wanted to know how it worked.

  “Show me,” he said, feeling both the driver’s and the Cardinal’s eyes upon him. The driver’s gaze was full of warning, but the Cardinal’s . . . they had strangely softened.

  “You have served the cause well,” the demon said. “So your impudence shall be overlooked.”

  “Thank you,” David said. He wanted to look at the driver and smile, to let him know who was special to the demon lord and who was not.

  “Of course,” the Cardinal purred. It extended its arm, putting it around David’s shoulder and pulling him closer to the map. “You want to be shown.”

  “I do,” David said.

  “The map will reveal the location of the very first piece of the key,” the Cardinal told him. The demon’s hand fluttered over the surface of the skin, the black ink reacting to its vicinity.

  David watched wide-eyed as a black spot, like cancer, formed, a swirling vortex that commanded his eyes.

  “What is that?” David asked. “Is that the key?”

  “No,” the Cardinal said, pulling him closer. David noticed the body’s smell now; it smelled of sweat, and blood, and decay. He liked the fetid aroma. “That is us . . . that is where we stand now.”

  Another mark, this one resembling a multipointed black star took shape directly beside the swirling black mark.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yes,” the Cardinal cooed, very close to his ear. “That is the location of the first piece.”

  “But look at it,” David said, reaching out to point. “It’s so close,” he said, watching the black star.

  “It is,” the Cardinal agreed. “Close enough for me to claim.”

  David felt the excitement of the moment before the intensity of the pain.

  The Cardinal’s long, old fingers had jabbed themselves into his chest, the thick nails of its fingers easily penetrating through his stained dress shirt, through the layers of flesh and fat beneath.

  “Oh!” David said as he watched the demon’s hand slide deeper into his body. He looked from the Cardinal, to the driver, who was smiling a better-you-than-me grin.

  “Your function is about to come to a close,” the Cardinal whispered ever so softly—lovingly—to him.

  He could feel the demon’s fingers moving around inside him as the warm blood poured out from the wounds left by the demon hand’s entrance into his chest cavity.

  “There . . .” he managed to get the word out, as the taste of blood began to fill his mouth. “There was supposed . . . supposed . . . to be . . a reward!”

  “Oh yes there was,” the Cardinal said, forcing its hand in even deeper.

  The world was growing black for David even though he fought to remain conscious . . . to remain in the light of the world.

  “Ah!” the Cardinal said excitedly, extracting its hand with a horrible, wet, sucking sound. It held a blood-covered object out for David to see in a dripping hand.

  “Your reward.”

  As he gradually slid from life, David looked at the object as it shifted shape between the finger and thumb of the demon Cardinal. Circle, to square, to triangle, and as it changed shape, it sang the most mournful of songs.

  The song was so very sad as it echoed throughout his skull.

  It was a song of Hell, and how awful it would be when the kingdom of Pandemonium was no more.

  When Hell was but a memory.

  What an odd song to sing, David thought, as everything slid down to black.

  And he left this world behind, even sadder than the song he had listened to, so very mournful that he would never know its meaning.

  What was going on in Hell?

  And then, it didn’t matter.

  • • •

  John Fogg didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary happening down on the first floor, so he guessed that their new houseguests didn’t need him.

  He sat at his desk, the jar containing the lesser demonic creature held in his hands. Surprisingly, the starfish-like thing still lived—barely, but it was enough for him to examine, and maybe connect back to the one who had left it, and the others of its ilk behind, in the garage.

  First, he made certain that the wards he had scratched into the jar were still intact, holding the lesser demon in place. John then took hold of the metal lid and slowly, carefully unscrewed the top.

  A terrible smell of brimstone and filth wafted up and out of the jar, making him cough. It was something that he had smelled before, and quite often, but it was a stink that still disgusted him, a stink that he would never get used to.

  On his desk was a pair of long, metal tweezers, and he took them in hand, putting them down into the jar to take hold of one of the demon’s slimy limbs to extract it from within.

  “Dominus exercituum tribuo nos ecure angelus . . . Custodio illa ianua,” John began the Lord of Hosts prayer, another level of protection just in case, as he slowly withdrew the squirming abomination from the jar.

  He had already drawn a star of protection upon the surface he intended to work from, and dropped the squirming, almost dead nightmare into the center of it.

  “Dominus exercituum tribuo nos . . . ecure . . . Seraphim Retineo malum per flamma mucro.” John Fogg continued with his prayer. Couldn’t be too careful when dealing with anything connected to the infernal.

  He reached to his right, finding the scalpel and picking it up. The creature’s pale underside had been exposed, and he let the blade hover for a moment, deciding where he wanted to make the first cut.

  “Dominus exercituum tribuo nos . . ecure vox . . . Quod ecu malum unus inops.”

  Then he brought the scalpel down upon the living nightmare.

  • • •

  The Cardinal had gone off to prepare itself, the demon lord wearing the body of a dead old woman had told him.

  Fine with me, Fritz thought, hanging around the funeral home. The less time he had to spend with the prickly demon, the safer he felt.

  He was drawn back to the secret room behind the embalming room, where the map still hung. Fritz stood before the tapestry of skin, fighting the urge to touch it. The ink that had fused with the flesh continued to flow and move, oddly shaped symbols, likely representing the locations where the next pieces of the key were to be found, floating about the taut flesh.

  Five pieces to go, the Cardinal had said, closing its hand about the piece extracted from the body of the old mortician before leaving to prepare itself, whatever that meant.

  His eyes glanced down to the corpse of the man who had helped to make the map and who had held the first piece of the key.

  Was this what you expected? he thought to the mortician’s dead body. Was this the reward you’d anticipated for serving the infernal forces?

  It made him wonder.


  His servitude to the darkness had been quite long, and for the first time, he began to wonder if perhaps he should be more wary of the events to come.

  Fritz felt suddenly quite peckish and had decided to leave the funeral home to find something to touch—to feed upon—when . . .

  The pain in his chest was sharp—biting—as if he were being cut.

  No, not him . . .

  The images appeared inside his head, staccato flashes of what was happening to one of his demonic minions, one of the creatures he’d left behind to guard and protect his property from harm.

  Fritz had to angle his body to the side; as he had grown dizzy, he had almost reached out and taken hold of the map to steady himself. He imagined that would have been a very bad thing to do.

  Slamming against the cold cinder-block wall, he continued to be assailed by the imagery, feeling what was being done to the lesser demon that he had bent to do his bidding.

  The thing was calling out to him, its psychic cries digging deep into his brain.

  The demon was being dissected, pulled apart, not to see the infernal animal’s inner workings but to look at the magick attached to it.

  The magick that made it obey.

  Fritz felt the electric surge of panic.

  Magick that could be, if the person performing the magickal dissection was any good, traced back to the one who had placed the spell.

  Traced back to him.

  Recovered slightly from the psychic onslaught, Fritz used the connection with the minor demon to see who would attempt such a thing—who would dare.

  Fritz gasped at the sight.

  John Fogg.

  His panic quadrupled in size.

  Here was a man who should be dead, the most devious of traps laid for him and his wife.

  But still they lived.

  It was a tremendous failure, and one Fritz was not proud of. He was still unsure what had gone wrong, how the two had managed to survive.

  And here Fogg was now, tracing a magickal spell that would lead to him. This was not good, not good at all, Fritz thought, attempting to control his panic.

  If the Cardinal found out that somebody with the preternatural prowess of John Fogg was potentially onto their task . . .