Dark Exodus

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Doug tried to save them, to direct them to safety, but the lightning continued to arc down from the sky, striking at anything that moved, until nothing moved at all.

  And the ground burned, as the heavens growled with its accomplishments.

  Six of the nine bodies had been burned beyond recognition, their flesh and internal workings reduced nearly to ash.

  Three appeared to be untouched.

  But looks could be deceiving.

  The three that appeared unhurt by the lightning strikes—Scout Leader Doug Elden, twelve-year-old Randy Davis, and the youngest of the group, at nine years old, Timothy Horner—stood upon the scorched ground, amidst the remains of those who had once been friends.

  In unison, the three lifted their arms, at first studying their hands before moving on to other aspects of their bodies.

  It was as if they were suddenly unfamiliar with their human forms, as if who they had been was suddenly gone, burned away by the touch of lightning.

  And replaced with something else.

  The man who had once been Doug Elden looked around his surroundings with new eyes, taking in the details of the world.

  He then spoke to the others, Randy, who wasn’t Randy anymore, as well as Timothy.

  Who they had been was gone, and now something else wore their bodies.

  The language the one that had been Doug spoke was ancient, a tongue only spoken by the first of God’s creations.

  He spoke to his brethren. There was still much that needed to be accomplished.

  Before it was too late.

  And then the three began to walk, leaving the smoldering and blackened area behind, moving through the woods, making their way toward the road and civilization.

  Following the scent of something that should not be there.

  Something forged in the darkest corners of the pit.

  Something infernal.

  • • •

  Fritz wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but he came awake with a start.

  He was in the lobby of the funeral home, slumped upon a couch, his every muscle and internal organ raw and burning.

  He needed to feed, he needed to lay his hands upon something throbbing with life so that he might extract the energies into his own ravenous body.

  He was pushing himself up off the couch when he heard it.

  A voice bellowing for his attention.

  Human, it called to him from somewhere within the old funeral home. It was the Cardinal, and there was part of him that wanted to correct the demon, to tell it that he’d stopped being human a very long time ago.

  But why tempt fate? The Cardinal barely tolerated his presence now, why continue to arouse its anger?

  The call grew more insistent, more annoyed in its tone, and Fritz knew that he would need to see to the demon before he could even contemplate feeding. He moved as quickly as he could, his body painfully aching with his every movement. When he was this hungry—this ravenous—his supernaturally altered body began to feed on itself, the energies of his own body extracted from every cell.

  “Human, I’m calling for you!”

  He determined that the Cardinal was downstairs, likely in one of the funeral home’s preparation rooms.

  Fritz grimaced with the thought of descending stairs, the muscles in his legs already screaming in protest.

  Almost as persistently as the demon Cardinal.

  The demon bellowed again, and Fritz returned the call.

  “Coming, my lord,” he managed, trying to keep his annoyance from his tone, but it was so difficult. He was so hungry, especially since he’d been forced to use magick to stop John Fogg from meddling in the plans of Hell.

  He decided not to mention John Fogg to the Cardinal, making the choice to keep the subject of his failure to himself. The spell that he’d cast had been a nasty one, and he hoped that this time he had succeeded, and John Fogg was finally removed from the game board.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Fritz needed to stop, to catch his breath before proceeding. He needed to feed; anything that lived at this point would be sufficient, insects, a rat, a plump cat would be lovely. He found his mouth beginning to water as he imagined the life force of some struggling creature flowing up through his hands, filling his body with stolen life.

  Fritz heard the sounds not far from where he’d stopped and moved toward the doorway.

  “I am here, lord,” he said as he filled the doorway, looking into the sterile white tile of the embalming room.

  The Cardinal had been working and Fritz gasped at the sight of it.

  Using a scalpel and other sharp instruments, the Cardinal had cut away the skin from its human body. There wasn’t a surface that didn’t appear untouched by blood, the floor covered, the walls spattered. Even the ceiling was decorated with patterns of crimson.

  “What . . .” Fritz began, leaning weakened against the doorframe. “What are you doing?”

  The Cardinal was working on its chest, pulling a thick strip of bloody, rubbery flesh down its front, taking away the sagging breasts that had once adorned the female body that it wore.

  “For what must follow,” the Cardinal said, holding a pair of heavy-duty scissors, most likely used to cut thick tendons, muscle, or even bone, and cutting away strips of bloody skin, allowing them to slap to the embalming-room floor. “For what must be done . . . a certain appearance is required.”

  Fritz looked upon the bloody mess. The demon had already cut away the old woman’s face, her hair. He was reminded of the fleshless museum exhibits, used to show the workings of the human musculature beneath the skin.

  “A guise of humanity, sloughed off to expose the infernal beneath.”

  The Cardinal worked furiously on the flesh just below the breast, careful not to take too much away so that the internal workings did not spill out onto the floor.

  “I . . . see,” Fritz managed, still unsure exactly what it all meant, but then again, maybe his hunger was making him stupid.

  “Did you require my assistance?” Fritz asked. “Do you need me to . . .”

  “My back,” the demon said, spinning around and handing him a pair of bloody scissors. “I can’t reach the back.”

  “You want me to . . .”

  “If I could perform the function myself, I would,” the demon growled, bending its blood-covered head forward and pushing its back area toward Fritz. “Cut it away.”

  At first he was tentative, afraid that he might somehow hurt his new master. But then he came to realize, as he dug the scissor blade under the skin, cutting a line deep enough to get his fingers beneath, that this was a demon of the infernal realm and it did not feel the paltry human sensations of pain and pleasure.

  It was motivated by sensations that a mere human couldn’t even hope to understand.

  Fritz dug beneath the deep incision that he’d made in the back of the body of the old woman that the demon wore.

  There was a tingle at his fingertips as he touched the flesh, and they were covered with blood.

  There was life in the skin, in the blood, and he could feel it filling him, reinvigorating him to a point as he began to pull, to peel the skin down and away from the muscles and bone beneath.

  Fritz stopped midway, the loose flesh slippery in his hands. He was experiencing a certain amount of guilt, feeding upon the demon’s human form.

  And the Cardinal turned its bloody visage toward him, as if somehow having the ability to see into his thoughts.

  “This is where a connection is made,” the demon told him. “Where our bond is forged.”

  Fritz listened in rapt attention.

  “I give to you,” the Cardinal told him. “And in return . . .”

  The life flowing through his body then was unlike anything that he’d ever experienced . . . ever tasted.

&
nbsp; Human, but then again—not.

  The Cardinal braced its bare feet upon the blood-covered tile and demanded that the last of the vile, human guise be torn away.

  Fritz obliged, tugging upon the skin, taking what he could from the flesh and the crimson that wept freely from the exposed muscle.

  They were bonding, there was no other way to describe the experience. This is what he had dared to dream of, what he had craved oh so desperately.

  To be that much closer to his infernal masters, to prove to them that he was their humble servant.

  Fritz grabbed the scissors again, ready to cut away the ragged, excess flesh he’d reached just above the buttocks. He cut and pulled the skin from the old body, holding it, feeling the life energies exploding from the cells as it ceased to live.

  It took a moment to realize that he was being watched, that the Cardinal now stood bloody and bare before him.

  “And are we ready?” the demon lord asked.

  He was not quite sure what the demon was asking but answered nonetheless.

  “We are ready.”

  “Good,” the Cardinal said, its voice a soothing growl. “Then bring me my robe.”

  Fritz did not understand.

  “Robe, my lord?”

  The demon nodded slowly.

  “Bring me that which will cover this form, bringing me that much closer to what I have left behind . . . bringing that which I have left behind that much closer.”

  The Cardinal paused.

  “Bring me the map,” it said.

  And Fritz suddenly understood, a wave of euphoria coursing through him, making him feel as though he were drunk. He dropped the dead flesh he was holding to the tile floor of the embalming room and turned toward the entryway, heading toward the secret room where the body of David Carroll still lay.

  Fritz understood now, it was all perfectly clear.

  The map hung from its hooks, the lines of black flowing across the surface of the flesh stretched taut. He stepped closer to the skin, hands reaching, but hesitating. At that moment, he was unsure if he should be the one to touch it.

  If he was truly worthy.

  “Take it down,” commanded a voice. Fritz looked to the entryway to see the bloody form of the Cardinal standing there in its new, raw form.

  Fritz’s eyes must have questioned the act as he looked at his lord.

  “Go ahead,” the Cardinal urged. “Take it down and clothe me in its purpose.”

  Fritz reached up to the first corner, taking hold of the skin and bringing it up, and over the hook. The flesh felt warm to the touch, alive. He found himself wanting to taste this unusual life, but something told him that it would have been a very unwise decision.

  The other corner came away from its hook, then he worked closer to the ground, eventually freeing the map completely. Fritz stood there, holding out the flesh as the Cardinal came farther into the room, stepping over the cooling body of the mortician.

  The demon slowly turned, presenting his back to him yet again.

  “Adorn me,” the Cardinal said, and Fritz brought the flesh closer, preparing to drape the fabric of skin across the flayed shoulders of the demon’s body.

  The map reacted on its own, moving as if caught by a powerful breeze, flowing toward the body of the demon Cardinal and draping across its bare back, across its shoulder, clinging to the demon’s body like two lovers denied each other’s company for so very long.

  It sounded like a cat’s purr, and Fritz was unsure which was making the sound, the demon Cardinal . . .

  Or was it the map?

  The Cardinal pulled the wrap of flesh tighter, inviting it to clothe its raw, bloody body in its embrace. Fritz watched in awe as the two became as one.

  The demon Cardinal turned slowly, almost as if to show him its every new detail.

  “We are ready,” the Cardinal said, holding out its arms in presentation.

  It looked as though the demon were wearing the most unusual of hooded robes, resembling a monk of some kind from a monastery deep from within the bowels of Hell itself.

  It was a sight to behold.

  “Now we can go,” the Cardinal said, and lines of black flowed across the surface of the skin that adorned it.

  Telling them where they would go.

  • • •

  Brenna Isabel hated herself at the moment, standing in front of her ex-husband’s hotel-room door.

  She’d been standing there for at least five minutes, trying to answer the question of what the hell she was doing.

  The press conference had gone off without a hitch, Ralph DiBernardo had been proclaimed the perpetrator of the horrific act at the Waukegan grade school, and was shot dead at the scene by a member of her special task force.

  There had been further questions, but she had been able to answer them slyly enough through the use of special notes provided to her by the Custodian and good old-fashioned storytelling.

  And now she felt absolutely filthy, right down to her soul.

  Brenna had needed somebody to talk to, somebody who probably knew the depths of the despair she was currently feeling. She had no idea why she thought of Craig, but, surprisingly, he’d been on her mind quite a bit these days since they’d reconnected.

  It infuriated her, just adding to how low she was already feeling.

  She was going to go, to turn away from room 419 of the Residence Inn, head down the hallway to the elevator, and right to her car.

  She was going to do that.

  And felt her legs begin to take her.

  Just as the door opened, and Craig was there.

  “Hey,” he said with the briefest flicker of a smile. “Thought I heard you out here.”

  He paused awkwardly.

  “Do you want to . . .” He didn’t finish, gesturing for her to come in.

  Brenna wasn’t going to. She really wasn’t. She could do this . . . she really could. She could excuse herself, telling Craig that it was all a big mistake, her coming here, and head to the elevator.

  She could do it, but she didn’t. Brenna stepped inside.

  It was a typical residence hotel, set up for business people and workers who planned to be in a particular area for a longer amount of time. It was like a small apartment, providing the renter with everything they would need to live in the area in relative comfort: small eat-in kitchen with a circular table, living room, and a bedroom right off the bathroom. She’d had apartments with less over the years.

  “Can I get you anything?” Craig asked, walking into the kitchen area. “Some water or . . .”

  “Got any whiskey?” she found herself asking, regretting the words as they left her mouth.

  “Oh,” he answered. “Yeah I do. Bought a bottle of Jameson’s the other night just in case you decided to . . .”

  He paused, embarrassed by his forward thinking.

  “That’ll do,” she said, walking into the small living-room area and removing her coat.

  What the hell am I doing?

  “I was worried by your call,” he said, opening up a few of the cabinet doors before he found what he was looking for. He took a glass tumbler down. “You didn’t sound right.”

  “I wasn’t right,” she said, sitting down on the sofa with a sigh.

  “Can you talk about it?”

  She didn’t answer right away, attempting to decide if she should say anything at all.

  “It’s just the job,” she said, as he carried her glass of whiskey into the living room, handing it to her. “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” Craig said, moving across to sit in the chair.

  “Does it have anything to do with that school shooting that I saw on TV?” he asked.

  “It does,” she admitted. “And the less said about it the better.” She took a large pull of the golden li
quid, relishing the burn as it slid down her throat. She was thinking of the Coalition and what it was doing and felt her belly go sour.

  She had some more whiskey to see if that would fix it.

  Craig remained silent, which was exactly what he should have done. It made her resent him all the more. She was hoping for a reason to be angry then, for her to storm from the hotel room and curse herself for ever coming here.

  He wasn’t being very obliging.

  “I have absolutely no idea why I came here now,” she announced, the slightest hint of a buzz loosening her tongue.

  “That’s all right,” Craig said. “Reason or not, I’m glad you did.”

  She found herself smiling and hated herself for it.

  “How did you know that I wasn’t coming here to tear you a new asshole?” she asked as she brought her glass to her mouth and tossed back what was left.

  “Didn’t,” Craig said, leaning back in the chair.

  “That would have been all right with you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You already know how I feel about what I did to you.”

  Brenna was almost sure it was the whiskey, but she was starting to feel things. Sure, there was a battle going on inside of her as she remembered the hurt of being abandoned, on top of losing their son, but there was something going on with him now, and she actually was starting to believe that he understood how badly he had fucked up.

  And was sorry.

  “Any Jameson’s left?” she asked him.

  “Sure,” he said, standing up from the chair. He took her empty glass and returned to the kitchen.

  Brenna felt her resolve begin to crumble, all that pent-up anger and hate that she’d been feeling for so long receding into the background. She really didn’t care for it, it made her feel totally vulnerable.

  A way that she hadn’t felt since . . .

  “Do you think about him?” she suddenly asked, shocked that she’d asked such a thing.

  Asked about their son.

  Craig was pouring her drink and had to stop. He looked across the short expanse of room at where she sat.