by A. R. Braun
She’d been correct. His impending capture indeed fueled his fire.
He chewed the heart, relishing in the spicy, chickenlike flavor—warm, metallic-tasting lifeblood spilling down his chin—but he let it flow. Tyler had been surprised at how the organ had looked like an apple when he’d severed it from the veins. The juicy chunks went down his throat, also, and he swallowed them greedily. Then he commenced to pound her bones to dust. He’d chuck them in the fireplace, and their essence would travel up to heaven and choke out God and all his angels, along with those weak-ass Christians who’d been afraid to live, for everything had been a sin to them.
Too, he’d dined on her stomach and back; they’d tasted like veal.
Frenetically, he slammed the sledgehammer down, again and again, not caring for the noise he made. It was too late for worry. Every stinking hateful word she’d ever said to him ran through his mind, along with that smug look on her face, the way she’d frowned at him over her shoulder when listening to her precious mp3 player. Then she’d shrugged hard, as if to shake him off like an insect. That’s all he’d been to her, someone to provide for her, Morgan so full of entitlement, bitching at him in man-hating fury every time she hadn’t gotten her way. He’d been a dildo stick to her, not a human being with feelings. That made him pound the bones harder, and how majestic if he could even soil her good name after he’d disposed of her. Perhaps he’d call her wretched family and let them know how worthless she’d acted: how she’d goofed up another relationship with insanity.
Perhaps after he finished with this ritual, he’d take off and make a run for it. He probably wouldn’t get far, thanks to Interpol, but it was worth the ol college try.
BAM.
He’d finished pounding her bones to dust, and he looked toward the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. He’d been so entranced by satanic elation, he’d blocked out the police knocking. That had been the entry door giving in in its weak, wooden foundation, thanks to the kicking of a stout cop, or perhaps a battering ram. And what would he do now? Just what? Footfalls followed; they were searching the house. Well, he’d go down fighting. He’d taken the shotgun out to the garage with him, and he grabbed it and hid behind his Lamborghini.
Fire on the first one as soon as he comes through the door, Satan spoke in his mind. Or had Tyler gone crazy as a tick? Don’t give him a chance to think. The pentagram will distract him. Then get into your Jesus-built hotrod and zoom down to Mexico. Don’t stop until you get to a warehouse just outside of Mexico City. I’ll show you the routes to drive, and I’ll keep you one step ahead of the police. When they’re around the corner, I’ll let you know. When you get to the warehouse, ask for Carlito. He’s the head of the coven I want you to join.
Enough of this solitary witchcraft! I want to give you the power to reign over mankind!
Bad Gawd, am I the Antichrist?
The one with a capital “A,” not the little antichrists who didn’t believe in the son of God.
Satan had high work planned for him. Regal. Tyler nodded. He’d performed the human sacrifices and now he was untouchable.
A huge cop with very short hair came through the door. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “This is Officer Mattson. I’m gonna need backup at 1730 Rainwater Way. There’s some crazy ritual sh—”
That’s all he had a chance to say before Tyler shot him in the eye, the .30-06 bullet taking off the left side of his face, bringing a spray of blood and gore. Filled with grue, Tyler embraced the shudder that came upon him. He was above the law!
“We’ve got gunfire in the garage!” the other officer spoke into his walkie. “Send backup!”
Go on the offensive!
Tyler took off his shoes so he wouldn’t make a sound, then charged out from behind the car and ran across the garage, noticing the fire in the pentagram had burnt down to smoldering embers. He raced through the door, and there was the officer in the kitchen, speaking into his radio. Tyler raised the barrel and leveled off the best shot he could, right between the eyes, taking the top of the pig’s head off in the process. Then he whipped out his hunting knife and cut bits of flesh from each officer. Tyler ran for the Lamborghini before backup could show. He drove right through the garage door. He who hesitates is lost, never truer than right now.
On the way to Mexico, he dined on raw pork.
Chapter 10
It had been just like the devil said. Tyler hadn’t run into one cop the whole way down to Mexico City. Every once and again, Satan would tell him to choose an alternate route to avoid a police car or a roadblock, and he hadn’t minded taking the long way home. He used a toothpick to pluck the pieces of the two pigs from between his teeth; they’d tasted like sweet beef, but the other white meat tended to do that sometimes. He’d washed his face in a rest-stop bathroom and had murdered a truck driver and taken his clothes.
Take this exit, get off, make a left, then follow the dirt road.
Tyler was all ears.
My Gawd, I’m really gonna get away with this!
He’d thought his goose cooked, had just known they’d haul him in and he’d spend the rest of his life with the butt-humpers. But no, Satan had shielded him from capture! Tyler relished in the wind blowing what hair he had left backward, the breeze alleviating the hot weather that burned asphalt to taffy all around him.
Finally, he came upon the warehouse. He combed the hair on the sides of his head while looking in the rearview mirror.
It wasn’t much to look at—a long earth-toned shack with windows. Blacked-out windows at that. Tyler shook his head and sighed as he made his way to the front door, near the parking lot.
The password is Legion.
Tyler nodded to no one in particular. He banged on the door. Tyler wiped sweat from his brow as the sun beat down on him, trying to induce him to a stupor. In the door, a slot slid back, and a voice with a Mexican accent asked, “What’s the password, Holmes?”
Holmes? Is this the kind of people I’m to congregate with? Sewer rats?
“Legion,” he breathed, wanting to get inside. He didn’t suppose they had air conditioning. He hadn’t seen the backs of any units sticking out of the windows.
The door slid back on rollers, followed by a loud bang when it had gone as far as it could. With long hair and a multitude of scars, a man who looked like he was in a street gang motioned him in.
“Are you Carlito?” Tyler asked.
He grinned like a wolf. “Good guess. You would have to be Tyler.”
As Tyler nodded and stepped through the threshold, he found he’d been right. They had high-powered, huge fans going, but no A/C. And it was sweltering in there. He was almost submerged in darkness.
The door slid shut with a slam.
Tyler squinted, and he could barely make out black candles burning. Above that, a huge pentagram tapestry with a goat’s head in the middle dominated the wall. Below this, he could just make out an altar. Tyler peered at the light, and behind the candles, disturbing shapes lurked. Shapes that were wrong, sending eerie shadows that grew long and flexed—were those claws?—and their eyes, did they really have glowing orange irises, like fire? Growls of acquiescence rang out as if he’d arrived at the seventh level of Hell. Tyler realized he was expected to walk forward, assimilate himself into the crowd of—beasts?—yet he didn’t want to. He couldn’t seem to move his feet. A refined doctor, he wanted nothing to do with this snake pit. Or was it some other kind of pit? And what of that password? What did it really mean?
Legion.
For they were many.
“Welcome, home skillet …” Carlito said.
Tyler turned his neck slowly to behold the man had grown fangs, and his eyes glowed. His features had distorted, and Bad Gawd, was that a hairless beast?
“… to the New Order of the Golden Dusk, Mexico’s primo coven. Your brothers and sisters before the pentagram and black candles are the ultimate force of evil who’ve been harassing the good citizens of Mexico.” A furry hand w
ith rotten-yellow claws fell on Tyler’s shoulder, making his skin crawl. “And they’re all escaped criminals from the U.S.—me too, Homey—sent here by the Dark One himself to immerse themselves into the final level of the occult after taking at least three human sacrifices.
“Welcome … to the pack of the chupacabras.”
Snarls and growls followed Carlito’s grand declaration of the dark arts, and the crowd began to howl.
Chupacabra: interpreted “goat sucker” in Spanish. Tyler had watched a show on TV about monster hunters, and they’d captured an image of a chupacabra on video. Usually—especially with ghost hunters—you never see any proof. But this episode had succeeded in that vein.
“And now,” Tyler’s strange host continued, “the sun dips below the horizon. We must feed. But first …” The host removed his hand, but not without scratching Tyler’s skin beneath his chambray work shirt. “… we must usher you into the greatest rite, making you like us.”
The shapes behind the candles inched closer, their snouts and razor teeth more visible. Tyler snapped his head to his right, and now his host was down on all fours, gray skin flexing the animalistic muscles, primed for attack. The manimal was the size of a bear, bearing rows of spines with spikes from the neck to the base of his tail.
A hybrid dog pack, that’s all this is. This is the destiny Satan had in store for me?
He wrinkled his nose at the malodorous vexation. The warehouse didn’t have shower stalls.
“You don’t understand,” Tyler said to the animal circling him as the rest of the crowd of about fifty headed his way. “I’m a refined doctor; I’ve lived in luxury my whole life. I mean, I didn’t have a mansion, but damned near, and I drive …
(or was that drove?)
… a Lamborghini. I can’t live in this sweatshop. I’ll go mad!”
Growls were the only response. Tyler snapped his head toward one of the oblong blackened windows. He could see out of them from the inside. And damned if the sun hadn’t gone down. The stars were out in full force … as well as the full moon.
“I won’t be a party to this,” Tyler cried.
He ran for the door.
But before he could get near the threshold, they were on him—biting, scratching, ripping shredding skin. Tyler screamed. Had this been how Morgan felt when violated? Now he knew he’d made a mistake, thrown his life away on the deception of the occult. If only he’d continued in the faith of Christ and kept going to church with Morgan; if only he’d brought himself under control through prayer, so she hadn’t driven him up the wall.
But, in the end, he’d proved himself no better than these creatures. He’d eaten his wife like the mad dogs that rent him.
Tyler shrieked, then blessed darkness folded its black wings over him.
m/ m/
Tyler’s senses had been heightened. Now in chupacabra form, he traveled as fast as a train—the hot rails to Hell—being able to hear and sense the heartbeat of a dog and goats at a farm in Mexico. He traveled by the light of the full moon, no longer himself; he didn’t lust for elegance anymore, but for blood. Any kind of blood.
The mangy dog barked his head off as Tyler leapt the fence, and before the canine could fight back, Tyler was on him, knocking him over. The dog whined pitifully, then nothing but a choked gurgle issued from the canine as Tyler bit into it with his fangs and sucked out the blood. Heretofore, he’d only drunk small amounts of Morgan’s crimson lifejuice; now it was time to take that to a new level.
He drank the canine dry.
The goats cried out in blind panic—sounding like high-voiced humans yelling a drawn-out version of “Huh”—and it might as well have been a dinner bell as far as Tyler was concerned. Soon, he was upon them, also, draining them, his thirst never fully quenched—slightly abated with every feeding. He took them all down, their pitiful attempts at escape by running into the fence unsuccessful. Tyler snapped his head toward the farm shack as the front door opened after a wan light illuminated the porch, and a dark-skinned Mexican who held a shotgun advanced on Tyler. The farmer lifted the gun and aimed it at him.
Tyler didn’t wait to be a victim—his Spidey senses tingling—and took off for the farmer as fast as his hairless paws would take him. The Mexican got off one shot, two, three, but they didn’t bring Tyler down. Pins and needles was all he felt. Tyler struck the farmer with such force that he bashed him against the screen door. He tore out his throat as his claws ripped his eyes from their sockets. Tyler rent the clothes to get at the succulent meat that hid the wine of blood underneath.
He proceeded to drink his panacea.
Sirens rang out from behind him. The neighbors had alerted the State Judicial Police. Tyler wheeled on them, the Mexican’s cock in his jaws, for he’d ripped it off. He hadn’t done it out of lust, but to get to the blood underneath, which had showered his snout. Tyler didn’t know if he could survive this many gunshots and again sprinted off the porch at supernatural speed, heading for the forest as the many gun blasts of the SJP rang out and turned the night into a cacophony—a technical sound, factorylike, mechanical in its redundancy—the cogs slamming home in the politico of Mexico. Bullets whizzed past him as he sped into the brush, where Tyler stopped, craned his neck to the left, then snapped it to the right with all the force afforded to him. The penis travelled at a high rate of speed. Tyler smiled as a dog does when the dick hit the commandante in the face. The unlucky man cringed, puked, dry-heaved. The other officers were apparently in shock at seeing their fearless leader robbed of his manhood, for they froze. Then Tyler was in the rainforest, branches whipping his spines and spikes as he rocketed toward the warehouse.
The SJP followed, but couldn’t keep pace with Tyler’s supernal speed. As he traveled, the chupacabra squeezed with all he had, and three bullets popped out of his spines. With the cries of the SJP becoming fainter and fainter, Tyler came upon a camera crew in the forest, Americans yelling out their conquest of finding a chupacabra. Camera flashes, and Tyler turned their way, growled and continued on. He wanted to kill them and drain them dry, but the SJP would catch up to him, and that just wouldn’t do. Tyler passed them, leaving them in dust.
Home-free, he howled in to the night like a wolf.
m/ m/
How he approached the door of the warehouse from the parking lot reminded Tyler of a poster he’d had when he’d been a child, the evolution chart, which showed a row of monkeys evolving into a human. He’d entered the parking lot on all fours, but after hunting all night—with the sun peeking over the horizon—he raised up, becoming more and more like a man till he was in full human form—albeit naked—as he came to the door. He knocked and this time didn’t have to know the password. The fiends recognized him.
He went inside and this time eagerly joined the crowd in the back, huddled around the black candles, the pentagram tapestry and the altar. He grabbed a black cowl and a sword from the wall mount and joined in worship with his brethren, assuming karate stances and thrusting out periodically with swords while involved in the chant of “Hail Satan”!
“Stop the ritual,” Carlito yelled as he came toward the demonists from the door. “Grab that pussy doctor! He attacked a human, bringing on the state police!”
Tyler turned on his heel. “Say what?”
Carlito pointed him out. “You’ve broken the golden rule of the coven, to never attack humans, to get away before anyone can get a look at us! You’ve brought the authorities down on our heads. Now they’ll show up and blow us all to the seventh circle of Hell! You fool.”
Tyler wrung his hands and trembled. “But I didn’t know! No one warned me!”
Carlito crossed his muscular arms. “It’s common sense! You got greedy, you sellout. As soon as the porch light comes on, vamonos!”
The others grabbed him.
Tyler struggled in their grips. “What are you going to do?” he asked in a whiney voice he soon regretted.
Carlito cocked his head to the side. “What do you th
ink, puta?”
Tyler was slicked with sweat as he trembled, their vise grips on his arms cutting off his circulation. His bladder locked up, ready to void. “You can’t do this! Satan told me to come here! I was meant for this.”
Carlito cackled like a warlock. “But you failed him, fool,” he spat.
“No!” Tyler thrashed and flailed, but to no effect, His coven mates were stronger, more muscular than he. “Give me another chance!”
Carlito raised his cocked head and pierced Tyler with his eyes. “Devour him.”
They changed—mouths full of fangs, noses becoming snouts, fingernails becoming claws—bones popping and cracking. They engulfed him, snarling, growling, ripping at his flesh. They tore off meaty chunks, the pain Tyler felt exquisite, making him cry out like a little girl. He screamed, he shrieked, they didn’t heed. Blood gushed from his body, his sight turning into tunnel vision. Then he doubly regretted what he’d done to his wife. He tried to open his mouth to repent to God, but they’d chewed off his lips, they’d bit out his tongue! His vision went black as they ripped out his eyes with their claws. Finally, Tyler knew fully how Morgan had felt, nothing but shredded remains—cannon fodder—a meal for the beasts who worshiped the Beast.
He faded to black.
Epilogue
The tunnel Tyler walked down became brighter as he traveled, and up ahead, he spotted someone with long hair and adorned in a gleaming robe. Thinking the person was Christ, Tyler hurried toward Him. Perhaps he’d been forgiven after all, the Lord hearing his repentance in his mind, that final prayer he hadn’t had the mouth and tongue to utter.
Tyler stepped to the figure, whose back was turned to him. Brown hair came down to the shoulders, which he assumed was Jesus’. But when he reached out and touched the arm of the person in front of him, he didn’t feel carpenter’s muscles, but soft flesh like a woman’s.
The figure wheeled on him.
Tyler should’ve known. Morgan had bleached her hair blond while alive, but had natural brown hair. She flashed him a devilish smile, showing those pearly whites. Restored to her full form, she stood resplendent in the glow that came from her like a concert spotlight. Tyler longed to apologize to his beloved—his soulmate—to make it right at last in the afterlife, but before he could open his mouth …
