Moon City
The Slaughter Man Series
By
Benjamin Kane Ethridge
JournalStone
Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Kane Ethridge
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ISBN: 978-1-942712-65-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-942712-66-4 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016949886
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: September 16, 2016
Cover Design: Eddie Fazekas
Face: istockphoto.com #5778102, Standard License, by Dphotographer Moon: Adobe Stock, #69786163, Standard License, by Dmitrijs Mihejevs
Edited by: Amy Huntley
Moon City
Slaughter Man Series
A LIMBUS, INC. Novel
Chapter 1
The Killer in Moon City
My hand stretched forth with the candy wrapped in reflective red foil.
“You'll take this. You'll take this because there’s no other choice. It's what you need. All creatures go after what they need. Even children,” I told it.
A Deitii child with pale skin and black mirror eyes stared back at me. It wore a simple gray tunic and was shorter than most five-year-old humans, but the being held an intelligence in its eyes that made it more than just a simple lifeform. Its mouth was a flat line and all of its expression was communicated through its eyes. My hand clenched the candy and the foil crackled with my impatience.
“I don't need this. I can give this gift to anyone... But I'm choosing you,” I said.
The Deitii only blinked, but made no other movement. Slowly, it reached out to take the candy.
Dark red bamboo structures framed the area in the darkness. It was nearly impossible to see, but the crinkling of paper indicated the alien was opening the candy. My eyes clarified on its shape. It pushed the candy, a helix-shaped pink thing, past fish-belly white lips. Perfectly square amber teeth descended into the candy. The lips closed and the jaws grinded.
“We can work together. We can be friends. There is nothing to be scared of. I just wanted to gain your trust. There is so much we can do in this city,” I went on.
The chewing stopped and the lips smoothed into a straight line again.
“I know your kind isn't talkative. I guess that makes sense, since you're the same species as God, the one who invented everything and yet says nothing to anybody, but I still would like to ask your help to find others like you. I need—”
A strange squeal erupted from the creature's mouth. It grasped its throat. From its mirrored eyes ran sapphire tears.
“I need you to go to sleep. Because this city needs your help.”
The Deitii collapsed to its knees. Its eyes rolled back from mirrors to foggy white. The creature passed out and rolled onto the ground on its side. I could see my reflection in the murkiness, but I didn’t want to linger on it.
Never much cared for my looks. I always knew it was what was inside that made the universe need me. Not that abnormally tall, I was a well-built human man in the clothes of a manual laborer: washed-out gray pants, a loose-fitting black denim tunic with deep pockets and leather tie-strings.
I found myself accidently looking back at the mirror surface of the creature’s eyes. Again my eyes fell away from my reflection. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I’d rather stare at the creases of my dusty work boots. My features were not distinct, not handsome nor ugly, just mediocre most often. The only times I’d seen my true face come out was through anger or after intercourse, but perhaps the latter was one in the same for me. I could look up to a bedroom mirror beyond my burnt-blonde hair, grown out to my shoulders in sweat-clumped prison bars, and see that thing that needed to get free.
I imagined that what happened next, what happened to me after I finished with the Deitii would do the same, and although it would be a release, a revelation, and a resourcing of all the power in the universe that rightfully belonged to me, there would still be anger. A trail of anger that could be measured in light years. This anger, I had wasted my life on, until discovering my true purpose.
I knelt near the body and withdrew the bonesaw from my left tunic pocket. It was a compact device, but just as brutal looking as a four-hundred-pound battle-axe.
Flickering shadows danced on a nearby red bamboo wall, rhythmic with my gruesome fruitage. A nauseating sound of bone splintering away filled the dark with its maniacal music.
Using my tunic sleeve, I wiped sweat away from the stubble across my upper lip. A rich, cherry-colored blood came off on the sleeve. Not sweat after all. Yet, still the sign of hard work. Honest work. Not evil. Not good for that matter either.
I felt an explanation was needed for any lingering spirit. “It is true I am no murderer of Deitii children. I'm liberating you from this sick place, so this is no death.” I considered the inert form for a moment, unsatisfied with my solemn declaration. “And judging by your height and weight, you are four hundred years old, and so I deem you no child, despite your species’ length of age.”
I closed my eyes a moment and took a deep breath. There can be no room for deception, I decided. From myself. From the universe. I had to call these things out as true or lose myself in despair.
“Not murder, but I am robbing you of something precious. There can be no mistake about that. It is for the best, however. It is for the best of everything.”
I examined the shallow puddle in my hand in the flickering torch light. The dappling of cerebral spinal fluid danced with orange, red, and purple colors that swirled and combined and contracted. I’d seen it many times before and still regarded it with awe, licking my lips, salivating, before viciously sucking all the fluid through my stinging teeth like a starving savage.
A short, yet ringing crash came from a distant alley, stopping my feast. I gently wiped at my messy lips and narrowed my eyes down the alley.
A tabby cat bolted down the alley. It passed me and I watched it with a newfound coldness washing over me.
“What spooked you, little friend?” I asked, returning to my search down the alley again. “What indeed...”
My body began to tremble. My eyes got that fire and ice sensation. I recalled staring at my own eyes once while standing in my kitchen and looking through the window, like two bright silver suns spread from the back of my eyes to the front. They were mirrors, just like the Deitiis’, and with that change I became more like them; I became closer to the power that forged the universe. Just as it was now. Through the darkness of the alley, everything brightened and I saw everything with such clarity there might as well have been a supernova hanging overhead in this immense cavern, a volatile, deadly power that belonged only to me. And my work.
Near a dumpster not far away, I saw what had frightened the cat. I saw his hunkered form and the black camouflage akin to planetary raiders and mercenaries. He was, not surprisingly, holding a high-powered rifle. After my first sips of the Deitii�
��s spinal fluid, my senses enhanced immediately. The clarity afforded to me allowed my eyes to scroll across the serial number at the edge of the stalk of the mercenary’s weapon and the tiny flicks of perspiration fallen nearby from his hair.
I flared my nose for a moment, took a step back, making a silent retreat. Then I ripped my Thalulus Repeater off my hip and fired at him. Dodging the yellow explosions with greater intensity each foot traveled, the mercenary sprinted for a side alley and I swiftly pursued.
The alley broke away into the Bleeding Cave Market District. Uncountable red-bamboo structures lined the modern-looking street. Stalactites dripped down from the dark heavens and stalagmites rose from the ground, a large one splitting two lanes in the main thoroughfare. There was no traffic, however. It was late, indicated by empty streets and unlit markets.
I fired my weapon once more as the mercenary rounded the large stalagmite. The man put his head down and charged for a straw-and-board fence. He scaled it with expert grace. I snorted, a vengeful bull, and leapt into the air so agilely it felt dreamlike, a wish fulfilled. One of my boots touched down on top of the fence, momentarily giving me the extra step I needed before springing forward and—catching a garbage can lid straight in the face.
I maintained balance but staggered forward, howling in rage and blindly pulling my weapon up to fire again. As my vision reestablished, the mercenary was nowhere to be seen. The stretch between these shops was less developed and more cavern-like. Water dripped slowly into staggered puddles. There weren't many places for anyone to run or hide; the cavern wall ahead made a discernible dead end.
I moved slowly, eyes and gun covering the area.
The hissing sound of air released to my upper left. The mercenary ascended the roof of a small warehouse via grappling hook. I caught a glimpse of his neck as he climbed through a patch of nearby torchlight. In dull blue-green ink was the tattoo of a stomach on fire with a devilish smiley face in its center. The tattoo of the Princess of Ganymede. It had been altered by the smiley face, but the flaming stomach, the insignia of everlasting hunger, could not be mistaken. She no longer had people in this region though. For all I knew, she no longer had anyone doing anything. She’d been incapacitated for some time.
Nevertheless, I would find out. With three measured steps, I bounded up the walls of the alley to the warehouse roof after the mercenary. The impact on my ankles gave me pause, however. I hadn’t drunk enough of the Deitii this evening, and though I became stronger with every feeding, I was pulling the source of its power heavily with this chase. And the power was waning. I had to kill this problem and return to the corpse before the reg police found it in the alley.
The roof had several dozen yurts constructed of imported gray palm fronds and joining structures resembling thin, charred bones. With my gun extended, I walked through the silent shanty town, glancing from silent yurt to silent yurt.
“You are a veteran of the Ganymede wars then,” I said loudly so the hiding assassin could hear me. “The Princess's coat of arms. You fought for her... And yet, now, you are after me and the Princess’s mighty stomach has been sour for years, unable to function as it once did.” I stopped and listened for anything that might give away the mercenary’s position, but heard only the soft rustling of wind through the cavern, gently upsetting the fronds on the yurts. “She doesn’t need mercenaries anymore, my dear, murderous friend. So you belong to another group. Come out and talk to me, tell me everything, so I might kill you and the rest of your ilk.”
A smallish whine came from behind me. I whipped my head around to a girl standing next to a yurt with a sharpened stick in her hand. She looked about six years of age.
I pointed my gun at her. “You need to go night-night.”
The child held up her stick and her bottom lip quivered in terrified defiance.
I licked my lips and took aim.
The child took off and I lowered my weapon a little for a better range of sight. As I predicted, the mercenary scrambled out of the shadows, running for the same yurt as the child. I hope the heroism is worth it. I fired at the mercenary, riddling the nearby yurts with blossoming holes of fire and escaping smoke serpents.
The chick ducked into the yurt I’d almost completely destroyed. The mercenary followed shortly after inside and I emptied the rest of my cartridge into the yurt’s remaining leafy fabric in a frenzy. The façade slowly caught fire, which crept from the base up the left side. The fire extinguished by the time I stepped in front of the yurt. The countless holes ran with thin, pale smoke crawling up the frond walls. The digital read-out on my Repeater counted down to twenty as it cooled, and the two microfans in the weapon spun fiercely. I watched as the timer reached zero and the cartridge readout changed to read, AMMO, and then READY.
I leveled my gun at the yurt again and fired five more shots. Afterward, I watched for a moment and then scratched my leg with the warm weapon. With little ceremony, I lifted the entry flap aside.
I walked through the three-chamber yurt. In the first chamber, two parents grasped each other tightly, wide-eyed in terror. In the second chamber, the child lay prone on the ground, appearing to have been killed. Unfortunate that the mercenary would get her killed.
A disturbing thought entered my mind, a memory, a distant, timeless recollection of when God created mankind. It had not started with the male form, but the female form—the memories settled in my mind as though they were my own, as though I had been the Creator all along. I fondly remembered my experimentations on how the growth of every cell would be, how the tissues would work together, how the organs would form strongholds and unify like my other creations, but would power a brain far superior to the primates before that. I recalled watching these cellular acrobatics and the progression of the female human form. This memory sparked in my mind because this little girl reminded me of the first such child in that progression of growth. Very similar in facial structure and skin tone. It was a pleasant memory filled with much nostalgia, for this was long before I created other species with three, then ten, then hundreds of different genders and possibilities of DNA varietizing.
These were not my memories, I understood, but those impressions the Deitii shared with their one greatest offspring, the Lord God, or whatever. I was certain It, whatever It had been, was dead now though, and that role in the universe could only be filled by one person willing to see through the suffering and the torment of limitless power.
As this sweet concept ran through my mind, the child stirred and rolled over, revealing a large bruise on her ribcage, which she rubbed at, grimacing. Live to fight another day.
Leaving the girl, I continued to the next chamber and found a rip through the bottom of the wall where the mercenary likely escaped. Losing my composure, I tore through the wall of fronds and rushed forward to encounter a rooftop door. I pulled at the cold, damp wooden handle and flung the door open.
I charged down the stairs. A firearm discharged rapidly and I fell on my back and slid down the stairs, as bullet holes peppered the old mortar in dusty gray pirouettes. Three bullets missed my head by an uncomfortable proximity, one even connected and scratched a line of blood at my right temple.
The sting fed my anger and I thrashed to my feet, firing my Repeater blindly down the stairwell. After a moment, I ceased firing and glanced down the stairwell and estimated the drop—about three floors—and I pitched myself over the side without another thought. On the bottom floor, I landed with less ease than my earlier jaunts, my ankles and leg bones buckling instead of absorbing the impact. It was shadow silent though and the pain was transient still, the ancient taste of the Deitii still on my tongue. I poised my weapon at the stairwell and waited for the mercenary to come running into my trap.
A door slammed just a floor up. The mercenary had somehow sensed my descent, even though it had been quick and soundless. I bolted out the exit door, trying to not let my frustration guide my actions. I needed to know who this man was before I killed him. I couldn’t let my e
agerness for blood overrule something so valuable. One dead mercenary wouldn’t be the end to my problem. Two more heads would grow on this monster if I didn’t seek out its heart.
The exit led to a field of pitchweeds. Over the dense, knee-high, coiling black plants, I spotted the mercenary making his way through. He was far ahead, but not uncatchable. The field sloped severely downward. I grinned as the mercenary stumbled and fell down the hill. My grin vanished as my own feet outpaced themselves and I tripped forward and rolled after him. I regained myself, spitting out the spicy mustard-like taste of a pitchweed leaf that had rubbed across my gums. The field thinned out toward the outskirts of the Devil’s Gullet, a ghetto I’d not visited since my aimless childhood wanderings.
I took another shot, this one finally connecting. It struck the mercenary in the shoulder and a plume of shredded black fabric erupted from the wound in his body armor. The force of impact only made him stagger forward onto the main street. I followed him, waiting to get in a better incapacitating shot.
The area was a series of small cave apartments I wasn’t acquainted with. Litter and homeless people filled the streets. Abstract graffiti covered the walls in various shades of red, giving the entire area the look of innards. I gained on the mercenary through this surreal setting. He looked behind his torn shoulder armor and realized he was about to be taken. No fool, this one. He took out something from a hidden pocket, flicked his thumb at it and dropped it into the street.
Grenade.
Shit.
I broke sideways on my heels, skidding through the dirt road. I tried to fall back, out of the grenade’s range. A startled homeless man nearly bowled me over. I caught him by the neck and held on for a shield. I heard the detonation. A resounding pop and rushing sound. Rocky debris and dust blew out amidst screams.
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