Demonworld Book Two
The Pig Devils
By Kyle B. Stiff
For news and info about Kyle B. Stiff’s other writing projects, including Demonworld and Heavy Metal Thunder, visit his web site at www.heavymetalthunderseries.wordpress.com. To contact the author, send a letter to [email protected].
This book is copyrighted and belongs to the author.
Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice he is the worst of all. Injustice armed is hardest to deal with; and though man is born with weapons which he can use in the service of practical wisdom and virtue, it is all too easy for him to use them for the opposite purposes. Hence, if he have not virtue, he is the most unholy and most savage of animals...
- Aristotle, Politics
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Sons of the Circle of Power
Chapter 2: The Living Scar
Chapter 3: Magnum Opus Prosequitur: The Great Work Continues
Chapter 4: Guns of the Just
Chapter 5: The Circus of Belief and the Conspiracy Junkies
Chapter 6: For the Love of a Whore
Chapter 7: Information Wars
Chapter 8: Red Book
Chapter 9: Make a Wish
Chapter 10: Pigs in the Shape of Men
Chapter 11: Wolf Slayer
Chapter 12: Lucifer Bound
Chapter 13: Cheer Up, Barkus!
Chapter 14: Trial of the Superman
Chapter 15: Battle of the Black Snow
Chapter 16: Final Exam
Chapter 17: The Trial of God
Chapter 18: Leave
Appendix 1a: Cast of Characters: Haven, the Island City
Appendix 1b: Cast of Characters: Pontius, the Wasteland City
Appendix 2: Chronopolitical Errata
Appendix 3: The Gangs of Pontius
Chapter One
Sons of the Circle of Power
Two great cities, each opposed to the other. There was Haven, the island city, soft and newly wrenched free from its seclusion. There was Pontius, the wasteland city astride a nameless river, a constant battleground, an asylum of madmen, a nihilistic birthing place of killers. Neither perfect in goodness or evil, both full of hypocrisy and contradiction, both victim of a cancerous rot within the foundation.
Our story concerns the heroes on both sides, great men who forged weapons, idols, ideals, from the dying fires of a world in its last days. And our story concerns the villains on both sides, men ready to profit from the blood of the heroes.
- from The Entertainers: Chapter Jarl: 33:1
* * *
He slept, and the nightmares were full of terrifying nonsense. He saw Guardians with skulls for masks, white armor dripping with gore, and when they raised their masks – hacked-off lips with more skulls beneath. He saw newspaper headlines that read, “Lost Son of Haven Returns!” and then, tucked away in the next day’s paper, “Correction: Young Hero Slain Due To Gross Misunderstanding.” He walked through a baking desert made of flecks of black glass, and the clouds were pure fire; he had a map made of melting wax and his body was made of the same, and after his scream died in his melting throat he could only make a pitiful gurgling sound.
Wodan snapped awake. No idea where he was - cave - desert - jungle, what’s that hissing? - he reached for a weapon, anything. Then, realization. But his heart would not stop its thunder.
He was in his room in Haven. Blue light peeked through the slats of his window. He saw books, papers, the sleeping monitor of his student computer. He would trade it all for one gun.
A week he laid in his room, sick and healing. Eventually he walked the gray halls in the mountains, lit by gas spigots that burned a dull bluish purple. Haven, land of his kinsmen; everyone that saw him flinched or offered smiles of pity. He saw the tapestries of the Forefathers in the Memory House, Aeneas marching from his burning home to face the lynch mob, Romulus in a tavern speaking to the elite and the rabble, Ares sneaking his naval troops through the mist in the Battle of the Burning Sun. The Exodus from the wasteland. The dark island that they found, their Haven. The sickness that killed their young. The science that overcame starvation. The pride of what they built, the nobility of being human. Others stood near and wondered at what he felt. And behind every face, he saw only the possibility of a killer.
* * *
Haven Mail Forum
From: Sevrik Clash, Head of Guard
To: A. Vachs, Prime Minister of Haven
Subject: the REAVERS
Prime Minister, I have in mind a plan to create within the Guardians an elite fighting unit. Only the best Guardians will be eligible for this unit, and even those will be harshly tested and culled until only the “best of the best” remains. This unit will be trained for stealthy reconnaissance, demolitions, combat, and leading regular Guardian units.
It is my opinion that Haven’s safe isolation cannot last forever. When the monsters come calling for their handout, I want us to be ready with some monsters of our own to greet them. It is for this reason that I would name this unit after the fighting heroes of legend who supposedly defended our species in ages past.
Another bonus: The existence of the Reavers will remind politically-minded “climbers” that they can only rise so far in my Guardians; as the Forefathers said, “There is no substitute for competence.”
I’m interested in your opinion.
-Clash
Haven Mail Forum
From: A. Vachs, Prime Minister of Haven
To: Sevrik Clash, Head of Guard
Subject: re: the REAVERS
Now just look at this, Sevrik!
Reave: 1. To seize and carry off forcibly.2. To deprive (one) of something; bereave.
And here it is from another dictionary – “To rob, plunder, or pillage” - !
This is simply too rough-sounding and goes completely against Haven’s good nature. A thing’s name, and how that name causes others to perceive a thing, are of paramount importance. We cannot forget the importance of our peoples’ viewpoints; if they don’t see us, and what we do, in a favorable light, then…? I suggest a new name for this elite unit of yours: The GOOF Troopers, or Guardian Order Of Friendly Troopers. People will associate this lighthearted name with charity or public service projects like childrens’ “scout” retreats, fund-raising for the disabled, you get the idea. Before you fret, remember that this is just the stuff that goes down on paper, which is what I’m interested in. I don’t care what the unit does in reality.
You have always been a little foolhardy.
Yours,
Aegis Vachs, PM
Haven Mail Forum
From: Sevrik Clash, Head of Guard
To: A. Vachs, Prime Minister of Haven
Subject: THE REAVERS
Dear Prime Minister Vachs,
The Guardians do not take orders from the Senate, only funding.
Cut our funding all you want. When the demon comes, we will defend you with our bare hands if we have to.
Sincerely,
Sevrik Clash
Head of Guard of Haven
ps anyone old enough to be a Guardian is old enough to vote
Text file created 07/01/588 FH
Text file intercepted 11/17/589 FH
* * *
One Year Ago.
They climbed up the side of Arloch some three hundred strong while the drill instructors rode in jeeps along the passes yelling at them through loudspeakers. They were nearly naked and carried slim boats and the wind whipped at them and sometimes caught in the hollows of the boats and came near to throwing them off the sides. They were all strong men and the going was easy at first, but the
air became thin and the stone was cold and sharp and it was easier to cut a hand when it was numb, and when they were given no water for hours it was easier to dwell on the thirst than it was to pay attention to the climb. They were all there by their own fault. A few tapped out even this early and had to make their way to the jeeps, shaking, hearts full of failure. Yarek stayed on, clawed at the mountain, gripped his end of the boat, shouted out words to inspire his comrades. His skin was dark, his hair was wild and red, and he was a Guardian.
They went down the other side of the mountain on a cold bitch of a foggy morning. The lights of jeeps were all around them. The drill instructors had just remembered the horns on the jeeps and berated them in Morse code. When that game ran too long, they pitched buckets of cold water over their heads and splashed the walkers, then let the buckets tumble down to trip up those below. One man sprained his ankle but refused to tap out. Yarek helped support him, then passed him on to another. They were promised meat and water in the bay.
They reached the rocky bay. “Form a line!” shouted the jeep-riders. As the men tried to form up, the jeeps drove through them, honking loudly, and the weary Guardians stumbled about wide-eyed. “Form a god-damn line!” they shouted. “Didn’t you slugs learn this shit day-one in boot camp?!” Just when a coiling mass of a line started to form out of stern-faced Guardians, an instructor emptied a clip of his rifle into the air. The men jumped, cursing. “Screw this bullshit,” said one, but when he turned to leave Yarek grabbed his shoulder and turned him about.
“Don’t let’m phase you,” said Yarek, baring his teeth. “They’re playing a game with your head. They can’t really hurt us - just stick this out, man.”
“W’hell, alright,” said the Guardian. “But I’m gonna kill one of those desk monkeys.”
They formed up. A jeep skidded to a halt before them. “There’s your water,” said an instructor, smiling and pointing at the cold bay. “And if you’re lucky, maybe some fish’ll crawl up your ass! Get in!”
They ran in screaming lamely. The ice bit into their testicles and forced their lungs into tight bundles in their chests. It felt as if their masters were feeding them to the merciless world. The instructors shouted at them to get out, then to get back in, and while they threatened to kick out the last man in or out, they never did. Enough men left on their own. The day wore on and the hunger was maddening. Yarek rubbed his body under the water and told his teammates to ignore the hollow threats of the sadistic taskmasters. “You shut up, dirt-napper,” screamed an instructor. “You think you’re gonna waltz outta here alive ’cause you’re the pup of the top dog Guardian? You got a cushy desk waitin’ for ya once you tap out here, shit-heel!”
At sunset, a van rolled down the hill. Donuts and hot chocolate and blankets were brought out. Several instructors wrapped themselves in the blankets and, over hot coffee and donuts, discussed how the weather was expected to worsen during the night. They laughed and invited the men in the water to tap out and join them. “We got tampons and fresh panties for any of you that wants to quit,” an instructor shouted. “The rest of you dumbasses gets to push water for a few more hours.” Scores of men that had endured cold hell all day long pushed hard for the shore with newfound strength, and failure never tasted better to them. Yarek stayed on. His teeth chattered and he told the men around him to stay on. “When you’re a Reaver,” Yarek said, his voice raw, “you’re gonna get more pussy than you know what to do with.” Some of his comrades chuckled wearily.
That night they let the men sleep on coarse blankets. It seemed to Yarek that he had only just closed his eyes when guns starting going off, big machineguns that the instructors had snuck onto the beach somehow. Flares were going up, red, yellow, red, and Yarek saw the soft face of a buck-toothed lieutenant smiling in the light, eyes wide with pain-lust. They yelled at them, forced them onto the boats they had carried and made them paddle from one end of the bay to the other. They raced, over and over, and whichever team came in first in any race got a small handful of rations and a few extra minutes of sleep.
The next day over half their number was gone, and they did pushups and situps and broke down guns and put them together again and floated in the freezing water and never got more than a few minutes of sleep and time became a horrible mush in their minds. Some men with muscles like steel and bodies made for sport and for war broke down in tears and limped to the vans full of donuts in such a daze that they did not fully realize what they were doing until they woke up back in Haven. But in all the days of that hell, Yarek reminded himself that there was nothing for him in that soft world, nothing at all but empty honor and silly medals, and if he stuck with the nightmare he would come out the other side as one of the greatest warriors to brave the night of the world.
The waves were sickening one day in their little boats, and the men opened up packets full of paper and pencils - intelligence tests. A motorboat skidded by and an instructor with a loudspeaker shouted, “If you retards can’t remember that two and two is four when you don’t get to sleep half the day, then go home and shovel shit for a living! Donuts for the first boat team to finish. Die!” The men answered questions and filled in dots, and one man next to Yarek threw up bile onto his test. “Better’n you did back in school, right?” said Yarek, slapping him on the back.
They sat on a cold rock while the papers were graded and some men were kicked out for being retards, but when the outcasts got blankets and donuts they wondered if they hadn’t passed after all. A donut was thrown into the mass of fifty-or-so who remained and one man fell over and ate the thing off the ground, his arms dead at his side. “You better not go to sleep,” said another man, “or you’re gonna eat my dick too.”
“Be cool,” said Yarek. “There’s one big donut for all of us who make it. We just got this shit sandwich to eat first.”
Ages passed and the men were worn down and stripped of all psychological complications until those who stayed on seemed like silent madmen, simpletons, with only a hard center of burning will that brought them through. “Never seen a maggotier bunch of maggots,” said an instructor, speaking quietly through his loudspeaker. Even as a spectator, he was weary of the trials. “Worthless poop-wads. Disgrace to the Guardians. Gonna have to report back to base, this program isn’t working out. None of you are going to amount to jack-shit. Can’t believe this shit.” Then one day a great silver bell was unloaded from a van, and it was ringed with white roses and the skull of some kind of animal, and an instructor beat on the thing, and no one was yelling at them but the instructors were smiling, really smiling, and some men blinked and stared, and began to cry, and Yarek remembered his name. Hell Week was over. He was Lieutenant Yarek Clash, proud son of Sevrik Clash who was Head of the Guardians of Haven, and he had passed the worst test ever devised in that fair land. Now he would soon be a member of an elite unit that worked without medals and rank and false honor: The Reavers. He had endured, along with twenty-four others. Now their lives began.
* * *
Five Weeks Ago.
Overhead the peaks were jagged and thick, lords of the earth, timeless and cold and crowned with cloud and shadow. On a map it looked like there was one great valley in the center of the ring, but when standing on any mountainside there were only labyrinths below, cutting and twisting and intersecting. Beneath the majesty, darkness. A place for the meek to hide.
If one focused long enough, one could see long, thin stairways winding between windows, columns, and angled rooftops. There were bits of warm light that coiled about in broken segments. This cold place was home.
Luumis Lamsang staggered into Haven. His eyes were wide with mania, brown hair shitty with mud and even inhabited by beetles. His pale skin was checkered with bruises and scabs. His shirt was torn, and his ribs clattered against one another, visible, aching. He leaned against a wall, dragged his bony fingers across cold stone, and stumbled down a series of stairs. His dull eyes drifted from structure to structure. He thought of wombs gone cold, saf
ety turned into stagnation. He mouthed the words, “Crumble… dust...”
Warm sounds from a restaurant – the scent drove him mad. His head wobbled before a window. The lights and colors inside were garish, vulgar compared to the outside, the men and women inside robed in surreal paintings. Only the jackets and cloaks were gray. He saw the image of a media forum’s broadcast, in which a kindly face and scrolling text silently repeated details on the news in Haven. Headlines floated across the screen: Guardians raid the Department of Research!
And also, hot on its heels:
Head of Research accused of tampering with the unborn!
Lost citizens nowhere to be found!
He sucked in his breath, hard, and it mashed up against his straining heart. Power struggles, chaos - and he was in the middle of it. For three days he had been outside of Haven, deep in the western forests, held immobile by Mother Earth. Trapped – but protected. Near death, but kept alive in Her womb. He would have to find a safehouse before some Guardian found him and stopped the coming revolution. While the trial he had endured outside of civilization had nearly killed him, he had returned to the land of decadence and greed, the great Iron Prison, and if he faltered in the mission She had given him then his soul would be forfeit.
* * *
Now.
Wodan laid in his apartment, recuperating from his recent sickness and ignoring electronic transmissions from well-wishers and reporters. He could not shake his mind from dwelling on dark thoughts. Devils and men-turned-monsters had tried to dominate his will and even murder him. The safety of his room seemed a mockery to him; someone had betrayed Haven. That person was out there, somewhere. His fists clenched over and over and he could not breathe. He spoke to no one, not even his dear parents. He could not get his mind off revenge. Not justice. Revenge.
He read the news and recent history and tried to sift through a thousand facts about the current political situation in order to find clues, then realized his knowledge of modern political trivia was woefully outdated. It all looked the same, all petty, the same power struggles under different names, different parties, different interest groups vying for attention. He had grown up reading tales of the Founding Fathers, of their ideals and their vision of Haven. That was the Haven he fought for thousands of miles to return to. Perhaps it was the media’s fault, but to find clues he would have to take action. It was difficult to know where to start when a thousand images of bloody revenge were clouding his mind and churning up sewage in his heart.
[Demonworld #2] The Pig Devils Page 1
