by Weston Ochse
Frank began to pray in earnest. Never before had he believed in God more. Things were getting out of hand. The only reason they hadn't made their break for the door was because they were uncertain whether or not they'd be able to make it. And as a group, they refused to leave anyone behind. Although this Three Musketeer promise was silly, they would keep to it, and by abiding, one of them was condemned.
They had spoken about that as well.
And they had a plan.
Sure, they were trapped, but traps could be reversed.
Frank smiled broadly, his teeth flashing. He lifted his head to the ceiling and joined the hymn. It wasn't long, before his own voice merged with that of his two best friends.
The Lord has promis'd good to me,
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease.
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine.
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine
Three times the hymn was repeated, until every member of the congregation had bled. Finally, Frank, Jimmy and Lukas were forced to their feet, where they too, contributed, the hot slice of the blade painless—nothing like the previous attempt to have faith beaten into them.
And then the singing stopped.
All heads turned to the three men.
It was time to choose...and to become.
Chapter 10:
Tennessee Sippin' Whisky...Smoky Mountain Sacrament...Bring Out The Holy Spirit...Appalachian Dust Devils...Not Another One...Cry-Fest...A Rastafarian Cousin It With Adam's Family Values...Castration or Consecration
Cyrus moved to the altar and placed the dagger upon the now empty shell of The Living Earth. He crossed himself, then bent down and opened a small door in the altar's base. When he stood and turned, a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Sippin' Whisky was held reverently in his hands. His concentration was intense as he stepped back into the aisle. Slowly, he broke the seal and spun the cap with two firm fingers. Removed, he placed it in the hand of a member of the congregation sitting to his right. He held the bottle aloft and used it to make the sign of the cross in the air. Finally, he tipped it over and allowed the dark brown liquid to enter the Holy Receptacle.
"And the Lord our God said the night before he was so heinously traitorized, this is my body. Eat it in remembrance of me. And the assembled host ate."
An Amen grumble from the congregation punctuated the words of the preacher.
"And the Lord our God said the night before a man condemned him to death because of fear and greed, this is my blood. Drink this in remembrance of me. And the assembled host drank."
Another Amen, this one louder.
"We implore and beseech Thee, Oh Lord, to send forth the Holy Spirit and His Power upon this Bread and Chalice and convert them into the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ."
The men of the congregation began, first from the back of the room, then joined by several in the middle, until all were shouting, "Bring out the Holy Spirit."
"Bring her out."
"It's time for the Holy Spirit."
Frank and his friends turned their heads, searching for what the men were talking about. But there was nothing except the congregation, the preacher and his wild-haired twin. Certainly not anything resembling a her.
Then a pounding came from the door of the church. Three hard thumps, and upon the last, the congregation silenced. The sound of the congregation turning towards the door, the only sound in the room.
Slowly, the door creaked open. A night wind swept into the church and spun the incense into small Appalachian dust devils.
Frank's breath caught in his chest. Jimmy and Lukas inhaled sharply. Silhouetted against the blackness of the kudzu night, filling almost the entirety of the large door stood another Bigfoot. A low orange glow illuminated the eyes of the unmistakable female monster that the congregation had called The Holy Spirit.
It stepped completely into the church in one long stride. A trailing hand caught the door and slammed it closed.
A few whispers of The Holy Spirit could be heard threading through the host of standing men. They were immediately hushed, however, as the Faith-Be-Quick Stick struck the ground hard.
The sound caught the attention of The Holy Spirit whose gaze went immediately to the figure lying upon the altar. A low keening began from somewhere deep inside her. Her large eyes rounded then formed into thin slits then rounded again. Her lips sagged and the keening grew in pitch and intensity. In six bone-shuddering strides, she moved to the pulpit, shoved Lukas aside and placed her immense clawed hands upon the empty breast of The Living Earth.
And she cried.
Her keening slipped into hoarse sobs. They came quick and furious, leaving her barely enough time to breathe. Frank felt the sadness as a growing lump of coal within his chest. He watched as the congregation, still standing, lowered their collective heads. They held their hands down at their sides, shoulders sagging. More than a few shook with tears. Frank felt his own eyes expand and begin to tear.
He wanted the sound to go away. He wanted himself to be away. He had been tortured and threatened with death, yet this...this devastation of a spirit that he was unwillingly witnessing was somehow far worse.
He was filled with shame.
Shame for killing her mate.
Shame for feeling little compunction at the creature's death.
Shame for attempting to sell the body to the tabloids.
He didn't fight it. He embraced it. The growing lump within his chest exploded in a blubbery sob and his shoulders began to violently shake as he cried.
For half an hour he poured his emotions upon the floor. Openly sissified, he eventually dried up, exhausted. He glanced at his friends. They too had felt the power of the Holy Spirit's grief. Each stared dully at the floor in front of them, red puffy eyes staring back into a time they could never change.
Finally, the collective Cry-Fest was interrupted by the preacher who, once again, stabbed the floor with his Faith-Be-Quick Stick.
"Faith. Have faith, my brothers. All is not lost. It is important to remember that at each end is a beginning." He turned and placed a hand the shoulder of The Holy Spirit "And remember Great One, that he who was thy mate, has returned to the Father and sits at the right hand in judgment over us. He is in a better place. A far better place."
The Holy Spirit stood. She nodded once, trailing the tips of her fingers through the matted hair of the dead Bigfoot. Then she turned, stepped swiftly past the three kneeling men and took her place on the other side of the Holy Receptacle.
Frank was no longer scared. He was too spent. He felt truly emotionless. So it was with a critical eye that he examined the female Bigfoot before him.
She was nearly as large as her mate, huge by human standards. Her hair was much longer, however. Almost like Cousin It, except her form was far from formless. The hair on her head was so matted, it appeared to be dreadlocks, falling in thick, twisted ropes of hair. He could make out small leaves, pine needles, and insects residing within. Her shoulders were heavily muscled as were her arms. What was truly amazing, was the size of her pendulous breasts. Covered with hair, each tipped with a thumb-sized dark brown nipple they were the size of pillows.
Brother Cyrus approached The Holy Spirit with an earthenware bowl. He held it in the crux of his elbows, and the weight of its contents caused his arms to shake. The female stared solemnly into the bowl, then accepted it.
With one hand supporting the bowl, she shifted her attention to Frank and his friends. She stared at each one as if memorizing their faces, or reading their souls. Then gently, with nary a drop spilled, she poured the contents of the bowl into the spittoon.
&n
bsp; As he had suspected, it contained the substance that had been within the well: The Soup of God.
"My Brothers," came the soft reverential voice of the preacher. "The sacrament has been consecrated."
A collective sigh filled the room.
Cyrus approached and, with head bowed, removed the bowl. Cletus approached as well and, with the bottom third of the Faith-Be-Quick Stick, began to stir the contents of the receptacle. The entire time he stirred, his eyes were upon the three kneeling men.
Chapter 11:
It Takes But a Sip...The Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free-Card...Transformation...Rebirth...Robbie's Blood...All Plans Off...Multitudes of Souls...The New Messiah
"Who shall drink from the Holy Receptacle?" asked Brother Cletus from behind the podium, his arms entreating.
Frank stood slowly. Since he was still bound, he used his knees to help himself to his feet. He threw back his head and, as he approached the Reverend, stared him in the eyes.
"Me."
Brother Cletus nodded once, then pointed to the bowl on the altar. "My brothers, The Living Earth shall return!"
The congregation was quiet as Frank walked towards the Holy Receptacle, their eyes watching him as if he was the only thing in existence. Frank halted at the altar and stared down into the spittoon. Shimmering winks of light, like stars in a black universe, could be seen within the dark liquid. Cyrus used a pair of wire cutters to snip his bonds. Frank massaged his wrists, careful of the small wounds left by the barbed wire.
Without a backwards glance, he picked up the container and held it before his chest. He turned and stared into the faces of his friends one final time, breathing slowly, trying not to hyperventilate.
Lukas nodded sadly.
Jimmy stared at the floor, evidently unable to watch.
"Drink," Brother Cletus whispered. "It only takes but a sip."
Frank brought the bowl to his lips. The rank sourness of the fluid within the spittoon almost gagged him. He breathed small breaths through his teeth, hoping his nose would be tricked into passivity. With a small prayer, he rocked back his head and allowed the Holy Receptacle to disgorge its contents. The thick, syrupy liquid immediately filled his mouth. He swallowed it as quickly as he could, several times, almost losing the fight to spew the nastiness upon the congregation.
He could taste everything.
The coppery taint of blood.
The rankness of a Bigfoot.
The Jack Daniels.
And the strange, sulfury taste of the Soup of God.
Alone he could have probably drunk each ingredient. Together, however, the combination was a thick, mucous mix of revulsion. His eyes watered. His knees shook, from not only the weight and size of the Holy Receptacle, but from their ever-increasing need to propel him outside where he could release the contents of his stomach into the Appalachian night.
Finally he could take no more. He let go of the spittoon and staggered. The large brass container fell on its side, and rolled down the steps to where Lukas and Jimmy still kneeled. A black viscous liquid seeped from the opening.
Frank sturdied himself by placing a hand upon the altar. With the back of the other hand, he wiped his mouth, staring at the blood as if it were cyanide.
For one brief moment, Frank thought that nothing was going to happen. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe he had to be a member of this insane church for the sacrament to work. Just maybe, he would be all right. Frank scratched absently at his arm, where the hair and skin began to tingle. He scratched again, this time along his thigh. He wondered if he might be allergic to something in the strange concoction, seeing the possibility as a very unique get-out-of-jail-free-card.
Maybe it wouldn't work after all, just make him itch a little. He couldn't help but smile and turned to his friends. Lukas was also smiling, hopefulness in his eyes. But Jimmy was merely shaking his head, his eyes red and swollen as if he were about to cry.
The itching was becoming worse. He dug his nails into his right arm. It felt as if insects had burrowed into his skin and were threatening to burst from his flesh. The thought made him stare and fear surged through him as he noticed that the normally fine, blond hairs along his arms had grown twice their length. And not only had they grown, but they were waving about as if each one was moving to its own wind. As he watched, the hairs continued to grow until his skin was hidden beneath a fine mesh.
He felt his face. His hands encountered more hair, the strands growing from his face longer, moving as if each were a slender snake. A small thin peel escaped from his now hairy lips.
"Can we get an amen, my brothers?" asked Brother Cletus, his voice booming through the silent church.
"Amen," the congregation murmured.
Frank fell backwards against the pulpit, spittle flying from his mouth in red rivulets, his now black eyes rolled back inside his head, his flesh undulated. Small pops of air hissed from his skin, sprouting like newly awakened serpents.
Frank opened his mouth to scream, then realized his teeth had grown as well. The fingers of his right hand traced the incisors that were growing into sharp, knife-like points. Pain suddenly blasted through his body as muscles and bones reformed and stretched. His clothes fell to the floor in tatters. Flesh snapped from the tips of his fingers, skin splattering into the congregation as claws replaced nails.
"Hide your faces, my brethren. The Nephilim is upon us. The changing has begun."
The congregation bowed their heads as one, refusing to witness the rest of the transformation.
Frank fell to the hard floor and writhed. Each and every molecule within his body was being assaulted and overcome. He felt his arms lengthen in sickening pops. His balls fell as he became large. The painful pressure on his feet was suddenly released as the hard leather of his boots split asunder.
"Remember the gospel. There was a war in heaven and angels fell. The greatest of these was Satan who was cast out for his greed."
"Satan," hissed a dozen mouths.
"Yet he wasn't the only one. Nay, my brothers. Satan wasn't the only angel who fell. Hundreds of them from both sides plummeted from the Heavens and struck the earth. Some were beyond healing and loosed their magic. Some were able to heal and rose again. Still, some decided their place was here."
Frank attempted to stand, but was overcome by a new set of trembling as his head began to enlarge. Reaching up with two clawed hands, he tried to keep it from exploding.
"Yet God would not allow this. Nay, my brothers. For the mere glance upon the true form of an angel would explode the eyes of a man, sending him into death faster than corn through a coonhound."
"Death," came twenty voices.
"These Nephilim, these mighty fallen angels, found other ways. They were smart, these angels. They would continue God's work. They would be as Jesus, before and after."
"Jesus, before and after."
Frank screamed as his head tripled in size.
"They would become us. The never-dying ones would allow themselves to become us. They would be reborn in those that were deemed special."
Frank found himself on all fours panting. He struggled to rise, and by gripping the altar, was finally able to stand. And as he stood, Brother Cletus shouted.
"The Living Earth is reborn!"
He was taller. His perspective was entirely different. Frank stared at the congregation one by one and couldn't help but notice the looks of filial joy upon their grizzled, mountain faces. He dropped his arms and felt his body, now covered with thick fur. He could feel his muscles rippling underneath his flesh, spasms firing across his skin.
A feeling of sublime peace came over him as he felt the transformation come to the end. The world was sharper, the tiniest details focusing into startling clarity. He made eye contact with the Holy Spirit, and she nodded—a strange smile upon her beautiful, furry face. She gestured towards the congregation, her arm winding down like a wheel to her opening hand.
The eyes of the congregation became like windows and he looked
inside each and every one of them, understanding them as if they were his own flesh and blood.
Frank felt the adoration hit him like a wave, and he closed his eyes, deriving power from their love. The blood of the beast charged through his veins like medicine, burning everything negative, filling him with insight. He knew instantly that all of his plans were off, for he was not capable of committing a violent act while in the body of the Living Earth.
The body that Frank found himself reborn in contained multitudes of souls—a long list of men chosen to be the new messiah, chosen to host the Nephilim.
As if they had always been a part of him, Frank knew them all intimately, feeling their thoughts permeating his mind with their insights and wisdom. A memory suddenly surfaced.
The Living Earth did not kill Robbie. It had done everything that it could to save the little boy from the bear. He was just too late. It had been so painful to fail, to allow the death of a human. A part of him still ached when he pictured the tiny boy in mangled pieces, the blood running down the red clay banks of the Hiawasee.
The entity that had been the Living Earth then had died from the wounds the bear had inflicted upon him as he had tried to save the other boy—died trying to save Teddy. And it was Teddy that had replaced him and become the newly resurrected Living Earth. The realization hit Frank hard, and his knees buckled underneath his massive weight.
Lukas had killed Teddy.
His friend had killed a memory.
When Frank opened his eyes he was weeping, salty tears running down his face and into his dagger-like teeth. His shoulders shook as a deep sob was released, filling the room with a soulful moan.
Brother Cletus and the rest of the congregation dropped to their knees. He felt the power of their prayers as each one filled him with a spiritual fuel.
Jimmy and Lukas were at the rear of the church, backs to the wall, eyes wide above their open mouths. Frank could smell their fear, an irritating stench that made him want to simultaneously stifle it and run away. He stepped away from the altar, nearly overwhelmed at the new power he could feel within his bones. He walked down the aisle towards his friends, his feet padding across the wooden floor. The congregation continued to pray, their mouths moving, though only a feathery whisper could be heard.
