MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

  “So those guys we saw, they’re the blue-thingies who did this to me?” She absently motioned at her stomach, at the slash currently concealed by the baggy white shirt.

  “The Kobock Nation,” Levi said. “That’s what they call themselves.” He angled the van sharply, cutting hard right all the way across traffic and onto the entrance ramp for freeway I-225 North. The Explorer and Deville followed suit, merging on behind a handful of seconds later.

  “And Kobocks are?” she asked.

  “Kobos for short. Sort of like Goblins. Live in the Deep Downs of the Hub.”

  “’Kay. Let’s try a different approach. How about you pretend I don’t know anything at all—because, gee, I don’t know anything at all—and just explain every weird thing you say? How’s that sound?”

  “Not a good time for this conversation,” the Mudman replied, knuckles still vice-grip tight on the steering wheel while his eyes flickered over the rearview mirror. He smashed down the gas and swerved left, boldly darting across three lanes of traffic, trying to draw away from their pursuers. The van was great for a lot of things, but no one would ever mistake the vehicle for a hot-rod roadster. The Explorer and Cadillac had no difficulty keeping up. He pushed it to seventy and held fast, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention from local authorities, while he cruised toward the I-70 interchange.

  It took a handful of minutes before the mousetrap—a huge sprawl of concrete ramps, soaring high into the air and connecting the north- and south-bound I-225 with the east- and west-bound I-70—drew into view. Here Levi punched the gas, pushing his speed up to eighty, then eight-five, and waited for the last possible moment before swerving back to the right. He slashed his way across four lanes, all heavy with traffic, merging onto I-70 East. Hopefully, the Kobock hunters wouldn’t be able to get over in time and would get stuck on the westbound branch of the freeway.

  Tires squealed, brakes shrieked, and the blare of angry car horns followed in their wake, but they made the turn off—narrowly avoiding a concrete highway divider designed to prevent just such haphazard and reckless driving. Levi dropped back down to sixty-five as he took the curved flyover. Ryder clung to the armrests of the captain-style passenger seat, her skin even paler than before.

  “Top Gun, what happened to it’s the law? Can we try not to do that again?” she asked. “I feel like I just got a second chance at this living thing, and I’d like not to become road pizza.” She paused, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “Oh shit,” she said, “the Caddy made the turn.”

  And sure enough, Levi caught a glint of silver as the Deville weaved toward them like a shark cutting through waves. The Explorer, at least, was nowhere to be seen. One down was certainly better than nothing.

  They hopped off I-70 East at the Chambers Avenue exit, doubling back toward Colfax, an area Levi was far more familiar with. The Deville hung back but kept pace: close enough to monitor the van, but far enough away to maneuver in case Levi pulled another stunt like the one back on the freeway. That was fine, though, since Levi had no intention of ditching this carful of monsters.

  They did need some answers, after all.

  He swung left once they made Colfax—a straight cut of asphalt running for miles and miles. Once upon a time, and way back when, in the days before I-70 tore across the state like a concrete river, Colfax had been Colorado’s main interstate, an indispensable artery: Motor Inns, hotels, and old diners galore littered the roadway from a bygone golden age. Now, however, Colfax was a black hole, those once fine hotels fallen into disrepair and filled with winos and prostitutes.

  As they rode east, gas stations and badly worn motels gave way to trailer parks, liquor stores, and, eventually, rolling brown open space. Open space largely devoid of other motorists or unwelcome, prying eyes. Exactly the kind of territory Levi favored for his work.

  “So, what should I call you?” Ryder asked as the car settled into an easy forty miles per hour, the traffic thinning out and dying away as they drove. “Not that I mind calling you Top Gun or Big Guy. Heck, I could call you Goo-dude or Clay-face. Doesn’t really matter to me. But I just thought if we’re going to be stuck together, maybe I should know your name.”

  “Levi,” he said after a time. “Some folks call me Mudman. You can call me either.”

  “Naturally, some folks call you Mudman,” she mumbled under her breath. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, Levi, what’s the deal with the Kobocks? What do they want with me?”

  “Don’t rightly know.” Levi offered her a lopsided shrug. “Whatever it is, though, it can’t be good. Usually Kobos abduct, rape, kill. That’s their M.O. That’s what they do. They aren’t the type for planning things out. Maybe their shamans—that’d be the old one with the skin cloak—but not your everyday Kobock. But you, you they didn’t kill. You they didn’t rape. No, you they came back for. Ventured up to the surface for, which, by the way, they hate doing. Must mean you’re important to them somehow. Past that though?” He shook his head. “My specialty isn’t so much in understanding them as it is in exterminating them.”

  More awkward silence descended like the setting sun, coating the interior of the car.

  “Okay. That’s something I guess,” she said after a time, pushing onward. “If you can’t tell me more about the Kobocks, then tell me about the Hub. That’s a thing you mentioned? Or you could tell me what in the hell you are? That seems like the kinda thing you might know something about. Really, at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  Levi didn’t answer. Her questioning was already wearing on him. Levi could often play the outgoing people-person when the need arose—at church say, or during a gallery showing for his artwork—but normally he was tight-lipped and not one for conversation. Especially not conversation on Kobocks, Outworld, or himself.

  Eventually, she scowled as if to say, Fine, whatever asshole. “You can keep your secrets for now,” she snapped, “but I expect answers sooner or later.” She hooked a thumb back toward the Deville. “The least you can do is tell me how we’re gonna lose the freaks in the Caddy. And then I want to know where we’re going and what the plan is.”

  “Sure ask a lot of questions.” He flipped on some soft Christian contemporary music and fell silent.

  She immediately pushed the power button, cutting the tunes from the air like a knife.

  “Yeah, because you told me you had answers,” she replied. “Remember that? Back in the hospital, like fifteen minutes ago, when you said if I came with you you’d tell me what I want to know? Well, here we are, and there’s a shitload of things I’d like to know about. Such as, where are we going and what’s the plan?” She ran a hand through her hair, nervous but fighting to hide it.

  Empathy, Levi thought. Pastor Steve was always saying Levi could stand to be more empathetic—could benefit from seeing things from other people’s perspective. Step Ten bubbled up in his mind: Always continue to take personal inventory, and when you’re wrong, promptly admit it. As much as he was loath to acknowledge it, the girl made a few good points. He supposed he did owe her a few answers, and besides, throwing her a bone might make her more agreeable.

  He grunted and grimaced. “Fine. Sorry. I’ll answer some of your questions. Right now, we’re going to draw this carload of Kobos to someplace private. Then, once we’re sure there’s no one else around, we’re going to pull over. You”—he jabbed a finger at her—“well, you are going to stay in the car with the doors locked. And me, well I’m going to club ’em all to death.”

  The brand on his chest pulsed at the thought. It’d been a tough day and he was looking forward to dealing with the carload of soon-to-be murder victims behind him. He’d have to purge again, to soak his flesh in fire, but the catharsis would be more than worth it. “But before I kill them, I’ll see if I can’t get some answers. Then … I dunno.” He rolled his shoulder, muscles tight, tense. “Then, I guess we’ll head back to my place and try to come up with a better game plan. Something proactive.�
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  Colfax continued for a way yet before meeting back up with I-70 East, but there was a turn off ahead, which wound back toward a rest area with a poorly maintained asphalt parking lot and a dusty tan brick bathroom. Other than the Deville, there wasn’t a car in sight for miles. Levi slowed down, even turning on his blinker so the Kobos wouldn’t miss them when they pulled into the rest stop.

  “This seems like such a bad idea.” She was fidgeting again, running her hands ceaselessly over her sweatpants. “I mean, can’t we come up with a plan that doesn’t involve fighting to the death?” For all her tough talk, Levi got the sense she was more scavenger than predator.

  “Don’t worry about it. Remember, this is my specialty. I’ve got this.” The Mudman steered the car into the shade of the rest stop bathroom, turning on the hazards and shifting into park. He killed the engine, unfastened his seat belt, and got out, still wearing his church face. He smiled as the Cadillac pulled up. The first genuine smile that day.

  EIGHT:

  Scuffle

  The Deville pulled up, grinding to a halt as its doors flew open releasing a slew of strangely malformed people. Four men and three women: a regular clown car; though, admittedly, the Deville was big as a boat. The driver was the last to exit. With him, the count climbed to eight, but he wasn’t like the rest.

  No, not the same at all. Big, bigger even than Levi in his true form, and built on the same scale as a black bear—powerful muscle coated in thick fat. That, combined with the low sloping forehead, flat face, and jutting lower jaw, struggling to contain all its teeth, told Levi all he needed to know.

  A troll or ogre. Though, he couldn’t rule out some other horror from the far-flung reaches of Outworld, not without seeing its true form.

  “Look, folks,” Levi said, raising his hands in submission, letting a false thread of panic fill his voice. “I don’t know why you guys are following me, but I’m sorry for whatever I did. I’m sure this is just some big, unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  The horde of creatures stalked nearer, fanning out in a rough circle, closing in on multiple fronts.

  “Look,” Levi said, turning this way and that, trying to speak to everyone at once. “If I cut you off or stole your parking spot, it was an accident. I swear. No offense intended. I’ll-I’ll give you money, if that would help. I have money.” He dry-washed his hands, a nervous tic—at least in a human. There was no way they could know what he was, and in his current shape he looked about as intimidating as an emaciated rat-terrier.

  That was to his advantage. He was a creature well versed in the art of bloody knuckles and busted teeth, so the closer they got, the better.

  “Please, folks,” Levi pleaded, his voice cracking at the edges. “Let’s just get back in our cars, huh? What ya’ say? We all go our own way, no muss, no fuss.”

  With long loping strides, the hulking driver deposited himself directly in front of Levi, planting his feet and balling up giant fists. “Where’s girl?” he asked in a low-pitched grunt too deep for any set of human vocal chords.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Levi replied, offering an uneasy smile, then scooting back a step.

  The creature—whatever he was beneath his flesh-mask—raised a colossal hand and set it on Levi’s shoulder. Weighed as much as a Christmas ham. “Not ask again. Where’s girl? We only come for girl.” Then the creature squeezed, fingers curling in to emphasize his point. Ogre-man’s beady eyes went wide as he found the flesh beneath his fingers unyielding. When Levi changed form, he didn’t diminish, he compacted, drawing down, but simultaneously increasing in density. After all, the Mudman’s mass couldn’t disappear—the Law of Conservation applied to both natural and supernatural alike.

  Though the body he wore looked saggy and weak, he weighed in at over four hundred pounds—all of it rocky earth, mucky clay, and golden ichor.

  “What—” the creature started to say.

  Levi didn’t let him finish.

  Instead, he lurched up, letting his bulk spill out as his body reverted to its true shape. Pivoting from the hips, Levi slammed an uppercut into the underside of Ogre-man’s chin. A brutal strike, which should’ve sent the brute flying high, but instead merely left him swaying from side to side, a boxer almost down for the count. Obviously the creature was also larger than he appeared from his human exterior.

  Before the creature could get its bearings, Levi shot in again, melting both hands into medieval mace heads—spiked and deadly—which he swung in a ferocious overhead arch, bringing both clubs down upon his opponent’s head. The strike reverberated up through his arms, rattling his teeth as if he’d just hammered into a steel support beam. All the same, the creature crumpled to the ground, legs giving way under the force of the blow, its flesh-mask disappearing as the beast hit the unkempt asphalt.

  What remained was a mound of thick muscle covered with bristly white fur, a boar-like face with great tusks protruding skyward from its lower lip, and claws the envy of any grizzly bear. Not to mention a stench—wild and musky mixed with decay and shit—that was worse than even the sewers running beneath the Hub.

  A troll then, but not a regular troll: a Thursr. A Dread Troll of the far north.

  As the Thursr hit the ground, the Kobo passengers lost their focus and, in so doing, their rudimentary disguises. Where once seven misshapen humans had been, now the Kobocks loomed in all their disgusting glory.

  Then the Kobocks were moving.

  The whole lot of them dashed in as one. Two of the females—marked by their scraggily black hair—leapt through the air, grubby claws extended while inhuman shrieks of rage filled their throats. One tangled her arms around Levi’s neck while the other grabbed onto his leg like a toddler and bit down with jagged black teeth. Levi replied with his own howl as he shook his massive frame—a dog shedding water—but the pair clung tightly, thin arms much stronger than they appeared.

  Another Kobo darted in from the side, scampering along the ground on all fours like some monster chimp. Levi swung and met him with a wrecking ball fist, caving in his face with a crunch. The force of the blow hurled him through the air and into the high grass beside the restroom.

  From behind, a Kobo snaked around Levi’s other leg, nails digging in, teeth chewing at his calf. Levi shook again, spinning round and round, as he attempted to dislodge the miserable hitchhikers. Useless.

  The last female struck from the left, coming in hard before weaving at the last moment to pounce from the front. Levi brought up his leg—Kobo still dangling like some monstrous tick—and buried a foot in her chest, caving in her ribs and throwing her back. Her broken form bowled into the Dread Troll, who was slowly making his way upright. That was problematic. He’d caught the Thursr by surprise, but now the creature would be ready for a fight. Thursrs were tougher than old mountain rocks, but Levi was sure he could carry the day—assuming he only had to deal with the troll.

  But against a Dread Troll and seven Kobocks?

  He needed to even the odds a bit.

  Down in the Hub—or anywhere in Outworld—Levi was limited, terribly so. Here, however, he had access to his full power and he intended to use it.

  He reached out, pushing his senses deep into the ground while also drawing the golden ichor within him to the top of his skin, preparing it for transmutation. That was the true secret behind his abilities: the alchemic, transmutable nature of the ichor flowing in his veins. True, he could shapeshift, but only because his gray flesh was saturated with the golden substance beneath, lending it similar, malleable properties. Yes, he could heal even the most grievous injuries, but only because the ichor—almost a living substance—fought furiously to keep its host alive.

  The ichor was powerful stuff, capable not merely of taking the shape or appearance of a thing, but of becoming that thing in truth.

  The earth—his mother and father—called out to him, welcoming him home and offering him whatever assistance he required: layers of burnt-red sandstone hummed like a gentl
e laugh from a long lost friend; pockets of silvered mica, cloudy quartz, and chalky feldspar—all like siblings—each yelled at him, all vying for attention. Running beneath all of those lay metamorphic and igneous rock, their call like a sturdy and steadfast military cadence. That was what he needed: the igneous rock, with its rough patches of buried obsidian, which could be honed to a razor edge, sharper even than a surgical scalpel.

  That would do nicely.

  He held the picture of the volcanic glass in his mind, envisioning the slick texture of it under his fingertips. The ichor within him vibrated, his skin crawling as the substance responded to his unspoken command. Spikes—pencil thin, black as ebony, and sharp as death’s scythe—ruptured from his arms, legs, and torso, impaling the Kobos covering his body. It wasn’t a painless process for Levi—he felt each spike rip through muscle and skin, perforating his body. Sometimes, though, painful things needed doing.

  Besides, Levi’s wounds were only superficial and well worth the paying, especially considering the outcome.

  The clinging Kobos shrieked and wailed, falling away as spikes stabbed into hands and chests, gouged out eyes or sliced through roving tongues and biting mouths. The creatures slipped away like water droplets rolling off a rain slicker, and tumbled to the ground. They twitched and flailed as purple lifeblood leaked away, staining the pavement. Soon their thrashing ceased. Death a relief from the pain. Levi retracted the spikes back into his body; minute puckered holes now peppered his form, each leaking a small rivulet of molten gold.

  The Dread Troll was firmly on his feet now and moving toward Levi. But the creature moved with unsure feet, hesitation and uncertainty marking his movements, etched into his body like lines worked into a slab of clay.

  “Ustorfa og siskat divpu!” the Thursr commanded in a guttural tongue while edging left, positing himself between Levi and the minivan.

  The two remaining Kobos responded in an instant, retreating a few paces before wheeling around and dashing toward the van. Toward Ryder. Though the words were unclear, Levi understood the situation just fine: whatever this lot had been expecting, Levi was not it. So, the troll would hold off the Mudman while the remaining underlings snatched the prize.