MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

“Because of my discovery. I told you, up until ten months ago, no one could read the glyphs in this temple. At the height of their technological prowess, even the Atlanteans weren’t able to translate them. Several years ago, however, I found a cipher while excavating a long-abandoned Kobock temple in the Deep Downs. Like the Rosetta Stone that allowed Jean-François Champollion to translate Egyptian hieroglyphs for the first time, the cipher enabled me to literally read the writings on the wall. It also disclosed the location of this temple. A remarkable breakthrough.” He paused, wistful. “Truly the find of a lifetime.”

  “You found this cipher in a Kobock temple?” Levi asked, voice flat and numb, a queasiness growing in his stomach. “Why would Kobocks have something like that? What connection could they possibly have to all this?”

  The professor turned away, brow creased, one eyebrow quirked in thought while he ran a hand through his hair. “The Kobocks have long worshiped Cain. I can’t prove anything definitively, but my theory is that the Kobocks are the lost progeny of Cain. I think they settled in the Sprawl after Cain was imprisoned, and remained until the Atlanteans arrived. There is evidence to suggest a primitive group of humanoids lived here, but were driven out around the time of the Cataclysm. I think those were the Kobos, and I believe that after being driven out, they wandered for a while before eventually resettling in the Deep Downs.”

  Levi sped up his pacing. Things were falling into place now, piece after piece coming together to form a picture—and not a pretty one.

  “At any rate,” the professor continued, “ten months ago I published a small portion of my findings, hoping to secure a backer for this expedition. That’s when Hogg approached me, with money and a wealth of new information. For a while things were going well, right up until I managed to decipher the markings in the inner sanctum. Those writings, they tell Cain’s story, but more importantly, they also offer a manner for releasing him. Not intentionally, mind you, but by leaving a record of how he was imprisoned—in case he ever needed to be imprisoned again—the writers unwittingly divulged the formula to reverse engineer his release.

  “That formula is what Hogg was after all along. I have no idea how Hogg knows what he does, but I believe he’s been collaborating with the Kobocks to release Cain for a very long time. Unsuccessfully, obviously. When I refused to give him my findings, he tortured Simon—I barely escaped by the skin on my teeth, and fled to the temple, hoping Hogg wouldn’t be able to pursue me inside. I was right on that score, but I haven’t been able to leave either since Hogg and his goons are camped out at the only exit. Waiting for me to break.”

  “How’d Hogg get to the emergency exit if he can’t access the temple?” Levi asked.

  “The emergency exit is well concealed, but it can be accessed from the outside. It appears that so long as Hogg doesn’t breach the door to the inner sanctum, Siphonei is content to let him be.”

  Levi grunted in reply. “I’ve got another question for you,” Levi said, mind racing along like a fighter jet determined to break the sound barrier. “What use would Hogg have for a homunculus? Like from alchemy.”

  Wilkie was quiet for a long beat, face growing noticeably more ashen. “Why?” he whispered.

  “One detail I might’ve left out. The girl I’m travelling with. I think she has one growing inside of her. Implanted by a Kobock shaman and Hogg.”

  “My God,” the old mage replied, then clasped one hand over his mouth, face pensive, worried. “The ritual is quite complicated. It’s not like baking a cake, you understand. It must be carried out precisely on the autumnal equinox, which would be”—he canted his wrist and glanced at his watch—“Wednesday, September 22 at 8:21 Coordinated Universal Time. Roughly two days from now. In addition, the incantation must be spoken in the mother tongue and a sacrificial murder—a reenactment of Cain’s mythos—must be committed.”

  “Sacrificial murder?”

  “One blood sibling must willingly kill another, just as Cain killed Abel.” The professor threw up both hands in exasperation. “It’s quite complicated and we haven’t the time for me to explain. The most important part, though, is the vessel. This temple binds Cain’s body, but not his essence, his soul. So, if a suitable form could be constructed—like an empty homunculus—it’s distinctly possible Cain’s essence could invade that body. He’d be free to roam the world again.”

  A wave of dizziness washed over Levi as his frantic pacing sped up further still. Hogg meant to free Cain, Ryder was the key, and, since she would undoubtedly be searching for the exit, she would be heading right for him.

  The professor sprang to his feet, a tightly coiled spring ready to explode. “It’s imperative we find your friends. Absolutely imperative. If Siphonei doesn’t kill them, they’re bound to blunder right into Hogg and his men.”

  “You read my mind,” Levi mumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Wilkie said, “it would be best for everyone if Siphonei simply killed this girl and the thing inside her.”

  “No,” Levi spat. “I don’t want to think about that. She’s … important to me.” And he meant it. It wasn’t just a matter of doing the right thing. He would genuinely be upset to see Ryder die.

  Wilkie’s features softened a touch. “She’s your friend. Like my Simon.” After a moment, his face hardened with resolve. “Then we should get a move on it,” he said, brushing the grit from his palms. “I’ve studied Cain for a long time—longer than most. And trust me when I say he’s locked up for a good reason. Best we keep it that way.”

  TWENTY-ONE:

  Lesser Guardians

  Ryder stood on frozen legs, arms stiff, mouth agape, eyes wide as the encroaching thing padded nearer. She had no frame of reference for the thing in the hallway, no category to file it under. Whatever part of her rational brain remained intact seemed to rebel, to throw its hands into the air, as though to say, Screw this shit three ways from Sunday. I can’t do it anymore, I’m out.

  The creature crept forward on sinuous limbs of woven vines: eight arachnoid appendages, covered in cruel thorns and undulating purple flowers, protruded from a bulbous blood-red sac shaped like a spider’s abdomen. A vaguely humanoid torso—all ropy green muscle and slouched shoulders covered with wicked spikes of black bone—perched atop the spidery-thorax, swaying lazily with each step.

  A gargantuan replica of the small flowers dotting the creature’s insectile legs served for its head. Directly in the center of the creature’s face, nestled snugly between its drooping petals, sat a dull onyx beak, built for rending flesh or tearing meat. Looked like some kinda freaky-ass monster squid. A trio of ropy arms, one from each shoulder and a third sprouting from its chest, waved and wobbled through the air as it moved, snaking first this way, then that. Crustacean pincers, black as midnight and covered in more barbed hooks, large and small, adorned each arm.

  Those claws flexed as it scuttled.

  Open, snick. Close, snap.

  Open, snick. Close, snap.

  Ryder couldn’t move.

  She willed her legs to move, but the mutinous limbs refused—the equivalent of flashing her the bird. Deep down, she knew her survival hinged on putting as much distance between her and that … well, whatever-the-hell-it-was as fast as possible. Unfortunately, the urge to turn and flee wrestled with the urge to curl into the fetal position and pull a blanket over her head. To hide from the monster like she’d done as a little girl when the drug dealers would pay her folks a late-night visit. Ultimately, indecision made the choice for her.

  She did nothing.

  Stood there watching as the horror inched closer.

  Chuck—the world’s worst tour guide, but apparently a keen fan of not dying—had no such reservation. Without a word, he hefted his beefy pistol and aimed in with practice and ease, which offered Ryder a glimpse past Chuck’s smart mouth and easygoing façade.

  She was good at reading body language—a necessary survival trait growing up. In the circles her parents had moved in, violence was as commo
n as the rain was wet, and often the only hint of impending danger lay in the subtle, subconscious movements of the body: clenching fists, a trickle of sweat on the brow, biceps tightening or teeth grinding. For all Chuck’s talk of pastries and baking, he was damn confident with the piece in his palm, comfortable in a way that said, This ain’t my first rodeo. I’ve been around a time or two and I intend to stay around.

  “Get ready to move that ass,” he whispered, hands steady, eyes never leaving the flower-covered creature.

  Chuck’s words loosened something inside her chest, lifting away the paralyzing dread. Ryder nodded and leveled her petite revolver, the grip slick in her palm. This was nothing like shooting at milk cartons filled with sand, but she’d put rounds into those Sprawl wolves—saved Levi, even if it’d been an accident—and she could do this, too.

  Chuck broke the momentary lull with a single twitch of his finger. The gun blared, crack-boom, followed by a bloom of light, harsh in the purple illumination, which temporarily burned a white afterimage across her eyes. The round tore into the creature’s torso, ripping a hole in its chest cavity, a wound as large as a softball. Chuck fired another round, a wet thwack, and one of the creature’s pincers blew apart, pinwheeling end over end into the hallway behind.

  Flower-face lurched back as each shot hit home, but seemed mostly indifferent. Ryder watched on in morbid fascination as its arm—so easily blown away—crawled back to its master, moving with a will of its own. Using whip-like tendrils of emerald, the severed limb pulled itself along the stony floor, inch by inch, foot by foot, before finally worming its way up the side of the creature’s body and burrowing back into place like a prairie dog wiggling into its hole.

  And then the bastard was a flash of movement, a blur of green, charging toward them while its flower mouth shook back and forth, a warble of rage filling up the air between them.

  Ryder glanced toward Chuck.

  He was already long gone, his back turned, his pack swinging, his lanky legs eating up the hallway, carrying him off and toward the right—down the hallway with the murderous plants. Toward the draft and the exit. That douche-bag, ass-faced bro-hole. Fucking chicken-shit coward. Not that she would’ve done anything different, but it was the principle that mattered.

  Ryder wanted to follow suit, wanted to turn tail and haul ass, but if she turned her back, she’d never make it. So instead she steadied her hands as best she could and aimed for the creature’s churning mass of legs. Honestly, it was unrealistic to say she aimed for anything specific, but with that many limbs, she figured a round would have to hit something—there was just too much creature not to. She pulled the trigger a trio of times, and the gun barked, pop-pop-pop-, and kicked in her grip.

  A spray of green followed: splashes of gooey sludge accompanied by chunks of meaty vine and shredded pieces of sunset flowers. The creepy son of a bitch was far from finished, but it did falter and slow, lingering as the missing portions of its body wormed across the floor and rejoined the party.

  Ryder took a stumbling step back, wheeled around, and bolted down the right-hand path, following Chuck’s lead. Gas all the way to the floor, running balls out. The tangles of vegetation, lurking on the walls and ceiling, slithered and moved at her passing, vines reaching out while flowers extended their barbed-covered tentacles, fighting to ensnare and hold her. Her heart thudded as she ran, beating like the driving bass line of a heavy punk tune: anxiety and claustrophobia colliding against each other in a primal mosh.

  As scared as she was of the probing, crawling vines, they didn’t hold a candle to her fear of the inhuman thing scuttling along behind her. She steeled herself, ducked low—head down, shoulders rounded, arms tight into her body—and barreled onward. Fuck these weeds. Every few feet something pulled at her: crawling lengths of green grabbing her hair or ankles or clothes. She ignored them all, plugging away before those tendrils could get a solid hold, and the whole while she screamed. A shriek, broken more than occasionally by a hysterical string of profanity.

  Once in a while she paused her banshee wail to catch her breath, and in those quiet pauses she could her the rustle of vines sliding endlessly over each other: a writhing brood of hungry snakes, interrupted by the rhythmic scurry of giant arachnid legs scritch-scratching along the floor. Drawing closer every heartbeat. As bad as the probing feelers were, the sound was worse. Sometimes, if she had time to kill, she’d watch a horror flick with her friends. It was never the sudden jump scares that did her in—no, it was always the damned music. That terrible build up, as if the director were saying, Something bad is coming to get you. It’s right around the corner, and there’s not a damned thing you can do to stop it. Not a single, damned thing.

  Ryder couldn’t stand it, and so instead she kept screaming for all she was worth, blocking out the sound of her encroaching death.

  She continued the madcap sprint, breaths coming in great pulls now, her pack swaying perceptibly and robbing her of speed. The tunnel continued to curve left for a hundred feet or so, apparently circling back on itself, then hooked hard right—a sharp ninety-degree turn. In the gloom, she almost failed to see the turn at all; only sheer luck and a hefty dose of adrenaline-fueled athleticism kept her from plowing, head-first, into the wall. She skidded to a halt just in time, killing outright all her hard-won momentum, and ducked right.

  She let out a pent-up breath—this section of tunnel was free of the creeping vines. A small victory. She put on a burst of speed, hoping to break away for good, find that asshole, Chuck, then get the hell out of this terrible shithole. Screw the professor, screw answers, screw Levi, she just wanted out. Now.

  The straps of her pack snapped tight around her shoulders, digging down and pulling her off her feet and into the air.

  She landed with a whuff of expelled air—the fall knocking all the breath from her lungs—and the clatter of metal on stone. Her gun bounced and slid out of reach. She craned her head back, stealing a look through a miasma of hazy, swirling dust: a questing vine, thick as her wrist, had wrapped itself around one of the straps crisscrossing her pack. Worse still, the pursuing plant-beast was only feet away, its tearing, crustacean claws scissoring furiously while its beak chewed at the air.

  A single strap, connected by a plastic buckle, ran across Ryder’s chest, securing her pack in place. Sweat ran down her face in rivulets while her trembling hands frantically worked at the buckle. Her hands were clumsy, uncertain things that refused to cooperate with her—all her fine motor reflexes seemed to have bailed at the worst possible time. After the longest handful of seconds in her life, the buckle gave way. She tried to wiggle her shoulders free of the padded straps, but it was too late.

  The arachnoid-plant loomed above her, flowered-face regarding her for a brief pause—did she see hesitation in that pose?—then lowered its claws, stretched wide.

  She wanted to clench her eyes shut. She had no desire whatsoever to watch this thing rip the limbs from her torso while she howled. The thought that this crime against humanity would be the last thing she ever saw made her sick in the stomach, but she couldn’t stop watching.

  When she’d been a girl, cowering in the closet, peering through the canted slats as Cesar Yraeta butchered her family, she’d wanted to close her eyes, too. But she couldn’t then and she couldn’t now. Her place, her destiny, she understood in a flash of morbid insight, was to bear witness. Not to change anything, but to watch carnage unfold over and over and over. She’d failed at almost everything in life—pissed every lucky break she’d ever had down a busted, shit-filled toilet—but she could, at least, bear witness to the end.

  So she stared, unblinking, as black-plated claws descended.

  Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack. There was thunder in her ears and lightning in her eyes. A warm green mist splattered against her cheek.

  What the hell? She reached up with a badly trembling hand and traced her fingers through the sticky droplets on her face.

  The creature’s arm retreated i
n a blur of motion, and the creepy shit fell away, its chest obliterated; several of its legs flopped on the floor; only a single arm remained attached to its body, and even that hung only by a gristly strand of vine.

  Chuck stood dead ahead like some sort of ol’ west gunfighter. Feet planted, shoulders square, back straight, eyes squinted, hand cannon smoking—a faint wisp of white curling at the end of the barrel. The hallway was a straight shot for fifty yards, so she had no idea where he’d come from. Frankly, she didn’t have two fucks to give.

  Assuming she lived, she could enquire about the how later. She shimmied out of the shoulder straps—not wasting a second of this precious extension on her life—and scrambled onto her knees, then feet. She bent low as she moved, scooping up her fumbled revolver, the heavy-duty flashlight, and the pickaxe she’d taken from the work site, then broke into an all-out sprint, this time leaving Chuck to catch up with her.

  TWENTY-TWO:

  Ulterior Motives

  A hand clamped down on Ryder’s shoulder a few seconds later. She screamed, swinging around, gun outthrust, finger bearing down on the trigger, while she held the axe upraised in her other fist. She let out a breath of relief when Chuck’s stupid, leave-you-to-die face came into view. The lanky-legged son of a bitch was faster than he had any right to be.

  “Whoa, girl,” he said, one big hand shooting out and wrapping around the pistol, currently snuggled into his guts. “How’s about we put this little thing away before someone makes a mistake …” He backed up a step and eased her gun to one side.

  “Who says shooting you would be a mistake? You left me back there, asshole. Left me for dead. Now get the hell outta my way.” She turned, hands tightening on her weapons, and ran.

  Well, she tried to run.

  But she couldn’t because Chuck’s stupid hand snaked out again and bit down hard into her shoulder. “Ain’t no need for that,” he said, voice low and muted. “It’s not following us anymore.”