by James Hunter
The creature—unprepared for such a violent, unconventional act of lunacy—thrashed and howled in reply. The tentacles trying to pull him apart a moment before, now tried to pull him out. Levi transformed his right hand into a saw-toothed machete, its blade bathed in flame, and hacked at the pulling limbs. Then, the gelatinous goo coating Levi’s parched skin—the moisture a sweet, but temporary relief—ignited. Apparently whatever external defenses protected the flower-hydra from the fire didn’t extend to its belly.
A haze of heat and motion washed over Levi’s body as the stomach cavity erupted in a conflagration far hotter than the inside of Levi’s kiln.
The thing shrieked again, no longer in defiance but pain and fear, as its body wriggled and its gigantic jaws snapped closed. The razor-edged teeth sliced into Levi’s left thigh and his right calf, penetrating all the way through, threatening to chop both legs clean off. The beast continued to howl, but to Levi, the sound was faint and reedy as if he were hearing everything through a pool of deep water. The light engulfing him was as bright as a bonfire in darkest night, yet, oddly, the darkness stole new ground with every passing breath, creeping in first at the edges, then blanketing his eyes entirely.
“Critical damage,” he heard, the words bouncing around inside his skull. He recognized the voice in a vague and distant way, as though recalling an old, dim memory. Female. The computer who wasn’t a computer, Siphonei. “Auto power down required to prevent total system failure!” the voice screamed. “Auto power down initiated.”
The Mudman was too tired to care. Numbness crept through his broken, charred, and mangled form. He closed his eyes and uttered a deep groan, one-part sigh, one-part moan. Dying isn’t so bad, he thought as his mind slipped entirely into hazy gloom.
TWENTY-FOUR:
Doctor Hogg
Levi tried to blink his eyes open, but couldn’t. A layer of caked-on grime, warm to the touch, ran over his face. With the numb and dumb fingers of his right hand, he groped at his ugly beat-to-hell mug, scraping at the seared on goo, which came away begrudgingly. After a few seconds of fitful struggling he’d cleared off enough of the muck to crack his eyes open—not that it helped much. Gloom surrounded him on every side, a pocket of darkness enveloping him. Everything hurt, though hurt was a word insufficient to the task of describing his misery.
The entirety of his upper body tingled, his skin too tight, like an overfull party balloon, and crispy to the touch. Next he ran his hand over his chest and opposite arm: deep cracks and fissures zigzagged back and forth, running from everywhere to everywhere else. No part of him had been spared. Though he couldn’t see himself, he knew he must’ve resembled a slab of Oklahoma hardpan after a hard year of drought. Finally, he inspected his legs—there he found a sliver of pale light trickling in around the hydra’s teeth. Two of those huge, saw-bladed teeth were buried in his left thigh, and another ran through his right calf.
And, in a blink, it all came back to him.
Somehow he’d survived the scourging and even the hellish inferno blaze. Staring at his mangled legs made him wish he hadn’t. At least his legs didn’t hurt. The grievous wounds should’ve been screaming in his head, gibbering like a wild animal caught in a trap, but instead he felt nothing. Numbness radiated up and down; everything below the waist was just dead meat.
Survive he had, though, and Levi was never one for dwelling overlong on what could’ve been. Instead, he saw what was, and, with workmanlike dedication to duty, he set about freeing himself.
With a moan, he wriggled his upper body, shifting his weight and position until he could slip his equally mangled hands in between the clamped lips of the stomach-maw. Repositioning himself in such a way was excruciating—all that twisting and contorting was like running face-first into a wood chipper. It was the only way out, however, so the Mudman persisted. Without his fingers, the left hand was virtually useless, so instead he pressed down with his forearm, then used his good hand to pry the top lip upward, an inch at a time.
The first few feet were the worst and the hardest going since he had to not only force open the jaws, but also had to free his legs from the teeth. Unfortunately, the teeth were serrated and each tug ripped away more muscle, shredding his flesh as a final parting gift. Once that bit was done, though, the lips practically sprang apart, spilling Levi onto the floor in a burble of guts and burnt slime, still thick and sludgy, but now black instead of yellow. Levi rolled onto his back, limbs splayed out, chest pulling in great lungfuls of air, while his eyes adjusted to the rainbow light of the room.
Staring up at the ceiling—at the giant diamond inset into the apex of the pyramid, refracting the glimmering sunlight into a thousand colors—Levi felt … good. Not in a physical sense of the word, of course. In the physical sense, he felt like a strong breeze might kill him. Rather, he felt good in some deeper, spiritual sense. Despite the dirt and grime and gore, he felt clean. He regularly purged in the kiln for his numerous failings, but what he’d undergone in the belly of that beast was without equal in his long, morbid life. Purification.
As he lay there, the words of Saint Matthew tickled at the back of his mind: “But after me comes one who is more powerful than I … He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.”
He’d been baptized at conversion; only natural since Anabaptists were the first Protestants to practice and teach adult baptism. The baptism had been full immersion, a particularly horrifying experience for Levi, who so feared water. Yet it’d been nothing compared to this baptism of flame, which seemed to him a truer baptism. Reborn from the womb of a monster, birthed not by water but by fire. Perhaps the chaff of his soul had perished in the process.
“Get your hands off me, you disgusting piece of shit.” The words belonged to Ryder, though Levi couldn’t see her.
“Stop struggling, you miserable bitch,” a man replied. His voice was harsh and he spoke with an accent, something light and vaguely European. “You’ve already made such a bloody mess of things. Fighting’ll only make it worse for you in the long run. And your sutures won’t hold if you keep bucking like that, so unless you’d care to bleed out on the floor, you’d better comply.”
“Fuck you,” she said. “We both know you’re not going to let me bleed out here. Not after what you did to me—what you put into me.”
There was a pause followed by a sharp crack, the sound of a backhand slap across the face, then a cry of shock. “Consider my bluff called,” the man said. “No, you’re right, you won’t have the pleasure of bleeding out until I allow it. And you will bleed out, be sure of that. Whether it’s painful or not, though, is entirely up to you. Furthermore, if you really insist on being so difficult, please know that I have no qualms about beating you until you’re comatose. You see, you are nothing, you wretched druggie whore. Nothing, you hear me! Your only value is as a fat sow. A bag of meat to feed my creation. Someone gag her.”
Despite Levi’s brokenness, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He hadn’t come this far to let this man, whomever he was, walk away with Ryder. With a heave, he clambered onto unsteady legs—legs that swayed beneath him, threatening to buckle and topple him at any moment. He immediately spotted Chuck, still bound in a silken spider sac, not far from where Levi stood. His face was battered and swollen, his eyes closed, though his chest rose and fell in rhythmic succession.
Beaten and unconscious, but alive.
The Mudman staggered and lurched as he turned about, each step a perilous one, until at last he spotted Ryder.
A man, 5′3″, round in the stomach and face, with narrow, swine-like eyes and thin hair stood next to Ryder. He wore khaki pants, a button-up shirt carelessly tucked into his pants, and a white lab coat, complete with pocket protector. Slovenly described him well. This, Levi reasoned, was the man behind this whole fiasco—behind the Kobocks and the mutilat
ions, the terrible experiments, and the homunculus growing inside Ryder. This could only be Hogg.
What really caught Levi’s eye, however, was the man’s aura: dark as the heart of a black hole. Each sin or virtue added its own flavor to a person’s aura—ribbons of silver for an honest heart, say, or swirls of infected-wound-red for hate—and each brand of murder left its own mark as well. An unintentional death, vehicular manslaughter, for example, left a stain the color of an old bruise. Killing, even in self-defense, marred the aura with swatches of malignant green.
Cold-blooded murder, however, was a whole other beast, and it irreparably tarnished the soul, leaving it black and stunted. Still, even black-hearted murders usually had touches of other colors permeating their auras. A splash of red-rage here, a streak of purple-lust there, or even the shimmering gold of love blinking through.
Not this man. There was nothing to him but death.
Never had Levi wanted to kill so badly, but if anyone were to have answers about Levi’s clouded past, it would be this man.
He didn’t look like much of a physical threat—even in Levi’s battered condition he assumed he could crush the man—but it didn’t pay to underestimate someone capable of such wicked deeds. And even if he wasn’t magi, Professor Wilkie had said he could do magic in one fashion or another. With that said, the Mudman was still outclassed in the muscle department because the portly doctor had four Thursrs—identical to the wild, white-furred, boar-faced creature who’d ripped his arm off at the rest stop—in tow. Two flanked Ryder, holding her upright by either arm. One was shoving something into her mouth and taping it in place.
The other two flanked Professor Wilkie, who was bound with steel hand and leg restraints and gagged with a strip of gray duct tape. The professor was awake and alert, but any fight he had in him was long gone. His face was drawn, his eyes heavy, and the sag of his shoulders told Levi the professor was resigned to whatever fate awaited him. Which meant Levi, with his cracked skin, wobbly legs, and worthless arms, was the only defense remaining. Unfortunately, against four Thursrs and a whatever the doctor was, Levi was no defense at all.
The sword carved into his chest burned all the same, reminding him that his obligation was unchanged regardless of his physical condition.
“Stop right there,” the Mudman croaked, the words like sandpaper in his throat. “Stop before I stop you. And you won’t like the way I stop you.” He hooked his remaining thumb at the carcass of the monstrous creature behind him. “Just ask that thing for my references.”
The doctor swiveled, his gaze brushing over Levi for the first time. His eyes swelled, his brow knit in wonder, and his jaw dropped perceptibly.
“By all the darks gods below,” he said, “it can’t be. No, no”—he shook his head—“it can’t be possible. It can’t be, not after all these years. You, creature. Golem”—he jabbed a finger at Levi—“I command you to come here. To obey your maker.”
Levi tensed up, shifting on anxious feet. “Name’s not Golem. It’s Levi. Levi Adams. And I don’t listen to the commands of murderers. I execute murderers.” He balled his good hand into a fist, which transformed into a spike-covered mace. “Now you let the professor go and let that girl be.”
“What did he do to you?” The man stared, dismissing Levi’s words, his narrow eyes questing over the Mudman’s body. A sneer spread across his lips as his gaze landed on the brand carved into Levi’s chest, glowing with golden light. Levi thought there was a flash of recognition, or maybe realization, in his eyes. Something brushed at Levi’s senses, a subtle power that licked at his skin.
“I see now, of course. He filled you up with the tattered remnants of their souls. Whoever sheds human blood, by humans shall their blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made mankind.” He read the words inscribed in Levi’s flesh, then sighed. “Like the Golem of Prague. It all makes sense. The binding circle, even his suicide.” He shook his head and pressed his eyes shut, then rubbed at one temple. “The brilliant bastard. Well, the question is what to do with you now.”
The last was said for Hogg’s benefit, not Levi’s.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Levi replied. “Let ’em go. That girl, she’s important to me. I don’t want to see her hurt, and you don’t want to see her hurt either—because I’ll kill you and I’ll take my time.” Levi’s butchered face—one-part roadkill, one-part burn victim—split into a rictus full of torture and pain.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” the man replied, unruffled. “Anyone with a pair of working eyes can plainly see you’re lucky to be standing at all.” He smiled a greasy grin. “My eyes work just fine, Levi Adams. Instead, you’re going to be a good, obedient golem, just as I created you to be, and listen.” He edged forward a step. “First, let me say I truly mean you no harm. You, beast, are one of my greatest creations. A creation I thought lost over sixty years ago. One I certainly never thought to see again.” Another step. “You belong to me. You are my property, and I have no intention of damaging you further.”
Levi shuffled back a pace. He didn’t know what game this man was playing at, but it made him uneasy. And confused.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t belong to you, and I’m no one’s property,” Levi said, though his voice faltered, failing to carry its usual certainty. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“There are gaps in your memory?” Hogg responded, evading the question with a natural liar’s ease. “I suspect you know little of your creation, or your purpose. But make no mistake. You. Are. Mine. I am your creator. And you, golem, are a profane miracle.” He savored the word profane, holding it too long in his mouth.
“You may not realize this, Levi, but the golden blood flowing in your veins is the alchemic elixir of life. And at your center—the heart beating in your chest—is the rarest of treasures. One of only two Philosopher’s stones in existence. Able to transmute lead to gold, to produce an elixir that can stave off death itself, to allow you to transform like that.” He motioned at Levi’s mace-fist. “I know because I built it. Built it and implanted it in you. The other one is in here.” He tapped at his chest with one finger. “We’re two peas in a pod, you and I.”
“Liar,” Levi said. “You’re a liar. You didn’t make me. My maker was good.” Levi faltered. “He made me good,” he finished in a whisper.
The man shook his head. “A naïve creature, I see. I can assure you, I am no liar. Your body was crafted by Rabbi Yitzchak Tov Ganz—a renowned mage and a little known disciple of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel. You were built from the remnants of the original Golem of Prague. During a massive Nazi sweep, Rabbi Yitzchak was unfortunate enough to be captured and interned. I was working for the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei—that is to say the National Socialist Party—when I found him. Instantly, I knew him for what he was.
“All of that is neither here nor there.” He swished a hand through the air, it is nothing. “The point is, I knew of the good rabbi and knew he could help me in my quest to free my master. I liberated him from the camps, and he agreed to help me build you, believing me to be a double agent working against the Nazis. He also knew I was creating a Philosopher stone to power the creation, but it was only near the end that he discovered how I managed to create a source capable of providing true life to an inanimate object.
“After that”—he shrugged—“well … we had a falling out of sorts. He betrayed me, destroyed you, and killed himself in despair—or so I’ve always assumed. Now, though, I see he used his own death not to destroy you, but as a ritual sacrifice to fill you up and brand you with that vile inscription you have etched into your chest. Would you, perhaps, like to know the secret of your life and creation? The secret that drove poor Yitzchak to kill himself?”
Levi shuffled away, body trembling. He wanted to believe this man was a liar, but he knew too much. Ignorance looked more blissful by the second.
“I created you to be a vessel, Levi,
a powerful homunculus capable of containing the essence of Cain, the god of murder.” His greasy smile widened. “I’m sure you can appreciate the irony, considering that inscription you bear. What’s more, only the Philosopher stone could make an inanimate object powerful enough to house my Lord. And do you know how I created it, Levi?” He paused, drawing out the moment.
“I tortured three hundred sixteen Jews—one for each of the sacred names of God above. And, after torturing them, I performed a profane rite, which ripped the souls from their battered bodies and fused them into the gem which beats in your chest.”
He laughed, then, a slow chuckle that bubbled up from his stomach. “You are a living blasphemy, born from the Buna massacre.”
Levi’s knees gave out beneath him, and his body hit the ground with a thud.
One of the Thursrs flanking Professor Wilkie rushed forward.
The man, Levi’s creator, raised a single hand, stopping the creature midstride.
“Hold, you idiot. Weren’t you listening? I won’t risk damaging my rightful property further. Use that pea-sized brain for once, buffoon, and use your eyes while you’re at it. He’s standing at death’s door. Any more damage could destroy him permanently, and that profits me nothing. Besides, I have what I’ve come for. Despite your interference, Levi, you have delivered me everything I need to complete my task. An hour ago I had neither the girl nor the mage. An hour ago I couldn’t even venture into this sanctuary without fear of Siphonei. Now, here I stand, with my prize in hand, and you, beast, have my gratitude.”
Hogg lowered his hand and reached into his lab coat pocket. Levi’s body tensed, preparing for the man to draw some sort of weapon. Instead, he withdrew a business card and a golden pen. He carefully jotted something down on the back of the creamy-white card, then flicked it toward Levi, conjuring a gust of air that dropped it inches from Levi’s hand.
