MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

  Another jagged stone flew through the air and crushed more Kobocks.

  Then something exploded overhead with the boom of a grenade, but, instead of a ball of fire erupting, a cloud of powdery dust rained down into the shifting, screaming mass of blue-skinned assholes below. A handful of the creatures clawed at their eyes, talons digging trenches into their faces, before toppling to the floor, grimy hands clutched to throats as they coughed and hacked. Great gobs of frothy blood burbled out between blackened teeth.

  The world was madness and chaos. Anarchy in every sense of the word.

  And then the shaman was next to her. He held a wickedly curved knife in one shriveled hand; runes along the blade’s side glowed with a pale-red witchlight. Instead of cutting into her, though, he brought the blade’s edge sliding across the inside of his forearm. With a flick of his wrist, the knife sent a spray of bright blood flying into the air: there was a thunder crack and a blaze of crimson as several black arrows shattered against an iridescent shield.

  More chaos. More fighting. More shrieking. None of it made sense.

  Then there were pint-sized men, hard-looking Irish brawlers with thick black clubs, running wild amidst the Kobock ranks. Mean little shits, too. They moved like water and wind, dancing and sliding through the crowds in flashes of gold and green, busting the holy shit out of kneecaps and shins. She watched, stunned, as one of the miniature fellas shattered a Kobock leg—a spear of bone popped right through the bastard’s blue skin—then laid into the Kobo’s head over and over again. The disgusting, lopsided shithead rolled into a ball, gangly arms trying to protect its vital bits, but the badass midget was having none of it.

  The Irish brawler smashed the Kobock’s head in until gray matter leaked onto the concrete. Then, no shit, the little guy took a smoldering corncob pipe from between his lips and dumped the cherry-red ash onto the blue-skinned corpse. Badass didn’t even begin to cover it.

  What the fuck is happening?

  Escape was happening, had to be.

  So what if she didn’t know who the pint-sized killers coming to her aid were. They were coming to her aid, that was the important thing to remember. Watching them work was a hard sight to stomach, true, but she would live with any number of bad dreams if it meant she got to keep dreaming. She bucked at her bonds, twisting her wrists, jerking her ankles, frantic to get away while her captors were distracted.

  More yowls and howls, more flashes of gold and green—it was like being at a fucking Saint Patty’s Day parade in Boston—

  A clawed hand landed on her forehead, jerking her head toward the ruby-eyed altar off to the left. The shaman stood over her, free hand no longer holding a knife, but rather a delicate paintbrush coated in a reeky red sludge: the putrid liquid from the cauldron.

  “The time is nigh,” he hissed as he set to work, tracing letters and symbols onto her nose, cheeks, and chin with the paintbrush’s tip. The shaman chanted as he worked his way down her body—his words were rough, crude things that hurt her ears. She’d been around the punk scene a long time, but she’d never heard anything come close to the ear-splitting sounds that old fuck made. The shaman splashed more script onto her neck and chest and as he did, his words warbled and intensified, building to a crescendo as he scrawled lines and sigils onto her belly.

  She screamed, fists balled, stomach taut, legs suddenly rigid. Her insides … she could feel the thing, the homunculus, responding to the shaman’s call, worming its way upward, tunneling through her guts. After a few heartbeats, she could see its serpentine form pressing against her stomach, like a baby trying to kick its way out.

  The shaman shuffled back a step, his chanting never slowing. Jamie crept forward, her jaw hanging open as she watched the carnage unfolding all around. She looked dazed. Shocked. Confused. But none of that stopped her from raising a knife high overhead—the same knife Ryder had seen in the shaman’s withered hand a minute ago.

  “Now!” the shaman shrieked.

  “I’m sorry, Sally,” Jamie whispered, lips trembling, tears dripping from her eyes in twin streams. “This is for Mom and Dad and Jackson.” She hesitated, brow furrowing, face hardening. “It’s for us.” Then she plunged the knife down, the blade burrowing into Ryder’s navel.

  Ryder’s scream cut off, the force of the blow driving the air from her lungs.

  The knife pulled free, and as it left, Ryder could feel the thing inside her forcing its way through the new opening. She gasped, eyes rolling up into her head, back arching—a yogi in urdhva dhanurasana, the upward wheel pose. Something wet, sticky, and serpentine slid from her ruptured belly—foot after terrible foot of slick coils pulling loose—before the creature flopped to the floor with a squish. After what felt like hours, Ryder collapsed back to the table’s surface, her breaths coming fast and ragged.

  Another scream followed. Jamie. Ryder turned her head—the motion made her sputter and cough up a mouthful of hot blood—and bore witness as Jamie slid the same blade into her own belly, jabbing it home while she whimpered and shook.

  “Oh shit,” someone whispered in her ear. A man’s voice … though her brain was too clouded by pain to tell her head from her ass.

  “Why the hell I gotta get involved in this bullshit,” the voice mumbled.

  Chuck. It was Chuck.

  She blinked past the tears filling her eyes and searched for the source of the voice. Nothing. But now she could feel fingers working at the cuffs holding her in place. Invisible, he must’ve been invisible. “Don’t worry, sweet-thing, I got you,” he said, voice far too reassuring. She must’ve been in really awful shape for him to use that tone. She felt like a piece of fucking roadkill. “It’s gonna be alright, girl, I got you,” he said again.

  “It’s”—she gasped, coughed, metallic blood spurting onto her chin—“too late.”

  “Don’t you worry ’bout that. Me and my boy Levi, we got a plan. You just worry about not dying. Cool? Cool.” The cuffs took Chuck only a few seconds to loosen, but no one seemed particularly concerned with her at the moment. The Kobocks were doing their best to fight off the invading army. The shaman was, presumably, tending to the murder god wriggling around on the floor. And Jamie … well, Jamie was curled into the fetal position, clutching at her stomach, trying to hold the blood in.

  Chuck, still invisible, hefted Ryder into his arms like a man cradling a small child. “Oh shitty, shit, shit-ass, shit,” he said, body suddenly stiff with tension, fear, or both. “We are so fucked. Like royally fucked, by the King of Fuck-You City.”

  Ryder wanted to applaud him for his creative use of the word fuck—the guy certainly had a way with words—but instead she settled for throwing up a stream of blood all down her front.

  A second later she saw the source of Chuck’s fear:

  The maggoty little grub the shaman had implanted inside her back in the Deep Downs was anything but little now. The wyrm swelled with every passing second, exploding up and out in a sprawl of limbs and spikes and teeth.

  The creature stared at Ryder with a hundred glowing ruby eyes all jammed into a reptilian head like a salamander’s, though big as a truck tire, with a gaping mouth, lined top and bottom with inch-long knife-blade teeth. And it kept growing, up and up just like Jack’s beanstalk.

  Blood—both hers and her sister’s—rolled across the ground like huge gobs of liquid mercury, before absorbing into the creature’s serpentine tail dragging along the floor. Black horns burst from either side of its head, followed by lanky arms, thick as telephone poles, which sprouted from a too-thin torso. Huge double hinged legs came next, bursting out from its pelvis in a flash of blood-red hide, dead-ending in huge talon-toed feet. Hooked spikes—silver protrusions of bone—stabbed out through shoulders, elbows, and knees, and ran along its spine.

  By the time the transformation was complete, the walking nightmare—something vomited straight out of the mouth of hell—loomed over her. Twelve solid feet of muscle, teeth, and claws. And it grew a little larger every
second, swelling as Ryder’s blood trickled across the floor and absorbed into its body.

  “The world is lay bare before me once more,” the creature said, his voice the guttural buzz of a million flies. The freaky fuck didn’t actually speak in English. The words that came out of his mouth were twisting things that made no sense in her ear; in her head, however, she understood them perfectly. Almost as if her brain was hardwired to comprehend whatever language he spoke. The monster drew in a deep breath, its huge scaled chest expanding as it savored the air. “The taste of freedom.” A serpent’s forked tongue shot out and tickled the air.

  The shaman padded forward, eyes lowered to the ground, hands raised high in reverence. “Great Lord of Death, Father to our kind,” he hissed in broken English, “your humble servant welcomes you to the world of men.”

  The creature, Cain, spun, head canted inquisitively to one side, eyes tracking the shaman’s every movement. “One of the devout,” he said, the words crawling beneath Ryder’s flesh. He reached out a massive hand and ran a finger over the shaman’s cheek. “My true blood. Serve your father now.”

  “Anything, my Lord. Anything.”

  “I hunger,” the beast bellowed, temporarily silencing the battle and drawing every eye. Then he moved in a blur, sweeping forward, jaws unhinging and stretched wide as he descended on the shaman. The gnarled priest’s eyes widened in shock, and he stood rooted to the ground, too stunned to move. The thing’s jaws slid over the Kobock’s head and shoulders without a hitch, crunching down in a spray of gore. Cain reared back, lifting the shaman high into the air, then shook his massive head back and forth like an alligator tearing off a chunk of meat from some sucker wildebeest.

  The shaman’s waist and legs fell away, gray coils of gut spilling out all over the floor.

  Ryder vomited out more blood—because of the pain, obviously, but also because she’d never seen anything more revolting. And she’d seen Levi set himself on fire before jumping into the stomach of a plant monster.

  “Sorry, baby girl—” Chuck began.

  “Don’t call me that,” she protested, voice weak and feeble.

  “—this shit’s about to get real in here,” he continued without a pause. “Gonna have to set you down for a minute.”

  He lowered her to the floor, gently laying her on the cold concrete. He appeared in a blink beside her, now down on one knee while he rooted around in a black duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a gunmetal-gray box the size of a small safe, gingerly removed a heavy lid covered in more strange sigils, then reached in and pulled out a large egg, its shell a patchwork of pale-green with swirls of yellows running over the surface. Ryder had no trouble placing it: it was the last remaining egg from the Sprawl temple.

  THIRTY-TWO:

  The Warden

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ryder gasped through pained wheezes.

  “Saving our asses, hopefully,” Chuck replied. “Levi cut a deal with that crazy-ass computer lady after Hogg snatched your ass. If she can beat that badass motherfucker right there, she gets to keep the body. Gets her freedom. Now you just hang on tight, this is about to get wild as all hell.”

  He stood up, egg hefted in one palm, his Desert Eagle clasped in the other.

  “You the ugliest lookin’ sumbitch I done ever seen,” Chuck yelled at the creature, who was currently swallowing the remains of the Kobock Priest. “Seriously, I thought my boy Levi was one ugly turd, but next to you, he’s ready to strut the catwalk. You sure they baked you long enough, ’cause you lookin’ a little underdone, hombre.”

  Cain regarded Chuck with squinted eyes, ropes of blood and drool dangling from his lips. “How cute, a smart mouthed halfie hoping to save the day. I’m going to rip your spine out, rape your corpse, then wear your ribcage as a decorative bracelet …” He paused, tongue drooping out and pulling in a loose chunk of blue meat. “Or you can walk away and put that”—he motioned toward the egg—“back in its box. Do so and I’ll forget you were ever here.”

  “Boy. Don’t you know how to sell it,” Chuck replied. “But I ain’t fixin’ to do that. Instead of listenin’ to you run your mouth at me, I’m gonna watch my girl, Siphonei, wipe the floor with your nasty ass. And, as a bonus, I’m gonna get paid a shit-ton of gold and get some outta-this-world street cred for killin’ you. So you can take your offer and fuck yourself sideways with it, partner.”

  Chuck winked and fastballed the egg at the growling monstrosity like David hurling his puny stone at a hulking Goliath. One of Cain’s massive hands snaked out lightning quick, snatching the egg out of the air, the shell intact. “You were saying?” the creature asked, its mouth splitting wide to reveal its fangs.

  “I think you heard me just fine,” Chuck replied, unworried—or at least playing the part. He hefted his hand cannon. “But since I can’t actually see any ears on that busted up head of yours, I’ll say it again. Go fuck yourself sideways.”

  Chuck pulled the trigger and blasted the otherworldly egg with a single, well-placed shot. The shell exploded in a spray of smoke and grit. In the same instant a soccer ball-sized hole bloomed in reality, spilling a withering mass of green tentacles into the air. Tentacles—covered in thorns, barbs of bone, and wicked black flowers—that slithered like smoke, wrapping around Cain’s arms and legs, entwining around his torso and throat as the rest of the Flower-monster emerged.

  In the span of a few heartbeats, Siphonei had pulled herself free and the hole in reality snapped closed with a faint pop.

  “You insufferable bitch,” Cain spat. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve fantasized about ripping you apart? I will be only too happy to demonstrate the futility of your existence.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, too,” Siphonei said, the flowers running along her body vibrating with sound. “It will be an even greater pleasure to eviscerate you, send you back to your own personal hell, then steal your body.”

  “Bitch,” Cain howled as he thrashed, his fingers—spindly and claw-tipped—ripping at the vines wrapped around him, huge jaws flashing out, shredding crab-clawed arms. Siphonei gave as good as she got, though, her crustacean pincers shearing off his fingers and scooping out huge divots in his crimson hide.

  “Holy shit, this is the most badass thing I ever seen,” Chuck whispered into Ryder’s ear as he stowed his pistol, shoved his hands beneath her armpits, and hauled her upright, supporting her weight. “I mean damn. Ain’t no one ever gonna believe this.” He let out a pent-up breath, then turned back to her. “Okay, cool as this is, my job was to get you. I’ve got you, so I say we split while those bad motherfuckers kill each other dead. You feel that?”

  He tried to pull her back, but Ryder fought him with a groan. “Doesn’t work that way,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m tied to that thing. The professor, he explained it. That asshole’s feeding off me and my sister, eating up our life force until we’re both dead.” With a shaky hand, she pointed to a stream of her blood worming its away across the concrete and into Cain’s body. “If that thing lives, I die. We need to get the professor—maybe he can help us. And he deserves to live, even if I die. Please, Chuck, save him.” She paused, eyes landing on her sister, likewise bleeding out on the floor, though not dead yet. “And my sister. Get Jamie.”

  “You must be loopy from the blood loss. That bitch stabbed you in the stomach. With a knife. I watched her do it with my own two eyes. Knife. Stomach. Her. You. Shit was thug as hell. I say we leave that crazy hoebag to die—that’s what she was gonna do to you. So in my book that’s how we do her.”

  “Listen to me,” Ryder said, her voice little more than a wheeze. “I’m dying, but I refuse to go out with that on my conscience. She’s my family, and family doesn’t leave family behind.” She paused, doubling over, hands groping at the gaping hole in her center. Oh God, it hurt. Like having your insides dug out with an ice-cream scoop. “I’ve watched everyone I’ve ever loved die,” she said when she finally caught her breat
h. “I’m not going to do that again. Besides, what’s a little attempted murder between sisters?” She issued a shaky laugh, accompanied by more blood vomit.

  He looked her over, eyes lingering on the blood running down her legs and pooling at her feet. “Shit, girl. Another five minutes and it won’t be attempted murder. It just be murder.”

  “Please, Chuck. Just do it. I’ll owe you one.”

  “Dammit,” he said, scooting away from the battle raging on all fronts and lowering her against one of the stone pillars. “Yeah, you’re gonna owe me one, alright—and don’t go dyin’ before I can collect.” He stood, pistol leveled. “If something happens to me … make sure Levi gives that gold to my mama. Also my car. Pimp-ass ’89 Mercury Grand Marquis. I wanna be buried in that ride—make it happen. And make sure Levi foots the bill. That asshole.” With that Chuck vanished, disappearing in a blink, no flash or gimmicks, just gone.

  Worst final words ever, Ryder thought.

  With nothing else to do except bleed to death on the floor, Ryder glanced around, surveying the warehouse. The Kobock battle seemed to be turning—this time in favor of the guys Levi had brought with him. The blue-skinned shits were falling by the score, bludgeoned to death in some cases, strangled by midgets in others, or torn limb from limb by the hulking, wart-covered green dudes who had been first into the fight. Looking at the warehouse was like looking at a slaughterhouse floor after a long day of work.

  Only scant resistance remained: a few pockets of Kobocks—stragglers too stupid to die—and six or seven of the white, hairy, boar-faced things, who were holding their ground. The Kobos would be finished in minutes, but those boar-faced guys were fighting like pit bulls in a dog ring. They were going to die, and knew it, but were perfectly content to kick the Reaper in the groin for as long as they could get away with it. None of that really mattered, though. Sure, things were going better on that front than Ryder could’ve ever hoped for, but it wouldn’t matter a lick unless Siphonei killed Cain.