Severed

by Corey Brown

  “Oh yeah, it’s great,” David says. “I can’t see. Remember?”

  Then he starts forward, moving toward the altar. David lets his right hand guide him, his palm bumping the back of each pew as he walks. Suzanne follows a few steps behind. Near the center David halts and motions for Suzanne to sit. She hesitates, sits down and David slides into the pew beside her.

  Neither of them speak, but after a while, Suzanne takes David’s hand, her time being spent in prayer, asking for direction, thanking God for giving back her brother.

  For his part, David sits listening to her prayer. These new senses are strange. He cannot hear Suzanne speak because her prayers are silent but he hears them as clearly as though she’d spoken aloud. David tries to read her thoughts, but her petitions are all he can detect, they stream out of her head like broadcast radio signals.

  Slowly, the idea begins to take shape how his new senses might be more spiritual that physical. But what about the smells of Café Du Monde and the taste of Hurricane’s he’d experienced just before entering the church? If his newly heightened sensual awareness is only spiritual, why had he heard and tasted and smelled so much?

  Maybe it is because he was now in a church, in a house of God, that his senses are tuned into spiritual things. Maybe once outside, the physical world will flood his senses again. One other thing David has noticed: as soon as the massive wooden church door had closed, the wall of fire at his back seems to have vanished, that uneasy feeling of being pursued is gone. David relaxes, a feeling of peace settling over him. Coming here had been the right thing to do.

  Suzanne continues to pray. David hears it more and more clearly. She is asking God for guidance, asking for wisdom. Although Suzanne never utters a word, to David, her praying is so intense it sounds like shouting. And, then, he begins to understand the strength of Suzanne’s faith. If not the faith itself, the strength of her beliefs begin to resonate within David’s heart and mind. He considers these new feelings, decides that perhaps, his own atheistic certitude is not without flaws. Maybe Suzanne’s belief system, her faith, has some merit. Maybe.

  David checks himself. What is he thinking? All that crap about God and faith and goodness is just that, crap. He checks himself again. Something unbelievable, some totally inexplicable thing had happened. Just how in the hell had he become two out of three? And when in the hell had he become three in the first place? And this ability to sense thoughts, see without eyes, what about that? And for sure, he did have some new sense of right and wrong, a new sense of righteousness, whatever that meant.

  The peaceful feeling of confidence begins to erode. Now, fear or rather its distant cousin, worry, needles the calm that had settled over him only moments before. What if there really is a God and none of this has anything to do with him or her or it? What then?

  But now David senses something else. It isn’t a smell or a feeling. It is movement. He waits. The motion had been so slight, so imperceptible, that perhaps he had only imagined it.

  But there it is once more, some kind of movement, a slight trembling.

  Then again, maybe not really a trembling, but more like a tremor, a vibration. The ground? Is the ground shaking?

  Suzanne stops praying. She doesn’t lift her head or open her eyes, but David knows she has stopped.

  Another vibration.

  “Did you feel that?” David whispers.

  Suzanne hesitates, having felt it but not wanting to admit it, being instantly afraid.

  “Suzanne?”

  “Yes, I felt it. What was it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Another tremor. Stronger this time, but now accompanied by a slight rumble. Then more tremors, closer together, one after another, getting louder, getting—what? Closer? Are these rumblings getting closer or just louder? Or both?

  David faces Suzanne and says, “Footsteps.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Those sounds, the shaking, they’re footsteps. It’s coming. It’s coming here, for me.”

  Each rumble is proceeded by a tremor, followed by another tremor, another rumble. The vibrations and rumbles are sequential, serial.

  “I’m sorry folks, Mass is over, we’re closed”

  Suzanne flinches, looks up, surprised by the male voice. David doesn’t need to move, he knows who is here.

  An older man, perhaps sixty-five or seventy, stands in the center aisle. His smiling face, his thick, silver-gray hair and sloped shoulders are disarming but his posture is resolute, his priest’s collar still tight around his neck.

  “I’m Reverend Burgh, the sanctuary is closed but if you need help we can retire to my office. If you wish.”

  Suzanne stands, her hand slipping out of David’s. “No, we’re fine,” she says. “I apologize, we’ll go now.”

  “I’m sorry, Reverend Burgh,” David says. He puts his hand on the back of Suzanne’s arm. “But we have to stay right here.”

  Burgh looks puzzled then concerned. “That’s not…well, you just can’t. But I really want to help. Please, let’s go to my office.”

  “Uh-uh,” David says, shaking his head. “We’re staying right here.”

  “David,” Suzanne says, turning to look at him. “What’s gotten into---- ?” She stops, the expression on David’s face, despite the pair of sunglasses covering his eyes, the look makes her think twice. Suzanne has a strange feeling that tells her both to stay put and run like the wind.

  Chapter 32

  Walking along Chartres Street, Cody begins to feel hazy, light-headed. He stops, closes his eyes, shakes his head, opens his eyes. Cody walks another half block, stopping momentarily, even more unsteady now, almost nauseous.

  A horse-drawn carriage clops by and the sound is elongated, out of sync. Cody watches it pass, the image stretching out like a time-release photograph. In the distance, a rushing sound, like water over a fall. Or maybe it’s more like a rumble?

  Voices, laughter, the tinkle of glass and metal. The sounds draw Cody’s attention. Mechanically, he looks right. He was standing in front of K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen. The smell of garlic and jambalaya comes on strong, sharpening his mind. But only for a moment.

  Staring through the wood and glass panels, Cody looks at the restaurant patrons, sees their faces distend. Lines of light trail off their features, visible slipstreams of sound come from their mouths. His senses tells him he is drunk or on drugs or both. Forcing himself to move, Cody starts walking again. Now, sights and sounds rush past him in a blur, as if he is traveling at high speed. Cody tries not to look, tries not lose his balance as he hurtles past everyone.

  Or is it the other way around?

  Is he walking more slowly than everything else? Is the world flying past him? Cody looks down, looks at his feet. That is it. The sidewalk is slipping beneath his feet as he would expect. He looks up again, looks around. Everyone else is moving at light speed.

  What the hell is happening?

  Oddly enough, stationary objects, buildings, curbs, signposts are perfectly focused, observable. Cody looks at the old stone courthouse across the street. It is crystal clear. But living things, things in motion bleed into a river of light and noise. Cody is certain he’s experienced something like this before. He’s sure this sense of one reality crossing the boundary of another is familiar, but he can’t quite remember why.

  Across the street, something that might described as a face comes into focus. Then, slowly, like blowing sand taking on shape, a body materializes beneath the face. Shoeless feet perch on the curb. Cody looks at the feet, three toes on one foot, seven on the other. The owner of these feet is not human. The creature is tall and thin with green-black skin and large floppy ears. Lumps, some kind of strange material hangs from its chin.

  Streaks of sound, slashes of light, people and cars, rock music blend, cut in and out and around the creature, around Cody, too. Life on Chartres Street passes both of them, twisting and turning around them, though them. Cody blinks, rub
s his eyes. He stares at the creature. It is grinning at him.

  After a moment, the creature looks away, looks over its shoulder then back at Cody. The grin fades, its expression changing from confidence to confusion.

  “You…you can see me?” The creature rasps.

  Cody hesitates, frowns, nods, says, “Yeah.”

  The creature leans forward, making staccato, sucking sounds from the hole in the center of what looks like a face. It sniffs, samples the air, studies Cody then narrows its eyes, an expression of purpose on its hideous visage. Then the beast crouches low, obviously getting ready to lunge. Cody can see its thigh muscles flex, grow taut. He sees the strength and power contained in those greenish lizard legs.

  Cody extends his hand, palm out and starts to speak, starts to tell the swamp-thing to stop but at the edge of his vision another figure emerges, strolling onto the scene with singular confidence. And he is holding a pistol.

  Oddly aware of the gun, suddenly cognizant of what is taking place Cody holds his tongue, keeps silent. Trying to appear unaware, Cody lets his arm drop and refocuses on the creature, gives it a complacent cop look. Cody desperately wants to remain the focus of attention, desperately wants this new guy with the weapon to pull the trigger.

  All the while, people, light, a river of life on Chartres Street threads its way between them, around them, through all three of them.

  The creature is just starting to launch itself at Cody when there is a sharp crack and the echo of detonated gunpowder cuts across the overcurrent of activity in the French Quarter. Moments later---- much longer than it should have taken the bullet to strike, the creature arches it’s back, shoulders pinned, arms splayed out. The creature’s eyes go wide in surprise and then, after way too much time, its chest splits open and the slug exits center torso.

  Cody watches as the bullet floats down the street, watches it slip past cars and people and buildings then disappear He sees this, tracks the bullet as it meanders down Chartres Street, he squints and thinks, what in the hell…?

  Rent from the waist up, the beast spins to face the assassin. The creature looks down at the gash in its chest then back at the shooter, its small, dark eyes spark with anger.

  “You shot me,” the beast says, its voice a rough hiss. “Goddamnit. You----”

  The gunman squeezes the trigger again. The second slow motion bullet shatters the creature’s left thigh, severing the limb. Knee and leg slap against the sidewalk in a wet, squishy sound like rotten fruit. For an absurd second, the beast seems to hover there, wobbling, not quite upright, not quite falling. Then it topples, putting out a hand---- a paw, whatever---- to break its fall.

  The swamp-thing looks up at the gunman, hatred painted across its face. The shooter, weapon still held out stiff-armed, takes three decisive steps closer leaving only inches between the gun barrel and the creature’s forehead.

  “Do not,” the shooter says, almost growling. “Use the Lord’s name in that way.”

  “Oh, fu----”

  The assassin silences the creature with one last round to the head. The greenish-black beast flops back, landing hard on the concrete. There are more splattering, over-ripe sounds as its skull smashes into the sidewalk. After a few seconds, the gunman lowers the pistol, but continues to stare at the mess spreading across the walkway. Then the corpse is gone, disappearing in the same grainy way it had arrived.

  People on Chartres Street are oblivious to the execution of a monster. The abrupt streaks of light, the rushes of sound do not translate into pause or hesitation. Cody catches a whiff of jambalaya simmering, probably over at Brennan’s on Royal just one block over. With or without the scent of exquisite food, no one stops to ask what happened, no one looks around trying to identify the source of the gunshots. Nothing changes. Cody looks left then right but the trails of light and color and sound continue to flow.

  Dressed in a shabby, earth-brown robe the triggerman kneels to touch the sidewalk where the creature had fallen. The figure is completely hidden beneath the over-sized garment but Cody sees him flinch, just as Cody knew he would. Cody knows the cement is white hot, just as it had been after T’biah had killed Diazolón.

  Seeing his unexpected guardian react this way makes Cody realize that some things are becoming clear. The weird things that have been happening are making sense, like remembering the other creature’s name was Diazolón and knowing the ground would be super-heated when one of his kind was killed. Like knowing that Robert Murdock could not orchestrate such a massive vice and weapons operation alone; knowing someone else was pulling everything together and Murdock was just the front man.

  Cody frowns, just now understanding that Tina McGrath had seen the giant cottonmouth that had tried to kill him. Cody does not know how he knows, but he is certain Tina had been able to see the serpent all along.

  Cody looks around. He is still breathing, hearing sounds, seeing things, but the world, his world, is unaware of him. He is standing in the middle of the French Quarter, a place so familiar, but at the same time he is in a different world. What makes these thoughts so strange is how normal they feel. The feelings are not other-worldly, they are Cody-worldly.

  On the other side of the street, the figure gestures at Cody. The large hood makes it impossible to see the face. All Cody can see is the nose of a pistol jutting out of one sleeve. The figure steps off the curb and starts toward Cody.

  Cody hears an approaching car, the engine screaming at redline. In Cody’s world, in the real world, cars in the French Quarter crawl through the narrow streets, keep their speed low, but this car sounds like it is traveling hundreds of miles per hour. Cody looks to his left and sees a ball of light racing toward the hooded figure. Cody starts to shout a warning, but it is too late, the ball of light washes over and through and around the figure, a trail flashing in its wake. The figure continues to walk, the sackcloth robe ruffling slightly as the last pop of light rushes past.

  “Cody.”

  It is a female voice. The person beneath the robe is a woman.

  “You’ll need this,” she says, holding out a forty-caliber Smith and Wesson. The hand is old, boney, a few liver spots speckling the skin. But Cody can tell there is strength in the grip.

  “I don’t understand,” Cody says. “Why?”

  “Time is short.” The hooded face turns away and says, “He is coming.”

  “Who is coming?”

  At arm’s length, she holds the gun closer, gives it a little shake. “Go on, take it. It’s yours, after all.”

  Cody stares at it, recognizes it. “How did you get my gun?” A shrug, the woman discards the question, but revelation finds Cody. “This,” he says, taking, examining the gun. “Was used to kill Eric Hansen. How did you get it?

  “Possession is irrelevant.”

  “Possession is nine tenths, did you pull the trigger?”

  The woman stiffens. “Cody Briggs, we both know I did not,” she says. “How could I?” Her inflection is sharp, chastising. The tone is familiar.

  How do I know that voice? Cody thinks. Where have I heard it before? How does she know my name?

  There is a rumbling sound and the ground shakes. A moment, a slip of time, then another rumble. It draws closer. The ground shakes again.

  “I must go, he is coming,” The hooded figure says. “Goodbye, Cody, and be careful.”

  She looks up at a painted sign hanging from a rod and chain. Cody looks, too. They are in front of a small bookstore.

  “Ah, this is it,” she says and starts toward the non-descript shop door. But then she stops, turns back. “That,” she says, pointing at the Smith and Wesson. “Is not just a gun, it is your weapon. The distinction is important.”

  “What do you----?” Cody bites off his sentence as the woman turns away and steps into the bookstore. The door closes and she is gone. Cody stares after her for a moment then looks down at his palm, stares at the forty-caliber pistol laying in his hand.

  The sequential rumbling and s
haking continues to grow louder, comes closer, but Cody ignores it. He is troubled by what the woman had said…it’s not just a gun, it is your weapon. What the hell did that mean? And her voice was so familiar, she sounded like…

  “Can’t be,” Cody says, looking again at the door through which the hooded figure had disappeared. “It just can’t be.”

  What seems like a violent gust of wind knocks Cody to the sidewalk. Facing northeast, toward Saint Louis Cathedral, the blast hits Cody in the back, lifting his feet off the ground then smashing him to the pavement. Landing on his left side, Cody’s face bounces off the sidewalk and his right hand smacks the concrete, sending the semi-automatic skidding into the street.

  For a moment, the world, whichever one he is in, shakes violently. Cody cannot move as the wind, or whatever it is, charges over him. The whatever feels like a freight train and he is the railroad track. But just as suddenly it ends. There are one or two final rumbles then silence. No bearing down, no crushing pressure, Cody can move again.

  «»

  “But you cannot stay here,” Reverend Burgh is saying, his protests taking on a whiney edge. “Please, let’s----” He stops speaking, cut short by a pounding on the door that seems to shake the entire cathedral. He looks at the sanctuary doors, looks at David then, as if David should know, Burgh says, “Who could that be?”

  “Please, Father,” Suzanne says, her voice spiked with fear. “Don’t open the door.”

  The reverend squares his shoulders. “We are in the house of God, we’re perfectly safe.”