Malick wrinkled his brow while he looked down at the woman, indifferent to her situation.
She repeated herself and began tugged at Malick’s pant leg. “Please, please help us. I have a baby.”
“Yes,” Malick replied, “I can see that.”
He was uninterested and gently shook his leg, trying to shake off the woman clinging to it as delicately as possible. Then the voice inside him started up again. My mother, it whispered. Malick huffed and shook his head. “Yes, you had a mother, but no, she’s not her. She’s not your mother… She is ‘a’ mother but not ‘your’ mother.” I know but… she reminds me of her. “Oh,” he huffed. “So now you’re getting nostalgic. The killer that I’m possessing has a conscience, a special spot for his mother. May I remind you that—” They’re not evil. Malick huffed again at his inner voice. “No, they’re not. They are not evil, but you are insane if you think that I am going to spare everyone that is ‘not evil’.” You spared Isaiah’s family, the voice reminded him. Malick huffed again and reluctantly shook his head, pouting and effectively giving in. “Fine.”
Just then, a man burst out of the same door of the same house the woman came from. And like the woman and her bundle, the man chasing her wasn’t empty-handed either. Gulping down whatever was left in the bottle, the man flung it against the neighbor’s house, letting it shatter into a thousand pieces of broken glass. He stumbled forward a few steps then slumped forward and looked around, like he was lost, then stumbled forward a few more steps. Slurring wildly and incoherently, he cursed the woman and stumbled a few more steps. The man’s eyes were glassy and blood-shot, and Malick saw the hate inside him.
He was still coming, sort of. After stumbling sideways a few steps, he straightened his path, stumbled a few more steps, and then paused again, still cursing. That was when Malick saw it, dangling sloppy by his side, wrapped beneath his fat, hairy knuckles was a machete. As he turned around and looked around at the strangely empty town, the weapon swayed limply with him as he swayed limply around himself.
The woman saw the drunkard first, and she tugged at Malick’s leg again, harder than before, and continued pleaded for help. “Oh God, he’s coming. Sir, please help us. Please help us.”
The woman was still crying and groveling, and still pawing at Malick’s pant leg for help. “Please, please help us,” she wailed again.
Malick huffed then said, “I said fine, didn’t I?” He rolled his eyes then told the woman, “Now keep your eyes shut and cover the baby’s ears… or don’t.”
The drunken man with the machete was still stumbling towards Malick. Cursing Malick, the woman, and everything else with each one of his drunken step, the angry, drunk man’s words were slurred beyond recognition. “Oh,” he told the sobbing woman, “it’s god-s, by the way. It’s plural.”
The drunken wife-beater stumbled a few more steps before he stopped, seemingly haven forgotten what he was doing. He looked at his machete then wiped his crusted lips with the back of his hand. That seemed to have jogged his memory, and he turned back towards Malick and continued swaying towards him. Then, when the drunkard looked down and saw the woman, his fire was back, and he was now stumbling towards Malick at double-speed, cursing him as he wobbled about and nearer.
Malick grinned and turned his head to the side, slyly licked his lips with amusement. Then he feigned deafness. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” He held his hand up to his ear. “What was that?” The drunkard continued yelling at Malick, and he was now errantly swinging his machete around at him.
The woman was still crying and tugging at Malick’s leg. He guided the puddled woman to the side and waited for the machete-wielding drunkard to get closer. He hollered back to the woman, calm and coolly, “Now remember, keep your eyes closed and your ears covered.” When Malick turned back around, the drunkard was already swinging the machete, bringing it down with furious anger, and he was a half-stroke away from cleaving into Malick’s shoulder.
He didn’t. Malick caught the drunkard’s machete-wielding hand mid-stroke. Momentarily taking a moment to enjoy the drunk attacker’s shock, he then crushed it, turning it into a fist of broken bones wrapped around a machete handle. Easing his grip just enough to let the blade fall from the drunkard’s broken hand, Malick studied the man, looking down at his opened button-up shirt and the fat belly peeking out from the opening of it. He said, “He tells me that she reminds him of his mother.”
The drunkard was too buy wailing in pain in comprehend anything Malick was saying, or for that matter, anything at all. The drunkard’s screams joined the crying woman’s wailing and the baby’s, and it was very loud and noisy. He slapped his hand over the drunkard’s mouth, stifling at least one of the loud sources. “You’re too loud,” he told him. “Seriously, what did you think was going to happen? You beat your wife, you chase her down the street with a machete—a machete, really? and you… you’re just an angry man, and you’re angry at the wrong person—angry at her, at me, at the world; when really, deep down, you know… you’re angry at yourself. You’re angry at you. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Malick removed his hand from the drunkard’s mouth and waited for an answer, hopefully one with some introspection. The drunkard said, “I’m sorry.”
Malick huffed. Stupid answer. He said, “Not yet you aren’t,” then waived his hand dismissively in the air.
The drunkard flew backwards, yanked by some invisible bungie cord, and Malick watched as the drunkard flew through the air before he was swarmed by a flurry of dark claws coming straight out of the night’s air. Slurring, the drunkard came tumbling towards the earth. Though the fall would have hurt like hell, it certainly wouldn’t have killed him. But when the drunkard was about to flop down, he didn’t, and the earth opened for him, just for him, and swallowed him whole, just as it had done to Malick the previous day.
Looking down, Malick helped the batter woman to her feet. Examining her blood-crusted, snot-dripping nose, her bruised cheek, and black eye, he pulled a rag from his pocket and began cleaning her face, cleaning it the best he could, he asked, “So what are your names?” though he couldn’t have cared less.
Malick didn’t really wait for an answer and whistled instead, calling for his minions. But despite his crisp, precise whistle, he still heard the woman, and for some reason, it annoyed him.
“Thank you, thank you, “she whimpered. “Our names? Our… my name is Amara and-and his name is Nolan.”
Malick did a double take. “Nolan? Really, Nolan?” He looked at the suddenly quiet child then looked up at the woman. He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the idea, that someone would name their child Nolan.
Malick whistled again, waiting for his minions to respond and growing increasingly annoyed by the woman. Looking at the soiled rag that he used to clean the woman’s face, he said, “Here,” then tucked it into a nook in the folded blanket in her arms, near Nolan’s wrapped feet. “Nolan,” he huffed. “You look nothing like a Nolan.”
Turning towards the alleyway, he watched as the shadows spit out a man into the side alley, the same man that was earlier sleeping in the chair. He waved him over.
“Amara, Nolan. Do you know this man?”
“That is Omar.”
“Omar… Hey!” Malick snapped at the woman. “Quit crying. There is no reason for crying anymore.”
He called the man over. “Omar, come.”
As Omar ran over, there was obviously something off about him. The man’s eyes were glossy and he looked half-braindead. Slightly hunched over, Omar’s arms hung down like a gorilla’s would. “Omar,” Malick said, observing the man’s dead eyes and slack-jawed look. “Omar! Take one of those pick-up trucks, one of the good ones, and take Amara and Nolan to Isaiah’s home.”
Omar grunted and nodded with long up and down motions. “And give her your money, whatever money you have on you.” Omar nodded again. “Tell the others to bring you whatever money they found, can find, and bring it to y
ou. Tell them they have five minutes.” Omar nodded again, again in long slow motions, then turned away sloppily and waddled away.
“Omar!” Malick hollered. And Omar, without a word, sloppily swung around and returned to Malick. “Oh, said Malick, “and, ah… tell Isaiah that Malick said to give these two those extra gold coins, the extras I gave him before, and tell him that I said to help these two… or I’ll be paying him a visit, again.” Again, Omar nodded his long, exaggerated nod after each of Malick’s commands.
“Alright. Now go. Go, go on. Go!”
Omar nodded and grunted to Amara and Nolan for them to follow him, and they did, following Omar over to a red and rusted pick-up truck without saying a word. Omar held up a finger and grunted. Then he held up five more fingers and grunting again.
Nodding and grunting at the frightened mother to make sure she understood, Omar finally darted off into a nearby house. Returning five minutes later, he dumped a bag of money in her lap, started the pickup truck, and drove away.
“Nolan,” Malick snorted to himself. “There. Now are you happy?” Thank you. “Don’t thank me and, you know what, don’t ask me for any more favors. Don’t think that I’m going to go about sparing every sad family just because you get nostalgic, because they remind you of your mother.” Then what are we doing? “Building an army.” Why? Malick grew frustrated at the questions bubbling up from inner voice, his human host. “Because I have a job to do. The gods have a purpose, you know. Whereas humans like to ponder: Who am I, who are you? The gods are more precise, more purposeful.” And what is your purpose? “My purpose? to tear down the miracles of men, to destroy their metal monsters and their cold, steel empires. To put it simply, my purpose is: death and destruction.”
CH 21: Family Matters
The bathroom door creaked as it shut, and Azazel leaned forward in the beat-up recliner he was sitting in and said, “You’re dying, aren’t you?”
Diana forced a smile and weakly said, “And your name’s not really Trevor, is it?”
Azazel had strange panicked look on his face, and the sound of the old pipes thumping and the bathroom faucet stirring stole his attention. Snapping towards the bathroom, Azazel calmed down and turned back to Diana. Keeping his volume as discreet as possible, he whispered, “She doesn’t know, does she? Do you…” More frantic, he said, “Do you know what she is? What we are?”
“Yes, she’s my daughter.” Diana smiled sadly then shrugged. “And she’s also… something else. And you still haven’t told me your real name.”
“Azazel. We… We’re gods. You know, Mount Olympus, Roman, Egyptian—pick your poison—real-life, in your face gods.”
Diana remained surprisingly calm, which only frazzled Azazel even more. She sucked on her bottom lip and grinned. “Azazel. Do you know the origin of the name?”
Azazel flopped backwards and thrashed his fingers through his black-brown hair. “Yes. Yes, I know where it comes from. That is why I chose it. It means scapegoat.”
“Yes, for when demons were cast out of people and into goats. It’s also a euphemism for when people feel… blamed, undeservingly.”
His face sank into sadness. Diana’s words were a little too spot on. “Is that what you think I am, a demon?”
Again, Diana smiled peacefully. “No. I can see you.” To the casual eye, Azazel was dressed in casual, albeit a little ratty, jeans and hoodie. Yet Diana saw his true form, his glossy black armor trimmed with gold and his gold-tinted eyes. A gold and black aura that matched his armor outlined his silhouette. “No, I know that you’re not a demon. As for my daughter… well, like I said, she’s something else.”
“She doesn’t know, does she? About your illness.”
Diana shook her head. “No, I just found out myself. A couple days ago, before she disappeared.” She took a deep breath before confessing. “Stage four pancreatic cancer. No cure, no effective treatment… No insurance to pay for it.” Diana forced a smile before wiping away the tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes.
Azazel glanced at the closed door of Ryan’s room. The boy must die. The errant thought shot through him, sending shockwaves through him like he’d be splashed with a bucket of ice-water. And Diana, Mea’s mother, was dying too. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. The gods were neither all-knowing nor all powerful. They could do a lot of things, but there were also limits. Instead of anything useful, Azazel decided to ask a stupid question. “What are you going to do?”
Diana snickered. “What can I do? I just… I just… I just want to enjoy the time I have left, to spend it with my family.” Diana snorted away her pain and wiped her eyes again.
“Well,” Azazel said, “what would you say if I said the world was ending?
“I’d say that’s the definition of irony, or perfect timing.” Diana winced as she adjusted her sitting position, leaning away from her back side. “No, I wouldn’t want that. I mean, whatever happens to me, I still have children; Ryan, Mea. I want them to live on, to be happy, even if I’m not around to see it.” Diana watched as Azazel started to talk, but she quickly cut him off, as if knowing what he was going to say. “And no, I don’t want to know what happens when I die, where we go. I just… I guess I’ll find out when I get there, you know?” After somberly staring at the ground, she looked up at Azazel and smiled. “I guess I like surprises.”
Then, after a long sigh, a little chuckle, and wiping away a few more tears, Diana tried to change the subject. “So are you going to tell me your name or not? Your real name.”
Azazel was at a loss for words. Never good with emotions, now was no different. “I…” he stammered. “I…”
“His name is Gabriel,” said someone, half-yawning. “The Left Hand of God. The keeper of the Tree of Life.” Standing in his bedroom doorway, Ryan paused, wearing some colorful pajama pants with a half-faded Captain America t-shirt that was beyond worn down. Ryan howled as he yawned even bigger than before and rubbed his eyes. “He’s the guardian of the Guf, the, ah… the treasury of soul. At least he was.” Ryan yawned again and took another step out of his bedroom, still half-asleep. “And he’s Mea’s brother.”
CH 22: All in the Family
Diana looked at her seven-year-old son with all the shock she could muster, but when the pain returned, her focused returned to it, and she forced herself to put on a brave face.
Azazel hopped out of his chair and back away with a look of fear smeared across his face. Then that gut-wrenching thought shot in to his head again—The boy must die, and he continued backing away. The Harris’s apartment was small, and two steps later, Azazel was bumping past their shoddy entertainment center on his way to the corner of the living room. Finally running out of space, Azazel splayed his back against the living room wall and thought, the boy must die.
Ryan howled again and shook off the sleep. “Before that, he was known as Assur…”
“Asher,” Azazel chimed in, correcting Ryan with his preferred pronunciation.
Still half-asleep, Ryan scratched as his belly. “Yeah, that. It’s Soom… Sum… Sam…”
“Yes, Sumerian. Assyrian, from Syria… The old world, Babylon.” Azazel and Diana looked at each other, sharing their shock. And as the bathroom door thumped open, Mea finished scrubbing a towel over her wet hair and tossed it aside. The look on her face told them that she’d heard it all, at least she’d heard enough.
“Ryan,” Mea said as she charged into the living room with her footsteps thumping against the floorboards. “Ryan, who told you that?”
Still yawning and rubbing his eyes, Ryan said, “The man in my dreams. Sometimes he looks like a monster, and sometimes he’s like, super nice. He said you guys were gods, and he said that he was coming and… he said that you can’t stop him.” Ryan yawned again while not seeming worried at all.
Mea hugged him while looking over Ryan’s head at Azazel, seeing if he had any clue about what Ryan was talking about. Instead all she saw was fear. “Ryan, what was his name? What�
��d he say that his name was? What does he want?”
“He said that you’d ask that. He said that you know what he wants.”
Mea did know. The end of the world, she thought, just like the rest of the gods. “Did he say what his name was?”
“He said…” Still yawning, Ryan shook off his sleepiness and grunted. “He said his name was...” Ryan wrinkled up his eyebrows and squinted, trying to think. “He said his name was a lot of things. He called himself chaos, the First of Seven. The… Abra-abrax…”
“Abraxas.” Azazel said.
“Yeah, him. But I couldn’t remember all of his names. So last time, last time, he just told me to call him Dante.”
Diana started pushing herself off the couch, and while her side was on fire with her cancer shooting flames through her, she continued hiding her pain. Wincing, she glanced at Azazel, her eyes whispering: don’t tell them, please.
Azazel nodded then stepped over to the couch, and as discreetly as possible, he helped her up. Diana gently maneuvered herself around the couch (so she could lean against it). “Ryan,” his mom said. “How long have you been having these dreams?”
“I don’t know.” Suddenly realizing that everyone was watching him, he started to sway back and forth nervously. “It started about a week, maybe a week-and-a-half ago. It was a couple days before Mea left.” Ryan had a thought, something obvious that he hadn’t realized. Mea was back. For a moment, he had forgotten that she was even gone at all. Then, as the fog of sleep cleared, it finally clicked that she’d come back. I knew it, he thought. I knew she’d be back. He grinned and poked Mea in the shoulder. He whispered, “I told you that you’d have to leave.” He leaned in closer and cupped his hand to her ear. “And I told you that it’d be okay.”
The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones) Page 35
