Children Of Fiends: Book 2 of the Of Sudden Origin saga

by C. Chase Harwood

  He collapsed in the doorway to his hut. The other boys had been fearfully urging him with their eyes to come inside, to lie on his mat. As the paralysis descended he caught the woman’s eye for the briefest of moments. The boy had gained a little bit of the ‘calling’ as he referred to it: his ability to select the thoughts of a singular Chosen and respond in kind. He let one thought burst toward her, EAT WHEN YOU CAN. Stern looks were cast at him by the Chosen who escorted her. He fell, leaving his legs sticking out through the door holding it ajar. With the paralysis complete, the right side of his face pressed into the dirt and he felt a pea-sized pebble driving into his cheekbone. In retrospect it may have been a poor choice. Not only was he deeply uncomfortable, but with the door wide open, he and the others in the single room structure were now vulnerable to the prowling wild. But he couldn’t help himself. There had been something about the woman that was more than her ability, more than her communicating with others, there was a man. Strong thoughts of a man poured from her, separate from the warning to the others. It wasn’t directed outward but rather for herself, encapsulated in a desperate wish. Save me, it said. Save me. He had gotten a sense of the fellow. Not an actual image. Something deeper. Something inexplicable. Something that made the boy’s heart feel full. It was a sensation he was certain that he had never known, not with his mother, not with anyone. He wasn’t aware of it, but his deepest most primal self remembered something. He felt hot tears pass over his nose and pool on the dirt. This part he knew too well: the bizarre sensation of crying, mentally sobbing, with only streaking tears to show for it. All of the people experienced it. The crust of dried tear tracks told the story at every breakfast. Then he heard the feed-cattle bellowing in fright and pain beyond the distant hill. It was a gut twisting bone freezing sound and no amount of repetition could dull it within the senses. Cattle were being slaughtered, consumed by the gruesome horde that also lived beyond that hill.

  Eliza estimated that she had been marched for perhaps two miles up the canal until they had crossed over a spectacularly modern and well-preserved highway bridge and onto the Southern bank. The strain and rigors of the hike through overgrowth and ruined roads was completely abated by the pucks who surrounded her. She was conscious of some of the mental anesthetic that was being applied to all of them, both puck and human, to ward off the ache of muscle, the itch of scratches from coiling and twisting shrubs and grasses and tree limbs, and the incessant buzz and bite of insects. With troops of monkeys screeching out warnings in the distance, Eliza became aware of her situation but was completely at the mercy of her captors. Her well-practiced trick of blocking out Hansel and Gretel seemed to only slightly overcome the gauze that her capptors had put around her senses. The wretched people who walked with her simply tromped on like zombies. Her feeble attempts at quiet communication with the pucks was neither rebuffed nor ignored; they were simply left in the ether. The sun was passing over the horizon as they entered the tin roofed town. A rusted and crumbling sign offered up a name: Paraiso. The surrounding hillsides and plains were a mixture of terraced farmland and forest with rough huts assembled beneath the canopy. She saw people marching to these huts while various pucks moved toward the more permanent buildings. She had heard the boy’s warning in her mind. The sudden entry of another consciousness trying to communicate with her was not so very shocking. That it came from a human was surprising. EAT WHEN YOU CAN. She took it as good advice even as at the edge of her vision she saw the boy collapse in the doorway to a hut, his mental voice piggybacking on the puck’s, silenced. The other humans amongst her had all fallen away as they walked, each stepping toward a hut as the sun gave way to a full moon on the Eastern horizon. She found herself marching alone with her two remaining escorts, and with the absence of so many pucks to control her mind, she was capable of gaining just a little bit more freedom from their powerful and intoxicating grip. A heart shuttering series of sounds came over the hills: panicked animals cried out in fear and pain. She sensed pleasure leaping among the pucks, quick smiles and short giggles adding themselves to the mixture of night sounds and dying beasts.

  Torches were lit along the path and before long they arrived at a large stone church, its stained glass windows ablaze with light. In a small field outside the church there stood a series of poles driven into the ground. She knew immediately that one was meant for her. More of the anesthesia fell away and fear crept into her mind. She suddenly realized that she was deathly afraid and had been since the moment of her capture; the anesthetic simply wiping it away until they chose not to offer it anymore. She felt them then and understood their intention. They wanted her to feel fear. Gooseflesh burst across her arms and legs and she felt the hair on her sweat soaked head rise up despite the weight of the building oil and perspiration. The poles were stout, carved from a single tree trunk. Leather ropes hung nailed to each and were clearly meant to tie arms and legs. A filthy looking plastic liter bottle hung from above and seemed to hold some water. An attached tube was clearly designed so that a captive could take a drink while remaining tied up. She was desperately thirsty and she suddenly had an overwhelming urge to pee as sensation of her bodily functions was restored to her. As they tied her firmly to a pole facing the church, her fear overrode her painful bladder and she peed in her pants for what seemed like minutes. Thirst was next and the water tasted like the heated plastic of the bottle. Her stomach lurched with hunger, but not a scrap of food was in the offering. The escort left and she found herself completely alone, the insect’s songs and small frogs of the night serenading her terror. In the growing light of the moon she scanned her surroundings and heard the first growl. Growl wasn’t right. It was more of a guttural moan. She felt her ears flex and she looked to her right where the sound had come from. Then she heard it again, this time more to the left. Then more, mixing with each other. Then a howl mixed with a screech that sent her stomach to the very base of her pelvis. It was all so very human sounding. Utterly primal. Then, movement out of the corner of her eye - running feet. Lots of running feet. Uncountable running feet. Human beings were running at her from every direction. Eliza screamed and lunged against her restraints as they charged at her. Suddenly they stopped only feet away, falling over each other to get closer yet not able to get closer, as if a force field surrounded her body. Hands grasped and ripped at the edge of her clothes. She screamed and screamed and sucked herself back to the pole, her face turned away, eyes closed. Fiends: teeth gnashing, drooling, wild eyed and completely enraged; no words, just primal rage. As the moonlight was shut out by the throngs of screaming bodies climbing over each other to reach her, she squeezed her eyes tight and screamed until her voice cracked, leaving only silence to fill the void of her wide open mouth. A tiny part of her consciousness couldn’t help but make inferences, calculations. These raging salivating creatures, the infected, they’d been dead and gone for a decade - or so they, the authorities back home had said, yet here they were. And if just one of them got its claws on her, they would seize her up, pull her torso away from her tied up arms and legs and feast on her with glee. She felt her bowls involuntarily opening. She’d be damned if she’d shit herself too and clenched with all her might; the effort helping her to focus on something else, anything else. In a blink, the screeching wails, drool and grasping hands were gone. It was like one moment she was under assault from a thousand blasting televisions and in the next, utter silence, not even a ringing in her ears to tell her that she was alive in her self inflicted darkness. She dared open an eye and peek at her surroundings. Like a raging flood the sound came crashing back - her vision filled with dark groping hands, gnashing teeth, bulging eyes. She slammed her yes shut again and the sound disappeared. Was she doing this herself? Was she somehow willing it away, tricking her mind? Then a voice: ELIZAANDRA. Not a voice, not a sound really, but a thought. She knew this. She understood this kind of communication.

  ELIZAANDRA, THESE ARE OUR ANCESTORS, THESE ARE OUR CHILDREN, THESE ARE OUR PARENTS, THESE AR
E THE ONES WHO LIE

  The sound of the Fiends came back in a full roar and she could feel her body trying to become one with the pole.

  YOU WERE NOT INVITED HERE. ONLY PEOPLE WHO ARE INVITED HERE ARE HERE. YOU COME WITH VIOLENCE IN YOUR BEING. THAT IS NOT ALLOWED.

  Tears and snot flowed freely from her face, but she chose to answer. She spat out the words at the same time that she thought them. “I am not your enemy!”

  ALL OF YOU ARE OUR ENEMY, OUR TOYS, OUR SLAVES.

  “I am not!” She fought desperately through her terror trying to offer some sense. “I can commune with you. I... I... I am a way!”

  LIAR. THE LAMB IS THE WAY. WE ARE THE FLOCK WHO FOLLOWS THE LAMB, IS THE LAMB.

  The statement astonished the part of her mind that was locked off from the horror that surrounded her. Christian theology had somehow made it into these pucks way of being. Her thoughts flew to the vicar and his deacons. Perhaps the vicar... Of course her thoughts were picked up immediately.

  AMONG YOU ARE PEOPLE OF THE LAMB?

  “Yes.” She suddenly felt utterly invaded, like the voice was made of hundreds, thousands and they crawled as one through her flesh and bones, her blood and organs, invading every crevice, pouring into her consciousness and touching every neuron. Her body convulsed and she felt herself go rigid and then convulse again over and over until she was once more rigid - a plank standing straight, her eyes forced open to the monsters all around her. Some laughed with glee, others made sex-filled grunting noises, their pelvises thrusting in mock rape, others fully exposed, masturbating, fucking, all still reaching for her, their drool pouring all over each other. Their thoughts were allowed to enter her: Tear the heart and eat it, fuck the fuck the fuck the, tear it, rip it, pull out the guts. Not a Fresh One. Fresh enough. Eat the Not a Fresh One. Eat it, fuck it, kill it, make it scream, so happy to make it scream.

  Eliza screamed with all that she had left. She could feel her mind snapping, the horror of it all too much. She was closing down, her vision tunneling, then, and all of a sudden, it stopped. In a blink it stopped. The Fiends were silenced. As one they halted their assault, instead stepping backwards until they disappeared into the distant tree line.

  YOU ARE NOT OF THE LAMB. YOU DID NOT ASK FOR OUR FORGIVENESS. YOU DID NOT PRAY FOR SALVATION.

  Then the voice or voices were gone. And though her every being felt as light as a feather after the crushing weight of the invasion, Eliza also felt the weight of that statement. She had not. She did not know the path that they spoke of; considered it foolishness. She was a scientist. She kept telling herself that while she hung limply against the restraints, suddenly not just aware of the jungle and the returning night noises, but also her lost battle with her bowels. She stood in her own filth and cried. Not because of her ordeal, but rather that she had never felt more alive, more aware of her very existence as a thriving organism on this mad planet that she found herself on.

  They took refuge again in the Lyndon Johnson’s command center, except Hansel and Gretel. It was decided they could come as far as the hanger, any further and Major Thompson promised to shoot them. While the Northerners offered mild protest, the Shoremen simply refused to even meet them. Dean did his best to explain this to the distressed pucks, who were in a near panic over the loss of Eliza. While he still had a responsibility to twenty people, including the surviving Shoremen, every part of him felt a desperate need to find Eliza. He just didn’t know how. The situation was utterly paralyzing. After a long discussion with all parties, they had gotten no further than deciding who would sleep where and who would take watch. Every option seemed doomed: Finding another working vessel was very unlikely. Even if one was found and it had enough good fuel, they would still have to navigate the mines. A trip over land seemed equally treacherous, and to where, which direction? Through each negotiation, each discussion and agreement, a part of Dean’s mind screamed for him to act, to save Eliza. He had been content to let the physical side hibernate while the friendship thawed and slowly blossomed again. A part of him had very much hoped, when all of this was over, that they could resume their relationship. Her absence and his imaginings of her possible situation were almost maddening. Because of this he laid awake while others took watch, unable to get off the treadmill of his worries. It was Hernandez who approached him. She sat near the somewhat private spot that he had carved out for himself and said, “Obviously you have to go after her.”

  Dean looked at the soldier and waited for more.

  Hernandez complied, saying, “Look, we are trapped. Inertia breeds nothing. We can’t just stay here. Our time on this ship is finite. Eliza provides us with the mission to get out.”

  Dean looked past her and thought for a moment, then looked her in the eye. “It is one thing to choose to leave and escape to survive. It is all together different to choose to step into the jaws of the monster. Why go after her?”

  “You’re being a douche devil’s advocate, but I’ll say it for you: Because you and others among us love her. Because we don’t abandon our own. Because saving her offers us more than just saving our own skins.”

  “We are all likely to die in the effort.”

  “Seems like that scenario exists no matter which path we choose.”

  “And if the Shoremen refuse?”

  “Fuck’em. They can go their own way.”

  “I never took you for a sentimentalist, Dez.”

  “You haven’t taken me for anything but a grunt since we met. I lost the love of my life when this mission started, you dumb shit. On top of that, while I have been in mourning, I’ve had to watch you and Eliza drip lust all over the lot of us. Because I know what it feels like to lose...” Hernandez’s voice cracked. “I want to save her for both of us, and those two freaks out in the hanger.”

  Blakely broke into the conversation, “Sorry for eavesdropping, but fuck yeah, Dez.”

  Then Sanders spoke up. “Agreed.”

  Dean whispered, “This room is even less private than I thought.”

  The Vicar Wentworth added, “I believe I can speak for the men of The Shore, I can. A nobler path does not present itself. We should be so fortunate as to join you in saving the girl.”

  Plimpton was about to object but thought better of it. He silently cursed at the untenable situation. One moment he had been comfortably letting the military aspect direct their next steps, while he contemplated various scenarios that would allow him to lead the young girl Brandy into a private situation, in the next he found himself being volunteered to die. He had finally become fully aware of his footman’s own lecherous glances at the girl, and having understood them completely, was resolved to have her first. The only question was whether he should leave her alive for his servant or enjoy the added pleasure of strangling her. He had just had the marvelous idea of inviting Hanson to witness all and kill the girl before the man could have his turn, when this idiotic conversation ruined the night. The futility of rescuing someone from the devils seemed so obvious that he finally blurted, “In all likelihood, the woman has been consumed for dinner. Should we not continue contemplating the actions needed to procure our own safety?” This was met by silence until the matter was settled by Thompson who shook his head in mild disgust, saying to Dean, “Of course we will help.”

  Dean stood, “Is there anyone still asleep who missed that? No? Then I feel that it is critical that you meet the pucks. I can’t imagine how we will do this without them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rescue

  Gretel and Hansel were simply thrilled by all the life that the jungle seemed to throw at them. Though they were separated by the length of the line of people that wound their way along a washed out road, they continued to think almost as one, each savoring the various crawling tidbits that they could simply pick up and munch on. Only once were they unpleasantly surprised: a caterpillar releasing a horrible stench upon being bitten. Though it had been Hansel who had taken the bite, both of
them spat in unison, dragging their tongues across their teeth to remove the offending flavor. Hansel had taken up the front with Hernandez and Green, while the networked helmets allowed Dean to lead while helping to insure the rear flank with KK at his side.

  The Shoremen had come very reluctantly to the idea that the pucks would be necessary. Brandy in particular kept herself as far from them as she could, placing herself exactly in the center of the group. She would have stayed on the destroyer, but Plimpton and his creepy servant had decided to remain on the ship with Gallagher to act as a rearguard and protect their one place of safety, meaning that she would have been stuck with them. Every instinct that she had was telling her to steer clear of those two, so she had chosen what she hoped would be the less horrible option. It was Deacon Jones who felt her occasional touch on his sleeve as she made certain that the pastor was never more than an arm’s length away.

  The fully supplied warship had provided food, portable shelter, clean water and the means to make more of it, as well as ammo and even a couple of heavier weapons, which made the group a fairly formidable one. They gathered the gear that they would need in order to keep going, anticipating that once they had secured Eliza, they would somehow escape North. Those back on the ship would have to rendezvous with them along the way. Between the special ops training that half of them had and the general fitness and strength of character (a willingness to tackle a tough assignment) that they all could employ, Dean felt fairly confident that this group held the best chance for Eliza’s ultimate survival as well as their own. As such, he was feeling pretty confident. After all, when fired upon, the pucks who owned this forest had run, albeit, pausing to drown their slaves. The trail they left behind was obvious to anyone with some tracking ability and they found themselves roughly following the canal. No effort was made by their quarry to conceal their movement; and why would they? The pucks down here were the alpha creatures. Dean was considering all of this for the tenth time when Cookie barked out for them to stop. The man stood frozen, pointing at a clearing dappled with sunlight from the canopy overhead. A large black jungle cat stood staring at the group, its jaws firmly grasping some kind of meaty looking thing. The animal exhibited no fear, sniffing the air with mild curiosity. Gretel held out a hand and the cat rose to its full height and began a slow saunter toward her. Dean turned to the puck, “What are you doing?”