The Damned Summer (The Ruin Trilogy)

by Weaver, Scott

  Jake walked in through the front door of his house and closed the door behind him. His mother sat at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette in the dark.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “She showed up,” he replied, taking off his shoes.

  “And?”

  “And we had sex.”

  She was about to inhale on her cigarette before his reply but stopped. “Did you take advantage of her?”

  “No, it was all her.”

  She put the cigarette back to her mouth. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Then why did you send me out there?”

  “Trials are a part of this life, my boy,” she put out the spent cancer stick. “The only thing we can control is the decisions we make.”

  He let out a sigh. “This is such bullshit, mom.”

  “No,” she replied, leaning forward, letting the moonlight show her worn face and hairless head, both telltale signs of the chemotherapy. “The bullshit is yet to come.”

  Chapter 3 Origins of Darkness

  Sarah rose early the next morning, sore and full of guilt, but at the same time an aura of independence quietly steamed off of her like an invisible mist. Last night might not have been the wisest decision of her life, but it still gave her a rite of passage into adulthood. One of the more minor and easiest of all the trials of maturity, but passage all the same.

  She walked down the stairs and into the kitchen with a gait that looked the same as before, but definitely felt different and nearly collided with her father.

  “Whoa!” He mumbled, moving his coffee cup to the side, luckily it had a lid on it, or they both would have got burnt.

  “Sorry!” She replied.

  “My fault,” he smiled. “I heard you coming down the stairs. I should have known you’d be moving with the speed of youth,” he winked at her, squeezing her shoulder as he moved past.

  “You’re up early for a Saturday,” she replied, pouring herself some coffee.

  “The latest results of the dig are troubling me,” he said, opening the door to his study.

  “More barbarism?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Won’t that attract more media coverage?”

  He put his hand on his forehead. “Damn, I hadn’t even thought of it from that angle.”

  “Don’t you want to be famous?”

  “Your generation has a hang up with that, not mine.”

  “Bologna,” she replied, sipping her own coffee. “Everybody is a glory hound, everybody but you, that is.”

  He tipped his cup at her. “Finally we agree on something.”

  “Why don’t we go out for breakfast?”

  “If you can get your mom out of bed, I’m game.”

  “I’m on it,” she said, making her way back up the stairs as quickly as she had come down them.

  He moved into his study and closed the door. His face quickly became stoic as he looked down at the pages scattered across his desk.

  It seemed like just yesterday that his class had found the site that had become the latest and hottest Late Woodland period dig site since Cahokia. He had felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, with all the museums calling him and the immediate approval of research grants for future funding for the digs by the state and federal government, not to mention all the sponsorships by millionaires who were involved in archeology merely for the sport and brag of it.

  The press had been more of a pain in the ass than anything. His daughter spoke the truth when it came to his utter disinterest in fame, but it had helped to bring out the rich and their checkbooks.

  It wasn’t until they were about a year and a half into the excavation that they started finding disturbing evidence of savage brutality. It was well recorded that many acts of violence transpired in ancient times. Human sacrifice, mass murder and cannibalism were quite common in the early age of mankind, but what he seemed to have stumbled upon was much more disturbing. What he had found rivaled even the atrocities of modern man.

  His fingers lightly brushed across the papers that were his notes and drawings from the dig, as if they were crawling with disease and parasites.

  “We should have left you in the ground,” he whispered.

  The dig site that was troubling Steve Hendrix was the home a small group of refugees were escaping from four hundred years ago. The very same demon that battled with Frank Tyler in the present had also pursued these refugees. The monster's cause for pursuit those centuries ago was the same reason it will present a peace offer in the future to Frank. Needless to say, the demon had been on the same quest for quite some time, but on that night four hundred years ago it thought it was about to win. It believed this chase was almost over.

  The fiend had been instrumental in destroying their homeland, but he wasn't done with this group of refuges yet. The girl was the one he wanted, the others didn't really matter.

  Destroying their village hadn't been much of a task, as far as the demon was concerned. It just had to introduce some fleas that were carrying the bubonic plague and let things escalate from there. It kept its finger on the dying pulse of the village, whispering ideas into the Elders' ears as they slept. It took some time, but desperation sometimes breeds action with little thought. The Elders desperation had turned into demon fueled paranoia, and they had made a decision that no one liked, but few would speak out against.

  Raven and the small group she traveled with were the few with the courage to stand against the leaders of the tribe. For their bravery, they were rewarded with exile.

  So the small band left their home, and the fiend followed. None of them ever returned, leaving the fate of the village unknown to all of them, except for the demon of course. It found out much later, almost by accident.

  The fiend watched her from the high grass as she led the small group of three people that had refused to forsake her. The old woman trailed behind her, and was their shaman. A young boy; who was her little brother, and all that was left of her blood relatives, helped the old woman along. The one at the end was her man.

  She stopped suddenly, crouching down and looking directly at where the demon laid, watching them.

  "Your eyes aren't that good, little bird," the monster thought to himself. "But you sense danger, don't you?"

  "Raven," her man spit out at her. "Why do we stop?"

  "Shhh," she replied, listening.

  "Don't try and silence me!" Coal growled, grabbing her arm, yanking her back to him.

  They came eye to eye, Coal's eyes fuming with anger.

  "There is something out there!" she hissed back. "All you are doing is getting its attention!"

  "Let it come!" Coal yelled into the dark sky. "I will run no longer from these evil spirits!" He pointed at the woman he loved, the woman that he had thrown everything away for, to be nothing more than her follower. "Evil spirits that follow you! The Elders were right, you are cursed!"

  The demon was planning on attacking but quickly changed its mind, this was much better. Coal was finally betraying his woman.

  "How tasty," the demon whispered, causing her to look back out into the darkness at him.

  "I am a warrior!" Coal yelled into Raven's face, forcing her attention back to him. "I should be making the decisions on where we go, and what we should do, not some..." he hesitated for a moment. "Woman," he finished.

  The old woman who could read the winds looked to Raven. "He has forsaken you. His pride has made him a traitor."

  "Silence, you old, useless woman!" Coal said, slapping his elder to the ground. Raven's little brother tried to prevent the woman from crashing to the earth, but was unable to stop the large woman's decent.

  The young boy turned on Coal, fury in his eyes for what had been done to the shaman.

  Coal replied by kicking the boy in the chest, sending him to the ground much harder than the old woman.

  "The demon has his mind," Raven admitted to herself. Forcing the anguish deep down into her stomach, she pulled her knife
, stepping forward and slashing her husband's throat.

  Their eyes met for a moment as he started to gurgle and choke on his blood. His eyes rolled up into his head as he fell to the ground.

  A lone tear traveled down her face as she thought of what Coal had used to be before the plague destroyed their people, before the Elders exiled her as the cause of the plague.

  "Everything I touch," she whispered.

  "That's not true!" her young brother yelled, crouching beside the shaman, who could not seem to stop wheezing. "You did not cause the bad spirits to come into our life, you are the only one that can destroy them! That is why they come after you, they fear you!"

  With the man dead and the old woman nearly so, the demon decided that it was time to attack.

  Raven heard him coming. She motioned her brother to rise up next to her. "Draw your weapon, River. The monster comes."

  River did as his sister commanded, crouching in a warrior stance, ready to fight, ready to die. He felt fear in his nine year old bones, but he was ready; even though one of his ribs was cracked from Coal's savage kick. Raven was his sister, and he loved her dearly but she was also much more. She was the Chosen One, the one the gods had picked to defend her people. The Elders of the tribe had refused to see this, banishing her as the cause of the plague. The irony of the Elders driving out the only one who could save them was not lost on the boy warrior. Snarling at the darkness before him, he gripped his tomahawk in his right hand and his stone knife in his left, moving in front of his sister savior, fully intending to give his life in her protection.

  Raven let her brother stand in front of her, knowing the monster would most likely leap right over him as it pounced on her. Not only was it most likely the safest place for him in the current, deadly situation, it might allow him to strike at the beast from behind as it tried to bite and rip the life from her.

  It came fast and silent, but River had the eyes of an eagle and he spotted it in the darkness before it was close enough to pounce.

  The young warrior shot forward like an arrow from a bow, doing his best war cry, that only cracked slightly in his thin, fragile vocal cords.

  "Brother!" Raven screamed. Fear gripped her for her sibling. She had no problems facing her own death, but River's life was much too precious to her, she couldn't let him die. Wouldn't. He was the only one left who was still good, still pure.

  Her speed was legendary, catching River in less than four steps, throwing him to the side while the beast sprang forward, crashing into Raven, sending her to the ground as its claws drew her blood and its teeth snapped at her face.

  "NO!" River screamed, rising from the ground as the puma demon ripped the flesh from Raven.

  Things got worse from there.

  Sarah crept into her parent’s room, setting her coffee down on the dresser as she tiptoed towards the bed.

  “You better have not set that coffee cup on my dresser without anything underneath it,” a muffled voice said from under the covers.

  Sarah let out a loud sigh and then jumped on the bed. “It’s impossible to sneak up on you! What were you before you married dad, a Navy Seal?”

  “The ears of a mother are second to none, my dear,” she replied with a sleepy smile as she hugged her daughter. “And I was completely serious about that coffee cup being on my oak dresser without a coaster.”

  “Relax, Mrs. anal-retentive, there is a paper towel under it. I’ve been trained thoroughly in that department.”

  “’Bout time,” her mother mumbled.

  Sarah kissed her mom’s nose. “Breakfast?”

  Mom opened one eye. “What are you making?”

  “Not me,” her daughter smiled. “Daddy’s wallet is the chef this morning.”

  Mom opened her other eye. “That, I can agree with,” she replied with a smile. “Ten bucks says I’m ready before you.”

  “Game on!” Sarah jumped out of bed and ran towards her room.

  Sarah’s mother, Linda, slowly climbed out of bed and walked over to the cooling cup of coffee.

  “Works every time,” she said with a smile, taking a sip.

  Frank opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling of his bedroom. A slow sigh escaped him as he woke from a peaceful sleep. Lloyd licked his face once and then sat down beside his right shoulder.

  “Few things rival a good night’s sleep when you’re as old as me,” he said, rubbing Lloyd’s chest.

  Lloyd looked at him for a moment, then blinked and looked away.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Frank whispered into the dog’s ear. “I made no promises to that fiend.” He sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

  Lloyd groaned loudly as he lay down on Frank’s pillow.

  Frank looked at his old friend, stretching down so their noses touched. “Do you trust me?”

  Lloyd replied by licking his nose.

  “Then relax and let this play out,” Frank petted Lloyd’s head. “I’m the brain of this operation, remember?” He pointed to his chest. “You’re the brawn,” he said with a point at Lloyd’s.

  The dog let out three violent sneezes, which caused Frank to laugh at the top of his lungs. He tried to ruffle his ears, but Lloyd quickly sprang from the bed with a bark, refusing to let the old man touch him as he ran out of the room and down the hallway.

  Frank got on his feet with a shake of his head and a smile. His eyes fell across the picture of his dead wife as he made his way out of the room. Pausing, he gazed at her when she was in her prime. Deep beautiful brown eyes looked back at him as he picked up the old silver frame.

  “Too good for the likes of this old fool,” he whispered.

  The clacking nails of Lloyd’s feet came from the hallway as he returned with raised ears.

  “I’m coming,” Frank replied hoarsely, setting the picture back down.

  Lloyd sat down and waited for him.

  Frank reached the doorway and looked down at his old friend. “I’ve shared more secrets with you than I ever did with her.”

  Lloyd looked down and moved to Frank’s leg, leaning against it.

  “It’s not your fault,” Frank said, petting him. “I know that. “It’s not my fault either.” He looked back at the picture. “It’s just the nature of the Beast.”

  Shambling into the kitchen, Frank rubbed the blur from his eyes, opening the silverware drawer to grab a butter knife. His fingers went to the spot where he kept the butter-knives, but instead of feeling a metal handle, something pierced his fingertip.

  The sudden pain caused him to remove his hand from his face, looking down into the drawer. A steak knife laid among the butters, its serrated teeth standing upwards like the lower jaw of a shark, a lone tear of blood oozed down one of its tips.

  "How the hell did that get in the wrong bin?" he asked himself when an old memory hit him as the blood started to thin out on the knife, bringing the color of the steel to a metallic red. The same color his father's switchblade had been the night Frank had slit a Viet Cong's throat.

  Frank's father came to him on the night of March 26th, 1969. Frank would be shipping out to the Vietnam War the following morning. His father held out the knife. "Ain't got no advice for you when it comes to war, boy, other than keep your head down. That's what kept me alive in WW2," he had said with the same cold eyes he had both before and after his war. He glanced down at the switchblade. "This came in handy a couple of times as well. Killed more than one Nazi with this." He dropped it in Frank's shirt pocket. "Keep her close and she'll do the same for you I imagine." His father turned, shutting his bedroom door without another word.

  Frank had stared at his bedroom door for almost a minute before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the knife. He had been waiting for his father to come back and get the knife, changing his mind about giving his son something, anything, much less an item he seemed to value. His father had carried the switchblade around since he got back from the war like it was a solid gold pocket watch. Why the hell would he giv
e it to his son who was about to go out and die. A son he had never really wanted to begin with.

  Frank almost threw it into his desk drawer, thinking to hell with what his dad wanted, but the feel of the ebony handle felt solid in his hand. Pulling it up closer to his face, he hit the button. The blade shot out like a rattlesnake.

  He suddenly understood his father's fascination with the knife, it was truly a tool for killing and nothing more. The cross bar at the bottom of the blade pointed upward with the blade, making them look like miniature tines of a pitchfork, with the blade being the middle tine.

  "Devil's back up weapon?" he whispered to himself with a smile on that long ago night. If only he would have known the truth of his words.

  So he took it to Nam, thinking it belonged there more than he did, and his father had been right, it had saved his life once, but in the process he had lost the knife. That had been fine with him both at the time as well as now.

  What had once helped steel his nerves for the war, had started to feel like a scorpion in his pocket. Instead of the knife helping him to stay strong, it seemed to be draining him, feeding off what strength reserves he had left. It seemed to be feeding off the jungle as well, getting heavy with death and misery.

  He slammed the drawer shut, forcing the memories away as best he could.

  "I think I'm sticking to just tea for breakfast today, boy," He told Lloyd. "Not in the mood for toast."

  Lloyd let out a quiet exhale through his nose. So much for getting a scrap of crust this time.

  They climbed in the family SUV and made their way to the local diner for breakfast.

  “You need to get rid of this gas hound,” Linda said.

  “I need it for the dig,” Steve replied. “Once that’s over, I’ll downsize.”

  Linda looked at him. “Sure you will.”

  “Yes, I will,” he said with a smile. “I’m overdue for a mid-life crisis sports car.”

  “Now you're sounding more like yourself,” Linda said with a sigh.