Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I

by Athanasios

  Kosta didn’t even think about stopping. He gunned the engine and drove her down. The car hit with a bone-crushing force, flinging her onto the hood and crashing into the windshield, where she clung, her eyes burning coal red. The bulletproof, unbreakable glass, installed when he first got the checker cab, paid for itself.

  Her face was still that of an elderly matron, but the eyes and grimacing mouth were vulpine and belonged to a predator. Kosta switched the gun to his left side, changed hands on the steering wheel and aimed the gun out of the side window. He leaned forward and pointed the barrel a foot away from her head. The six shots followed in as many seconds, leaving the old woman’s face a red pulpy mess.

  Kosta weaved the car from left to right before he slammed on the brakes. She flew violently forward, thrashing in the sunlight, end over end, to land broken and furious. She sat up and glared at Kosta, who just drove past and over her. He stopped and backed the car up, until the driver’s side rear wheel stood on top of the still thrashing and spitting fiend.

  He left the car in park and leaned forward to release a catch on the seat of the passenger’s side. The cushion lifted up to display a neat assortment of weapons, ranging from medieval to modern. A mace, a double-headed axe and a hacker’s sword lay beside a sawed-off pump shotgun, an AK-47, a colt 45 automatic, a Schofield revolver and their respective ammunition. He chose the double-headed axe, and from the glove compartment, he removed two vials of holy water.

  Armed in each hand he glanced behind to see if Nino was all right. He was asleep on the floor. A smile creased his face and he eased out of the car. Taking two steps, he stopped and looked down at what remained of the old woman.

  He unstopped one of the vials and poured the contents on one of the edges of the axe. He emptied the other vial onto the crushed abomination, producing screams that could not be heard on this earth, but woke Nino, whose head darted up, ears covered, eyes squinted shut, as he vainly tried to block out the noise. Mercifully, it was cut short with a metallic thud, the axe severing the neck, striking sparks on the asphalt.

  Kosta kicked the head away from the body, until it was just behind the trunk of the car. He popped open the trunk, removed a cloth sack and bagged the head. He tossed the axe into the car, along with the sack, and continued forward, down the long highway, leaving the rest of the smoldering body behind. By nightfall, it would be dust.

  A few miles later, he grabbed the sacked head and tossed it out of the window. It flew in a straight line to roll across the asphalt, landing in the ditch. He closed the seat cushion and craned his neck to glance behind him.

  “You can come out now.” Kosta tried to sound reassuring and a brown head slowly rose from behind the upright seat. Brown eyes looked from side to side, and finally, Nino’s entire face was looking over the seat, out onto the ever-continuing road. “Do you want to come here, in front?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.” He wondered what his reaction would be to the connection he felt to the Darkness that was a part of him. Long ago, Kosta had read about the Darkness, which came as the three wise men had come at Christmas. In Nino’s case it was a vital organ that pumped his essence and defined him.

  “What was that?”

  “That was a seeker. They look for people.” Kosta wanted to give the complete definition of these hounds of hell, but thought that a six-month-old could not tolerate such a lengthy explanation, no matter how brilliant he might be. Instead, he leaned forward and flicked on the radio. A few seconds passed to the final strains of Monster Mash. It had debuted less than a month earlier, and Kosta couldn’t get away from it. Even here in the southern hemisphere, they played that little graveyard smash.

  “Are all old women seekers?” Nino seemed to brighten when he heard the tune, so Kosta kept it on, despite the fact that he found it highly irritating.

  “No, the most common thing about seekers is that they are very common. They’ll usually appear as the most unremarkable person imaginable. They could be an old lady, an old man, a child, an unhealthy man or woman, either slight or overweight — they are usually someone most would overlook.” Waooo, wa wa waooo bore its way into his head. The only thing that he knew was right in the world was that when Bobby Picket started growling like a wolf, the insipid little ditty would soon be over.

  “Oh. Always?”

  “No, not always. Some unremarkable people are just people, not seekers.” The song ended and Kosta breathed a sigh of relief, but held his breath through the commercials that went by so fast he couldn’t tell what they were pandering.

  “What are they looking for?”

  “They’re looking for me because they don’t like me. That’s okay though, because I don’t like them either.” Kosta knew that this was a total lie. They were actually after little Nino. He knew they would be drawn to him, like moths to a flame. He was actually surprised that it had taken this long to find him.

  “Why was she screaming like that?”

  “She didn’t like what I did. She was very mad.” Kosta hadn’t anticipated how disarrayed the Luciferians would be after he usurped the fate for which they longed. There were many they could send after them, answered to masters that did not like the light.

  “Did you hear her screaming? You acted like you couldn’t hear her. She was very loud.”

  “No, I couldn’t hear her. Most people can’t hear the voice of a seeker.” Their masters were not limited to the Luciferians; Kosta had to be careful with any law enforcement or mid to higher level government officials. For centuries, they peppered these stations with some of their own.

  “Why?”

  “Because, they have a voice that can’t be heard by normal people.” The news ended, and out of the speaker came the voice of an angel. Kosta sighed as Elvis said he got the letter back, marked return to sender, postage unknown, no such number, no such home.

  “I heard it.”

  “Yes, you did, but that’s because you’re special.” Kosta did not mind answering the constant questions.

  “Is it because I’m cursed?”

  “No, it’s because you have powers that others don’t. That’s not a curse, it’s a gift.” He had to make sure Nino did not believe what his parents thought, even if it was true.

  “Papa and Rosanna thought I was cursed. Even the rest of Sao Paolo thought I was cursed.”

  “Well, you’re not. They were wrong.” The key was to convince him he was as normal as anybody else — to create for him, a life without incident.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” It was critical that he did not amplify what Nino would surely face in his life. Kosta had to show him he was, indeed, a normal mortal. Everyone else made him what he was reputed to be. Until the Darkness came, he was no different than anyone else. His destiny began with the melding of that fiend.

  “Positive?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.” Nino was born with all usual promise and potential of humanity. Kosta simply had to make him see it, no matter what anybody else thought or said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Kosta. Is Nino the only name you know?” He wanted him to be his own person, free from unwanted, outside influence.

  “My papa called me Nino.”

  “So, nobody ever gave you a name?” This was the point Kosta wanted to imprint he individuality Nino must adopt, to face a world full of doubters and faithful.

  “Just Nino. That’s what they called me.”

  “Can I try a name and see if you like it?” The name Kosta had in mind had more than just superficial significance. If the boy liked the name it would continue the change of reality Kosta began with his robbery of the boy’s fate.

  Nino looked at him with an open expression, considering his offer. “Okay,” he said. He said it casually, as if he was agreeing to a glass of water.

  “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want. We can choose another one. There’s a whole lot of names from which we can chose, and we d
on’t have to find one right away. We can go on until we find one you like.” He paused a second and then added, “How does Adam sound? It’s a very special name. It was the name of the first man — the one who came before everybody else.” On the radio, Elvis had been replaced by the Tokens, who started with, Oooo, oooweeoo, oooweeoo, badiyah-mambabaway, awimbaway, awimbaway, awimbaway. In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight. Kosta was grateful that it finally exorcised the earlier Monster Mash, previously residing in his cranium. Nino was also starting to warm to the song; he would later say that it was catchy and had a good beat.

  “That was the first name? Adam?”

  “Yes, it was the first name. What do you think?” Near the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight. Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling, the lion sleeps tonight. Awimbaway, awimbaway, awimbaway.

  “It sounds real old. I like it.” Adam started bopping his head to the song and smiling.

  “Well, like I said, you don’t have to keep it. We can find others.” Kosta was surprised to see the smile and wondered if it was his first.

  “We can stay with Adam. Hey, what is this we’re listening to?” he asked. He had heard sound coming from a radio before, but never heard music. Jose and Rosanna always listened to the news and were very dedicated to being informed about world affairs.

  “If you like another name, we can change it. Okay? This is a song by a group… I don’t know their name… but it’s called the Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

  “Oh, okay.” He still tilted his head left and then right, keeping time with the music.

  “Do you have any ideas for names?” He watched as the newly-named Adam continued to enjoy the music and smile.

  “No, I thought Nino was my name. What’s wrong with Nino?” He stopped bopping when the song stopped and an announcer named the following tune — Up on the Roof, by the Drifters. His head began to sway to the slow melody and easy voice of Ruby Lewis.

  “Well, Nino means boy. You won’t always be a boy.” Kosta looked down and had to remind himself that this was still an infant. He was speaking to someone who should barely be able to verbalize at all, yet he was carrying on a conversation about his life. To say that he was advanced was to call the ocean damp.

  “Adam, do you understand why your father and mother were scared of you?”

  “She wasn’t my mother. My mother died when I was born. I never knew her. Rosanna is not my mother.”

  “Alright, then do you understand why they were all scared of you?” In the long run, he didn’t think it meant anything, but he would have to wait and see.

  “They thought I was bad.”

  “Yes, but do you know why? Didn’t they ever say why they were scared?” What did he know of his nature? Did the Darkness give him instinctive insight?

  “They were scared because I knew things.”

  “You mean that you knew them without anybody showing you?” Kosta shifted his attention, from the long unbending road ahead, to Adam.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that the reason?” Kosta still glanced at the road, watchful for any of his charge’s followers or subjects. They could pop out of nowhere.

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” A short silence followed, and then almost beneath his breath, Adam asked, “Why aren’t you scared?”

  “I am scared, Adam, but I want to help. I know you don’t want people to be scared of you. Do you?” He answered as honestly as he could, to show everything he faced.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want people to like you?” He had to show Adam that people would fear him, if only out of prejudice.

  “Yes, but nobody does. You’re scared too.”

  “I can both like you and be scared of you.” Kosta continued, saying he was getting over his fear because Adam was a good boy, but not everyone would be so easily swayed. “It would be better if you never told them who you are, unless they find out on their own. Look, it’s a little too early for you to understand that I can be both scared of you and like you, but in time, you will understand. Until then, we’ll just be friends and stay together, okay?”

  “Okay, that’s fair.”

  “If you’re ever scared, confused and have any questions, I want you to know that you can always come to me.” Adam looked up at him in confusion.

  “Who am I, that so many are scared of me?”

  Kosta thought for a moment and answered, “I can’t tell you that yet. You’re too little to understand. When you’re older, I’ll explain and you’ll know why you’re special.”

  Adam looked forward, then out of the side window. He had forgotten the question, and only half listened to the answer, as he tried to watch the scenery go by, but couldn’t. Instead, he watched the sky fly past the window. Clouds followed each other and he did not speak to the man beside him. His eyes fluttered closed.

  - Separate Views -

  TIME: DECEMBER 10TH, 1962. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A

  Balzeer looked around his chamber of summons. After making his usual grisly preparations, he turned to the center of the chamber and saw his pentagram pulsed with life. It was a raspy breath, drawn in and out with the effort of having traveled a great distance in a very short period of time.

  “What do you seek?” came the disembodied, guttural question.

  “What does the Darkness say?”

  “Lately, there have been gaps around the boy.”

  “It’s like he’s hidden under something we cannot penetrate,” Balzeer muttered under his breath as he paced.

  “And have any of the seekers caught him?” Balzeer stopped his pacing and slowly turned to follow the response.

  “We have gazed though their eyes and have seen the boy. He is growing quickly, owing to the unexpected change of his birth.”

  “You have seen him? Show me!”

  An image of a small town appeared in front of Balzeer.

  “Closer, show me the boy!” He was anxious to see his messiah. He would finally see, in the flesh, what he had only viewed in his imagination and in fearful scripture.

  The image was obscured, the boy behind a glass window. It remained agonizingly so until he stepped out of the store’s door and was ushered into the backseat of a grey, boxy, decade-old car. At the sight of him, Balzeer was filled with wonder. The brown hair and questioning eyes captivated him. When the car pulled away, Balzeer snapped, “Stop!! Get closer to the back of the car.” The image was now clear enough for him to see, and memorize, the Arizona license plates.

  “Tell me where this is. All I have is an Arizona plate.”

  “Lord, the seeker, who brought all you see, is gone. We found its remains in northern Columbia.”

  “Dispatch another then. Dispatch thousands. The seeker’s remains can’t be too old, or they would’ve crumbled to dust.” Balzeer’s mind raced, trying to come up with alternate ways to locate the boy.

  “As you wish, so it shall be.”

  “Double, quadruple, multiply everything you’re doing exponentially. Use every possible avenue and everything, everyone we have — everything — do you understand?”

  “Yes, we shall do this, lord.”

  TIME: DECEMBER 21ST, 1962. YOAKUM COUNTY, TEXAS, U.S.A

  Buford watched the evening news with the new fella, Cronkite. He’d been on since April and told it the way it was. That suited Buford just fine. Buford worked the night shift at a full-service gas station. Most nights, he sat in his comfy chair and watched whatever was on the idiot box. This night, however, he had to leave the chair to respond to the ringing service bell.

  He went through the closed convenience store and passed a squawking radio, echoing Cronkite’s news. Some patriot burned down a Baptist church in Georgia, and out in Germany, a boy, trying to cross over from the East to the West was shot dead.

  He opened the front door and saw a dusty Chevy cab. Boy, that would easily take at least $10 to fill. Buford flashed a smile at the driver and gave his best,
“How’re ya doing?”

  “Fill ‘er up,” was the man’s only response.

  “Check the oil?” He was still going to push for the full service treatment.

  “No, the oil’s fine, just fill ‘er up.”

  “Sure thing.” Buford could not recognize anything about the man he just talked to. No feature came to mind, though he only saw him seconds earlier.

  He returned to the driver’s window and said, “That’ll be an even 12 dollars.”

  “Twelve? It takes 10 to fill this boat. Better get your pumps checked. Here’s the 12.”

  “I only work here, fella. I’ll bring it up to my boss.”

  “Fine with me.” The old Chevy roared to life and lumbered away.

  From the sound of the engine, and the ease with which it carted out of the station, it was evident that the man knew his vehicle. It also looked as though he wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to complain to Buford’s boss. The few dollars he skimmed off of the top of fill-ups wouldn’t be uncovered. Not by him, at least.

  Buford’s brow creased as he tried to remember what had worried him about the recent transaction. He looked up at the pump, registering a sale of $10, and reset it to $0. He remembered that a little boy had been asleep in the back seat, under blankets. He had looked as snug as a bug in a rug, as his granny used to say.

  TIME: DECEMBER 23RD, 1962. VATICAN

  Father Quentin walked down an empty corridor, lit by a line of bare bulbs. The walls were painted an institutional grey-green and nothing adorned the walls, despite it was part of the Vatican. While the outside world celebrated the anniversary of their savior’s birth, inside, there was no celebration. There was no tinsel, multicolored lights, or even decorated pine trees.