by Tom Mohan
Burke had always known something like this was possible. “This was never found during the investigation. They could have been here all along.”
Martinez looked him in the eye. “Listen. We don’t know anything other than there’s a man’s body in an old tunnel. The guy might have come from the other end and have nothing to do with what happened four years ago.” He shifted his gaze from the tunnel to Burke’s face. “What do you want to do?”
“We go down.” With the decision made, Burke felt a cold detachment creep through his mind, like a glacier clearing everything from its path. “I have to know. I have to know now.” He sat with his feet dangling into the hole, but the cop’s strong arm stopped him.
“Want me to go first?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ll go. I should test the ladder anyway, seeing how you outweigh me by a good seventy pounds or so.”
Martinez nodded.
Burke put his feet on the top rung of the ladder. Gradually, he let his weight settle on it until he was certain it would hold. He tucked the flashlight beneath his arm and carefully made his way down. The old wood groaned in complaint, but held. When he reached the dirt floor at the bottom, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. Wood buttressed the dirt walls of a passage that led only one direction. Thanks to the reasonably dry southern California climate, the wood still looked to be in good shape. He pointed the flashlight down the low tunnel. No other bodies lay in sight, though he couldn’t see beyond a gentle bend perhaps thirty feet down the path. The air smelled of dust and a musky scent he could not quite identify. It put his nerves on edge. Wisps of spiderwebs hung from the ceiling and coated the walls.
“Come on down,” he whispered up toward the opening. He had never been claustrophobic, but he didn’t like being down here. It feels like a tomb, he thought. He glanced at the body at his feet. It is a tomb.
Burke heard the ladder groan beneath Martinez’s considerable weight, but the big man made it safely down. Even Burke would have to duck his head to travel down the tunnel; Martinez would really have to stoop. He felt thankful the width of the tunnel allowed them to get around the body without disturbing it. He squatted at the head of the skeletal remains, while Martinez knelt at its feet. It wore men’s sandals, khaki cargo shorts, and the tattered remains of a Hawaiian shirt. Burke pointed to a hole in the skull. “Gunshot?”
Martinez nodded. “Well, this guy wasn’t raptured, that’s for sure. Two men disappeared that night: the pastor, named Harold Hogan, and the dad of one of the kids.” He gestured down the tunnel. “Let’s see where this goes.”
They had not gone far when Burke stopped. “No,” he whispered. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
Without answering, Burke took off down the tunnel as fast as he could without braining himself on the low support beams. About twenty feet up the tunnel, Burke dropped to his knees, the light illuminating another body. He stared at the skeleton, telling himself not to look at anything but the bones. He had already seen enough, though. He’d found the sleeveless white blouse and faded jeans he’d dreamed of almost every night since she’d disappeared. He had seen the dark hair clinging to her skull, too. It was dry and dust covered, but he knew. Laura. Uncontrollable sobs racked his weary body. All this time, even in his darkest moments, he had held on to a spark of hope that somehow they were alive. Now shame and guilt tore through his soul. He’d let down those he’d sworn to protect. Tears flooded his eyes, blinding him in a river of pain and sorrow. Inhuman sounds he didn’t recognize as his own burst from his throat. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. There was nothing now, nothing for him to care about.
Burke didn’t realize he was beating his chest with all the force he could muster until Martinez’s strong arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight. “Stop it, John. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Let go of me,” Burke sobbed. “Leave me alone.”
“Can’t do that. I can’t. I’m sorry…so sorry.”
“They’re dead. They’re dead.”
Martinez began to pull Burke away from the skeletal remains of his wife. “Come on. Come with me.”
Burke struggled at first, and then allowed himself to be led back the way they had come. Once they reached a spot from which Martinez couldn’t see Laura’s body, he set Burke against the wall.
“Stay here,” Martinez said. “I’ll see what else is up there.”
“They’re dead,” Burke collapsed to the ground, sobs wracking his body.
“I know. Just wait here, okay? Promise me you’ll stay right here.” No promise came, but Burke made no attempt to move. The cop hurried down the tunnel and returned minutes later.
“Listen to me now. There are no more bodies—only the two. The tunnel ends at a wall about thirty feet beyond where we found your wife. Understand?”
Burke raised his tear-stained face.
“Nine people disappeared—three adults and six kids. Only two bodies down here. Your daughter may still be alive.”
Sara might still be out there. Something inside Burke grabbed hold of that thought and held onto it like a lifeline.
“Hey,” Martinez said, pulling Burke from his thoughts. “Something moving down there?”
Burke looked to where Martinez pointed, down the tunnel where Laura’s body lay. He did see something moving, coming toward them. He aimed the flashlight in that direction, and the tiny shape of Red emerged from the shadows. Tears streamed down her small face, leaving streaks in the dirt. As she approached, the scent of roses in bloom replaced the stale smell of the tunnel.
“You see her?” he asked Martinez.
“Something out of the corner of my eye.”
“It’s Red. She’s coming this way.”
“Your ghost? Wow, it really is…wow.”
Burke watched as Red drew closer, until she stopped in front of him. Gently, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, pressing a tiny hand over his heart.
Then she vanished.
Lagos’s beautiful form shimmered as he moved through the dark passageways, mindful of the rough stone walls on either side. His world consisted of darkness and mist, and there he thrived. Though he had eyes, he did not need them to be intimately familiar with his surroundings. He was one of the Host, after all. Demon-kind to the humans. Senses, as humans knew them, meant nothing to him.
The being on the other end of the leash was another matter. Lagos glanced back at his prisoner. Where Lagos stood tall with flawless pale skin, Chemosh was stunted and hunched. His green-tinged flesh oozed yellow pus from open sores that would never heal. When humans thought of demons, they pictured creatures like Chemosh. Lagos felt his captive stumble in the darkness, and it disgusted him, as all weakness did. Chemosh had been like him once. Like so many others, however, Chemosh had grown comfortable in the human world. Over the millennia, many of his weaker-minded brethren had come to believe they could eliminate the Ancient One’s putrid human spawn by going out among them and using clever tricks to entice them away from their creator. But the Host could only enter the human world in spirit form, and reducing beings of such magnificence to that level for extended periods of time had repercussions. While Chemosh and his kind stayed in the human world, taking advantage of minds weaker than their own and inhabiting the creatures of the earth, they became more and more like their earthly hosts, growing weak and dim—deformed shadows of the beauty that had once defined them.
Of all the Host, and they numbered in the millions, only Agibus had been able to spend much time in the human world and remain as pure as the day of his creation. Agibus had dwelt there for centuries, though more as a pupil of the world than an opponent of it. And from his studies, Agibus had seen what all the others had not.
A way out.
Lagos dragged his captive up a short staircase toward a dim light. He knew High Lord Agibus needed light no more than he himself did, but Agibus had acquired a certain affinity for light—and Lagos knew better than to argue w
ith one so powerful over something so trivial. Behind Lagos, Chemosh’s whimpers grew more desperate as the powerful aura of their lord washed over them. Lagos relished the feeling, languished in it.
At the top of the stairs, the demon pushed the half-opened door and entered a sparsely furnished room. Shadows danced on the walls, animated by candles that flickered in their sconces. His master stood at the room’s one window and peered into the darkness beyond. Though the Host entered the human world as spirits, they took on their real forms here in their own realm. One day soon, Agibus would open the way for the Host to march into the human world. Lucifer himself would take notice of that.
“Well, Chemosh? What have you to say for yourself?” Agibus remained with his back to his guests. His calm voice reverberated with obvious displeasure.
Lagos turned to his captive, lifting one eyebrow. Chemosh’s shrunken green shape sickened Lagos, but he kept his face calm and emotionless. Anger, hate, and fury were common, expected even, but calm was like an explosion waiting to happen. That it was coming was certain, in when and how lay the dread.
Unsatisfied with silence as an answer, Agibus turned toward the cowering figure. As always, Lagos felt awe at the majesty of his superior. A tinge of jealousy shot through him, but he kept it well hidden as he watched Agibus approach. Agibus’s eyes danced with red fire, his stare drilling into Chemosh, who trembled, unable to look away. “What happened? Is bringing one puny human to me too much trouble for you?”
“I…I had him,” Chemosh sputtered. “I did, Lord. I had him, but…”
“I know you had him, you imbecile,” Agibus said. “That was the whole idea. Yet here you are. Without John Burke.” The High Lord’s tone held steady. “You allowed another to stop you. Are you so weak?”
“But my lord, Denizen interfered. I tried, really I did, but I am no match for him.”
Lagos watched as the shaking demon licked his thick lips, terror in his eyes. Denizen? What’s his involvement in this? Lagos had not heard Denizen’s name mentioned in so long that he had almost forgotten about him. Denizen had never taken credit for the chaos he wrought, preferring to hide in the shadows—alone and loyal to no one but himself. Lagos turned his attention to Agibus, who stared out the window, his face lost in thought.
“How do you know?” Agibus finally asked. “Denizen is not one to flaunt his presence.”
Chemosh’s head swiveled back and forth on his skinny neck. “No, my lord, not at all. He revealed himself to me. He wanted me to know who he was. He wanted me to know who it was defying you.” Lagos knew Chemosh was just trying to deflect attention from himself. Still, Denizen ought not to be taken lightly. If it was, in fact, his doing.
Agibus lashed out with a vicious backhand. Chemosh shrieked and fell as far as the leash would allow before Lagos snapped him back. Agibus’s hand clamped around Chemosh’s shriveled throat, cutting off any further protest. “Wanted me to know who he was, did he?”
Chemosh gagged, and his face turned dark red under the steel fingers of his master. Agibus held the helpless demon a moment longer before tossing him aside. Lagos let the leash go, allowing the tumbling creature ample room to crash against the wall.
“Wait outside while I decide your fate,” Agibus said icily. “Don’t make me have to find you. I may yet have use for you—or not. We shall see. Wait outside and contemplate your failure and how you might yet serve me.” Still clutching his throat, Chemosh backed out of the room, bowing as he went.
“Sniveling fool,” Agibus said as the door closed. Lagos kept his face impassive; he knew Agibus expected no less. Survival of the fittest reigned among the Host—Agibus outclassed Lagos in strength, and they both knew it. It was in Lagos’s best interest to remain subservient and follow in the greater demon’s wake, and Lagos always served his own best interests. He stood quietly as Agibus turned and walked back to the window.
“What is Denizen up to?” Agibus muttered.
“Denizen has always followed his own path, Lord Agibus. He is against any form of order, any form of discipline.”
“You think he wants to thwart us because our plan is destined to succeed?”
“Quite possibly, my lord. He thrives on chaos, and we are plotting against the Ancient One and his offspring. In Denizen’s mind, regardless of who wins, some form of order will be established. He may believe chaos is best served by continued sparring over Burke’s destiny.”
“John Burke’s destiny is already set, as is his daughter’s,” Agibus said. “I have spent four generations ensuring that.” He stared into a place only he could see. “Besides, the Ancient One cannot tolerate chaos. Denizen made a mistake when he revealed himself to me. Now we can keep an eye out for him.”
“Yes, sir. Shall we make another move on Burke?”
“Hmmm…I think not,” Agibus said. “We need him alive, and it appears the Ancient One protects him. We have time yet. Let’s see what happens now that Burke is moving. Don’t let him get too strong, though I suspect Denizen will take care of that for us. Meanwhile, keep him moving and off-balance. We have plenty of others out there more skilled than Chemosh.”
Lagos bowed. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”
“Oh, and Lagos?”
“Yes, my lord?”
Agibus smiled. “See that Chemosh gets a tour of the dungeons.”
“With pleasure, my lord,” Lagos said as he slipped from the room. It was turning out to be a good day.
THE SERPENT SAT among the slaughtered remains of the street punks, like a child among the wrappings of Christmas gifts. Blood dripped from his face onto his red-soaked shirt. His wide eyes stared at nothing in particular as he languished in the euphoria of the kill. This was beyond anything he had ever imagined—better, even, than wielding Denizen’s power in the church. This was physical. Man to man. Nothing could have stopped him. Nothing could have prevented him from carrying out the purpose set before him. He turned his head, allowing his eyes to focus on the carnage around him. The remains of the insignificant humans testified to his power.
After the brief battle at the church, Denizen had receded to wherever he went and left the Serpent to his own devices. The Serpent, buzzing with energy, somehow knew his power was about to rise to the next level. He relished the idea, knowing this new power would once again prove him worthy. Lord Denizen would be proud. His master was always proud when the Serpent exterminated the Ancient One’s offspring, and extermination was something he was becoming quite good at it.
This latest flaunting of power was not exercised on a simple whim, but served a larger plan. Not that he had much confidence the plan would work. Nothing else had. Still, it was something to do. And, if nothing else, it would keep Burke off-balance.
The Serpent had strayed into this particular neighborhood knowing full well that someone would take offense at his presence. He had not been disappointed. While he minded his own business, a group—three boys and a girl, all clad in torn leather and inked beyond recognition—came along to check him out. He had shown them the requisite fear and nervousness, but then he simply couldn’t help himself. They had taken themselves so seriously, thinking they were terrifying. After about five seconds, he had broken out in laughter. This, of course, should have warned them something was amiss, but they were too stupid to see it. He felt no remorse. The punks had been looking for trouble, and he had provided it.
The Serpent cocked his head to one side, listening. A siren blared in the distance, coming closer with each second. Right on time. He wiped his blades on a nearby corpse. Once he’d tucked the blades away in their sheaths, he dipped his hand into a puddle of gore and wiped it on his blood-spattered face.
A police car screeched around the corner, and the Serpent took one last look around the crime scene. Bloody footprints from the curb to the street, as though someone had gotten into a car, were the only props he needed to make the police believe his story. He certainly wasn’t worried about the witness who had called 911 to report the massacre.
He had done that himself. As he waited for the police car to pull up, he let his face go slack and his eyes grow big, falling into the role of a person in shock.
The car skidded to a halt, and a young officer jumped out, gazing into the gloom. The Serpent knew the officer couldn’t clearly make out the scene in the darkness.
“Hey, you,” the cop yelled, one hand on the butt of his gun, the other pointing at the Serpent. The Serpent did not respond. The officer took a few hesitant steps toward the mass of bodies on the ground. “What’s going on over there?”
The Serpent remained silent, his eyes glassy. Come to me, little policeman. Come join the game.
The officer did come closer. The hand that had been pointing at the Serpent moved to his belt and retrieved a flashlight. He flipped it on and pointed the powerful beam into the mass of bodies. “What the…” he muttered, starting to back away.
The Serpent moaned. The beam of light moved, hitting him square in the face. He somehow managed to keep from blinking as he moaned again. The officer reached up to the microphone on his portable radio.
“Help me,” the Serpent whispered.
The cop hesitated just long enough for the Serpent to use his gift. The young officer’s mind was not weak, but at the moment it was frightened. The Serpent used that to his advantage. He explored the officer’s memories and emotions, caressed them, searching for just the right feeling. Ah, there it was—just the thing. The officer’s face took on a puzzled expression, and then crumpled in pain as the Serpent manipulated the memory. The boy and his beloved dog; the dog beaten to death by a drunken neighbor. The boy hated that man, hated him and wanted to kill him, but he was just a boy, helpless to do anything. The Serpent tweaked the memory, deepened the emotion. The officer staggered forward as the full force of the fury he had felt that day crashed in on him. Hate, fear, helpless agony as he held the lifeless form of his best friend in his arms.
The Serpent slowly released his hold on the man’s mind. The officer blinked as though unsure of his surroundings. He saw the carnage before him in a different light. No longer did the mass of bloodied bodies instill terror in him. Now, he raged at the injustice and felt compelled to save the injured man who needed his help. He wasn’t that scared little boy now; he was a man, a cop who carried a gun and looked out for those who couldn’t look out for themselves. Forgetting he wanted to call in backup, he strode through the carnage to the injured man.
