by Watts, Peter
No one said anything for a while after that, not even Nguyen.
When the emissary had presented itself at the edge of the quarantine zone, that had been our first real substantial contact with the things inside. None of the incursions had returned, all attempts at technological reconnaissance had been blocked somehow, and the two direct assaults had been abysmal failures – the second involving those Patriot missiles. Almost every theory out there proposed we were dealing with an intelligent antagonist, even the theologians who declared we had unleashed the Devil. What I saw outside the SUV’s windows made me reconsider the validity of that last one.
It was an alien charnel house, one still alive, still squirming. We continued to see activity, some of it akin to disfigured humans, some of it beyond sane comprehension. What appeared to be a man stood on a street corner and watched us pass, towering easily over eight feet with extended limbs and digits. A short time later, we had to slow as a swarm of what could have been the bastard offspring of jellyfish and wasps cut us off. They flowed through the air in formation, intestinal feelers darting about. Every monstrosity we saw had the same slick, red color.
“We’re making good time,” Yuker announced. “We’ll be at the event site by two o’clock.”
The event site – the spot where Newbond Industries had broken through the Utica-Shale and released this upon the world. The place we were told to travel to, the general epicenter of the quarantine zone, and only an hour away. I felt sick.
“I had hypothesized on the bio-engineering, but…” Nguyen trailed off.
“What?” I asked him.
“It’s more than that. I think… I think what we’re also seeing is terraforming.”
I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose. Dunning asked, “What’s that?”
“The xenomorphic organism isn’t just altering biology, it’s altering the environment for its creations. It’s also creating a more stable habitat for itself.”
Yuker frowned. “How is that possible?”
“No clouds, but the sky is a darker blue. Those three volcano-like structures we passed about an hour ago? They were contracting in a way that suggested they were pumping something out, obviously an invisible gas.”
“Obviously,” said Hughes beside me.
Nguyen ignored her. “The way our psychical structures have been deconstructed and repurposed, the oily feel to the air and that mild scent. I can’t place it, but it, along with everything else, points to the early stages of terraforming.”
“Mushrooms,” said Yuker.
“What?”
“It smells like mushrooms.”
My stomach lurched, the stench pungent now that it was identified. The landscape had given away to less of our past, and more of the future Nguyen seemed to think was in store. Two gelatinous members arced precariously into the sky, a thin translucent membrane stretched between them. In the shade beneath, I swear I saw fungoid faces quivering at me.
Nguyen babbled into one of his recorders, as Yuker and Dunning pointed out anything they considered a threat. I found it all ridiculous. What use were books or bullets against something of this magnitude?
“You’ve been quiet this whole ride,” said Hughes.
Her black hair held a welcome, familiar luster, so I managed a smile. “I honestly don’t know why I’m here.”
“I guess you’re the unbiased observer.”
“Isn’t that what you and Dunning are for? Hell, I understand Yuker and Nguyen being on this little journey, but I don’t fit the role of ambassador of earth to underground monsters.”
Hughes clicked her tongue in thought. “Do you think the people that were here retain any of their memories? Are their personalities still in there?”
“God, I hope not,” said Yuker as we passed what looked like a giraffe boiled alive.
“Maybe they do. Or did,” she continued. “And maybe in there, they remembered the three of you. Sure, there might be more qualified people, no offense, but you’re all relatively famous. Regular people know who you guys are.”
Nguyen pondered that for a moment before recording it.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think that just made me more anxious than it helped.”
“She’s got a point,” said Yuker. “There are a lot more… eh, diplomatic individuals than me. I can admit that. But I’d been in the news a lot these last few years, interviews and such. Dr. Nguyen released that book all the intellectual types read, and everybody watches you, Clavell. Hell, I watch you.”
“That’s surprising,” I muttered.
“You may not be an old hawk like me, but you really are fair in your coverage. I respect that.”
“I find this idea very disturbing.”
Nguyen blinked at me. “I find this idea, quite honestly, very awesome.”
“How so?”
“Well, if this is really the case, we’ll be less likely to get eaten and shat out as a flying octopus.”
How do you respond to that?
Lost in our own thoughts, we continued on in silence. The world below was all a crimson red, while the sky above had become a royal blue. The air had a miasma in it, and it felt a minimum of ten degrees warmer. My nose itched with the rich musk of fungus.
I could feel the blood in my temples pounding. The road was an enormous tongue in my imagination, a ravenous mouth, our destination. On both sides of us, a surreal sort of organic city had begun to grow. It was the scenery of Salvador Dali and Hieronymus Bosch, a bleeding city of alien meat. More creatures went about unfathomable tasks, never paying us any attention. A form horribly feminine sauntered past on limbs composed of a million maggot-like legs, a garden of stalks topped with orifices salivating sat off on a plateau.
“Now what the hell is this?” asked Yuker as he leaned forward in his seat.
Only a few miles from the event site, the road was now blocked by what could only be described as an enormous forearm and hand. It lay directly in our path, palm up and open. Invitingly.
“I can’t believe this is only the first time we’ve faced an obstacle,” said Nguyen, tapping his chin. “Perhaps we’re dealing with a hive mind consciousness?”
The SUV came to a complete stop.
“I don’t like this, sir,” said Dunning.
“Now what?” I asked.
As if answering my question, the digits on the hand extended and began caressing the doors of the vehicle. Hughes screamed, as did I, if we’re being honest. Dunning unholstered his .45, along with Yuker, and I’m pretty sure Nguyen bounced up and down in glee. The delicate movements continued for a moment, paused, then a single stretched finger tapped on Dunning’s driver side window. Gently, but insistently, three times.
“Oh, fuck,” came Hughes’s muttered response.
Yuker ground his teeth. “I guess we’re getting out and walking the rest of the way.”
Nguyen scrambled to figure what of his gear he absolutely needed as the digits shrunk back, curling into the palm. We carefully climbed out of the SUV, all the other organisms were off a ways and seemed oblivious to our presence. I had refused a weapon back at the gates, and was now regretting that choice.
The fingers, thick as tree trunks, bent back on their knuckles and went from being the flowing tentacles of a squid to the rigid legs of a spider. It lifted its massive forearm-head from the ground, peeling away from a mucus substance, and peered down at us from a hundred milky eyes we hadn’t been able to notice from our vantage point. Only a nubby thumb remained flaccid, and it drew a path in the slime for us to follow.
Nguyen forgot about his recordings, staring at the creature in bare awe. Dunning still had his gun drawn, but Yuker had put his pistol away. A strange look had come over his face; one that I suspected was a look of defeat. The pathway cleared by the thumb was narrow, but wide enough for us to walk single file up the incline and toward what distressingly resembled a gothic cathedral.
Nothing moved in the distance now, the sky here a deep navy blue. It was
silent except for our progress, the stench of mushrooms now mingling with something else. Something spicier. It reminded me of cumin or ginger. The cathedral of flesh was that same wet crimson, and I could make out the pieces of human flesh that had been used in sculpting it – a nostril here, a toe there. A building built of people, the cathedral throbbed as a living thing.
The fingers of the creature steepled over the doorway, the thumb swinging inward through the maw. It flipped out of our way as we passed underneath it, swiping along its many eyes. As Hughes and I entered, the thumb came down rigid behind us, not exactly blocking our exit, but definitely giving the impression we were not to leave.
The structure was far longer than it was wide, and I no longer had any doubts about its cathedral-like design. Rows of pews sat to our left and right, along with a second tier of what I assumed to be additional seating. The parody of stained-glass windows lined the walls, discolored skin stretched as thin as parchment. The entire complex was a single organism. At the end of the center row, instead of a crucifix, a solitary item rested on a raised dais. As we drew closer, I shuddered as I realized it was a throne.
It was perfectly sized and shaped for a human, and gleamed almost white with only a slight pinkish cast. To each side, sat cubes of meat approximately four foot square. They pulsed as if from a heartbeat, a faint glow emitted from an unknown interior source when expanded.
“My God,” said Yuker, “It’s made of teeth. It’s one tooth!”
The truth of Yuker’s observation washed over me with revulsion. The white gleam of the throne was enamel, a singular molar grown in mathematical precision to fit its occupant. I choked back the bile threatening its way up in my throat.
A soft plopping sounded behind us, and we all spun to see a platform descending from a balcony that had grown out from the wall above the entrance. It rolled toward us on a wave of transformed flesh, bringing her closer…
… and it was a her.
She stepped off the platform, naked and hairless. Porcelain white and without a single freckle or mole, she regarded us with all crimson eyes, the only color on her. Petite, but formed with full breasts and narrow hips, she folded her hands behind her back in a very human manner and regarded us with a trace of a smile.
“You’re… you’re…” failed Nguyen.
“Human? No.”
Her voice had a smoky aspect to it and no hint of accent to her English. I tried not to stare, but the human sexuality was present in the tilt of her hips and the hardness of her nipples. No, not a “her,” but an “it.”
“As a representative of the United States government, I demand to…” barked Yuker.
“Please be silent, Jeffery Yuker. Your demands are less than meaningless here.”
She glided among us, never attempting to touch us with her hands still behind her back. Her lips curled slightly more into a smile when she looked over Hughes. Even her motion had a graceful sensuality to it.
“Who are you?” I think I said.
“Your kind do enjoy designations and titles, don’t you? I have no name that could be properly expressed in human language. Would it make you feel more comfortable to address me in a proper fashion? I am The Originator, The Rivulet Source, The Word That Bleeds. If you wish, you may now call me The Prophet.”
“The Prophet,” repeated Nguyen in a whisper.
“Yes, Adam Nguyen. We are entertained, if not irritated, by your kind’s adherence to faith and superstitions.”
“We?” Dunning asked, his gun raised.
She laughed, deep and resonating. “Of course, Gregory Dunning. We. Even a prophet of my kind must need a flock.”
Yuker shot me a look. Dunning hadn’t been a name given by these creatures. How did she know it?
“We are The Ichor, The Malleable Court, The Data That Flows. We surround you even now.”
I warily eyed the cathedral and thought of all the monstrosities we had seen on our journey. Nguyen blathered something I didn’t hear, and Hughes grew twitchy. The Prophet waved her hand away in response to Nguyen’s question.
“Do not be so limited, Dr. Nguyen. You speak of flesh, and I speak of essence. We find it almost sad you became the most advanced species upon this planet.”
My breath stopped. “This planet?”
The prophet sauntered to the throne, and lounged across it in a manner that emanated lewdness. Or at least, imitated it. She stared at me with eyes both hungry and dismissive.
“Oh, yes, William Clavell. We arrived here millions of your Earth years ago. We have been waiting for you to be ready, but you discovered us before you had ripened.”
As a group, our collective look of shock must have pleased her, because she laughed once more. “Your kind would have had a few more centuries, if not a millennium before you had achieved the state we sought. An inconvenience, but not unforeseen.”
“The United States will not stand for this act of aggression,” roared Yuker, clearly out of his depth. “The world will not!”
The Prophet leaned forward obscenely in her throne. “Jeffery Yuker, we’ve owned this world since before you developed spoken language. We are everywhere, under all parts. We have risen many times, in secret, to ascertain your level of evolution, and you have heard of us before. In your cultural mythologies and religious lore, we have been the Wendigo in the Rocky Mountains, the Nephilim in The Dead Sea, and the Nosferatu in the Carpathian Mountains. All those and more.”
I stumbled backwards, overcome by the ramifications of her words. Dunning screamed something and drew a bead on The Prophet. She laughed, the sound punctuated by bullets firing. Yuker shouted something, and Hughes pulled the gun hidden under her jacket and wildly searched for an exit. Crimson streams ran from The Prophet’s body as she stood, the blood lashing out at Dunning. The liquid whips sliced through him in a dozen directions, his dismembered body falling to the floor in hunks. One strand of blood knocked the gun from Yuker’s hand while another wrapped itself around Hughes’s fleeing body.
“Agent Hughes!” bellowed Yuker.
Agent Christine Hughes, a cadet fresh out of Quantico, was lifted in the air and brought back to The Prophet. Without an assistant I was willing to put in harm’s way, it had been decided to ghost me with a protection detail. But Hughes had never been trained for fighting ancient aliens from hell, and screamed madly as she tried to break free. The Prophet’s wounds had already healed, only the single appendage of blood bursting from beneath the left of her rib cage was still active and holding Hughes aloft.
“You are little more than a dying sack of meat,” cooed The Prophet to Hughes, inching her closer. “Here, let us forge you into something… eternal.”
Hughes yanked her hand free, and brought the gun up. It was my turn to shriek as she shoved it under her chin and pulled the trigger. Her head exploded, red and wet. The prophet chuckled and flung the corpse onto the remains of Dunning. They were already being absorbed by the floor.
“Blood,” said Nguyen hoarsely. “You’re not the creatures, you’re the blood! The exotic fluid released from the drilling, sentient liquid.”
“Very good, Adam Nguyen. I am The Originator, The Rivulet Source. And I am the Prophet. So to complete this tale, we need to fill other roles.”
The cube to her right came alive, light burning from its insides. Liquid flames shot out and engulfed Yuker, the retching noise of his metamorphosis drowned out by his screams. The blaze washed out the doors of the cathedral, leaving an abomination in the General’s place.
“The Warrior becomes The Martyr, a symbol to show this world what is to be.”
The left cube spat out fire onto Nguyen.
“The Scholar becomes The Apostle, one to take the message to his people.”
I stood there between what had been Yuker and Nguyen, the general and the scientist no more. Yuker had been transformed into a ball of flesh, his bones wrenched out and fused into a partial carapace, his face centered and recognizable. He wept tears of crimson lapped up by r
ows of tongues lining his bulbous form like the nipples on swine. Nguyen swayed back and forth, his skin inside out and his organs hanging from his desiccated body in a symmetrical mockery of official vestments. He ran his hands across his bleeding scalp and squealed.
When they wailed “Blessings!” in unison, I fell to my knees.
The Prophet simply examined me from her throne.
“Why?” I choked out.
“Because it is the way of things, it is our cycle.”
I shook my head. “Why me?”
A truly human look of pity came across her. “Christine Hughes was right. We do collect the memories and thoughts of those we flow through. You are respected among your people, and so we chose you for that reason.”
I sobbed, my mind in revolt over my fate.
“The cycle is not complete, William Clavell.”
I nodded, thinking I understood.
“Come unto me,” she said, opening her arms. “As I am now The Prophet, was I once The Disciple. Take the memories of your kind from this form, the memories of my kind from this blood. Become The Disciple and travel the stars.”
“Wha… what?”
“So many worlds, so much information. We are the Apocalypse, the Ragnarok, the Omega Point. We journey to where we know civilization to be imminent and wait. We wait until these worlds are at an end, and then we run in rivers. We gather the stories, the reasons, and journey more. I was from a planet billions of your light years away, and now William Clavell, it is your turn.”
An end of own doing This was our fault. They are the undertakers—the historians—of the universe.
I rose to my feet, and went to embrace The Prophet.
“Give my memories to Nguyen. It… it will help my people to understand.”
She nodded and in her crimson eyes, I saw a glimmer of something almost human before I wrapped my arms around eternity.
