The Serpent and the Light

by Bo Luellen

  A deep voice came on the channel and responded with, “Roger that.”

  The Leviathan leaned back in his chair with a smile and whispered, “This won’t take long. Aaron Holland is an ex-Ranger Special Forces who trained most of our members. He has over twelve confirmed kills in the military and twenty out in the Preserve. Ten dollars says this will be over in less than five minutes.”

  The large monitor switched over to a single camera angle and gave Aaron Holland’s vital stats in the bottom left corner. The microphone was picking up the man's heavy breathing and the sound of his boots hitting the concrete. A passing car's engine flooded the room with noise, as the ex-soldier crossed the road towards a Wal-Mart parking lot.

  The High Seer spoke up, “Holland, you’re right on top of him.”

  Holland’s low voice came over the speakers in the War Room, “Roger that. Moving in. Strike Team, hold your position and close in on my gunfire.”

  A series of acknowledgments rang out as the screen went dark, and Holland faded into the shadows of the desolate parking lot. Moving fast around the building, the Elders in the War Room could only see blurry images. Aaron’s controlled breathing pipped in over the intercom, as they heard the click of his pistol being cocked.

  Holland stopped dead in his tracks and whispered, “Contact.”

  The room went still as the image on the screen showed a grainy vision of pitch darkness, with only a slightly illuminated skyline. The camera began to shake again as Aaron moved cautiously forward and raised his weapon in front of him. The red beam of the pistol’s laser targeting pointer shot out into the pitch black and danced around searching for his Prey.

  Suddenly, red glowing eyes came to life out of the depths of the shadows, and the High Seer yelled, “That’s him! Shoot!”

  Richard jumped in his seat as the speakers overhead snapped to life with gunfire. As cross-pattern muzzle flashes flamed out from Holland’s 9mm, the twin ruby eyes of the Demon stayed motionless in the inky darkness. The glowing orbs did nothing in response to the onslaught of gunfire. Bullets sparked against the iron trash dumpster directly behind his target, as the rounds seemed to pass right through the Vessel.

  While Holland dropped a clip and reloaded, he radioed, “Target still up! It’s still moving!”

  The Hunter opened fire again, while Marcus pressed a button and ordered, “Strike Team, move in. Full advancement. Take this thing down!”

  The Seer walked over towards the screen, studied the image for a moment, and then reported, “It’s not there. That’s an illusion. The Demon is casting a…”

  From the side of the camera frame, something hit Holland hard and knocked him off his feet. The Elders present heard the battle-hardened elite warrior began to scream in terror as the monstrous roars of something, not of this Earth, sent a shiver down Richard’s back. The camera was knocked away and landed a few feet from its owner, showing only Aaron’s lower legs. The room watched as the section of his body that they could see pulsed as something growled off-screen and tugged at the convulsing Holland.

  A raspy voice cut in saying, “Marcus, this is Bill. Holland is down. I’m taking command. All units flank on my position and move in hot.”

  As the voices of the Strike Team cut in to confirm Bill’s orders, the body of Aaron Holland was dragged off and out of view. Marcus sat down hard in his chair and slowly looked over towards the Master. The leader of the Sect remained as motionless as when Richard had first entered into the room.

  A full minute later, Bill’s voice keyed on the speaker and screamed, “Great Cthulhu! Aaron, No!”

  The main screen switched to a multi-view of each team member's head camera. As they turned to night vision, the dark corner where Holland’s body had been dragged exploded into different shades of a green hue. Tied, spread-eagled, against one of the larger dumpsters, Aaron Holland’s body had been stripped down nude. Richard noticed the man’s crimson-colored Leviathan tattoo was sliced off his arm, and blood was pouring from the fresh wound. Several bite marks were all over the muscular frame of the faithful Brotherhood member, including one that took out half of his neck. Painted on the building beside the dumpster was the word, “Ira” written in Holland’s blood.

  Richard leaned over to Maxwell and ask, “I’m a little loose on my Latin. What does that mean?”

  From the table, the Master replied, “It means Wrath. One of the Seven Deadly Sins.”

  Enfield’s blood ran cold, as he knew it was almost impossible for the Master to have heard what they were saying. On the screen above, the Strike Team started cutting down Holland from his crucified perch and ordering their transport to make haste to their location. It was a race to remove the dead man before the police showed up to investigate the reports of gunfire.

  Marcus cycled through still images of the blood-stained wall where Hyde had written his Latin message and asked, “Why, Wrath?”

  The Octopus headed leader of the cult stood up and announced, “The Demon lead us to an isolated area, and this timeless engine of cruelty laid a trap for our Hunter. It also knew who they were, while they had no idea who the current Vessel of Hyde was. Thanks to Samuel’s failure, the beast is now attempting to hunt us.”

  Tahlequah, OK - Wednesday, October 17th, 2018 – 2:32 p.m. CST

  He shuffled his feet in place to keep warm as he leaned on his shovel and gave himself a break. They had finished digging Aaron Holland’s grave at noon, and now they were waiting on an Elder to arrive for the burial ritual. He stood there with soiled pants, surrounded by six other Brotherhood members that looked in the same condition, and remember how easy digging a grave seemed on TV. He had discovered digging a hole in the cold earth was no easy task and for the first time in a decade, had blisters on his hands. As he stood there, Richard found himself starting to nod off as he stared off into the peaceful woods around him. It dawned on him that he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, and he was operating on fumes.

  Bill Robertson dropped his shovel, looked down at the body bag lying at the bottom of the hole, then anguished, “Whatever the High Mage is going to say, ain’t enough. There is no man or woman in the service of Cthulhu that equaled Aaron Holland. I should have been there.”

  One of the other men put a hand on his shoulder and replied, “Easy, Bill. We’ll bag this thing, and then we’ll make it pay for what it did.”

  He felt out of place next to the professional soldiers. Richard was in the process of trying to figure out something relatable to say when he saw the string of three cars approach in the single access road into camp. The procession parked, and six Brotherhood members got out, then donned the white robes of the Order of the Mages. An Elder named Luke Ward stayed next to the cars, as his five Apprentices moved towards the burial detail, each carrying a large ram’s horn. As they approached the grave, they organized everyone into rows based on rank and station. When they were finished, the five blew on their ram’s horns in perfect unison. Richard winced at the ear-splitting sound the instruments made and put his fingers in his ears.

  A few minutes later, the ceremony began, and the members were ordered to kneel in honor of Cthulhu. The Mage’s Apprentices passed around a goblet full of wine, and each one of them took a sip. A white powder was tossed onto the corpse by the High Mage. Afterward, a live snake was sacrificed in the name of The Great Dreamer. Its blood was sprinkled in a circle surrounding the hole as the Apprentices continued their chorus.

  He nudged Bill, who knelt next to him, and whispered, “What are they doing?”

  With a stoic face, the man whispered back, “It’s a Dedication Ritual. A necromantic rite designed to dedicate the bones of the dead to Cthulhu, so they may serve even after death. Anyone buried on the Preserve or who has died here has a version of this ritual performed.”

  He looked around at the obedient faces of the others, Pageantry, that is all this is. Just another religion exercising its mystical control system on dumbass followers. Luke Ward is a retired bank teller from Catoosa,
Oklahoma, whose wife yelled at him regularly at every opportunity. Little shows like this are the only way small people feel important. They can believe what they like, while I keep a clear focus.

  Hyde, on the other hand, is real enough. The way that thing moved and how those bullets went right through him. This was something supernatural that is now aware it is being hunted by our Brotherhood and cunning enough to use the Seer’s tracking spells against us. This Demon can jump from one body to the next, which gives the Fallen Angel an advantage. For all we know, Hyde could be in a plane headed towards China, laying another trap, or even could have possessed someone in the Brotherhood. The thing could be here right now, mocking us as it kneels at the grave of his last victim.

  Suddenly the ritual stopped, and The High Mage ordered, “Rise and listen as we plead to great Cthulhu.”

  They all stood and listened as Ward continued, “The Master was granted a vision of glory by The Great Old One. He was given a great task by Cthulhu. A Hunt to capture the Fallen Angel named Hyde. Once in our possession, its spirit would be subjugated and made to serve us. This great honor has come with many sacrifices, not the least of which was Brother Aaron Holland.”

  As the speech droned on, Richard thought, All of that power had slipped from our fingers because Samuel failed. No, it slipped through my fingers! All because of one coward who couldn’t follow through. I proved him unworthy, and now I’ll finish the job!

  As his mind wandered away from the ceremony, something caught his eye deep in the woods. His eyes darted over to an area twenty yards out from the camp, as a grey-haired man stepped behind a tree. The movement was so fast, he didn’t have time to get a good look at his face before he disappeared into the oak. He craned his head back and scanned the thick woods, with its changing leaves of Fall. After looking around to make sure no one was paying attention to him, he took a short step backward for a better view. He peered down several tree lines and considered breaking the ritual to investigate.

  Richard pursed his lips, If there is someone out there, they need to be discovered. Yet, it’s a grave violation to interrupt a ceremony dedicating the dead to Cthulhu, which would leave a debt owed to The Great Dreamer. The only repayment would be another life. My life to be precise. I had better wait.

  A few seconds later, he returned his gaze to the front and looked towards Elder Ward. His mouth snapped open in surprise as he saw Samuel standing at the Mage’s side. Enfield’s heart started pounding as he whipped his head around to look at the other members and looked at their oblivious faces. They all had their heads pointing forward and reciting the R’lyehian in unison. He looked at the image that was his former mentor to find Samuel was returning his gaze. The man had on the black robes he had been wearing when they buried him. His forehead still had the single bullet hole where Richard had shot him, and a single trickle of dried blood was caked onto his forehead from the opening. The hole was black and necrotic, while the rest of his flesh was pale. Richard wiped his eyes on his sleeve and found the image of his mentor had vanished.

  He took a few calming breaths and thought, This is just in your head. You’ve been awake for over a day, digging graves and cleaning up bodies. Don’t lose it! The prize is within your reach!

  The voice of his old teacher whispered into his left ear, “The prize will be lost to you because you have no idea what the real game is.”

  Richard’s head jerked away from the sound and gave him such a start that he almost fell onto his side. Two of the members took notice, with one of them breaking ranks to push him back into place. To his fortune, The Mage didn’t miss a step in the recitation of the spell, and he quickly fell in line with the others to avoid dire consequences.

  A few minutes later, the Mage called an end to the burial rites, and everyone broke ranks and started packing up. A few members gave him a concerned look, as he bolted off into the cabins and searched for the elusive vision of his Mentor. After clearing all three buildings, he jogged out into the woods where he had first seen him. Ten minutes later, the search bore no fruit, and he heard the cars of the other Brotherhood members start. Slowly, he worked his way back towards the camp and found the others had left him behind.

  A thought came to mind, What if the Mage put something in that wine? What if this was some kind of power play to make me think I was seeing things at the wrong time to make me look bad? It could have been one of Samuel’s Apprentices I inherited.

  He shook off the notion, leaned on a tree, and listened to the last of the other cars leave the area. He got up and walked towards his car, as he gripped his hands into fists in an attempt to regain focus. At midnight, there would be a War Council called at The Library, and he was supposed to be there as the lead Hunter. It was almost 5 PM, and his body felt like it was completely drained. All he wanted to do was to get home and rest. He removed his robes and put his shovel in the storage cabin. He was exhausted and cherished the feeling as he sat down in his Lexus’s comfortable seats.

  He let himself take a deep breath and thought, I could just sleep here. It’s a long trip to my house in Tulsa, and I’ll have to come up with more cover stories to tell my worthless wife. I wouldn’t even bother if it wasn’t for my sons. When the right day comes, I will show my children their place in the Brotherhood. I’ll show them the place of honor I’ve prepared for them. Until then, they need to think well of me and see, firsthand, the drug-addicted mother they have. That way, they will see the value in the Hunt, and together we will kill her as their payment into the service of Cthulhu. When that day comes, I will be at The Great Dreamer’s right hand!

  From the back seat came a familiar voice, “No, you will be as dead as Holland.”

  The car jerked from his sudden fright as he screamed and lurched forward. Crawling into the passenger seat, he reached in the glove box and retrieved a Glock 9 mm pistol. Spinning around on the leather interior, he leveled the firearm towards the back seat. He pointed at the placid face of Samuel and released the safety.

  His whole body was shaking as he yelled, “Stop right there!”

  Samuel sat peacefully in the back seat, with his hands folded in his lap. The gun didn’t have the effect on the undead Howard that Richard had intended. The man’s calm posture was only broken by the raising of a single white eyebrow.

  Richard flinched as Samuel jibed, “If that gun makes you feel safe, then you’re in greater danger than you can imagine.”

  Cocking the gun, he stammered, “T-this isn’t possible! I buried you!”

  Richard’s skin was starting to sweat, and his gun hand was trembling so badly that he could barely hold his weapon. He felt warm urine running down his leg, as he fumbled for the door handle, and did his best to make his fingers cooperate.

  He looked at Samuel and pleaded, “Stop doing this! Let me out!”

  The dead man’s stoic expression remained unchanged as he replied, “The dead cannot affect the living. Well, at least not like that. What you are experiencing is some of that cowardice you so despised.”

  Richard slowly inched the gun out of the spirit’s face and then quickly used both hands to open the door. He spilled out onto the cold ground and crawled on his hands and knees to the edge of the road. Standing up, Richard retook aim towards the back seat, only to find it was devoid of a presence. He craned his head around to see if the unwanted passenger had gotten out on the other side. Taking a combative posture, Richard worked his way around to the other side of the vehicle and found no sign of the man. He swung around frantically in response to a loud hoot from an owl that echoed out over the woods.

  Samuel’s voice came from behind the car, “It is good to see you again, my boy.”

  He turned to find the man leaning on the back of his car and looking out over the long road out of The Preserve. Richard crouched down to one knee and let loose five 9 mm rounds into the chest of his old Mentor. For a long moment, all he heard was the whistle of the ringing in his ears and the smell of gunpowder as it floated away in the breeze
. Samuel was still as a statue and unimpressed with the insult of being shot again by Richard.

  Enfield circled back to the rear of the car and got a good look at the ghost. Samuel took off his black robes to reveal the same bloody shirt he had on the night he died. Folding the cloak, he laid it carefully on the trunk of the car and made a strange gesture with his right finger over the fabric.

  The image turned to Richard and announced, “I couldn’t help but notice I scared you a little back there. It seemed like you experienced a flight versus fight scenario, in which you made the decision to crawl away. I was shocked by that considering the impassioned speech you gave me at the Library.”

  After a few controlled breaths, Richard gave into the reality of the situation and replied, “I’m still here. I did not run away like a rabbit from the fox.”

  Samuel kept still as he retorted, “No, you laid a trap for the fox and then called it a test.”

  Richard’s shoulders relaxed a little, saying, “How are you here? How is this possible”

  His Mentor smiled, remarking, “Thanks to Cthulhu, I walk the other side, and I can see many things that I couldn’t in life. You see, The Great Dreamer has set me on a path to help you, Richard.”

  He lowered his gun and thought, This thing could be Samuel, it could be a hallucination caused by Ward’s drink. That, or this could be some kind of Demonic power of Hyde’s.

  Samuel slowly walked an arc around Enfield and hypothesized, “Oh, I could definitely be any of those things or none of them. A hallucination, a product of Angelic magic, or maybe you passed out in the forest, and I’m a dream. Your problem is you really don’t know and don’t know how to know. You never paid attention to me in my arcane lessons. You listened to my teachings, but I can’t, in all honesty, say you were even an average student. What you excelled in was being a ruthless opportunist.”