Chapter 19 A Place to Rest

El, Lacerti, Trash, and Ashley have found themselves as traveling companions as they weave their way deeper into the trial of nightmares. Several hours have passed, and the girls still haven't awoken. It's like they're alive physically, but somehow not in their own bodies.

Another stairwell appears, and the party rushes down it. El stops and looks up. "That floor was at least three times the size of the one before it, Lacerti. What is going on?"

Lacerti sets Trash on the dusty stone floor then takes a seat himself, admiring yet more of the canvas from the floors above. Here the mural depicts monsters on top brandishing swords and spears crawling from beneath the ground, while nearer the bottom animal-like beasts are shown in various sexual poses defiling one another.

Lacerti whispers in a thunderous voice, "We are descending into hell, or at least into a monument made in tribute to the fall of man." El and Lacerti spend several moments lost in the vastness of the mural.

El passes down the hall, examining his new surroundings. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

Lacerti nods his head. "Greece, Rome, and Brazil are full of monuments like this, and most recently one was unearthed in Rhode Island."

El listens with intrigue. "Really?" He paces back to the others and as if by motor-response takes inventory of their equipment. "What is their function?"

"Various priesthoods perform ancient ceremonies in places like this one to invoke numerous hexes on the unfaithful, then ultimately they summon a god or instigate the end of the world."

"so, 'shadow over Innmoth'," El squints in noticeable distaste. "Nice that we have all grown into such sympathetic creatures. I would ask if there is any warrant to the superstition, but it would seem I have my answer already." El and Lacerti lock eyes for a moment as Trash stirs about. El slaps Lacerti on the arm. "Game face." The two partners lock and load. Now with their next goal in sight, the two partners wait for Trash and Ashley to awaken.

The wait is short and eventless. Ashley comes around after a few minutes, and Trash snaps to alertness only moments later, shouting, "Pistol!"

El turns his head and lowers his eyes to meet hers. "Not quite," he responds. Trash hysterically starts trying to explain the events of the past hour. She grabs El and shakes him. El pulls one arm back staring at her and threatening her with the back of his hand. Trash lets go of El and thrusts herself at Lacerti, sobbing. El wraps one hand around her face, grabbing her cheeks and forcing her to stare at him "That is a warning; where I'm from, there are punishments for such behaviors. Act slowly and deliberately at all times. Now start again and do it right this time," El scolds the young woman.

Trash collects herself. Her face fades slowly to a light pink, her eyes roll back dizzily. El squints, staring at her, studying her features. He whispers, "Shit ..." He stretches out an arm. Patting her on the sides of her face, he says, "Trash, on your feet, take off your clothes." Trash follows the directions in a dreamy haze.

Lacerti looks at El with a scornful look. El answers him without Lacerti needing to ask. "She is going hyperglycemic, and her blood pressure has dropped sharply. She needs her heart rate to stabilize or increase immediately or she may suffer cardiac arrest. Seeing that we can't pump her full of steroids right now, we will do it the hard way." El tips his head, staring at Trash's breasts and noticing what appears to be the type of wound left by a leech between them, as well as a red mark on her neck in the shape of a hand. "Lacerti, let's keep moving. I have no doubt the others will come this way, also."

***

A short distance back, a ghostly Lances Jacob finds his way to his feet. Pistol, overcome by fear and confusion, gasps, "What are you doing, old man?" Jacob marches forward, thrashing in a nearly inhuman way. A dragon-like face ripples outward in a spectral form, pushing its way out of his body.

Jacob growls devilishly as he fights the inner demons turning outward. "Serve your purpose. Fight the devils. Start with me," Jacob shouts at Pistol. Pistol stands in shock, mouth hanging open. Jacob thrashes about, the demons' features beginning to fuse with Jacob, morphing into a single visage.

The Soul Eater on Pistol's hip seems to whisper to its holder in a deep, heroic voice. "Jacob is a pure soul and we cannot harm him. But the foul beast corrupting him we can," Pistol speaks to himself as he lifts his holy whip. "Hell Spawn Bone-snatcher!" Pistol calls to Jacob. "Show yourself to me! And battle the millennium grudge. I, Charlie Belmond, the last of the warlocks of cursed blood, command you!"

Jacob stops struggling and slumps over. His head raises, and Jacob locks eyes with Pistol. As he speaks, his voice bounces back in an echo. His face has become hard, and bony thorns have grown around visible bone.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob, for what I'm about to do." Pistol shakes his head as he steadies himself for battle.

"I, Jacob, am now Nightmare. We see your challenge," the demonized man utters. The bone-snatcher compounds its body fully onto Jacob's, growing a monster's three-fingered hand over his left arm lined with multiple mouths and a giant eye over his shoulder. The former man's shirt rips off, and another fanged monster's mouth appears on his chest.

The bone-snatcher runs at Pistol. It swings its evil arm at him. Pistol pivots around the monster, slashing his whip down its back. The holy energy flows throughout the monster. The blow seems to weaken the evil demon greatly. It becomes partially invisible, revealing the real Jacob asleep inside it.

Pistol lays into the monster, skillfully lashing time and time again with his mighty Soul Eater. With each blow the monster weakens until finally relinquishing its hold over Jacob. The priest doubles over, vomiting up a slug-like monstrosity, which attempts to retreat, but is met with Pistol's indignation ... and boot. A sound like thunder crackles around Charlie, blue light shines under his foot, the true nature of the Belmond family is known only to Charlie. The monster he has just slayed, it's energy has been drawn into his body.

A larger, more powerful soul could talk to Belmond or even attack Charlie from the inside out, but this one cannot, in and amongst the other souls Charlie has drawn into himself, this one is meek and subservient having not the energy or ability to do anything but refresh Belmond's Arcane influence

Pistol places Jacob against a wall and awaits his regaining consciousness. The wait is short and sweet, as his head had barely hits the wall before Jacob's voice reaches Pistol's ears. "Charlie?" Jacob asks.

Pistol moans joyfully as he rests. "Yeah, old man?"

"Thank you."

"Any time, I love beating on senior citizens," Pistol chuckles.

"Charlie."

"What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of gangster?"

"I've been rolling with The Patriots for some time now."

"What are they?"

"'Hell's Angels for volunteers, firefighters, doctors, cops, soldiers, and other civil servants."

"What are you?"

Pistol replies, "I'm the director of environmental services for the Mississippi Grand School District."

"That's one long title to pin to a vest," the old man jokes.

The two partners chuckle with one another weakly as they rest.

Lances lays his head back and forces his breath to slow. His heart is pounding, he is tired after this spiritual battle, but a strange truth creeps into his thoughts. Charlie Belmond, Lances has heard the Belmond name more then once. "Charlie, are you a hunter?" Lances over the years has peeked into the shadows, he knows there are monsters out there, and he know there are men that dedicate themselves to fighting the monsters. Charlie shakes his head, he will not answer this inquery.

***

Stumbling through the halls of the grand labyrinth, the Minotaur leads Snake along. "What are you, anyway?" Snake asks, patting the beastie on the back his eyes running down its body encouraged by its almost human shape and seductive method of dress and walk.

"Herinis,"

"Hmm," Snake responds.

"Usha-una."

Snake shakes his head.

"Cow women, Minotauress."

"Are there more of you?" Snake asks.

"Yes, hundreds," she responds. The cow women takes notice of Snakes Dancing eyes "do you wish to procreate with me?"

Snake turns to face forward pulling his gaze away from the cow. "not right now. But it is good to know the offer is on the table."

The Herinis nods, "I was born in captivity, I have been trained in the breeding costumes of many of people, I understand your habits and can satisfy your needs for you."

"really?" Snake asks

"there are men that will pay a high price to my masters for the opportunity to attempt to breed me and my siblings." Her tail flicks slowly.

Snake shrugs "I guess I can see that. My needs tend to not be that complicated."

"in truth my people look and act much like yours in that respect, our bodies are just... spongier around our sticky parts." The minotaur is strangely at ease talking about her body. It seems she is as paranoid as Snake and this whole sex talk is her trying to keep herself calm and focused.

Snake plays along "Get my brother and I out of here and we will adopt you."

The cow girl nods "you are kind for a hunter."

The Minotaur maiden moves slow and slick through the labyrinth, guiding Snake. With her nose in the air, she snorts deeply and often. She pivots left, then right. Snake follows her curiously, trying to understand her seemingly sporadic thought process. "Do you know where we are going?" he finally asks after twenty minutes of seemingly going in circles.

"No," she whispers, "the seventh through tenth floors are the 'trial of nightmares.' The walls shift on cycles--some only several seconds long--occasionally isolating spots. When that happens, all you can do is wait for the next exit to appear."

Snake considers the phrasing. "But ... we are in the basement," he insists.

She stops and looks at him. "Only if you came in through the top floor entrances." She points down the hall. Snake watches in dazzled confusion as the hallway flips itself upside down, creating a new hallway to explore. "Much of the world is built on perception."

"Wow," Snake says, flabbergasted. She leads him into the newly formed hallway, and practically into the arms of the incapacitated Spooky. Without a word, the Minotaur picks him up and continues her quest.

"So, hunter, what do you do, anyhow?" she asks as they start down a flight of steps.

"Is this a sexual question?" Snake asks. "And shouldn't my brother be above us?"

"No," she responds, "and sometimes you need to fall to ascend."

Snake tips his head. "I don't get it at all; up is up, and down is down, and your big toe is always pointing in--things like that just don't change, so long as both feet are flat on the ground. They're rules of nature." The halls of the labyrinth are cold and quiet. A stale stink lingers everywhere, like dry sweat or mold.

"yet you did not tell me what you do? Have you always been a hunter?"

"I'm not a hunter at all I'm a..." Snake stops, suddenly noticing an anomaly in the endless paintings theme. A lone man standing within the pit of hell, monsters flee from him and his flashing, gold eyes and silver katana. Except one beast dares to approach him, a black-winged angel with deep, purple eyes and a scythe. Both wear black robes and have black hair. The human is tan; the angel's skin is grisly white. The man is young, strong, and beautiful; the angel looks to be somehow hiding a terrible ugliness beneath a clay mask. The man has chainmail woven into his clothing; the angel's clothes look to be made of darkness itself. Snake slaps the wall then points at the painting. "Who the hell is that?" For unknown reasons, Snake finds this image to be of great importance.

"Who?" The Minotaur looks back.

Snake leans in closer, pointing more clearly. "Him."

She looks close. "He is called Sala-day-nam-O. 'Son of man' is what it means in the angel tongue. He is the dishonored god cast down to earth to become the champion of man and avatar to the slave god of hope, a true immortal like his brothers, Laos-day-O, Filous-mammon, and Solus-Chaos who are, respectively, the one god--he to which the gods pray, and child of earth--that which catalysis and balances all equations. Sun, moon, and stars is how we identify them. Chaos is, on the other hand, the beginning of all things, she whom seeds the earths."

Snake takes in the story. The Minotaur waves one hand onward. "If we stop, the maze with shift again," she urges.

"I would like to go on record saying I hate this place," Snake expresses as they continue.

***

Larry is still walled in by the hospital room. Larry has always hated hospitals. The smells, the creaking of metal, the whispered crying--it all seems so surreal. He used to get dizzy and weak any time his brother made him go, even to the eye clinic. He can't explain it, and he never could. This hell is finally starting to make sense to him; anything you hate or fear or even dread, this place makes real.

Larry paces to and fro, staring at his hands. His fingers are stained black, his nails long and dark. He rolls his hand; bulbs run up his veins under his skin. Larry feels nauseous at the sight. He laughs, then screams, incapable of resisting the paranoia given him by his inner demons.

Larry collapses on the hospital floor, hugging his head in his arms. Like as living dream, the voice of the snake fiend that bit him resonates in the room. "You don't have to struggle. You could just become like us."

"Leave me alone!" Larry cries out.

A far deeper voice comes next. "Take my hand, and I'll end your suffering." The voice is demonically soothing. A cool hand rests on his arm. "Come and live forever."

He opens his eyes to see a face looming above him that looks to be made of melting wax. "No!" he shouts. A spread of feathers drowns the room for only in instance, and once again everything is normal. Cold, stone-hard floor--he's in the labyrinth again.

"Larry," Snake's voice echoes clearly. Instantly Larry leaps to his feet then throws himself at his brother's legs, clutching him like a lost child. "What's up? Are you hurt?" Snake asks.

"No," he responds, "not so much as I might be." Larry holds up his hands, allowing his brother to see them stretched and growing scales. Then he lowers his head, weeping. Snake slowly reaches into his coat, withdrawing his revolver. The dilemma of mice and men becomes clear. Larry is sick; that's what Lances had tried to say. Larry is sick and going to die. Or more terrible yet, he may change sides. Snake cocks the hammer. So what is he to do? Kill him now when it would be easier, or wait until he becomes a threat?

Chapter 20: Hunter's Sonata

El, Lacerti, and Ashley drag Trash along with them, rushing through the labyrinth. Sometime into the escapade of attempting to re-raise her blood pressure, Trash's appearance begins returning to normal. Shortly up the hall, Snake, Larry, and Spooky come into sight, as well as an unknown entity that dematerializes upon their arrival. Snake has his revolver to his brother's forehead. Larry is on his knees, and Spooky lies on his side, facing away from the party. Spooky having yet to awaken from his nightmare.

The Cow places a hand on Snake whispering in his ear. "There is one thing you must know. Cravixs has summoned his general, Job the endless, if you see a white skinned angel, run." With that The minitour returns to the darkness, she has reached out to a human without her mask of illusions on, this is a crim and she will be punished. But she has felt something from Snake, a strong humanity, somehow, this pirate, this hunter, seems almost as noble as a minitour. Maybe if there where a way to escape Cravixs, she could find a life in the human world.

Slowly Snake lowers the hammer on his revolver. He drops his arm to one side and shakes his head. I'm a monster, he thinks, but not that kind of monster. "Larry, get up." Snake offers up one hand. "You're fine, I'm fine. We'll find a dermatologist to look at that when we get out of here; it's probably just a rash. We're all cool, OK?"

Larry stands and dries his eyes. He examines himself. "I don't know, this looks kinda bad," he mutters.

"You made the right choice," El explains as he approaches. "If life is still an option, you never accept death, unless living means betraying your country or disgracing your flag." El stops before him. "Death only before dishonor."

Larry pushes himself away from his brother, examining an engraving on the wall alongside him beneath a brazier. Snake looks down at him. "What the hell are you doing now?"

Larry runs his hand over the engraving, a three dimensional plate with the letter T carved into it sideways. He whispers, "There is writing down here." He snaps and points. "Snake, hand me that torch over there." Snake lifts a torch from its place on the wall, and a passageway opens in the wall behind them. Snake looks between his brother and the passage.

"Ah ..." Snake stutters, "La-La-Larry?"

"Damn it, Snake, give me some light," Larry says without noticing the change.

"Larry, I think you should come over here." The majority of the party follows Snake into the new corridor.

Larry fumbles around in his coat for a scrap of paper and a pen, mumbling to himself. "T left, one plus two plus one, absolute value of four ..." A gleam of recognition strikes Larry as he seams to understand the alien writings on the walls in some small part. "Snake, can I borrow your phone? ... Snake?" Larry comes to notice everyone has moved on. "I know, I know these symbols somehow."

The next passage is made of sandstone and lime. The party marvels at a diagram covering one side of it. "What the hell is this, now?" Snake asks, half-rhetorically.

"A time-space matrix feed with algorithm conversion. It's like a map," El answers.

Snake looks to El in shock and envy as the old soldier's eyes fly across the map.

"Can you read it?"

El ponders the long list of geometric shapes and attempts to understand the correspondences. He bites the side of his lip, exhaling heavily as the solution evades him. "No," he responds, disappointed. "I understand what it is, but I can't read it without the cipher."

"What do you mean, cipher?" Snake asks.

"The cipher is the key that allows one to read a map. It's a means by which to decode the symbols." El points to beneath the symbols. "It would help to know what language that is, also."

Larry rushes after the group. He looks as if he is going to speak, but he becomes distracted by the images on the wall.

"Well, I'm pretty damn confident it's not a map of the bar. There are like two hundred rooms on this wall, so it probably doesn't, matter right?" Snake rambles.

"No, it's the same room twenty-one times, divided into twelve groups with four variations each," El speculates, analyzing.

Larry writes on his scratch paper, "Q = 2-2, (v = 4), L = 2-2-1, (v = 4+1) I = 1x4 (4 again?) T = 1-2-1." Larry scratches his head. "I know those numbers," he says as he crumples the paper, shoving it back in his breast pocket.

El stars at Larry waiting for him to speak, but it seems Larry lacks focus.

The party, now only missing two members continues on their way.

***

Only a short distance ahead, Pistol and Jacob make their way onward as well. "Come on, old timer. We're getting the hell out of here, or we're gonna die trying" Pistol takes Jacob by the arm. "Ah ... chased by monsters, running through a labyrinth, this will be a great story for our kids when we get home, won't it?" He looks at Jacob, whose face has turned cold again. "Sorry," he says, realizing that one of the older man's kids won't need to hear the story from their dad, and the other is still painfully unaccounted for.

"Do you have a family, Charlie?" Jacob asks.

"Kinda ..." Jacob looks queryingly at this answer. Pistol goes on. "I have a son, haven't seen him in ten years, never been married. My girlfriend ran off to California shortly after he was born and got married to some banker. Never told me why."

"Were you abusive in any way?" Jacob inquires.

"Do I look like that kind of person?" Pistol pauses. "Don't answer that."

"Well," Jacob begins, "all things considered, that might have been for the best."

They come to a stairwell. As they walk down it, a strange echo engulfs them from all sides, a thunder beneath their feet. Whispers wrap around them. Pistol and Jacob look between each other and simultaneously suggest, "Run."

Inches outside the stairwell, a voice comes from behind, calling, "Hey!" Pistol and Jacob freeze in place. Jacob looks back to see Snake standing at the bottom step.

"Did you to just come from up there?" Snake looks baffled as he attempts to understand the physics of the trial of nightmares. "why didn't we pass each other on the way, you were less than 100' from us this whole time?"

As if walking through a veil of smoke, the others all appear, as well. The world clears slightly, revealing a huge Dark age-like forge and armory with weapons lining the walls... The group, all members reunited, circle around each other. Snake observes his companions and how many of them are injured. "Jacob, I think we need your magic again."

Ashley finds her way into Jacob's arms, and Trash into Pistol's. Jacob turns to Pistol. "I'll need your help, Charlie."

"What can I do, Lances?" Pistol asks.

Jacob hands his Book of Rituals to Pistol and begins teaching him prayers. It is an old book with leather pages, it has a bronze clasp on it that holds the book shut, the writing is in a forgotten tongue that no one but Lances can hope to read, this is the book of Enock, one of the oldest books known to man, and not a replica, not a reproduction, Lances has the original, hand crafted tome. Nearly a dozen times the men round the group, casting spells of strength, purity, and healing.

"That's unbelievable," El whispers to Lacerti as the two work. Nearly an hour is spent as Jacob lays blessings with Pistol's aid. Slowly the fellowship is healed of all injuries, and they are restored to full power. As they make more prayers, Jacob seems to weaken, yet grow strong. His hair loses color, turning from gray to white, and his stomach tightens until he nearly looks as a new man transformed by the power of God burning within him.

Spooky sits up. "Holy shit," he states, rubbing himself up and down. "I dematerialized. Am I still here?" Pistol approaches him and slaps him on the arm. Spooky questions, "By any chance did you have the same nightmare as I did, old man?"

Pistol chuckles. "I think you're OK." He comfortingly rubs his companion's arm. "What happened to you two?" he asks, looking to Trash and Spooky.

Trash, with her strength returned, speaks in a hustle. "Pistol there are vampires down here, I fought with one--"

Snake interrupts, "They're not vampires, they're aliens. I spoke to one--"

"Bullshit," Larry hops into the discussion, "I think they're demons."

"How would you know!" the brothers start to yell amongst themselves.

Spooky starts again, "I heard voices--"

Trash speaks simultaneously, "I caught one fucking around with Ashley--"

Voices clash and turn from sound to noise, completely unrecognizable as speaking. Pistol struggles to try to hear but fails.

"S_hut up_!" Jacob shouts in a mighty voice. Everyone complies, turning their attention on the old cleric. "All of you, look at yourselves, and look at the men and women with you. What do you see? Ten men lost and afraid? I don't. I see destiny, not happenstance. Vampires, demons, aliens--it shouldn't matter. We have a purpose, and we have power. Who are we? A witch, A warlock, and a cleric," Jacob points at Trash, Pistol, and himself. "A white knight and a giant," he points to El and Lacerti. "A martial arts master, and two rogues," he points out Spooky and the Gekks brothers. "There is but one monster down here, and it is no man, it is a philosophy--the philosophy of hate and greed and lust. It poisons our hearts and our minds with its filth, killing us from the inside out. But we are the divine, we are chosen, to consecrate this place, this idea, this evil."

Ashley looks up at her father as he speaks; his voice is filled with fiery rage, his heart thundering with indignation. Envy fills the child, as thoughts and feelings of heavenly wrath fill the men. Never has Jacob been so powerful as in this moment.

Jacob grabs a torch from the wall and raises it over his head, shouting in a strange tongue, "Primus que aqua exilis incendere!" He spins the torch overhead. "First I baptize you with water, now fire! Come now men, bring weapons--knives, axes, swords, and hammers and come forth unto me. We shall slash and burn our way to victory, sanctifying all things with this!" He punches the air with his torch-bearing arm. "We shall leave the foul thing no place to hide!"

The men fall into ranks, accepting Jacob as their leader. They fan out, gathering from around the floor melee weapons to fortify themselves. with tools to meet their desires and presents them to Jacob in search of approval, Jacob grins with almost a malicious glee at what is yet to come.

Lances Jacob rallies his party, "Gentlemen, to glory!"

***

Crow grins evilly as he observes the actions of his playthings. He opens a psychic

channel to speak with his subjects in the pyramid. "Ladies and gentlemen, it has come time to leave the relative safety of this place and enter the human world. Send your children away through the bottom floor gate if that is your wish, for today I destroy the dimensional door so no one may return home from this location any longer. Our home has been invaded, and your guardians decimated. Should any of you wish reparations, seek out humans, and take their flesh and blood as your reward and justice!"

The temple trembles as hundreds of angry Anthro-morphs howl vengefully.

Chapter 21: Indignation

Foraging the armory Jacob produces a large, wooden hammer and a bronze capped staff, Snake finds a set of long, thin knives fantastical in nature similar to what one may imagine to be in Elven weapon or design, Larry a pair of hand axes, El a three-piece rod, Lacerti a gigantic claymore, and Trash finds a pike. Spooky, reawakened to the power of his fists, needs no weapon anymore. Any guns the party still has are bulletless or low on ammo, begging use only if absolutely necessary.

A howl ascends from the lower floors, echoing upward. The party enthusiastically clenches their new tools, excited by the prospect of combat. They form ranks with El, Lacerti, and Pistol taking point while Snake, Larry, and Spooky guard the back.

Curious, Pistol looks over his shoulder to Trash and whispers, "Trash, is Jacob right? Are you a witch?"

Trash swivels from side to side, following the sounds of howls. "Not really, but I am a practicing Wicca with a passion for new-age and cult activity."

Pistol looks mildly disconcerted. "Does your mother know about this?" He stops. "No, never mind. Do you know any practical magic you can show me really quick?"

Trash looks baffled for a moment. "You mean like Rune of protection? Yeah, if you have a symbol on you that's aligned to any power, I can draw you a ruin that will repel its polar." She flips out a razor blade from her dress pocket. "You're not afraid of a little cut, are you?"

Pistol looks dumfounded as he steps out of his position to join her. Trash says, "Put your arms together in front of you, palms in, forearms touching." She begins sketching a spiral on the backs of his arms with a marker. She then cuts around the marks and draws them in, tattooing the image on his arms as Pistol shouts various curses. "In the name of the goddesses, call out to the elements of Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water and beset them to protect you. Place your arms before you and complete the image of the golden spire; the elements will only answer to the children of Gaia and to the warlocks to whom they are in debt."

"How would one know they meet the criteria?" Jacob asks

"Well, if that whip on his hip is magical and we see some fireworks when he activates this, we'll know someone owes him something." Trash explains.

"What's the price of magic?" Jacob continues.

"Either blood, time, or a soul, so be sparing."

Pistol says, "I'm going to pray for blood, I think. That I can afford"

Trash cuts her skirt and ties sections of it around Pistol's arms, covering the prison tattoo she carved into him.

"So, they teach this shit in your school?" Jacob asks.

Trash giggles. "Liberal arts club. I've been a member for two years." She slides the blade and marker back into a hidden pocket.

"That means Jacob was absolutely right. We are together by design." Pistol comes to the shocking realization that, if not everyone, at least they have a purpose in this world.

The door to the room slides open, revealing to them the great temple in which they had been traveling. Everyone turns their attention on the door to observe the new terrors that have yet to come with anticipation. The walls seem to come alive as humanoid insects crawl along them. The beasts within have long, exaggerated fingers and arms, stretched bodies with skeletal tails, bony shells, and skin that glistens like metal. They creep toward the party, rattling and hissing, rolling like a swarm around the corridor as they approach. The party observes that these creatures lack eyes, ears, or noses--only a mouth exists, protruding from the tops of their ovular heads. They emanate a stench comparable only to petroleum gas. They are seemingly nothing more than thralls of men twisted beyond the point of return

El tucks his rod under his arm, taking a bladed stance. "They're coming," he announces.

Everyone snaps to attention, taking their proper places in the ranks. One humanized ant flips down from the ceiling, landing on all fours. It runs like a rabbit, hand over foot, and it whistles a bat-like shriek. Lacerti slams his giant blade into the ground through the Thrall, causing the creature to implode in a mess of green-blue goo. Half a dozen more pounce in to replace the leader of the pack.

Tails flail, jaws snap, claws rear. Steel and bone collide, crash through and through, blood-frenzy rages. Each warrior takes their turn smashing the Thralls to a sizzling mass. Thralls fall from the ceiling into the fray. Larry pulls Trash and Ashley out of the monsters' grasps as he steps forth himself. The nearest insect rears its claws, pointing at Larry. As if the bug was moving in slow motion, the man pivots around the beast and smashes it to the floor with his hand axe.

Larry laughs, proud of himself. A second Thrall jumps at him, taking advantage of his distraction. The Thrall lands on Larry's back with all four legs on him. Larry calls for help as it moves to bite him. "God damn son of a bitch!"

Spooky breaks formation to help Larry; he wraps his arms under the insect's midsection and lifts it into the air. Jacob brings his hammer down on the inhuman beast, shattering its skull. The three of them recognize each others' contributions to the combat then return to their posts.

El wraps his three-piece rod around another's head and shoulder throws it, crushing its neck and spine. Like Spartans fighting Persians, the party demonstrates overwhelming power. Even Trash has the opportunity to impale a monster and judo throw it before the monsters lose their nerve and turn tail.

Filled with wrath, the group storms the bottom floors of the pyramid, lighting fires as they go. Minotaurs, Harpies, and Nagas flee at their sight. Yagoloth and Belroges obstruct their path shortly, but quickly find themselves cowering before Jacob or at the mercy of Snake's and Lacerti's blades. All seems to go well as the humans charge headlong down two more flights of steps, slaughtering and burning anyone or anything in their path.

They proceed with ease until one lone warrior obstructs their path--a tall, thin man with narrow, dangerous eyes that shimmer evilly. Brilliantly feathered wings sprout from his back, and he flicks his long, dark hair away from his face.

Lacerti rushes the tiny-looking man, the others expecting him to score an easy kill. El calls for him to stop, but it's too late. A telekinetic wall freezes Lacerti in place, and projecting his will, the strange warrior flings Lacerti over his head and far across the large arena-like floor, smashing an obelisk along the way.

Larry whispers with Jacob as the others freeze at the bizarre sight of Lacerti flying. "Is that him ...?"

Chapter 22: Dread of Night

"Cravixs!" Jacob yells furiously, swinging his torch in the demon's direction.

"No," Snake calmly replies, "that is Job the Endless, Cravixs's warrior angel and general."

Job the Endless nods. "Yes, and I am deeply sorry for what I must do." He lowers his long, effeminate hand to his side. "I must kill you all, you see, and add your bodies to my own." He folds his hand and slowly paces toward them.

"Job?" Jacob looks questioningly. "The Hebrew high prophet?"

"Indeed," Job answers.

"But you were incorruptible; the devil took your wife, children, and home but could not taint you ..."

"Wrong," Job points out. "It was God, not the devil, who sent heretics and thieves to steal from and tempt me, for he was angered by my pride and vanity. I was his most perfect sheep, and the perfect sheep is sacrificed first. But I refused to yield, so God crushed my home and abandoned me in its waste; God sold me to The Cravixs in his anger, and I found a new master to serve."

"Warrior angel, seek out redemption at thy father's table ..." Jacob starts toward Job, holding forth his torch. El interrupts Jacob's path.

"Silence, cleric! I shall kneel to no more idols," Job cries out in frustration.

El's eyes narrow as he grins, eager for battle. "Allow me, Father." El loops his three-piece rod under one arm and makes his way over to Job, squaring off. The hardened warriors embrace the moment before the struggle, both confident in themselves and their own power.

"Watch yourself, El," Pistol calls over.

El flicks the rod out from under his arm, swinging it at in upward angle then snapping it down with only a flick of the wrist. Job twists and hops out of El's reach. The warrior spins forward, swishing horizontally at the rogue angel. Job lifts his knee, blocking the swing, then retaliates by stepping into a palm punch. El staggers back and Job steps into a second attack, but El takes his rod in two hands, twisting it around himself and snaring Job's arm. He spins in a one-eighty and tugs down on Job's arm, flipping the angel over his shoulder. As Job lands from the throw, he twirls around and grabs El by the neck, and he whips El across the room into the wall opposite from where Lacerti landed.

Snake howls a battle cry and dashes in, skinning knives drawn. He launches multiple rapid swings. Job needs little more than to lean left, then right to stay out the way of Snake's fiery swings. The mortal finds Job's knee in his stomach after overextending another swing, accompanied by a stunning side kick and a devastating round kick. Snake rolls along the ground, the wind knocked out of him by the lightning-fast kick combo.

Larry leaps into the air, raising his axe like a barbarian intent on smashing his foe with a flying cleave. Job closes one wing then thrusts it out, slamming Larry out of the air. Snake's brother rolls onto his back, panting as he looks to the ceiling. "OK, at what point did we lose control?" he queries out loud. As the battle rages, warrior after warrior steps up to do combat with the angel, and each in turn gets knocked down Job as easily as if he were just playing with his food.

Jacob charges in next and is flung away with a telepathic slap; Job flicks his wrist, sending Jacob flying.

Trash and Spooky take their turns. Job's hand turns as black as tar, and Trash stops herself and grabs Spooky midstride, remembering where else the name 'Job the Endless' appears. She says, "The Legion?"

Lacerti finds his feet and realizes that it is time to unlock his true power if they are to win this victory. For hundreds of years I have hidden the shadows, sneaking silently throughout the ages, fearing myself and the titan's blood I house within myself. But now I, Whitewolf, Uncrowned King of the Barbarian Tribe the Arctic Dragon and also known as Hercules of Greece or the mighty Viking Norman the Red, must show my face once again. With the blade he had acquired, he cuts his palm. He kneels, raising his cut hand to the sky, and chants, channeling his divine blood. He thrusts his hand to the ground, drawing symbols: a crown to summon wisdom, an eye to invoke intellect, mountains of strength and courage, a serpent for speed and agility, the sun and gold chalice to empower the body, and the Ankh of power to draw them together in the seal of divinity.

"Unlock restriction of the Crown of Eternity," he calls, and invisible chains shatter from around his body, making a glasslike echo. "Unlock restriction of the All Seeing Eye!" His body grows, shredding his clothes. "Unlock power of earth and stone!" His muscles bulge out further, veins popping out, skin stretching with a rubbery, tearing sound. "Unlock the power of the raging beast of the earth!" Electricity seems to flow throughout him, creating a shell of energy. "I call forth the Blood of Titan's and power of Truth!"

His voice echoes louder with each seal breaking. He howls. His hair stands on end, each strand burning with light. The ground cracks at his feet as his influence admits pressure onto the world around him. "And the power to transcend time itself!" he calls as he slams his fist to the ground, creating a shockwave. The blood that had been dripping from his fist reabsorbs into his body. Lacerti stands, having become the vision of a primordial battle god, the dozen symbols arced across his back in a vestige of divinity.

Job turns his attention back on Lacerti and smirks. "Impressive, you really are a

Tamriel after all. Tell me, why hide in that ridiculous human uniform?"

Lacerti pays no heed to the words of the dark angel. Instead the transformed Entity that was Lacerti delivers him a flying knee to the stomach, throwing the dark angel into the air. Lacerti chases him up and thrusts two hammering hands into his back, flinging him back down. He finishes his devastating attack by flying back down and catching the monster in one hand, then discarding him with a fling off to one side in a fashion that would have snapped most any other creature in two.

"What the hell did we just witness?" Snake asks the crew, dumbfounded.

Larry answers, "What we just saw was Hulk Hogan transforming into the

Incredible Hulk."

"Lacerti," Trash calls, "don't let your guard down. Job isn't human, and he can't be hurt so easily." Lacerti faces back over his shoulder and sees Job floating back up to his feet. The others watch with no small amount of amusement as the superpowered Lacerti smashes Job repeatedly into the ground. Job rises to his knees, and with a single, crushing, blow Lacerti pushes him down again. This continues until Job begins laughing at their attempts to harm him, a trickle of blood running down one side of his face.

"Don't touch him again! Job is an energy eater; he will devourer you. He is 'The Legion,' a man with the power of an army, and just as many souls at his command." It is Trash who gives this warning.

However, Lacerti has gone blood-drunk. He kicks Job to his feet and pushes him over, captivated by the idea of an opponent that simply does not die. Job snatches Lacerti's hand on another attack string. The evil angel's body becomes as a dark, gray-brown sludge crawling over Lacerti's body: arms, to shoulders, to chest, to head. The sludge creeps, drinking the power from Lacerti's body. The inhuman beast continues its unholy feast of life and flesh, hoping to add the power of a god to its own.

Job's form fades, its body becomes bubbles, stretching, expanding, becoming a tarlike rubber. Soon all that is identifiable as human is a single face, but then more faces float to the surface until Job is little more than a mass of thousands of levitating heads glued together.

As Lacerti begins sinking into the blackness of the new form of Job, Jacob leaps in, shouting, "Gloria in Excelsis Deo, All hail be unto Thee one true Lord who art in heaven...."

Enraged by the sound of Jacob's voice, Job loses his concentration on absorbing Lacerti's power. The man-turned-god conjures the last of his strength and leaps out of Job's body in a magnificent flash, then out of Job's reach.

The angel's golden glow fades and he returns to his normal size and appearance, disappointed. He howls, conjuring a beam of souls to wield as a whip, and attacks Jacob as his new target.

The priest chants, "We are strong in the lord and the power of his might; by the power of Christ we command you return into the darkness of your own hell, Iehovah, god-king compels you!"

Dozens of hands reach out through Job's spectral weapon, grabbing at Jacob, slowly overbearing him. Jacob's prayers give him power, but the spiteful souls of a million evil dead warriors are simply too strong for the armor of faith to deflect. The darkened mass of energy reaches for the cleric.

Spooky takes the hunting knife from Pistol and flings it, piercing one of the numerous heads that make up the semi-divine dark angel. Angered, Job flings Jacob at the group; El catches the man and the two go tumbling across the floor.

"It flinched?" El whispers. "It's not indestructible."

The monster vomits, creating thousands of gray-skinned, featureless, humanoid monstrosities. "Oh shit ..." the group calls in unison.

"That's the creature from my nightmare," Larry mumbles.

"Stairs!" Pistol points out, bouncing almost joyously. Pistol pauses a moment as a brief glimpse of recognition overtakes him as his eye catches the face of one of the ashy dead.

El nods. "The Roman chalice strategy, he's right--the stairs, we fight on the stairs." Jacob and Ashley are pushed up at the end of the group, followed by Spooky and Larry. Trash and Lacerti go up next; Pistol, El and Snake bring up the final ranks. Job summons more hordes to his side of his fallen slayers.

Larry pipes in, "I'm telling you, I've seen one of those things in my nightmare!"

The party holds their ground as three by three the monsters start up the steps and are met with stabs, thrusts, and smashes from the hunters' artillery. Three are knocked away, and three more rush up to fight.

"Snake, I figured out how the map works," Larry explains as Trash stabs a monster with her spear over his head.

"A bit late," Snake says, slashing a beast four times before stabbing it to finish it off.

"No, it's a grid, we can control it."

"I don't see how that helps right now."

"Ten by one hundred Tetris grid."

"Larry, shut up and pull out your gun and shoot that giant floating head, will you?" Snake says, losing his patience.

"El!" Larry takes a step left to talk to El instead. "Are you any good with numbers?"

El freezes, captivated. "It so happens that I'm exceptional," he slowly and quietly explains as he kills.

"Listen, under each brazier there is a letter, and each letter has a numerical value of four, which relates to a series of ceiling panels. They're connected to moving walls from one floor to another."

El focuses, spellbound by Larry's sudden genius. "Show me."

Larry leans over his brother. "I'm taking your phone," he says, grabbing the instrument. He opens the phone and shows El a video game based on the same principles and a scrap of paper: "Q = 2-2, (v = 4), L = 2-2-1, (v = 4=1) I = 1-4, T = 1-2-1." He explains, "If you arrange the pieces to give you a value of thirty-six then add in a I, giving yourself a value of forty, all the pieces get deleted."

"What if your values exceeded one hundred in a column?" El asks.

"Game over," the other man simply states.

"Can I have this?" El holds up the phone. Larry shrugs. "Tetris. Snake, give me your gun, too."

"What is this, a stickup?" Snake jokes while throwing a knife, impaling another monster, before giving his revolver to El. "What do you have planned, anyhow?"

El calmly responds, "100÷5 = 20, 4-6 = 24 = game over."

The warrior/mathematician crouches beside Lacerti, leaning over to aim between Lacerti and Snake. The defensive line holds strong. El takes his time, squinting hard to hold his focus. His target is far and tiny, and he can afford few mistakes. Time slows for El. He squeezes the trigger, and his first shot flies. El watches as it passes under two of the thousands of Job's underlings and past the heads of dozens behind them. El's hands sweat--the shot looks good, but then it is interrupted by a monster's chest, harmlessly flattening against its skin. "Damn it," El whispers.

Larry looks down at El. "What's up? I wasn't wrong about the code, was I?"

"No, I think you're right, but the shot is to tough for me to make. I need to find a straighter angle."

Pistol glances over his shoulder. "You mean a cleaner kill zone? I think big stuff, and I can handle that, aye." Lacerti nods at Pistol. The two burly men heftily push against the line of monster warriors, flinging them back. The monsters all fall down the steps into the open corridor. Lacerti slashes his sword in a tremendous arc, clearing space for Pistol to move in. hordes leap at Lacerti, attempting to pull him down, but the giant represses them with a constant swishing of his blade. El slides on his knees under Lacerti.

Pistol lays his whip at his feet. He brings his arms up, revealing the image of the gold spiral on his forearms. The air darkens as he slowly pushes the symbols together, lighting arcs between him, his arms, and his whip. "In the name of Gaia, Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, I beseech you!" Multicolored rings of energy encircle Pistol, burning, freezing, and flinging away monsters caught in the aura. "Protect me!" he shouts. His arms lock together, and the multi-rings become one blue circle orbiting him. Pistol's hair slowly flaps up and down in the holy aura. He is entranced by its power. Monsters stare, helplessly mesmerized by the field of magic that the Belmond has conjured.

El sees his opportunity. He takes aim again and fires, the bullet striking the far wall. A T-shaped wall smashes down from the ceiling, splattering a number of monsters under it. Next another, identical wall lands across the room with similar results, then three, four, five--the room begins to fill. El throws Snake his gun and pulls out his Jackal for the last shot, destroying the brazier in the process, and the room begins to crumble.

Pistol runs out of strength, slouching forward, his mana expired. The giant, floating head that is now Job spits a spectral beam at the spent warlock, who takes the blow, lacking the energy to defend himself or move. He flies back into Lacerti's arms. El takes his last shot and the room shakes. Tiles fall as the whole room begins to collapse entirely. Once Job is buried, all his ash-like minions vanish. The party, battered and exhausted, makes its way weakly back up the steps, away from the sight of their finest battle yet.

Lacerti carries Pistol at the back of the group. Ashley is with Jacob next, with Snake and Larry before them, and El leads the way alone, Trash and Spooky just behind. The way back through the deserted underground pyramid is disturbingly silent, as no one wishes to speak any further.

Snake alone is distracted, and for only a moment as out of the corner of his eye he meets his Minotaur friend's gaze. She nods at him approvingly then vanishes into the depths again, both knowing as if by instinct everything the other had to say ... Job the Endless is dead, and Cravixs will flee into the night, not to be seen again until he has another warrior angel to do his fighting.

***

Crow stands over the wreckage of the battlefield, looking down at his faithless soldier Job the Endless. "Pity, what a waste of souls. Job, my slave, you did good works when you were young and submissive. But then your head swelled with pride and thoughts of rebellion; you thought yourself omnipotent, compared yourself to gods rather than workers. You belonged to me, and this is your punishment. You loved God and feared the devil, but never did you think what the loss of all divinity would do to one like you, one meant only to serve and obey--one without the almighty sword of Agency. You suffered the will of a tyrant before next you shall suffer the unending emptiness, as you are now without master. This will be your hell."

Job has been forced back into his human mask. His eyes drop. The emptiness Crow promised fills him already--the pain of nothing, the pain of silence, the pain of loneliness. The rocks are heavy, and Job knows now that without a master to give him strength, soon only the screams of the souls he has stolen will be his comfort, and he will remain buried forever in undying sleep.

Chapter 23 Light of Day

It feels like days have passed since the fighting began, but it has indeed been only hours. Back in the Lamia's Back, Snake runs at the door. Latching onto it, he shouts in frustration as he shakes it furiously. He falls off the door and kicks it once more for good measure. "Come on!"

The party fans out, everyone finding a place to relax in the bar. El looks at Snake.

"Didn't I already explain why that won't work?" El rests against the pool table.

"Well," Snake throws his hands in the air, "what do we do now?"

Spooky pours some beer from the tap. "We drink free beer and eat peanuts until someone comes looking for us," he says.

"What the fuck kind of plan is that!" Snake yells.

El's head drops, disappointed. "It's a better one than any I got."

"We didn't find the other bikers or a back door," Pistol adds.

"Likely Job ate them," Trash guesses.

"Lizzet is missing still, too," Jacob adds, a look of pain on his face.

"I might have said this already, but Lacerti and I saw her being drug out the front," El pops in.

"How are you, Larry? Fine, thank you, just a little mutated. And yourself? Oh, great. I kinda wanted to go to a hotel last night, but a friend of mine said we should check this place out instead," Larry says to himself.

"Hey, Larry, how did you figure out that code, anyway?" Snake asks, approaching his brother.

A talent seven hours of video games a day will give you."

"Talking about games," El looks at Larry, "can I keep your phone?"

Snake's head snaps left. "You can keep the phone, but I want my gun, come to think of it."

"Deal." El hands Snake his gun back, he then pulls out his eagle and looks down at it, he roles it around in his hand looking it up and down, a mark scratched into the but of the gun catches his attention, a number 62754. "hmm..." El squints as he invasions the number. He flips open Snakes phone and looks at the key pad, another puzzle, and he may just know the key.

Time passes hard as the air becomes warm and heavy. Pistol racks up a game of pool. Trash, Spooky, and Jacob join in; Ashley watches and listens, strangely calm.

"Jacob, have you always been able to use magic?" Pistol asks.

"Not to my knowledge," the old man admits.

"So how did you do it?"

"I opened my mouth and the 'Architect' spoke. That was an awful impressive display of power on your end, as well."

"Maybe it is time for me to stop running," Pistol whispers cryptically.

"Where will you go next, Charlie?" Ashley pipes in.

"I'm going home to find out the rest of my family's history. From there, I don't know," he explains. "Well, Trash, it looks like your COP worked like a watch."

"Don't you mean charm?" the girl sorceress asks.

"I haven't had many charms work, but I've had a lot of watches, though," Pistol jokes. "You didn't really learn that in school, did you?"

"Are you kidding? Circles of Protection and Runes of Protection are just the beginning of what Mr. Jack Jules has in the school's hidden library."

A shadow creeps along the barroom floor. Ever slowly, ever softly, light seeps in

through a hole in the ceiling barely larger than a silver dollar. A pounding noise echoes

through the room, and a voice follows. "Hey ... anyone home?"

Snake runs to the door. "Moses!"

"What the hell is going on?" the man on the outsides asks.

"Moses, we are locked in here; can you open the door from your side?"

The door shakes futilely. "Yeah ... just let me go get my tank."

El looks at Snake, then at the hole in the roof only now in the light of day visible.

"Do you know that man?" he asks.

Snake nods. "Yes, it's Moses, the man we came here to meet."

El pushes Snake to one side and places his ear to the door. "Moses, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, what is going on?"

"Moses, this door is locked with an I-bar, the same kind as is commonly used in the construction of commercial buildings. Do you see it?" Moses makes a sound indicating understanding. El continues, "Steal beams like that are designed to offer deflection in the mathematical sense; they absorb top-down pressures but are relatively soft in the center, fitted to one another to hold loosely in strings, making buildings in essence aerodynamic. Pushing from this side, we are pushing with the grade of the metal, so it will not budge. I have some steel cable and a zip clasp in my truck. If you tie it around the center of the lock and slowly pull it, it will likely pull the door straight out of the wall. Do you understand?"

Moses pauses as he looks about then exclaims, "Yes!"

El finds the crossbow from the bar's storeroom and ties his keys around an arrow.

"What is the weather out there like right now?" he shouts through the door.

"Partly cloudy, no wind, about a hundred degrees."

"Keep your head down; I'll send you my keys." El ties his keys to an arrow and lifts the bow over his head, El takes his shot straight, clean anr true as always into the hole in the roof, then bounces out atop it moments later. Shortly they hear the sounds of a diesel engine revving. The backup siren squeals, followed by the twisting of metal, the locking of the clasp, the warping of steel, the bending of the door, and then they witness the door falling off the wall altogether.

Cool, dry air fills the bar, and rays of sun bathe the party. Covered in blood, sweat, and dust, they all file out, returning to the beautiful daytime world. Moses steps down from the truck and laughs at the horrid sight of the battle-worn party. Snake stiffens his lip and harshness floods into his eyes as he briskly moves to Moses. He slaps his tiny friend, hurling him to the ground.

"What the fuck, Moses! How the hell did you find this place? Were you playing darts with Satan? Did you use the psychic hotline? Draw it out of a hat? How the hell did you come up with this?"

Moses stands up, rubbing his jaw. "What's the matter? Santa pinocha_looks like _santa vaca, or what?"

"As a matter of fact, Moses," Snake calms down as he looks back at the pub, "it kind of did." Moses's accent is a muddle of a dozen or so dialects, but Snake is pretty confident Moses just compared a pussy to a cow. Snake's eyes turn to the darkness of the bar, he squints into the darkness. The nameless cowgirl hides at the edge of his vision, Snake can almost see her wave him good by.

Once outside, everyone pairs off to share words--everyone but El and Lacerti, who approach their truck, El stopping for only a moment to whisper with Moses and collect his keys. El stands alongside him, refusing to make eye contact. "Hello again, client. I know you know me, and yes, I remember you, so if you know what's good for you, you will do as I say and not react to me in any way--I am a ghost. Give me my keys, and say nothing of us." El takes his keys and he and Lacerti are off into the sands without another word.

The driver looks in his mirror and reflects for a moment longer on the men that were his team for a day. He cracks a smile, knowing that though not everything is OK, they will cross paths again. This isn't the end of a journey, it's the beginning, and they all have a part to play in this game, even if they don't understand it.

As they begin their trek, Lacerti crosses his arms, lying back in his seat. "You're still thinking about them," he says lazily.

"They're good people."

"Your father wouldn't approve."

"Maybe some tunes?" El says, changing the subject.

"You never listen to the radio."

"I think now is a good time to start."

Lacerti chuckles a little at El as his heartless facade fades away, revealing, momentarily, his loneliness. El reaches for the radio and turns the dial, looking for a working station. A woman's voice comes on. "You are listening to KOTOR. Next up we have Iron Maiden and 'The Long Distance Runner' ..." Time is long, and things are not going to improve. The next adventure rests just on the other side of the valley.

***

As Snake and Moses discuss the value of gold, a hand takes Larry's shoulder. He spins about, catching a glimpse of a man in the door to the bar fifty feet away grasping a duffle bag and vintage revolver. The strange man then vanishes into the blackened depths of the Lamia's Back. Larry watches a moment, trying to decide whether or not he believes his own eyes.

"OK," Moses nods after several minutes of arguing, "you can have your money, but I'm not happy about it. I had big plans for my share, now you are threating to take my dammed coat off my back."

"I don't give a shit dad, do you have any idea how hard this much gold is to get a hold of? Besides, supply and demand; I have the supply on hand, and I want cash."

Moses laughs at Snake and his clever crime savvy. "Snake, you piece of shit, you have more lives than a cat and are just as cunning. Let's go home and I'll find the rest of the money."

"Good." Snake nods and retires his gun to its holster in his overcoat. He calls over, "Lances, kid, come on. I'll give you a ride to the next town down. You're on your own from there, though. Larry, let's go. Moses is taking us home."

The group of them gathers into Snake's car and begins their journey, Snake driving, Jacob in the passenger's seat, Larry and Ashley in the back. "Lances, I just noticed you're wearing a ring." Jacob looks down at his hand as Snake talks. "Opal stone for the back, set gold, diamond-shaped, etched, inscribed with the letter G. You're a knight, aren't you?"

Jacob nods. "Snake, it's not a man's past that makes him who he is. It's his future."

Snake nods. "I know, Father. The circumstances of one's birth are not so significant to his life as the choices one makes and the path he carves through history." Jacob nods, dumbfounded by the seeming clairsentience of the other man's words. "So, Father, where will the future take you?"

"The Church of Jesuit. I will tell them my story and take my rightful place amongst them in my fight against evil."

"The warrior priests of the first Masonic right organized 400 CE, right?" Snake demonstrates that he is well read. A deep respect for the priest drawing out the better man Snake may have become.

"Yes, that is absolutely right; how did you know that?"

"I read James G. Robinson's book The Legion," Snake explains. "So, Father, do you like Dio?" Snake holds up a CD.

"Who?" Jacob responds.

"Rodney James Dio, former bassist for Black Sabbath. 'Holy Diver,'" Larry adds.

Snake puts in the CD and they cruise down the road.

Snake holds true to his word, dropping off Jacob and Ashley out front a church in a nearby town. Then he calls the sheriff's department, spinning tail of a massive drug ring operating out of the Lamia's Back bar before he and Larry make their way out of town without further ado.

***

As everyone else makes their ways to their vehicles, Pistol, Spooky, and Trash are left alone in the parking lot. "Spooky, I want you to take Trash and go back to Mississippi," Pistol says, slapping Spooky on the arm and holding him momentarily. "I'll catch up."

"I don't understand," Spooky pipes up, "what are you going to do?"

Pistol smiles as he walks backward away and points over his shoulder. "I'm going to make sure there wasn't a back door."

Trash tries to argue with Pistol, but Spooky holds her back. Spooky understands and knows that there's no point. Pistol knows what he has to do, and Trash would just make things harder on him. The former fighter digs through the saddle bags and moves

Trash's things to his bike. He says, "Trash, it's time to go; Pistol will catch up." Pistol walks around the outside of the building after watching his friends ride off. His whip glows bluish white as he finds his way to a sudden, steep drop-off in the ground. He looks down to see half of the pyramid exposed and a death pit of thousands of wrecked cars and trucks that have been pushed in. His eyes widen and he gasps for air.

Out of the wrecked cars come groups of monkeylike monsters that seem to have been pulled inside-out. They are covered in metallic shells and lack eyes, and they sniff the air and instinctually as the move slowly toward Pistol. They leap at the walls of the pit and start swiftly jumping. Charlie "Pistol" Belmond pulls his whip from his waist and leaps in, whip flashing a golden blue, to meet destiny head-on the strange and evil thing in the deep stirs Belmond's next adventure waits, a battle that will lead him across the cosmos, jumping between worlds. The sound of breathing thickens the air.

Chapter 24: The Slayer Part 2

I took from Larry's mind the key to the map, and I use it. Tap the brazier, and suddenly doors start appearing. The first five rooms are empty; the sixth reveals five Wolfins: three cubs, a girl that looks sickly, and a large, powerful male that hurls himself at me on sight. It's fast, but not as fast as me. I thrust my hand and project force at it; my spell reverses its flight, hurling it back from where it leapt. It leaps again, but I sidestep and pull my revolver. Without a thought I shoot it in the back. It falls to its knees and seems to cry; not the monster cry I've heard so many times before, but a more human cry I'm not used to hearing. It falls onto its side, and its tongue flops out of its mouth. It pants several more times, trying to breathe, but I had punctured its lungs. It's futilely struggling to hold onto its last breath.

I look back at the cubs and the sick girl. One of the cubs has a taste for vengeance but is being held down by the larger female. I lower my sword and raise the hammer on the Jesse James. The cubs crowd around the girl, seeking shelter. My god, they're children, nothing more--dog-faced, winged children covered in pastel fur, but children. "Go." I nod my head at the exit, and they stare at me in confusion--can't say I blame them; to them I must look like a monster. This is their home, not mine; I picked their lock and entered their sanctuary. I raise my gun into the air. "God damn it, run!" I yell. I fire twice into the air--they seem to understand that just fine; the cubs run, the girl limps, but they make their way out nonetheless. I killed someone that was defending their family. Family--that is a very universal concept, isn't it? To kill a man's father--has there ever been a more hell-worthy sin?

Down I must descend, ever further from the grace-giving sun. Only two more floors and another monster obstructs my passage--a Lamia, heavily bandaged, slithering at me. I stand, bladed sword in my back hand, revolver in my front.

"Slayer," she calls to me, "I know what you're thinking, and your wrong; we're not all the same." I know, I can see that, but I feel no need to say it. She says, "Yes, we have killed, but we kill to eat and to breed. Is that so evil?"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me; I know what you did and why. I don't pass judgment on everyone." The color of her skin has faded. I touch her face, and I can feel her pain. "Been a rough night, hasn't it?" She has been shot a dozen times, and someone has been magically feeding off her. She isn't much better off than the Wolfin I whacked upstairs. "Go to the top floor and hide in the restroom. I'll come back for you soon."

I make my way around her and continue down. I can feel only three life-forms left on the lower floors, myself included. One other is Job the Endless.

On the bottom floor, according to the memories of the hunters that came before me, I find myself undoing what El did and freeing Job from his stone grave. "Leave me," he commands.

"No."

"Why?"

"It's not your turn to die."

"I can never die, but what am I to do with no master?"

"Forge your own fate."

"Richard 'Dick' Blake, you are a kind man; those like you may free us all. but the kind are seldom long lived."

"Well ... let's say you owe me," I say. Job stands and becomes spectral he fades away, no doubt into another world.

"Thank you, generous host, I shall not forget you," the spirit whispers to me from whatever world he fled to.

I feel a scream. I run to the upper floor and just as I thought, England in all his hideousness stands in the doorway to the outside, his hands morphed into something like a monstrous rake, blocking the exit. The Wolfin family hides behind the bar. The demon laughs at us all. He slouches, hiding his bestial size and shape. His body waves slowly, his fingers stretch, and he scrapes his hand against the wall, showing off one of his many inhuman gifts.

"I've been expecting you," I taunt him. One long, diabolic finger points at me. "Blake, you're a traitor." His hand stretches far to grab the Wolfin girl. "Letting untamed freaks run free," he chides. He sticks out his tongue and wraps it around the girl's muzzle, slurping her.

"Put her down, England."

"Her?" He rolls her from side to side in his hand. "Don't you mean 'it'?" One hand transforms into a scissor. He laughs devilishly as he swings the scissor at the defenseless girl.

I cast a Psionic Crush in England's direction, and he drops the girl, gripping his head. "You little monster!"

The girl runs out of sight, and England regains his balance. He flings one arm at me, transforming it into a spire. I try to lean away, but he hits my side, taking my shirt off and ripping a gash along my ribs. I dash at him and swing my sword. He grabs the blade and twists it from my hand. I project force again, and he is knocked onto his back. Next, we both find ourselves on the ground, rolling about. He slices up my arms pretty good and he catches a bullet to the kidney, I eat dirt and he eats my fist. We're on the ground for some time pounding the shit out of each other. England loves it, and I'm pretty sure I'm dead before sirens in the deep call England off." They're playing your tone, Blake," he whispers in my ear, then melts into darkness, leaving me beaten half to death on the ground.

***

Blake las on the floor bleeding, the sounds of sirens of little comfort to him. The minitour stands near by watching for a long indecisive moment. She reaches onto her hip pulling out a hammer holding it overhead, she could crush the hunter with one swing, but she doesn't. she notices the wrapping on his arm. the minitour undoes the dressing to unvale Blake's tattoo. "von Richton." She whispers to herself.

The cow girl picks up Blake and drags him into the depths of the labyrinth once more. He mumbles and complains punch-drunk. The minitour bathes and bandages Blake. It takes some time before he seems stable enough to talk again.

Startled by the approach of the bull-headed monster Blake pulls a hand into his chest readying his arcane power. The cow girl cuts him off. "my name is Horatata, you are von Richton. I have traveled here without documentation and I am prepared to face the full ramifications of my actions."

Blake lets out a slow breath as he relaxes "Horatata?" he sounds it out "Hoe-Ra-ta-ta." His head falls backwards as he looks side to side. on the wall there is a stone-ring fifteen-feet across with a long sequence of emblems drawn on it. Writing in some alien tongue.

Horatata leans forward wagging her tail as she looks the hunter up and down "can you take me to von Richton?"

Blake nods as he looks around for his phone, clothing, and gun. "I think that can be arranged." He looks up do you know..." The cow girl smiles as she holds up the phone. "yeah, that." Blake reaches up to take the pone back.

Blake looks at his phone, he has been asleep for at least 6 hours. He has 20 missed calls, Tail is every one of them. A single call to Wright von Richton is all it takes to get a team of medics and a transport to bring him home there. It seems there are benefits to working for a shadow government.

Blake is brought back to the Watcher Estate, he gets the best of medical care one can hope for. As for Horatata, she is given the treatment of a man being checked into care of the state, she is de-liced showered by a power hoes, and fitted with a body suit, equipped with a number on her chest, and a rope tied around her ankles and wrist. Blake ends up spending time in lockup with Horatata as his mission report is filed. There are inconsistencies that needed to be cleared up before Blake could return to active duty.

***

It's September 14th now, and I'm stitched up and have a new set of duds--black and gray sports jacket with candy cane lining and copper buttons; too rich for my taste, but if von Richton is footing the bill, I'll wear whatever she tells me to. It itches a bit; it might be lanolin, but I haven't looked at the tags.

Ms. von Richton directs me to a rich restaurant with two fellow Watchers as my guides. The floor is made of white linoleum, almost like marble. Red velvet carpets line the path to each table. The restaurant is two stories, and there's a chandelier hanging by four chains suspended between the floors. I've never seen such a lavish waste in my life as this billion-dollar designer nightmare.

I'm escorted to von Richton's table. She is in a red dress--strapless, form-fitting, and one legged with a blue sash slung down her exposed leg. Her hands are crossed in front of her mouth, just like back at her office. Her hair is pulled over her breasts; her glasses dangle in one hand, clenched softly. She smiles at me as I approach. I feel my stomach twist; she is hauntingly gorgeous.

Over her shoulder there is a painting: six feet by ten feet wide, mostly earth toned. It depicts a woman in a white gown with rosy skin and golden hair lying on a canopy-style bed illuminated by a single candle, loomed over by a pair of gray green imps watching her sleep. A face hides in the shadows--a flash red hair, combed and parted neatly, soft cheeks, pale skin, smooth like a child's, but with radiant, yellow eyes like a predator's narrowly gleaming in the dark. This figure is almost spectral, with two hands hugging invisible arms around her and an animistic smile spread across her lips. It is as if she wishes to be seen while remaining unseen, or seen only by some. I can almost feel her watching me through the echoes of time.

"Hello, Richard. On time this time?"

Of course, I'm on time, she sent men to dress me and drag me here. I might have been on time kicking and screaming. "Hi ... um ... yes?" I notice that my partner has seemingly failed to make it. "Why isn't Tail here?"

"Because freaks don't dine at the same table as men. It's simply not orthodox." She forces a soothing grin.

"But she is my partner." And I'm almost insulted by that statement, by the by.

"And England is mine; he is not here, either. Now sit. I've taken the liberty of ordering already--chili-fried lobster with lemon glaze, feta garnish, and broiled potato wedges and a six-cheese sampler. Do you like champagne, Absal (A rich brand of dark liquor) perhaps, black mountain grape?" I still feel in shock at the surroundings and can barely grasp von Richton's words, so I simply nod and do as told. "I saw your mission report. More than a little impressive--forty-nine confirmed kills? That's more than most of my agents score in their lifetimes, and here you pull it off in a single evening."

That doesn't add up; I only recall firing a single shot and a single kill, unless ... England lied for me? He was the other agent, after all; he must have been the one to do the report. But why help me?

"So, Richard, you look well. How was prison?"

I shake my head. "Easy time."

"I hope I got there before you got sodomized." Why does everyone associate prison with anal sex?

"Yes, I'm fine, as far as I know. How did you get me out of there, anyhow?"

"A small agreement that we have with the armed forces and Interpol basically stating that the Watchers enforce their own laws."

I'll remember that next time I'm looking at a DWI.

Von Richton smiles as if she could hear my thoughts "It also helps that the cell you ended up in was one that we owned, but even if it was federal it would have been no different."

The food comes, and von Richton pours herself a drink. She holds it in front of her face, nothing more--never even sipping from her glass in the hour or more we sit together thereafter. I gorge myself on all the fish and bread I can eat as she touches nothing at all. She simply stares at me with a half-smile on one lip. I feel the need to inquire, remembering her words about dining. "Are you--?"

"Don't ask if you can't handle the answer I may give," she says. I knew it--she is a freak herself. Why the anger? Why the hate? There's still so much I just don't understand.

"Where do they come from?"

"The freaks, you mean? They're the results of the multi-verse. Most are reasonable, give or take. War refugees make up the greater body of the legal plane-shifters. If we know who they are and where they came from, they're far simpler to handle; and if they misbehave, we send them back. It's always been the unlicensed ones that have worried me most. The ones we can't track, the ones we can't predict and have nothing to lose. In short, Blake, we don't know. In the beginning, during our father, Abraham von Richton's, time, ten or twelve unknowns would enter our world, and finding them was easy--just look for dead livestock and angry farmers, and you're likely on the right track. Now it takes a network of thousands to track the cheeky bastards."

"What do you mean licensed, anyhow? And how do they get here?"

"On any plane where dimensional travel is not prohibited, one may acquire a travel pass, much like a passport--granted certain guidelines are adhered to and both housing and work are readily available. If one can meet all restrictions for extra-dimensional travel, you board the next convenient Gate and move quietly from stop to stop until you reach your destination. It's kind of like a bus. There are of course Gates that are illegally owned and operated, and that's where our prey comes from, like the Wolfin nest."

"What risk do they pose?"

"You should know that already. As I said, in the past traffic was slow, but now unregistered freaks are more violent and appearing in hundreds. They bring violence, plague, terror, and a black market that demands things I dare not repeat."

"Terror?"

"Blake, how different do you think the worlds are?"

It's an interesting question; I haven't taken the time to think about the possibilities. There's certainly room for insane alteration based of what diversity I've already seen.

"What do you think is more significant, the past hundred years or the thousand before it? Whose life was more meaningful, Socrates or Kane of Babylonia? You don't have to answer, only think. In your life, what was more important, your mother's drug habit, or the fact that your teacher Bethany Rogers never missed a day of work? If not every instant of life were as it is, what might have happened? Do you know? I don't." She baffles me with philosophy. "Do you know why Travelers call us Red Twilight?" she queries.

"No." I don't know any of that, to be honest.

"Look to the sky at 6:55 atomic time any given day and watch as the sky fades from blue to purple and finally to red. You have seen this hundreds of times and so you will barely notice it, but on any other world you will notice that that change will not happen."

Von Richton picks up a napkin and wipes her face then pushes her plate away from herself as if she had eaten her fill, she picks up a fork and knife then folds them across the tray to give the host promotion to take the tray away. How strange. Von Richton folds her hands over her lap as she leans back in her chair. "in other news. The information you gained the other day combined with the testimony of Horatata and Joe has unlocked new avenues of investigations. It seems there really is a otherworldly monster calling himself Cravixs and he does indeed have planes to invade our world. The watchers will be investing a fair some of energy into learning more about this monster..."

Wright von Richton is a mystery to me like no other. It is as if she seems so foul but acts so fair. She is a wolf hiding in a woman's skin. My quest has just begun; I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings in this world called Red Twilight....

After the meal, von Richton leads me outside. I feel this is my last chance to talk with her in this nearly calm atmosphere as we make our way to her car. "Heaven and Hell?" I spout.

She looks at me strangely. "Was that a question of some sort, Mr. Blake?" I nod, trying desperately to organize my thoughts. "You mentioned them earlier. What are they?"

She almost laughs at the poorly thought out statement. "Sub-planes, and the universe's idea of irony, at that. I have no doubt that the Christian mythos has shared their narrow-minded point of view with you already. But I find the Sylph version far more entertaining, and closer to the truth, at that.

"The goddess Chaos had many children that grow into philosophies. The eldest two were order and anarchy--Jazirian and Ahriman; the two powerful dragons simply cooed not coexist. They took each other by the tails and spun until they ripped off their tails and flew off into space. To protect them from further harm, Chaos buried Jazirian at the center of one of her worlds, Baator, and chained Ahriman to a cloud, Cilestia, where the two must await their final judgment. Heaven is the land of orderly chaos and infinite freedom at the price of control, while at the same time hell enjoys the repetitious and overabundance of inescapable law. So in short, the spirit of order is chained into the land of otherwise chaos, and the spirit of chaos in shackled to the land of otherwise bliss. A paradox, if it hadn't been so ironic."

***

At last I get home to Tail. It feels so long since I've seen her; it's as if I never have. She is asleep on the bed in front of me, asleep in a pair of cotton panties, one knee up, one arm draped over her head, her mouth wide open. I can't remember having ever seen her in person; she has always been a voice to me. Thanks to those damn drugs, the apartment is a mess--empty food boxes sit out, a shirt's sprawled over the couch with a pair of jeans. I take off my coat and throw it down. I sit down on the floor and stare at Tail as she sleeps, so restful, so pure, so loving. I find myself reaching out to touch her but stop short. Instead I simply watch and admire her fine fur, her sexy body, and her teasing tails as they twitch beneath her. I could never do anything to hurt her....

***

Before the sun even rises on the next day Tail rolls about in her sleep, a strange smell as snuck into her room. One eye opens as she looks swiftly around. Blake is asleep sitting up. His gun on the table to her side. a sword dropped haphazardly on the ground. Tail taste the air. Millie is in the room. Tail can taste it.

Millie kneels down next to Tail, Tail rolls onto her side to look at the kangaroo. Millie whispers "Has Joe been here?"

Tail whispers to her fellow alien, "not that I know of."

Millie explains "he was out all night with the senior watchers. Something big is going down." Millie thumps her tail to the ground "oh and something else. Word on the beet is, you are human."

Tail nods "as far as I know."

Millie takes a deep breath as she thinks "I wonder what that means for people like me? If I could have kids..."

Tail looks Millie up and down "you mean you can't?"

Millie shakes her head "I had an accident as a kid, I no longer have all the parts required."

Tail gets back on topic "so what? So what if I am human? What does that mean?"

Millie rest forward laying her torso on the bed with Tail. Millie's tail sticking up cutely as she leans in to whisper "brings up some ethic problems doesn't it? How human does a freak need to be before they get afforded constitutional rights. I understand Senator Walker even called us up last night wanting to ask about you."

Tail rolls her eyes looking about as she takes in the oddity of Millie's conversation with her "my being her has gotten the attention of a state senator? What sort of network of information do you have hear? How much money needs to be in the equation..."

This time it is Millie that gets to interrupt "apparently a lot as NATO has been looking to send someone in here to have a few words with von Richton also."

Tail whispers as she may have worked it out for herself already "Lichi?"

***

Fox's car comes to a stop outside the Lamia's Back. Dozens of cops and sheriffs are walking about, surveying the area. Fox quickly hides his medicine under the seat of his car and pulls out his camera. Fox is a middle-aged man with light brown hair and a frozen expression of boredom on his face--one of the effects of his medicine--and a thin build--part of his illness. Fox steps out of his car and walks toward his old friend, Sheriff Scott House.

Scott removes his glasses and spits out his gum. House is far older than Fox, but a great deal stronger. He rubs his gritty facial hair. "God damn it, Fox," he exclaims, "what in fuck's sake are you doing here? You're not a cop anymore!"

Fox looks down at his old Polaroid. "Morning, boss. What is the scoop?"

Scott shakes his head at Fox. "Didn't you hear me? I told you eight months ago to get married, have a kid, and enjoy your government pension. Any cop that finds himself on suicide watch is too sick to be a cop, now go home before I put you back in the lockup for obstruction of justice."

Fox raises his head with a glint of defiance in his eyes. "According to the Freelancer Act of 1880 and to the Second Amendment center, as a private contractor and inspiring journalist I have the right to visit any place at any time with an escort to exercise freedom of the press or speech. Not having an escort, though, I believe I still have the right to take up to fourteen days to secure publication and/or copy rights on any work without abridgment--"

Scott cuts him off. "Shut it, Giovanni! I don't need this from you. I already have fifty John Does I have to answer for, and twice as many abandoned vehicles I need to call in on. Plus within the hour I'll have the FBI shouting questions at me! And I don't have any answers. And you ..." he exhales heavily, "do whatever you need to do and get out of my hair while I still have some!" Scott waves Fox on.

Fox lowers his head in a nod and rolls the film on his camera, checking its exposures. "Thanks, boss."

As Fox makes his way to the front door of the bar, House calls out to him, "And for God's sake don't touch anything!" Fox nods and heaves a sigh. He steps into the bar and looks around, taking a handful of photographs before one man near his feet coughs, spitting up blood.

"Hey!" Fox calls. "This one is still breathing." House and three more sheriffs run in and begin trying to revive the man in the tan sports coat. His eyes are wide and dilated. His breath struggles to escape him; it looks as if his ribs may be broken, and there is severe bruising around the stomach, chest, and arms. It's little more than luck that he is in as stable condition as he is. Internal bleeding could have killed him at any time.

Another voice comes from the bathrooms. "I have another in here!" As more officers come in from outside to assist the two found survivors, a door opens near the stage. Fox finds himself strangely drawn to it. He slowly walks to it and looks over his left shoulder. Everyone is wholly engulfed in their work, acting as if they can't see him or the door. An ominous wind howls from the lower levels, calling out to Fox.

The smell of a tomb rolls out from below; it leaves a harsh, burning sensation like that of old death, distilled and lingering. Fox walks down the cold, damp steps and into the subterranean castle. The mural that lights itself before him at the bottom is gigantic in comparison to any other painting he has ever seen. It must be over a hundred feet in length with human repaginations as is not more detailed than police interpretive art Fox can image that of he were to take every visage every image and pit it against reality he may just find in eerie number or resemblances. .

Far in the background there are two sister spires burning in a magnificent red hue. This is alluring to him--it seems to depict the very tragedy he narrowly evaded just yesterday at the Twin Towers in New York. He goes to take a picture and notices that his hands are shaking. A light pain begins in the back of his head. Oh no, Fox thinks, I just took my medicine. Fox knows well what's about to happen--it happens most every day at least once if he forgets to take his drugs.

The painting before him comes to life. The warriors dance on the canvas; several of them suddenly look like people he has seen before as they come into perfect focus. A terrible sound echoes in Fox's ears, like metal ripping metal or electricity arcing, maybe even static in high acoustics. The sound is deafening. Fox begins to collapse, holding his head. He knows the sound is only in his head, but he screams anyway. Soon only the pain resides, but it's completely overpowering.

Fox holds out his camera and starts rapidly taking pictures. The Polaroid spits out the photos. Fox scampers for his pen; hastily he takes down notes for himself. He stops for a moment, watching a photo come clean. The pain stops as a man with glowing, golden eyes appears with a katana strapped to his hip. "James?" Fox questions, recognizing the face as that of a close friend.

The pain intensifies five-fold and Fox falls on his back, twisting and flopping like a fish out of water. He starts to calm and sees a girl standing over him. She is in a Chinese priestess gown, white in color with a red ribbon around her waist. Her skin is lightly yellow, like an Asian child's. Her face is warm-looking and smooth; she is a lovely ghost to him with fiery hair pulled into a tight ponytail and one side of her head.

She reaches down and rubs Fox's face with one long, cold hand. Her fingernails are filed into short, sharp blades. She whispers to him, "My love." Her eyes are narrow and dangerous. They flash from brown to yellow as she speaks. "Look what trouble you're in now."

Fox is paralyzed at her feet. She kneels and lifts him into a sitting position. She rubs her nose into his neck. "Fear not, for I shall take you away from all this death." She kisses Fox, and Fox blacks out.

Book 2 Long Distance Runners

Chapter 25 Sonata to the Everlasting

Marks awakes from his sleep, images from the most powerful dream in his life burned into his brain; he has seen himself passing a book from his withered and worn hands into the hands of a younger self. Marks swoops down to pick up his cat, Nuku, with the intent of traveling to his office in the tower. He grabs his hefty black overcoat from the door but fails to grab a shirt.

Nuku lies quietly in the jeep as her gentle master drives to work in the early hours of the evening. Nuku likes to drive; every day she rides in the car with him, and when they arrive at work, she gets a cookie.

Marks' eyes gloss over with anticipation. Marks struggles to contain his excitement; all the mysteries of the last near hundred years have been revealed unto him. He has become the vassal of unspeakable power; the end game of his life is within reach.

Marks grips his cat firmly in his arms like a child as he makes his way up the hundreds of steeps to his office with a vigor that might make a man in his twenties envies. He has the energy of a schoolboy, empowered by his dreams. The way to his desk is lit almost solely by a lone spotlight. All doors open in his wake.

Nuku leaps from her keeper's arms to the spot on the table where she typically sits; she feels as if something is horrible amiss. We're here too __early, she thinks. Where is the hairless man with my cookies?_ He_ meets us at thedoor every day?

Marks slaps an empty notebook down on the table. Before he is done today, this one and maybe a dozen more will be full. Marks lifts a pen high up over his head and dramatically strikes ink to paper. His teeth grind as his pen flies from corner to corner; his face takes on an almost wolf-like expression as he goes over the book, digesting every line as he writes. His lip curls and he cackles as the images he constructs start to divide out before him.

All the works of Marks' life have been adding up to this moment, this glorious moment. A coworker of Marks had once said to him, "Loathe me for I am becoming death." Marks is about to do the opposite. "I will conquer death. I will rob the reaper of his power and the predator of his teeth." Like a composer demanding strength of his orchestra, he thrusts his arm to the side, throwing ink into the air, crossing his "T's," then again accenting the notes he need to remember. Finding he lacks the speed he needs to finish his calculations in a timely fashion, he employs a second pen to write in a second book calling on the greatest of dexterity.

All strife, all heartache, his every experience, good and bad alike, is needed to align in this one instance of triumph. His adulterous wife, his deceitful best friend, the words of a monk in a distant land, his failure to protect one daughter, and the absence of another--all these events give him the passion to bleed out the poetry that must be his final works.

Like a painter he lashes his pens. His liquid silver hair flows around his body like a typhoon, his hardy black jacket flutters like batwings in the night, the pages of his books thunder a warlike chant as page upon page flashes by. Marks laughs in madness, throwing his first completed book aside to make room for more. The work must go one. The doors remain locked long into the day, the lights remain off; Marks cannot be interrupted now.

Nuku sees her master's pain in his heaving breaths and the sweat rolling down his skin. She sits up and places a paw on his thermos, inviting him to stop for a drink. Marks is feverish; he struggles for air as he works maliciously. He must not stop even at the cost of his very soul. His hands are cramped and arms become numb with hunger; his veins grow dark, but with nerves of steel and a heart of stone, he pushes against his own mortality to carry on. Light trails from his pens as he slashes them across his body; his eyes burn with intellect.

Nuku pushes a plush mouse with a bow wrapped around its waist to remind her owner that it is approaching dinner time. Marks falls to his knees and loses the strength, focusing to maintain his grip on his secondary pen. He throws his third and fourth books from the table and focuses with all his might on his fifth. Perspiration runs in abundance from his face and hair. He slaps the table hard with one hand, and the old man forces himself upright.

He has found the soul--the very essence of life and humanity! A piece of coding in our neuroses that hides the tiniest pieces of our being that defines the differences between artificial-intelligence and true intellect. With this knowledge, he will become the master of destiny. His useless wife and her shallow ideas will be the first to see the truest extent of Marks Vigeta Karingson's near omnipotent might than the fair-weather friend of his that is her boy-toy; his power will be their unmaking.

His foolishness has seen the end of enough lives. This foolery will mark the end of it all; when this work is finished, there will be no more sins. This revolution beyond the limitations of physical existences will be the end of everything for him. No more death, no more hunger, no more sickness. Dr. Marks Vigeta Karingson will cure all the ailments of humanity with this strike of his pen. "We will ascend, we will endure. Hark unto ye, all the day of giving is upon us. The end of suffering is here and all men will be with their brothers and sisters, lovers and beloved. We will see the time of eternity as one mind. This is my last and finest gift unto humanity. We need not gods and messiahs; our saviors are ourselves and the endless reaches of the mind and our own consciousness. Christ offered you eternal forgiveness. I offer you eternal life."

Marks drops his pen; the last of his strength has left him. He lays his head on his desk and wraps Nuku in his arms. The slender black cat looks at him with a slight look of distaste and a hint of scolding in her eye, but loving adoration follows quickly as she places her paw on his shoulders and rubs her noise in his ear in her own act of forgiveness. What goodness and humanity is left in this cold and hardened vessel seems to have leaked away and found its way into this motherly feline. With the loss of his children, Marks has become more metal than man. The hardest part of this ascension has passed. Tomorrow the next phase can begin; till then this old man can pray for the cleanliness of peace-giving sleep.