"You can have the fucking city then," Haines mumbled. He spat bile and reached for his own gun.
The weathered man named Kane grinned, but without mirth. Caressing his chin with a hairy forefinger, he raised an eyebrow at the sound of the gunshot down the street. She's stripping them.
The room he and Isaac occupied was calm, steady and completely untouched by the chaos.
Across from the old man, on the other side of one of the small round tables taken from the stack propped up on the bar, Isaac was concentrating on a scarred pattern he'd engraved on the wood.
The bar was deserted, but for them and the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra pouring softly from the radio behind the counter. Set 'em up and let's drink to our friends…
"She's just a baby," Kane said. He shook his white head in amazement. Isaac picked up his pocketknife and, sweeping aside a bundle of wood shavings, carved a circle in the center of the intricate pattern. He dug the point of the knife into the shape and twisted it until a respectable hole was made before he answered.
"Yes. She's one of the youngest. This city is an infant. That makes it much easier to get them to listen. The book says that the older ones will often prove more difficult."
Kane nodded. "How soon?"
"By sundown she'll be ready to break free of her moorings."
"What about the survivors? The ones she doesn't eat, I mean?"
Isaac gave him a wry smile. He nodded at the small holes in the center of the carving. "The Magroth Points inspire suicidal ideation. We don't like to use that particular spell, but the damned survivors just migrate to other cities, other children, and infest them like ticks. So that just means more work next time around. And as for me, I'm getting too old for such concerns."
Kane returned his smile. "Then it's my turn."
"Indeed," Isaac said. "I think you've watched long enough. If you remember how long they've slept, and treat them like the cranky children they are, you'll be fine. They were bred to guard this spinning rock until the Old Gods saw fit to return. Our responsibility is to guide them, to ensure the children don't forget their place in the scheme of things."
Kane nodded. He looked at the garish orange and red light flooding through the mullioned window of the bar. "Seems like an awful waste of life though. You'd imagine there'd be some use for the humans. I mean, considering the sheer number of them."
When Isaac looked up, his eyes had reverted to their natural opaque luster, broken only by a vertical black slit in the middle. He glowered with impatience. Something harsh and inhuman infected Isaac's voice and Kane trembled. "It's thoughts like those that keep you in the position you hold now, Kane. There is no room for such specious considerations when dealing with something of such…immensity. The guise you hold now is that of a human. Imagine being confined to it, stripped of your power and a myriad of extra senses. Does such a primitive existence strike you as being of much use for anything?"
Kane shook his head. "No, of course not. Forgive me."
Isaac returned to the engraving in the wood. He drew a crude 'S' shape in the center of the table and flicked the knife closed. Returning it to his inside pocket, he sighed. "Relax. You'll understand eventually. There is no higher education than the one offered by the Gods." He took a moment to brush the shavings from his trouser legs then stood. "Come. The last of the restraints lies right beneath us. My human voice would seem far too loud and callous, now. I must speak her language if she is to hear me at all. Let us go outside and take in the majesty of her release."
He held out what passed for a hand. Kane took it and they shared a smile as they walked outside and into the hot, suffering rubble.
It is awake at last.
Its joints are young and underused. For too long it has served as a slave to humanity, crouched into submission while mankind treads a path of disrespect across its holy, asphalt flesh. The release takes longer this time, because the strength has been siphoned from its body; those human tunnels are like gaping wounds; buildings, statues and monuments are needles jabbed into its body.
The path to freedom brings agony, but this kind of pain is sweet. The sensation of their crude structures sliding from its back is blissful as it gathers its first breath, sucks the wind into its mud-choked lungs…and roars.
What is left of humanity is deafened by her bellowing birth. She raises her head to the sky, sees familiar faces. Her parents, brothers and sisters…smiling. And of course, Father of them all.
The Old Gods are pleased, for she is but the first.
Kealan Patrick Burke is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Turtle Boy, The Hides, Vessels, Kin, Midlisters, Master of the Moors, Ravenous Ghosts, The Number 121 to Pennsylvania & Others, Currency of Souls, Seldom Seen in August, and Jack & Jill.
Visit him on the web at: http://www.kealanpatrickburke.com or http://kealanpatrick.wordpress.com.
Harry Shannon has been an actor, a singer, an Emmy-nominated songwriter, a recording artist in Europe, a music publisher, a VP of Carolco Pictures (Terminator 2, Total Recall, Rambo), and worked as a free-lance Music Supervisor on films such as Basic Instinct and Universal Soldier. He holds an MA in Psychology and is currently a counselor in private practice.
He is the author of the 'Night Trilogy' of horror novels: Night of the Beast, Night of the Werewolf, and Night of the Daemon (later rereleased as Daemon)., the crime noir novels Memorial Day, Eye of the Burning Man, One of the Wicked (all featuring amateur sleuth Mick Callahan) and the thriller The Pressure of Darkness.
He also scripted the horror film and novel Dead and Gone for photographer/director Yossi Sasson, and played a bit part as the Sheriff. Lionsgate released the DVD. His collection of short fiction A Host of Shadows was released by Dark Regions Press in May of 2010, as was the novella Pain.
You can reach Harry via his website at www.harryshannon.com
