What the actual fuck was it?
Human? Hell no, he’d never seen anyone that big. And even though it was showing up in his goggles, it seemed to have an almost ethereal quality, as if it was trying to exist in two alternative dimensions at once. Here, and as long as you were looking directly at it, the figure appeared solid. But glance at it out of the corner of your eye and it flitted in and out of phase. He also felt wave after wave of hatred coming from the thing, slamming into him like the Atlantic on spin cycle. This fucker was majorly pissed off, and it seemed majorly pissed off at Jones in particular. It loomed over the prone man, a snarl contorting what would otherwise pass as a face. Broken and rotting teeth dripped pus and drool, and the massive muscles on its arms and shoulders flexed.
Moving faster than anything that size had a right to, its right arm shot down towards Jones and taloned fingers slashed at the front of his MTP camouflage jacket, shredding it into ribbons. Jones screamed as the claws sliced into his flesh.
Cox’s scream matched Jones’, only his was one of fury at what this thing was doing to his sergeant. “No!” Cox scrabbled to his feet and fumbled for his bayonet, willing his shaking fingers to do what they were told. The bayonet clicked and locked into place. He picked up every ounce of courage he had left and charged at the creature.
He got three steps, tops.
The thing looked up, flicked a hand and Cox was sent spinning across the chamber by an invisible force and slammed into the wall. The creature’s hand stayed outstretched towards Cox, and he slowly raised it, as if it were conducting some demonic orchestra to a crescendo. As he did, Cox slid painfully up the wall, pinned to the rough stone and unable to break free. The stone slabs jarred against his vertebrae and no matter how hard he struggled, he could only watch, helpless, as the creature turned its attention back to the whimpering form of Jones…
Jones stared up into the eyes of a creature that had no fucking right to exist. Not here. Not anywhere. The thing snorted then pressed its palm against Jones’ forehead. Instantly, Jones was engulfed in a wave of flashing images bursting through his brain. The stinking piles of corpses he’d seen in that slaughterhouse; the dead child, expiring in his arms, her fingers grasping at his hand in a vain attempt to hang on to life; his mate Chris, when that IED had taken his legs off at the knees and blown the shreds of the poor bastard’s skin and muscle tissue into Jones' face. Foul, tainted images of combat in a distant land, etched into his soul and twisting like rotting fibres in his mind. He wept, crying for everything he’d suffered.
Then new images came. More savage, more horrific than he’d imagined possible. This place, filled with the screams of the dying as a circle of hazy figures chanted incessantly, calling to the darkest god of the Stones — Aeron, the Celtic god of slaughter. Images of a war waged by the real druids against the Roman Legions filled Jones’ mind. He saw them hunting Aeron in the Welsh Preseli Hills, capturing the God using trickery and guile, bringing him back here and entombing him in the bluestones that were erected at the entrance of this portal to the Underworld. Here, on the open Plains, Legionnaires were lured to their doom, tumbling into the cavern as its roof gave way and they were deposited at the feet of a starving, angry god. A god who revelled in slaughter. A god who could sense the mind of a soldier and lure him to this place, calling him with images of unimaginable savagery and a lust for power.
And now, Aeron had a soldier crawling and pissing himself in terror at his feet, and another crying and raging against his helplessness, pinned to the chamber wall like a butterfly collector’s prize possession. He felt the pulsating power throbbing through his loins and into his blackened soul. Time to feast once more.
It had been too long. Far too long…
Aeron stood over Jones, examining his victim, savouring the rising smell of fear. He reached down and, clawing his fingers, forced them through the soft, yielding skin, sinking through flesh, pushing aside the other organs. They could be spread at the feet of the stones later for the ravens to dine upon.
He ignored the screaming, the frantic and futile grabs by his victim at his wrist as his hand sunk deeper into the man’s chest. He could feel the pulsating, throbbing heart, pumping furiously, as if it knew it was about to be torn from the warm safety of the body. The screams grew weaker, interspersed by choking gurgles as blood filled the man’s throat.
His fingers closed around the pump and slowly, agonisingly slowly, he tore out Jones’ beating heart and held it up, blood dripping between his fingers, paying no attention to the pathetic, blood-frothed gurgles as his victim died in agony, twitching and convulsing.
He licked the still warm heart slowly, letting the blood and fluid coat his tongue, savouring its deliciousness. It had been so very, very long since he had tasted such fear — the fear of a warrior in the throws of his agonising, prolonged death. He took a bite and swallowed, letting the hot lump of tissue slide down his throat, the coppery taste filling his mouth, giving him strength, vigour, power.
Then he crushed what was left of the organ between his fingers, amused by the sheer fragility of the soft muscle tissue as he turned what was the most precious of all organs into useless mush.
Jones died badly, a victim of his own horrific fantasy. Aeron feasted on his flesh, tearing at his throat and moaning with pleasure as the still-warm tissue slid down his throat.
Aeron stopped mid-gorge and turned his eyes towards the terrified form of Cox and smiled lazily, blood and flesh dripping from his teeth. He stood, and strolled across the chamber towards Cox, relishing the sensation of Jones’ warm blood swirling around his feet and mingling with the juices of decay that coated the floor. He stretched out a taloned hand towards Cox’s chest, hungering for the pounding heart caged behind the man’s ribs. It called to him. It sang to him. And the screams of the doomed man made the song so much sweeter…
Blank White Page
(Songs in the Key of White)
James A. Moore
Lucas Slate sat astride his dark horse and stared into the sprawling affair with little or no expression on his gaunt face. He looked upon the collection of hastily assembled buildings and well-used tents with eyes half-lidded. An unwary sort of soul might have thought he wasn’t paying attention, but he was.
“It occurs to me, Mister Crowley, that this place looks too much like other areas we’ve both seen in the past.”
The air had a hard bite to it. The wind was dry and cold and cutting. Winter was well and properly on its way and the people in the small town knew it. They were shilling their goods with a sort of cheerful desperation that said at least a few of them could think of better places to be. He wondered if any of them would succeed in finding those better places before the winter came properly.
Jonathan Crowley, who was riding his own horse and sitting only a few feet from Slate, allowed himself a small smile and shook his head. “And, what, exactly, is it that you think we’re going to find here, Mister Slate?”
Slate did not bother turning to the sound of Crowley’s voice. He knew what he would see. The same lean, plain features and brown hair, brown eyes. Same offensive smirk on the man’s longish face, though at the moment it was hidden behind almost a month’s worth of beard growth. They’d ridden across half the Arizona territory, riding past patrols of Cavalry and Indians alike, because something inside of Lucas Slate told him he had to be here, but he had no idea what that something was.