Rains of Blood, Skies of Pain, Book One: The Dragon

By Brian S. Miller

In a world gone mad, a terrible, demonic creature with the ability to turn our most horrifying nightmares and depraved, sickening fantasies into living, breathing monstrosities—twisting the very fabric of reality itself, like a lump of clay, into one great big giant horror show projected onto the screaming screen of our waking lives, giving these nightmare apparitions flesh and blood and the desire to kill—is systematically carving its way through the population of the U.S. It is up to the Dragon, a warrior with a strange and mysterious connection to the demon, to lead a ragtag army of unlikely soldiers into battle against the beast. But will this warrior's greatest strength--the weird kinship he seems to share with his enemy--lead them to ultimate salvation, or imminent destruction? Can Dragon survive the truth about who, and what, he is?

"Dragon was the toughest son of a bitch Mari Antonia Spangetti—Mari Antoinette Spaghetti to her friends, and you’d better be one of her friends calling her that or else Little Miss Spaghetti would split your lip and send ya’ running home to mommy—had ever known. Harder than steel, this man. Only he wasn’t really a man, exactly. Not a normal one, anyway. No, her teacher, her master and Warrior General, and her friend, was something—else. Something quite different. He was fearless, and that fearlessness had rubbed off on her. She was his surrogate daughter, even though neither one of them had quite grasped that concept or would have known what to say to such a charge. But there it was, unspoken and perfect. He would do anything for her, and she would do the same for him, if needs be. But that was the beauty of their relationship: Each knew the other’s needs, but there was no fighting for common ground because both of their needs were the same. Kill the enemy, and kill them quickly. Squash them like little bugs, before they squash you. And take your revenge on them, for what they have done to you. For what they—IT—have taken from you.
Yes, she would do anything for Dragon. Absolutely anything. Except this.
Anything except for this."

“I’m going to eat you, Dragon,” the demon said. “Just like you ate of me. I’m going to rip out your insides and feast upon them. Not because I'm angry with you. You were just doing what you were born to do. And so am I. I want to find that spark in you, that illusive spark that makes you, you—and made you what you have become. And, once I've eaten you . . . and once I've found that spark . . . you will be reborn, inside of me, and we will be one.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian S. Miller
• Release date: Dec 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310494888

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Rains of Blood, Skies of Pain, Book One: The Dragon

By Brian S. Miller

Copyright 2013 Brian S. Miller

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Did I ever tell you the story about the man who was eaten by a baby tiger? Cute story, but hold onto your lunch. So here it goes . . . (Anonymous)

And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the image of the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed. (The Holy Bible, KJV, Revelations 13:15)

Pay attention, please, because this just might save your life. Is it raining outside? If yes, beware. If no, are you sure? Don’t you believe it. It’s all an illusion. Because you’re in the movie now. This is all a movie. And not a very nice one, either. In fact, it's quite nasty and violent, so keep your children away as best you can. Still don't believe me? Sure, it might look like a typical, normal, average day or night out there, and you might be able to step outside and nothing will happen. You may even get away with this rash and foolish behavior for an hour or two. Maybe a few days, supposing you are insanely lucky. But, believe me, your time will come. The beasts will grab you when you least expect it, and when they do, you’ll be sorry you didn’t hear me out.

So, I’m asking: DO I HAVE YOUR FULL ATTENTION? Because, like a certain little girl said to her certain little dog once, we aren’t in Kansas anymore."

And here there be monsters.

Knock, knock, my friend.

Who’s there?

Fade.

Fade who?

FADE IN:

At approximately 3:00 PM on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the entire population of the township of Gilead, New Mexico—man, woman, and child alike—discovered to their mutual horror and collective hysteria that their eyeballs had just caught fire inside their heads.

No one escaped this agony, old nor young. No one was spared this torment. Blind and burning, the inhabitants of Gilead wandered about aimlessly, screaming at the injustice of having to be part of the first case of mass spontaneous combustion in history.

Those thinking themselves lucky enough to be in a kitchen or bathroom close to a sink despaired to discover the water would not put out the flames.

They were all going to burn to death. They knew that now. The fire in their skulls was going to boil their brains and burn them alive.

But then there came a great and booming VOICE, rumbling like thunder from the heavens. Many good, devout Christians thought, at first, that it could be none other than their Lord and Savior, come down to offer them eternal salvation in this, their moment of rapture. But even the truest of believers would soon come to realize that this was the furthest thing from the truth.

"Come, brothers and sisters, hurry! The casting call has begun! Come one, come all. No one will be turned away. Come pick your part to play in the big movie."

For the townsfolk of Gilead, New Mexico, nothing would ever be the same again. Because there was no town called Gilead, New Mexico—not anymore—and they did not belong to it. They belonged to The Movie now, and their fates would be decided by the movie gods.

They saw scratches and weird little white squiggles in this new world of theirs, as if they were watching an old, beat-up grindhouse movie print projected onto an old, beat-up movie screen, and they heard the pops, crackles, and hisses an old, worn-out soundtrack which accentuated the moments of their brutal and untimely deaths with the requisite spooky music, scary screeches, and the occasional rock ballads afterward.

Music to die to.

The Movie—the demon Rains of Blood, Skies of Pain—was sweeping its way across the country, eating its way through its audience like a rabid, insatiable cancer.

No one could stop it. Nothing could kill it. And it was on its way to becoming the Number One Blockbuster of all time.

Once it reached the eastern seaboard, it would go global, and there would be no stopping it then. It would eat the world, one screaming and blood-soaked screening at a time.

Dragon couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t allow it to happen.

There had been too much blood lost already. And more to come, he feared. Jesus, God. The blood. So much blood. Blood, blood, and even more blood.

Too much. Much too much.

But . . .

Blood was the sport today, and he was a street fighting man. It was his time, once again. The soldier. The cold-eyed, hot-blooded killing machine. The warrior. His kind had been, throughout history, both revered and reviled, depending on the circumstances. But now, in this moment in time, the circumstances were dire, and the situation was critical. The fate of the entire human race rested in his hands—his hands and the hands of the ragtag, bloody and bruised army he had managed to scrounge together to make this one, last-ditch effort to cleanse the Earth of the evil that had somehow managed to infect it, and the question he asked himself, over and over, every single day—morning, noon, and night (it had become something of a ritual, really . . . a mantra) was: Are you ready? Are you ready? ARE YOU READY?

And even though the question itself never changed (And it never did. Shit, it never did. Goddamn it. No matter how many times Dragon prayed that it would. And he prayed himself blue in the face. That was a fact. He got down on his knees and prayed till his knees were numb that there would soon, soon, soon be a quick, easy, and decisive victory, in their favor, in this bloody damned battle of wills. Good vs. Evil. But that was the stuff of fairy tales. Dragon knew that. And, knowing that, all he really wanted was some real fucking knowledge. And he prayed for that, too. Some explanations for all the horror he had seen.

For all of this. And he prayed, Dear God, he prayed that it could all be over and done with and they could all just go back to the way things were, the way things were, the way things were), the answer he got from deep down in his gut sure as hell sometimes did. Sure as hell. Because that was what they were up against, he and his merry little band of bloodthirsty runners, gunners, swordsmen, and cold-blooded assassins. That was what they were fighting. Hell. Hell on Earth. Demons, mutants, and monsters and every Goddamned filthy and ugly thing in between.

But he had to remind himself in those long, cold, and dark nights (and days) of the soul that he was a warrior. And his men, too. They were warriors. Warriors appointed by God to fight and defeat this evil that had come to plague mankind. And he was equipped with much. Not only did he and his men have the strength and courage of the knights of Arthur, but he also wielded his weapons, both metal and muscle, as the proud, ancient, and noble samurai did—wickedly savage, quick as a cat, and without mercy. Steadfast he was, as the ancient Nordic Vikings. (Dragon swung an ax and a sword like he could chop down the mightiest oak with one heroic hack. Half his men believed he could do it, too; the other half were of the mind that any tree foolish enough to get in their master's way would do better to simply pull itself up by its roots and then run away and hide.) Add to that Dragon's fierce cunning with a blade (both long and short), his sure-shot trigger finger on pistols, rifles, and every kind of firearm, really, and his nose for smelling out dangers of every shape and any kind, and you had yourself one bad ass motherfucking Angel of Death.

How Dragon had come to possess all of these seemingly superhuman powers and abilities, he could not say. In truth, he really didn't know. His life before his war with the demon that called itself Rains of Blood, Skies of Pain was, at best, a blur and, at worst, a mystery. All he really did know was that he had them—these things in his nature that made him so deadly, and the knowing was, really, all that mattered. He had them, and he needed them. To win this war.

But then, of course, he had HER, too, and it hadn’t been long after their paths had first crossed that he’d decided he needed her just as badly as she needed him.

(SOUNDS OF SCREAMING ECHOED THROUGH THE AIR. INHUMAN SCREAMS. MONSTROUS SCREAMS. THE SCREAMS OF DEMONIC, HELLSPAWNED CREATURES MEANT TO DEAL OUT THE SCREAMING, NOT DO THE SCREAMING THEMSELVES.)

If only to awaken a memory—a memory that, for whatever its reasons, chose to remain asleep.

(AND THE SOUND OF A YOUNG GIRL LAUGHING AND SCREAMING OUT SHOUTS OF CHILDISH JOYAND FOUL-MOUTHED, GUTTER-BRED CURSES THE LIKES OF WHICH NO CHILD HER AGE SHOULD EVER UTTER.)

You sons of whores! the young girl screamed. Come get a nice, big shit-eating taste of some fucking death, courtesy of yours truly!

Dragon could do nothing in these moments (and there were many with this girl) but hide his smile and shake his head sadly, trying not to laugh. Jesus, he thought. Christ. Christ Jesus, did this kid have a mouth on her.

Oh, and yeah, hey, the girl continued proudly. Loud and proud. That was his girl. Fuck you if you cant take a joke.

And then, almost as an afterthought (before her charge—before her gleeful, childlike dance of terror and bloody, death-dealing song of carnage and whooping war-cries) she belted out, MOTHERFUCKERS!

The song of her blade, that wickedly sharp samurai sword she loved so much, but that was almost too big for her tiny little girl's frame, singing through the air and slicking the ground red beneath her feet with the splashing and splattering blood of her enemies, spilling out like water at a water park (A fitting simile for a girl her age, something she should be doing. Not like killing monsters and demons at a bloodbath, say.) always gave him chills. But it was the sound, the sound, the SOUND of the connections that beloved and ancient weapon of hers made—the savage, wet, and hungry hacks into the meat, bone, and gristle of any and all hell-spawned and foolish enough to cross her—that made for the moments Dragon lived for.

Oh God, he loved her so much.

Funny he should think that. Funnier still that he should actually feel it—feel it deep in his bones. Goddamn it, he thought. Goddamn it because in the cold, hard, and absolute terms of time, Dragon had really only known this little spitfire of a girl whose name was Mari—Mari Spanghetti, her full name was—only a few short months. Oh my little Mari, Dragon thought wistfully, almost as a father might think trying to figure out what to do about his poor, wayward little girl. (Some of her meaner, duller classmates in school, she had told him once, back when there was such a thing as school for this girl, had sometimes teased her with what Dragon found to be rather laughably childish and uncreative nicknames such as Mari

Reviews for Rains of Blood, Skies of Pain, Book One

[TREY MILLER · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

very under rated book more people really should check it out but thats the fun things with books theres so many out there you never know wich to reach.