Facade of Evil and Other Tales from 'Heathen with Teeth'

By Jonathan Jones

This haunting anthology features four tales of oppression, loss, uncertainty and death. Set in the world of the forthcoming novel, 'Heathen with Teeth', these stories will introduce you to vampires, facists, idealists and rebels. You will discover a world quite unlike any you have seen before, where survival means surrendering your morality and your mortality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Jones
• Release date: Mar 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311602008

Jonathan Jones

Purveyor of disturbing tales and unpalatable truths. A guide to dark corners that no sane person ventures into unscathed.Jonathan Jones is the creator of the epic Horror-Fantasy 'Sanguinem Mittere' series, which begins soon with 'Heathen with Teeth'.He is rumoured to collude with dark spirits at the top of distant mountains, but he insists that he prefers red wine and never drinks when he's climbing.

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FACADE OF EVIL

And other tales from ‘Heathen with Teeth’

by

Jonathan Jones

Façade of Evil, and other tales from ‘Heathen with Teeth’

Copyright © Jonathan Jones 2015

Smashwords edition published 2015

Cover design by Jonathan Jones. Cover created using stock images from http://danf83stock.deviantart.com/ and http://swanboy.deviantart.com/

Jonathan Jones asserts his moral right to be identified as author of this book in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Façade of Evil

A Mutual Truth

Deluge

The Central Point of Grief

Façade of Evil

The house was rotting, corrupted, and spread its malignancy across a large area of land towards the centre of Caldair. As I scouted the exterior, the entire front facing appeared to be warped, the sides bowing out. It was constructed almost entirely from wooden boards, turning green and black in places and crumbling away where life was reclaiming the pillaged tree-flesh. Webs, cocoons and various secretions filled the gaping holes in the walls. Three windows and a single doorway seemed to be limitless pits of darkness that inhaled all joy and hope from the surrounding area—or, at least, what little of those things could be found in Caldair city.

One of my men, Frank Starsmore, had been pensive on the ride over. Normally the hissing and chugging of our truck would be almost unnoticeable behind his booming camaraderie. That day, the guttural motor sounds had grated on my ear drums, illuminating Frank’s mood far more than silence would have.

Before we began our mission I pulled him aside, hoping he would spill exactly what was troubling him. Frank didn’t have much a way with words, but he was open and emotionally honest.

What’s on your mind, big guy? I asked. Like you always say, don’t take it into the mission with you.

It’s the missus, he grumbled, and walked back to the rest of the unit, gathered by the entrance to the house.

I made my way inside, night vision goggles activated, my unit of Purifiers following down the passage behind me in prearranged formation. Whatever, whoever, occupied this husk, we had to locate it before it located us. Wooden floorboards and wall panels were bent and splitting and, in each of that dwelling’s mouldering lesions, parasites scuttled and bred.

The members of the unit were practically indistinguishable in their black and grey uniforms and all-encompassing snake skin masks, with large infrared goggles concealing all identifiable features. But behind those masks they were six very different individuals. Private Billy Prior, our youngest, newest and most conscientious member. Frank Starsmore, our Master of Ashes, deeply devoted to our faith. Then, our Obdurates: Thomas Gibbs, a headstrong and over-confident young man, who hid his intelligence; Leonard Troughton, the most private and introverted of us; and gruff and often disagreeable Adam Fisk. Finally, Corporal Brian Moriah, a fiercely loyal man that all of us looked up to. Only Fisk, Starsmore and Gibbs stood out from the rest of the unit, due to Fisk’s muscular build, Starsmore’s imposing height, and Gibbs’ scrawny frame that he was constantly trying to enhance with exercise.

Moriah covered me whilst I inspected a room that opened up on the left. I knew I could rely on him to be diligent.

The room’s door was off one hinge and the bottom corner of it rested on the remains of a blood soaked shirt. The rest of the room took several precious seconds to blur into the view as my night vision goggles adjusted, and I anticipated an attack from the unseen predators within.

Frank Starsmore stepped in alongside me. It was sometimes difficult to tell the men apart, but he was always easy to identify—over six feet tall and well built, his mask peculiarly bulging around the chin from accommodating his beard. He stepped slightly ahead of me, scanned his head left then right.

The room was empty. Missing floorboards exposed mangled foundations and an uncovered secret collection of pornography. A small table in the far corner displayed the maggot-riddled remains of a forgotten meal. Along the bottom of the wall lay a stained duvet. I was relieved for the mask I wore as a Purifier, which muted the smell of the room—the mix of decaying meat, damp fabric and urine. Remarkably, beneath all that, I caught a scent of lavender. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it was cloying, and reminded me of days out playing in the fields as a child.

From the passage, one of the men screamed and the others started to shout and swear. Guns cracked, and muzzle flashes shattered the gloom, dazzling supernovas in the high contrast green.

I rushed out of the room ready to perforate our foes until they were no longer a threat to anyone. Whatever had attacked us was already gone. It was not even clear where it could have come from and subsequently disappeared to. Fisk was kneeling on the floor, cradling the head of nineteen-year-old Billy Prior. Fisk had removed Billy’s mask, and the boy had time to gurgle mum through a fountain of blood before his eyes went dead and his head lolled, revealing the gaping neck wound that had extinguished him so quickly.

Billy had been a good recruit, dedicated to upholding the ideals of the Purifiers. He had believed in what we were doing and in the importance of doing it right. Sadly, more and more of our new recruits were being conscripted. I didn’t object to this in principal, in fact I thought everyone should contribute to the Realm’s security, but unfortunately it had led to us recruiting too many punks that didn’t want to pull their weight. Billy had been different. My temper flared.

What are your orders, Major Turcotte? Moriah asked.

We press on, standard sweep and destroy routine. At least now we know what we’re dealing with.

Fisk grunted, staring down at the void in Billy’s neck. Fallen.

Exalted help us, Starsmore muttered.

*

We have to be more careful than usual, if Fallen are involved here, Moriah said as we advanced down the corridor. Under his mask he would be sweating and tender—he had recently contracted something unpleasant in the Dilapidate region of the city, and his face was riddled with unpleasant sores.

It’s unlikely they are our target. If Andreas had been aware of them we would have been warned.

Fisk huffed, sceptically. I couldn’t help but share his consternation. Luckily, all Purifiers carried Execution pistols at all times, as a precaution. Even though we rarely encountered Fallen, it was still best to always be armed with silver bullets. The one time you didn’t bring one would be the time you became liquid lunch.

Starsmore was also armed with an additional weapon, one which would have limited use in our tinderbox surroundings, even as damp as they were—a flamethrower. It was an old model, fuelled by a liquid reserve strapped to Frank’s back, rather than the more advanced compressed vapour tanks of modern models.

We pressed on through the creaking, cracking building. This was my first time leading a mission, as Colonel Andreas Sorotos now had desk duties. I was unhappy with the vagueness of the mission brief: Makeshift house in East Caldair, investigate and retrieve items of special interest. Expect resistance from inhabitants.

What inhabitants? If Andreas had known about the presence of Fallen, surely he would have said. What were we investigating? You’ll know it if it’s there, he had said, unhelpfully. Bring it to me.

I took off my mask and tucked the goggled, snake-skin monstrosity into my belt, provoking concerned and confused looks from the rest of the unit.

It’s no good relying on night vision when there are Fallen around, I said. I learned that the hard way. They can see better than any human with night vision goggles can. It’s better to have full use of your other senses.

I breathed in the rancid air of the house, a cold odour of damp wood, putrefying rubbish and grime. The copper smell of blood. I could already feel my skin beginning to cool, and the sweat drying on my face.

The others nodded their acceptance of my tactics but they kept their own masks on, and there was uneasy silence. Removing the mask was not just against regulations, it was blasphemy. Without it, without the Dragon’s visage transforming you into a vessel of righteous destruction, were you still a Purifier? Were you an agent of the Exalted or a man acting out his own desires? Were your executions still a cleansing, or murder?

We approached the end of the corridor, slowly. I didn’t need to tell Fisk and the rest to warn me if they spotted anything through their goggles. They would automatically compensate for any disadvantage, allowing me to focus on the dead house’s sounds, smells, the vibrations and air currents. There was a fast, light pattering above. Rain coming in? Rodents? It was easy to imagine all manner of creatures, some twisted, light-footed Fallen freak, racing around on tip-toe, scuttling up walls and over ceilings at unnatural speeds, contorting as it went.

I shuddered, and mentally slapped myself. Stay in the moment, stay alert, stay alive.

Houses like this were becoming rare in Caldair, due to the dwindling number of people with the skill and resources to build them. More and more were finding empty rooms in the ancient hab-blocks. They were derelict and overcrowded, but they had been around since long before this house was build and would still be standing long after this slum was nothing more than a heap of sodden, rotting mulch, a feast for woodlice.

The room ahead was large, with an expansive window looking out onto the Caldair street, where a couple were screwing against a wall, and an old can clanked and whirred as it span along the cracked paving.

There was plenty of light creeping in, but little to see. A small cushioned chair lay propped against one wall, a leg missing and stuffing spilling out. The rest of the room was empty. The floorboards were sturdier here and I strode in. The wall opposite the chair housed a cupboard door, and I gestured to Starsmore to open it. He approached it stealthily, taking wide strides, and reached for it with one hand, using his other hand to keep his pistol aimed.

It wouldn’t open. Given that Starsmore’s strength was even greater than what you’d expect from his size, it had to be either locked or jammed tight. Perhaps the hinges were rusted.

He yanked at it again. And again, harder. Heaved at it, putting away his gun to pull with both hands, using all of his formidable strength. It should have flown from its hinges, but it didn’t budge at all.

He turned back to me, shrugging resignedly. I dunno what to tell you, he said, keeping his voice low. Must be sealed.

Want me to smash it down? Fisk offered.

Troughton pushed past him. Oh, give over. Let me try.

He tested it, tugging at it gently at first, and