Cryptic

By Erik Dean

David and his wife, Julie, are still recovering from the previous events in Garbageman.

David's telekinetic abilities have disappeared, and he's eager to discover why.

Meanwhile, Julie has immersed herself in Southwest Native American art and culture. She collects kachina figures — handmade dolls symbolizing strange and powerful spirits. Her knowledge of mythology will come in handy when the supernatural world comes to call on the couple and David finds himself in possession of a strange Hopi artifact.

Dogging them both is a serial killer, the Fisherman, and other paranormal demons and enemies. To defeat these dark forces, the couple will have to put their trust in a mysterious new ally.

Like its predecessor, Cryptic is written in author Erik Dean's signature synthetic style.

Science fiction, horror, mystery, the occult, and even the metaphysical, exist side by side in Dean's rich world of the supernatural Southwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Dean
• Release date: Sep 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463250747

Erik Dean

Multi-award winning author, Erik Dean, is an Arizona native with over 25 years of experience in Radiology as a technologist. When called for, Erik applies his medical knowledge when writing his novels. In his spare time, Erik enjoys reading horror and action-adventure novels. He loves watching the classics, and horror, action-adventure and sci-fi movies. His favorite pet is a border collie. Erik strives to write unpredictable novels, with characters and plots that have never been written about before. Awards and Recognitions: Finalist, Horror - 2018 Book of the Year Award, Independent Authors Network (Cryptic) Finalist, Action/Adventure - 2018 Book of the Year Award, Independent Authors Network (Garbageman) First Place - 11th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards (Cryptic) Official Selection, Horror - 2017 New Apple Book Awards for Excellence in Independent Publishing (Cryptic)

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Also by Erik Dean

Garbageman

Cruel and Unusual

Crueler and More Unusual

1

In the Beginning

Vietnam, 1972

It was another hot and humid day at the Clearing Company 2204. Colonel Slivka had arrived at the camp the previous afternoon. The clearing company was just where the black ops wanted Slivka to perform his duties. It was the perfect place because it served many functions: triaging the freshly wounded; performing minor surgeries or stabilizing the worst cases, which were flown to a MASH unit for major operations; and packaging up the dead, which interested Slivka the most.

Slivka was a strikingly handsome man. He had strong facial features, which came from his Norwegian heritage. He was neatly dressed in his uniform, with his rank proudly displayed. His crew cut was mostly blond except for a few white hairs at his temples, which started cropping up after turning forty. He was waiting patiently in a shaded part of the triage staging area, wondering when the Hueys would arrive. Normally, only one flew daily. However, the Vietcong had ambushed a company and inflicted heavy casualties.

Surely one of them could be of use to him. He wiped the sweat off his brow and used his right hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sunlight. He was scanning the sky but saw no helicopters coming in.

He glanced over to the doctors and other medical staff. He knew they disliked him. Even though he was a doctor himself, he never lifted a finger to help them. That was not why he was here. His duty was to perform medical experiments for the black ops and nothing more. The clearing company commander, Colonel Burton, was quite upset after reading Slivka’s orders. Burton strongly emphasized that such experimentation should only be performed on GIs who had no chance of survival. He begrudgingly gave in. Slivka felt like slapping the man in the face and yelling at him. That’s the whole purpose of the experiment, stupid! he screamed in his mind. Nevertheless, he kept his anger in check. After Slivka left Burton’s tent, word about Slivka spread throughout the camp. Besides the contemptuous stares he received from everyone, they were also talking loathsomely about him. Although he couldn’t care less what they thought of him, he would eavesdrop on them from time to time. A group of doctors were complaining about him, knowing he could hear every word. They were picking out nicknames for him. One called him Dr. Vulture. Another referred to him as Dr. Death. He had to chuckle to himself, thinking, Idiots.

He had always done what the black-ops brass ordered. He had been involved in a great number of tests for them—LSD and mind-control tests in Nam or radiation experiments on developmentally disabled children back in the States. This particular study had to do with one of those mind-control drugs. It was called MC11. The ops had tried it on a pair of rhesus monkeys that had some degree of brain damage. To their surprise, they observed that the monkeys’ brains had almost reached a fully functional level after receiving the medication. So, after some tweaking to the drug by the scientists, the brass wanted to try it on humans. Therefore, off to Vietnam he went, with ten doses of MC11. If anyone here knew about his past, most likely one of them would have the balls to shoot him, which happened from time to time in Nam—soldiers shooting at their own.

There was one doctor in particular whom he was quite leery of—Dr. Newman. He was drafted right after completing medical school. The man had to be very intelligent because he completed his training by the time he was only twenty-three years old. He always seemed to be watching Slivka with accusing eyes, as if he knew more about Slivka’s mission than what was told to him. Or maybe it was because he was Jewish and had the Holocaust experimentation on his mind. Either way, Slivka was concerned that Newman could turn out to be a dangerous person. Although Slivka could easily kill him if necessary, he still felt he had to watch his back.

He heard the whoomp whoomp sound of the rotor blades in the distance. The helicopters were coming over the treelined sunset. While they were landing, the powerful blades sent rushing wind everywhere, almost knocking over a crouching doctor, which made Slivka smirk. After the Hueys had rotored down and the blades stopped spinning, the pilot motioned for them to offload the litters. Slivka watched as the corpsmen laid out the litters, his steely green eyes falling on Newman. The patient he was tending to seemed to have a massive head trauma and was beginning to posture. The arms were involuntarily contracting toward the midline, an indication of brain damage.

Slivka thought to himself, This soldier should be the one, but that damn Newman is still hanging around. Come on, dammit. Deem him unsalvageable and move on. As if Newman heard Slivka’s silent plea, he told the medic to give the soldier morphine so he could die pain-free. The medic did as instructed and injected the dying man, and Newman moved on to the next patient with a leg wound.

Slivka felt the adrenaline surge throughout his body as his heart beat faster. He knew it was time to make his move. He weaved his way through the medical personnel and wounded soldiers until he stood at the head of the dying man. While looking down at the soldier, it occurred to him that the man seemed to be an Indian of some sort. He did not really care about what race or nationality the soldier was; he had a job to do. Slivka slipped his right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a small black case. He unzipped the case and opened it, seeing the syringe containing the drug MC11.

He looked around for Newman and found him two litters down assessing a patient. Is he going to make it? Slivka yelled to Newman, pointing at the dying man.

The doctor shook his head and said solemnly, No, I don’t believe so.

Can I have him? Slivka asked.

Newman shot a hard look at him and barked, Why don’t you leave the poor bastard to die in peace?

Slivka stared him down and said, What do you care? He’s only an Indian. Who’s going to miss him?

His family, you bigoted bastard! Newman shouted with anger in his eyes and his hands clenched in tight fists.

Listen, Jew boy, I’ve got my orders! Now, is he or isn’t he going to die? Slivka said sharply.

You motherfucker! Newman yelled as he leaped over a litter and lunged at Slivka. A nearby doctor and a corpsman grabbed Newman just before he could get his hands on Slivka.

He isn’t worth a court-martial, the corpsman said. Just let the asshole do his thing so he can leave sooner.

We have patients to deal with, Doctor, the other doctor added.

Dr. Newman relaxed his body and nodded in agreement. He followed the others back to work, but not before he shot a hateful look at Slivka, who shrugged it off as nothing more than a nuisance.

Slivka bent down and removed the blood-soaked dressing from the right side of the soldier’s head. The wound was massive. The brain was readily visible. Pieces of white and gray matter, along with some shards of skull bone, oozed down the side of the man’s head. Slivka looked at the wounded’s chest, which was still rising and falling with each labored respiration. He felt the dying man’s carotid pulse, which was very weak but steady. This had to be the one, he muttered to himself.

He took the syringe out of the black case. He uncapped the needle and inserted it into the exposed brain tissue. He injected all twenty milliliters of the MC11 into the brain. He removed the needle and discarded it. He sat and waited. Five minutes went by; nothing happened. Ten minutes—still nothing. He checked the man’s vitals and found no changes. After fifteen minutes, he was beginning to feel discouraged. No miraculous changes noted. Twenty minutes—nothing again. After thirty minutes had passed, he began to wonder how long he was going to have to sit and watch this man die. He was kind of hoping the Indian would give up soon and go to the happy hunting ground so he could give up this pointless vigil.

He had been staring at the wound so long that his eyes began to ache. He rubbed his tired eyes to soothe them. He looked away from the man’s wound to the man’s chest so he could check respirations. He noticed something different. The soldier’s breathing was no longer labored; it was smooth and almost normal. Slivka checked the man’s pulse, which was becoming stronger. Another thing caught his eye: the man’s arms were no longer in a contracted posture. The arms were loose and lay limply along the patient’s sides. When did this happen? he wondered with enthusiasm.

Slivka quickly glanced at the wound. The white brain matter was slowly covering over the gray matter. The bony plate of the skull was also reforming. Slivka felt his heart racing with excitement while witnessing the spectacle. Go, man, go! he whispered to the patient. He looked around the triage field and found Newman watching him from afar. Slivka waved him over and said, Come here, Doctor. You’ve gotta see this!

Newman wondered if the asshole was going to start up his crap again, but he went over to Slivka anyhow, just to satisfy his curiosity on what this so-called doctor was so excited about.

When Newman reached Slivka, he got his answer. He stood there wide-eyed, mouth agape. Newman could not believe what he was witnessing. The wound was healing right before his eyes. To a casual observer, the two doctors looked like two little boys reading Playboy for the first time.

How can this be? I’d written him off, Newman said, breaking the silence.

Who’s the bastard now? Slivka said smugly.

Newman started to comment. I just thought you were— He stopped midsentence when he noticed some of his colleagues were looking at them. He motioned them to come over. When they were within earshot, Newman said, You guys got to see this!

A trio of doctors came over, expecting trouble from Slivka. Newman smiled at them, so they relaxed.

What do you want to show us? one of them asked Newman, blatantly ignoring Slivka.

Newman glanced down at the wound, which was now completely healed. He looked back at his colleagues and said, Earlier, there was a massive head wound on this patient, exposed brain matter and all.

Bullshit! You are just yanking our chains, one of the doctors said in a weary voice.

You got to believe me. I’m not bullshitting! Newman pleaded.

Oh yeah, like the time you sent a private to medical storage to get sterile fallopian tubes, another doctor said, chuckling.

That was a hoot! yet another doctor chimed in.

It’s nothing like that, Newman claimed.

What he says is true, Slivka said as he rose to his feet. Gentlemen, we’re at the dawn of a new age in medicine. The drug I have just administered could save hundreds of lives. Just less than an hour ago, this man’s brain was oozing out of his skull. Look at him now. Slivka pointed to the nonexistent wound.

Sounds like a snake-oil salesman to me, one of the doctors said. The trio chuckled in disbelief.

Who wants a beer? My treat, one of the doctors offered. The other two agreed that a cold one would be good. Let’s leave these jokesters behind. I’m too tired for this shit.

Assholes! Slivka muttered under his breath.

You know, I would normally be in agreement with them if I didn’t see it for myself, Newman said.

But you did see it, and I want you to make a report on what condition the patient was in prior to the injection. And I want you to note what you observed afterward for the record, Slivka said with enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, his euphoric mood was short-lived. The Indian’s whole body began to shake violently.

Oh shit! He looks like he is having a grand mal seizure, Newman yelled.

Slivka just stood there with his eyes widening in disbelief, muttering, No, no, no.

Don’t just stand there like a dumb-ass. Get a bite block or something, Newman ordered.

That snapped Slivka out of his paralysis and got him moving. He pulled out his pen and attempted to wedge it between the Indian’s gnashing teeth. Unfortunately, one of his fingers fell victim to a bite. Holy fuck! Slivka screamed as he jerked back his hand and began to nurse his bleeding finger. That motherfucker bit me! he howled. Newman was ignoring him as he successfully wedged the pen between the man’s molars.

Newman checked the man’s vitals. The soldier’s pulse was racing. He’s going into tachycardia! he exclaimed. Stop whining about your finger, and get me the code gear. Newman pointed toward the equipment on the other side of the triage field. Slivka sprinted across the triage area, leaping over the dead and alive soldiers toward the kit.

Newman refocused his attention on his patient. Not only was the man still convulsing, but blood was also coming out of his mouth, nose, and ears. Oh no, he’s hemorrhaging! Newman said. What the hell did you give him? Doctors, medics, and corpsmen came running to see what all the yelling was about. Help me! I’m losing him, Newman pleaded.

Everyone went into action like a well-oiled machine. One of the doctors ripped the code gear from Slivka’s hands and yelled, Let go, vulture! He ran toward Newman, leaving Slivka standing there in disbelief. Things were going so well. Then blam! Everything was hitting the shit can. How can this be happening? Slivka thought. As he stood helplessly watching them work feverishly on the soldier, the whole scene seemed so surreal.

Despite the heroic efforts of the doctors, the soldier’s heart had stopped beating. They had been working on him for a good twenty minutes.

Are you going to call it? one of the doctors asked Newman.

He sighed and said, I think so, unless anyone wants to do something I haven’t thought of. The other doctors shook their heads solemnly. OK, I am calling it. Time at fifteen forty-nine, Newman said, referring to his battered old watch.

I want to perform an autopsy, a voice said from behind them. Surprised looks appeared on the doctors’ faces as they turned toward the speaker.

You what? Newman asked, annoyed.

I said I want to perform an autopsy—to see what went wrong, Slivka said as he stepped toward the group.

The hell you are! Newman said.

Come on, Doctor. You saw how the wound repaired itself. How can we not investigate? Slivka stated matter-of-factly.

Well, the way I see it, you took a man whose brain was already scrambled and used your voodoo medicine in an asinine attempt to cure him. I won’t dispute that the exterior wound has healed up, but then this soldier died a needlessly horrible death, Newman argued.

He did that? He used an unproven drug on him? asked one of the doctors.

Newman nodded as he pointed to the dead man and said, This poor bastard died a violent death not once but twice. The second time was pointless. Newman looked directly at Slivka. So why must we abuse his body any further?

Science, Slivka said.

Well, you can take your voodoo science and stick it up your ass! a large doctor said, who looked more like a lumberjack than a physician.

There will be an autopsy whether you like it or not, Slivka asserted. He stepped closer to them and pointed to the insignia on his collar. The way I see it, you don’t have a choice. I outrank all of you.

The doctors laughed at him. Rank doesn’t mean shit out here, vulture, one of the doctors said.

Listen, assholes. There will be an autopsy, even if I have to court-martial the lot of you, Slivka said as his face reddened in anger.

In case you haven’t noticed, we are at war. And during the war they never court-martial doctors unless they are as incompetent as you are, a short doctor said, staring Slivka down.

The larger doctor stepped toward Slivka, looming over him. First, there is going to be no autopsy. Second, you will not come near any of our patients. Third, I strongly suggest that you return to whatever latrine that birthed you and never come back.

Slivka looked up defiantly and said with authority, I will go to Colonel Burton, and we’ll see about that.

He will support us, Newman said.

Then I’ll put footprints on his forehead! Slivka yelled as he stomped away from the group.

What an asshole, the short doctor said.

You said it, another agreed.

We should get the corpsmen to bag the body before it gets ripe, the short doctor said as he looked at the numerous dead bodies within the triage area.

Our friend should be the first one on the chopper going stateside, just in case that son of a bitch steps on Colonel Burton’s toes, Newman suggested.

Good idea. He’ll have to remove all the bodies to get to him before the morning flight. The tall doctor chuckled as a mental picture popped into his head of Slivka moving numerous body bags.

I’ll see that it gets done, the short doctor volunteered.

Newman put the dog tags between the dead soldier’s teeth and tagged him, silently apologizing.

*  *  *

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was darkness, except for a faint glow that caught the corner of his eye. How long had he been sleeping? He felt a coolness on his skin. He quickly got off the ground and examined himself. Despite all the dimness, he could tell that he was nude. What happened to my clothes? Someone must have knocked me out and taken away my clothes, he reasoned.

He had a metallic taste in his mouth. When he opened it, his dog tags fell out, only to be stopped by the chain around his neck. What the… he muttered to himself. He felt something on his big toe. He pulled it off, and even in the dimness, he figured it must be a toe tag. His buddies must be playing some kind of sick joke. He felt anger building within him. He wanted to up a can of whoop ass. He started stomping toward the faint glow in the distance, yelling, Who is a sick motherfu— He stopped midsentence when he saw what was glowing.

He stood dumbfounded. It was a bear clan altar, the kind that you would find in a kiva back home in Oraibi, Arizona. How could that be? He was in Vietnam fighting a war. The quiet was broken by a faint sound. He had to listen very hard to try to figure out if someone was speaking or if it was something else. It was chanting, and it was becoming louder. He recognized it. The chant was in Hopi tongue. He began to wonder if he was hallucinating, or was this real. He just did not know.

As the chanting grew louder, the embers became brighter until they were a roaring fire. He could feel the intense heat coming from the blaze. As he looked about the now-illuminated room, he could clearly see that he was indeed in a kiva. It was a circular room with two levels that had an upside-down bell shape. The lower room was smaller than the uppermost area, about twenty feet across, compared to the estimated forty feet across in the upper area.

There was a little hole next to the altar, with the lid resting next to it. When he looked inside, he saw a paho, a prayer stick with two eagle feathers and a mother corn attached to it. He got down on his hands and knees. He reached inside and pulled it out. When he stood up and started looking over the paho, the chanting stopped. Now what? he wondered. Stomp! Stomp! The sound came rhythmically above his head. Back home, that would be the sound of kachinas—spirits—wanting to enter the kiva.

What was up there? Was it the kachinas? He saw no way up or down. The altar fire roared up. A flame shot past him and went to the top of the kiva. When the blaze winked out, two ladders stood in its place. Thank you, he said to the empty kiva. Stomp! Stomp! The sound above him came once more, beckoning him to ascend the ladder. The chanting started again. Climb, the voices were telling him in his native tongue. The first ladder went to the second and larger room. He put the paho in his mouth and easily climbed up the five-foot ladder to the next level. The second ladder was four times longer than the first one. He would have to climb this one to reach the top of the kiva and find out who or what was stomping.

He went to the last ladder and began his assent to the stomping and exit of the kiva. When he was about four feet away from the top, a cascade of water fell on him, almost knocking him off the ladder and to the lower level below. He hung on tight. When the water finally stopped pouring down on him, his hair and skin were completely soaked. Stomp! Stomp! I’m coming. Just hold the water, will ya?

When he reached the top, he wiped the water from his eyes and looked up. The opening was covered by a black tarp with a zipper in the middle. He froze for a moment. This was nothing like the coverings on the kivas back home, which were usually capped by a straw lid. A loud stomp commanded him to keep on going. What was going to be on the other side? The thought of the unknown made him shudder with fear.

He gathered every ounce of courage in his being. He reached up with his trembling hand and unzipped the plastic. Another piece of tarp blocked the passage. He pushed against it, but it felt quite heavy. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic, and panic started to take hold. He braced his feet on the rung of the ladder and shoved the obstacle with all his might. The heavy tarp object rolled off to the side.

When he stuck his head out, what he saw shook him to the core of his soul. He was in a body bag, with many others stacked beside him. It appeared that he was in a huge helicopter. When he looked down to where he’d come from, the ladder and kiva were gone. He was no longer nude; he had his jungle uniform on, which was dripping wet. He was sitting with his legs still in the bag. He quickly unzipped the rest of it and got out. The odd thing was, the paho was still in his mouth. He looked at it with disbelief.

He could question the whys and hows of the paho’s existence or how he had gotten there in the first place. However, the stench of the decaying bodies was overpowering his nostrils. His stomach was churning in protest of the offensive odors. He had to crawl over numerous body bags to get outside. Even though he was in the fresh air, he could still smell the rot. He bent over and started vomiting.

There’s no time for that, a strong female voice said to him.

A beautiful young Hopi woman stood before him. Her hair and native clothing were in disarray. She had a bow in her right hand and seven arrows in her left.

Who—who are you? he stuttered.

My name is Hehewuti. I am your guardian spirit, she answered.

Am I dead? he asked cautiously, dreading the answer.

She looked at him and said, To them you are, but you are very much alive, Tov’okinpi. He had not heard that name, which meant rolling thunder, in a very long time. It was his Hopi name, what his grandfather used to call him. In spite of that, his mother always called him Bradley.

How do you know my name? he asked.

I know everything there is to know about you, she replied.

What do you want from me? he asked respectfully.

She looked at him seriously. There is an evil demon in the forest that wishes to kill your friends. You must hurry back and slay it.

I already know that, he replied. They are called the Vietcong.

I’m not talking about the soldiers. I’m talking about a real demon, she said.

A real one? How can I fight a demon? I am only a man.

She looked directly into his eyes and said, You have a great magic flowing through your veins, and you are pure of heart.

What magic? he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

The power of emerging from the dead and being able to see me, she said matter-of-factly.

But how will that help me beat a demon? They are ugly creatures with fangs and claws.

She did not answer his question. Instead, she told him, You have to hurry back to your friends before it’s too late.

But that must be about thirty miles away. We have no jeep, and the Vietcong is everywhere.

You complain a lot for a man who just rose from the dead, she scolded. Your eyes will adjust to the dark like owls’, and we will run like the wind.

It’s too far to run. And there are land mines out there. What if the Vietcong spots us and starts shooting? he protested.

She looked at his inky black eyes and said, Each of your steps will equal a thousand of theirs. They won’t see you, but they might feel the breeze of you passing by. Before he could say anything more, she clasped his hand and pulled him along, and they started running.

As they sprinted through the camp, Bradley noted that no one seemed to see them. Everyone they passed seemed to be frozen in time. Before he could dwell upon it, they entered the thick jungle. Branches, vines, and other vegetation noiselessly opened a path ahead of them. Very few obstructions barred their passage. The duo jumped over fallen logs and large boulders with ease.

The Vietcong snipers did not see them pass as they hiked toward their positions. They did hear some land mines exploding off in the distance, which got their attention but only briefly. They had another quarry on their minds. They had just reached a position outside the clearing company. The Vietcong squad split up and hid. All they had to do was wait for the right moment.

When Bradley and his guide passed over the land mine trip wires, they exploded but in very slow motion, so they were not harmed. The sound did not reach their ears until they were far away. She was right about moving very fast, he thought as they raced. Time seemed like it had slowed way down. She was also correct about seeing through the darkness. It was almost like daylight but in black and white. Was she right about the demon, too? He mulled that question over in his mind.

They were beginning to slow down to a walking pace, which was still very fast to the normal-time world. She stopped them fifty meters from his camp. He looked at her in awe and said, How did we do that?

She answered him obliquely. We ran like the wind because you are one of the winds.

Bradley knew now that he was not going to get the whys and hows out of her. Therefore, he posed a different question. What do I say to them, about me returning? What about my orders that I have to give to my commander to be allowed to return?

Don’t worry. They will believe anything that you tell them as the truth, she replied. She plucked a broadleaf and handed it to him. You give this to your commander, and he will read it as if you have given him real orders.

He looked over the waxy green leaf, knowing she had been right so far. What should I do once I’m in there? he asked.

You have to find out where a Joe or Joseph is and protect him from the demon.

Joe! he said, surprised. Joe is the only man who could kick that demon’s ass or anyone else’s for that matter.

Not this demon, she said coldly.