The Creation: Gods and Man: The Creation Series, #3

By The Behrg

"One of the most gripping, original apocalyptic stories I have ever read." -- Horror After Dark

As the seven days of the Creation continue, those who have survived will be put to the ultimate test, for each new day brings with it immeasurable horrors. Water stripped from the Amazon rainforest; plant-life that will bring a new definition to the term carnivorous; beasts, animals and creeping things . . . All will precede the coming of this dark god's ultimate creation, the purpose for which it has come:

To create Man.

While thrust into a world they no longer recognize, both Dugan and Faye must battle not only an omnipotent being but the forces which prop it up from all sides. Forces that may come from within their own group, or even within their own minds.

In the final installment of The Creation Series the roles of Gods and Man will be redefined. For with humanity's survival at stake, no path can be left unexplored - even those which may lead to a darkness greater than the foe our heroes must defeat. For it took a devil to stop God's plans once; becoming that devil may be the only option that remains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pricks Like Thorn Media
• Release date: Mar 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393006817

The Behrg

A former child actor turned wanna-be rockstar, Behrg is the author of the Internationally best-selling novel Housebroken and the thrilling genre-breaking Creation Series. His short fiction has been featured in various collections and “Best Of” anthologies, and his mom even hung one of his stories on the fridge back when he was in the fourth grade. Behrg lives in Southern California with his wife and four children where he still plays in a band, plays in fictional worlds of his own creating, and plays—quite poorly, he might add—at being an adult. When coloring, he does not stay within the lines. Stalk him at TheBehrg.com.

Book preview

The Bible tells us that God created the universe, but it doesn’t tell us that in order to have the power to do so, He had to destroy the universe that existed before this one.

—Brian Keene, Darkness on the Edge of Town

Edge of Chaos

Chapter Four

And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters . . . and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven.

Genesis 1:6-8

Verse I.

Extreme Weather Events Linked to Deforestation of Amazon

The Global Earth System Science Centre

In a new report headed by key researchers in the government’s space institute, Global Earth System Science Centre, peculiar weather patterns have been spotted on the outskirts of the Amazon Rainforest in South-Eastern Venezuela along the Brazil border.

The region, known locally as the Gran Sabana, was recently devastated by seismological activity centered near a former mining town. Now this same area is experiencing an alarming weather event that could lead to calamitous consequences should this phenomenon spread.

The deforestation taking place in the Amazon through logging, cattle raising and land clearance has, over the past decade, resulted in a significant decrease in forest transpiration, causing a lengthened dry season, said Antonio Gonzalez, lead researcher for climate change at the GESSC. It’s no longer debatable; deforestation is altering the Amazon’s climate and that of the surrounding regions. Look at the current droughts affecting Brazil and Sao Paulo, for further proof.

As more tributaries dry up in the Amazon, researchers fear the rainforest will suffer mega-droughts that could last years, tipping the delicate equilibrium of vegetation and climate over an edge to which there may be no end. According to Gonzalez, the new weather patterns within this region are further proof of extreme conditions that the rainforest, in the past, might have been able to prevent.

We’re seeing heavy striated cumulonimbus clouds form which, in itself, would be anything but noteworthy. What is strikingly peculiar, however, especially for this region, is that the precipitation is evaporating shortly after being released. Virga is not uncommon over deserts or areas with low humidity and high temperatures, but in a tropical environment it’s unprecedented. Imagine the consequences should such an occurrence spread throughout our Amazon basin—a rainforest without the ability to replenish itself through rainfall. The end of the world might not be that far off after all.

The area in which this phenomenon is occurring will continue to be monitored to determine whether the event remains isolated or begins to spread.

Update: The GESSC released a statement that Gonzalez was expressing his own opinions and does not speak in any official capacity for the government’s space institute. Any end-world doomsday predictions were unfounded and completely his own.

Verse II.

A single ray of sunlight shot through the canopy of foliage and bright leaves above, winding down like a silver spiderweb. Contrasted against the dampened and shadowed jungle, the light took on an almost tangible quality. Rojo imagined himself reaching out and grabbing hold of it, climbing hand over hand until he could puncture through the canopy of leaves and branches overhead, escaping into an ocean of sky.

Escape.

Why did every dream, imagined or otherwise, end with fear or flight?

Rojo released the heavy tar-filled smoke from his lungs, letting it dance above his head. His chew he had left back at the Facility. The cigar had been his last, his emergency supply. It didn’t bode well that he had already broken out his last reserve, but after the hell they had been through, he couldn’t deny himself at least one small pleasure.

His thoughts turned to Dugan, healed by the Shaman’s touch. His lung cancer stripped from his body like the quick pull of a Band-Aid. And with it, even his desire to smoke had fled.

Rojo wasn’t sure about that part. Not that he had any cancer to worry about himself — at least that he knew of. But taking from someone the taste for something earned over a lifetime of choices felt wrong, no matter the predilection.

We should all be so lucky as to choose the path of our eventual demise.

Cancer. Drug addiction. A noose wrapped with care around one’s own neck. A shoot-out; the one you don’t survive.

Or mother nature, turning her back on those who first forsook her, becoming the victor rather than victim.

Rojo lay back in a bed of tough grass, blades tickling his ears and bald head. Insects chirped and cricked, creating a blanket of noise that was anything but white. He could almost pretend things were normal.

Until he opened his eyes.

The beam of sunlight he had imagined vanished, despite the break in the branches above. But it wasn’t all that disappeared. So, too, did every shadow. Every darkened hollow. And every attempt at making sense of the world. Because in this place, on this raised plateau hidden deep in the Amazon, there was no sun. There was no order.

There was no escape.

Rojo had crawled out from a den of death with Dugan and the others, a mine converted into a prison from which they should have been hopelessly trapped. They had achieved the impossible—rescuing not only Dugan’s estranged daughter but the very man responsible for the madness taking place around them—the Shaman. But though they had survived, they were still as caught up in this tangle of webs as they had been while traversing those weathered and winding corridors. Maybe even more so.

Because the Shaman was dead.

But whatever world he had begun to create hadn’t died with him.

The question on everyone’s mind, the question no one had yet been able to answer, was how to defeat an enemy you’ve already killed.

Especially when that enemy was still winning.

Rojo rolled onto his side, clamping the cigar between his teeth. A bit of ash crumpled, falling onto his thick beard, though he barely noticed. The riverbed, parched and cracking, with wispy stalks growing in divergent patches, drew all of his attention.

All of their attention.

The mute native, Oso, was huddled next to Dugan, nearest the gully, one communicating in whispers, the other writing crude marks on a small pad. Kendall and Chupa, Dugan’s other two mercenaries, exchanged not words but a joint, passing the blunt back and forth over a cropping of rocks. But even they didn’t look away from the line quite literally drawn in the sand.

Dugan’s daughter, Faye, had been keeping her distance from her father’s men, despite the fact they had so recently risked their lives in rescuing her. She was something to look at, even in the filthy clothes she wore—not like they had a chance to secure a change of clothing in the time since the mines.

Her small frame and almost elven features were a frightening paradox when placed beside her sharp and wicked personality. Emerald eyes. Golden auburn hair that dangled over the side of her shaved scalp. But the claw that had reached out from below her neckline, swiping at the side of her head, was completely gone, as if the demon that had attached itself to her skin in the form of ink and pain had finally decided to let her go.

How could a tattoo dissolve from someone’s skin?

Then again, how could cancer be cured with but a touch? There were too many things they didn’t understand about the man they had sought, the man they had killed, the man who continued his transformation of the earth while now forever beyond their reach.

If he even was a man.

Faye turned, catching Rojo’s gaze. Rather than look away or pretend she hadn’t noticed, she seemed to revel in it. Calling him out.

He bent his head toward her, acknowledging he had been caught, while still drinking her in. Her lips curled upward, then she turned back to the others she was sitting with. Grey something or other, a dodgy American that had accompanied her down here; Father Remmy Shumway, former drug runner turned holy man; and his accolade, the blind Venezuelan kid with the face that looked like someone had turned it inside out. Each of them was as taken in by the sight before them as Rojo and his own pals.

Whatever balance existed between nature and man had been disrupted, perhaps permanently. First, the earthquake and unprecedented forming of a new tepui, raising them several thousand feet into the air, then the unholy light and suffocating darkness.

Now this.

The riverbed where a tribute from the Aponwao had been only days ago was completely dry. Not even a wet mud existed at its deepest point, which should have been the case had its emptying been due to simple runoff. They were, after all, atop a tepui; it made sense that the river might run off both ends of the planed mountain, though Kendall and Chupa had supposedly dammed at least one end. Yet, except for the dead aquatic life lying in its base, the riverless trench before them showed no signs of ever holding water. The earth was instead the parched terrain of a desert, the touch of water but a memory.

Rojo ran his hand across the tips of the grass he lay in.

Coarse.

Brittle.

Dying.

As if every drop of moisture in a land defined by the word rain had somehow been displaced overnight. And it wasn’t just the river—every plant and tree looked shriveled, as if they were at the tail end of an endless drought. TEWL, Dugan called it. Transepidermal water loss. And this, in a rainforest, of all places.

Leaves fell from drooping branches; long-stemmed plants only Dugan would know the names of curling inward and cracking; trees and brush experiencing the season of Fall for the first time. A fall they might not recover from.

He let his eyes return to the sight that had caused their initial stop. The river, which still flowed, just not in the right location. Hovering twenty or thirty feet above ground, the river floated, following a similar pattern as it would have had it remained earthbound. A bend here, crick there. Droplets fell from the main tributary like a fine mist but never came close to striking the earth, evaporating before they had a chance to give life to anything still of this planet.

With the new sourceless light of day, the river almost glowed with a celestial aura. Sparkling. Teasing. It reminded Rojo of Faye’s gaze—a dare you knew you couldn’t take up. Enticing, intoxicating, but ultimately unattainable.

Over at the former river’s bank, Dugan seemed to come to a decision, leaving Oso there. He approached Faye and her group first rather than coming over to his men.

We’re going to follow it, to wherever it leads.

Despite having been healed by the Shaman’s touch, Dugan looked exhausted. Tight lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and a posture that suggested he was bearing the weight of the world, though bearing it well.

The truth was, they were all exhausted. They could all have used a few days to recover in preparation for what was to come. But wants and conveniences would have to wait. Duty demanded action.

To what end? Father Shumway asked, his words sharp. Bitter. What do we gain by following it? You’re not expecting a pot of gold at the end, are you?

Come or stay. It doesn’t really matter to me, Dugan said.

We’ll come. Faye’s answer was meant for the group. Her group. Strange how quickly they had divided. She stood from a rotting log, the moss underneath no longer vibrant but a mottled and dying brown.

Dugan nodded, motioning to Rojo and the others to join him with a simple nod of the head.

Do we know how we’re going to stop all of this? Grey asked.

No, we don’t, Dugan said. It’s important you know that up front. We could be approaching a tidal wave with nothing but a slingshot. Most likely are.

Like David and Goliath, the Venezuelan kid with the blotched face said, pronouncing the name Dav-íd.

Dugan looked at the child a long time before answering. Except this time God’s not on our side.

Grey shook his head, but remained silent. He, Chupa, and the Priest all wore the heavy FLIR thermal imaging goggles to keep from being blinded by the light. The child had no need for them—the damage to his eyes had already been done.

The rest of them—Rojo included—found themselves somewhere in between. They were able to see in both the blackest of nights and brightest of days without the need for any mechanical apparatus. The darkness they had experienced together outside the mine’s entrance had somehow changed them.

He shuddered, remembering that black pit devouring the soldiers that had entrapped them outside the mine, remembering how badly he had wanted it to consume more. Consume them all.

A piece of their own souls had been eaten along with those men, a piece he wasn’t sure they could ever get back.

I am the Shaman.

The words they had uttered together—forbidden words, words that should never have been spoken—were like a pact. A dark pact. Only Rojo wasn’t sure what they had promised. Or what had been promised in return.

Perhaps while any of them remained alive the world would continue to evolve. Maybe the only real solution was to terminate themselves, those who had come in contact with the Shaman. Those who now carried his curse.

These, of course, weren’t thoughts one shared out loud.

If our efforts fail to stop this madness, if the Shaman’s people aren’t able to restore balance, I’ll see our pact fulfilled. I’ll kill every one the darkness touched. And then I’ll kill myself.

It was his own pact, one he was duty-bound to perform. Better they all die, than the world die with them.

Rojo blew out a heavy plume of smoke as he made his way toward Dugan, though the priest, accompanied by the child, beat him there.

You are unfit to lead this operation, Father Shumway said, clinging to the boy for support. His broken arm was bound with a wrap that hung from around his neck. You have no plan, nor do you understand what we’re up against. Your brash actions have caused more grief than answers, and your damnable pride will carry us all to destruction!

There’s the Reverend we all know and love.

This isn’t a time for jokes, Dugan. What right do you have to make decisions for all of us? This isn’t a dictatorship. We’re not a part of your death squad. Everyone’s voice deserves to be heard, including your daughter’s.

"My daughter? Well, when she’s ready to speak to me, I’m all ears. But if you recall, Father, I’m not forcing anyone’s hand. If you don’t want to follow me or my men, you’re welcome to leave."

Some choice—to get ourselves lost out here in the jungle?

Then it looks like you’ll be following after all. Though I did enjoy the lecture, so . . . thanks for that.

Father Shumway’s good hand shook as he brought it down. He no longer wore his priest’s robes, discarding them for the undershirt and thin black pants beneath. Maybe, with this crowd, he felt there was no longer a need to keep up pretenses. He found the cross he was looking for, taking hold of the emblem hanging from around his neck. You’re an evil man.

"Is it evil to do what’s necessary? To do what others won’t or can’t, but should? Or maybe I’m just too stupid or stubborn to know when hope is lost. But that’s humanity—we continue to believe, despite the facts presented before us. We choose to believe. That we have a future. That we can prevail. That our efforts aren’t in vain. If that’s evil, I’ll gladly wade through hell to join anyone who doesn’t cower and give up at the first sign of defeat. Because right now, Father? You need a leader. You need me. A hell of a lot more than I need you."

I have a leader. And in Him only will I place my faith.

Then you’ve already lost, because from where I’m sitting? This new god is kicking your god’s ass. Without another word Dugan marched off, following the river bed, dry leaves crackling beneath his boots.

Quite the pep talk, Faye said, once Dugan was out of earshot.

God will not use someone like him, Remmy said. He cannot.

Yet he uses you? Rojo asked.

Remmy swallowed whatever he had been planning to say next.

It’s not a question of what god can or can’t do, Rojo continued. I’m more concerned with whether he wants to. Whether he even cares.

God has not abandoned us, the child said, taking hold of Remmy’s hand.

Says the one person who can’t see the evidence of God’s abandonment, Rojo said.

Are you a believer? Remmy asked.

Rojo laughed. I don’t know how to answer that.

Religion’s just an organized pyramid scheme, Kendall said, approaching the group with Chupa. And trust me, it ain’t God sitting at the top.

Kendall’s burned off eyebrows and the scorched tips of his hair transformed his normal GQ look into a comedic juxtaposition. It didn’t help that he was wearing a Venezuelan soldier’s uniform, the gray camouflage jumpsuit painfully small on him.

I’m a believer, Chupa said, his Somalian accent clipping each of his words. His braided hair was tied up in a bun, with longer pieces shooting out at odd angles. With sunken cheekbones and a permanently emaciated figure, he wore a patch of thick tape and thicker gauze on his shoulder, covering a bullet wound he had received the previous day. Rojo hadn’t heard the man complain about the injury even once.

These are the gods I pray to. Chupa laughed, raising two Mk 46’s into the air. A lightweight belt-fed machine gun, they were a specially tailored automatic weapon favored by special ops groups since the early two-thousands.

Rojo had to admit, these were gods that didn’t let you down.

Except here they were battling not men, but forces. Phantoms. A power so otherworldly it could literally move mountains, or strip the water from the earth, suspending it in the sky. What good were guns when facing a foe like that?

God or no god, we need to stick together, Faye said.

Rojo relit the tip of his now diminished cigar and gave it one final puff, letting the heavy tar sink into his lungs, then he tossed its burning embers into a nearby bush. Almost immediately a thin line of smoke rose from the brush.

Never seen that before, Chupa said.

Not in the rainforest, Kendall added.

Rojo stomped at the brush until the flicker of flames just beginning to form died out. "We’re not in a rainforest anymore. This is something else, something . . . other. Everything’s changed."

His words had an ominous weight to them and hung heavy in the air.

Just like the river.

Verse III.

Josué reached back, offering a hand, which Remmy Shumway gratefully accepted. Following the dry river bed was more a course in mountaineering than a stroll along a beach. Uneven terrain, with big drops and sudden rises, not to mention the tangled roots, plants, and deceased river life, created a tapestry of natural tripwires. Though really it had more to do with the fact that Remmy wasn’t up to the task.

Even a task as simple as walking.

Sweat dripped from his brow despite having shed his robes back at the jeep they abandoned, the terrain no longer compatible with a moving vehicle. But it wasn’t his age that bore him down; it wasn’t even his broken arm, which radiated a wild heat, throbbing with every step. No, Father Shumway, the ecclesiastical leader of the poor parishioners of Santa Elena de Uairén, was suffering from something far worse than a shattered bone.

He was going through withdrawals.

He hadn’t had a chance to use in almost two days, and his body was screaming at him now. Teeth rattling in his head, chattering despite the heat and humidity. His stomach rolled and he knew that soon he would be vomiting. Shakes, fever dreams, seizures . . . these were the things he could look forward to if he couldn’t find a fix, and traipsing out through the middle of the jungle certainly wouldn’t increase his odds of that.

Josué guided him around a rough patch of gnarled roots, several of which squished beneath his feet. The damnable goggles made everything look the same color, whether it was reeds or fish they were stepping on. Yet how this child, who had been blinded by this abominable light, could lead him was beyond answers.

As were most things that required faith, he supposed.

But what happens when the very foundations of faith erode? When the sun no longer rises or sets in the sky? When the laws of nature are no longer governed, but rewritten? In a language that doesn’t compute?

Remmy should have had Dugan return him to his domicile. The church—his