The Creation: Let There Be Death: The Creation Series, #2

By The Behrg

"Perfect suspense." -- Confessions of a Reviewer 

And God said, 'Let There Be Death.' And He saw that it was Good.

The Creation has begun anew, a 'god-like' being following the seven day pattern as found in the Bible. But his interpretation of events is far from benign, for in order to Create, one must first Destroy.

As the second day in The Creation begins, the world continues to be transformed. Day has arrived, but this is no ordinary light. And it is but the precursor for something far more terrifying.

With the dawn, Faye Moanna finds herself a prisoner in one of the darkest dungeons created for man. To escape with her life, she may have to sacrifice a part of herself that can never be reclaimed: Her soul.

Meanwhile, new allegiances are formed between Dugan's band of mercenaries but betrayal lurks at every corner. And the power they seek, in the form of the Shaman, may prove not to save the world, but destroy it.

The thrilling Creation Series continues with Part Two: Let There Be Death, and as those fighting for mankind's survival will soon discover, death may be the option they long for.

** If new to The Creation Series you should start your adventure with Part One -- The Creation: Axis Mundi. **

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pricks Like Thorn Media
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781393211761

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

LET THERE BE DEATH

Chapter Three

"And God said, Let there be light: and there was light . . .

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night."

Genesis 1:3,5

Verse I.

The Earth Observer—NASA’s Earth Observing System (EOS) Project Science Office

EDITOR’S NOTE: This article is taken from nasa.gov. While it has been modified slightly to match the style used in the Earth Observer, the intent is to reprint it with its original form largely intact.

As part of an ongoing effort in measuring the anthropogenic impact on the Amazon ecosystem, satellite data has been interrupted in a thirty-mile radius within the Canaima National Park in South-Eastern Venezuela, a region known as the Gran Sabana. The Global Environmental Defense Administration (GEDA), utilizes satellite imagery to calculate the rate of deforestation, as well as monitor and track agricultural engineering and biosystem fluctuations within the Amazon Rainforest.

Anthony Rojas, Director of the Tropical Forest Program at GEDA, stated, While the rate of deforestation has slowed to a comparative crawl when looking back over past decades, we are dangerously close to reaching what might be considered a calamitous tipping point, caused by the Amazon emitting more carbon into the atmosphere than it absorbs, he explained. An ecological collapse of the Amazonian ecosystem is on par with the far-reaching effects of a global nuclear disaster, resulting in irreversible and catastrophic changes to our world climate—changes, mind you, that should be preventable. Being blinded as we are at this time to activities that could be taking place in this dark region in the Amazon is beyond worrisome; it’s the equivalent of the entire network of the NSAD (National Security and Defense) shutting down just prior to a potential terrorist attack.

According to scientists from NASA, the recent seismological activity in the region should have no bearing on the uplink of transmittable signals or frequency spectrums within the satellite communications systems. More testing and man-hours were being assigned.

NASA Earth Science in the News

Peter Lynch, NASA’s Earth Science News Team

Verse II.

The newly formed tabletop mountain in Southern Venezuela, recently named Tepui Byrd, was a geologic abomination, an abnormality in geomorphology. Smooth edges plummeted to the savannah below showing no signs of the erosion of sediment and sandstone over millennia that should have created such an impressive sight. Instead, the perimeter of cliff edges surrounding the radius of land propelled skyward were like the walls of a tower—impenetrable, and created for but one of two purposes: to keep people out, or keep people in.

The community of Venezuelans that made up the town of Santa Elena de Uairén now resided upon the top of Tepui Byrd, though its residents were largely unaware of the dramatic change. A few individuals experienced headaches caused by the sudden rise in elevation, others noticed a slight loss of breath. But most retired to their beds enraptured with the events of the evening—talk of the skirmish between the local policía and the Americans was on everyone’s tongue.

By the time the sun crested the lowest rise of Tepui Byrd the following morning, its presence was all but unnoticed, fauna and flora oblivious to its nurturing rays. For a new light had superseded the old, the source of which could not be found.

This new light simply was.

Plant life that existed beneath the dense canopy of trees, not needing the sun’s sustenance but leeching life from other foliage, now experienced light for the first time. Dark gulleys and shadowed landscapes were lit as if from within, a white light that bore no heat and had no source and was everywhere at once.

Of the hundreds of thousands of birds nested within the trees of the new tepui, every one of them lost its sight. The new light penetrated the nictitating membrane and cornea of their eyes, dissolving the thin layers of sclera and reaching the lens. Like a light bulb burning out, the photoreceptors consisting of rod and cone cells were overstimulated to such a degree that they went dark within minutes. Without vision, birds struck wildly into tree branches and trunks mid flight, broken necks and wings sending their ruined bodies to the jungle floor.

Boars and capybaras, tapirs and giant anteaters, cougars, mountain lions, a jaguar and its three cubs, a family of giant river otters, several dozen sloths, fifteen different species of monkeys, and thousands of snakes and lizards were all simultaneously blinded, along with every other mammal and reptile within the newly confined boundaries of the raised tepui.

A handful of illegal cattle ranchers, along with their livestock, woke to a sheen of pure light quickly replaced with complete darkness.

A permanent darkness.

Similarly, every man, woman, and child that happened to be outdoors—most due to the lack of a home from the devastating earthquake—was struck blind.

A curse, some muttered; a plague, said others, while a select few knew the source of this unnatural state, or at least believed they knew, uttering his name with fearful reverence.

The Shaman.

Verse III.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since Father Remmy Shumway had opened his gateway to another world, coming in the form of a needle, vein, and ample dose of diamorphine dissolved in a splash of water and fresh lemon juice. The locked chest in his quarters throbbed in the back of his head just as strongly as his broken arm—maybe more so, considering the one solution would resolve both of his pains.

Eat, drink, and be merry . . . for tomorrow we die, he thought, the scripture passing through his frontal lobe like a locomotive.

Only tomorrow, he realized, might finally be today.

Remmy had given up his bed for Momo, the oldest woman in town who had claim to not only grandchildren or great-grandchildren, but great-great-grandchildren. Many of her descendants slept in the adjoining assembly hall. The fact that in Venezuela fourteen-year-olds were often impregnated certainly helped in creating her vast progeny. Her raspy snore followed the movements of her thin bony chest.

Another dozen men and women lay on the tiled floor of Remmy’s quarters, children nestled between them, thin pieces of cardboard beneath to act as cushions. Families that had lost everything from the earthquake, everything but each other.

At least for the fortunate ones.

Every available square inch of the church had been converted into a temporary domicile for as many of the displaced families as they could fit within their brick borders. And all Remmy could think about was how badly he wished they would leave so he could throw open his chest and offer his forbidden prayers to the needle and flame that would remove his pain.

But there were other ways to dull pain. Other ways to forget.

Quietly he rose, stepping between bodies and limbs like a ballerina avoiding tripwire. Blood rushed to his arm which was bound in a makeshift sling consisting of torn shirts literally donated off the backs of two of the men now sleeping in the other room. Their generosity, however, did little to squelch the increased throbbing from his movements.

He turned the handle of the door, opening it just wide enough to slip through. Any further and it would have bashed against a slumbering girl curled on the other side. The young girl clutched a filthy dishtowel tightly in her arms. Not even a stuffed bear or animal to call her own.

The short hallway was filled with more bodies, a man stirring only to move to his other side, his head resting between someone else’s feet. A sob carried from somewhere down the corridor. A familiar sound. The tapestry that covered the opening to the church’s storage room hung askew. And beyond it, the body . . . the Englishman.

Sir Frederick William Francis.

Remmy shivered, despite the humidity in the hall. Combine the suffocating heat that always followed rainfall with the number of people in the church and it would be an atrociously warm day. They would need to move the body, the corpse, and quickly. Before the smell sunk into the walls.

He brought one hand out to pull the tapestry back when a voice spoke to him.

Wait.

His heart beat faster, the arrhythmia of his aged muscular organ causing him to take a step back. That voice—it hadn’t been his acolyte, Josué; Remmy knew the child’s voice almost better than his own. Had God finally decided to step from behind the curtain and accept Remmy as his servant? Was he ready to be His servant in more than just name?

Father?

Remmy’s eye twitched in response. He turned about, seeing a man standing opposite him in the hall. One of the Americans from last night, the cowardly one who had preferred staying at the church rather than heading back to the astronomer’s home.

The dead astronomer’s home.

Could showing respect be mistaken for cowardice?

I wouldn’t, the American said, Grey wasn’t it? There’s something you should see first.

Remmy’s arm pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. He had a stash of Zohydro hidden away in a rotted suitcase in the storage room. Ten times as strong as Vicodin. He supposed it would have to wait.

Slowly he made his way over to the younger man, accidentally stepping on an outstretched hand hidden beneath a thin wool blanket. Grey moved with equal fervor, pulling back the curtain separating the hall from the assembly room.

An inordinate amount of light seeped from the room into the hall. Like staring into a chrome bumper reflecting the sun’s glare.

What the devil?

Remmy passed through the curtain and had to shield his eyes. The stained glass windows set into the exterior walls had become open doorways to a portal of pure light. Families were huddled beneath blankets, children burying their faces in their parents’ laps. Two men in the far corner of the room began hammering nails into the wall, blankets lowered over the window behind it. If Remmy wasn’t mistaken, they were using several blankets layered together and still the wool glowed like the white screen of a television set.

It started about twenty minutes ago, Grey said. You didn’t hear the children?

Old age dulls first the sounds of children crying, Remmy said, without taking his eyes off the people in the room.

His people.

Has anyone gone out?

In this? I wouldn’t let them, Grey said.

Remmy nodded. His mind ran through possible scenarios of what could be causing such a phenomenon, coming up short with each one. At least until his mind deposited him into the realm of considering nuclear attacks, dirty bombs, or radioactive poisoning. But who in their right mind would target a little village like theirs? Unless it had something to do with Dugan and what his men had been doing.

He didn’t like where those possibilities lead.

There was a scratch at the front door, like fingernails running roughly over the wood, followed by a single thump.

Remmy gasped. Josué!

He pushed past Grey, forgetting momentarily about his injury until that jarring pain shot from his forearm all the way up to the crown of his head. And still he didn’t stop. Gently hurrying people out of his way. He had to get through.

Father, Grey shouted.

Remmy stepped over a body lying prostrate on the ground. He slept outside—the fool child!

Don’t open the door!

A shroud seemed to cover another section of the room as more blankets were lifted over another window, but all Remmy could think of was Josué—the child who had offered his bed, choosing to sleep outside to make room for one more. It was Josué who had inspired Remmy to open his own quarters to the displaced families of the earthquake. Inspired or guilted, though unintentionally.

The boy was the closest ensample of a true Christian Remmy had ever encountered, and it was no act. Remmy recalled walking into this church those seven years ago. Father Rosales had passed away but Rome had offered no replacement, and so the church had sat for months with only the rats and spiders to occupy its pews.

And a single forgotten child.

At six or seven, Josué had lived alone those several months in the church which consisted of just the assembly hall and one adjoining classroom at the time. There had been no one to notice he was missing. No one to care if he was gone. The church was both his home and prison, Josué unable to leave for fear of what others would do to him, especially with Father Rosales gone.

Remmy recalled meeting the child that first day, a child that looked and moved like an animal. His bones pressed against jaundiced skin, that dark birth mark covering his face like a blooming disease. Remmy had cried out in fright. And then the child’s words. Though Remmy understood little Spanish, especially back then, these were words he had heard before, words he knew well.

No me matas . . . No me matas.

Don’t kill me.

Something thudded against the outer door just as he made the last hurdle.

We don’t know what’s out there, Grey shouted.

"But I know who is out there. Remmy reached toward the handle. Cover your eyes! All of you! Cierren los ojos!"

Families nearest the door covered their children, realizing what he intended to do. He prayed the rest would join them.

Keeping himself behind the door, he opened it just a foot—enough space to let a thin fourteen-year old boy through. Even with his eyes shut and the solid door deflecting the open doorway, searing light slipped through the cracks, catapulting itself into his vision. The back of his eyelids was not the fleshy pink color you sometimes saw when presented with a bright light; this was an assault, the sun’s reflection off snow, blinding and brilliant. It sought him out with an intensity of purpose, as if it were an entity with its own will. He couldn’t help but feel a dark malignancy in that pursuit.

As he felt his eyelids begin to lift, not of his own volition but the surging glow accosting him, Remmy shoved his weight back against the door.

It barely moved.

He grunted, throwing everything he had at it, but felt a physical weight bearing down from the opposite side, growing stronger by the second. Not a body, not even Josué; somehow he knew this alien light wanted nothing more than to devour this room. The light hungered for them and, sensing a leak in the dam, desired to break it open, forcing an avalanche of awful whiteness.

A second body slammed into the door next to Remmy, the added force only preventing the door from opening wider.

Help us, Grey pleaded.

No translation was necessary. Eyes still shut against the metaphysical barrage, Remmy couldn’t see who joined them, but felt hands groping, shoulders pushing. It felt like an army was behind him, and still the boulder they pressed against barely budged.

At last the gap closed, the door settling into its frame. Remmy threw the deadbolt home, grateful the previous pastor had installed it, then let his head fall against the worn wood. Soft whimpering and voices trying to comfort came from behind.

Thank you, he said, to Grey, to those who had helped, to God maybe. He was never sure.

What was that? Grey said. It wasn’t a question.

Remmy turned from the door, opening his eyes. A screen of white blanketed everywhere he looked, like the aftermath of a strong camera flash. He hoped this too would fade.

Near the door, and sprawled across two bodies still hiding beneath blankets, was Josué. The child who had taught him to believe again. The boy had made it inside.

This time Remmy did thank God.

Josué, he said, bending down on one knee despite the pain of old bones. You’re okay?

Josué reached back, pushing off the bodies and turning to Remmy’s voice. I am wonderful, Father.

Remmy gasped for the second time that morning. It wasn’t the dark birthmark that infested the left side of Josué’s face that caused such a reaction, it was the child’s eyes.

They were completely white.

A pasty film covered the iris and pupil of both eyes, like a layer of scar tissue. Josué would never see again.

I think I saw God, Josué said with reverence.

A tear fell quickly down Remmy’s wrinkled face. My son, I believe you are right.

Verse IV.

Faye Moanna was enveloped in darkness.

The cowl pulled over her head kept her from catching even a glimpse of her surroundings. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, with men both in front and behind her. Their uneven footfalls echoed through the hall or chamber or wherever they were.

Something jammed into the small of her back, causing her to pick up her steps. For a moment at least. The rough flooring had constant catches and sudden gaps which made walking blindfolded a task requiring concentration. More than once she had brushed up against a wall, jagged edges pressing into her hand or arm just before the fall of a baton forced her back. She wondered, when they finally pulled the hood from her eyes, how much of her tattoo would be covered in a multi-hued collage of bruises.

A donde vamos?

Her captors never answered, regardless of whether she spoke English or Spanish. As for the alcalde, or head of this illegal operation, she had yet to hear from him since their arrival in this subterranean dungeon.

She trudged along, each step jarring. Exhausted, hungry and frightened. The rank smell of mildewed rags pulled from a forgotten load of laundry permeated even through the mask she wore. Or maybe it was because of the mask.

Her thoughts again turned to her father. Watching that smug Venezuelan bastard cut him down, the force of the bullets propelling Dugan backward.

Her father’s shock, as if he had really thought he would live forever.

A torrent of emotions overtook her, possessed her—emotions she never thought she would feel.

Not for him.

Hadn’t she come here to kill him herself? Why then did she feel so empty knowing he was gone? Was it the knowledge that she was finally alone in the world, without family? Or was it because she hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger?

A hand grabbed her, turning her ninety degrees, then shoved her forward. The second left in this twisting labyrinth.

Sweat dripped down the sides of her face, her arms, the small of her back. Wherever she was being led, she knew it might be her final resting place. Destined to become just another name on a list of missing tourists. Another reason to stay clear of third world countries; vacation close to home.

Her boyfriend, Donavon, wouldn’t come to her rescue. He’d try, maybe, but ultimately he’d decide she was dead before his search had begun. The famous action hero so many women swooned over was a pussy when it came down to it. A shame it had taken such extreme circumstances for Faye to uncover the truth about him. She wasn’t even sure if he would miss her before moving on to his next conquest.

Grey might organize a search, but he’d try to go the diplomatic route. Contact the authorities or, more likely, reach out to someone in the States. Who would you contact for something like this? The FBI? Homeland Security? It wouldn’t matter; by the time there’d be any traction—if there were any—she’d be long gone.

If only Sir William were still alive. Faye didn’t understand his connections or what the Englishman knew about this native her father had been chasing, but she felt confident the old astronomer would have been able to do something. He left far too many questions unanswered with his death. And what about this Indian her father had been after? This . . . Shaman. Would her father’s men give up the search with Dugan now out of the picture? Or would they come for him?

Faye was suddenly lifted off the ground from behind, one of the soldiers carrying her like a bride across the threshold of a honeymoon suite. Though this bride kicked and screamed.

The back of her head connected with a jaw and she was released, weightless for the brief second before she hit the ground. With her arms bound behind her, she hit hard, her chin knocking against rough stone. She came to rest against the jutting outcrop of a wall, the taste of blood in her mouth.

One of the men rolled her over then spit on her, the force of his loogie actually knocking her head back. She found herself oddly grateful for the cover on her face. The smell of the room was harsher than where they had travelled before, ripe with rot and decay.

Where am I? Donde estamos?

Her only answer was the long creak of a gate closing, bars rattling in place. The voices of her captors carried down the corridor, fading away.

A prison. But this wasn’t the same jail they had held the camera crew in when they had first arrived. This was a place people went to be forgotten.

Los Disparacidos.

The Forgotten Ones.

If she was going to stay alive she had to be useful, provide something they needed, or make them think she knew more than she did. That, or find this Shaman, and pray that if her father’s men came for him, they would let her go as well.

If he was being held in the same place as her.

As ideas began to form, her mind was struck as if with a physical force—screams echoed from down the corridor. Not just the cries of those in pain or the distress of torture, these wails were animalistic. Savage. The final throes of someone being ripped apart.

The voice went silent with a deafening finality, though the noises of