On a Black Horse: Book 1 of the Devil’s Bible Series

By KT Thompson

In the Before Time, a psychotic billionaire, intent on creating a master race, unleashes a biological weapon that destroys an unsuspecting world. As millions die, he escapes through a deal with the devil, leaving a few desperate survivors behind to rebuild a world seared clean by plague.

A century later, a new order has risen. Izrel, a savvy young thief, must mind her place as a low-level Grymer—those who survived the plague without gaining powers—in a world dominated by powerful humans, horrific hybrid monsters, and vicious gods. Izzy soon discovers she’s being stalked by a mysterious guard named Greywolf. He is a Magnifica, the new race Grymers serve, but he has been sent to protect her ahead of a supernatural war. Together, they must find an ancient Bible with a doorway to hell before a dark evil rises to destroy what remains of the human race.

In this postapocalyptic novel, a young woman races against a malevolent force to find a possessed manuscript and save her people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483434155

Book preview

Nails

CHAPTER 1

The Fight

The room was shrouded in darkness. A young girl’s skinny legs kicked off her thin blanket. She set her feet onto the cold floor. Shivering and yawning wide in the predawn stillness, the girl tugged on a pair of homespun pants, using a piece of rope for a belt. The deep, regular snores from a half-dozen bodies around her did not alter. Izzy held her breath as she slipped on her older brother’s cast-off shirt. It was sour from sweat. Her nose wrinkled.

Need to sneak off and bathe tonight, she thought. She looked around in the darkness for her bag. She swung it over her shoulder, cinching it down as she crept across the room. Noiselessly, she entered the hallway of the common house. She passed the closed doors of other family rooms. No one stirred. She pushed open the tin-sheet front door, her hand avoiding the jagged tacks on its surface with graceful familiarity, and stepped outside into the gloom.

Izzy’s communal house was one of six forming a ring around a dirt courtyard. Izzy paused on the front porch, letting her eyes adjust. The moon was nearly down but still illuminated clumps of pale weeds and bits of broken farm equipment. Behind this stretched a gray dirt road that wandered out of the cluster of homes into a dense stand of trees. Here the road joined up with many others.

Izzy hesitated for a moment on the weathered stoop. The neighboring houses were friendly enough in the daylight, but moonlit shadows now twisted their wooden faces. Windows became gaping eyes; the porch below, a sagging, angry mouth. She turned her back on them, ignoring the hair prickling up on her neck, and crossed the dirt yard. She walked up the road into the velvet dark.

Izzy wrapped her long braid with a piece of cloth as she gazed up and down a jumble of shacks lining the narrow dirt road. She looked identical to every other little Grymer child in the Burroughs, with one exception: the bright-red hair that fell nearly to her waist.

No need to advertise my defect, she thought. There was no self-pity in the thought.

Izzy’s sharp ears picked up a soft clatter of distant bells. It was joined by muffled thumps of cattle hooves. Several rough voices split the early-morning air, and Izzy turned and dived for cover. At eight years old, it was all instinctual by now, learned behavior. And she was very good at it. Her father, Sann, saw to that.

Sann knew poor, and Sann knew work, and from the moment the midwife laid his tiny daughter in the arms of her mother, Lily, Sann knew that Izzy’s red hair was trouble. He watched the old woman wipe the slime from the baby’s face and heard her sudden hiss of shock. A tender fuzz of carrot sprouted from Izzy’s head. The midwife glared up at the young mother. Lily stared back in confusion. The women bent over the child together, and the exhausted mother burst into tears, shaking her head.

Sann caught the gist of their concern. He waited, arms crossed over his barrel chest while sitting in the wooden chair pulled up to the narrow table. The wrinkled nurse nodded solemnly, whispering through rotten teeth and patting the mother’s hand.

It’s all you can do. There, there, Momma. Now don’t argue. You know it’s for the best.

Lily sobbed as the old woman solemnly gathered up the baby with her bag of medical supplies. Sann let her get up, splotches of color deepening on his cheeks. He knew what the midwife was planning. There was a section of deep woods behind the row of shacks; she would dump the baby there on her way home. It was common practice to dispose of a child who was cursed.

Let the forces of the night take care of the problem, Sann imagined the hag would whisper later with her gaggle of gossips, their wet lips pursing over their stained cups. Child number four for Lily, so hardly a loss. Sann could picture it easily; they would chuckle and giggle and mock his beautiful wife and the grief that racked her thin, wasted shoulders.

A second vision drifted through his mind like oily smoke, tightening his chest. He saw a midnight forest, crisp black shadows bisecting the moonlit ice and snow. A baby was tucked into the soft, murderous drifts. A baby cooing and whimpering, tiny fists innocent of lines … bewildered and dying … utterly alone …

The hell you will! Sann roared. He stepped in front of the midwife.

What? she squawked, her bloodshot eyes bulging.

You ain’t leaving that baby in the snow for the animals, you old witch. Hand ’er over and get out!

Well! I … I was just trying to help. You don’t need—

Sann wasn’t interested in what the old hag had to say. I can understand crippled beyond help, Sann thought. It was tragic, of course. No Grymer could survive long if he or she couldn’t pull his or her own weight. But red hair? Destroy a child for having red hair? Stupid excuse to kill a baby, he spat, just ’cause it’s a girl or got a birthmark or somethin’. That’s some blackhearted shit. Now get out. Go! He threw a small leather bag clanking with coins through the doorway into the blackness.

The midwife opened her puckered mouth, but Sann’s look shut it again. With a snort like an old cow, she dumped the baby back into her mother’s lap, snatched up her bag, and stomped out of the hovel.

Sann yanked the sheets of tin over the doorway behind her as he fumed. Not in my house! We ain’t following down the same track as the Tuckers. His eyes were flint, unyielding. Not in my house, Lily. You hear?

She wasn’t … it’s not … that reason for it, Sann. Lily’s tears streaked through the grime on her face. The Tuckers didn’t want another girl. That was horrid. No justification to kill it. I know! But, Sann, please. Her voice broke into wet sobs. You know that they’ll be looking for any excuse to … Red hair is just so … Don’t you think the midwife was right? Don’t you think it’s more humane?

Sann was on her in two steps, snatching her hair in his fist and pulling her face up to his. We don’t think like that, Lily. That’s council crap. His voice lowered to a hard whisper in her ear. "That’s Mourwrath talk."

Her face crumpled. Sann dropped onto the bed next to her, releasing her hair and throwing a huge arm behind her thin shoulders. He held her and the infant close as his voice became low and soothing.

She’s fine. She’ll be fine. The council can enforce some things, but they wouldn’t touch something as silly as red hair. They left the Kales’ son alone, and that birthmark covers his whole face.

In the end, Sann cut the cord with as much care as he could, considering the drunken stupor he had managed to arrange for himself, and named the baby on the spot.

Izrel. It was an ancient name that meant marked for greatness.

And so she was.

The young girl remained part of the family, to grow as wild as any weed could be expected. Her father’s hope was that the red hair would fade in time, and it did to some degree, but only to a deeper hue of auburn and not enough to stop the village hags from driving their forked fingers at her whenever she passed.

In no time, Izzy had figured out that her existence depended on her ability to dodge danger, creep silently through the night, and remain as inconspicuous as possible—despite the color of her hair. As soon as she could walk, she had learned to hide from kicking feet and cursing lips. A quick study, she had grown strong and tough despite the most persistent forces aligned against her. She did not need to learn her lessons twice.

Yet the gods had not been completely without concessions. For one, Izzy was a skilled and efficient scrounger. She was always honing her skills, and this morning was no exception. She slipped behind a stack of oak barrels by the side of the road and waited for the sounds of the Grymers driving their cattle to fade away. She rested comfortably on her heels as a gaggle of seamstresses passed by on their way to the mill. Her bare feet made no sound as she stood up and traced her familiar route into town. No one noticed her. It was easy for her to move like a ghost.

She had stumbled upon this talent out of desperation. Meals were few and far between, and many of her days were marked by long periods of hunger. Her family wasn’t deliberately trying to starve her, but she was, after all, one of six children, and there was a long ladder of mouths to feed. Often, by the time the bread or bits of meat had been passed around the table, her plate was mostly empty. So Izzy had quickly learned to rummage through the rubbish behind the stores and huts of the Burroughs. The community didn’t waste much, but she occasionally found a few scraps here and there: bread too moldy for the others to eat or vegetables that had begun to rot. If luck was with her, a sympathetic shopkeeper might toss her a stale piece of something instead of chasing her away. She knew from a very early age—it took being on the receiving end of only a few sharp boot kicks—to avoid the well-dressed townspeople and stick to her own digs.

She’d learned from the other kids at the dump where they played that there were a few soft touches in town. A kid who remembered his place but hung out in a quiet corner might just get something tossed at him every once in a while.

A wrinkled old man passed candy out to the children sometimes down at the dump. Izzy had been afraid when he’d called out to her, My word! Look at that carrot top; that’s some hair! But his face had pulled into a wide smile as she’d struggled to yank her hood up, hot with embarrassment. The old man had laughed. Oh no, them carrot tops … they’s lucky! Lordy yes! Don’t let no one tell you different, girlie! And he’d tossed her a sweet, like any other kid.

Sann had lectured her about talking to bums, but no one in the town minded Candyman, even with his filthy black pants and wild hair. It was an open secret the strange old man also covertly left larders of food for poor but proud parents in the dead of night. Unfortunately for Izzy’s stomach, his appearances were few and far between.

And when nothing else was available, there were always the trash heaps that rimmed the western part of the village, where the edge of the Wastes spread to the horizon. The pickings there were even slimmer than in town—only an occasional bone that had already been cracked and boiled—but even that was some comfort when nothing else could be found.

Izzy’s quick feet carried her to the back of a low, concrete building. She crouched in its shadow, shivering as the clear light of dawn crept over the distant edge of the earth. A feathery wisp of cloud spread across the sky, turning pink as the daylight caught hold. The warm, fragrant aroma of fresh-baked bread enveloped her. She was quiet and patient. It was not long before she heard what she was waiting for.

Oy, oh, oy, oh! It’s a bonnie day, oh such a bonnie day …

The rear door of the bakery banged open, puncturing the man’s song as he emerged from the shop, his hulking frame filling the doorway. His massive paws clutched a metal bowl full of steaming wastewater, which he emptied out onto the sand behind the building, swinging the pan in a wide arc. The water splattered against the dirt as it splayed out, and although Izrel had positioned herself away from where she knew it would land, she felt the steam dampen her chilled face.

She caught his eye as she hid, small and forlorn, in the gloom. The song snagged in the man’s throat.

Oh … you again. His voice was hard and gruff. After a few seconds of hesitation, the man fished into the pocket of his ragged apron and pulled something free.

Well, get off ’ere, you! Move on then! he snapped. He slammed the door behind him but not before tossing the fresh loaf at her feet.

She snatched it up eagerly and started running before the other beggars who were out and about could steal it from her. She wasn’t the only hungry Grymer in the Burroughs.

Clutching her treasure to her chest, she ran up a narrow dirt trail. She knew the dumps were usually abandoned this time of day. She worked her way along the row of shops, toward the outskirts of town.

The buildings began to thin, and the stretches of sandy soil between them grew wider. The path pulled suddenly off to the left, plunging between gray mounds of rubbish heaped against the thin blue sky and the desolate wilderness of the Wastes beyond it.

As she reached the trees that framed the western edge of the dump, a bitter wind whistled through them. She shivered, grateful that the morning sun was coming up bright and clear. It would warm her bones soon enough.

Good, she thought as she cautiously skirted the dump. There was no one in sight. A large, spreading pine grew a short distance uphill from the edge of the ruins, as if stretching up and away might one day save it from becoming part of the smoldering pile of trash. It was Izzy’s favorite spot.

Hello, old friend.

She settled into a familiar seat, a cradle formed by the roots at the base of the tree. She relaxed her narrow back against the broad trunk and set in to enjoy her good fortune.

She had barely sunk her teeth into the crust when she stopped and froze, listening. Even before she heard them, she sensed them. She smelled them. Three of them.

Dogs.

Wild dogs.

She had heard Sann curse these mangy parasites that hung around the edges of the village many times. They were a nuisance, threatening the livestock and picking off whatever they could snatch. They would lure a good farm dog into the woods and kill it. The Grymers threw things at them if they got too close, and killed them when they could. They were nothing more than pests.

But to Izzy with her gift of bread, they were something worse. They were monsters.

They were quick, with hairy haunches and bony ribs jutting out grotesquely from their sides. When they drew back their lips in a snarl, they exposed vicious yellow shards of broken teeth.

They turned their heads simultaneously as they approached, their eyes a flat, alien yellow. The pit of Izzy’s stomach turned to ice.

Another gust blew off the Wastes, lifting the hairs on their necks and filling Izzy’s nostrils with their wet, sour odor. Their soft paws made little sound on the sandy loam. One of the dogs limped. His withered leg dangled grotesquely against his gaunt body, the red fur clotted with pus.

The dogs stopped in unison, ten paces before her, their eyes fixed on the loaf of bread. Her hands, clutching it, grew slick.

The dogs stared at her blankly. Izrel stared back. Despite the chill hanging in the air, a light sheen of sweat dampened her back.

Dump it! Throw it! Izzy thought frantically … miserably. They’ll follow it, and then you can run! They only want the bread!

The dogs waited. Izzy wasn’t the first Grymer to toss her breakfast to the dogs and run.

Izzy’s hands did not move. The big pale dog in the middle took a deliberate step forward. Come on … ain’t got all day, his yellow eyes seemed to say.

Throw it! Do you want to get torn apart? What are you doing? The warning voice in Izzy’s head sounded an awful lot like her mother. But she was distracted from her fear by something else: the low growl of hunger from her belly. She’d had a really bad run lately. This would be her first real meal in four days. She looked down at her bread and was no longer afraid. She was mad.

Izzy gripped the loaf with dirty fingers, squeezing it tightly into her chest, her knuckles turning white.

The big dog in the middle watched her, his golden eyes wide and unblinking. His hair was rough, rumpled, and a pale dead-grass color. Crusts and scabs dotted his head and legs and ringed his crinkled, twisted ears. He was the largest of the pack, nearly as large as Izrel herself. Izrel’s childish terror, as real and sharp as a knife, guessed the monster’s thoughts. Okay, baby girl, its golden stare said to her. I can take it just as easy. Your choice.

Izzy’s gaze shifted from the big pale dog to the darker, smaller pack mate at its shoulder. It was leathery and hairless, except for a bristle of black fur along its spine. Its jaw dangled open, clear slime dripping from a lolling pink tongue into the dirt. One of its eyes was missing. A sharp whine rose from its throat.

Izrel remained still. Only her hand moved as she lowered it onto the dirt beside her leg. Searching with her fingers, her eyes still locked on the black dog’s scarred face, her fingernails scraped along the ground. A sharp pain shot through her hand as she ran up against something solid. She wrapped her trembling fingers around the object and tightened her grip as the leathery black dog took one step forward, its whine growing louder.

The jagged rock slipped out of her sweating palm. You idiot! She fumbled frantically to retrieve it, grabbed it again, and worked it back up into her palm where she squeezed it tightly. Her stomach growled. The black dog dropped its head to one side, listening.

It took another step.

The red dog with the withered leg moved forward a step and then dropped his head and froze in place. The big pale leader in the middle took two steps and stopped. Izrel remained focused on the black dog’s face as if the others weren’t there. In Izzy’s imagination the pale dog’s sneer was as clear is if it spoke. Oh, baby doll, I’m the one you should be watching!

The pale dog sprang. The two at its shoulders dropped down on their front legs, slinking forward, jostling for position, ready to leap forward to tear her apart once the pale dog had made its kill.

Without shifting her gaze, Izrel threw back her wiry arm and whipped it out like a sling, hurtling the rock through the thin morning air. It struck with a sickening thud, slamming hard against the pale face of the leader, right at the soft spot between the beast’s two hardened eyes.

The dog howled, a bitter, shocked sound, and fell back on its haunches. The others leaped back at the sound of its cries, suddenly terrified. With one fluid movement, their emaciated bodies flexed and arched gracefully as they spun and ran, ragged tails tucked beneath their bellies.

For a moment, Izzy remained frozen, unable to process what had just happened. Her breath came in painful gasps that she fought to slow. The thudding pulse that filled her head began to quiet. She wiped her slimy palms against her pants.

They’re gonna turn. They’re gonna realize it’s only me and turn around again … and get me …

But the pack continued to grow smaller against the horizon until they were lost in the morning haze.

Gone.

Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet. Still shaking, a new thought struck her. You turned them back. She had won. Go on, you big fat chicken monsters … run back to your mommas! A triumphant voice sang in her head. ’Cause you tangled with the wrong redhead today!

She stood at the base of the tree for several minutes, savoring the feeling. It was hot in her belly, a rush she’d never experienced before —never even expected to experience—and it left a new taste in her mouth. It was utterly unfamiliar, but she liked it.

It was the taste of power.

Her small heels made deep imprints in the loam as she searched for her lucky rock. It was easy to spot, black with threads of green and gold running through it. Her fingers were steady when she picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.

You never know when you might need it.

She sat back onto the roots of the tree, now a grand throne made of wood and dirt. The wind shifted, chasing away the vapors of the dump and bringing a sweet smell from a nearby clump of cedars, and she reached once again into her pocket.

Her breakfast was delicious.

CHAPTER 2

The Year of the Great Reckoning

And when the lamb broke the first seal, the lion-like creature said, Come. And I saw, and behold, a white horse, and he that sat on him had a bow, and a crown was given unto him, and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

—Codex Gigas

Fifty-nine years earlier, at the end of the Before Time

The flaccid, balding older man clicked through the channels with disgust. There were over a thousand of them, and all of them were garbage.

On a news channel a breathless bimbo gushed on endlessly about the lunar eclipse. More than four hundred years had passed since a total eclipse had occurred on a winter solstice. Toss in a full moon, and the conspiracy people were going crazy. She thought it was very interesting and perhaps a cause for concern.

Don’t you think it’s a cause for concern, Senator? the woman asked the impeccably dressed black man with the bored expression. Not a hair of the perfect blonde helmet on her head moved as she gestured.

Religion and superstition, still the opium of the masses, the man thought. The rapidly changing pictures flashed splotches of color across his pale face. It was a slack face, deceptively ordinary. Only the eyes, deeply set and a washed-out blue, belied the sharpness buried there.

He was a very smart man. He owned many things.

The flicking images smoothed out as Frank Doors paused on another channel. The obligatory spooky music; wide camera sweeps; clip after clip of the Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center, and the pyramid on the dollar bill. Must be another documentary on the Illuminati, Frank thought. He watched—dull, uninterested, but habitually categorizing every fact presented on the screen in his brain.

The Statue of Liberty is actually the Goddess Ishtar … and Rockefeller was a free mason, the narrator droned. And few are aware that the mystical number seven features predominately in every aspect of the Washington monument …

Frank absorbed the information instantaneously, like the human computer he was. It was as natural to him as breathing, more natural then sleeping, and he did very little of that these days. He appreciated the distraction, since the phone call earlier had left an odd taste in his mouth.

That Illuminati stuff always cracked him up.

Frank knew that the greatest urban myths always held a kernel of truth. Founded in the 1700s by a group of bored,