Despicable

By Timothy Bryan

     Kalisa Kinigi survived genocide as a child. Now, she struggles to make a life in Middle America, trying to overcome the emotional wounds of those unimaginably evil times.

     But something from that distant place has awakened, finding its way back into Kalisa's life and destroying everything she has tried to accomplish. A vicious creature lives on the edge of her everyday world, leaving shattered victims in its rampaging path as it comes ever closer to her broken family.

     To defeat this menace, Kalisa must try to unify her fractured relations, hoping that modern bonds of blood will be enough to overcome a wicked terror from her unsettled past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Bryan
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737907589

Book preview

DESPICABLE

By

Timothy Bryan

Copyright © 2022 by Timothy Bryan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form whatsoever or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 or for the inclusion quotations in an acknowledged review.

First published in the United States 2022

Printed in the United States of America

"Do not act as if you will live 10,000 years.

Death hangs over you. While you live, while

it is in your power, be good."

-Marcus Aurelius

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Chapter One

Western Front, France - 1916

Explosions of artillery blasts resounded in the distance, illuminating a dark skyline above the tortured hilly fields of Northern France. Orange blossoms of impacting artillery rounds burst on the horizon, causing a jarring backdrop to the field of battle and making it hard to determine the precise location of each detonating munition.

Because the explosions were some distance away from friendly trenches, that they were felt so close to allied forces was significant—they were of high caliber and meant to obliterate the enemy. Screeching rounds of deadly salvos continually arced towards the German adversary, surely causing them extensive casualties in their fortified redoubts.

To the near side of the front lines were a series of snaking trenches, and they streaked in various directions, twisting like earthen tentacles towards the rear of allied lines. Crouching soldiers scampered back and forth amongst the channeled soil, attending to their duties while trying to avoid the death that hovered over the stifling war zone.

Private Thomas Biddle trudged through one of the muddy and dank pathways, ducking as low as his spindly frame would allow. His youthful face was scared under the night’s flashing lights, and he struggled to control his breathing as he processed his fear. Though some distance from the immediate front, an errant counter-battery round from the enemy artillery could have found him at any time, ending his brief stay on earth.

Dying at such an industrial scale in the First World War meant such random deaths were common, and Thomas was well aware he wouldn’t be missed if that happened. He had already forgotten the names of many fellow soldiers that preceded him in death, usually without finding much of their bodies to bury afterward.

Stopping for a rest, Thomas took a moment to collect his thoughts. When he sneaked a glance over the parapet, he saw only distant flashes of stray lights and coils of smoke over the battered area of No-Man’s Land. Phalanxes of barbed wired stretched into that murky environment, as if they were signposts leading the way towards a distant and foreboding destiny.

Lowering his head, Thomas removed his helmet and rubbed his close-shaved hair with a frustrated sigh. He knew he wasn’t truly cut out for this type of work, and he hoped for the war and his place in it to soon come to an end. It wasn’t long ago when he was kicking the soccer ball around with his brothers, hoping to get a position at the local football club. Now, it seemed half of the boys he grew up with were dead or injured, while the other half would soon join them.

Replacing his head cover, Thomas contemplated the future while he tried to avoid hyperventilating. When he enlisted as a volunteer a year earlier, it had been in a show of fierce patriotism, as well as a desire to curry favor with hosts of adoring girls in his hometown of Birmingham.

Now, that idea seemed like the quaint action of a mad and foolish boy, one who would have been better served by returning home and living a peaceful life eating his mother’s delicious cooking.

Sighing, Thomas focused ahead and sprinted to the next trench, where his gaze fell upon the headquarters’ dugout. To either side of its sandbagged entrance stood an armed man, each holding a bolt-action rifle at the ready. Their grim expressions showed no inclination towards kindness as they peered at him.

Thomas paced toward the bunker, flashing a smile and a scrap of paper as he entered the dusty confines of the reinforced command area. Being a messenger in a war environment was not a long-lived profession, but it did allow for going where you are sent without restriction. He ducked down as he entered, letting his eyes adjust to the cramped interior of the British Forces Headquarters’ Unit.

Inside, the headquarters area was a tidy affair, considering its location and purpose. Chairs and a large table fought for space with officers and assistants going about their duty of administering a battle. Thomas moved his gaze about, looking for the target of his message.

Standing near several charts at a far wall, Colonel Patterson stared up at numerous units marked on the smudged contours of a strategic map. He was a balding and pudgy man in his forties, who from a distance could have been mistaken for a commonplace clerk in any stodgy firm in London. Closer up, however, his steely demeanor and piercing eyes showed a committed and icy professional, one who was rigidly attentive to his job.

Glancing over, Patterson noticed Thomas, who seemed lost in the sea of the headquarters’ staff.

Well, what do you have, Private? Patterson asked, his tone and bearing becoming impatient. We haven’t the whole war to wait for you.

Thomas nodded and scurried forward, holding out his note with a shaking hand.

Patterson softened his expression at the sight of the trembling soldier and gently took the message. Withdrawing reading glasses from a pocket, he set the spectacles on his bulbous nose. As he read the crinkled paper, his demeanor grew worried, and he rubbed his fingers over his scant mustache in a nervous gesture.

Glancing up, Patterson dismissed Thomas, who looked elated to be set free. Thomas departed the bunker entrance with a perfunctory salute, rushing back out amongst the loud and dangerous trenches.

Breathing deep, Patterson collected himself and walked determinedly from the room. He paced ahead through several dim tunnels, where dust puffed from the ceiling in concert with the distant artillery explosions.

Patterson walked past another guard, nodding at the rigid soldier as he made his way into a small office. The room was filled with communication equipment set upon a sturdy table, with all manner of radios and telephones filling up its surface. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, gently swaying with the insistent detonations of the far-off battle. Two soldiers were perched on chairs in front of it, talking into headsets with hushed tones.

Patterson leaned down to speak into the ear of one of the men, keeping his voice low.

Well, this is it, Lieutenant, said Patterson. We are a go for zero six hundred. May God have mercy on those poor bastards’ souls.

The lieutenant, a young man with an oily complexion, looked up at Patterson. His face was stern, but his features were mixed with a worried mess of contrasting emotions. Gulping, he merely nodded at the colonel.

#

Deep in the confines of the ground below the headquarters, another dusty room was occupied by two soldiers. Lamps hanging on the walls provided illumination to the dark area, throwing gently moving shadows around the underground space.

In this place, there were soil-hewn walls and a gaggle of wires running along the floors. Like some bizarre spider web, the cluster of mismatched cables exited the room in all directions.

At a table in the middle of the primitive room sat Sergeant Blakeley and Corporal Evans. Seated across from one another, each stared ahead with a worried grimace, like they were unsure if they should be there.

Glancing down, they focused on two detonators on the crude tabletop. Wires ran from the simple electrical initiators, joining a jumble of connections on the walls and floor.

Blakely held up a pocket watch, staring at its cloudy face in the dim light. The time was 5:59, with the second hand ticking its way towards the top of the hour. Blakely was well into middle age, but his furrowed and sweaty brow made him look older still, as if the impending events were accelerating his slide into advanced age.

Corporal Evans watched him from the other side of the table, his younger face a combination of boisterous youthfulness and trepidation.

As the watch hand ticked ever closer to its goal, Evans’ eyes flitted from it to the initiator. He licked his lips, nervously anticipating what came next.

Nodding, Blakely grabbed one of the detonators, and he motioned for Evans to grasp the other. When the timepiece reached its predetermined mark, the soldiers twisted the plungers in precise coordination.

A cacophonous and dreadful explosion shook the room, roiling it for an extended time. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, and for a worrying moment, the men feared the area would collapse upon them. The magnitude of the eruption was fierce and frightening, as if hell itself had decided to unleash its traumatizing vengeance on the world.

After some time, the sounds and dust died down, and the room resumed its formerly calm appearance. Evans had an exhilarated expression, and he glanced triumphantly up to Blakely, hoping for his excitement to be mirrored in his companion. A superficial grin crossed Evans’ face.

As the choking air cleared, Blakely met Evans’ gaze, but it wasn’t elation that the younger man saw in the sergeant; instead, it was crushing sadness.

#

Wisps of acrid smoke drifted up the ridgeline, partially obscuring the heights of numerous hills in the otherwise calm and frosty morning. The churned and broken soil that surrounded the base of the ascending terrain was marred by upturned foliage and scattered barbed wire.

Cast throughout the field below the higher ground were a multitude of bodies and broken equipment. Limbs and portions of decomposing soldiers were draped among the shell holes and husks of shattered trees in the apocalyptic scene.

The blood and dark soil in the shredded uniforms of the deceased made it difficult to determine which color of soldierly clothing they wore. Appropriate for their common end in the violent backdrop, the dead were now part of the same brotherhood of fallen warriors, without need for patriotism or nationality.

A squad of ten British soldiers carefully picked its way through the landscape. Stepping gingerly to avoid noise or detection, they approached the bottom of a misty hill, one that was recently swarming with their enemies.

Corporal Henderson peered up into the early day’s light, an apprehensive scowl dominating his face. He was a fit fellow with sharp eyes, intent on surviving his stint on the front lines. He focused into the shrouding mist and gestured for his men to begin the long advance up the precarious terrain.

Behind him, his men were equally cautious, and they swiveled their heads and rifles, ready to engage any potential enemies as they trudged over the slippery grass and sharp rocks. Their advance was slow and methodical as they worked their way through the swirling fog and up the steep, sodden ground.

Ahead, the haze partially drifted aside to allow for an orderly view of the top of the hill. Henderson stopped abruptly, leveling his Lee Enfield rifle at a series of figures facing them.

A trench ran along the top of the ridge, facing out over the advancing soldiers in a perfect defensive position. Situated in the recess of their ditch stood fifteen German soldiers, upright and staring uselessly into the morning sun. The mining operation had upended the entirety of their defending breastworks, crushing them where they stood and leaving their corpses to stand watch over the advancing allied soldiers.

Henderson lowered his weapon and motioned to the macabre sight.

Poor buggers, Henderson says. They never saw the end coming.

Each of his soldiers nodded, panning to stare individually at the dead men. The solemnity of the occasion didn’t last long, however, and Henderson quickly motioned for them to proceed farther into the advance. One by one, they passed the remains of the German trench, leaving the upright corpses behind as they advanced farther into enemy lines.

Soon, the British soldiers had moved past the grim ditch and were lost from sight, fading into the ever-present fog that shrouded this region. After their passing, the burgeoning day was again quiet.

Suddenly, at the far end of the ditch, one of the dead men began to move. Strangely, his body began to squirm about, as if he had learned a new dance in the loose soil. The bizarre shuffling of the crushed soldier continued for some time.

Except, the man was still dead, and his body began to crack and gyrate with some strange force. With the rending of flesh and the cracking of his bones, the German soldier was pulled into the earth, disappearing entirely into the fractured soil.

Down the line of the former trench, the same process was repeated for many of the other dead men. In succession, several more were yanked into the earth, their bodies disappearing under the trench system after partaking in the same shuffle of death.

In time, only a few cold men were left to continue their lifeless overwatch of the remote French countryside.

Chapter Two

Reno, Nevada - Present Day

The bright casino was lively and loud in the late evening hours. Crowds of boisterous gamblers shouted throughout the gaming area as they tried to overcome prodigious mathematical odds, while other celebrants focused on getting drunk as they enjoyed subsidized alcohol from always-open bars to the side of the expansive gaming pits and tables.

Nods and smiling faces filled the smoky air of the raucous establishment, creating an addictive and entertaining ambiance. Most of the smiles were from booze-induced drunkenness, but the environment was nevertheless friendly, provided one had the money and inclination to play.

At a noisy craps table, an edgy gamer threw his dice, then screamed at the results in broken dismay. Elsewhere, players at various other tables recoiled at the turn of an unlucky card or the clack of a roulette ball falling into the wrong slot.

The chaotic scene was bankruptcy writ large, where predetermined negative outcomes were sold to aspiring players as their chance to gain wealth—and have fun doing it. As with all easy promises, the results were usually less pleasant.

Banks of slot machines angled in every direction, and flashing signs of huge dollar figures promised jackpots to the pensioners and working-class people who roamed near the beeps and whistles of the slots. Unfortunately, these were the players least equipped to absorb financial losses in pursuit of a big payday, and faraway stares from newly destitute gamblers were distressingly common.

At one particular slot machine, far removed from the busy mobs, a young woman stared at the stopped reels of her machine. Kalisa Kinigi stewed in emotions of shame and anger as her eyes locked on the credit total, which read 0.

Kalisa was in her mid-thirties, black, and attractive, but she had the demeanor of someone who didn’t hold back when she enjoyed something. In the case of slot machines, that wasn’t a virtue.

Shit, Kalisa said, and she leaned closer to the brightly colored screen, as if doing so would make her missing credits return.

Kalisa smacked the slot several times, punctuating each slap with a throaty curse.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck.

To her side, an old lady gave Kalisa a disapproving frown, wriggling her aged nose at the explosion of vulgar language. Kalisa dropped her gaze from the woman, plumbing new depths of embarrassment as she dug her wallet from her messy purse.

When she was rewarded with an empty cash compartment, Kalisa lowered her head and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. Fuck, not again. It’s the same, every time. I’m such an idiot.

Kalisa looked up to scan the casino, acting as if her losses were expected. Collecting her player’s card from the machine, she headed to the ATM, which lay close