Dark Gods

By Timothy Goodwin

Dark Gods is the Culmination in the Darkness Within Trilogy; Darkness in the forms of demons and aberrations, covers the eastern seaboard, and New York is finally hit and thrown into a battle between the millitary and demons of Alacha, while young heroes  are forced to fight in the Crimson Echo, where evil versus evil, and the winner inherits dominion over the planet..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Goodwin
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224765737

Book preview

BOOK THREE

DARK GODS

Book Three of the Darkness Within Trilogy

Chapter One

Death of the World

1

I

t was almost 2 pm. Detrick sat before a wide desk in a reclining swivel with a computer and video-cam trained on him. His legs were up on the desk, crossing one over the other, to the left-side of the 32-inch flat-screen monitor and keyboard. He was alone in a supposedly impenetrable chamber aboard the USST Interceptor, which required a key-card, iris-check, and hand-print to gain access. His shirt was down to the third button, and although it was only sixty-two degrees in the chamber, he was perspiring heavily. If he had a heart-attack while in the chamber, only three people left alive at Central, and one person off-ship could open the room to save him. He had a bottle of Yukon Jack and a shooter next to the keyboard to his right; next to this lay his firearm, a modified version of the SP-11, streamlined to fit in his holster.

Detrick was feeling a little rough around the edges, having slept maybe six hours in the past two days.

This is Commander Detrick, USSTU, he said, following the initialization of the com. Aboard the USST Interceptor, off the coast of Nantucket at 1400 hours. Code DW-4, this is Report 7, Subject File: Project Black; sub/file: Mission Alpha.  This Report, File, and sub/file are Code 7-1—for eyes only, 446; any other personnel observing this file without proper authorization, will be subject to immediate termination."

Detrick stopped momentarily to fill his shot-glass and hammer it down.

"Anomalies and/or Aberrations have infiltrated the entire Eastern Coast Seaboard. At this time there have been sightings in Canada, Connecticut, and New York. Operation Containment, Red Flag, and Triage, have been initiated. President of the United States, William Holtz is secure in the NORAD facility. We are currently at Defcon-Four.

All but two members of Alpha Group are either dead, critically injured, or MIA. Gamma and Rogue Groups have been dispatched to try and contain Tesla, and retrieve any more survivors.

A civilian, Pamela Dempster, was attacked by an Aberration prior to Dust-off in Tesla. She was infected by the Aberration. The incubation to transformation was thirty minutes. Fifteen members of the crew were killed before the demon could be brought down. All other civilians are under close observation. There wasn’t enough tissue left of the late Mrs. Dempster to analyze. And the only consensus that the Specialists can agree on is that the Aberration is sulfur-based—not carbon. There has been no indication to determine whether or not the Aberration has DNA worth questioning. All that’s known at this time is that the Aberration is one tough motherfucker...but, it can be killed. N2 seems to be the most affective way of eradicating the creature; however after contact with the liquid-nitrogen, the Aberration literally disintegrates."

Detrick took another swig of whiskey.

"Testimonies from the civilians have stated that the Primary Aberration—which has been labeled, Wolf-wraith, is not the only Aberration that causes infection and transformation. The Secondary Aberration—quaintly referred to as Demon-wasp, also infects its prey; transforming them into still another Aberration, recognized as...gravers.

Steps are currently being taken in an attempt to retrieve tissue samples from the Demon-wasps and/or gravers.

Recordings and statements from Alpha Group have revealed isolated craters, with the nature of spacio-rifts, or...wormholes. People go in, but they don’t come out. Transmissions have been lost by those falling victim to these craters.

Two of the Anomalies have appeared in Tesla, Sanford, Springdale, and Rochester, Maine; others have appeared in Redfield, New Hampshire. From the craters more Aberrations emerge. Main and New Hampshire are currently under quarantine, and only specific satellite-feed is beamed to the local news stations that are monitored by the CIA."

Another hammer of whiskey, and Detrick continued.

"At this time there seems to be no way of stopping the Aberrations without inflicting collateral-damage.

If containment cannot be assured in the aforementioned states, Operation: Fire and Ice will be initiated. This will involve launching seven precision tactical nuclear and N2 devices, yielding no less than 15 megatons respectively to designated targets.

I need not belabor the obvious what this will mean for the targeted states.

The Aberrations are a disease—infecting and/or killing all that they come in contact with. If the disease cannot be stopped, it will have to be eradicated, without prejudice.

This may very well be the beginning of the end as we know it.

According to scripture, life was supposed to end with fire. And it still may at that. But if the incontrovertible occurs, the end will begin with a second ice-age, and may God be with all those who survive.

This is Commander Detrick, USSTU, of the USST Interceptor, signing off..."

2

––––––––

I

t would seem that even in the gravest of horrors there can—and usually does—exist irony. And sometimes...only sometimes, can such irony by fortuitous. Reality, at its best, is often times fickle, and too many times it can be downright cruel in its machinations. While irony can sometimes be found directly related in nature to the situation at hand, other times it can be found in certain positions of people, or places, or even in the outcome of a fundamental purchase—initially intended for one purpose, and yet found later to serve as a purpose of safety, or even salvation.

This then was irony at its finest: several months ago Stephen Traxinger purchased a Lamborghini Diablo. A month following this purchase, he had the vehicle custom-painted; a combination of cherry-red and blue-electric flake; so often times the car looked to be one color or another, or even black with a blue-red aura. Following the paint-job, Stephen had removed—and either sold, or gave to the Goodwill, all the items that were in the attic—out of the house. Almost immediately following this activity, Stephen purchased $1600.00 in wood and building supplies, with the idea of either turning the basement or the attic—or possibly both, into a small bar, dance-hall, and/or game-room.

This wouldn’t happen. Instead, the lumber that was purchased would serve another purpose; that which is usually found in the images portrayed in classic horror movies, where the characters find themselves in the obligatory situation; a situation that involves the boarding of doors and windows, to prevent whatever it is outside from getting in.

Four hours prior to Detrick’s report the young women that lived in the house of Stephen Traxinger were boarding up the windows of the house, using wood and planks brought down from the attic. This was no mean-feat, considering that there were more than thirty windows in the house. But the women working together—upstairs and downstairs simultaneously, they were able to get the work done in under two hours. A handful of Nhei’hari had interrupted the work of the women—crashing through the windows that hadn’t yet been attended to, however they were taken care of by firepower that was now carried by each of the women. Following lock-down Stephen got the animals together and put them in carrying cages. While two coolers were filled with food for the purpose of traveling. The idea was to get the hell out of Dodge. Head to some place else—possibly New Hampshire. Or even Canada, if it came to that.

The news had been turned on, as Stephen was trying to see if there was some sense to be made with what was happening concerning the darkness and the mutant wasps from hell. A Special Bulletin was shown on most of the channels during lockdown. It wasn’t about the mutant wasps from hell, rather it was something else entirely. The Bulletin was footage of an incident that occurred about twelve miles from where Stephen and the women were now—right by Shaw’s shopping-center. The one responsible for the footage chose to remain anonymous, and after seeing their footage it was understandable why. The camera-work showed an accident that had taken place involving seven bikers and a Firebird. But the bikes and the car were not the cause of the accident. Rather instead it was a rift, six-feet wide; that appeared in the street and stretched the width of the pavement. The accident was grisly to say the least, but what occurred after the accident—round about the time the emergency vehicles arrived, was far worse.

Something came out of the rift in the street. Something unimaginable. It was formless, and yet had form, and what it touched seemed to dissolve on contact. That was all that was revealed before the feed to the news suddenly went out. But what was seen by those available to view it—those who weren’t upstairs during lockdown, was enough to chill their bones in such a manner that they hardly believed conceivable. Suddenly Stephen needed a cigarette. In fact, all those who smoked—Megan, Christina, and Doreena, all needed a smoke.

Is this the end of the world? Christina finally asked. Did science finally cross the threshold into oblivion? Did some smart-boys in a lab open up a door to another dimension?

As crazy as it may have sounded, there was also a nature of plausibility in Christina’s words. It somehow made sense. It somehow made perfect sense. All of it. Everything that was happening now could only be a result of something otherworldly.

The cigarette-break was interrupted by another Demon-wasp breaching one of the windows. The group acted swiftly and accordingly to put the monster down. That gave them six of the monstrosities to look at that were dead in the house. And upon closer examination, man and women were convinced that these monsters were not a scientific hybrid fuck-up from our world. But were in fact monsters from another realm.

3

S

omething in the darkness of the surrounding woods just outside Greenville Junction pursued Miles O’Bannon. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t a mountain lion. It wasn’t a wolf. It was something unnatural. That was the only way that he could describe it. Because whatever it was that chased him, defied description—comparable to anything that the young man knew. And although he didn’t believe in devils or demons, monsters or extraterrestrials, whatever was after him, didn’t  seem to care one way or another about what Miles believed or didn’t believe, and its presence filled O’Bannon with a torrent of terror that was as exquisite, as it was abyssal. It in fact mocked his belief or lack of thereof. And it was out to kill him.

It—or they, as there was more than one of the creatures—were silent and invisible to him now. Although he had caught glimpses, he didn’t see them in their entirety, there was too much darkness now—it had come over the area like preternatural storm-front, blanketing the entire area. Still, he had seen enough of the creatures to know that they were something to run from. Something he didn’t want to fuck with. They were as mean as anything that could come. They were malevolent. Malicious. A viciously twisted evil. That taunted reality inasmuch as they embraced the darkness.

He couldn’t see them now. But he felt their presence. He could sense them closing in on him. They were toying with his rationale. Moving now with deliberation, as if they had all the time in the world. And maybe they did. Who could say otherwise? Miles certainly couldn’t.

He paused for the briefest of moments, leaning forward against a tree, trying to catch his breath. Trying to get his bearings in the dark. He could feel them circling around him then. They drew closer, and Miles ran again.

He thought that his heart might just give out, in spite of the fact that he was a twenty-three year-old man, and healthy for his age, only smoking the occasional joint when it was offered to him. The possibility of running out of breath, or losing strength to continue his flight, filled him with panic and dread.

Please don’t trip... He told himself. Please don’t fall, whatever you do...

O’Bannon heard the faint throbbing intonations that only hard-rock or heavy-metal could produce—arena-rock, is what it was called, Motley Crue to be precise. Singing Doctor Feelgood. And Miles knew then that he must be close to the campsite. Where William Price, Geoffrey Castle, Steven Jansen, Famke Diggs, Taye Larter, and Ali Wilson were up early this morning partying.

He saw the flickering light of the campfire as it illuminated the darkness like a beacon. If only he could reach it before—

There was a rustling in the surrounding bushes. Miles screamed reflexively, unable to pinpoint the exact location of the disturbance.

He really didn’t want to know the exact location, he just wanted to get the hell out of there. Warn his friends. Tell them that it was time to put the RV in gear and get gone. Maybe...maybe the creatures would stop their pursuit in the presence of larger numbers, maybe they would be put of by the cracking flames of the fire.

It was Miles only chance.

As he neared closer to the campsite, he saw the silhouetted form of Famke jumping on the back of Geoffrey Castle, as if expecting a piggy-back from him. Miles heard every other word that Famke said as he quickened his pace in the light of sanctuary, dissolving that space between the campsite and where he ran.

We’re...be...all... Miles heard Famke say.

He was almost to the site. Just another fifty yards, he hoped he didn’t trip or fall on his way to reaching the camp.

An instant later and he burst through the bushes that surrounded the site in a semi-circle. Less than half the group was taken aback by his abrupt appearance. He was currently out of breath. Unable to convey his experience in the woods.

Flames flickered in the darkness, enshrouding Miles with an eerie intermittent glow, not unlike a strobe.

Taye was quick to offer him a beer. Which he gulped down in the hope that it would help him regain his composure. If the fiends were not easily turned away by the sheer numbers and the fire, Miles had to convince everyone that they were in danger, and it would be best to get in the RV and leave the site. Immediately.

Something...is chasing...me... Miles said at last.

What are you talking about, dude? William inquired, smoking a joint.

I know that...this is...going to sound crazy...But...I’m not fucking around. Whatever it is...is out there...and I don’t know if...our numbers, or the fire...will keep it at bay... I think we need to get in the RV...and get the hell out of here...

Whoah, Steven said. "Chill-out, man. Are you sure that something is actually chasing you? As dark as it is, maybe you imagined it. And besides, if it is something, it’s probably just an animal—maybe a moose—"

It’s not a fucking moose! And I didn’t imagine it! Miles said adamantly. And he was about to say something else, when the creatures made their appearance in the perimeter of the site.

Whoah—fuckin’ gnarly! William commented. What he saw towered nearly seven feet, and looked like a desiccated angel. It grabbed the young man by the shoulders, lifting him up off his feet. The others looked, astonished. And then William screamed.

––––––––

Less than a mile away, Jonathan Spivey, age twelve, was with his father on a camping/hunting expedition when they heard the horrendous cries and pleas of the women cutting through the darkness like a scythe. They both awoke to the sound, sitting bolt  up-right in their tent, their legs still nestled in their sleeping bags. At first they thought that they might have been dreaming, or the cry had been carried by a loon. The veil between sleep and wakefulness for father and son was almost tangible, threaded together with disorientation and terror, and interwoven by panic and stark horror.

However neither David or Jonathan were about to let their imaginations run away with them into the recesses of dark forebodings, where there still lurked monsters from childhood nightmares; Jonathan was no longer a child for cripe’s sake—hell, he was almost thirteen, almost old enough for his dad to start sharing his beer with him; he already had five kills on his tally, and one of those was a five-point buck. And as for David, he hadn’t been a child for twenty years, and he had been a hunter for almost twenty-three years—although his father would argue and say he was a man at the age of eleven, when he had two kills under his belt—one of them also being a five-point buck; he had gutted and cleaned that one under the watchful eye of his father’s supervision, and he still had the bust of that buck hanging in his study; right between an eight-point and eleven-point bust. David’s rack and bust collection totaled twenty-one, and he was damned proud of that number, as he was damned proud to be a seasoned-hunter, and a fine American.

But childhood nightmares or not, their worst fear imaginable was suspected when they heard the screams of the women again. More articulately this time, they heard one woman scream: Oh—God, no! Please, God! Nooooo! while the other one cried out, Help! It hurts! Oh—God, please HELP MEEEEE...!

What in damnation! David Spivey exclaimed. Then he was reaching for his hunting rifle. "Sounds like people being

(Mauled...?

Torn limb from limb...?

Raped...?

Gutted...?)

—killed! Get your gun, Johnny-boy!"

Jonathan complied, shucking himself free of his sleeping bag, and taking up his firearm. What time is it?

Never mind that. It’s dark, get the flashlights.

Both men retrieved flashlights, they had been sleeping in their clothes from the previous day, and only allowed themselves enough time to put on their boots—flying out of the tent, ready to shoot anything that was listed on their hunting vernacular, including—but not limited to—homicidal maniacs.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary in their immediate vicinity.

And still they heard the cries of the women, slicing through the darkness like razor-wire. It was unutterably hideous and horrifying, broken only briefly from time to time by a sound, possibly more gruesome in its implications than the agony produced by the women; it was more plaintive, but not any less sever than the cries—it was the sound of grunting, forceful, like it was being pushed from the women.

However, in the darkness, the echoing of the women’s anguished cacophony, made it difficult to discern where the misery originated from.

David learned that the best way to scare an animal of the forest was to fire a shot with his rifle. Nine out of ten times it could frighten the creature, scare it away, or keep it from charging. The report from his rifle came so suddenly that it momentarily startled Jonathan. He recovered swiftly enough, shining his light toward his father, making sure that the illumination bathed his dad from belt to feet, rather than shining the flashlight in his face.

The noises—save for the pitiful weeping, stopped abruptly. David naturally assumed that whatever had been responsible for making the women cry, had been frightened off—unless it was unlawful perpetrators that were responsible for the ungodly milieu; maybe homicidal maniacs after all? If this were the case, they might have run; or...they may have just hidden themselves away, waiting to see what happens next...maybe gathering up their own guns. David would have to proceed with extreme caution.

In any event, he knew that he would have wounded women on his hands—maybe even men, that would need first-aid.

David waited for his son to get the kit from the tent—it came equipped with adhesive tape, adhesive bandages, burn treatment ointment, antibiotic ointment, medical gloves, and antiseptic towelettes. What it did not have was: eye coverings, eye wash, a cold pack, an emergency blanket, a barrier device for CPR, tweezers (he had those in a pocket-knife), scissors, disposable bags, waterless hand wash, bandage compress, absorbent compress, and mouth-shield; in the event that he needed to give CPR to someone with a bloody mouth, he would do so, and put it in the hands of God on whether or not he contracted a blood-disease. Johnny-boy came back with the kit, carried by a strap in a fitting carrier pouch. He slung the kit over his shoulder, carried his gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other.

But for the weeping of the women, there fell no other sound. David turned off his flashlight for the moment, telling his son to do the same; if there were maniacs in the woods, he didn’t want to give his position away, not unless he had no other choice.

He listened in the dark. Trying to determine where the plaintive cries were coming from.

When he finally had an idea, he reached into his pocket for his cell-phone. Unlike all the horror movies, where the person or persons are unable to get a signal because their trapped somewhere out in bum-fucked Egypt, David had no such problems; as there was a tower out in the woods that allowed people to bounce a signal off of. If there hadn’t been a tower, David would not have been out in the woods with his son; as he would be damned if he was going to take his son anywhere that made it impossible for him to call for help. And this foresight, he thought. Might just save someone’s life... And even if he didn’t have a phone, or the battery went dead, he still