The One Who Endures - Patrick Spiker (top novels .txt) 📗

,” said the tribesman.

Will whirled, ducking instinctively, and saw Onon standing a foot away, between himself and the blackboard.

Marta screamed and ran to the opposite wall.

The gun was there. The tribesman did not move as Will stumbled back, hitting into the table, raising the weapon. He tried to aim, anticipating a moving target—but Onon was motionless.

Finger on the trigger, barrel jittering up and down at the tribesman’s chest, Will held his breath and used his free hand to wipe sweat from his eyes, then used that hand to steady the gun—which, as expected, didn’t work.

“Shoot him!” Marta yelled.

Onon’s body glistened in the candlelight, and those black eyes were mesmerizing.

If the man had attacked, Will would have fired. But when faced with the barrel, Onon lost his scowl and raised his eyebrows. Then he spread his hands and looked to the ceiling, as he had before in the rock chamber. This time, his lips moved: silent, quick words.

“What are you waiting for? Shoot him, now!”

“Quiet!” Will shouted, entranced.

He detected a change in the creature’s behavior. For perhaps ten seconds, he took in the sight—Onon’s enormous arms, his thick lips revealing white teeth, his hairless private parts dangling with an odd sense of pride—and he dropped the gun.

“Will!” Marta screamed. “What the hell? What are you doing

?”

Will wasn’t exactly sure. All he knew was that he didn’t feel the same when he looked at Onon. He wasn’t afraid or furious, or even breathless. Instead, he was curious

.

Curious.

The word lanced through his body, and he tensed.

Onon smiled. The expression was drooped and inscrutable, as though he had never before attempted such a face. A pink tongue traced the contours of his teeth, and his eyes widened into two huge spheres. The resultant effect was more powerful than that borne of any machete or gun; nevertheless, Will could not find it in himself to be fearful. Crazy, but true.

“Sai

,” said the tribesman, and then he whirled. Even as Marta opened her mouth to scream, he crossed the room in three huge strides and leaped into the air. His legs and arms were outstretched but bent in a parody of any football linebacker.

Marta ducked but it was too late. Onon’s massive frame slammed into hers and they went down. A bone-jarring crunch

was followed by a yelp of such pain that Will ran forward even though there was nothing he could do.

In spite of what must have been air-crushing weight, Marta’s body jerked and flailed. Onon was sitting atop her belly, taking hits from her knees and arms and elbows and even her head as she canted herself sideways, beating them both around in a half-circle on the ground. Her hair, damp with sweat, flung moisture across the room, onto Will’s ankles. If she had ever looked less like a human being, this was it.

Then Onon calmly reached a hand down and pinned her neck to the floor. He was so large that his fingers seemed to encircle it entirely. Her hands came up to claw at his bulging forearms, and she managed to rip off one of the fingernail-toting bracelets.

Sensing the futility of resisting, she went limp. Air squeaked through her mouth.

“Stop,” Will said, horrified that he couldn’t feel anything but wonder. This was his friend

, damn it, and she was in danger, and here he was standing like an idiot.

“W-Will,” Marta whispered. She had rolled her eyes to see him. Tears brimmed and traced down her face, washing away the dirt in thin skeins. Her arm stretched and groped for him, although he stood just out of reach.

“Stop,” Will repeated.

Marta whimpered. Will saw that her bra had torn during the attack; it lay uselessly over her left shoulder. Animal lust gurgled as he saw her rigid nipples against grimy flesh.

“Insalla

,” the tribesman said. He spoke it without inflection, as if reading from a script.

At the same time when Will rushed forward, startled from his trance, Onon squeezed. Marta’s eyes hemorrhaged blood-red as he crushed her windpipe, collapsed her veins, perhaps severing the vertebrae in her neck as well.

She was dead within five seconds.

Will fell to the ground. Now

fear came, and he sobbed into his aching, inflamed hands.

8

Marta lay on the ground, arms and legs at impossible angles, her skin as flaky and dried as a hundred-year-old paper doll. Her eyes were gone. Her tongue, little more than a withered corncob, stuffed her lips. She appeared to be reaching out in supplication, taunting Will even from beyond death.

Less than a minute had passed since Onon’s fatal, crushing grip. He had not moved in that time: the creature remained against the wall beside the blackboard, arms crossed, feet apart. He could have been a security guard in another life.

The wire connecting him with Marta—the one which had somehow sutured itself together in the blackness—was gone. As with Anna and Derek, death had severed the energy-giving line after transferring the hot pulses into his body. He now had two wires that led to frayed ends after about two feet. He left them as they were, because although he was no longer afraid, he was still squeamish about tugging anything from his flesh.

He had difficulty remembering anything before the cave. His previous life, from birth to dart, seemed like a recent-but-fading dream, deliquesced by the rains of time.

Then, from the open door that led into the tunnel, came a man. Naked and ringed in ornamental jewelry, he could have been Onon’s twin except for his hair: this man had long blonde locks punctuated by feathered braids. He entered, shut the door, and looked between Will and Onon, nodding slowly.

“Well done,” he said.

Will wasn’t sure what surprised him more. That the man could speak English, or that he spoke at all.

Onon inclined his head. The night-black eyes remained fixed on Will.

“William Norris,” the newcomer said. His voice was dry, raspy, as if his vocal chords were lined with sand. “Welcome.”

Hugging his knees as close to his chest as possible, Will said, “How do you know...my name?”

“Ah, we know everything about you. We have waited for you for some time.”

“What the hell...What the hell is all this? How is it possible?”

“My name is Alnan,” he said, and sat on the ground in front of Will. Like Onon, he was naked but without embarrassment—and Will was shocked to realize that he no longer cared about the men’s nudity. It seemed normal here.

“Why did you do all this? How

did you do all this?”

Alnan nodded. “The right questions. The answers are actually quite simple. No doubt over your life you have heard legends and rumors of ghosts, of aliens, of werewolves...”

“Of Bigfoot,” Will said, the sarcasm all he had left.

“Right,” Alnan said. “These rumors are, of course, untrue. These things do not exist. There are no more alien abductions than there are sea monster attacks. The course of human history has invented these explanations for that which has been seen but cannot be understood. The truth, William, is that we

are those stories. Us.” He smiled back at Onon. “We are the cause of most every legend and horror story ever invented.”

Will had reached a point where he was inured to surprise—or so he thought, because now his mouth fell open.

“We have existed since before humankind mastered the art of fire. We rule the night, William, and we ride over the world like you would run across a city block. We have the shape of humans but we are so much more.”

“You’re ghosts?” Will asked.

“No. We can appear

as ghosts, as you have already witnessed. But we are not dead any more than you are a bird. We simply are...more. A higher level of energy and existence of which most humans never dream.”

“Insalla

,” Onon said.

“Ah, yes, no doubt you are wondering about Onon. Insalla

is a word that has multiple meanings. Most accurately, it is a reflection of our power and of our existence. Onon says it because he wishes to express our condition—who we are. Sai

is loosely translated as ‘join,’ although that is such a primitive word I hate even using it. In truth, William, I cannot explain our language any more than I can tell you about every minute of my life.

“Throughout your history, we have feasted and explored the world. Because we can take different shapes, we have often been glimpsed as ghosts, or as demons, and sometimes as creatures so far removed from reality that humans call us aliens. And throughout history mankind has execrated us for what we do, even though they know not what we are.”

“Which is?”

“Anything we want. If we desire human flesh, we take it. If we want to feel the satisfaction of terror, we take it. We are not bound by the laws of humankind. And you cannot deny our existence, William, because there are times when you have heard us. Everyone has. A noise that cannot be explained, or an errant scream, or a rumble without cause—that is us. It has always been us.”

Instead of refuting anything, Will asked, “Why am I here? Why did you...did you kill my friends?”

“To prepare you.”

“For what?”

“For your ascension into our ranks.”

“What?”

Alnan nodded. “Very rarely do these times come around. But sometimes we sense the presence of a human who is capable of withstanding the ascension process. Someone who can shed their life. You, William Norris, are such a man.”

He gaped. “What?”

“We are deep underground, although I do not think you can yet comprehend how we travel or how we even arrived here. Suffice it to say that we have the capability—at least in your terms—to appear and disappear at will. Ugh, such a primitive tool, this language. It makes our abilities sound unimportant. But as you have no doubt guessed, those wires have been feeding you the basis of our life, derived from the energy of your deceased friends. But your friends, as you call them, were not important. Have you not noticed that your strength and power increased far more than theirs? That your desire for flesh has been stronger than theirs? Or your instinctive need to communicate and follow Onon through the tunnel? It is because you are meant for this. They were not. Onon killed them slowly, one at a time, to lessen the effects to a bearable level. He did not tell you anything because we had to ensure your mind could endure the agony, at least for a while. And you did.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am not. We have been sensing your strength for some time now, William, and we chose today very carefully.”

“Why me?”

“I just told you. You’ve seen the photos. Those are others like you, spread throughout hundreds of years, who inherited the right capabilities. So rarely does it happen that we take special note.”

“You took photos of them?” The comparative ordinariness startled him.

“For your convenience. So you could see.”

“There are...more of you?”

“Oh, yes, many, spread around the globe. You would say that we live, too, just differently than humankind.”

“And if...if I refuse?”

Alnan laughed. Like Onon’s smile, it was skewed, out of practice. “You