CAINE
01 -Beware of Thickets
“Oh Lord, I say it again!
Heed my cry and breathe into me the
Word! 1 Corinthians 15:52-54
In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye,
At the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound,
The dead will be raised imperishable,
And we will be changed.
For the perishable must clothe itself
With the imperishable, and the mortal with im-mortality.
When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable,
And the mortal with im-mortality,
Then the saying that is written will
Come true.
Death has been swallowed up in victory.”
The Reverend on the television seemed convincing with his many intonations, gestures, and pauses. He hoisted the ancient words of others into the air, slinging his truth from one ear to the next, calling to the angels in heaven for a steady hand as he Flailed his audience with prophecy. The Reverend wore a nice suit, shiny black oxfords, a conservative haircut with streaks of fine silver, and a smile that could be seen on a dozen different camera angles.
“Above all
You must understand that in the
Last days scoffers will come,
Scoffing and following their own
Evil desires.
They will say,
Where is this ‘coming’ he promised? Ever since
Our ancestors died, everything goes on
As it has since the beginning of creation.
2 Peter 3:3-4”
He professed from a raised stage, at The Sermon on the Mount Stadium, filled with tens of thousands of hungry ears and starving Hearts. Heavy incandescent lights rained down onto his thick, tanned leather skin baked orange from evangelical island vacations arranged by God Himself to profess the Truth raw and unfiltered to the natives. Today, like most days, Reverend Alexander focused on the end of creation rather than present day.
“For such people are false apostles,
Deceitful workers, masquerading
As apostles of Christ
And no wonder, for Satan himself
Masquerades as an angel of light.
It is not surprising, then, if his servants
Also masquerade as servants of righteousness.
Their end
Will be what their actions
deserve.
2 Corinthians 11:13-15”
Tens of millions tune in to hear the Reverend every Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, major holidays, and Christmas in the Caribbean. A couple million listen to what’s being said, and less than half are human. One such listening human sweats on a leather couch, scoffing at the fear mongering prophecies of a millionaire about to vacation yet again.
“We must not falter, nor faint in this
Holy war against the enemy.
Against the divine words of the most high
And the most gracious, loving host.
We must not fear when the enemy
Raps against the gates to your heart,
To your soul!”
Rat, tat, tat.
Rat, tat, tat.
Window screens in the human’s apartment rattle, and an Unnatural air slinks through, trailing a perfume of scorched sulfur and rotting flesh.
The Hellish breeze slithers across dark hardwood flooring, through potted plants, racks of records, stacks of newspapers, a shag rug, and finally up the back of the dewy leather sofa, resting next to the human with a stench fouler than the Reverend’s soul.
“Yet be warned, for The Spirit
Clearly says
That in later times some will abandon
The faith
And follow
Deceiving spirits
And things taught
By demons!
1 Timothy 4:1”
A long, gluttonous laugh billows from the bowels of Hell itself, followed by the slow, sopping wet clicks of a thick tongue. Then a deep, acid melted voice quakes the brick walls,
“Wha’ a good
li’le dog
on a leash.”
“We want to thank you again for joining us this evening
Of Your Word Tonight!
We wish you all a Happy Independence Day and
Don’t forget: the Collection Boxes are in the back.
Remember: Good Tithes bring
Good Tides.
Thank you again everybody, and Goodnight!”
A high pitched, sniveling cackle worms its way into the thick summer air. Old bones crack and pop as a corpse crawls up and over the back of the sofa, trailing gelatinous flesh and bile like a slug in the garden. The corpse settles next to the human and cocks its head, resetting its unhinged jaw,
“Which one? The kiddie diddler or the little mud grub taking
up space in a world where he don’t belong?”
The gluttonous laugh bellows again and a Drowned Daemon rolls to an armchair opposite the human. A gargantuan, waterlogged corpse with skin of purple, blue and green rests against the tall back of the antique. Water leaks from every orifice of the creature with an occasional spurt of creamy vomit. It speaks slowly, gasping for air every few words as more water and bile force their way out from its body,
“Did ye’ know
‘vis li’le mangey
Cock
Grovelin’ fer scraps
is ‘va one
we cawled
Ficket?”
Limping bones sway and snap into position and the corpse leans in, inspecting the human called Thicket. The corpse’s eyes roll forward swirling with cataract, and several sets of facial piercings jingle barely clinging to the thin strips of skin still left. A small patch of flesh peels off its cheek and plops to the floor. Shallow breaths wheeze from the decaying mouth and the corpse speaks with clattering teeth,
“You’re a lyin’ pile of foreskin, Snawz!
This maggoty little prick couldn’t possibly–”
Thicket sighs, forcing back the stench of Death spewing from the corpse,
“You both smell the way you look. he kick you out to live with the Shit?”
The corpse gasps, and Snawz throws his heavy body forward, rolling off the armchair and towering over the human they call Thicket,
“Funny one,
ain’ he Bru’us?”
“Yeah, yeah. A really fuckin’ funny lookin’ one
More like. And a prickly little Shit to boot!”
Brutus bends his neck backwards with a series of pops and clicks, locking onto a framed picture of Thicket and a young woman. Brutus crawls over the sofa, snagging the frame from the wall,
“Oh this is good, this is gooood Snawz. The little
Twat has found himself a mate. And is she a looker or what?!
No wonder he suddenly grew the balls to stick up for himself.
Took ten years to finally come to his God-Given senses.
But how could you land such a sweet piece?
Maybe I’ll pay her a little visit.”
“he doesn’t own me anymore, and neither do any of his shit-for-brains lackeys –”
“Oye,
I don’ fink
You get
How ‘vis works,
Fick-et.”
Thicket’s eyes grow large as his stomach moans and grumbles.
His cheeks puff with a staggered breath,
sweat drips down his forehead,
And he vomits a thick, black mucus with wretched heaves.
A high-pitched ring echoes throughout the loft and Thicket drops to his knees, a rhythmic river of black bile pulses from his esophagus. With each heave, something forces its way up Thicket’s throat and out his mouth.
The slithering creature wretches past Thicket’s tongue; a worm, secreting the black bile from prolapsing holes all over its body.
Thicket stops vomiting, and his body snaps into position: elbows cocked with fingers interlaced, knees slightly bent, back lifted straight, diaphragm opened, head held high, and feet firmly planted into the Earth. With a perfect form, Thicket’s body follows the worm’s slinking like a marionette on a string.
The Horror speaks, confident and comfortable in Thicket’s skin,
We do not mourn the loss of my father, for he is not lost. Instead, we mourn for the loss of new memories to be made. At the end of Days, all we can carry with us are memories. The clothes on our backs could be stripped, our homes demolished, bank accounts drained, pictures immolated, books shredded, our freedoms withdrawn. Yet I know that my father, Caine Erikson, will continue to live through our memories of him. He lives on through us in the pieces he left behind; his stubbornness, his unwavering patience, his comfort in conversation, the safety and security of his love, and the many wise words he repeated constantly. He was a role model, as much as he hated the label, and I hope we can keep these pieces of him alive in our daily actions. After all, Life is about actions and choices, we shouldn’t be afraid to act in the wake of a great tragedy.
The worm twitches and moans, reeling itself down Thicket’s throat, undulating with a few more heaves and gags, coming to rest in the deepest Depths of his cursed soul. Brutus picks his jaw up from the floor, hooking it back onto his skull,
“You didn’t tell me you could do that, you fat fuck!
What else do those bulbous folds hide?”
Snawz inspects the room with gaping eyes, his tongue snapping back and forth with moist clicks. A hoarse whisper whips its way through the air,
“What a dreadful account\\
What a horrible display\\
What a fool to forget\\”
The voice penetrates the minds of Daemon and Human alike, forcing Thicket, Snawz and Brutus to bow to their bellies. Thicket’s eyes dart around the room,
” “
“You speak because we allow it\\
We own your Voice\\
Freewill is a fool’s errand; a lie\\”
Thicket scours for the creature whose voice emanates from all corners and angles. Rhythmic breaths slide under the door, dashing behind the curtain, leaping to the couch, now the television, under the sink, in the pantry, on the ceiling! Always in their peripheral, a Shadow even in daylight,
“A fool must answer\\
And you’re being called\\
Maybe this one will be your last\\”
Pursing his lips, Thicket pitifully spills a spittle of spite from his mouth to the ground,
“ ”
“That language is unbecoming\\
A soiled cloth can be clean again\\
If we begin with the fibers\\”
Four shadow Daemons emerge from the hardwood flooring, clawing through an unending mountain of Earth, spilling thick lightless vapor with every breath. Long, gentle fingers caress Thicket’s body as each Daemon takes hold of a limb. The Daemons heave, pulling Thicket’s body taught and hoisting the human into the air. Thicket laughs as the creatures splay him out in a five pointed star.
“You understand, Thick-et\\
I take great joy in this\\
Handing out the will of my king\\”
Another shadow rises from Beneath, taller than the others. Seduced by the moment, the Daemon strokes its arms, chest, and neck with languid moans. The Duke lightly rests his hands on Thicket’s chest, and the Shadows cry out, struggling to hold the insurmountable weight. Slender fingers glide from breast to decolletage, from nape to cranium, and from ear to temple as the Duke traces the lines on Thicket’s body.
“You are an entertainer, Thicket\\
We set the stage for you\\
Now, I expect you to perform\\”
Thicket’s head rears back, mouth agape, eyes crying. The Duke pinches Thicket’s tongue, fingering the individual muscle fibers as if playing a guitar.
SNAP!
A strand breaks, and the Duke plucks Thicket’s tongue apart into ribbons of fine silk. Thicket screams with his eyes, unable to turn from the horror and without a voice to cry out; paralyzed.
“There now, isn’t that more comfortable?\\
We have work, and your father’s retired\\
We have faith you’ll exceed him\\”
The fireplace roars to life, sputtering out a manila folder with the name: Aphra Collins.
Brutus drops to all fours, scuttling to the folder like a cockroach on a warm summer’s night, gripping it with the few teeth left in his rotten mouth. He places the folder into the Intake basket on Thicket’s desk with a gentle pat.
A blast of air plows through the apartment, drawing the curtains and displacing the Daemons with nothing more than a faint comment,
“Shove it numb-nuts, your goose is cooked.”
WHAM!
Thicket falls to the floor, biting his tongue just enough to bleed and irritate. He grits his teeth, tossing the folder back into the fireplace.
“In other news, Proposition 9 passed, proving without a doubt
We believe Public officials, whether elected or appointed,
Should perform their duties in an impartial manner free from bias caused – ”
The fireplace sputters, spitting out the folder again and Aphra’s file loops in the air once, coming to rest in the Intake basket.
02 – Sowing Seeds
Name: Aphra Collins
DOB: 07/07/1953
Location: Pleasant Hills Psychiatric Facility
Pleasant Hills remains a forgotten relic of a bygone era; a 19th century castle guarded by towering bushes and a barbed-wire lined wrought-iron gate. Hidden in the hills and rewritten into a local legend, the active asylum continues the work of centuries old practitioners just outside city limits, and regulations. Erected on unhallowed ground, the sanitarium houses thousands of Daemons residing in 752 padded cells waiting for their next host.
Thicket enters the wide mouth of the front gate, past a large stone fountain depicting a dozen weeping angels, through the threshold, and towards a night-nurse stationed at the front desk. A Daemonic child hangs from the neck of the nurse, draped like a Hellish necklace with sloughed skin. The Daemon sniffs the air, lifting a heavy head to catch a glimpse of a familiar scent, vertebrae snapping and popping with each jittered movement. Thicket gives a half smirk to the Daemon, avoiding eye contact.
“Hello, my name is Dr. Erikson and I’m here to see Aphra Collins. She should be a newly admitted patient.”
“Aphra Collins. Oh yes, she arrived two days ago.”
“What can you tell me about her condition?”
The child’s neck squirms and twitches. A series of pops ring out and the Daemon’s neck grows longer, slithering up the neck of the nurse, wrapping itself like an anaconda until it finds rest next to her ear. Cautious eyes glare at Thicket and the Daemon opens its mouth, speaking through its puppet,
“She’s completely lost her marbles, and I fear she will never get better.
It’s probably best to forget about her, leave her in our care.
What would you know about care anyways, Thicket?”
“Where’s her room?”
The child hisses, and stares down the hall,
“Up the stairs, second door on the right.”
A thousand Daemons flood the halls of the Sanitarium, cooing and cawing wildly, trampling across walls and ceilings, gnashing and biting at each other for a chance to cling on to easy prey. A pack of Hellhounds chase a patient down the halls, the poor soul screaming and pleading to the orderlies for help. They tackle him to the ground in response, imprisoning him in a straitjacket. The front desk nurse rushes to the patient, her Daemon foaming at the mouth, singing while she preps a sedative injection,
“No fear, no fear.
We’re only here to help.
Deep breaths and a calm voice.
Reality is only white noise.”
The patient weeps, rambling on about the nightmarish creatures sowing chaos in the facility. Thicket ignores the scene, swinging the door open to a cold, white stairwell.
WHAM!
A disembodied torso slams into the ground. The torso rears its head up, and calls out to Thicket,
“Oye! Mind given’ me a hand?
I seem to have lost my footing!”
A pair of legs hastily descend the staircase with stomach and intestine swinging, painting the walls in black, brown, and deep red.
The Shadows roar in laughter; each crack and corner hiding an untold number of creatures waiting to make themselves known. Thicket ascends the stairwell, ignoring the Flood of laughter and routine, opening the door to Aphra’s room.
A woman sits in the corner of an unlit, padded cell clinging to herself, rocking and murmuring. Voices whisper from every crease and corner. Even the Shadows from the buttons and rivets of the padded walls call out to her,
You’re home now, Aphra.
It’s all just been a bad dream.
The reality you knew is a lie.
We see who you really are.
Past the defensive Veil.
Thicket sniffs the air, reeling from a putrid scent,
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? What kind of shit you trying to pull here, Brutus?”
Brutus the Corpse steps out from the shadows and Aphra lets out a silent scream, her eyes lament the reality she once knew. Brutus throws his back out, crumbling to the ground in a tantrum,
“Why do you gotta ruin all the fun?
I thought it would take you at least a day, but no!
Now you went and lost me a bet, you twat!”
Thicket flips a light-switch and the shadows scurry back into the padded walls like cockroaches, burrowing to find new homes,
“Who is she?”
“She’s your fuckin’ problem now, that’s what.”
Brutus rises from the ground, arms outstretched with a smile, and he disappears.
THWAP!
A strong left hook knocks Thicket’s jaw, sending him to the floor. Aphra belts a mighty war-cry fueled by an ancient rage of fear and adrenaline.
She swiftly clambers on top of Thicket, sending several jabs into his stomach and ribs, pummeling and screaming,
“What the fuck do you want?!
What the fuck is happening?!”
Aphra claws at Thickets face and he futilely attempts to hold her back with fainted cries,
“Where the fuck am I?!
Why won’t I wake up?!”
Bones pop and click as Brutus reappears, leaning into Aphra’s ear with a smile,
“Welcome to the Real World, babe.
He works for us, and so do you toots.”
Aphra leaps off Thicket with another war-cry, swinging wildly at the air, exerting what little energy she had left and she slumps to the ground, defeated.
“Are ya’ done now? Had yer fun?”
“You’re such an ass.”
Brutus bites his thumb, tears it from his hand and spits it to Thicket’s feet. The Corpse disappears and Thicket sighs in relief, kneeling to confront Aphra. He gently pulls her chin up and the two lock eyes. The screams throughout the sanitarium fade to nothing more than a soft muffle, the bright florescent lights dim into a warm glow, and the weight of the world lifts off the shoulders of Humanity for just a moment. Thicket speaks directly into Aphra,
“I take it your family never told you about a little curse that goes around? One that pulls back the Veil of reality and reveals the Truth of the worlds beyond our own?”
“Adopted.”
“No shit. Well we’re all isolated in a way. Truth is, nothing can prepare you for this journey. Even those groomed for the role rarely adjust.”
“I bet.”
“Sanity lies in two simple Truths in life: 1. We are given the gift of change, never bound to only one lifetime during our existence, and 2. You’re never given more than you can handle.”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Look at the chaos around you: walls that crawl, corpses that speak, flesh-made doors. This is Hell on Earth. Be thankful you’re not alone. Be thankful you’re worth more completely intact. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
“Isn’t God supposed to be with us?”
Thicket shrugs, gently lifting Aphra off the floor. He leads her out the padded cell,
“Never seen Him. I’ve always seen all the other shit stirring about, but I’ve never seen Him. These little fuckers spread like weeds, and Daemons require about as much attention to keep at bay.”
They descend the stairwell with its walls transformed into the bars of a Hellish jail. An endless void filled with imprisoned souls desperately reaching through heated bars, wanting more than anything just to graze Aphra’s soft skin.
“The world is vulnerable. A crack easily turns into a fissure. This Asylum was swallowed long before you or I were even conceived. Within active borders, we must maintain our status as Travelers.”
The bars radiate a white hot heat and the prisoners cry out, their arms boiling, blistering and bubbling. Still, Aphra pays no mind, focusing only on Thicket,
“So what, there’s no fight? No push back?
Where’s the army against the enemy?”
The two enter the first floor hallway and a priest in tattered Cloth flings himself to Aphra’s feet.
“People try. Some come by themselves and find out just how easily a single mind snaps under the smallest amount of tension. Others attempt to lay siege with a small raiding party.”
Sobbing, drooling, the priest pleads for Aphra’s help as the Sanitarium staff swiftly restrain him. He claws at the walls, floors, furniture, anything to help him get free.
“It would take an army, surely, but when have you ever heard of such a unified group of Humans? That’s how they stay in power, and that’s what gives them the power over us. Suggestion is a great and powerful weapon. The greatest lie of Mankind is that we understand God.”
The two exit the sanitarium, past the wrought-iron fence and towards a bus-stop across the street.
“Sounds pretty hypocritical to me.”
“It’s all paradox. Nothing makes sense, and to try and make sense will just bring you to insanity. Chaos, now that’s the truth of our existence, and I think your recent stay proves my point.”
“So what’s the other side like?”
HISS!
Aphra is shepherded on board a silver bus, and Thicket deposits two quarters into the fare box,
“The other side? Not quite sure. Never thought to ask.”
Thicket leads Aphra past three passengers on their way to the back of the bus,
“So what exactly do you do?”
Thicket sits on the bench at the back of the bus, retrieving a small Bible from his coat; an offering for Aphra,
“We sow a seed, and this is language we use. You learn that the words simply fall from your lips and you’ll come to trust whatever may come. Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say.“
“What was it your father used to say? A pussy
Follows while the Alpha gets to tug on the leash.“
Aphra turns towards the voice, spotting a pudgy man three rows down, staring for thousands of miles beyond the bus window. A burgundy Dove screeches into the man’s ear. Perched on his shoulder, the Daemon continues,
“Aggression is our nature, and your faggot ass
is gonna to get pegged by this world unless you
step up, stop bitching, and become a fuckin’ man Chuck!“
Smoldering feathers descend to the floor as the Daemon squawks louder, pecking at the man’s ear with a mangled beak,
“No! No! NO! Wrong again, dumbass!
No wonder they all left you, ’cause you’re worthless!
What was it that your father used to say?”
“I wonder what his mother used to say.”
Aphra blinks several times, cocking her head to the side, curious at the words which just fell from her lips.
“What?”
Thicket observes as Aphra approaches the accosted man,
“Excuse me sir, I don’t mean to be a bother,
I was just wondering if I could ask you a question.”
The Dove squeals, hopping wildly, tweeting a song of Death at Aphra as the man turns his attention to her voice,
“I’m sorry, what do you need from me?”
“I just want to ask you a quick question.”
SNAP!
From the Depths, a Hellish whip of molten chains cracks through the Earth, wrapping several times around the Dove. The chains snap taught, tugging at the bird, attempting to pull it from its perch.
“Not sure why you’d be interested in what I’ve got
To say, but sure. I don’t see the harm in a question.”
Thicket locks eyes with the Dove and the creature shutters, pleading for the aid of the Lesser being; a sin amongst Daemons. In a panic, the Dove takes flight and the whip yanks the Daemon back, heaving the unholy Beast down to the deepest Depths of the Earth.
“A crack turns into a fissure.”
A hundred hands rip through the floor, grasping at the Daemon, dragging it home. Thicket stares into the portal, hypnotized by a long forgotten memory.
“Chuck’s a pretty cool guy, you know, after the whole
Daemonic bird thing was done. Do they normally
Do that? Disappear so dramatically?”
Thicket shakes free from the hypnosis, tossing the Bible at Aphra,
“Yeah, I think of them as cousins of Time: always appearing and disappearing, completely outside of our control. Selfish bastards.”
“Where are we going?”
“We go wherever life takes us. Following paths laid out before us as we Journey, like they used to in the Bible. Until our journey ends, we ride with the wind, shepherded by –“
“Okay, but where are we going right now?”
“We’re going to meet with a friend.”
***
to be continued…
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