Red Twilight: A Dawning Of Power

Chapter 19 A Place to Rest

El, Lacerti, Trash, and Ashley have found themselves as traveling companions as they weave their way deeper into the trial of nightmares. Several hours have passed, and the girls still haven't awoken. It's like they're alive physically, but somehow not in their own bodies.

Another stairwell appears, and the party rushes down it. El stops and looks up. "That floor was at least three times the size of the one before it, Lacerti. What is going on?"

Lacerti sets Trash on the dusty stone floor then takes a seat himself, admiring yet more of the canvas from the floors above. Here the mural depicts monsters on top brandishing swords and spears crawling from beneath the ground, while nearer the bottom animal-like beasts are shown in various s.e.x.u.a.l poses defiling one another.

Lacerti whispers in a thunderous voice, "We are descending into hell, or at least into a monument made in tribute to the fall of man." El and Lacerti spend several moments lost in the vastness of the mural.

El passes down the hall, examining his new surroundings. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

Lacerti nods his head. "Greece, Rome, and Brazil are full of monuments like this, and most recently one was unearthed in Rhode Island."

El listens with intrigue. "Really?" He paces back to the others and as if by motor-response takes inventory of their equipment. "What is their function?"

"Various priesthoods perform ancient ceremonies in places like this one to invoke numerous hexes on the unfaithful, then ultimately they summon a god or instigate the end of the world."

"so, 'shadow over Innmoth'," El squints in noticeable distaste. "Nice that we have all grown into such sympathetic creatures. I would ask if there is any warrant to the superstition, but it would seem I have my answer already." El and Lacerti lock eyes for a moment as Trash stirs about. El slaps Lacerti on the arm. "Game face." The two partners lock and load. Now with their next goal in sight, the two partners wait for Trash and Ashley to awaken.

The wait is short and eventless. Ashley comes around after a few minutes, and Trash snaps to alertness only moments later, shouting, "Pistol!"

El turns his head and lowers his eyes to meet hers. "Not quite," he responds. Trash hysterically starts trying to explain the events of the past hour. She grabs El and shakes him. El pulls one arm back staring at her and threatening her with the back of his hand. Trash lets go of El and thrusts herself at Lacerti, sobbing. El wraps one hand around her face, grabbing her cheeks and forcing her to stare at him "That is a warning; where I'm from, there are punishments for such behaviors. Act slowly and deliberately at all times. Now start again and do it right this time," El scolds the young woman.

Trash collects herself. Her face fades slowly to a light pink, her eyes roll back dizzily. El squints, staring at her, studying her features. He whispers, "Shit …" He stretches out an arm. Patting her on the sides of her face, he says, "Trash, on your feet, take off your clothes." Trash follows the directions in a dreamy haze.

Lacerti looks at El with a scornful look. El answers him without Lacerti needing to ask. "She is going hyperglycemic, and her blood pressure has dropped sharply. She needs her heart rate to stabilize or increase immediately or she may suffer cardiac arrest. Seeing that we can't pump her full of steroids right now, we will do it the hard way." El tips his head, staring at Trash's b.r.e.a.s.ts and noticing what appears to be the type of wound left by a leech between them, as well as a red mark on her neck in the shape of a hand. "Lacerti, let's keep moving. I have no doubt the others will come this way, also."

***

A short distance back, a ghostly Lances Jacob finds his way to his feet. Pistol, overcome by fear and confusion, gasps, "What are you doing, old man?" Jacob marches forward, thrashing in a nearly inhuman way. A dragon-like face ripples outward in a spectral form, pushing its way out of his body.

Jacob growls devilishly as he fights the inner demons turning outward. "Serve your purpose. Fight the devils. Start with me," Jacob shouts at Pistol. Pistol stands in shock, mouth hanging open. Jacob thrashes about, the demons' features beginning to fuse with Jacob, morphing into a single visage.

The Soul Eater on Pistol's hip seems to whisper to its holder in a deep, heroic voice. "Jacob is a pure soul and we cannot harm him. But the foul beast corrupting him we can," Pistol speaks to himself as he lifts his holy whip. "Hell Spawn Bone-snatcher!" Pistol calls to Jacob. "Show yourself to me! And battle the millennium grudge. I, Charlie Belmond, the last of the warlocks of cursed blood, command you!"

Jacob stops struggling and slumps over. His head raises, and Jacob locks eyes with Pistol. As he speaks, his voice bounces back in an echo. His face has become hard, and bony thorns have grown around visible bone.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob, for what I'm about to do." Pistol shakes his head as he steadies himself for battle.

"I, Jacob, am now Nightmare. We see your challenge," the demonized man utters. The bone-snatcher compounds its body fully onto Jacob's, growing a monster's three-fingered hand over his left arm lined with multiple mouths and a giant eye over his shoulder. The former man's shirt rips off, and another fanged monster's mouth appears on his c.h.e.s.t.

The bone-snatcher runs at Pistol. It swings its evil arm at him. Pistol pivots around the monster, slashing his whip down its back. The holy energy flows throughout the monster. The blow seems to weaken the evil demon greatly. It becomes partially invisible, revealing the real Jacob asleep inside it.

Pistol lays into the monster, skillfully lashing time and time again with his mighty Soul Eater. With each blow the monster weakens until finally relinquishing its hold over Jacob. The priest doubles over, vomiting up a slug-like monstrosity, which attempts to retreat, but is met with Pistol's indignation … and boot. A sound like thunder crackles around Charlie, blue light shines under his foot, the true nature of the Belmond family is known only to Charlie. The monster he has just slayed, it's energy has been drawn into his body.

A larger, more powerful soul could talk to Belmond or even attack Charlie from the inside out, but this one cannot, in and amongst the other souls Charlie has drawn into himself, this one is meek and subservient having not the energy or ability to do anything but refresh Belmond's Arcane influence

Pistol places Jacob against a wall and awaits his regaining consciousness. The wait is short and sweet, as his head had barely hits the wall before Jacob's voice reaches Pistol's ears. "Charlie?" Jacob asks.

Pistol m.o.a.ns joyfully as he rests. "Yeah, old man?"

"Thank you."

"Any time, I love beating on senior citizens," Pistol chuckles.

"Charlie."

"What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of gangster?"

"I've been rolling with The Patriots for some time now."

"What are they?"

"'Hell's Angels for volunteers, firefighters, doctors, cops, soldiers, and other civil servants."

"What are you?"

Pistol replies, "I'm the director of environmental services for the Mississippi Grand School District."

"That's one long title to pin to a vest," the old man jokes.

The two partners chuckle with one another weakly as they rest.

Lances lays his head back and forces his breath to slow. His heart is pounding, he is tired after this spiritual battle, but a strange truth creeps into his thoughts. Charlie Belmond, Lances has heard the Belmond name more then once. "Charlie, are you a hunter?" Lances over the years has peeked into the shadows, he knows there are monsters out there, and he know there are men that dedicate themselves to fighting the monsters. Charlie shakes his head, he will not answer this inquery.

***

Stumbling through the halls of the grand labyrinth, the Minotaur leads Snake along. "What are you, anyway?" Snake asks, patting the beastie on the back his eyes running down its body encouraged by its almost human shape and seductive method of dress and walk.

"Herinis,"

"Hmm," Snake responds.

"Usha-una."

Snake shakes his head.

"Cow women, Minotauress."

"Are there more of you?" Snake asks.

"Yes, hundreds," she responds. The cow women takes notice of Snakes Dancing eyes "do you wish to procreate with me?"

Snake turns to face forward pulling his gaze away from the cow. "not right now. But it is good to know the offer is on the table."

The Herinis nods, "I was born in captivity, I have been trained in the breeding costumes of many of people, I understand your habits and can satisfy your needs for you."

"really?" Snake asks

"there are men that will pay a high price to my masters for the opportunity to attempt to breed me and my siblings." Her tail flicks slowly.

Snake shrugs "I guess I can see that. My needs tend to not be that complicated."

"in truth my people look and act much like yours in that respect, our bodies are just… spongier around our sticky parts." The minotaur is strangely at ease talking about her body. It seems she is as paranoid as Snake and this whole s.e.x talk is her trying to keep herself calm and focused.

Snake plays along "Get my brother and I out of here and we will adopt you."

The cow girl nods "you are kind for a hunter."

The Minotaur maiden moves slow and slick through the labyrinth, guiding Snake. With her nose in the air, she snorts deeply and often. She pivots left, then right. Snake follows her curiously, trying to understand her seemingly sporadic thought process. "Do you know where we are going?" he finally asks after twenty minutes of seemingly going in circles.

"No," she whispers, "the seventh through tenth floors are the 'trial of nightmares.' The walls shift on cycles—some only several seconds long—occasionally isolating spots. When that happens, all you can do is wait for the next exit to appear."

Snake considers the phrasing. "But … we are in the bas.e.m.e.nt," he insists.

She stops and looks at him. "Only if you came in through the top floor entrances." She points down the hall. Snake watches in dazzled confusion as the hallway flips itself upside down, creating a new hallway to explore. "Much of the world is built on perception."

"Wow," Snake says, flabbergasted. She leads him into the newly formed hallway, and practically into the arms of the incapacitated Spooky. Without a word, the Minotaur picks him up and continues her quest.

"So, hunter, what do you do, anyhow?" she asks as they start down a flight of steps.

"Is this a s.e.x.u.a.l question?" Snake asks. "And shouldn't my brother be above us?"

"No," she responds, "and sometimes you need to fall to ascend."

Snake tips his head. "I don't get it at all; up is up, and down is down, and your big toe is always pointing in—things like that just don't change, so long as both feet are flat on the ground. They're rules of nature." The halls of the labyrinth are cold and quiet. A stale stink lingers everywhere, like dry sweat or mold.

"yet you did not tell me what you do? Have you always been a hunter?"

"I'm not a hunter at all I'm a…" Snake stops, suddenly noticing an anomaly in the endless paintings theme. A lone man standing within the pit of hell, monsters flee from him and his flashing, gold eyes and silver katana. Except one beast dares to approach him, a black-winged angel with deep, purple eyes and a scythe. Both wear black robes and have black hair. The human is tan; the angel's skin is grisly white. The man is young, strong, and beautiful; the angel looks to be somehow hiding a terrible ugliness beneath a clay mask. The man has chainmail woven into his clothing; the angel's clothes look to be made of darkness itself. Snake slaps the wall then points at the painting. "Who the hell is that?" For unknown reasons, Snake finds this image to be of great importance.

"Who?" The Minotaur looks back.

Snake leans in closer, pointing more clearly. "Him."

She looks close. "He is called Sala-day-nam-O. 'Son of man' is what it means in the angel tongue. He is the dishonored god cast down to earth to become the champion of man and avatar to the slave god of hope, a true immortal like his brothers, Laos-day-O, Filous-mammon, and Solus-Chaos who are, respectively, the one god—he to which the gods pray, and child of earth—that which catalysis and balances all equations. Sun, moon, and stars is how we identify them. Chaos is, on the other hand, the beginning of all things, she whom seeds the earths."

Snake takes in the story. The Minotaur waves one hand onward. "If we stop, the maze with shift again," she urges.

"I would like to go on record saying I hate this place," Snake expresses as they continue.

***

Larry is still walled in by the hospital room. Larry has always hated hospitals. The smells, the creaking of metal, the whispered crying—it all seems so surreal. He used to get dizzy and weak any time his brother made him go, even to the eye clinic. He can't explain it, and he never could. This hell is finally starting to make sense to him; anything you hate or fear or even dread, this place makes real.

Larry paces to and fro, staring at his hands. His fingers are stained black, his nails long and dark. He rolls his hand; bulbs run up his veins under his skin. Larry feels nauseous at the sight. He laughs, then screams, incapable of resisting the paranoia given him by his inner demons.

Larry collapses on the hospital floor, hugging his head in his arms. Like as living dream, the voice of the snake fiend that bit him resonates in the room. "You don't have to struggle. You could just become like us."

"Leave me alone!" Larry cries out.

A far deeper voice comes next. "Take my hand, and I'll end your suffering." The voice is demonically soothing. A cool hand rests on his arm. "Come and live forever."

He opens his eyes to see a face looming above him that looks to be made of melting wax. "No!" he shouts. A spread of feathers drowns the room for only in instance, and once again everything is normal. Cold, stone-hard floor—he's in the labyrinth again.

"Larry," Snake's voice echoes clearly. Instantly Larry leaps to his feet then throws himself at his brother's legs, clutching him like a lost child. "What's up? Are you hurt?" Snake asks.

"No," he responds, "not so much as I might be." Larry holds up his hands, allowing his brother to see them stretched and growing scales. Then he lowers his head, weeping. Snake slowly reaches into his coat, withdrawing his revolver. The dilemma of mice and men becomes clear. Larry is sick; that's what Lances had tried to say. Larry is sick and going to die. Or more terrible yet, he may change sides. Snake c.o.c.ks the hammer. So what is he to do? Kill him now when it would be easier, or wait until he becomes a threat?