Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (49 page)

His son had perished in the battle, but Resh did not mourn his young one. Trovar had a plan and would provide. The death had purpose, as did all things on the island.

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I awoke to fire crackling and a sinister, well-practiced murmuring that reminded me of chanting monks.

I moved to my knees, but a powerful force pushed me back to the ground. A sharp pain spiked my arm as I fell sideways, and I realized that my hands were bound behind me. I twisted to face my oppressor. A skeleton towered there, silent. Eyes glimmered from within the sockets of the skull, and I remembered seeing flesh on the demons. Human flesh. I saw these monstrosities with new eyes. What I saw wasn’t a skeleton at all, but a costume. The bones lacked depth. The ribs curved inward as they should, but didn’t circle around to a spine. Nor did the skull completely enclose. My eyes focused on the dark areas between the white frame, and I noticed dark mud concealing the man beneath.

The man dressed as a skeleton was but one of many that circled a large pit dug from the side of the black mountain. Across from me was a polished stone altar. The demon-children kneeled before it with their heads bowed in obedient order, mimicking glazed statues in the orange firelight.

The evil chanting came from atop the altar where a man dressed in an ornate version of a human skeleton stood. He wore a full skull, split at the sides and widened, like a helmet. A spine, polished white, curved with his back from which a fan of longer bones, possibly human femurs, protruded in parody of a long deceased peacock.

The bone-man raised his hands over his head, and I noticed Drew’s slender figure lying on a slab beneath him. The chant quickened, becoming more of a yell than a prayer. Anxiety overwhelmed me as the bone-man swept his hands back and forth. Drew lay still for a moment, but his body suddenly arched, fighting against the restraints binding his arms and legs. He writhed and flexed, but through some power not his own. As the chanting grew in intensity, so did Drew’s struggle. Soon he was screaming.

The bone-man continued to wave his hands. A crack sounded through the gruesome words. Then a whole succession of cracks like a forest worth of trees snapping in half all at once. Drew wailed with purgatorial agony, and I could see his skin shift with inner-movement, his flesh bending in grotesque bubbles as his own skeleton tried to force its way free from his body. More cracking sounds. More screams. Ribs expanded within his chest. An elbow exploded, revealing the rounded ends of his joint, toes separated from their feet, collar bones buckled and folded upward, the scream tapered into a gurgle.

The bone-man started jerking his arms in an upward motion as if ushering Drew’s bones forth. Drew continued to arch away from the altar, mutilated, lifeless. With a sickening tear, his rib cage began to surface through his skin. The other elbow exploded, followed by both knees, and red pulp rained in a cloudy mist.

I shut my eyes, squeezed them tight, and prayed they never opened again.

But I couldn’t shut my ears. I listened as his body was shredded. Tissue and bone conspired to form a squishing,
ripping
—

I heaved.

When my eyes fluttered open, the bone-man stood holding a red skull in one hand and a polished scepter that radiated religious significance in the other. Various bloodied bones were being shared among the children, and before the bone-man lay the red gore that remained of Drew, and behind his skeletal mask, an imagined sneer.

The bone-man stepped down from the altar. His stride was long. Each step brought him unbearably closer. Someone whimpered, and I became aware of a quaking presence. I craned my neck. Herb and Schmeck lay in similar positions. Schmeck’s face shone with tears. Herb gave a slight nod.

As the bone-man approached, all others watched. He stopped within arm’s length, raised his scepter, and pointed. My heart shriveled. The end of his scepter had a crude etching of a man’s face, bearded and primitive. I saw this because the image was pointed directly at me.

The bone-man didn’t need to speak. Powerful hands grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. My legs tried to fold, but failed under my captors’ hold. The bonds on my hands were cut. I tried to thrash free, but a blow to the back of my head extinguished any fight.

“No,” Herb bellowed. “You sons of bitches, leave him be.”

Hundreds of tribesman looked on with blank detachment.

Orange streaks from the firelight trailed across my vision. I tried to focus, but the ground pulled away as I was lifted off my feet.

“You sons of bitches, I said
no
.”

I was dropped. I crumbled to the ground in a daze. Running feet pounded the ground. Surprised exclamations. A skeleton crashed beside me, bones clattering.

I lifted my head to see what had happened. Herb was pinned to the ground a few feet from the bone-man. He had tried to fight them; tried to save me. The bone-man pointed his scepter at Herb and spoke a single line. Impossibly, Herb’s forearm twisted clockwise until it met resistance. Then a snap. Herb wailed and tried to cover his broken and still twisting arm.

I looked around, the streaks of firelight a permanent part of my vision now. Schmeck was wrapped into a fetal ball. The children, those emotionless shadows, gathered around. I watched as the bone-man magically broke Herb’s other arm, and a feral instinct ignited in me.

I stood with an effort. The men around me were too enthralled in the torture to notice. Some of the skeletons with a wider view must have seen, but they were too far to react. I staggered, then lunged forward in a desperate grab for the bone-man. I had no plan, I only understood the need to stop him.

One hand found the fan of bones at his back and the other found his outreached scepter. I pulled on both, separating the two. I continued to pull him backward and, in a blind fury, I brought the scepter down on his face in pulverizing swings. His mask shattered, driving shards of bone into his eyes. I loosed the beast within. All my fear, disgust, and hate powered my strikes, each landing with more viciousness than the last. I couldn’t, wouldn’t stop. When he toppled to the ground, I followed by straddling his chest.

I raised the scepter over my head, hot blood streaking my face, and prepared for a final strike. I froze. The children stood inches from me in a tight pack. They didn’t move. Nor did the skeletons behind them and, for once, there was emotion in their faces. Awe.

Schmeck fled as best he could. No one tried to stop him. He stumbled over a black mound of dirt and vanished.

The indifference sent a cold chill through my body. Why weren’t they reacting? Why weren’t they swarming?

And for a moment the world seemed to freeze and only I could move. A powerful presence consumed me, burning at first, but then soothing as its influence spread throughout. I could suddenly sense all life around me. It was as if I was looking at a map of the island with every single organism marked with a red dot. I had knowledge of every bird, beetle, and man that made contact with Trovar. More than that, I held a connection with all life, both present and ancient. In my mind’s eye, I could see through the tribesman’s eyes. But they weren’t tribesmen. They were Trovar’s children; my brothers and sisters. I looked into Resh’s life and knew his history. He had been the tribe’s longest lasting Voice of Trovar.

But now it was my time. Trovar had chosen me. I held the scepter—a remnant of Trovar’s physical body long destroyed—and with it, Trovar’s power.

I looked at the scepter in my hand, and reality came crashing back. Herb moaned on the ground, the fire cracked, the clouds let out a weak rumble of a storm that had moved on, and a primeval voice whispered in my ear.

Three of Trovar’s children helped Herb to his feet. He looked at me with worry and wonder. The tribe watched, waiting for direction.

“We take care of you,” I said in harsh words that were older than the trees or the sky or the waters. “Felix promise.”

The worry stayed with Herb, but he would understand with time. If Trovar let him heal, then he would be allowed to assimilate with the tribe—become one of Trovar’s children.

I climbed the steps to the altar, stood erect in front of my people, and spoke. “One still lives. The fat one. Bring him. His thick bones will please Trovar.”

A flood of Trovar’s children lurched into the jungle in search of Schmeck.

He won’t escape, for I am the Voice of Trovar. I am Felix. And I have been chosen to ensure wayward souls don’t spoil this land.

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JC Hemphill
was born yesterday, so if you found his writing infantile, then you’re spot-on. But you gotta admit, he’s pretty damn good for a toddler. His work has appeared in
The Washington Pastime, Pulp Modern, SNM Horror Magazine,
and
Spinetinglers,
with upcoming work in
Buzzy Mag
and
Cover of Darkness
. Follow his scribblings on
Facebook
or at
www.JCHemphill.com.

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Eric J. Guignard
is an award-winning author and editor living in southern California.

He writes fiction short stories in the genres of horror, speculative, and young adult. He also writes research and knowledge-base articles in genealogy, woodworking, and ecology. Eric has been published in numerous print and online media, recently including publications in:
A Very Short Story
competition (first place),
Coscom Entertainment, Dark Moon Books, SNM Horror Magazine, Another Realm, Indie Gypsy
, and many others.

When not writing, Eric designs and builds custom furniture.

Eric holds degrees in Communications and Environmental Science, as well as a Master’s Degree in Public Administration (
California State University Northridge
).

Most importantly, he is married to his high school sweetheart, Jeannette, and father to an adventuresome toddler son, Julian James.

Please visit Eric at: www.ericjguignard.com

or at his blog: www.ericjguignard.blogspot.com