Authors: Paul E. Cooley

Lamashtu (5 page)

THE temple's yawning mouth beckoned him. It had taken diggers weeks to remove millennia of dirt, rock, and rubble to expose the entrance. With the cool, dry climate, the sandstone structure was well preserved. A condor carving leered at him from atop the temple's facade. John shivered as its eyes glittered in the sun.

Black and red ooze-covered footprints ended in front of the temple. John pulled a lamp from the backpack, switched it on, and walked into the darkness.

The bluish light illuminated the familiar, smooth walls. The Caral had carved pictograms of their many gods in the stone. Not so long ago, he couldn't walk through the temple without stopping every few steps to stare and study their leavings. Now, he was looking for footprints and handprints, and they were easy to find. The creature that had killed his friends was somewhere ahead.

Instead of the smell of old dirt and ancient stone, an abattoir-stench filtered into his nostrils. John fought his gag reflex and entered the main chamber. He stopped in his tracks, the lamp jittering in his shaking hand.

Linton stood in the middle of the ancient temple. His skin was blackened as if burned to a crisp. His mouth oozed something foul and slithery. The thing raised its head and glared at him. Its eyes burned with a sickly yellow light.

The energy from the condor's ministrations evaporated beneath its gaze. He swayed with sudden fatigue and the lamp dropped from his limp fingers. He fell to one knee, the machete's blade clanking against the stone floor.

It started to chant something in a mix of liquid sibilants and guttural glottals. John's vision fluttered and the world swam before him. His pocket began to burn. Without thinking, he dragged the condor's beak out of his jeans.

His nerves and skin sizzled beneath its heat. As the beak cleared the denim, the temple lit with an eldritch light. The creature howled. It raised a gnarled, flesh-dripping finger at him.

John felt moisture running down his face. He swiped at his cheek and a long strip of rotted flesh fell to the temple floor. He staggered forward, the beak held before him, machete raised.

The Linton-thing stumbled backwards. John coughed blood, but kept his feet. He gritted his teeth and forced himself into a run. The creature tried to move away from him, but he was too fast.

He brought the machete down in a short arc. The blade sliced through the thing's shoulder with a crunch. Black liquid spattered his clothes. The creature loosed a deafening howl. He raised the machete to hit it again and it raised its other arm to block. The steel skated off the creature's forearm and the flat of the blade smacked into its hand with a sharp crack. Spoiled bone poked through ruined flesh. The creature took a deep breath and then exhaled a cloud of fetid, black air.

John's eyes burned and his chest seized. He fell to his knees, the beak dropping from his hand. The creature howled again and crushed the beak beneath its rotting, bare feet. The chamber echoed with the crunch. Its light disappeared, casting the room in dark shadows. The only illumination left was from the discarded lamp near the hallway.

The Linton-thing glared down at him, its mouth opening in a too-wide grin. Several of its teeth had fallen from its rotting gums. A black ooze of saliva dripped from its upper lip. The thing raised its foot and John rolled just in time as it smashed into the stone floor where his head had been.

He pushed himself up and managed to stand. Something hit him in the kidneys and he stumbled forward. John turned himself in a clumsy circle, the machete hissing through empty air. The creature was a few steps back, its head shaking as though with laughter.

John wiped blood from his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. The world seemed to waver before him. The creature was stumbling toward him, its skeletal hand held before it. The thing lunged toward him. He turned at the last second and its fingers caught one of the pack's straps.

He struggled to get out of the hand's reach. The pack slipped from one arm. John knelt as the hand swiped for his head. The sharp, bony fingers cut a rent in his scalp.

He tried to roll, but the pack threw off his balance. John fell in a heap. The pack split as it hit the stone floor. Bottles of water and the wooden carvings spilled from the torn pack. The creature keened as it stared down at the avian sigils.

He grabbed one of the wooden carvings and threw it. The sigil clipped the creature's armless shoulder. The chamber shook with its scream. As he watched, the skin where it had hit peeled and then petrified. The thing scratched at the wound.

John pushed himself up on one knee, his hands scrabbling in the pack. He grabbed handfuls of the sigils and flung them toward the creature. The wooden carvings flew at their target like a flock, peppering its skin. Where each hit, it melted into the thing's flesh.

It screamed in pain and turned toward the temple wall. Creaking like overstressed wood, it ran toward the hallway. John picked up the pack and stumbled after it.

Bits of flesh had fallen off the thing and lay strewn across the stone floor. The peels of skin smoked. He wound his way down the hall through the turns and into the bright, punishing sunlight.

The creature limped into the desert. John knelt as his stomach cramped and then he vomited blood upon the hard packed dirt. The creature howled. John raised himself and walked after the thing.

He stared into the bag. A few sigils covered its bottom. He filled his fist with them, dropped the bag, and staggered. His legs shuddered, muscles threatening to freeze. The creature was only a few meters away.

John forced himself forward with a shout of effort. The creature's back was within reach. With the last of his strength, he flung himself on to it and pressed his hand full of sigils into its remaining shoulder.

The creature shrieked to the distant hills and fell to its knees. Its head turned around, the neck bones breaking and cracking. Its open mouth oozed a thick, viscous fluid. It fell backwards and slammed into the ground next to him.

Its remaining hand slashed across John's leg. The bright pain cleared the fog from his head and he rolled out of reach. The thing's hand dug into the sand as it pulled itself toward him. He kicked hard with his left leg and connected with its skull. The head ripped off its spinal column and bounced into the sand. The hand clutched at him once, twice, and then lay still.

John's head hit the dirt as he fell backward. Every nerve in his body screamed. He knew he was bleeding from his mouth and nose, but he was too tired to wipe at it. The world seemed to bend on its side and then righted. Dots of black swirled in the sky. As he watched, they grew in size. Then his ears caught the sound of their cries.

A flock of condors and albatross rapidly descended from the sky. He raised his head. The creature had shrunk to something small and insubstantial. Its skin looked desiccated.

The wooden carvings that had melted into its flesh lay beside it as though they'd popped back out. The birds landed around the creature. As one, they bent their heads and their beaks slashed into its body.

The petrified bundle disintegrated beneath their stamping talons and bites. The flock would eat and then vomit their meal to the side before continuing. One by one, the birds fell to the desert and did not move again.

When the last bird died, the bundle was nothing more than a few cracked bones. John lay his head down on the hard dirt. He coughed again and another spray of blood flew across the sand.

Caral,
he thought.
They all died to protect us. From it. From Lamashtu.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the sun had disappeared and the world was dark. From somewhere far away, he heard the shrieks of condors and albatross. His breathing slowed, chest heaving with the effort to suck oxygen into his lungs. When his chest finally seized, his body shuddered and then lay still. His eyes were wide and staring into the sky, a look of wonder on his face.

About the Author

A writer, podcaster, and software architect from Houston, Texas,

Paul E Cooley has been writing since the age of 12. In 2009, he began producing free psychological thriller and horror podcasts, essays, and reviews available from
Shadowpublications.com
and
iTunes
.

His stories have been listened to by thousands and he has been a guest on such notable podcasts as
Podioracket
,
John Mierau
's "Podcast Teardown,"
Geek Out with Mainframe
,
Shadowcast Audio
, and
Vertigo Radio Live
. In 2010, his short story Canvas and novella Tattoo were nominated for Parsec Awards. Tattoo became a Parsec Award finalist. He has collaborated with New York Times Bestselling author
Scott Sigler
on the series "The Crypt" and the novel "The Rider," as well as contributed his voice talents to a number of podiofiction productions.

The Black
, his Amazon Horror Best-Seller, debuted in September 2014, published by Severed Press. The second novel in the series,
The Black: Arrival
, was published in May 2015. The third installment is expected in first quarter 2016.

In addition to his own podcast, he is a co-host on the renown
Dead Robots' Society
writing podcast.

For more information about this series, as well as current and upcoming projects, please visit
Shadowpublications.com
or join our
mailing list
.

Contact the author:

Email:

[email protected]
Twitter:

twitter.com/paul_e_cooley
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Lamashtu

Paul E Cooley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.shadowpublications.com

Published in the United States of America by
Shadowpublications.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cooley, Paul Elard

Lamashtu/ / Paul E Cooley.-- 1
st
ed.

p. cm.

1. Horror―Fiction

ISBN: 978-1-942137-06-1

Cover Art and book design by
Scott E Pond Designs

Edited by
Sue Baiman

Other Works by

Paul E Cooley