Chapter 4
Jeremiah rounded the bend first. His brother’s screams of terror and pain a driving force that propelled him and his horse forward at a frightening rate. But it was too late. The bushes that crept from the roadside stirred violently, and Jeremiah caught a brief glimpse of powerful thighs, outstretched and contorted, catapulting through the foliage. He yanked on his reigns and leapt from his horse, stunned into complete silence and momentary paralysis. No words could describe his emotion, and no description given could put a name to the thing he’d seen delve into the brush.
The mountain descent offered a detrimental slant that petrified the doctor: an unfortunate miscalculation certainly meant death. He loomed over the edge unable to take the first steps required to begin the treacherous task of retrieving if it’s possible at this point Jonathan; Thomas’ demeanor looked the carbon copy. Jeremiah however had already thrown caution to the wind and leapt into the growth, his plummet transitioning into, fall, roll, regain his footing, only to continue his clumsy tumble through thick growth that scratched, smacked and tore at his body and clothing. Something had taken his brother. It was large, quick and strong, and judging by the significantly larger pool of blood that had decorated the cobblestone above a bastardly mural of abstract perversion, it boasted a vicious set of incisors. Knowing so did little to slow the elder Belmont brother, who’d instantaneously resigned himself to the fact that his pursuit would not end until his brother had been retrieved. This time, Jeremiah would live up to the older brother archetype.
A jutting boulder, shrouded in fallen leaves caught Jeremiah off guard: his boot catching on the jagged edge, he fell forward into an ungraceful summersault that gave way to a loosely confined ball of human flesh plowing through a sea of brown and green. His breath leapt from his lungs as a thick tree trunk brought his fall to a halt. The world swam and a vice locked upon his chest cavity. He battled for air, rolled onto his side and clutched his ribs, a few of which were now most certainly broken. Gradually his lungs retracted, expanded, and he took in air in rapid, ragged gasps. Beat up, he’d made it.
He rested on his hands and knees, regaining his wits when suddenly, he noticed blood. More than blood: a bloody mound rest in tangles just fifteen feet away from where he struggled with pain and oxygen deprivation. Butterflies filled his insides, and nausea threatened. The urge to deposit his late lunch overcame him and he vomited violently. Thick strands of half-digested pork roast, potatoes and bile streamed from his lips, splattering the leaves and dirt beneath him. He emptied his stomach, and took to a fit of dry heaves. He knew exactly what that bloody mound was: the ivory white collided with the mess of crimson in an explosion of sickening reality. The carnage could not be confused.
Slowly, devoid of all sustenance to reject, he battled to regain control of his gag reflex as well as his footing. Clutching at his ribcage, which felt as though it had been the target of a cannonball that found its mark, he shambled toward the bright pile that lay in stark contrast to the leaves, a sore for the eye, and much worse for Jonathan.
Any remnants of the pants Jonathan had been wearing had vanished. Not so much as a shred of fabric could be detected through the gnawed limb, not a single fiber. The femur and its surrounding muscle and tissue was nowhere to be scene, but the knee, calf and foot were accounted for… to a degree. The calf had been ripped of skin, and sinewy muscle glistened in a sickening image of red, raw meat. Here and there a piece of the muscle had been completely torn away leaving wiry strings of severed veins dangling, but there was no mistaking the appendage. The foot however, had been completely stripped of not only boot, but of meat as well. Nothing but bone, crushed and mangled, remained. The Cuneiform bones destroyed, the Metatarsus snapped and overlapping in what looked like a mock set piece designed for a grim theater show.
Jeremiah battled another fit of dry heaves, collapsing to his knees, tears brimming in the corners of his eyelids. “Jesus…Lord how c-could this be? What c-could do such a thing?” He stammered over his words, and gazed at the revolting sight before him, disgusted by its savagery, in awe of its magnitude. Whatever had taken Jonathan hadn’t simply been large, fast and strong, it had been ferocious, unbelievably ferocious: vile in its cruelty and remorseless, perhaps completely emotionless. And apparently… it had been hungry.
“B-b-b-brother!”
Jeremiah spun, startled, scanning the woods frantically. Adrenaline had confused his senses and his eyes were forced to regain focus. Further down the mountain, thirty yards away, tangled in a heaping mass of broken branches and wilting leaves of fading bronze lay Jonathan. One bloody hand raised (a digit gone absent without leave), he beckoned to Jeremiah. Silent words escaped his mouth. An agonized grimace spread across his face, which, even from a fair distance, in near-complete darkness, had clearly adopted the sickly pallor of the undead. He looked to be in miserable condition, but somehow, remarkably, he was alive, but time could change that, and urgency struck Jeremiah with the force of an angry mule’s defiant kick.
Further down the slope, shrouded by the earth’s dearest life support, silhouetted against shadowed shards of the rising moon, something heavy stirred. A deep, guttural growl emanated from the descending blackness.
Jeremiah heard the unnatural grumblings from the nearby brush, but he was beyond caring. Survival instinct had overthrown all other senses in his mind and body. He hurled himself down the steep decline and came to rest next to his brother’s severely mutilated body. Long inconsistent gashes defiled his face. Flaps of flesh hung from his cheek and a serrated tear obscured a once faultless neck, made of taut, rippling muscles. Those muscles were indiscernible now, only blood and loose tissue visible. The rest of his body appeared equally sullied, a crushed hull of flesh: his arms now broken, his torso flayed in an offensive mock-surgery. His leg, or what was left of it emitted a steady spurt of blood, squirting in rhythmic pace of his accelerated heartbeat.
Again, the creature in the brush growled. The grinding noise summoned not fear, but rage in Jeremiah, who leapt to his feet in a defiant state he’d never known. “I’m coming for you!” he bellowed, “You damned beast from Hell! I will find you and tear every limb from your body! What you’ve done to my brother will pale in comparison to the torture I will bestow upon you, you god damned devil! I’m coming!”
Visibility now nearing a complete devoid, a maddened Jeremiah knelt and worked to slowly (and painlessly as possible) hoist what remained of Jonathan over his shoulder. The climb back up the mountainside promised a new face of Hell to topple.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to issue much gratitude to Amanda Norman, who helped me create a wonderfully bleak cover for this story. Amanda, your work is remarkable, and I look forward to the future! If you happen to be foreign to the talents of this lovely woman, check out her website: www.amandanorman.com, where you will find some wind blowing imagery. Furthermore, I must extend praise to my family, the very few who’ve never faltered in their belief of my potential. Your support goes a long way in instilling confidence, and for that I’m grateful. And, finally I’ve got to issue a hearty “thank you” to Clive Barker, who’s taught me that writing (and living) within a confined box is only hindering creative potential. Clive, your bold works have inspired me to think beyond the measures of standard horror fare and not fear introducing readers to something completely new, disgusting and profound. I only hope to do you proud. You’re an icon to me: thank you for helping me to genuinely believe that I might make a splash… one day, in the literary world.
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