Tim Marquitz - Echoes of the Past

There was nothing I could do but laugh. I wiped the crust from my eyes and stared at the approaching mountain, doing my best to make my eyes focus. When they did, I felt the sudden urge to pucker up to keep me from shitting myself.

The Nephilim, Jorn, stood before me.

His lips were pulled back into an ugly sneer that probably burned a couple hundred calories just to maintain. The grunting he was doing as he lugged his six hundred pound frame across the mud was probably another fifty, or so. His bald head glistened in the rain, drops of water sluicing through the crevices of fat that defined his hound dog face. Every footstep shook the ground as he came toward me, his splotchy cheeks a dark red. He looked really mad.

I guess he had a right to be.

Just a few days ago I’d put my gun to the head of the guy’s best friend, Zellick, and pulled the trigger. It probably didn’t feel good to have his buddy’s brains splattered all over his side and not be able to do anything about it. Unfortunately for me, he’d found a way to rectify the latter part of that.

My gun off in the mud about ten yards away, I thought it’d be a good idea to revisit my first meeting with Jorn. I’d set his ass on fire. I willed my power to life and was very disappointed when, once again, it didn’t answer. Jorn thumped closer as I tried to clear my head.

The worst part about magic was that it took serious focus to manifest and maintain. That wasn’t something I’d yet mastered. Still new to the power, it took a lot of effort to draw it out. Wizards like Rahim or McConnell could do it in their sleep, their magic such an integral part of their being; it was the true them. For me, my first instinct was to crack a joke or pull my gun. That didn’t work so well with a broken jaw and my. 45 a million miles away.

Jorn didn’t seem to care about my problems. He snatched me up by my throat, both of his meaty paws wrapped around my neck. That limited my third option: crying like a little girl and begging for my life.

My fourth choice was punching him in the face, so I went with that. It seemed a reasonable decision at the time. Didn’t do much good. My fist crashed into his flabby cheek and he barely grunted as folds of fat rippled at the impact. It was like hitting cookie dough. He growled and lifted me further into the air while dots danced in my eyes. Before the signal to kick him could run from my brain to my foot, Jorn slammed me to the ground.

The dots went postal and spewed across my vision when I hit. The ground being soft was the only consolation I had. I sank into the mud, every bone in my body creaking in protest. My face was buried several inches into the topsoil, and I couldn’t breathe. Jorn lent a helping hand; or foot, as it were.

His boot crashed into my stomach and launched me backwards, mud and bile spewing from my mouth. My only thought, as I tumbled through the air, was that I was racking up some serious frequent flyer miles. Oh, and that I needed to practice my landings.

I hit the ground and what little sense I’d stored up over the years was knocked loose, along with a couple of my teeth. Blood filled my mouth, adding its coppery tang to the crunch of moist dirt. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Jorn lumbering toward me again.

I scrambled to get to my feet, but either I was moving much slower than usual or he’d sped up because I caught another boot before I’d managed anything more than getting to my knees. The world whipped by as I tumbled back, and braced for impact. It didn’t come right away. There was a strange sense of still falling just as I expected to land. The crash happened an instant later. The last of my breath rushed from my lungs as I slammed onto my back. I felt the solidness of concrete beneath me. My skull hit a split-second later and the dots came back full force. I groaned and tried to blink away the flashing lights that tangled my vision. Only partially successful, I pulled myself up and felt a solid wall behind me. I leaned into it as I heard Jorn’s huffing breath a ways above me. It seemed out of place, despite his height.

A wavering shadow encroached on my sight and something metal and heavy clanked down beside me. I’d heard my gun fall so many times I knew exactly what the sound was. I snatched it up and sighed as my fingers instantly recognized the clip had been removed and the chamber had been cleared. It was useless.

“Now it’s time for you to die, demon.” It was the first time I’d heard his voice, if you don’t count the shrieking when I’d set him alight. He sounded almost childish, his voice soft, with the tiniest of lisps, as though he had difficulty forming the words. If he hadn’t been kicking my ass, I would have laughed.

I blinked away the last of the static and found myself staring at Jorn as though he were standing on a ladder. It took a second for me to realize he wasn’t on something, but that I was in something. My gaze drifted and I saw the concrete walls of the burial liner that surrounded me. I was in a grave…again.

Dirt fell over me, and my heart ground to a halt. I looked up to see Jorn dumping handfuls of mud into the hole. He clearly intended to bury me.

Terror welled up as I remembered Karra’s zombies doing the same thing, the fear of being buried alive filling me with frenzied adrenaline. Karra had provided me with a means to breathe, knowing I would survive. Jorn had no such kindness planned. Another handful of mud struck my face and panic set in. I was suddenly sick, my skin feeling as though it had been doused in ice water. My heart sputtered limp in my chest and a tingling sensation drowned out all my pain, leaving me numb and weak.

Wisps of black wafted up inside the liner, like serpentine tendrils. I watched as they thickened and grew darker, becoming a swirling obsidian. Jorn growled but it sounded far away. I wondered if this was what death felt like. Was I having a heart attack? A stroke? I pressed my back against the wall in hopes of settling the nausea that seemed ready to boil over. The darkness grew thicker and thicker, and I could feel it against my fingertips, taste it in every panicked breath as it filled the liner and stole my sight. I glanced up at Jorn and he looked like he was shrinking into the distance, the blackness eating away at his massive shape. He howled. His dwindling face was a bright crimson.

I cried out and the mist swallowed my voice. Then there was nothing.

As quick as it appeared, the blackness went away. I could see.

Tiny wafts of it clung to my legs as I stared at the unexpected whiteness of the ground. The sudden coldness I’d felt was still there, but it was less ephemeral, more wet; more real. I blinked my eyes and realized I wasn’t sitting in in a concrete liner any longer, but on the soft ground; in a foot of snow. I was still in a hole, but Jorn wasn’t standing over me and I could see tall, frost-covered trees looming in the distance.

I had no clue where I was, or how I’d gotten there.

I was still in a grave, though. The first thing I wanted was out. I could worry about the rest once I was above ground. My empty gun stuffed in my waistband, I made a frantic leap at the edge of the hole and dug my fingers into the wet ground. It held just long enough for me to pull myself free of the grave. The effort was exhausting.

As soon as I was out, cold air in my lungs, a wash of mystical energy hit me; alien, hostile. My head went on a swivel and I spied the source of it. Not more than fifty feet from where I stood was Mihheer. His back was turned to me, and it didn’t look like he even knew I was there. I tried to summon my magic. It flickered inside, but the fuse failed to light. I was too tired and hurt to draw it out. A beautiful string of descriptive epithets ran through my head, begging to be released, but I swallowed them back; just barely. I had no clue how I’d ended up in a frosty wasteland with Mihheer, but it was as close to winning the lottery as I was gonna get.