A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,132
pursuit of the fleeing Shaitan was something else altogether. It was most definitely Shaitan, but this one was at least thirty feet tall, and from the size of its bulbous stomach, the tightly stretched skin showing off the outline of thousands of eggs, quite pregnant.
Suddenly, Remy understood the words of the Gardener.
The Shaitan were evolving.
Changing to better fit a horrible world.
• • •
More Shaitan fled from the jungle in shrieking panic, capturing the attention of what Remy could only think of as the Queen.
The giant eagerly snatched up two of the screaming creatures and without a moment’s hesitation shoved one into her enormous maw, swallowing it down with a grotesque-sounding gulp.
“For the good of the spawn,” she bellowed, burping noisily before tossing back the other. “My babies will be better than this place,” she cried as she chewed. “Masters of a world that the wretched God abandoned.”
The Queen’s belly pulsed and writhed. She brought huge hands to her naked front, massaging the pale, lumpy skin. “From the best of us, you will be made even better. The next spawn of our kind even stronger than the last.”
And then she noticed Remy and the children of Samson.
They had dived for cover when she’d first appeared, but her keen eyes picked them out from their jungle surroundings.
“What do we have here?” she asked with the most horrific of smiles. The ancient sigils that adorned her flesh began to move, flowing across her white skin as if they had a life of their own.
She moved far more quickly than Remy would have thought possible, charging at them, kicking up clouds of dirt and rock as she tore through the vegetation after them. They all did the best they could to avoid her clutches, but someone was bound to be caught, and Leila happened to be the one. The girl screamed and kicked, struggling in the monster’s grasp, as Remy and her brothers attacked. They punched and kicked at the giant’s legs, but it seemed to have little effect, for the Queen just swatted them away like insects.
Desperately, Remy pulled the Godkiller from his waistline, aiming the weapon at the loathsome giant. A screeching Leila was just about to be dropped into the Queen’s cavernous maw when the monster froze, sniffing at the air.
Remy stood there, pistol aimed. It would be a head shot for sure—if only he could fire. Something prevented him from squeezing the trigger—a memory, a recollection that came at him like a runaway train.
“An angel of Heaven,” the Queen cried excitedly, tossing Leila away like a piece of trash. “What magick its flesh and bones and divine fire will provide my unborn!”
The Queen reached for him, but Remy still did not fire the Godkiller.
For he was remembering another time when he’d held the gun and had shot to kill.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was time to check their weapons again.
Mulvehill squatted down in the doorway to Remy’s bedroom and fished through his pockets, trying to find more clips for his gun.
“I think this is it,” he said, continuing to fumble, hoping against hope that he might feel a small pocket of heaviness somewhere and find more bullets where he least expected.
No dice.
“Yeah, I’ve got about four shots left, tops,” Squire said, searching the duffel bag and his own pockets, finding some stray bullets and something that might have once been food. The goblin popped it into his mouth and began to chew.
“Did you just eat something you found in your pocket?” Mulvehill asked with disgust.
“Yeah.”
“Was it even food?”
“Might’ve been at one time,” Squire answered. “Think it could’ve been a peanut or a really old piece of lint. I’m really not sure.”
Mulvehill laughed, even though there really wasn’t anything all that funny going on. Squire joined in, his cackle intensifying as if he’d heard the funniest joke of all time.
There was an explosion of something from downstairs that shook the brownstone.
“Oh shit,” Squire said, a look of shock on his ugly face. And then he started to laugh insanely again. Mulvehill tried not to look at him but did anyway and began to chuckle along with him.
“You know you’re totally fucked up, right?” Mulvehill asked, readying his gun for what would surely be another wave of violence.
“Yeah,” Squire answered, stifling his laughter.
“Listen, if this is it, I want to say . . . ,” Mulvehill began, but didn’t get the chance to finish.
“Save it,” Squire interrupted, snapping the barrel of his pistol back into the gun. “I’m not a big fan of last words.”