Monday, June 20, 2011

The Genesis Seed

When it finally came upon the world, the sky was chaotic and beautiful all at once. The land was cast in shadow and no longer made of sand, but filled with silhouettes of trees and high hilltops that masked the events in the distance; it felt like the truck had been quietly removed from the road and transported to another place in time, which unbeknownst to its driver was exactly what had happened. The truck came to a slow lethargic crawl. Father John Writhe bent over the steering wheel, looking up at the night, paralyzed by the fear and bedazzled by the spectacle unraveling overhead. The black funnel rose from the fires that erupted from the volcano on the ground, high into the atmosphere, spreading like trapped smoke from an upturned bottle over a candle flame. The thick black and grey smoke covered the world as far as the eye could see. John watched helplessly as the base of the volcano spewed fire and brimstone, his attention caught by the sudden explosion from the mouth of the volcano. Hot white whips of lightning shout out from the base of the smoke funnel, destroying everything that it touched, fueling the cloud with an electrical charge that swirled up into a torrid whirlwind. From high atop the funnel, more lightning licked at the swirling cloud in large burst of orange colored electrostatic discharges that reached deep inside the funnel from the pooling darkness above, charging what could only be described as a tornado born from the fire pits of hell itself. Adding to an already impressive sight, a dozen more strikes of pink and red colored lightning zigged and zagged from the west that appeared to zero in on unseen targets with each individual bolt. Father John Writhe heard himself admit that what he saw was the epitome of All Hell Breaking Loose. And that was the moment his eyes were flooded by an intensely hot light.

The heat from the light warmed against his scruffy cheek, still smarting from the backhanded slap from his interrogator. The light moved from his face and concentrated back onto the blood spattered plastic bag sitting on the table in front of him. His body ached, matching the sore throbbing of his face, and his mind still fluttered with images so strong that he physically cringed after each vision. Sitting to his side was a white male, dressed in an old brown suit and tweed jacket that smelled of old crime scenes, coffee and cigarettes. His bald head shimmied beneath the light, and he appeared to smirk as he stroked his goatee glazing over the thick file before him. The second man, the one who had introduced the back of his hand to the side of his face, stood smug just to the side of him, dressed in a uniform that had no badge that he could see, rubbing the sting from his hand. He could tell he was in some kind of interrogation room from the cliched two-way mirror along one wall, the use of a hanging lamp and the smell of dried urine in the room from interrogations. The use of physical violence came as a shock, but, then again, he wasn't entirely sure where this interrogation room was.

He tried to ignore the bald man speaking to him to gather his barrings on how he had come to arrive here handcuffed, he learned the moment he tried to move his arms, to a folding chair and shouted at as if he were some kind of monster. Where am I? How did I get here? Who are these people? His thoughts immediately returned inside the interrogation room with another sharp slap of encouragement from his captors.
     "My name is Mister White. My associate here goes by a name that most people only learn when they take their last breath. My job is to make sure that you answer my questions and keep my associates name a mystery to you. Do you understand?"
A flash came to him: He was inside a truck, speeding up a long hillside. In the distance there were...screams. Terrible screams that carried a great deal of burden across a long stretch of highway that seemed to grow louder the further out they went.
     "Argh! Yes!"
Mister White eyed his associate quizzically.
     "Is your name Wade Keller?"
A flash: A room in total disarray. Bodies lay in all corners of the room, with a pungent odor that was a combination of cigarettes and resin. There was just the faintest hint of death somewhere in the room.
     " John Writhe"
     "Funny. This picture of Wade Keller looks exactly like you." Mister White said pushing an old black and white photo in front of him. The man shown in the picture had much longer hair, but aside from that looked strikingly similar.
     "I...I don't understand. Who is this man?"
Mister White clicked the end of his ballpoint pen and began to write something onto a long tablet. He made sounds under his breath, sounds of accusation or mild interest such as "Uh-huh." or "Mmm, hmm." that angered John.
     "Listen, I know my rights! I want to know why I am here...handcuffed to this blasted chair as though I were some kind of criminal. I am a man of the cloth damn you!"
This brought a sneer to the face of the aggressor known as Mister White's associate. Even Mister White could not help his own accusatory smile, which was marred a bit by real intrigue.
     "You really do believe that, don't you?"

     "What in god's name..."
     "Enough with the God crap! You can play the alias card all you like Mister Keller, Father Writhe-" Mister White began to toss one photo after another at John, naming the victims of each one as he did so, "-Charley Harley, Kolby Kurtins, Venice Perez and three others I have yet been able to tie into you, but in time." He said flustered.
John sat silent and still. Slowly the pieces of twisted logic began to come together.
     "Zing! Now we are getting somewhere. Yes, the Motel."
John's words seemed to perk Mister White up, enough that he offered him a cigarette which he kindly refused.
     "It took us a little while to piece things together, but you made a crucial error in room 666. Fitting I suppose." He reached into a small manila folder and pulled out a gold bullet, sitting it in front of John. "Which came first, Wade. The guilt or the chicken shit?"
     "I don't know what you are talking about!"
His outburst did not go unnoticed by the lurking figure hovering over him. Again, John felt the unforgiving burn of the man's hand on the opposite side of his face.
     "Stop me if you heard this one, Wade. A man, one Wade Keller wakes up in a Motel room with a dead naked hooker on top of him, panics and, through a stroke of luck, finds another innocent man passed out in the room, setting up the poor bastard as the fall guy. He then gets away clean and ruins an innocent man's life, who then finds himself in a weak moment of guilt and confesses to his wife, who then threatens to leave him and tell the authorities about the dead prostitute. The wife doesn't get the chance to do as she threatens, because the husband follows the grief stricken wife to the nearest Motel and bashes her fucking head in, slitting her throat and arranging it all to look like a suicide."
The gaps were filling in John's head like flood waters on a low level plain. Was this all really happening? He was beginning to break out in a cold sweat, which was not helping his appearance or defense with the two men who already had him pegged being as guilty as a Fox inside a chicken coop.
     "My laptop...where is my laptop?"
Again Mister White perked up. He motioned to his associate who produced the laptop as though he had been holding on to it the whole time, waiting for it to be mentioned.
     "I am pleased that you mention this, Mister Keller."
The associate opened the laptop. John waited for the logo to appear. He waited for the insignia of the Holy Bridge. He waited for the thin green line to come online. Instead, the desktop loaded. There were the common icons on most laptops; The Recycle Bin; The IE icon; My Documents; My Computer and a few random files. There was one file however that was placed away from the others and named "Blog" that the associate moved the cursor over, clicking it twice.
     "When we opened this, my first instinct was that you were clearly displaying classic signs of a pathological liar who also suffers from PTSD, but upon reading I have added deluded sociopath to a growing list of mental illnesses."
John was beginning to fidget in his seat. The visions had ceased a bit, but when one flashed across his memory, it was as though he were propelled into the vision as an unseen witness to the horror unfolding around him.
     "Zombies?" He said with a chuckle.
     "It does suggest a possible method of disposing the bodies into the ground, along the same stretch of desert highway you have been traveling over the past month and a half, and then writing about your exploits through your blog, which is rather popular among the crazies."
John shook his head. Kolby Kurtains, event 36B. A struggling writer who found sudden success with a blog he had devised on a whim. His vehicle had been recovered by the authorities, but the body was never found. A missing person case that was destined for the cold case files. I am living a nightmare, he thought.
     "Fine. You have caught me. Considering my...mental status, perhaps then, Mister White-"
     "Please, call me Bryan."
     "-Bryan, perhaps you can tell me how you caught me?"
     "Unassisted Memory Recall. It's just a guess, but I figure we can add Alzheimer's to your mental issues. It's the only thing I can come up with, considering we had nothing to go on with your murderous rampage other than my own speculations. So you can imagine my surprise when you walked right into my office this morning with a full confession. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but that bloody knife there went a long way in convincing me that there was something to your...erratic behavior."

A flash: He found himself standing at the edge of a cliff. In the distance, smoke billowed from a nearby volcano that shook the ground to the point he had to stabilize himself and the knife he held inches from the throat of a man. He remembered feeling immense guilt and pain. He remembered losing all of his faith in all things, the moment the man spoke to him, his words however remained lost in the thunderous noise booming from the volcano, the heavens and the rumbling of the Earth. He remembered a third voice shouting to him, urging him to slit the man's throat. The voice was burdened by the request, but firm about its decision. He recalled the voice saying to him: "Kill him John! Now, before he has a chance to..." To what? He wondered.
The vision was beginning to blur, pulling in the reality of the interrogation room. He could hear Mister White speaking; however, he could not see him or his associate.

John began to seize, his eyes rolled in the back of his head, his arms and legs flung out to his sides. His wrist twisted, the skin tore against the metal ridges of the handcuffs and his teeth chattered loud enough to echo inside the room. The associate gripped him, holding him as best he could until the moment passed. This had not been the first time he had been thrown into protection mode, rather than be the enforcer. Mister White jotted down his notes and lit a cigarette, while waiting for the seizure to subside. John fell limp in the associates arms, placing his head down onto the table, checking his pulse. He looked to Mister White who made the decision to allow him time to recoup. This one had been worse than the others. Even with the evidence and the confession, he still needed to get it all on tape. He took his cigarettes and coffee and got up from his chair.

     "Have a medic check him out. He isn't going anywhere."

The two left and the light switched off, leaving John in the darkness of the interrogation room.

John was awake but dead to the world. The pain, the hopelessness, the insecurity of the unknown. These things suddenly left him. All things had left him, leaving just his soul to linger within the confines of total darkness. From the shadows of his subconscious, a bright light opened up and grew into a being without features, just a brilliant light that took the shape of a person. John heard his voice echo in the darkness.
     "Why have you forsaken me?"
     "He has not forsaken you, John."
He could feel the presence of the Angel nearer to him. A warm gentle hand was felt.
     "I am sorry for your struggles John. There wasn't much I or anyone else could do...then. So much has happened my friend. The world you know suffers. Hell has brought forth its destructive hand and Heaven simply stands idly by, without word from the Our Father. I do not understand it, nor can I wrap my mind around it. Especially since..."
The Angel hesitated. John could hear there was something more, something crucial and perhaps perverse with its words.
     "What is it Grigori?"
     "I will lose his grace if I say anything to you, you know that."
John had never been one to lose his temper, until this moment. He knew his path would be devoid of assistance from God or his blasted Angels of Mercy. He knew his journey would be a lonesome one, and he accepted that. But he was a broken man without direction, further shattered by the events, the Motel and now his displacement, it seemed, in time.
     "Goddamn you Grigori! You know something. You have known something since the day we first met. I saw how you looked into her eyes, and I have seen that same look before. What are you not telling me?"
The light swelled more intensely, so much that John felt as though he were on fire. He forced his mind's eye to remain open, witnessing a women step out from the light that dimmed to a low radiance behind her. She was naked from head to toe, with perfect olive skin that shimmied in the dull glow. Slowly, her wings unfurled from behind, reaching around her thin shoulders covering her chest and waist.
     "It is my duty to serve you as your guardian, but do so without interfering with God's Plan. Appearing alone is enough to banish me from Heaven. How can you ask me to do any more than I have already?"
     "Because you are more than my Guardian. You are an Angel of Mercy and part of God's army. You saw the same thing I did, that volcano was not just an eruption it was the coming of a new age. The age of Dominion, the Genesis Seed! This is much bigger than anything I can address, and you know this. I am but a man!"
The Angel considered this. All signs had pointed to the coming of Lucifer's Son. Enough time had passed, and Hell was a patient place. A slow burning flame, fueled by the sin of man, waiting for the right time to explode. It was as John said, the Age of Dominion. And God was clearly not listening to the prayers of mankind, or those of Heaven. Even Michael went unheard. Her decision was not an easy one; but, a necessary one.
     "I want to tell you a story," Grigori began, "About the day I became an Angel, when I was just a dreamer."

There was a feeling of uncertain consternation shared among John and the Angel. The time lines did not coincide with Grigori's transformation and the accident. How was it possible? How was anything possible? When asked, Grigori explained, as best she could, that time was a boundless oasis of possibilities. For humans, time was a measurement. It was the passage from one action into another that shaped the world, giving it meaning. For Angels, time was not a measurement of movement, but a calculated method of travel through space at any given timeline that did not need meaning in order to exist. It was similar to how they now communicated within John's subconscious. Physically, he was inside the interrogation room, but his spirit had lifted up through the walls and out into the open space. If he wanted, and if he understood what it meant to be Of God, he could open up doorways within himself that could take him to any numbers of places in time. The Motel was the physical manifestation of the infinite unknown. The bible called this, Faith; but, Angels knew it as God Grace.

     "Once I had reached the pinnacle of my faith, when all of my inhibitions and fears and doubts had been removed, and when I finally looked inside myself I knew the words spoken to me were not random, but spoke directly to me. 'The Son of Man will send forth His angels and they will gather out of His kingdom, all stumbling blocks and those who commit lawlessness.' God had called for me. And I answered him."

There were varying ways to interpret God's call, John thought, but becoming an Angel did not fit into his list of enlightenment's he ever studied. He had learned very quickly, within the past few days, that because he did not believe did not make things so. It was time, he realized further, to start asking questions instead of pursuing speculations.

     "Tell me, what did you see that day?"
It wasn't the request that provoked an answer, it was the love she felt that procured insight into her vision. The Angel had kept a secret of its own, a secret that nearly sent her spiraling into the depths of Hell. She never questioned God's will, nor did she stray from the plan that He had provided to all. On that tragic day, however, for reasons that were still a mystery, God's plan was altered by something other than the LORD.
     "I saw a child." She began. Her words quickly soaked with tears as she told John more of her vision. "She was the most beautiful being I have ever laid eyes upon since..."
     "Since what?" John asked apprehensively.
The Angel's lips dreaded each syllable, pursing around the words in contempt, trying to reel them back inside her mouth and failing.
     "I saw the Messiah John...even....felt Him. That is why Baphomet made his deal with you. I did not quite understand, at the time, why he would want your soul; but, he didn't want your soul...did he?"
John's subconsciousness had grown suddenly cold, like opening the door to a giant freezer and feeling its winter kiss steal the warmth from one's face. Grigori could also feel the pain swelling in his eyes, the regret as well as the act that had started it all.
     "Delaina survived the wreck. My legs were crushed beneath the steering column, which kept me from reaching the release button on her seat belt. The car was upside...upside-down and the belt caught around her neck. There was nothing I could do, but watch my fiancee and unborn child suffocate less than an inch from my fingertips. Had I not been drinking, I would never have lost control of the car...or my temper that forced it from the road...Baphomet played my guilt perfectly."
There was a disturbance within John's mind. It was a sense of urgency, trying to pull him back to reality. There was little time left.
     "John, I cannot help you escape, nor can I assist you with your battles. You made a deal with the devil and it is strictly up to you to save face with God. Know this, John Writhe! You are not an ordinary mortal man. Your bloodline is shared with that of the Messiah, and God flows through your veins. Remember that!"

Room 2: The Motel 

The slap was harsh enough that his cheek had welted on its way to swelling twice its size; but, John remained unconscious. There was a shared amount of concern in the room with voices like faint whispers spoke of him possibly being dead, and others that argued that the medic had confirmed otherwise and to try and "stir" him with another backhand. Finally, he felt a rush of frigid air flood his lungs, yanking him from his psychological retreat. John's eyes snapped open, spitting ice water from his mouth.
     "Ah, there you are. You nearly had me worried."
The chill from the water felt nice against the burning of his cheeks, still questioning if he had been speaking with Grigori or if it too was just a figment of his imagination. He was certain of one thing, the man eyeing him was very much real, as were the shots from his associate who took far too much pleasure in others pain.
     "Perhaps we can continue then?"
John eyed the associate, his face shadowed in the background, his thick sausage-like fingers massaged the back of his hand awaiting the order to strike him again. Mister White had lit another cigarette, stirring his coffee as he pushed the recorder closer to John.
     "What is your name?"
John focused on the two way mirror beyond Mister White's bald head.
     "Father John Writhe."
The mirror seemed to ripple, like a wild wind against a flag from one corner to the next. John blinked the dryness from his eyes and looked again. And again, a ripple crawled across the mirror. He could now hear a low humming all around the room. He had heard it before, but could not quite recall where.
     "Did you murder your wife, Sharon Keller?"
He felt his breathing calm. He could feel the hum now in his feet and hands and head. The ripple of the mirror steadily increased. For whatever reason, John realized where he was. Somehow, he had been transported back to the Motel.
A flash: John held the knife close to the throat of the man, begging for his life to be spared. He then felt the hand of some one grab him by the neck and whisper: "Return"
     "No." John replied.
     "My associate and I do not like wasting our time."
The associate slapped John again hard across the mouth. He could feel his bottom lip exposed, tasting blood seeping in from the corner of his mouth.
A flash: The vision was clearer now, the pain searing through his brain like a electrically charged spear. The man held at knife-point was dressed in a dress cassock with the emblem of the Holy Bridge on the front and back. It was Bishop Verrelli pleading for mercy, and the angel Grigori shouting to him to end his life, but why? Again, he heard the voice: "Return."
     "Are responsible for the deaths at the Motel!"
John's head felt as though it were about to burst from the pain, the humming, the assault by the associate and the shouting from Mister White. He tried to return back to his vision, but the voice kept repeating the word over and over again. It was like he was being held prisoner in his own mind, as well as body and spirit. The mirror no longer rattled and the rippling had stopped, but the surface did not reflect. It was now the color of opal, like the mirror had been inverted so that the other side was now seen and with it, the truth was revealed.
John could see the edge of the mountain, the volcano spewed hot molten fury into the air in the distance. Grigori stood in front of the mirror, fear and dread riddled her perfect face, plagued by the unknown thoughts processing inside her.
     "TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO HEAR!" Mister White demanded slamming his coffee cup onto the table shattering it.
Between the second or two it took for the associates fist to bruise John's cheekbone, which, for reasons he could not explain, changed everything.
Grigori shouted muted warning from behind the mirror, reaching inside the glass, pushing through the unstable reality that separated the interrogation room from the rest of the outside world. Her long slender hand looked like a stick trying to push through a balloon, stretching the surface of the glass well beyond its breaking point. This went unnoticed by Mister White and his associate, who both looked suddenly shocked by the force behind the associates punch as it did not do what each had expected. Instead, John spat crimson onto the floor, wiping his bloody lip onto his shoulder, and looked up to the associate.
     "I know you."
This brought pause to the room. John was no longer in control of his person or his thoughts. It was though he were watching a movie from the back of a dark theater, hanging on to every word spoken as the plot unfolded before him. The associate moved like a striking cobra from the darkness, grabbing John by the throat and squeezing, before he had the chance to react. He fought futilely, his tiny fingers no match against the thick fist of his bald attacker, who wore some kind of robe beneath his clothing. Mister White calmly smoked his cigarette, watching his associate with sick pride. He looked through the watering of his eyes, beyond the broad shoulders of the associate to the hand slowly reaching for him. It reminded him a lot of a time long ago, when his own wife needed a helping hand that came just short of heroism. Knowing he would not be able to reach, he simply gave in and relaxed his breathing. If he were to die, he would do so at peace with himself.

Grigori reached across the gap in front of Mister white, who was too transfixed on the murder to notice, grabbing the knife from the envelope and steadying it in her hand. The Angel knew that interfering would lose Grace with The Father, but she was not going to stand by and watch another crucifixion not when there was so much riding on the man she was given the task to Watch Over. Grigori plunged the knife into the associates side. He immediately released his grip, stumbling back against the mirror, feeling the powerful arms of Grigori wrap around him, pulling him through to the other side. Mister White watched in horror, turning to John, still smiling sickly, and then abruptly melted down into a wet pool of goo in his chair. The whole of the interrogation room shook, the walls cracked and peeled, and the humming had reached its sonic crescendo that shattered the handcuffs into shards of glass on the floor. The wall opposite him had crumbled, revealing a door with the number 12 that also crumbled, then another door with a different number that also fell to the ground in chunks of distorted reality. This seemed to go on forever, each door revealing a new number set. Am I in the Motel? He wondered.

Grigori called to him. John turned to face the mirror. The interrogation room was seconds from total collapse, and the only way out seemed to be through the crumbling exit doorways. Much was happening around John. Had he been in the Motel the entire time or was he somehow transported back to the Motel? The air of confusion was still too thick to decipher. Grigori had told him that the blood of the Messiah flowed through him, what did this mean? He looked to the mirror, which had started to crack along its surface. "Please, John, there isn't much time!" Grigori pleaded with him. It was clear to him that the Motel was fading as it had so many times before, wherever it was now and however he had come to be here was only going to leave behind more unanswered questions. John decided then to make the most of his role in whatever Hell was being unleashed, turning for the unstable doorway. He ran as quickly as his legs could carry him. The sound of Grigori's voice faded in the distance between him and the room.

As he ran, the reality of the Motel continued to further diminish. The floor was becoming unstable, like trying to run along a waterbed while balancing one's self enough not to fall over. If he could reach the door, before it had a chance to crumble away, maybe it would lead him down the right path. He worked his feet along the ground, gaining momentum with each thrust of the leg, knowing he had turned his back on what was likely the end of the world behind him. Whatever the Genesis Seed was, it had come and it had done so with the fury of a God. What good were his efforts against a God? Now, however, it was exactly how he had promised to be, spontaneous and unexpected. Before reaching the door that had materialized in front of him, a final thought weighed heavily on his mind. The associates hands were cold, but familiar. Familiar in the same way one knows the sound of another voice in the dark. It was a thought that shook him to his core.

John Writhe stood before the door, humbled by its simplicity, stirred by its numbering and cautiously optimistic about what lay beyond it. A thought managed to crawl into the recesses of his beaten and battered mind. In order to move forward, one must venture back in order to understand. He took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.

Room 1: The Genesis Seed. 

A hole opened in the middle of the world. From it, a man dropped a great distance down into the open mountainous terrain. The impact was thunderous, sounding like a thousand sticks of dynamite exploding at once. Once the smoke and debris cleared, a hand reached up from the crater, followed by another, pulling itself up from the depths of the world and stood. Mighty wings the color of milk and soft as satin unfurled from the man, reaching far out to his side. In front of him, the world was slowly dying. The volcano screams warning in the distance and lightning scattered along the night sky, threatening harm to any who came within reach. The man reached at his shirt and ripped it from his chest, tossing it onto the ground beside him. His wings readied, lifting him into the air several feet above the ground, hovering for a slight moment. It dropped a rosary from its hand, and then launched itself higher and higher into the dark clouds overhead. On the ground, the shirt rolled with the wind, hanging for a brief moment with the words Holy Bridge emblazoned on the front, and then fell into the deep crater.


  1. It's not a "to be continued" well, not really. I am planning on a possible kindle book that completes the story, or maybe I can continue to entertain you here with side stories of the Motel. I leave it up to you.

  2. More, please! I love it! And I don't think that television could do this justice. Too much minute detail. Too many hidden hints and clues that would escape the casual viewer. Only print and the vivid images it paints in my brain is the acceptable medium.

    "I know you."


  3. I think my brain just melted into a pool of goo. Good Lord. The light of understanding all this was almost in reach, and it seems like all the loose ends of this craziness were coming together, and then you just blasted it all to pieces with even more insanity. I have to say, that was pretty awesome.

  4. I like the ending, but I would be interested in more stories with the hotel as the backdrop.

    That WAS pretty awesome, except for the bald interrogator. That character seemed pretty unrealistic.

  5. I'll have you know, Doug, I have seen Bryan melt down many times, adding to the realism of the character.

  6. I don't know where I was expecting this to go, but that certainly wasn't the ending I expected. And though you CLAIM it's not to be continued...there's a DEFINITE feeling that there is a lot more to the story.

    I feel like you've tricked me again.

    And I did not like this Mr. White character. He seemed a little mean.

  7. I apologize, Chanel. This is not the end of the story. As I stated, I am considering a future kindle release, so all four of you can buy the whole story and I can feel somewhat of worth. As for the Motel...If you guys want more of the tales, I am sure there is more I can muster from the noggin.

  8. I feel like Oliver Twist. "Please, Sir. I want more!"