Perish, p.1
Perish, page 1
Perish
book two of the jack harper trilogy
L.C. Barlow
A California Coldblood Book
Rare Bird Books
Los Angeles, Calif.
THIS IS A GENUINE CALIFORNIA COLDBLOOD BOOK
A California Coldblood Book | Rare Bird Books
Los Angeles, Calif.
californiacoldblood.com
Copyright © 2020 by L.C. Barlow
ISBN 978-1644281376
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic.
Set in Minion
Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC
Typesetting by Glenn Sarco2000
Printed in the United States
Distributed by Publishers Group West
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barlow, L. C., author.
Title: Perish / L. C. Barlow.
Series: The Jack Harper Trilogy
Description: Los Angeles, CA: California Coldblood Books, 2020.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1644281376
Subjects: LCSH Cults—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Brainwashing—Fiction. | Paranormal fiction. | Horror fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Occult & Supernatural | FICTION / Horror
Classification: LCC PS3602.A77561 P47 2020| DDC 813.6—dc23
Dedication
For a little Inn up in Maine, filled with writers every winter. It provides hot tea, finger sandwiches, and cookies at three-thirty in the afternoon sharp. Its warmth calls to one across the snow and occasional blizzards, sometimes traveling down the United States, all the way to Dallas, Texas, and makes a southern woman long for the north.
For Mom, Dad, Sebron, Adam, and family and friends who make life worth living—those who are here and those who are beyond.
Also, and always, for Inga.
CHAPTER 1:
ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
The fire curled itself around the house like an affectionate beast. From the beast’s back, smoke billowed up, glowing near the top of the flames, before it rushed into the black night. I stood at a distance, watching. The heat pushed at me, even from so far away. Lutin waited on my left.
The grass where he stood greened, the air around him cleared. He wore black sweatpants and a gray sweater that had once been moth-eaten but no longer revealed holes or dust. Through the refreshed cloth, glowing tendrils of orange light, about the width of a sword blade, spread up over his arms, legs, and torso, curving every which way like a vine. Even when he did not move, the interior brightness shifted, as though stoked by his breath, becoming brighter, then softer as the intense light flowed over him in waves.
His face shone pale in the night, except around his eyes and just below his cheeks, where dark lines swept, as though drawn in charcoal. His black hair flowed like wheat in a light breeze. His dark lips tensed, rigid as a statue’s. Love and relief emanated from him, reminding me of a warm fire on the first cold day and the smell of petrichor, the catalyst of all change. His four brothers, whom I had resurrected, looked just like him. Veins of fire also crossed them, and dark lines contoured their skin, but they were not Lutin. No others compared, no matter their ethereality.
This creature had survived ten long years in Cyrus’s basement. This creature had provided me the ability to resurrect. This creature had deemed me worthy of preternatural power. I owed everything to him.
Lutin’s glance flicked toward me. He smirked, as though he read my mind. We shared his smile, warmth building in me. With him, I was home, and everything would be all right. He was, after all, the creature that returned people to themselves, returned color to the world, returned life.
I blinked.
He vanished.
No puff of smoke, no whoosh of air, no lightning strike, no thunder roar. He simply disappeared. Only a patch of grass remained, a bit greener where his feet had been.
I scanned the forest to my left and the bit of lawn between me and the burning mansion. Nothing. No one. I stood alone. Lutin had said before that he needed to leave me; he would return when I learned to stop biting.
Above the distant roar of the flames, a strange rustling sound rose from my right.
I turned.
Two of the many trees that separated the burning mansion from the converted red barn about a quarter of a mile away shook. I walked toward them, hand on the gun in my jacket pocket, suddenly thankful for the cool night air that managed to reach me despite the blaze.
The sweet, electric air woke me; all the tiny hairs on my skin prickled, and everything flashed vibrantly. I had just seen my “father” killed—not just killed, but torn apart, particle by particle, by Lutin, the mysterious being from another world, the creature I set free. The night air and recent demise of my Machiavellian mentor cleared my mind as I fearlessly moved toward whatever creature lurked in the low grass.
I reached the tree line. In the twilight was the shape of a white-haired man with long legs. He crawled in the dirt. He wore black pants and shoes, but the majority of his shirt, excluding several dark stains on the fabric, flashed as white as his hair. He glowed in the darkness. Thick, dark liquid that smelled like a mixture of copper and sugar coated half his face. The other half was clean, recognizable. I knew him. Julian. How he had survived the whole night, the whole ordeal, remained uncertain, but I was happy he had. Yes, I was very, very happy.
“You’re the one who hurt the children,” I said.
The man stopped, aware of me for the first time. He glanced at me. His face kindled dread, and I reached for my knife, flicked the blade free. A gurgling sound escaped him, and he flung himself down and attempted to crawl away. I stomped one foot firmly on his leg, stopping him, and retrieved my gun. I pointed it at him. In the dark, the black metal reflected the red flames. Julian froze. His elbow wobbled, threatening to collapse; he could barely prop himself up. His whole body shook with exhaustion.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked. He meant, why had I betrayed my father, let loose the creature in his basement, diverted the children they planned to send out into the world to bomb churches and schools, and squashed Cyrus’s evolution.
I owed him no answer, and my own aching exhaustion kept me silent.
“Why’d you kill Cyrus? He gave you everything.”
Jealousy simmered just beneath the accusation. He lay in the dirt, his ribs heaving, his body shaking. One of Cyrus’s loyal devotees, he had determinedly worked his way to the top. Julian would have cleaned the underside of Cyrus’s shoes with his tongue if Cyrus had asked. He’d played dead time and time again, convincing children they had killed him, that they were unworthy, unclean, and needed Cyrus to lead them. I pictured him on the gurney, fake blood pouring out of him, as a young boy stood with a scalpel in his hand, shocked. “You are too dark,” Cyrus told the boy, pretending the child was responsible for Julian’s “death.” “It’s a good thing I am here to save you from your darkness.” The child, probably eight years old, nodded, fully believing those words, and a new follower was created. Cyrus and Julian traumatized children in such a way that they no longer trusted themselves. Instead, they trusted Cyrus.
I moved my pistol slightly, motioning for Julian to rise.
“No more screwing with people’s heads,” I said. “The cult is dead. So are you.”
Julian cocked his head, his chest still heaving. “How did you do it? And why? We were so close! So close to bringing about Cyrus’s transformation! We only needed tonight!”
I remembered what the ferrics told me after I had resurrected them—that the box Cyrus used to gain supposed power was a toy through which the Builder made murderers out of men. It was how Cyrus made followers of children, only one step further up the chain.
“That was a lie,” I told him. “The box was never going to give him preternatural power. It was suggesting that only to influence him to murder a large number of individuals. No one was going to evolve. There wasn’t going to be a revolution.”
“No,” Julian yelled, his eyes wide. “That’s the lie! We owned a box from the Builder himself. Cyrus perfected a system for growing it—he fed it pieces of Lutin’s soul. A ferric’s soul. We were becoming so powerful. Do you know what you’ve done? You have destroyed one of the most powerful and protective systems in the world, created by your father.”
I blinked and took a deep breath. This man would never understand. “He destroyed the lives of hundreds of people. Of children just like me. You helped him.” I glared at Julian.
He stared, wide-mouthed, up at me, as though he couldn’t believe that his words didn’t convince me.
I gestured with the pistol again. Up, it said.
The red barn loomed in the distance, the place where they had kept the children. It remained safe from the blaze. When Julian did not rise, I knelt on the grass and leaned toward him. He scrambled backward, as though I might eat him.
“How about,” I said kindly, “we stop worrying about all that’s just happened and do what needs to be done.”
“What’s that?”
Fear rolled off his breath.
“I want you to show me what’s in the left side of the barn.”
“What are you talking about?”
I smiled. “When Cyrus gave me the tour, I didn’t get to see the whole place. You thin
Julian shook his head, his gaze dropping to the grass, as though his mind refused to entertain the idea. I jammed the back of my left heel straight down on his damaged leg. He screamed. “Okay!” he shouted. “Okay okay okay!”
He grabbed a low branch from one of the trees and hoisted himself semi-upright. He wobbled dangerously and then stabilized. One step at a time, he limped ten feet in front of me. I followed. In less than ten minutes, we reached the red barn. The lights inside brightened the path near the entryway.
Instead of entering through the front, into the cream-colored, modern lobby, we angled to the left, away from the lights, in the sooty dark. Behind us, the shimmery light from the burning mansion and the smell of smoke in the cold air seemed dreamlike.
Julian glanced back at me once, red light coating the left side of his face, his blue eyes hazy and glazed over. He paused, oddly still, as though he wondered if I were about to shoot him. “You’re not going to like what you see.”
“We’re in a little corner of hell in this world. That’s to be expected.” I pursed my lips. He stared at me for a few seconds longer and then turned to continue limping forward.
As we rounded the building, Julian said, “Jack,” in a voice so low, I almost missed it. “You could lead the cult, you know. With the red box, you could do anything.” Julian’s words barely pierced the ringing in my ears from the explosive night.
He struggled through the grass, a trail of blood behind his right foot. He didn’t yet realize how much Lutin, his brothers, and I had destroyed. Nothing remained. Anywhere. “The red box is gone,” I replied matter-of-factly.
He stopped. Behind him, I couldn’t see his face or his reaction, but he slumped, wilting, like a flower in a sudden freeze.
“This thing, whatever it is—a cult, a following—is dead. It’s gone.”
He turned and looked at me with tears in his eyes. That shocked me, and the tip of my pistol dropped a millimeter. I corrected it.
“The Builder help us all,” he whispered.
His steps slow, his shoulders drooping, as though expecting death, Julian continued. Along the side of the barn, two doors faced us, a weathered gold padlock securing them together. Julian leaned an arm against one door. From his pocket, he retrieved a set of keys. He ran his fingers through them and located a gold key. He inserted it into the padlock, turned it, and tugged. I stepped back and readied my weapon. An arca might be inside, perhaps in the shape of a blue box this time, that would release white smoke and devour our souls.
“Think of you, out in the world,” Julian said, his gray-blue eyes lifting to meet mine. “Think of all the people you will kill. All the lives you will ruin. It will be like unleashing chaos in the world. The best place for you, Jack, was here, in the following, with Cyrus. Out there, you’ll self-destruct, or you’ll kill them all. You were built to.”
“Wrong audience,” I said, tired of him. Only poison left his lips. “Open the doors.”
He merely stood there, blocking my way, my view. Before I could say anything more, he lifted the padlock away and opened the left door, then the right. The black interior obscured everything. I scanned the void wildly, waiting for something to jump out. Julian slid his hand just inside the door.
I cocked my pistol and aimed, certain he found a weapon. Something clicked.
Brilliant light illuminated the room. Releasing a pent-up breath, I loosened my grip on the pistol. I forgot Julian.
A giant mound of toys rose to three times my height. Maybe a hundred teddy bears, twice that many Barbie dolls, yellow plastic trucks, cans of Play-Doh, pink necklaces, ponies, dolls, stuffed animals of every kind, piled like the greatest Christmas gift a child could ask for. Shiny purple, green, and pink bracelets littered the floor.
“What the hell is this?”
Before Julian answered, it came to me. This playroom bounty belonged to the children they had stolen. My back stiffened, and my grip tightened dangerously on the pistol still pointed at him.
I scanned and rescanned the pile of toys before I studied the room surrounding them. To my left, a table supported a pile of papers.
One eye on Julian, I walked forward, into the barn. I stepped over several wooden letter blocks and arrived at the table. Stacks of identical sheets of paper littered its surface. I lifted one from the top. A figure-eight symbol in bright, heavenly blue lay on its side, like a toppled hour-glass. Over the figure eight, two lines came to a point so that the whole thing looked like a triangle or pyramid. The word Infinitum floated within. Below the figure-eight, the print read, “Down on Your Luck? Nowhere to Go? Don’t Know What the Point Is Anymore? We Are HERE for You.” Below this, in smaller print: “Come join us in Basille, Louisiana.”
I turned to Julian and held up the page. “What is this?”
He looked from the sheet of paper to me with no expression. “It’s us, Jack.”
My eyes flicked back to the page. Cyrus had never mentioned the word Infinitum to me before. Queasy fear of the foreign and unknown washed over me. “Us?”
Julian nodded once. “Those are what we distribute—were what we distributed—to people to get them to join. These movements don’t just build themselves.”
As I stared at the page in my hand, the reality of Cyrus’s death hit me hard. I had assumed that when he died the unrelenting and unwieldy feel of life would disappear. Instead, it worsened. The contours of my ignorance ran deep. “Infinitum,” I said, testing the word in my mouth. “Infinitum following. Infinitum cult.” I had never seen these words before, but I had never been on the outside. I had only ever been on the inside.
I swallowed, and my throat clicked uncomfortably. Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement registered. My head jerked, and I pulled the trigger. Wood fragments exploded out of the wall exactly in the place where Julian had been before he bolted.
I rushed out into the night. As I rounded the corner of the barn, he appeared in the distance, his white hair shining in the moonlight. I crouched low, readied my pistol, and took a steadying breath.
In the distance, a wail rose.
My head swiveled; my jaw dropped. Had I mistaken it? No. A high pitched sound that shifted low and then back, like it was traveling round and round, wailed, unraveling, speeding up and slowing down. Police.
My senses keen, my body reacted before any thought arrived. I stopped bothering with Julian and ran. I leaped to my feet, racing over the grass back toward the burning mansion, straight to the garage.
The sirens pulsed louder; blue and red lights shone in the distance against the tall trees. I jumped into Cyrus’s car and jammed the key into the ignition. The Lexus hummed soothingly. I shoved the stick into reverse and slammed out of the drive, the gravel crunching violently under the tires. I sent one more look toward the ever-brighter house engulfed in flames, saw the red and blue police lights cresting the hill, and sped away. I drove the opposite direction of the sirens, keeping my headlights off. My heart pounded violently.
The light of the full moon barely illuminated the road’s lines. I drove on the edge of my seat, glancing in the rearview mirror for any sign of the police chasing me. No one and nothing followed. After several minutes, I released a heavy breath and slowed my speed. I turned my headlights on.
Light flooded the road, and something flashed into view. I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right. A nauseating crunch erupted as the car clipped something. A large gray object flew up and forward.
The Lexus screeched toward the side of the road, the headlights spotlighting a set of trees. The vehicle came to a stop five feet before I would have hit them.
What the hell was that?
I unclipped my seatbelt, opened the door, and stumbled out of the car, not yet processing what happened. Down the road, the object lay in the middle of the pavement—a bicycle covered in reflective tape. The detached rear wheel rested ten feet away. Farther up the road, something—someone—moved. My mind went blank.
Cyrus’s burning mansion, barely a mile away, lit the sky pink. Smoke suffused the air, and multiple police sirens moaned. I needed to get out of there. Adrenaline coursed through me and urged me to get back in the car.
