MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1) (14 page)

Dad—tall and rail-thin, with tattoos running up his arms and across his chest—sits in a padded chair, hands secured in place with strips of gray. She can only see his back, but she can clearly see the face of the second gunman: young and suave, Mexican probably, with slick black hair and a stream of teardrop tattoos descending from the corners of his eyes. He sets his gun—a gunmetal thing with a long black suppressor attached to the front—on the room desk. His other hand holds a machete.

“I’m not going to ask again, amigo,” he says. “The money or the drugs, you will give me one or the other. Comprende?”

“Cesar, I swear,” her dad sobs, “I already told you, I don’t have either—”

The slick-haired man, Cesar, slaps her dad across the face, rocking him back in his seat. A furious blow that splatters a splash of red onto the dirt-caked carpet. “That’s not a good answer. Not an acceptable answer. Do better.” He shoves a wadded up shirt into Dad’s mouth, picks the gun up off the desk, presses it against Dad’s leg—at least she thinks, because she can’t quite see—and pulls the trigger. A dull thud. Dad screams, but it’s all muffled. A bright stream of red now trickles down the chair leg and stains the floor in a pool.

“I’ll ask again. Drugs or cash, I don’t care, but you will give me one. Don’t scream or I’ll kill you straight away, comprende?” He pulls the shirt clear.

Her dad weeps—a hiccupping, heaving noise—but doesn’t scream. “I … don’t … have either,” he struggles to say.

Cesar nods, shrugs, shoves the shirt back in place. “Bring the boy.” The second man complies, dragging Jackson in front of the chair—she can only see his legs now.

“Perhaps you are too strong a man to break. I do not know.”

Dad whimpers and shakes like a thin tree in a strong wind.

“But no one is strong enough to watch flesh of their flesh suffer. So I ask you one more time. Then? Then I cut off his head”—he waves the machete at Jackson—“go over and do the same to your wife, then you. I will be out the money you owe me, true, but I will gain valuable advertising. Do not steal from Cesar Yraeta and the 16
th
Street Kings. Do not lie to Cesar Yraeta and the 16
th
Street Kings. Do not FUCK,” he screams, “with Cesar Yraeta and the 16
th
Street Kings. So?” He pulls the rag free once more.

“We used the drugs,” Dad croaks. “Please don’t do this, please—anything, I’ll do anything. Please not my family. Me. Kill me.” He begins to cry, a wordless bubbling.

“I suspected as much. A shame,” Cesar says, shoving the rag home. He draws back the machete without hesitation and sinks it into Jackson’s body. Thank God she can’t see the deed—the chair is, thankfully, in the way. Dad loses it. Thrashes hysterically. Mom whimpers and tries to roll off the bed. The second gunman holds her fast.

“Keep your eyes shut tight now,” she whispers to Jamie, before taking her hands and pressing them tight over Jamie’s ears.

Cesar Yraeta, with his teardrop tattoos and machete, goes to work on Mom, then Dad.

She watches through the slit, wanting to look away, but needing to bear witness.

ELEVEN:

Take a Ride

The Mudman found Ryder in the guest bedroom, catching a little shuteye—the best thing she could’ve done considering the circumstances. He flicked on the light. She stirred, groaned a wordless protest, and pulled the comforter up over her eyes.

“What’s wrong with you, asshole?” she said, voice groggy and muffled. “Do you know how rude it is to go into someone else’s room and turn the lights on when they’re sleeping. Jerk move. Seriously.” She let out a huff.

“It’s not your room. My house, my room, my bed, my light … now get up.”

“Apologize first.”

“No.”

She buried herself deeper under the covers, curling into a ball of blankets.

“Apologize. If I’m stuck with you, you’re going to learn to act like a normal person. And normal people apologize when they do assholeish things.”

After a few moments, “Fine,” Levi said. “I’m sorry you’re a moody child. Now get up.”

“That’s a terrible apology.” She pulled the cover down, squinted eyes peeking over the edge. She flashed him a halfhearted smile.

He stared at her, unblinking, unmoving.

“What do you want? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

“I already told you, get up. We need to go.” Something in his voice convinced her, because her smile dropped away and she peeled back the covers. He set a folded pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a beige Carhartt jacket on the floor.

“What are those?” she asked, eyeing the pile of clothes as though it were somehow morally offensive.

“Clothes.”

“They’re men’s clothes.”

“I know. Don’t worry, they’ll fit fine—the body I usually wear isn’t much bigger than you—and they’re brand-new. I don’t actually wear clothes, but I have a closet full in case some nosey visitor stops by. Besides, it’s either these or tattered sweatpants and a bloody T-shirt.”

She rolled her eyes,
fine
, and shooed him away with a wave of her hand.

A ragged jolt of annoyance surged through Levi. Who was she to shoo him away in his own house? But, he grunted and left, saying nothing and pulling the door shut behind him.

A few minutes later she came out, dressed in the outfit Levi had provided and looking rather boyish—the thick material hung loose on her frame and thoroughly obscured her slight curves. Almost perfect.

“Hang on,” he said, shuffling back to his bedroom and returning with a green-and-white John Deer cap. He tossed it to her. She raised an eyebrow in response, but pulled it on.

She glanced down at the getup, eyes skipping over the pants and jacket. “I don’t wanna go out looking like this,” she said, hands now resting on cocked-out hips.

“You have a problem?”

“Yeah, I have a problem. One, these are men’s clothes. Two, they’re redneck men’s clothes. Three, they’re ugly redneck men’s clothes that make me look like a tool-bag. So yes, big problem.”

“They’re perfect,” he replied, unmoved by her complaints. “The Kobocks are looking for a rebellious young woman—now, you look like a hardworking young man. Much harder to spot. Camouflaged, like me. Ready.” It wasn’t a question. Levi wasn’t used to dealing with people, at least outside of church or the occasional commission, and he expected compliance.

They headed out the front door—Ryder skulking behind. Levi locked up the house, and the two of them piled into the van.

“So where are we headed, Big Guy?” she asked as Levi started the car and backed out of the driveway.

“Back to the Hub.” He puttered out of the neighborhood, like some slow-speed soccer mom dutifully hauling around her brood.

“The Hub—that’s where you rescued me, am I right?”

“Yes.” He flipped on the blinker and pulled into the right lane, coasting up to the intersection and easing right onto Colfax, toward Denver.

“Jeez,” she said, “light conversation isn’t in your toolbox, is it? Listen, guy, I get that you’re a freaky—whatever the hell you are—but I’m tired of being in the dark here. I don’t think you’re going to hurt me, so I’m gonna bug the holy-living shit outta you until I get answers. You understand that, Knuckle-dragger?”

Obviously, the shower, food, and nap had done her good—the shock seemed to have worn away. That would help her survive what was coming. Levi was, however, a little concerned about her newfound chattiness and her uppity attitude. The old, shell-shocked Ryder had been depressing, true, but much more agreeable on the whole.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes—moody girl indeed. “Yes, the Hub is where the Kobock Nation was holding you captive. Well, technically the Deep Downs, below the Hub. There’s a thousand miles of cavernous expanse below the city and the sewers, and the Kobocks lay claim to a fair chunk of it.”

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Apparently, I’m gonna have to do all the heavy lifting here. The Hub, what’s the Hub? A place I’m assuming? But is it here in Colorado or somewhere else? Specifics, guy, think specifics.”

“What? No, no. The Hub doesn’t exist in our dimension …” He halted, unsure how to continue. He’d never walked a Rube through Supernatural 101 before. “There’re lots of Realms outside Earth—the Endless Wood,
Tír na nÓg
, the Hinterlands, the Great Deeps, and further still Heaven and Hell. All that? That’s Outworld.”

She nodded along as he talked, genuine interest evident. “Got it, the Hub is Outworld.”

“No,” Levi replied. “Are you even listening?”

“Whoa, ease up on the attitude, Levi. That’s what you just said: there are lots of Realms outside of Earth and those places are Outworld. Your words. If I’m missing something, it’s not because I’m not listening, it’s because you’re a terrible teacher.”

He ground his teeth. Was trying to be human really worth it?

“Fine. Do you want me to try and explain it again or not?” He edged his hand toward the radio’s power button. “Because I’m fine with turning on some music.”

“Drama queen,” she muttered, but promptly fell silent and rolled her hand in a
move-along-with-it
gesture.

“As I was saying, the Hub is
not
Outworld. The Hub is a port city. It runs along the border between Earth—Inworld—and everywhere else, Outworld. The Hub connects places, like the hub of a bicycle tire.” He swerved out of the right lane, bypassing a slow moving line of turning traffic. “Generally, if something wants to come to Earth, it passes through the Hub. We’re bound for the Sprawl, which is in Outworld, so we’ll need to pass through the Hub to catch a train.”

“What’s the Sprawl?”

He turned on the radio, contemporary Christian music filling the air with the strum of guitars and a chorus of Hallelujahs. Levi drove for nearly ten minutes without her saying anything else—she seemed bright enough to take the hint that he could only handle so much chitchat.

Eventually, though, she broke the silence. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes, I mind very much.”

“So I was looking around your house,” she said, anyway, “and there was a lot of religious stuff—like Bibles, paintings, sculptures—that kind of thing. And you listen to Christian radio.”

“Perceptive. What’s your point?”

“I dunno.” She canted her head and shrugged. “I was just wondering what the deal was, I guess. You kinda seem like an odd duck for a religious guy … whatever you are.”

“I’m not a
whatever
,” he said, “I’m a golem. Someone, I’m not sure who, created me back in 1943 and set me loose to murder Nazis.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded.

“That is so badass. How’d you go from being an awesome Nazi-killing machine to this lame old dude who drives a minivan?”

“I’m not lame.” He paused, looking for the right word. “I’m in control now. Working to be in control,” he amended. “And that’s where the religious stuff comes in. I’m a Mennonite. Said the sinner’s prayer maybe eleven years ago.”

She laughed at him. “Well at least you have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere.”

“It’s not a joke. I’m a Mennonite.”

“But … but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t be a Mennonite.”

“Can too. And what’s it to you, anyway?”

“Well, I’m not like religious or anything, but I’ve lived in
Lancaster
County,
Pennsylvania, for like the last two years—so I know about Mennonites. You can’t throw a rock in Lancaster County without hitting a Mennonite church. I mean, I know they’re not all horse and buggies or whatever, but I’m pretty sure they’re … I dunno,
non-violent
.”

“We are.”

“Levi, I’m gonna shoot straight with you for a minute. I saw you literally club a bunch of freaky monsters to death with a spiked mace. Trust me, it was
violent
as hell. Maybe the most violent thing I’ve ever seen.” She brushed a strand of pink hair behind her ear, tucking it under the band of the John Deer cap. “Strikes me as kinda hypocritical is all. Though hey, who am I to judge—I sure as shit can’t take the moral high road. I’m a former drug addict, and I’ve done a shitload of stuff I’m not proud of. So if you wanna be a Mennonite, then be a Mennonite. I will say this, though, I own who I am.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them.

“It’s hard to explain,” Levi said eventually. “I
need
to kill things. Murder … it’s-it’s a part of me. It’s my purpose—to kill killers. It’s what I was created for. My maker built me to seek retribution against the Nazis, but after the war was over, the compulsion was still there. After sixty years of killing … Well, I’m tired of it. Tired of being the monster hiding in the dark alley. I’m not the man I want to be, not yet, but the church is helping me to become that man one day at a time. Besides, it’s like Augustine said, ‘t
he church is not a hotel for saints, it’s a hospital for sinners.’ That’s something that resonates with me in here.” He tapped his chest.

He flipped on his blinker and pulled into the parking lot of a rundown motel across the street from a grand old theater, which in a bygone age had actually showed plays, but which now served as a concert venue.

“We’re here,” he said.

“Where’s here?” she asked.

“Patience. You’ll see.”

After parking the car, they made their way into the alley running alongside the theater; the narrow space was filled with a sour stink and the mewling of stray cats.

“Such a nice place,” Ryder said, folding her arms across her breasts, nearly invisible under the coat, as she surveyed the alley. “This where you bring all your dates? Wonder what you’ll show me next? Maybe a construction site porta john? Always wanted to check that off my list of things to see in Denver.”