MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“Oh, doin’ alright I suppose,” George replied. “Margie’s not feeling well, stayed home today, but Noah and Angie are fine. Down with Pastor Dave for the young adult study. How ’bout you? Do anything interesting this past week?”

George didn’t ask about Levi’s family, because Levi didn’t have a family. Never had—though George certainly didn’t know that last bit. No father or mother. No spouse or children or kin. Levi had never met another golem, discounting the strange flesh-golem from the Deep Downs, and was unsure if another of his kind existed anywhere. It was possible in theory, he supposed. According to what ancient lore he could find, mystic rabbis—adherents of Kabbalah—could, with practice and study, learn to create a creature from the earth. A Golem. A Mudman. An obedient robot of clay. A creature like Levi.

But Levi knew of no modern rabbi capable of the feat. As far as Levi knew, he was alone in the world.

As for anything interesting … the note from the altar sat neatly folded in Levi’s pocket, heavy as a lead weight and strangely warm against his skin. He didn’t want to think about the note, not here in church, but his mind kept being drawn back to it like water circling a drain. The letter
was
interesting.

If we’re going to do this, you ignorant cave dweller, we’re going to have to work faster. This has been countless years in the making, yet the equinox is less than a week away and still your incompetence threatens to ruin everything. I’ll get the chipper back, but you’d better keep that girl safe and secure or I swear to all the dark gods below I’ll make you suffer. She is the first viable subject we’ve had in thirty years, so don’t screw this up. Try my patience in this, shaman, and see what happens. That pea-sized brain of yours isn’t capable of imagining what terrible things I’m capable of.

—
Hogg

He’d had to read the note five different times to decipher the script, so poor was the chicken scratch penmanship, but decipher it he had. He’d pored over it dozens of times since, committing the words to memory. Very interesting. A mystery which wouldn’t let his mind alone. And that altar … After staring at the picture on his phone for hours, he was positive it was twin to the one he’d seen outside of Birkemau in ’42, though the memory was a fuzzy and incomplete thing—he’d been young to Earth then, his mind largely unformed.

“No,” Levi replied after a brief hesitation. “Took care of some housekeeping this weekend. Handled a bit of old business, cleaned up my workshop. That kind of thing.” He bobbed his head noncommittally.

“Sounds like a nice slow weekend,” George said in turn, grinning again—an awkward flash of teeth. Nearly as socially awkward as Levi, George gave the Mudman hope. If he could have a family and be normal, then Levi could, too.

“Yeah”—the Mudman thought about the Kobo cleaving open his thigh—“a nice slow weekend.” He hated lying. It was another one of those unfortunate tasks that felt like a railroad spike of guilt in his heart, but the truth wouldn’t do. Not here with these salt of the earth folk. His whole life was a lie, but a necessary one.

“Coming out Tuesday?” George asked.

On Tuesday Levi helped in the pantry: the church cooked a big meal for the homeless and offered care boxes of food and toiletries to needy families. Levi was a regular hand and liked the work.

Well, that wasn’t true. He didn’t
like
the work—the only thing he really
liked
was killing—but it was
good
to do.
Thou shalt care for the foreigner, widow, and orphan among you.
Monday, prison ministry. Tuesday, the food pantry. Wednesday, small-group Bible study. Thursday, AA meetings. Friday, he taught a beginner’s pottery class at the Y. And Sunday was church. The way he saw it, busy hands had little time for killing.

“Tuesday.” Levi tapped a finger against his lip in thought. “I’ll try to be there,” he said, and he would, “but it might not be possible this week.” He reached down and touched the note through the fabric of his jeans. His brand, hidden in this form, but always present, flared bright under his skin. “Might have a big project coming up.”

“Oh? Someone commission you for a piece?” George asked. He meant Levi’s front. The convenient cover story Levi used so that when some respectable, decent person like George asked what he did for a living, he had an answer. In his off time, Levi sculpted—
modeled
was the technical term since he worked in clay.

A legitimate business and easy for him; after all, he had a certain affinity for the medium. And, to a certain extent, he enjoyed the work. Not like killing, though feeling the clay squeeze between his fingers was almost like feeling blood run through his hands. There was also a certain measure of peace in the creation process. Once in a while, it was nice to bring something lovely into the world instead of simply removing something ugly from it.

“Okay,” said Pastor Steve, his voice reverberating through the microphone, a slight squeal of feedback causing George to flinch. “Let’s head back to our seats and open our hearts to the Lord as we worship this morning. Let’s be present together. Let’s be here this morning with God and each other. Whatever cares or worries you’re carrying, whatever baggage you brought in with you—just let it go. Leave it at the door as we worship the Lord, the refresher of our souls.”

The music began in earnest, led by the pastor, who sang with a silver tongue.

The congregation sang two upbeat contemporary songs, an ol’ timey hymn called “How Can We be Silent?”, and a slow contemporary piece. Levi sang along by rote, his voice graceless and uneven. Usually, this was his favorite part of the service, but today his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was with the note in his pocket.

Pastor Steve preached a good sermon on vengeance and the need for forgiveness, but the words washed through Levi like grain shifting through a sieve. He wanted to be present, to “let his baggage go” as the pastor admonished, but the letter weighed a thousand pounds in his pocket, and the girl from the altar kept stealing, uninvited, into his mind. Her brown eyes and cotton-candy hair. The clean gash running up her belly, sewn back together with rough surgical sutures.
She is the first viable subject in thirty years
, the note said.

A mystery, terrible and dark. He needed to see her again. To understand what the Kobocks had been up to down there.
What had they done to her and to what end?
He also wanted to know more about that altar.

Church let out at a quarter of noon.

Pastor Steve stopped the Mudman at the door. The preacher was a tall man, spare in the middle, and as smooth faced as a high schooler—he certainly didn’t look like his thirty summers. But he was wise and good beyond his age and possessed an open, infectious smile. Levi grinned in spite of himself and his hurry. Normally getting on with people was a challenge, a constant battle
not
to be himself, but with Steve, genuine smiles, a quick laugh, and a light heart were easy to come by. He was a delightful man, with a sweet family—everything Levi could ever hope to aspire to.

“Levi, great to see you. Taking off so soon? We’re doing potluck today. Lots of good eats downstairs.” He leaned in and cocked an eyebrow. “Pamela made a
cake
,” he confided conspiratorially. “Chocolate with buttercream frosting. Someone’s gonna have to help me eat it, or I’ll put it all away and it’ll go right to my gut.” He patted his stomach and offered Levi a sly wink.

“I know it, Pastor,” Levi said, bowing his head as if contrite. “I’m sorry to cut and run, but I’ve got a friend in the hospital. Promised to go visit her this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he replied. “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking? Is she going to be okay?”

Levi froze, the rusty cogs in his head cranking away for an answer. He’d crafted his get-away lie while still in the pews, but he hadn’t expected follow-up questions.

“Are you okay, Levi?” Steve asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, sorry. My brain just locked up on me for a moment there,” Levi replied at last.

“So, your friend,” Steve prompted.

“Right, my friend.” He faltered again, though only for a short time. Small, simple lies were always the best. And the closer to the truth, the better—easier to remember that way. “I think she’ll be all right. She had”—short pause—“a bad car accident,” he finished. “Really shook her up. But hopefully things’ll turn around. We’ll see, though.”

“Would you mind if I added her to the prayer list?” he asked.

“Sure,” Levi said. “Her name’s Jess.” It almost certainly wasn’t, but he couldn’t rightly tell the man he didn’t know the name of his “friend.” As for the prayer list … it certainly wouldn’t hurt to pray for her. Most days, Levi had his doubts about prayer. He knew God was real. Much of his birth was shrouded in mystery, but he knew the High Magic of Kabbalah had created him, and that was proof enough. Did God listen to the cries of hapless humans, though? Maybe, but he wasn’t sold.

As Levi was wont to say,
pray for your daily bread, but keep your hand to the plow while you do it.

“Alright, we’ll see you later.” The pastor gave him a final wave as Levi made for the door.

The Mudman left the building and weaved through the parking lot, the crisp fall air washing over his skin. He fished out his key fob, unlocked the doors, and slid into his minivan. Though he didn’t have a family, the minivan was an excellent fit: smooth ride, inconspicuous, and great for driving folks to church. And, with large trunk space and fold-down seating, it was also ideal for transporting a body when the need arose.

Levi strived to confine his hunting to the denizens of the Hub, but sometimes he slipped up. It
was
wrong to kill human beings—creatures made in the image of God, creatures extended grace from the hand of the Creator—of that much he was now certain. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help it. It was like an itch begging to be scratched. Once in a blue moon, he’d see someone—usually a man, always a murderer—walking the street or lurking in a dark alley, and he couldn’t contain the rage. Just a glance at the black aura was enough to set his ichor to a low boil.

The minivan was perfect for such accidental and unavoidable occasions.

After starting the ignition, he carefully fastened his safety belt and pulled out behind a small line of cars leaving the parking lot: folks who didn’t have the time or inclination for the social niceties of Sunday potluck.

SIX:

Hospital Visits

The drive to University Hospital took ten minutes since traffic was minimal and Levi had the good fortune of catching only a single red light.

There were plenty of spots in the outdoor lot, but Levi instinctively beelined for the parking garage, which would be the safest option. He pulled in and wound his way up, passing open spots on the second, third, and fourth floors, until he finally found a level devoid of cars and video cameras. He pulled the van into a corner space, close to the elevator, but with a thick wall of concrete to his left—concealing him from any upward bound traffic.

He glanced into the rearview mirror, ensuring there were no oncoming cars or peeking pedestrians. Clear left, clear right. Probably being overcautious, but always best to play it safe.

Satisfied that he was alone, he
changed.
Shifted. His torso elongated, his arms plumped up with thin wiry muscle, and his skin took on a burnt bronze hue. His clothes, likewise, made a transformation of their own: jeans and flannel melted away, coalescing into the black uniform of an Aurora police officer, complete with a badge and a gun. Not that the gun worked. Levi could mimic a great number of things—most people and even a few creatures from Outworld—but complex machinery, like a gun or a cell phone, wasn’t in his repertoire. Props, though, were another thing altogether.

He pulled down his visor and surveyed himself in the flip-open mirror. He turned his head this way and that, then nodded.
Good enough
. The uniform wasn’t perfect—any old salt sergeant on the force would spot the inconsistencies—but it was good enough to fool a desk nurse. Hopefully.

Levi made his way out of the multi-story garage, across the parking lot, and into the hospital lobby, which had granite floors, beautiful artwork, and lots of greenery. The place looked closer to an upscale resort than a medical facility. The girl was here somewhere—he’d dropped her off here last night at the emergency entrance, then snuck away before he had to deal with any messy questions. Survivors weren’t a normal part of the Mudman’s process, so he’d had to improvise. He wasn’t sure which room she’d be in, though. This whole investigating business was new to him.

He scanned the room and found the information counter, marked out by a brightly lit overhead sign.

A male receptionist, a young guy in his mid-twenties, attended the desk, reading an old sword and sorcery novel while bobbing a foot to some low radio tunes. The Mudman headed over, needlessly running hands over his pants as he rehearsed his lines. He paused a few feet away, took a deep calming breath, then strode forward, donning his most confident and reassuring smile.
I can do this,
he told himself, wanting to believe the lie.

“Excuse me?” Levi said, his voice smooth and slick as butter in a hot skillet. The attendant looked up, and his eyes lingered on the badge before he stowed the book under the desk and cranked the knob on his radio, silencing the music. His cheeks held a tinge of pink and the way he kept looking down, avoiding eye contact, told Levi the kid had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Like reading on shift.

Good, since it meant the attendant would be all the quicker to get rid of him.

“Yes. Um, uh, what can I do for you, officer?”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, kid,” Levi said, shooting for off the cuff and laid-back. “I’m not going to report you to your supervisor. Relax. I’m just looking for a patient—a woman, mid-twenties, checked in here last night around eight thirty. Crazy pink hair, lots of tattoos, someone sliced her up pretty good.”