Excerpt: Heathen Chapter One

Here's the opening chapter from this month's NaNoWriMo project. This novel is what I'd describe as a cross between Mad Max and an HP Lovecraft story.

This is probably the third or fourth time I've tried to nail down an opening chapter--I've always wanted the story to begin this way, with my main character clashing with evil cultists, but some details always made it more muddled than I expected thanks to added elements to the story (more characters, artifacts that needed to be addressed, backstories hinted at, etc.), and I was never always certain about where to start this story (in the middle of a sacrifice scene? Rook in a desert, then becomes captured? The way it is now kinda strikes the middle ground).

It's still far from perfect--some details in this chapter are revealed prematurely, some things are repetitive, and I'm not sure if I've set the scene vividly enough. But hopefully you'll have a good idea of who the characters are and hopefully it'll be a fun (if not slightly scary) read.
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Rook was certain that the cultists were going to kill a girl.

From his vantage point on the bluff, he watched the procession march down the cracked road that cut through what remained of Green River. Tattered jackets and cloaks wrapped each of the figures’ skinny bodies.

At the front of the line, a pair of black-robed men dragged a teenager by her wrists. She must have been no more than sixteen. Her blonde hair gleamed in the midday sun. Dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, she looked as though she was plucked out of a high school class. It was clear that this wasn’t her home—Rook guessed that the cultists took her from a nearby town.

Even from three hundred feet away, he heard her screams for help. The line of cultists kept their heads bowed as they pulled her towards a building. It was a schoolhouse once, but now a fissure split its wall open. Debris littered the lawn and parking lot. Rusty cars formed a box around the building as a makeshift fence. Around the campus, red triangles were painted on the walls and refuse.

It was a familiar sight no matter where Rook traveled. Ever since the veil of reality split open ten years ago, people no longer thrived as one society. In the west, gangs ruled what was left of Los Angeles and Las Vegas. They took what they needed—food, clothes, weapons, and sometimes women. At any given moment, there could have been hundreds of girls stolen from their families to be made into slaves or sacrifices.

This was no different. No matter how vile the cult seemed, Rook didn’t come here to be a hero. This focus was further east, into the warped lands where the Nykirth gathered. The cult had a relic he needed to get there—a piece of another world that couldn’t be found anywhere else. Rook wasn’t about to let it slip past his fingers.

The more the girl shouted and struggled, the angrier Rook became. He told himself he was merely annoyed that he was losing his focus. But he knew it wasn’t true—he was ticked off at the inhumanity of it. The girl was somebody’s daughter after all. If this was his daughter, he wouldn’t stand back and let this happen.

His mind was suddenly made up: the cultists’ artifact would have to wait. “Well…sh*t.” Rook muttered.

He stood up from his hiding place. Rays from the midday sun sizzled the back of his neck. His brown leather duster felt like a hot blanket. Sweat droplets hung from his clotted strands of black hair and occasionally fell on his gaunt cheekbones. As he descended the slope, his steel-toe boots clomped on the hard dirt.

By the time he reached the bottom, the procession had filed into the school. Rook crept behind the line of cars, keeping his eyes on the cultists’ rear formation. The last two figures looked backwards in his direction, and he ducked behind cover. Despite his heavy garments, a full backpack, and the shotgun slung around his shoulder, he was certain his approach was quiet. After ten seconds, he peeked over the car’s hood and saw the last figures vanish through the opening.

Rook closed the distance and stepped into the school. Past the broken walls, a decrepit hallway greeted him. Rows of torches were shoved into holes in the wall, filling the place with the smell of burning wood and oil. Rows of lockers had long ago been looted, knocked down, and beaten into scraps of metal. Refuse clattered around Rook’s boots, and he realized he had to move carefully to remain silent and hidden.

Voices bounced off the cracked walls and tiles, surrounding Rook’s ears. It was impossible to tell what direction they came from, or even what they said. The more he listened, the more he made out the melodic chant that praised the so-called “Eternal Ones.” His lips curled. Anger welled in the pit of his stomach when he thought about the lives slain in the name of false gods. Eternal Ones—what bullsh*t. The Nykirth may have been enormous to the point of exceeding the senses, but they were just living things. Rook vowed that he would find a way to kill one and show the world that they are not eternal.

What upset him the most were the fools who formed these cults and the fools who followed them. Anything could be justified in the name of a god—even the acts of monsters.

Down the hall, the hall opened up to a lobby, where the cultists grouped together. Rook carefully advanced down the hall, watching his step to ensure he made no noise. With his body against the wall, he kept he ducked beneath the crackling torches and hoped he remained unseen in the shadow. He crouched behind a toppled locker.

Encircling the girl, the cultists chanted a melody that sounded like gibberish. A door creaked open, and a lanky old man shambled out of an office. A red robe enveloped his frail body and a deer’s skull crowned his bald head. Rings and lines inked his wrinkled face—it looked like writing, but Rook doubted that it meant anything. He had no doubt that this was the guy in charge though.

The high priest stepped into the ring. One of his bony hands held something covered in a black cloth. When the girl shrieked, his free hand struck her across the cheek with a loud smack. It was far harder than Rook would have expected from a geezer who looked so frail. A pang of outrage erupted in Rook’s gut. He wanted to run up and smack the priest with the shotgun’s barrel.

“Enough of your disgusting sobbing!” The high priest pulled the cloth off of his left hand, revealing a black orb clenched in his fist. “I see through your mind, and I see the sins of the old world in you. So full of greed, lust, and vanity.”

“You don’t know me,” the girl muttered.

The priest kicked her in the stomach, forcing her to keel over in a coughing fit. Rook felt as though the kick landed on his stomach instead, and he jerked. His hand nearly reached for his shotgun, wanting to blow the whole twisted gang away. He knew it was all a pretense to cover up their sadism. In one swooping attack, he could stop the torment and claim the orb from the old man’s fist.

He paused when he saw a red gleam in the priest’s eyes—the eerie glow of a monster lurking within a man’s body. Without knowing how strong it was, Rook couldn’t take the chance of invoking its rage. Not until he knew he had a clear advantage.

Rook’s chances also depended on his surroundings. Given that something inhuman had possessed the old man’s body, then there was a chance that the veil was thinner around these parts. If that was true, then Rook could invoke a monstrous power that he harbored. It would be enough to disband the entire cult without wasting ammunition. He flexed his left arm in anticipation of a fight. However, he didn’t feel the familiar tingling that usually precluded the change.

The high priest grimaced. “I know your hate, girl. Your mind is nothing but violence.”

“You maniacs murdered my brother. My mother. You brainwashed my friends. We had a town once, but because of you—”

“There is only one family that matters, girl—ours. We are the only ‘town’ you would ever need. Just surrender your anger and put your faith in the Eternal Ones. Then you’ll never know fear and rage again. They will give us everything we need, and we will be as immortal as they are.”

The girl shook her head. “You’re all crazy to worship those things. Don’t you know that they will destroy all of you?”

“You don’t understand—the Eternal Ones will never hurt their children, as long as we obey their commandment.”

“I’ll never bow down to them!”

“You will submit, or else you will become their next sacrifice!”

Rook had finally heard enough, and he unslung his shotgun. Standing up, he faced the group and stepped into the light. “Oh, hell no,” he said.

All eyes turned to Rook—the high priest’s pupils became a pair of crimson lasers. “Who are you? How dare you intrude on our most holy ground!”

“Hey. Watch your tone, mister. I’m the guy with the gun here. How about you let the girl go, and I won’t have to use this.”

“Who is she to you?” The high priest held up the black orb and grimaced. “You’re not even from this land. I see nothing but a beast in you, so full of rage and sin. A demon from the west—just as the prophecy foretold!”

Whispers passed among the cultists, and Rook knew they were talking about him like he was an unspeakable abomination from another planet.

The high priest cried, “You vile heathen! We won’t let you destroy our beloved family!”

Four of the cultists brandished knives from their pockets and robes—all nothing more than sharp pieces of metal lashed on sticks. Rook shook his head. “Bad move, old man. Don’t make me have to shoot somebody.”

None of the goons showed any sign that they heard Rook, or cared. Their blank eyes were fixed on Rook as they advanced towards him. Grimacing, Rook pumped the slide and pointed the shotgun forward.

When one cultist lunged at him, he pulled the trigger. A loud boom exploded in the confined hall, making the others flinch. The attacker flew backwards, his stomach pelted with rock salt that cut small bloody holes.

Pumping the gun again, Rook stepped into the lobby. Another cultist moved towards him, and he fired again. This shot struck the enemy in the shoulder, spinning him into the wall with droplets of blood flying from his flailing arm. As more converged on Rook, he pumped and fired three more times.

Five bodies struck the ground, each moaning and writhing in pain. There were still four other cultists, and the high priest. The shotgun’s chamber had two shells left, but there were plenty more in Rook’s pocket.

He aimed at the high priest. Before he could fire, one of the cultists threw a knife and it twirled towards Rook’s chest. With a swift thrust, he blocked the blade and it bounced off the side of the receiver with a loud ping. Then, a cultist rammed into his backside and sent him sprawling into the wall.

Rook rebounded off the wall and turned to face his attacker. The goon ran up to him and pulled on the shotgun’s barrel. Pushing, Rook struggled to point the barrel at the man’s head. Just a few more inches, and he’d squeeze the trigger.

Another cultist approached and pulled on his arm. In an instant, Rook lost control and the gun slipped from his hands. He turned and slugged the flanking enemy in the face. When he staggered, Rook lunged at the first enemy and grabbed the shotgun’s barrel. With a strong, sudden thrust, he pushed the gun into the goon’s face, hard enough to make his nose bleed.

Rook turned towards the high priest and pumped the slide. Glowering at Rook, the old man held the girl by the wrist and ignored her squirming.

The priest said, “You will pay for all this blood you’ve—OW!”

The girl had dug her teeth into the priest’s knuckles and cut the skin. When the old man withdrew his bleeding hand, the girl darted towards Rook. He gestured for her to keep running. When she lingered at his side, he said, “Get out of here. Keep running west.” He wanted to tell her more—she could find some security and comfort in Salina, but it’d be a few days’ journey on foot. As the priest and his remaining thugs closed in on them, Rook found he had no time for details. All that mattered was buying time.

When the girl refused to move, Rook pushed her away. “Get moving! I’ll handle these a-holes.”

“I—” she stammered. Her green eyes looked volatile like acid. Rook knew she didn’t want to flee like a weakling—she wanted payback. Without weapons, what could she do but throw a punch or two? And that wouldn’t have made a difference, whereas Rook could take and deal more damage. He had for years, and this was just another Tuesday.

“You’ll just get in my way,” Rook said. “Go!”

A scowl twisted her face—she was undoubtedly cross at his words, but they had the right effect. She turned, ran down the hall, and exited out of the building’s open side.

Facing the last enemies, Rook pumped the slide. “Okay, who wants some of this?”

A cultist threw a stone at him, which struck his chest and bounced off his jacket. Aiming at the enemy, Rook fired. The boom filled his ears as the goon slumped on the floor.

When the ringing faded in his ears, Rook became aware of a gentle roar flooding the hall. It came from everywhere, and grew louder—the shouting of more cultists and their angry footsteps. A mob of men and women came out of every door, rushing into the lobby in front and behind Rook.

Aware of enemies behind him, Rook turned with his gun ready. Three of them suddenly pounced him, yanking his gun away as fists pelted his face and chest. In an instant, he was on the floor, watching as hands and feet came down on him. Aches erupted across his whole body.

A minute of pain felt like hours, before the cultists tore off his jacket and took. Two of them fought over the jacket and pulling on it like a tug-of-war game. Shotgun shells spilled from the pockets. Hands reached into his pants and pulled out everything he had. The cultists passed around his belongings—his wallet, a pocket knife, some jerky, and other random things.

One of the goons dangled something over Rook’s face. Once he saw the silver, gecko-shaped keychain, he grimaced. Of all the things they could take, this was the one belonging that he could not part with. “That’s mine,” Rook seethed. “Give it back!”

The cultists backed off momentarily as the high priest towered over Rook. The old man snatched the keychain from his minion and swung it on his finger. “What is this to you, heretic?”

“It’s important, and it’s mine,” Rook said. “What kind of bastards are you to take other people’s things?”

“Poor fool. Still attached to material goods, just like in the old days.” The priest pocketed the keychain, then bent down towards Rook. “You don’t realize how petty and worthless all things in this world really are. The only thing that matters is family. And our family must thrive on the love of the Eternal Ones and our faith in their power.”

Rook ground his teeth when he recognized the lies. This wasn’t a family. Their love and faith in the Eternal Ones was misplaced. Above all, he hated how they presumed to know so much. Just because the keychain seemed petty to them didn’t change the fact that it was important to him.

“You’ve robbed us of a clean soul and virgin flesh,” the priest condemned. “The Eternal Ones will be angry. You will be judged upon their wrath, and we will obey their most holy decree.”

The cultists picked Rook up by the arms and carried him deeper into the building. The further into the compound he went, the more it reeked of mold, burnt wood, and rotting meat. In one of the classrooms, rows of cages were stacked along the wall. The goons hastily shoved Rook into one of them and closed it shut with a rusty lock.

Rook was left alone for hours. In a classroom nonetheless, he wondered if this was like a perverse time-out. If he had to think about what he did, he had no regrets, as long as he managed to save a life. His situation wasn’t exactly peachy, but he had worse. He still lived, and he knew he could find a way out of this.