The God Killers Read online

  BY

  DAVID SIMPSON

  THE GOD KILLERS

  Exitless and The God Killers

  are Copyright (c) 2011 David Simpson

  Cover image by Miro Budiš

  Edited by Autumn J. Conley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author.

  A message for you from the author:

  Hi! Thank you so much for reading my book! I hope you enjoy it. It is always an honor when someone takes the time to read one of my novels and I feel humbled and thankful. I owe you one! If you do enjoy the book, please remember to tell a friend or two (or two thousand) about it. Best of all is a positive review on Amazon.com. At this stage in my writing career, word of mouth is better than gold and is the best way for me to reach a large audience. It’s because of the amazing support of readers that I’ve recently been able to achieve my dream of writing full-time. There’s no way to do it without the readers! You guys are everything.

  I want to be available and interactive with my readers, so you can actually friend me on Facebook, “like” the Facebook page for Post-Human, follow me on Twitter, or check out my website. I’m also on goodreads.com and love to hear from readers and correspond with them about their experiences with my books.

  So, thanks again, and hopefully, this will be the beginning of a long, rewarding, and beautiful relationship between reader and author.

  Yours,

  David Simpson

  1

  The white light was no longer perfect. The welcoming orb fluttered slightly at first, a blackness interrupting the formerly perfect whiteness. The darkness began to grow as the fluttering gave way to a violent thrashing. Suddenly, a man dressed in black burst forth from the light and leapt forward into the seemingly implacable darkness of the tunnel.

  This was Cipher. Cipher had just stabbed God…and now Cipher was running like hell.

  Unfortunately, it was like running in quicksand. Something happened in the tunnel between Earth and Heaven, some sort of distortion in space and time that gave that tiny artery a quality usually reserved only for nightmares. Cipher pumped his legs as hard as he could, but was unable to move beyond slow motion. He tried to suck in quick breaths, but there was no air in that gateway between two planes of reality. The irony didn’t escape him: He was a dead man trying to breathe.

  “Han!” he shouted as loud as he could. He might as well have been yelling underwater. It didn’t really matter anyway, as Han couldn’t hear him here; his yelling was instinctual. What else could he do as he ran in slow motion into the blackness, dozens of incensed, avenging angels in pursuit? He refused to look over his shoulder at the spectacle unfolding so close behind: The white orb rippled angrily before violently giving birth to luminescent evil. The angels moved in slow motion as well, but they were more experienced at maneuvering through the tunnel; they knew how to twist and angle their bodies to counteract the distortions, and they ran with the ferociousness of starving Bengal tigers chasing down their next helpless meal.

  The angels resembled stuntmen on a movie set, set alight with fire and told to run a mad dash through the night in front of the cameras before the crew emerged with fire extinguishers to save them from a ghastly demise; only these stuntmen would never be doused. The flames floated around them rather than flickering, lightly intermingling with the black nothingness in the tunnel between Heaven and Earth. Their eyes were alight too, burning with a golden flame. They could appear beautiful when they wished, like mermaids on a black rock in the middle of a lonely sea, but if anyone got close enough to them, the light that seemed to welcome them suddenly became a fire that burned and branded, clawed, and clung, pulling them into the orb and out of anything resembling an individual existence. Cipher had seen them in both states—had escaped them in the past—but he knew one day he would be able to run no longer.

  Perhaps today was the day.

  There was still a chance, however. In his hand was a weapon. On this plane, it glowed with white light, tinged slightly with a blue aura. That was how the Spear of Destiny appeared in the tunnel between life and death, filled with energy so powerful that it could puncture God’s skin, just as it had once done on the mortal plane. Coating the handle of the Spear was a smoldering blackness that now also coated Cipher’s hand and wrist like a tar glove. On this plane, that was how God’s blood appeared.

  “Han!” Cipher tried to shout again. If Han didn’t get him out of there fast enough, he knew he would be caught from behind and would have to face the angels. The Spear gave him a chance—perhaps his only one. It could cut through them like they weren’t even there, but even with that advantage, they’d eventually outnumber him and overwhelm him. This was turning out to be a bad day.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The war was supposed to be over. God was supposed to be dead. He stabbed Him just as he was instructed, slipping the blade into God’s side as it had slipped into His Son’s side 2,000 years ago in Jerusalem, atop Mt. Calvary. But this God didn’t die easily. He woke from His slumber and screamed so loudly that Cipher was blown backward for what seemed to be an eternity. After that, Cipher’s mind was made up; he had to escape, so he ran as fast as he could out of Heaven. Now, he was just buying time. Han would pull him out soon, but there was no way to send the message that he was in trouble, no way to tell him what was happening there in the gateway between life and death.

  A luminescent hand slowly appeared to his left, like a torch light in his peripheral vision. He was caught. The hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Cipher began the agonizing and terrifying turn toward his attackers; a slow-motion fight since there was nowhere left for flight. He swiped the Spear wildly at the angel who’d clasped onto him and managed to sever its left hand from its body, sending it sailing through space. The angel’s shriek was unlike anything any creature could emit on the mortal plane as it retreated in agony, steaming black blood oozing from the stump where its hand had been. Cipher held the Spear with a death grip, keeping it in front of him in a defensive posture, holding the seething monsters back temporarily. “There’s more where that came from,” he said to them, his voice rippling in the vortex of the tunnel.

  The angels continued to seethe and bare their glowing fangs as they stood only a meter away from their prey, looking for a weak moment to pounce. Suddenly, their rage turned to horror, and they withdrew quickly, hands clasped over their faces as they looked past Cipher and upward at something behind him. Cipher didn’t have to turn around to know it was God; the entity behind him seemed to suck the energy out of any space it inhabited. The creature glowed with a light more brilliant than any other, yet it somehow managed to emanate an almost tangible darkness at the very same time; Cipher could feel his life energy weakening just being close to it.

  There came a low rumble like the rolling of thunder before a prairie summer storm, the guttural sighing of a wounded God. Cipher turned slowly, waves of darkness washing over him, putrid breath singeing his skin, and laid eyes on the one true God.

  2

  “Who are you?” God thundered in a voice that rolled and echoed throughout
the tunnel.

  Cipher didn’t respond. The putrid stench of God’s breath washed over him, and he suddenly realized that large black flies were being blown by the gust of otherworldly wind, pelting against his flesh. This wasn’t air God was expelling—it was something else—something evil, fueled by the death of souls. Cipher still had the Spear of Destiny in his hand; he still had one last, desperate chance. If he could strike a fatal blow, somehow kill this creature once and for all, the war would be over, humanity would be saved. If only…

  God seemed to be able to read his mind, for as Cipher began his desperate swipe at humanity’s jailer, God flashed out His powerful and gigantic hand and caught hold of Cipher’s wrist.

  Few mortals have ever been touched by the hand of God, and even fewer would want to. Cipher screamed out in agony as the incalculable energy of God’s life force streamed through him, searing his flesh. The Spear of Destiny dropped from his pain-paralyzed hand and floated toward God’s free one.

  “I have seen this before,” He thundered, a rage only a god could summon slowly brewing. “No mortal could ever attain the Spear of Destiny on his own,” He stated, His suspicions correct. “You have had help. You’re in contact with Satan.”

  “Satan who?” Cipher managed to mouth through teeth clenched in agony.

  God released His grip on Cipher and allowed him to fall to the blackness. Cipher gripped his wrist tightly as an ethereal smoke emanated from the burned flesh. He looked up again at the face of God. For the most part, the white light generated by the deity’s eyes and mouth made it impossible for Cipher to get a clear view of the face as a whole, but glimpses of a perfect jaw line were visible, as well as lips pulled back into an animalistic sneer.

  “Where is she?” God demanded, the voice rolling over Cipher with such force that it prevented him from being able to regain his footing.

  “Go fuck yourself!” Cipher replied.

  In an instant, God had pulled Cipher to his feet and then some, holding him by the front of his black biker jacket so they were eye to eye, Cipher’s feet dangling a full meter above the floor of the tunnel. God was an enormous figure. His body and face were similar to those of a human, only in impossible, freakish proportions. “I want to know where she is, human. There is no escape here—no death. You are mine for eternity. You will tell me; it is an absolute certainty, for I will tear your very soul apart until you do so.”

  There was nothing in God’s words to which Cipher could reply. The creature was right: Eventually, Cipher would talk.

  Suddenly, a seam tore open in the tunnel above them, and perfectly white light streamed in to banish the darkness. A whoosh of energy pulled at Cipher, as though he were a tiny bubble hovering above the open drain of a bathtub.

  “No!” God thundered, His grip on Cipher loosening; not even a god could hold on to a soul called back to Earth.

  Cipher smiled as he spat into God’s face, “Maybe next time.”

  The light increased until it was obvious that his eyes were now open. An oxygen mask was lifted temporarily off of his mouth, and his friend’s face suddenly came into view. It was Han.

  “You’re alive again,” said Han, with no trace of relief in his voice. He knew all too well that Cipher’s resuscitation meant little in the grand scheme of things unless the mission was successful. For this reason, only anticipation and trepidation registered on his face.

  They were back in Han’s apartment. Cipher was on the bed, the Spear of Destiny in its mortal form, wood and steel, ancient and simple, gripped by his hand. A defibrillator and an oxygen tank were nearby, as well as a glass of water. Han sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning over his friend’s revived body.

  “You have no idea how...how close that was,” Cipher said weakly, his voice hoarse after spending nearly three minutes dead.

  “Just tell me. Did you kill it? Yes or no?”

  Cipher’s lips pulled back in a disappointed grimace.

  “Fuck!” Han cursed before he put the oxygen mask back over Cipher’s face and bolted to his feet in frustration.

  Suddenly, the Spear erupted into flame. Cipher pulled his hand back instinctively to save it from burning as Han tossed the glass of water on it, dousing the flames. When the smoke cleared, the Spear was completely gone, lost to the mortal plane forever.

  “Fuck! This shit never ends!” Han spat, the frustration of certain damnation weighing on his soul.

  3

  “What happened in there?” Han asked.

  It had been ten minutes, and Cipher was now sitting upright on Han’s couch, an electric blanket over his shoulders and a mug of hot lemon tea clutched between his hands. Han hovered not far away, pacing back and forth as he smoked furiously on a cigarette.

  Cipher spoke hoarsely, “The Spear worked. I stabbed Him in the ribs, just like we were told to do. It hurt Him, but it didn’t kill Him.”

  “This was supposed to work. This should be over,” Han seethed as he sucked hard breaths of smoke, the smoke exhaling out of his nostrils like a cartoon raging bull’s.

  “Uh-I hate to be the one to have to tell you this but things are worse than you think,” Cipher said, staring blankly at the far wall of the room.

  Han froze for a moment before turning to Cipher. “Oh no. No. He didn’t.”

  “He did. He saw my face.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe He didn’t get a good look. Maybe you just—” Han stuttered as his long legs stepped over the back of the couch and he crouched next to Cipher.

  Cipher shook his head. “No. He looked me right in the eye for a long time—two inches from my face. He was holding me when you brought me back. He saw me, Han. God saw me.”

  “Oh…oh no. We’re fucked. We’re so fucking fucked!” Han said, crushing his half-smoked and still-lit cigarette in his palm before hurling it across the room. “This couldn’t have gone worse.”

  “At least I’m alive,” Cipher uttered, stating what he saw as the obvious silver lining.

  “Big deal! None of us are alive for long now. They’ll find you. And a little more digging and they’ll find me. The rest of our short lives are going to be agony...and that’s the good part.”

  “You’ll be safe as long as you stay away from me.”

  Han shook his head in defeat, the fatalism taking hold as he balled his fists and pressed them against his temples. “Running won’t do any good. I’ve been seen with you too many times. All they have to do is ask your neighbors and friends. And they won’t stop at just you. They’ll want to uncover the whole cell. They’ll find Father Hurley and me. We’re all fucked.” Han shut his eyes as tightly as he could as he tried to will himself to disappear; it didn’t work. “I can’t even jump off a bridge. God’s going to make the rest of our lives hell, but the afterlife? He’ll make that way fucking worse! There’s no escape, Cipher. No merciful death—ever.” He opened his eyes and stumbled to his feet as though he were drunk. “I’m gonna be sick,” he said suddenly as he moved toward the bathroom.

  Han looked awful. He was naturally a handsome man and still young in his mid-twenties, yet the ever-present terror under which he lived caused him to look much older. To cope with the miserable realities of the universe, he self-medicated with large quantities of alcohol, nicotine and pot; lately, he’d even returned to his old habit: chasing the dragon—better known as shooting heroin. Cipher didn’t begrudge him these things; in fact, he encouraged it. As a matter of fact, he’d been indulging in such escapes himself just a few short weeks ago, but ever since they’d uncovered the Spear of Destiny amidst the collection of a former Nazi in Argentina, he’d been in training. He’d sworn off all drugs and alcohol, especially cigarettes, and had begun eating a healthier diet of mostly fruits and vegetables. He’d even taken up running at least fifteen kilometers a day. This was all in an effort to make his heart as strong as possible to endure the trauma of having it stopped and starved of oxygen for nearly three minutes. Now, at thirty, he was in the best shape of his life.


  Cipher stood to his feet, his legs still wobbly but slowly regaining their strength, and walked to the open bathroom door. He found Han leaning over the sink, scooping cool water into his mouth with one hand while reaching for his mouthwash with the other. “How long do you think we have until they find us?” Cipher asked.

  “A few hours at most,” Han replied weakly between spits.

  Cipher exhaled deeply as he turned the predicament over in his head. “I’ll start packing up the essentials. We need to stay on the move and off the grid. We’ll need all the rainy-day cash we can dig up.”

  “Anything you have in your accounts too. Clear it out,” Han concurred before he turned around, leaning back on the sink, his face pallid.

  “You need a fix,” Cipher observed, point blank.

  “What I need is to help you pack,” Han replied in pathetic protest; as soon as the word ‘fix’ was spoken, the outcome was inevitable.

  “There’s enough time.” Cipher said, already digging through Han’s black medical bag for the paraphernalia as Han sank down into his couch. A rubber band was tossed across the room to the junkie and he quickly tied it around his arm just above the elbow; the process had been repeated so many times that it had become—robotic. Cipher emptied some of the heroin onto a spoon, added water, then held it above a lit candle on the mantelpiece to help it dissolve. In less than a minute, he’d filled the syringe and was flicking it to make sure the liquid would flow. “Okay,” Cipher said as he pulled Han’s arm into position. He stuck the needle into the flesh, neither man even wincing; this was routine now.

  “You know, it’s funny. When I first injected this stuff, I remember thinking that it must be what touching God felt like. What a joke. What a fucking joke,” Han uttered weakly.