Then… Ellsberg, Illinois - July 1990
Migrating the corkscrew of consciousness, Dean teetered on a vague awareness, particularly of scent. The malodorous hybrid of cotton candy and rot teased his senses with the promise of death. His eyes flicked, trying to corral reality, instead his thoughts wobbled.
Fixating, he pushed hard for a single memory or action that he could claim as his own. The most he managed spilled into "Get out! Run!" Somewhere in the befuddled chaos of his mind, he still knew survival was the better part of valor. Yet, his legs twitched, stalled as if they were concrete columns. For his useless effort, the smidgen of a shift jabbed shards of rubble, jagged as peddles or glass digging into the back portion of his body. Knowing he should move, yet powerless to do so, Dean whimpered in a low, shockingly childlike keen.
A pitch of his gut and a quake in his body nail him down as much hold him down as much as the hazy in his head. Down with a sickness, his noggin paddled with no recollection of where or how he had been taken; however, he sensed danger, piping hot, all around him. That alone should have rattled his psyche free, but nothing cracked the power the creature held. So, his muscles and mind settled as that one last hooray of thought dwindled.
Froze, like a snapshot, he sank into something thickset as jelly, coating him in uncontrollable chill and a putrid liquid, which saturated him as profusely as his addled brain. The sanguine fluid reeked of the strange honey odor, scrapping into his nostril and grabbing each hair until he involuntary wanted to gag. When the pungent crescendoed, one lazy green eye forced open, followed by the bemoaning crack of the other.
For once in his life, Dean might have been grateful for ignorance perception. In full view, in all ghastly an atrocious gore, little faces flashing perfect permanent smiles surrounded him. The pale bones welcomed him in their numbers as the blackened skeleton eye sockets returned vacancy of Dean's sight.
Skulls, blood, bone- he glued between the skeletons and nowhere. Empty stained bones, former homes to the multitude of wraith that just began to swirl as Dean's eyes opened. Round and round, they spun, diving inside what they use to be, gawking at a new brother to the masses. The faceless ones stacked in mounds of unspeakable remains- some still fleshy and rotting.
Amid the farrago of wraiths, shadows, and bones, Dean roosted on the top of the cesspit like the newly crowned king of the heap. Body upon body. Waste upon waste. Decay upon decay. Dean all on top, waiting his turn in line until some creature called him to join in the death parade.
Even the sight of a mass grave did little to fuel the need- the will- the strength to fight. At best, Dean gurgled an objection and chucked a hand into the puddled blood until skeletons toppled, sinking him further in the bone yard. He blinked dopily, glancing at the scarlet blood glistening on the graveyard tan pallor of his hand as a wiggling maggot dropped from the crack of his fingers. "Already dead." Dean sputtered on autopilot. The words sounded more like struggling air than thought.
"Not yet, little friend" a male voice taunted, deeper and different from the man from the bakery. "And all my friends are skeletons."
The man, Theron, juggled something inside his fingers and sucked happily on his teeth while the woman from the bakery, Nysa, moved to block the man's path to the bony cesspool.
"No more," Nysa murmured. Somehow, she found new strength as she spoke. "You will give him back!"
"Such a fine—crumb— to join the clan," Theron said as he grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at Dean. "You know the pain. The hunger. The guilt. Spare yourself this maddened cycle—"
"He will be my child. He is mine child." Nysa demanded, yanking herself free.
"Sister, I know you better than—"
"When Avel returns—"
"Blather. My kin!" he called out to the nooks of the abandoned factory. "We all want just a taste, a tiny-"
Shoving her brother away, Nysa glared at the moving shadows that began to wail like a five alarm 's head flopped as numerous voices quarreled like rabid, starving beasts. Suddenly the churning wraith swooped and swooned to the speaking man, the tallest of the group. Equally mesmerizing as the pair from the bakery, he carried some position of power among the things. Appearing to agree, the children apparitions coddled in throngs around the man. Each pawing him in a fearful pamper, while he ignored the preening. His bull's eye squared only on the need of a fresh kill.
In a spur, he tossed Nysa to the side, as more shadowed ones held her at bay. Free to exact intent upon the helpless. Soon the boy would be just another unfulfilled life anchored to the ones who reigned over permanent shadow. In the swarm of activity, the thing, bloodlust pumping, shifted towards the young man. As he shifted, unblocking view of mixing machine that sparked alive with humming lights. The weak beam struggled to spread in the expanse and escape the corrugated and rusting metal walls. The short extending ray only managed to cast a ghostly glow over what had once been a thriving creamery. Now, instead of serving tasty treats, it served as a dumping ground and sanctuary to these dark ones.
Then, all of a sudden, Theron stopped. For a while, he just stared at Dean, scrutinizing the rise and fall of the boy's chest and glaring back at Nysa. Smiling, the monster licked each tooth in turn and sucked upon them. Finally, he shoved the item he had juggled in between an incisor until the sharp metallic pin freed a meaty morsel. Satisfied, he hurled Pamela's nametag into the muck.
"I didn't really need a souvenir, not when there's-"
"Not this time. He is perfect-"
Within a second, just as abruptly as the stop, Theron lunged with a boisterous leap, spattering into the crimson bog. Bits of bloody juice and bones dispersed and scattered into the air. The thick, sickly gobs plashed Dean. With an impulsive wrench, he dislodged Dean, dangling a single leg from his hand. Blood dripped from the boy in gory and humorless detail.
"Brother Bone," the man said. The last note dropped low and melancholy like the howl of a wolf that has lost its pack. Several replies came from the others, who were feral, but just as mesmerizingly beautiful. Inhaling deeply, the man sniffed Dean over like a tasty confection. "This one has been touched by the dark before and yet still so mouth-watering and innocent. Rare, indeed. Seconds, you think?"
The black clad man hoisted Dean over the mixing pot, which filled to the brim with cloudy oil and bit of floating remains.
"Once I caught a little fish,
Such a sweet tasty dish.
And which finger shall I bite
Perhaps the little finger on the right."
From the dark, more things began to creepy around the pot, waiting for Dean to be plopped in endless vat of oil. Dragging Nysa with them, they droned in throngs. The craving inside her grew epic as she denied her carnal appetite.
"It's still hot from the last batch," the man said.
"Not this one." Nysa commanded, breaking free of the breather. She desperately grasped to lock arms about Dean. "Give me my beloved."
"Give him back!" said Avel, the man from the bakery. The interrupter matched stares with larger man, daring to challenge battle as he shoved Theron and Dean from the communal soup pot. "Return our child."
"Ah, the ever champion returns to watch over the new one—just like all the others!" Theron said
By this point, Nysa grasped Dean from her brother's grasp, sweeping the wilted boy in her arms "Not this one. He is special." She cradles Dean.
Protests of malnourished wails erupted from the dark rabble. Raising a hand, the leader quelled the wraith and the fellow shadow brethren. "No fear. It will end as it always has. He will not restore the house. You will see."
"He's mine forever."
"He's yours- for now."
Amid his platitudes, Theron, picked up a large paddle and stirred inside the pot. Poking and jabbing, he slung a partial deep fried corpse over the side, allowing the carcass to crack into the bone yard. The grand master motioned for them to rise, and the creatures did. After the offering into the bloody pantry, the horde of beautiful, black things circled it. Some pawed at Dean as they passed, snagging at the boy's skin and hair. None defied Nysa's protection or doubted the temporary nature of it.
While the multitude scrambled and sloppily crunched at the last of tonight's menu, Nysa and Avel encased Dean in an embrace.
"Don't blame me if you need a little snack later, sister."
The insanely delicate and beautiful creatures stripped flesh from tender pink bones and didn't stop the gorge until the last morsel of boney goodness slithered into their vapid mouths. Afterward, one by one, they disbanded. The last of the females chomped a thin arm bone, dragging herself and the corpsey treat with her to a dark corner.
Left alone, the trio lingered. Embraced by wretched Nysa, the inert Dean Snuggly nestled into the lap of a dangerous enemy. "We won't fail this time?"
"Never again," Avel promised for the countless time.
She slowly hummed and began to sign softly, "Aide, aíde, kimísou, kórí mou"
For an unfathomable reason, the sweet voice rallied Dean to buck his right leg gingerly. Instantly, she intensified her grip and song.
K'eghó k'eghó ná soú kharíso tín
Alexandra zákhari"
The melody thickly clogged in his brain until none of his limbs wanted to be anywhere but her arms. As the song grew louder, all thoughts began to blur into recession. Numbing warmth tingled to the tips of his fingers and toes. Nuzzling Dean to her as a cloak of protection, a feral tongued darted out before she bit her lip to quell the hunger pains trembling inside her. Avel, absently, maneuvered a lock of Nysa's hair behind her ear as he bent closer to her involuntary child. When he became completely malleable, Avel placed a tarnished silver coat of arms about Dean's neck.
"Ké to ké tó Misí ri rí zi
Ke tín Konstantantinoúpoli
Trís khrónous ná tín rízis"
Pouted lips locked on Dean, kissing him lightly as she rocked- her touch of confusion, acceptance, and abandonment. Her soothing presence was nothing more than a short promise and denial of truth- a promise born to be broken.