What Crawls Below

12 § Dead in the Water

Cyrus stumbled through the darkness as far as his legs would carry him before collapsing behind a dumpster.

He'd spent that week in a variety of interesting places—bus stations, down in the subway, anywhere else he could close his eyes no matter how briefly—but this topped them all. He didn't have the energy to keep going; almost all at once the exhaustion came over him, slamming into him with the full force of an oncoming train. Cyrus had enough coherency left to hide himself, huddling in an alley somewhere near Brownsville before his consciousness left him.

He awoke to something as blinding as the sun engulfing him; when he peeled his eyes open, though, Cyrus saw the sky was still painted charcoal overhead.

Gravel was embedded in his cheek; his body ached from his pavement-nap, but it's not as if he were used to luxury. Cyrus rose from his position on the ground and was met by a sharp voice, cutting through the silence.

"Don't move, man!"

Cyrus squinted against the harsh glare of the flashlight still being shown in his eyes. Beyond the haze, he made out the scrawny form of a man standing over him. In one hand, he aimed the flashlight; in the other, the man was clenching a gun.

Cyrus saw the young man's lips move, but a ringing in his ears drowned out whatever sound came from them. The man was all nervous energy: his fingers twitched on the gun, and his fear saturated the air and filled Cyrus's own body with adrenaline.

Raziel's question came back to him: Messiah, or son of perdition? The ringing in Cyrus's ears faded as he came upon his answer.

"Do you think I'm playing, bitch? I said, give me your motherfucking money!" The other man spat.

Cyrus got to his feet, even as the barrel of the handgun followed him. He watched the finger tense over the trigger, all the while knowing how fast this would all be over—one way or another.

A vein throbbed in the man's forehead; he screamed more obscenities at Cyrus, each one growing more and more shrill. Cyrus did not react, looking the man up and down. Tattered, soiled clothing; dirt-streaked face; skin mottled with scars. This was a very familiar brand of prey. He was nothing but another junkie, looking for his next fix.

Well, that was one thing they had in common.

Cyrus didn't think it through, didn't lay any expectations down. He just stared at the gun and focused on how he wanted it the hell out of the junkie's trembling hand. With a yelp, the other man dropped the weapon which clattered to the ground; steam seemed to rise from his hand where angry red welts were already forming.

"What the fuck—"

Those were the last words the man spoke. They cut off with a gurgle when Cyrus's hands appeared on his throat, digging his nails in and fending off the wild kicks and thrusts of elbows the junkie sent his way. It seemed to drag on for several minutes, several minutes marked by the ache in Cyrus's fingers and the fight dying in the other man with every passing moment. The eyes rolled back and the arms went slack before Cyrus felt it: energy washing over him.

The body hit the ground. Cyrus didn't bother giving it a second glance. The sun was peeking over the horizon with a wide, golden eye, the only witness to his crimes. He felt as strong as he had in, god, he couldn't even remember how long.

So why did it hurt?

No one had ever questioned before; he never had questioned himself. All he knew was the power surging through his veins. But now, now two different people had thrown into Cyrus's face the reality: he was going down a path of no return. What was waiting for him on the other side?