Cycle of the Gods
By David Edward Nell


Wednesday. Just another dreary work day. It was lunch hour, and I was glad to be off my hind for a change. I left the office and took the bridge to the mall. My eyes were still seeing lines of computer code. At Subway, I frisked my pockets for lunch money then realized I'd forgotten my wallet in the car underground. I mounted the elevator alone.

My new cellphone bickered.

“Hello?” A jangly scraping noise sounded off on the other end, which caused me to wince and hold the device a short distance away from my ear. Above, the artificial light shortly darkened.

“K-Karl, are you there?” a voice frantically muttered. It was Ebrahim, my younger brother, burbling uncharacteristic sobs. It sounded as if he was attempting to suppress his cries against the mouthpiece. I grew chills. I hadn't heard from him in a week, and now this.

“Christ, Ebrahim. Where have you been?” I asked, willing away a throat lump. “Mommy's been looking for you. The police, everyone. Please tell me you're okay, at least.”

There was an incoherent whelp that hinted at distraction. It seemed his focus was elsewhere.

I pressed, “Say something! Where are you?” I paced to and fro in the metallic strictures of the descending carriage. The dank enamel of sweat on my palm slinked over onto the sides of the device. I clutched my clothing.

Ebrahim's voice returned. But I was sure he was on something again; all of a sudden, he was calmer. “Sorry, Karl. I don't know what came over me. I just had to phone you. Look, man--”

“I thought you quit, dude.”

“--I need you.”

“What do you mean?”

Then his wails started again, more gaudily. “Don't listen to me, Karl. Whatever you do, don't go to your car--”

The call ended.

My heart was bursting. I didn't understand what he meant, but I drew caution as the shaft doors pinged open.

I was presented with concrete barrenness. There was not a soul in the garage. For a moment, I merely stared at the unusually still grey expanse which was accompanied only by columns and smatterings of tenantless parking spots. Every draft and presumed movement had me jumpy, mindful. I analyzed my surroundings fastidiously, contemplating a bolt towards my ride that was stored half block up.

I converged on a rusty white van to the west with marginally tinted windows. It was out of place, near enough to touch.

I left the elevator, partially quelling my suspicions, hopeful that my brother was just having another one of his trips. I secretly cursed him.

Then there was movement through the dark hue.

Ten lagging paces onward, I strained my eyes behind. Something wasn't right.

Headlights.

My eyes were torched to a rumple. I reeled backwards and blocked against its subjugating glare. There was no sign of apology from the driver.

Instead, an engine's roar.

I ran. It followed. Just as I feared, the vehicle was on my trail. Undoubtedly, in my mind, it was out to kill. My legs were labouring hard; the back of my throat was hit with gusts of air. I regretted not heeding Ebrahim's warning, not being fitter, as the van was now bordering on my stride faster than could be avoided and I sensed death. My car, that hoary clunker, was in sight, I on the cusp of refuge. I thanked my maker.

But it was too late.

I was rammed forward. I fell to the unyielding surface, where stars wavered about, and what I saw next was the butt of a gun between my irises.


Whiteness was everywhere, endless in breadth. My flesh squirmed. It dawned that my limb movements were being throttled.

I was trapped.

I almost retched into my mouthpiece from the sensory discombobulation. There were no measurable dimensions, entrances or imperfections in this colorless void where everything seemed to be impossibly balanced. What was before me was impossible, but here it was and this was all too real.

A man was standing in nothingness.

From the vertically raised, machinelike perch to which I was ensnared, I accosted the coldly examining stare of a lank elder. His complexion was as pasty as that of a fresh mortuary corpse, his obsidian eyeballs an immersing complement to the full bodied tenebrosity of his lavish coat.

The man was silent. He hovered a finger clockwise atop a remote he was holding and drifted to his right, where an oblong mantle glided upwards into the immense pallidity and unveiled what appeared to be a window into a room.

My trapping steadily rotated to face it. I gasped even though it hurt widening my jaw. I was processing so many thoughts, I drove myself into a circle of questions. I wanted to faint.

Through the pane sat my brother, in a similar silvery cathedra, dazed and crimson.

The elder spoke, “We must all return to the soil eventually.”

Then behind Ebrahim materialized the preposterous figure of a praying mantis creature, Herculean in stature, appearing in a millisecond of unfeasibility from the shelters of a dark corner. It was here, on Earth, in this dimension, and it was scraping together its spike-festooned talons.

It was looking down over the comparably miniature head of my flesh and blood.

I batted my lids shut, expecting to wake up any minute.


The cycle must continue.

Today, I'm phoning my mother. It's her birthday and I have a surprise for her.

They're waiting, too.

They can't come out to the exterior world, so they use people like me. I understand now.

They're gods.

I care about them deeply. You could call it love, but it's beyond that. They're my sustenance. My beginning. My end.


- - -
A software developer by day, David Edward Nell writes speculative fiction in his limited spare time from Cape Town, South Africa. Some of his works will soon be published in The Dark Side of the Womb, Dark Edifice, Twisted Dreams, and Cynic Online.