Demonworld by Kyle Stiff

Author:Kyle Stiff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: demon, dystopia, epic, paradigm shift, series, postapocalyptic, dystopian, transhuman, genetic, science fantasy, genome, posthuman, demonworld, kyle b stiff, kyle stiff

Chapter Fourteen

The Wasteland

He awoke. His body was sore, his senses chained to a world of pain. The sun was full and white and burning directly overhead. He heard the low hum of voices all around. He clenched his fingers, felt hot sand, and he knew that he was alive.

A shadow covered his face. His vision was blurred, but he could see the face of a young man directly overhead, wide and with dark hair.

“Marlon!” he said, rising quickly.

The young man moved away, crouching in the sand. The blur sharpened into someone unfamiliar. They stared at one another. He looked around and saw dozens of people crouching all around him on a wide desert plain under the blue dome of the sky. The people were unkempt, the grime on their faces mixed with cracked, yellow tribal skin paint. Some cried softly, others wailed and beat their fists in the dirt, some stared back at him with empty faces, but most of the people simply sat and waited to see what the fates would decide for them.

He lifted up on his knees and looked further out. He saw men with scars and black tattoos wearing heavy boots, leather jackets, and motley armor. They were armed with rifles and handguns. He saw them leading other groups of ragged people to sit with the main group, using whips and heavy sticks when their captives did not move quickly enough. Some slavers rode on the backs of lean horses and shouted orders to their scarred enforcers.

They heard gunshots in the distances, layer upon layer, and the primitives clung to the ground. An old man began praying, “Omne Padre, oh, oh, Omne Padre. We stand before the valley, we must not fear. He leads me to green pastures, he lets me drink untainted water. Oh, Omne Padre…”

As the old man continued, the dark-haired young man sighed loudly and covered his ears. Finally the slaves lifted their heads and resumed their hushed conversations, their eyes always on their captors. The old man turned to him and said, “Just who are you?”

“I am…” he said, then cleared his throat painfully. He knew that he looked different from the others, the enslaved primitives. “I come from a place far from here. It’s difficult to explain. Listen, there was someone else with me. A young man, very strong. He was hurt. His name is Marlon. Have you seen him?”

The old man stared at him for a long time, then shook his head. Now others were watching him, trying to place his strange accent, staring at his strange pants and shoes and pale skin. “Are you a demon?” the old man said suddenly.

At that moment more slavers on horseback led another group of primitives to sit with them. One scarred slaver led his horse near the new slaves, then kicked a girl from behind, knocking her into the others. The slavers laughed, their voices guttural and inhuman, then left to continue their work. The slaves remained quiet for a while, then the old man repeated, “Are you a demon?”

“Of course not!” he replied.

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