Darklights
Hell on Earth Bk 1
by Barry Napier

EXCERPT

-DUSK-

I

Although it was a relatively cool spring afternoon, Remy was dripping with sweat as he approached the small village. He had run through eight miles of harsh Brazilian jungle and he had covered it all in less than two hours. When he came to the village, as he had been instructed to do, he was gasping for air and felt as if his legs might give out at any moment.

As he made his way out of the thickness of the surrounding jungle and into the clearing of the village grounds, Remy was greeted by a man that he had never seen before. The man was dressed in a cheap suit, but in this region there was no such thing as a cheap suit. As a matter of fact, the suit stood out among the village and its residents like a sore thumb.

It was a simple place, consisting of various shanties and shacks to house the thirty or so villagers that lived there. The grounds smelled of charred wood from small fires, freshly cooked meat and the slight musky scent of people that had not been properly bathed for quite some time. In the midst of all of this, the stranger’s suit seemed unnecessary and nearly comical. Remy supposed that his American roots were responsible for noticing the clash of the man’s suit among the village scenery before picking up on the rather grim look on the man’s face.

“He’s waiting for you,” the man in the cheap suit said. “Follow me.”

The man had a rough complexion and appeared to be of Mexican descent. He was well built and his face, much like his neck and shoulders, looked as if it had been chiseled from ancient stone. But something within those hard features made the man look slightly afraid. Remy had been sent to this village from his own without being told why, but the look on this man’s face made Remy aware that whatever the reason, it was definitely something of importance.

The Mexican led Remy through the small village without speaking a word to him. Remy looked around cautiously as they walked towards the center of the village. The eyes of several villagers were on them as they passed, looking out of their huts and shanties with suspicion.

While most Americans would surely call these people savages, they were among the most respectful and peaceful people that Remy had ever met. But their darkened faces showed the same fear that was apparent in the Mexican’s solemn expression. Some of the villagers even nodded politely to him as their eyes met, these nods followed by a religious gesture that Remy was not familiar with. He couldn’t tell if they were baffled over the sight of the man in the suit or if they maybe knew something that he didn’t. Like the Mexican, they all seemed to be on edge.

Remy nodded back to them without trying their religious gesture out. He wanted to ask his guide in the cheap suit what exactly was going on but knew that it would be viewed as disrespectful. He had left his own village with instructions to travel here to speak with the man known throughout many nearby villages as Priest Garammond. The holy man had become sick several days ago and the news had spread as quickly as was possible in the desolate regions of the jungle. Garammond was highly respected in nearly any share of land in which his name was mentioned, so whenever anyone got orders to speak with him immediately, they didn’t dare ask questions. It would be like a preacher asking God why he has been called to the pulpit.

“Here,” the guide in the suit said as they came to one of the larger shanties of the village. It sat tucked away by itself in a corner of the beaten jungle clearing and looked in no better shape than the other dwellings they had passed. There was a well worn spot outside of its entrance, beaten flat by the stamping of feet from where the villagers had been coming to visit since the priest had fallen ill.

Standing to the sides of the dwelling’s entrance were two woeful looking tribesmen taking guard. Upon seeing Remy, they nodded and made that same religious gesture towards him. Remy nodded back to them as they stepped aside and allowed him to enter. Again, Remy felt as if all eyes were on him and he wondered if the subtle fear in the faces of the villagers was possibly directed at his presence in the village.

Remy waited for the guide in the suit to accompany him, but the guide shook his head. “I have not been asked to enter. Just you.”

Remy nodded slowly and walked inside without asking questions. Even though he didn’t buy the majority of Garammond’s beliefs and teachings, he knew that he was in a well-respected place. He also knew that Garammond was just as polite and peaceful as the people that he governed over, so Remy made note to keep his manners at hand.

His legs were no longer sore from his trek through the jungle. Instead, he found that he had to make sure that his knees didn’t knock together from their shaking. He was suddenly very nervous and aware that there was a mild excitement slowly creeping into him. The sensation began to spread through him as he walked further into the dwelling, as if there was a weight to this place that pushed him gently further on.

Inside the shanty, the air was thick with the pungent scent of body odor. Remy clearly smelled the sweat and could instantly tell that it was the stink of someone attempting to sweat out a sickness.

The only furniture in the place was a small wooden bench and an even smaller table that sat on weak legs. The place was illuminated by only a single lantern that sat to the priest’s other side. There were a few sheets of bound paper on the table, held down by an ancient-looking pen. Lying on a mat beside this table was the man the locals called Priest Garammond.

Remy had only seen the elderly man twice before but he recognized him instantly. His face alone spoke of nobility and wisdom. His eyes were grey and like ice, but they somehow gave off a soothing charm. Regardless of how people felt about the man or his belief system, he was a man that seemed to demand respect by his presence alone.

“Is that you, son?” Garammond asked, sitting up slightly in order to see his visitor. He grunted and struggled from the simple act of sitting up. “Is this the boy called Remy?”

“Yes sir,” Remy answered. He wasn’t sure how he should address the old man. Was it priest or father or what? Apparently, Garammond didn’t care.

“You got here fast, my son,” Garammond said rather happily. He then sighed and managed to push himself up into a full sitting position. Sitting up now, Remy thought the man looked incredibly fragile, as if the slightest passing breeze might lift him up and carry him away into the surrounding jungle. The skin literally hung from his arms and the outlines of his collarbones and ribs were prominent.

“I assume the news has gotten around,” Garammond said. “The news about my health.”

“Yes sir, it has. I was sorry to hear it.”

“We all pass on,” Garammond said with a thin smile. To his left the weak lantern was burning, the flame as weak as Garammond appeared to be, and the lamplight reflected off of the old man’s bald head. “But my condition is neither here nor there. You have been asked to come here for something far more important than my well being.”

“Something is wrong,” Remy said. “I could see it in the faces of your people as I came into the village. They look scared.”

“Indeed. Something is very wrong,” Garammond said. He coughed rather violently after this, the sound from his throat dry and raspy. The old man winced, stopped to catch his breath and then seemed to shudder from head to toe. It was hard to watch this beloved man in such a state, but Remy found it hard to take his eyes off of him.

“A dark event is coming and I had believed that I was to be a part of it,” Garammond went on. “But considering my illness, I am obviously in no condition to tend to such matters. I was told by God that a dark time is fast approaching. It will begin shortly after nightfall, I think. But we are far too late to make it in time, son.” With all of that said, the old man covered his mouth to let out another dry cough.

“We?” Remy asked. He tried his best to hide the doubt in his voice.

Garammond chuckled. “Actually, you. You are about to go on a trip, you see. I know about your background and where you come from. I am asking you to return to America.”

“America? Why? I almost died trying to get out of there.”

“I know. I am well aware of your story and your history. I know a lot of things about you, Remy. I know that you have kept in close contact with a Baptist missionary named Morgan. I also know that his church visited your village yesterday.”

A bit shocked by this bit of information, it took Remy a few moments to respond. He felt partially violated that this man would know his rather sordid history and his reason for having retreated to these villages as a teenager.

Casting this aside for the moment, Remy asked, “Is Morgan a part of this event you’re talking about?” he asked.

Garammond paused, not sure how to answer. “I certainly hope not,” he said after some thought. “But if he is not, then I believe that one of his fellow believers is.”

Remy did all he could to remain calm and to be patient with Garammond’s odd way of getting to the point. He let it all out in a simple question. “What is all of this about and why have you asked for me?”

The bluntness of the question was a bit rude, but Remy felt better for having asked it. The question seemed so direct and precise that the insistent weight Remy had felt upon entering the shanty was momentarily dashed.

The elderly priest chuckled again but it sounded to Remy like a death rattle. Garammond was dying. He could go any day now and all of his admirers knew it. When the old man laughed, Remy was reminded of this. It was a weak laugh, mangled by the cancer that was eating him from the inside.

“Sit down, my boy. I’ll give you the abridged version.”

Remy sat and listened.

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