Seeds Of The Fallen

By Keith Crews

An iron spire of snakes mysteriously appears in the small seaside community of Sea Haven. The towns people, including local reporter Pamela Sussex, are intrigued by the towering monument.
However, Pam will soon discover that she has a terrible connection to this spire, one that may very well be spiritually binding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Crews
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780986824548

Keith Crews

Keith Crews was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. He has written several novels which are currently being converted into audiobooks. He hopes you enjoy the read(s) :)

Book preview

SEEDS OF THE FALLEN

by

Keith Crews

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Keith Crews on Smashwords

Edited By Gavin Bennett

Copyright © 2012 by: Keith Crews

ISBN #

978-0-9868245-4-8

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Seeds of the Fallen

Chapter One

Out of the Fog

(1)

Jimmy O’Halloran had been the first to see that solitary spire rising out of the fine mist. The iron had stood tall to the world, its embodiment of power spiraling into the heavens before the cresting dawn. At first, he had thought that thin spoke a ship’s mast cutting through the thick miasma. But as he approached the rugged shoreline, he could see that the object was in fact a twist of rusted scales that had laid deep its roots into the surrounding grassland. This discovery was quick to find the ears of those humble residents that called Sea Haven home, and within a few short hours, the tiny seaside community had awaken to the news that sometime during the night, a tall mysterious stranger had come to occupy an acreage of their hometown. By midmorning, a small group had assembled outside the local Tim Hortons coffee shop where they took it upon themselves to saunter on up to Major’s Field to see if in fact that tall tale was true.

Would you look at that, Denny Tremblay said with a whistle from atop the telephone truck’s hydraulic cherry picker.

What is it? Jasper asked, straining his pale eyes upward into the gray mist.

Greg! Denny shouted to his coworker upon the dew swept field. I think you’d better take a look at this!

What is it? Greg asked, as he shifted his oil stained ball cap back upon his thinning hair.

Come see for yourself, Denny replied.

What does he see? Pam Sussex asked, shoving an audio recorder into Greg’s whiskered face.

Good grief, Pam, Greg said. I’ll not know till I get up there.

Pam regarded the entwining spires shingled in metal scales that climbed up into the phantom mist like Jack’s beanstalk. The poles, a double helix of corroded iron, planted its sturdy trunk deep into the fertile earth. Yet neither a throw of displaced soil nor upturned sod could be found beneath its pedestal. As enigmatic and as silent as a corpse’s dream, the heavy spiral of iron had slipped into Sea Haven with nary a soul to loan it a thought or consideration.

How was that possible?

The solitary road that led to Major’s Field was connected to the town’s solitary main street. Thus, any heavy equipment that would have ferried such a colossal structure would have alerted someone’s attention. Yet it had not. No stone laid tossed to the wayside. No wheel track disturbed the fresh cut meadow. No trail of mud marred the blacktop. Neither grind of gears nor roar of diesel had awakened the local residents. Nothing. By all accounts its very presence was considered an impossibility. Yet here it was: that coiled mast standing high to the mist, its summit hidden from view within the miasma.

Where had it come from? Who had placed it here? How had they done it?

The riddle begged a question and an answer would not give a troubled thought any degree of relief. However, Pam felt that if she could solve this conundrum, it would prove a substantial feather in her cap and perhaps advance her journalistic career beyond the limited frontiers of Sea Haven. After all, if this story went national, then the media attention could cement her position as a professional news reporter.

I should go up there, Jasper insisted, expanding his barrel chest adorned in departmental issue Kevlar.

You know how to operate a cherry picker, Jasper? Greg asked, already concluding the answer.

You could take me up there, Jasper said, trying to control a situation that technically was not a law enforcement matter.

Not designed to carry two men, Greg said, blowing off the cop he didn’t much care for. Jasper was too much of a bully and a know-it-all according to Greg, a sentiment shared by most folks in Sea Haven.

That’s bullshit and you know it, Boudreau! Jasper snapped, his large head going flush.

Okay, Greg said, signaling Denny to lower the cherry picker back down onto the slick grass of Major’s Field. Just don’t move around too much, Jasper. This picker’s seen better days.

When can I go up? Pam asked, tying her auburn hair up into a no-nonsense ponytail, a telltale sign that she was gun-ho to get down to business, not to mention the heavy fog was playing havoc with her curls.

This isn’t a carnival ride, Greg grumbled.

Come off it, Greg, Pam said, tilting her cutesy head to one side in a gesture that suggested Greg was being pathetic, which he was. She knew his surly attitude towards her probably had to do with his numerous failed attempts to get into her jeans.

Beer at Phil’s, Greg bartered, openly eying her shapely body.

Jesus, Pam muttered. She did not own a ladder, let alone a pair of stilts. Unfortunately, there was only one-way up and she knew it. One beer, she agreed, reminding her self-esteem that life in general was a negotiation and that real reporters sacrificed pieces of themselves in order to get the story.

And a dance, Greg added.

And a dance, Pam said through clenched teeth.

This sacrifice had better be worth it---Sistine Chapel worth it.

Greg gave Pam a wink that said someday, whether she believed it or not, he would bed her. Then, with that bit of sour business completed, Greg and Jasper Hancock climbed into the white fiberglass bucket and shuttled upward into the mist like a pair of potbelly Aladdins.

This brief time aloft was spent by two armchair athletes who did little more than scratch their heads and mutter several inappropriate expletives. Then, after what felt like forty-two tense hours of waiting, it was Pam’s turn to take what folks in these parts called a gander.

(2)

The ride up was bumpy, and Greg, being the pig that he was, used the hydraulic turbulence to fake stumbling forward so that he could rub his manhood up against Pam’s posterior. Her reply had been a sharp elbow to his bony chest.

Kitten’s got claws, Greg said in a sarcastic tone.

Fall on me again and you’ll fall out of this bucket, Pam said in a polite voice that had just enough edge to let him know that she would go good on that threat.

Ease up honey buns, Greg said. I was just warming up for our dance.

Pam rolled her eyes in disgust as she readied her digital camera to capture that whispered curiosity. Again, she reminded herself that a position on LTV News waited at the end of the proverbial rainbow. After all, The Haven Bugle was just a steppingstone on her otherwise rocky career path towards something bigger and better, because being a TV news reporter with the number one media outlet in the Maritimes, was where she truly belonged. She would even go so far as to say it was written in the stars. Therefore, she prescribed to the foregone conclusion that her yellow brick road would inevitably lead to the coveted anchor desk, because it was in fact fate’s calling. Not to say she wouldn’t have to work for it. No, she knew there would be sacrifices in order to grab the brass ring, and that was okay, because she could put up with things like odd hours, unforeseen issues, and yes, even horn dogs like Greg Boudreau, because that too was something star reporters did: they sacrificed the self in pursuit of the story.

The cherry picker’s bucket bounced to a halt, delivering an aspiring anchor with her sharp green eyes into a direct line of sight with that oddest of discoveries. And despite her self-purported professional attitude in regards to investigating a news story, she could not help but depart a soft gasp when finally confronted with that strangest of things.

(3)

The serpent’s jaws emerged from the haze, its tall fangs cast within the pitted iron, yawned silently into the firmament, its venom a corrosion of rusted metal. The snake’s massive tongue forked its prongs to taste the air, the source of its voice lost within the dark hollows of its cavernous throat. Its eyes, mute but menacing, glared onward with predatory fascination. The serpent’s soul, forged in armor, contained its ire within the bars of its prison, its bite stuck in a pose that could not release its sting to mortal flesh. Yet despite its unnatural stillness, it nonetheless exuded an element of motion, its pretense given to attack. Atop its flat skull, a crown symbol lay carved into that hardest of obstructions. The mark was of evil and its symbolism, while cryptic, nonetheless bore its favor.

Beyond the serpent’s glare, a snarling gargoyle lay in wait, its scaly head sculpted from that same texture of unyielding iron. Its hideous mug of serrated fangs, smiled with a bright cruelty, its blind eyes staring onward with a strangled effort. Past this grotesque accessory, lay a weeping cherub, its dewdrop eyes departing a bitter misery to the anguish of its own tears. Its delicate lips parted a silent moan, a whimper that called upon a heavenly father that neither cared, nor heeded a mournful plea. Yonder the wailing amoretto, a demon’s head, bereft of its unholy body, scowled fierce and terrible, its razor sharp teeth tangled within the sour pit of its jaws. This lone member of legion stretched its hunger as to consume that mournful angel in an act of perpetual murder that would never be realized, for time, as ethereal as a daydream, was locked within the hard fold of iron.

Over and over the theme, or the variation thereof, played out within the warp of rusted metal: evil in pursuit of that noblest virtue. Dozens of miniature depictions of carnage lay woven within the elemental tapestry, and between each act of savagery, lay the twist of snakes. The vipers, coiled around the crooked branches of four massive arms that were set apart at ninety-degree increments. These bodily appendages converged at a solitary junction point where the double helix columns rose up into the gray firmament as if to challenge the very sky itself.

As the fog slowly dissipated atop the medieval menagerie, the serpent’s lair, seen in its entirety, exposed its horror to each witness. The enormous heads of four demonic serpents lay perched atop the ends of those perverted limbs. Their piercing gaze lay mute, but nonetheless spoke to an ancient fear that all mammals must come to understand. And although they lay locked within a jail of iron, their predatory nature could not be quelled, for if its poisons could not be dispatched by the sting of its fangs, then its bite would seek to deliver its toxins by the weight of its regard.

What are those things? Pam muttered.

Which things? Greg asked in a tone that suggested that everything about the menagerie was open to interpretation.

Atop the snake heads, Pam said. Are they crowns?

Greg squinted and focused upon the four giant serpent heads. He didn’t much care for staring at those big snakes. It felt as though they were looking back at him.

Maybe we should go back down, Greg said with a bit of a tremor in his voice. He suddenly felt very cold and his bowels felt far too loose.

No, Pam objected. I need to get a few pictures.

Well…hurry up then! Greg snapped. This thing gives me the creeps.

Pam removed a trusty digital camera from her purse and then set that grotesque centerpiece of menacing snakeheads in center frame. Quickly, she snapped off a few dozen photos, and as each subsequent image was captured, she began to notice a pattern. Those strange crowns that sat perched atop the serpents’ brows each resembled an English text character. One crown or symbol resembled the letter N the other, an E the next, a W and finally the last headband or emblem, looked vaguely like the letter S.

It’s sort of looks like a compass, Pam whispered.

What? Greg asked.

A compass, Pam repeated. Perhaps it’s druid or pagan, or something similar. I think those symbols atop the snakes are letters from some old form of writ. See…the thing that looks like an N is north, the E an east, the W a west, and the S is south.

Hell, Greg grunted. Don’t look like that to me…just looks like a bunch of squiggly lines….have you been drinking, Pammy?

Pam doubted Greg had even bothered to look at the symbols. He was probably too busy staring at her ass.

Who built this thing? Pam whispered as she snapped off another picture.

Damned if I know, Greg replied. Must’ve been one of those freaking art sands.

You mean artisan, Pam corrected.

Yeah, artisan, Greg nodded, drawing up a hawker which he then spat leisurely over the side. The goober almost nailed Denny square on the head, to which Denny responded by giving Greg the finger.

Take a fellow years to build and cast something that big, I reckon. Not to mention dragging it up here with no one hearing ya. Hell, that’s just as big a mystery as the owner’s identity if you ask me.

Pam clicked another picture. This thing…it’s a variation on a theme.

What?

The figures, Pam said. There’s dozens of figures depicted in this display, and for every good saintly soul, there’s an evil opposite hunting them.

Good versus evil, Greg said with a hapless shrug. Nothing new about that, is there?

Except in this sculpture, good is getting its ass fed to it on a silver platter.

It’s all fairytales, Greg said, tilting his hat back to reveal the large mole on his oily forehead. So the sick bastard who forged this here maypole got his paycheck bet on Satan. Whatever floats your boat, I say.

Pam fired off another shot. Goddamn, who put this here?

What floats your boat, Pammy? Greg asked. That’s what I’d like to know.

Jesus! Pam exclaimed, nearly dropping her camera.

Suddenly, the entire chorus of demons and angels raged to life, their ancient war given to live theater and waged within the scorching fire of molten iron. The heat singed Pam’s flesh and for an instant, she thought her body might come to flame. However, that phantom fire spared her countenance from its cruel vandalism and instead tortured those things that had come to despair. The screeches that shrieked from within the crimson lake pierced her ears with a song of such sorrow that her heart would surely break. The abandonment of hope beneath the crushing sardonic wake of the inferno stole that promise of glory and replaced it with a bitter desolation. The perdition of the damned had claimed its victims with an insatiable gluttony and would forever keep it hostage within the malice of its undying spite.

What’s going on up there?! Jasper yelled.

Pam blinked, and in that all too brief instant, that unexplainable phenomenon that had come to defile her eyes with its terror, gave way to a more reasonable shade of normalcy.

I said what’s going on up there?! Jasper repeated.

Did…did you see that? Pam asked in a hushed voice, pointing toward the spire with a shaky finger.

See what? Greg asked.

They…, Pam almost said moved, because her keen eyes were almost certain that those mythical creatures had done just that: moved. Her eyes once more scanned the idle production with an attention to detail. Had something changed within the solid folds of the iron sculpture since she had first come up here? Was that foulest of fang toothed demons sporting a ghastly smirk?

See what? Greg asked again.

It was nothing, Greg, Pam replied as she quickly clicked off another volley of pictures, images that would offer her scale upon a later examination. Please…just get me down from here.

Are you screwing with me, hot pants?

Down, Greg, Pam said firmly.

Yes ma’am, Greg said with a salute.

(4)

Back down on Major’s Field, Pam shuffled through the crowd of curious onlookers towards her rusted pickup truck with its bald tires and three tone paint job. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and then set her digital camera down upon the passenger seat where she stared at it for an unusual amount of time.

It was the fog playing tricks on you, that’s all, she muttered.

She bit her manicured nails with nervous zeal, questioning the reliability of that logical practicality that was her rational mind. There were just two possibilities to contend with: either the sculpture had moved, or it had not. However, there was much more to consider in regards to the ramifications of those two outcomes, for if those figures had not moved, then that meant Pam had just suffered a medical episode. But if they had indeed moved, then something very sinister had come to lay its roots within the small community of Sea Haven. To which then was the greater degree of her concern to be given?

To be of questionable mind was in itself a terrible predicament. However, to be witness to a supernatural occurrence that offered no scientific explanation, save an act of magic, was equally discouraging. Yet she dared to wish on the extraordinary if only to secure a foothold on that treacherous hillside of reality.

Slowly, her hand crept toward that telling camera which would either dismiss or condemn her wits to madness. Within the memory chip would lay the testimony of what had been. Its truth would depart its knowledge unto her eyes with a detached sentimentality, for its lens saw the world for what it was and nothing more.

A knock on the driver side window startled her, and she almost yelped, but gladly caught hold of it before it passed off of her full lips.

It was Greg, and judging by the grin upon his homely face, he had something depraved kicking around inside his pea brain.

She rolled down the window.

When do I get my dance? Greg asked.

Um, Pam said with a stammer. I don’t…

Come on now sweetie, you made a promise to old Greggy Weggy.

Pam had promised Greg a dance and she knew it. But still, she could not help but wonder why that old sexist had not seen those iron sculptures move as well.

Ah…Greg…did you notice anything up there?

A real sweet ass, Greg grinned.

Pam rolled up the window, almost catching Greg’s jugular in the process. It was obvious his eyes were on something, but that was of no use to her whatsoever.

Hey! Greg shouted through the sealed glass. You owe me a dance now! I wanna know when I get to collect!

Pam turned the ignition and drove off with Greg’s voice trailing angrily in the distance. She did not have time to talk about dancing---she had other things on her mind---things like fleeing cherubs being eaten by hungry monsters made of molten iron.

Chapter Two

Playground

(1)

The dented junker of a Firebird with a mismatched paint job bounced across Major’s Field, its rusty tailpipe coughing out a noxious fog into the already gray night. Guns N Roses blared Coma out of the factory issue stereo. One of the cheap speakers buzzed static whenever band member Duff hit a powerful bass note, an angry bee trapped inside black mesh. The eyesore fish tailed along the slick grass, its rear tires tearing up muddy rooster tails in its wake.

Inside the car’s ratty interior sat four potheads splitting a joint and a warm forty of Jack Daniels. The eighteen year old behind the wheel was nicknamed Bone Saw, a title he had picked up in junior high. His real name was Tim Morison, but everyone in Sea Haven knew him as bucktoothed Bone Saw, the pimply faced kid with the jagged overbite and the not too bright expression stenciled upon his otherwise sallow face. The oily hair that hung down to his meek shoulders was always topped off with an AC/DC cap, and rumor had it that if the hat ever came away from Tim’s head, his skull would deflate and implode. Within the right breast pocket of his faded denim jacket laid a black handle comb that his friends frequently teased him about.

Hey Bone-Saw, Exxon says they want to buy your comb for oil!

Laughter always accompanied the remark.

Next to Tim in the passenger seat, sat Billy Dover, Sea Haven’s yet to be caught arsonist extraordinaire. He held a chrome lighter with his short stubby fingers, his thumb working the flint-wheel round and round like an idiot savant locked into a mindless repetitive task.

Spin the wheel, make a spark, spin the wheel, make a spark, and so on.

Cranking the wheel was like breathing to Billy Dover.

He kind of resembled a toad: oval head, bulbous lips, and patchy skin that made it appear as though he hadn’t bathed a day during his seventeen years of life. Pigpen was what most folks called Billy Dover, especially the girls. But Billy didn’t care, because it was fire, not girls that made his wanker stand up in the morning. Girls were for those pillow munching jocks, and fire was for real he-men. Although, no one aside from the Firebird’s immediate company would understand that reasoning, because everyone else in the world were assholes according to Billy Dover. They couldn’t see the beauty within the orange-red flame as he did, those sensuous tongues that transfixed his attention like a basket viper before a snake-charmer’s flute.

Behind Billy in the backseat, taking a hit off a crinkly hash joint, sat Dillon Macdonald, a skinny four-eyed geek with a long pointy nose. He was a sixteen year old beanpole that made Tim look a hardy lumberjack. He lived on french-fries and root-beer, although sometimes he would drink Pepsi if there wasn’t any RB lurking about. But that’s as far as Dillon’s foray went into the exotic world of various cuisines. In fact, such a creature of habit was Mr. Macdonald that a teacher had once remarked: "if that boy had just crawled across the desert and was dying of thirst, and all they had was water to serve, then he would probably just keep on crawling."

Admittedly, it was an extreme remark, but not that far from the truth, because Dillon didn’t like to try new things, hated them actually. He had a comfort zone that was smaller than a broom closet, and to stray outside the box would just invite an anxiety attack. He usually had one of those blessed events about three times a week, which always seemed to coincide with a good flick on the Playboy Channel.

His parents had cable.

Beside Dillon sat a nineteen year old bag of trouble by the name of Brad Dolan, the worst villain of the group. People called him dick-head, but never to his face, because Brad was a big boy, burly with a barrel chest and a mean disposition. A bully in every sense of the word, and when he wasn’t tripping strangers, or vandalizing property, or beating the hell out of friends and enemies alike, then he was ransacking seniors’ houses while they were at the church on Sunday mornings. And as sad as that fact was, the irony of the situation was even worse, because Brad’s father preached those gospel sermons to his son’s victims.

Father Henry Dolan was that good shepherd with a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder to cry upon. Beloved by his devoted flock, but nonetheless blind to the true nature of his prodigal son. However, unbeknownst to Brad, while he was out shoplifting a bottle of Jack Daniels for this evening, his father was busy rummaging in the attic for an old home movie. Suffice to say the video was not the only item Father Dolan had found stashed away in the piles of musty neglect, and when Brad got home tonight, he would be met not only by a distraught father, but also an officer of the RCMP.

Pictures could prove a very damning piece of evidence, especially when they involved a missing person’s mutilated body.

Yes, it was going to get real tough for Brad soon, but for now, his only concern was seeing the damn oddity that everyone had been rambling on about all day, and according to that popular account, they were getting closer.

Slow down! Brad yelled, as he gave Tim a knock on the head with his fist.

Tim’s buckteeth almost dug into the steering wheel from the hit, but he did not say anything to upset Brad, because he would lose those teeth if he did.

The Firebird eased up and the gang in the car searched the hazy mist for any sign of a purported iron sculpture.

Turn the music down, Brad ordered, as he took a large gulp of Jack.

Billy stopped spinning his flint long enough to comply with the command.

What do you think guys? Dillon asked.

Stop the freaking car, Brad said, spitting into the back of Tim’s greasy hair for further effect.

Sure thing, Brad, Tim said with a nervous laugh.

The Firebird lurched to a halt while the hole inside the exhaust pipe continued to rumble.

Everyone out, Brad said.

Both doors on the Firebird opened and the car’s compliment bailed out on queue.

Freaking joke, Dillon snickered, pushing a pair of thick glasses up onto the wedge of his pointy nose. There’s nothing here.

Brad walked in front of the car and surveyed the field like he was Rommel preparing to roll a tank division over Africa. Damn fog.

Thick as shit, Tim said, craning his neck around like an owl. Maybe it’s gone.

Maybe it’s gone, Brad said in a mocking voice. Maybe your mother takes it in the ass.

Billy and Dillon both laughed, because it was always good to chuckle at Brad’s jokes. It made him happy and that was good for everyone concerned, especially when he was holding a bottle of Jack.

Hey, Dillon said, pointing towards a torn up strip of grass not twenty yards away. Looks like someone was stuck there or something.

The quartet sauntered over to the deep impressions, which denoted that some sort of vehicle had been lodged into the moist earth, something like a heavy telephone truck with a cherry picker.

Looks recent, Billy said, giving his lighter flint another flick.

What are you now?! Brad snapped as he examined the tracks. ‘A freaking Indian scout?"

The group snickered.

You’d be lucky to find your pecker under that dickey-do gut of yours, chubba, Brad added, which sent the group into further hysterics.

It was always good to laugh at Brad’s jokes, even more so when the liquor bottle was almost empty.

Brad knelt down and ran his large mitt of a hand, which sported several broken and reset knuckles, over the impressions within the damp soil.

Yep…a big truck, Brad whispered.

Brad tipped the Jack bottle back and finished off the sour mash in one huge swallow. He then stood and threw the empty bottle at Tim’s Firebird, effectively shattering the bottle and cracking the windshield in one loud pop.

Dillon and Billy cheered, because it was always good to reward Brad’s actions with positive praise, especially when all the booze was gone. Meanwhile, Tim