Order of Dust Read online

  Order of Dust

  For Humans, For Demons #1

  Nicholas J. Evans

  Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places and Events are products of the author's imagination, and are used factitiously. These are not to be construed or associated otherwise. Any resemblance to actual locations, incidents, organizations, or people (living or deceased) is entirely coincidental.

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  For Humans, For Demons. Copyright © 2020 by Nicholas J Evans. All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission with the exception of brief quotations to be used in articles or reviews of said work. For more information contact the author directly, or publisher.

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  The Parliament House

  www.parliamenthousepress.com

  Cover Art by: Shayne Leighton

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  *If you purchased this book without a cover please be aware that this may be stolen property. In doing so, this product may have been reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. The publisher and author have not received payment for the resale of this book.

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  *If you purchased this book without a cover please be aware that this may be stolen property. In doing so, this product may have been reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. The publisher and author have not received payment for the resale of this book.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1. Dream Awake

  2. Scarab

  3. Worldeater

  4. Masquerade

  5. Aspire

  6. Citizen

  7. Refuge

  8. Sleepless

  9. Scarabs II

  10. Leech

  11. Colourwave

  12. Vultures

  13. Quantum Flux

  For Humans, For Demons:

  Acknowledgments

  A Request…

  About the Author

  The Parliament House

  Foreword

  “We’re all a little broken, aren’t we?

  Some cause the breakage, some are left with the pieces.

  But, each of us hold that weight.

  The amount of weight depends on the person,

  Depends on the action.

  Some are hurt, others just hurt.

  But, each of us hold that weight.

  We’re all a little broken, aren’t we?”

  Prologue

  The North-Lane

  He heard the click.

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  A cold barrel rested against the head of Jackson Crowe. Its steel scraped along his skin and pulled at his hair. Tears began to roll from his dark eyes and tumbled down his cheeks. As each salty drop fell from his chin, he let out a quiet whimper, catching his breath in between like a panting dog on a hot day. Any moment now, a thunderous boom would rattle his skull with a confetti mixture of brain matter spraying the carpet. His assailant’s subtle laughter and cheeky grin tied knots in his stomach.

  Jackson was not afraid of death, and he was not shedding tears for his coming end, because a life without her was not a life at all. No, Jackson cried only for a love that would never be had again; not in this life. Each droplet that formed fell into the pool of blood beneath him that trailed as a river from her lifeless body. Her once bright eyes had fallen gray and her hair lay stained in the pool of her own crimson. He loved her, maybe more than he ever had the chance to show. Another tear fell from his chin as he thought of the wedding that would now never be.

  The gun is so close to his head that Jackson can almost hear his finger sliding along the length of the trigger.

  “Ha... haha… Hmph. Ya cry like a lil’ baby, Jacks,” moaned the slender figure in the tan suit. His bloodshot red eyes fixed on Jackson with a shattering grin, hair slicked back with grease and bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Ya lady friend didn’t weep this much.”

  “W-why…” Jackson retorted as his voice shook like a cocktail blended with equal parts fear and rage. “I n-never messed with the Demons. I kept to myself... I–”

  “CALL ME A FUCKIN’ DEMON AGAIN!” roared the figure. “Ya thinkin’ I wanted to stay on this shit hole? I died Jacks, died like a dog. But no, no North-Lane for me. So, I found the weakest wee lil’ bastard I could then I went out lookin’ for ya.” The man in the tan suit pushes the gun into Jackson’s temple, and he winces as the metal shoves his head. But, his eyes, watery and stern, never left the gunman.

  “I don't understand! I didn’t do anything! P-please I didn’t even… I didn’t even live my life... I work at a bank, I don’t drink, I barely even leave the house. I would NEVER cross anyone!” Jackson pleaded. “Y-you… you took her from … me. All that mattered.” It was as if her face, the very image of her smile and those wispy eyes, is so burned into him that it is all he could see through the clouds of tears. “Y-you took her… She did nothing wrong… I did no–”

  “Probably don’t know it’s me in this body, Jacks,” the grinning man interjected. “But, I know ya. I’ll give ya a brief history. Man walks in for a loan. Man lost his job that morning, wife and kid need some money. Man doesn’t get a loan because the man doesn’t currently have income. Little later your bank takes my house, and my wife takes my kid. But me, Jacks? Well I take a rope. I hang it from the chimney on my roof. I slide my neck in the hole, and I jump from the fuckin’ shingles.”

  "N-no..." Jackson murmured to himself with trembling lips. He exhaled a large breath from rattled lungs, “You…” He whispered. “I didn’t know… that was months ago…”

  “Months, Jacks,” he repeated “Months to find ya, months to plan, months to dwell. Ya see,” the man places a thin finger to his temple and taps lightly as his eyes light up like fireworks over the flash of his teeth, “they don’t take ya if ya have a purpose. Oh,” he says whimsically as he stares down at the blubbering boy before him. “I had purpose alright, Jacks.”

  “W-what?” Jackson asks, “Who? Who doesn’t take you? I don’t understand…”

  “If you’re as unlucky as me, then maybe you’ll find out.”

  Jackson whimpered a little louder and shook his head. “I was just doing my job… I was just doing my–”

  “Me too. Enjoy the ride on the North-Lane, Jacks.” He says softly, “Maybe ya lass will be there waitin’ for ya.”

  Jackson heard the click, and he could even smell the gunpowder for just a moment. Then, the moment was gone.

  1

  Dream Awake

  There was no sound, as if the world had lost noise in its entirety. As if nothing but silence had ever existed, and the world was just starting anew. A bird, newly hatched, that hadn’t yet flapped its small, weak wings. A heartbeat would be as thunderous as an explosion here, if there were a heartbeat to be found.

  Jackson Crowe opened his eyes and found himself in a vastness of bright white. He felt weightless as he flung his arms and legs around him like swimming in the deep end of a pool. Every direction he looked there was nothing but the white. It was blinding. He touched a hand to his temple and felt the warm liquid that painted his face. The tacky, crimson leaked from his wound, streaming down his neck. The wound was still fresh and stung as his calloused fingertips gently slid over the open hole. He could feel the knotted, melted flesh burned in a hollow circle.

  “Hello... Jackson…” a feminine voice called out from the light.

  His eyes scurried around the emptiness to find the source of this disembodied call. That was when a dark silhouette appeared from the nothingness. It was the form of a beautiful woman graced with pale skin and flowing blonde hair. She moved slowly towards Jackson, and hovered. A
translucent cloth wrapped her body, streamed over her narrow shoulders and fell over her breasts. There was a shine under the cloth, it came in brief flashes as she approached, shifting from her nude, porcelain skin to something else entirely. A warrior with flowing hair that brushed over golden shoulder pauldrons, and down a gleaming breastplate. The armor came and vanished in uneven intervals like the blinking static of an old screen, and at her hip hung an oddly large blade that vanished again before Jackson could see it clearly. Her wide, soft eyes offered a brief reprieve as her hand extended towards him. Fingers caressed him, ever so lightly rubbing over his wounded temple and down his face. When she pulled her hand back the glossy red liquid coated her colorless fingertips and dripped down her palm.

  “Welcome… to the Paragon…” her sultry voice whispered once more. “It is…a resting place... for those who have started their ascendance through the North-Lane.”

  “So… I am dead then? And I guess I am about to enter the universe for my next chapter or something?” Jackson urged confusingly. “Like what Fortega said?”

  Jackson, or what was left of him, recalled an odd man in a suit with a large grin and shaved head standing on a stage before a sea of people waiting on his words. His name was Jonathan Fortega, or that was the body’s name at least, and his words would soon drop on the world like a bombshell. On that stage, to the entire planet, he announced that he was in fact not Mr. Fortega, and was instead Terrance Greene, a young man from Queens who was caught in the crossfire of a shooting. He explained that when he died he met two beings, and refused to say their names. Terrance/Jonathan announced the Dusts, the possession of this body, and of the white space he found himself in where he learned of the North-Lane. Now, according to Jackson's parents, this was nothing but a crazy man’s ramblings for years before others came forward, and then powerful officials backed it, then eventually the scientific community as a whole. With it being nearly proven, the world adapted as best as it could.

  He was young back then and did not question it. He took it like a large pill and swallowed it just as others from his generation had. If there were any truth to what his assassin said, then Fortega, or Greene, did have that ‘purpose’ he spoke of. He would go on to lead the revolution against organized religion, gain followers and others who revealed themselves. The movement was a hungry great white amongst a school of writhing fish, ready to consume all they knew and offer truth in the form of blood-soaked teeth.

  Even in the purity of adolescence. Jackson knew the truth. He understood why Fortega, or Greene, was the first to announce the truth; most Dusts who return are back for the wrong reason.

  At only six years old, Jackson had witnessed the closing of the last church. Each one had either become a place for people to gather and discuss the North-Lane, or a place for the homeless to gather and protest their hunger. These relics, once beautiful and powerful, became just as forgotten as an old abandoned building someone would pass by without thought. Years passed and even with all the knowledge gained there still was no way to decipher who was the real person and who was possessed by another. The fear that spread caused a hate for the Un-Ascended and a term, buried amongst the pages of dust-covered books, came to as a slur towards their kind: Demons.

  “You certainly could Jackson... But not many Dusts have this opportunity… to meet us here. At the Paragon,” she said once more as she floated back a few feet away. “Like… Terrance Greene…”

  “It’s like winning the lotto, kiddo. Bingo, here’s your prize,” another voice called out from behind him.

  Jackson turned and viewed the new stranger who had joined in this phenomenon. He was tall and lanky in a tight-fitting pinstriped black suit. His pointy black shoes rested flat on a floor of nothingness and a black fedora rested on top of his head. Under the brim Jackson could make out a large pointed grin not unlike that of his assailant, except this man had stiff blonde hair that bled out from the bottom of the hat and pinkish skin. His fingers were long and pointed, and his eyes were sunken yet frightening. He made his way a step at a time around Jackson and to the side of the glowing woman. The two stood next to one another staring at Jackson in the contrasts of light and dark. A perfect juxtaposition, like that of Ying Yang; Jackson did not know who to fear more.

  “Since Usra has so rudely ignored introductions I guess I’ll jump right to it then,” said the man. “First off, nice to meet you, Jackson Crowe.” He removed his hat, placed it to his chest with his pointed fingers, and leaned in for a bow. The man, who seemed to be something more than human, carried a mobster-esque accent. He never once broke eye contact, and never removed his smile. “My name is Azazel, The Ender.”

  “And I…” the soft voice rang, “am Usra, The Creator… and we are the start and the finish.”

  “I... uh... I don’t get what is happening here… who are you people?” Jackson asked nervously.

  “We are... everything. The founders of the North-Lane… the Creators of the Dusts–”

  “The end of your meager lives!” Azazel interrupted.

  Jackson remained puzzled. So, they were life and death? If that is the case, why meet Jackson? He spent his life waiting for something that would never happen. Like watching a television commercial with no idea what show was coming on. His mundane existence should not have awarded him this meeting, and he, in fact, did not think he would ascend to begin with.

  “We... have a task for you Jackson Crowe. One that required our meeting... One that–” Usra had begun.

  “Yea, Yea. I’ll speed this up. She likes to drag a little bit,” Azazel interrupted again. “We got us a middleman of sorts. A gray area if you will. Ya see, I deal only in the dying, the dead, and the Un-Ascended. That lovely lady right there deals only in the new life, the Dusts ascending, and the North-Lane. But... Earth... Well it don’t play by the rules too much. That's where you come in.”

  Jackson once again floated there, in the empty white, completely confused.

  Me? Shit. You people have the wrong guy, Jackson thought to himself.

  “On the contrary… we believe we have... the right guy…” Usra said with a smile.

  What?! They heard my thoughts?

  “It’s the Paragon, man. Open space. We all share everything inside of this world. So do not come here if ya need some alone time, get what I’m sayin’?” Azazel chimed in sarcastically.

  “Jackson Crowe… you are to become… our forceful hand... against the Un-Ascended…” Usra continued as she hovered gracefully toward Jackson with a gentle hand extended. “Our… Order of Dust.”

  Order of Dust? I really do not understand…

  “It ain’t too hard, kid.” said Azazel. “The position is called ‘Order of Dust’ like the lady said. We can’t act against mortal business, and sadly that includes the Dusts that stuck around. Gotta send ’em home.” He slowly stepped toward Jackson.

  “But… why me?”

  A feather-like pale hand fell onto his cheek and ever so gingerly held his face in its palm. Usra looked into his eyes, her beauty stunning him for a moment. She smiled as her hair flowed around her lips. Then a sharper hand with a red hue rested firmly on his shoulder and the beady eyes of the suited man pierced his own. In their silence, Jackson felt warm yet frozen, calm yet panicked. All at one time he felt the rush of dormant emotion evoking just from the presence of these two beings.

  “You were... dealt a cruel injustice… one in which we could not intervene. And in that moment, we sensed something from you... A chill... Revenge…”

  Jackson looked within himself. There was anger, maybe even revenge, and mostly fear. It was an iron pot of bubbling stew that boiled at his depths, but he was so tucked away that it seemed as though he could pass by it or forget it all together. Though, it almost seemed to speak from within him, as if it were alive and full of fury. In his truest self he knew this was not him, these feelings were not the Jackson Crowe that had held her, loved her. But he could not pull himself from this odd calling within him eve
n if it was not rightfully his.

  “And us being the great entities that we are decided to give that revenge a purpose there, Sport,” said Azazel with arrogance. “Wanna kill that tan-suited assassin? Wanna prevent others from that same end? Then come on down because YOU are our lucky winner.” He leaned in close to Jackson’s face and whispered in a low, raspy tone, “Time to claim your prize…”

  “I can’t… I am not a killer, or a hunter, or even a strong enough man for this. I’m just angry… anger can warp the mind… that is all.” Jackson whispered. “Even if the anger is… new.”

  “Jackson Crowe… we can… make you a strong man…” Usra said, as gentle as a whisper, as chilling as thunder. “We can… channel… these new feelings…”

  “Don’t be weak, Jacks,” Azazel mocked.

  Jackson clenched his fists, and felt his unmoving blood boil, “I’m not weak…” he growled behind clenched teeth. He was beginning to not recognize who he was inside, but something burned at his every nerve. “I’m not… fucking… weak…”

  Azazel moved around him, as smooth as a dance and as slow as a predator. His horrid grin flashed in the scorned man’s face, and his eyes pierced him as if to challenge his statement. He chuckled, and snickered, and laughed as he watched the absolution of hate within Jackson grow and expand. “A strong man gets his revenge, boy,” he said as he circled him like a whirlpool. “But, a weak man? Well that fella is the kind to let his lady die and do nothin’.”