The muscular man, the one they called Jela, came forward, pointing the edge of his blade directly at the markings.
“No,” Makami pleaded. “Please. Do not . . .”
“See here Jela,” the smaller Matata laughed. “He thinks you will gut him like a goat.”
The muscular man grunted. “He is worth more alive than dead. Only wanted to see what all this trouble was over.” His dull yellowish eyes followed the crimson markings that continued their peculiar dance. Grabbing Makami by the chin, he lifted his head until their gazes met. “How did you come across such a thing?” he asked. “How do you make them move?” Getting no answer his tone became derisive. “Cease your trembling. We are not the ones you should fear.”
Makami glared back at the man. Fear them? No, he did not fear these men—he feared for them.
Already the markings etched into his chest had begun to move faster. They burned now, the pain building quickly until it felt like hot irons seared his skin. The arcs and lines were coming together, placing themselves into a pattern like a puzzle. His captors stared at the markings, mesmerized by the display. He tried to speak to them, to warn them to run, but the agony that now consumed him stole his speech. As the markings finally settled and went silent, he knew it was already too late.
“What is this?” the muscular man whispered. He brought the tip of his blade to touch the new symbol that the markings had formed onto Makami’s chest. The knife pushed through the pattern with ease. What should have been human skin rippled as if it were water. The man quickly pulled his hand back, those yellowish eyes going wide. And then the nightmare began, again.
Makami felt the thick tentacle shoot from his chest, and watched as it wrapped itself around the man’s neck. This part was always painful, and he screamed out now. More of the tentacle pushed out of him, a dull grey fleshy mass that reminded him of an octopus, only much larger. It squeezed tighter around the man’s muscular neck, lifting him off the ground. Those yellowish eyes bulged as he dropped his knife, fingers clawing in vain at the coiling appendage while his legs kicked wildly. Behind him, his companions only stared in horror, backing away slowly—none daring to come to his aid. The doomed man let out a choked gasp of spittle and blood which was followed by an audible crack. His head fell to one side, hanging limply, looking like a swollen bit of rotten fruit. The rest of his body twitched in spasms as if celebrating its sudden and short-lived freedom, before going still.
Makami watched as a second tentacle emerged. Another quickly followed. And then another, until there were more than he could count. They pulled and heaved, making their way out of his chest in a constant stream, piling onto the ground before him. When the last of them flowed out of him he fell back, weakened and delirious with pain. As he lay there on his side, he gazed up at the nightmare he had given birth to.
The many tentacles were part of one being, a monstrosity that was only now rising to its full height, towering high above the remaining witnesses in the deserted alley. Nothing so immense should have been able to come out of his small body, but it had. Its many appendages writhed about, twisting and turning on themselves, burying away whatever lived within the horrid mass. The dead man in its clutches was pulled deep into its fleshy center, disappearing to whatever fate awaited him.
The smaller man, Matata, seemed to decide he had seen enough. Without a sound he turned, breaking into a run. As if sensing his movement, a tentacle shot towards him, catching him by a leg. He cried out as he went down, his face hitting the ground hard. As he was pulled towards the writhing mass, he tried to grab onto something, but only the dusty street gathered beneath his fingers. Between his bloodied and broken teeth, he began to whimper, calling out a desperate prayer in an unfamiliar language to unfamiliar gods. Makami remained where he lay, listening to the man in pity. He himself had prayed enough in the past weeks for them all—and to no avail. Either the gods did not hear, or they did not listen. He watched as the hungry tentacles enveloped the small man, silencing his cries forever.
Only the big man was left. He stood there, his weapon dangling uselessly at his side. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open as he stared up at the great monstrosity before him in awe.
“Are you a god?” he whispered.
His answer came as the swarm of tentacles came crashing down upon him, burying him within.
Makami shut his eyes, unwilling to watch any more. He knew he had nothing to fear. Moments from now, the nightmare he had unleashed would return, through the very way it had come. The pain would be so great he would black out. And the symbol on his chest would break apart, returning to the circle of crimson arcs and lines that would again begin their constant movement. That was the way it had happened before. And it was how it would happen again.
* * *
The fat man cursed in several mangled tongues as he lifted a long heavy stick, threatening to lash Makami with it. The two chins on his rounded face shook violently, as if joining in their owner’s anger. Makami stepped back quickly, almost overturning a stand laden with earthen pots. He pulled what was left of his shredded clothing about his increasingly gaunt frame, lest it
