"Ground Zero" by David Lapage, Jr.
Ground Zero
by David Lapage, Jr.
The humid air of the Illinois woods clung to Jason and Todd as they bush whacked their way through the undergrowth. Their boots crunched on fallen leaves, the only sound besides the chirping cicadas and the distant caw of a crow. Geocaching was their escape, a treasure hunt that pulled them away from the fumes of the welding job they held and into the wild, where the only smells were of nature.
"This is it, man," Todd panted, consulting his phone. “GC1H0R7. The description said, a place of ancient reverence.” He grinned, adjusting his ball cap. "Probably just a mossy rock."
Jason, ever the realist, nodded. "Or a really old picnic table. Still, if the coordinates are accurate. We must be close."
They pushed through a tangle of vines and thorny bushes, emerging into a small, unnaturally still clearing. The air here was cooler, heavier, as if the trees held their breath. In the center, bathed in the sunlight filtering through the canopy, resided an altar.
It wasn't a mossy rock. It wasn't a picnic table.
It was a slab of dark, unidentifiable stone, roughly hewn but polished smooth on its upper surface, stained with what looked like ancient, dried rust. Runes, sharp and angular, were carved into the sides, appearing to almost pulse with an internal light. A strange, sweet scent, like ozone and incense, hung in the air.
Todd’s usual sarcastic remark evaporated off his lips. His eyes, wide and fixed on the altar, seemed to glaze over. He was trembling slightly. A low, guttural hum began to emanate from him, a sound that vibrated in Jason’s teeth.
"Todd?" Jason asked, his voice a dry whisper. A prickle of unease, cold and sharp, traced its way up his spine. “Maybe we should just DNF this one”.
Todd didn't answer. His movements became slow, deliberate, as if guided by an unseen hand. He dropped his phone and then walked towards the altar, his gaze unwavering, and with an eerie grace, he lay himself down upon the cold stone slab. His arms stretched out, his head tilted back, exposing his throat. He looked utterly serene, completely accepting.
Jason felt his own internal hum now, a resonant thrumming deep within his own chest. It wasn't a sound, but a sensation, a powerful, undeniable urge that clawed at his mind, pushing aside all reason, all fear. His eyes were drawn to a jagged shard of flint lying at the base of the altar, perfectly positioned, as if waiting.
Pick it up. The thought wasn't his, yet it was undeniably present, a command echoing in his skull. His vision blurred slightly as the thought was repeated. Pick it up. PICK IT UP.
Alarm, a fleeting, desperate spark, tried to ignite within him. “No. This is wrong, Todd.” He murmured softly, but the spark was swiftly smothered by the overwhelming compulsion. His hand, as if disconnected from his will, reached for the flint. It was cool and smooth against his palm, its edge impossibly sharp.
He looked at Todd, lying so still, so vulnerable. A part of Jason, the part that cared about his friend, that had shared countless hikes and late-night talks, screamed in silent protest. But the other part, the dominant, ancient force, was calm, focused, almost reverent. That part did not see Todd, but an offering. It saw not murder, but a sacred act.
His feet moved, carrying him closer to the altar. The sweet, strange scent intensified, filling his lungs, intoxicating his senses.
Todd’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Jason’s. There was no fear in them, only a profound, unsettling peace. A faint smile touched his lips. "It's okay, Jason," he whispered, his voice oddly clear, free of the hum. "It has to be done."
The words, instead of breaking the spell, solidified it. Jason raised the flint. The sun, breaking through the canopy, glinted off its edge, a beautiful flash. The forest was filled with expectation. It’s thirst was soon to be quenched. The cicadas fell silent. Only the thrumming in Jason’s chest, and the silent, ancient demand of the altar, remained.
Jason brought the knife down.