It had been some time before Mort could feel himself again. The numbness in his head gradually withdrew, like the cold receding in spring. The tight ness in his limbs loosened. The pressure in his skull—an ache, a whisper, a pulse—softened into something almost pleasant. Something alive throbbed inside him, alien and warm.
He fixed his gaze on his mother.
She lay on the room's single bed, or what remained of her did. In her place was a beautiful, fleshy cocoon—veined, folded, and glistening—so reminiscent of the red orchid, that Mort felt a deep reverence to it and the process taking place.
As his mind continued to return to him, he rose and approached the pulsing pod, mesmerized. Something new grew within. Something born of his mother.
A sister, Mort thought.
The idea bloomed in his chest like a crimson blossom. A gift from his god. His sister—Renata.
Mort pressed his hands to the soft, damp membrane. It quivered beneath his touch, as though recognizing him. His mother—filthy, cruel creature—had been transformed into something pure, something worthwhile.
He would finally belong. He would give on only love instead of hunger. He would be better than she ever was.
Mort's joy swelled as he caressed the forming shape within the cocoon. A silhouette curled in fetal slumber, delicate and divine.
It was only when he lowered his hand that he noticed the blood soaking his skin. It slicked his forearms, smeared across his arms, dark and half-dried. His simple tattered shirt clung to him with congealed weight.
He raised a trembling hand to his mouth. The cut he made on his own tongue burned sharply against the jagged edges of his teeth—and caught on the faint grit of flesh stuck between them.
The smell hit him then.
A rank poultry musk.
He glanced toward his usual corner and saw feathers scattered like fallen leaves, some wet, some crushed.
Mort frowned. He could not remember. He had eaten jerky—yes, that had happened. Everything else was fog. The throbbing in his head pulsed once, soothing him like a palm pressed to his brow. He didn't need to remember. His god knew. His god would guide him.
So Mort resumed his vigil, watching over Renata with vacant devotion. Time dissolved. Minutes, hours—he couldn't tell.
Eventually his eyes snapped open. He rose abruptly and went to wash himself. The last of the water barely diluted the gore before it vanished into the dry earth of the floor.
Then he returned again to silence. A silence that held its breath.
Until—
SLAM.
The door struck the wall. Mort's head whipped toward the sound.
A vicious instinct erupted inside him.
His irises drowned in red, leaving only pinpoints of black. A wave of killing hunger swept through him, and the room reacted—
the air thickened with the stench of blood,
the packed dirt floor ripened and softened,
the walls bled a dark thick ichor.
the entire hut swelled with living, festering gore.
The crimson overtook everything, seeping outward like a tide answering Mort's unspoken call.
-
The villagers of Tepe had gathered in a tense circle, still shaken from Mort's rampage that morning. A few bore shallow scratches, but most had escaped unscathed. The sick young man hadn't been interested in them—only in tearing after the fast-moving poultry, killing any chicken unfortunate enough to cross his path.
So the villagers fled, shouting warnings while he tore through coops and yards, devouring the sacred birds with manic hunger.
Those animals were blessings—precious gifts said to be brought by the light gods themselves. Many wept over their loss. Others burned with righteous fury.
One thing united them all: the Ceniza family had to go.
After the death of the village elder's beloved son, no one visited the twisted mother or her ailing boy. The woman had always been vulgar, and the elder had never approved of her. In truth, they had been quietly exiled to their home long before today. Few ventured near unless they already lived in the outskirts.
Most in Tepe knew the family's hardships, but empathy had become an expensive luxury. The village had declined ever since their guardian god abandoned them. No reason was given. Few had ever seen the divine being in the first place—and none were deemed worthy except the elder's son.
His death had hollowed the village. Many believed it was the cause of the god's departure, though nothing could be proven. In their confusion and grief, the villagers turned to something easier: blame. The mother and son became the outlet of their frustration.
Now the elder sat before them on his carved chair, looking out at the desperate faces of his people. Anxiety clung to them like a fog.
He sighed, longing for the days when the needs of the many were simple and his family had been whole. He had given so much to this village, and yet the only reminder of his son—the boy's child—had been poisoned by that woman.
He remembered how she had mistreated his grandson, how the abuse seemed to worsen whenever he insisted the boy stay with him. For a time, Mort had remained under his care—a quiet, simple, foolish child, yes, but a good one.
Until the mother's influence slithered back into him. She had spun lies about her failing health, convincing the boy to return to her bedside out of misguided loyalty.
He should have been stronger. But Mort had no father, no one to guide him but that wretched woman. When he came of age, he went back to her without hesitation.
He had always been so frail. The elder could grant the woman only one mercy—that her pregnancy had been a difficult one. Beyond that, she deserved nothing.
He shook his head, the memories cutting too deep.
"Elder! Please—please help us drive that vicious creature out!" a woman cried, rushing forward. She clung to the hand he rested on his chair. "He attacked us like some filthy animal!"
Her voice trembled, and around her, murmurs of fear and outrage swelled like a rising storm.
The elder sighed at the crowd's foolish panic, though he could not deny his own helplessness. There was little more he could do for his grandson now. All he could hope for was that the honest child he once knew might listen to him one last time.
"¡Basta! ¡Suficiente con su lloriqueo!" the old man thundered, his voice filling the hut. His authority came not from strength—age had taken that—but from the weight of a life lived long in a realm ruled by gods. "We do not live in such squalor that a few chickens should send you into despair. How many could the boy have eaten?"
The woman nearest him broke into harsher sobs. "Elder, you are unjust. He ate everything." Her voice cracked. "He ripped them apart—my poor chickens—everything I worked for my whole life. My chickens, Elder…"
She collapsed onto the tiled floor of his hut, grief shaking through her.
The elder rubbed his face in weary disbelief. How could Mort have consumed so many? What exactly had happened to the boy?
His gaze swept over the gathered crowd, stopping on a tall, broad-shouldered miner. The man led a strong group—burly, disciplined enough, and more importantly, capable. They could restrain Mort if illness had twisted him further. They could also keep that woman—his mother—from interfering.
He would speak to his grandson first. Then he would decide what must be done.
At least, that had been his intention.
But the situation spun out of control before he could shape it. More miners arrived, having heard pieces of the plan from loose tongues. Their anger dwarfed their reason, swelling into something volatile.
What followed came all at once—
a flurry of bodies, shouts, and rising screams.
Mort saw only blood.
His world had become a single color—crimson.
The gore he once feared now wrapped around him like a lover's embrace. The constant retching pain that had lived in his bones all his life dissolved into torrents of power. The throbbing presence in his skull—his god—shivered with delight.
Mort was doing better than it had anticipated.
That joy, foreign yet intoxicating, spurred him faster. A feverish euphoria bubbled up inside him, lightening his limbs, loosening his mind.
His laughter joined the cries of the wounded. It echoed across the growing pool of blood.
A beautiful scene.
A scene of freedom.
He felt as though he were flying already—
a bird soaring, nothing holding him down.
The blood answered him.
It slithered toward his body, clinging like living leeches. They fused into his skin, sinking into his veins, weaving themselves into muscle and bone. From that union rose something monstrous—something born of him and yet not him.
Membranous wings tore open and stretched wide. Obsidian claws gleamed in the failing sun. Shadows coiled around him, forming a veil of darkness that hid a face no mortal should ever see.
The wind carried the stench of iron and rot.
And beneath it—a corrupted divinity pulsed. Faint crazed voices chanted at the glory of the chosen.
Itzcamazotz had chosen, beginning his descent on the mortal plane. Cries mixed with the audible hallucinations of agonized faces. Hollow eyes, with saliva dripping fangs. Mirrored in the deep red of its flesh. They twisted and writhed as if attempting to escape their prison.
The elder stared in mute horror at what was left of the first men who had charged through the door. Their entrails glistened on the dirt, steaming in the cool air.
The others had been luckier—if missing fingers and deep, unending gashes could be called luck.
He could not speak. He could not breathe.
He simply watched as the creature—his grandson in name only—unfurled its bat-like wings. Its form grew until it dwarfed the hut, the thatched roof ripping apart around it.
Then came the shriek.
A sound so sharp it sliced through the elder's final threads of will. His vision dimmed. His knees buckled. His eyes rolled back.
Above him, the creature ascended into the sky, carrying with it a mass of quivering flesh—
a strange cocoon that pulsed like a beating heart.