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  SWORD OF THE BUTTERFLY

  ©2017 Scott Carruba

  First Edition

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Christina Hargis Smith

  Cover art by Jeffrey Kosh Graphics

  Published by Optimus Maximus Publishing, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  ISBN-10: 1-944732-22-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-944732-22-6

  Acknowledgment and Dedication

  Ideas often come to me in dreams, but those alone are not enough. Were it not for the support of my family and friends, none of this would be possible. Thank you for helping me realize my dreams. Thank you, Jane, for being there during the entire process. Without your help, this tale would not be.

  Many thanks to my publisher, beta readers, and all the readers out there who give me a chance. I hope you enjoy the story.

  Thus by blood, were they tempted, lusting in mind and form

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  Acknowledgment and Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S BIO

  SWORD

  Of the

  BUTTERFLY

  A Novel by

  Scott Carruba

  PROLOGUE

  The passing of monumental times may be marked with celebrations, an effort to etch them more thoroughly in memory. The wedding party has come early to the Bermuda destination to spend some time in exactly that sort of festivity prior to the “big day”. There are ten in all, and they have acquired two large, connecting bungalows on the beach, allowing for gender-exclusive activities as well as an ease of mingling as they may like.

  The resort is a very nice one, though not quite as well-known as some more popular destinations. It had not been a question of money or exclusivity so much as just wanting these sorts of accommodations. They are young, vibrant, excited, and they barely give enough time to settling in before bottles are opened, music turned on, and the party begins.

  The bride and groom have known each other for some years, having met early in college and started dating, quickly becoming more serious, and with graduation recently behind them, the time has come for another important gateway of their lives. Most of the others are also friends from college, though a sparse few are relatives, the bride’s younger sister amongst them. They engage in their interplay and boisterousness, their comradery evident.

  One of the bridesmaids has brought along something she thinks will be a fun addition to the celebration, and on the second night of their stay, she waltzes into the large sitting room of the guys’ side, wearing her great-great-grandmother’s wedding gown. It is a somewhat discolored garment, though still largely intact, having mellowed to a heady ivory as opposed to the white it once showed. Lace and eyelets give the dress a formal, even somewhat overdone, Victorian look. The attempt to hearken to such times is obvious, even if it had been new and worn a few decades past that era.

  Everyone stops, looking over, and the moment of silence is broken by whoops and hollers and even gasps and exclamations of wonder. She gives a pirouette, then a little curtsey, showing off the dress.

  “Oh, Iris, that is beautiful,” Kaitlyn comes over, gently taking the girl’s hands to open her arms and give the gown a better view.

  “Uh oh, careful, or Kat’s going to steal it for her wedding,” calls out another of the young ladies, and the bride-to-be throws out a smirk.

  “She’d better not,” Ryan, Kaitlyn’s betrothed, remarks.

  “Too old-fashioned for you, Ryan? You want to see more cleavage,” flings another of the girls, and laughter erupts.

  “I was thinking of how much her dress cost!” he protests, more laughter bubbling throughout the vibrant group.

  Kaitlyn saunters over, sitting in Ryan’s lap, arms wrapping about him as she gives him a quick kiss. “Dad’s paying for that, not you.”

  “I know that, but-,” and his continued protestations are stifled as Kaitlyn shoves her bosom into his face. The shouts and laughter burst out again, having had little time to breathe.

  Their energy is positive, vigorous, and it fills the rooms easily. Still, the dark presence here has resided for some time, and though such a joyful resonance might generally prohibit this sort of occupation, it acts more as a lure now, bait, something to be consumed and converted as though an obscenity to those opposed to such. Those very entities wait now, observing, having held themselves in that readiness like a very patient fisherman. They do not even jerk the hook, even as the school of promising fish dance around it, their lust stoking that of the lurking beasts. This rare moment will not be ruined, no. The flesh and hopefully even the spirits of these here will be spoiled, but the moment shall be milked, fat drops coaxed forth gently until comes the explosive spray.

  They hold awareness of these human rituals, especially those of a religious ancestry, and they know what transpires here. This hope and eagerness of young love increases their arousal. They look upon it with envy, jealousy, lust. The bride, the bride will be the one to suffer the most.

  The Maiden of Honor, Jordan, heads into the bathroom on the girls’ side, her bladder filled with wine and liquor, a casual grin on her lips as she revels in the fun and thinks on what shall transpire in a few days. She sits on the clean toilet seat, the stream of urine flowing out in abundance. Her sense of relief is suddenly interrupted when the scent enters her nose. She blinks rapidly, curling her upper lip. This is not the odor of her expulsion, and it takes her a moment to realize it smells as rot emanating from a sewer. She quickly finishes, flushing, then looks down, observing carefully as the water whirls about and drains. As the bowl refills it shows a darker coloring, a slowly seeping cloud of dense, black ink comes up, its tendrils spreading about as though once empty veins filling.

  Jordan’s eyes widen, her upper body moving back as though instinctively increasing distance from that odd happening and the growing stink. She blinks again, her disgust becoming more evident, and she waves a hand through the air near her nose, hoping to dispel the odor. Something is clearly wrong with the sewage here. She turns, ready to head back into the fray of the party and call the resort’s front desk to alert them. She does not make it.

  A sudden rise from a shadow in the corner coalesces, giving birth to a firmer shape, one that looks as though it might be human but something is off, indistinct even, and a sharp length of black snicks out, stabbing through her neck with a quick and quiet ease. She blinks again, stumbling, then looks in the mirror, seeing … something, but the light of life in her eyes fades quickly. She is not the bride, so she shall not suffer as much.

  Whispers, sibilant chattering, even sounds that suggest a different sort of celebration than those coming from the other parts of the cabanas, rise forth. These prove an initial surge of their own to announce the beginning of the meal, the slaughter, and they are ready to rapaciously feed. Though it may prove subtle or
even unnoticed by the mundane eye, the shadows begin to grow, spreading out as though a harbinger, giving a hinting mist and darkness to the otherwise bright colors and energies this evening.

  The attack continues with a similar subtlety as the best man, Greg, stands near a round table set upon by a myriad of different finger foods. His height and size indicate he is often in need of such fueling, and his athleticism held further evidence by his sports accomplishments in college. He had not proved good enough to be drafted into any elite professional ranks, but his future looks bright.

  That light is extinguished as he plops several pieces of cold, spiced chicken into his mouth, chewing quickly before swallowing. The tension rises slowly, another effort at swallowing made, unsuccessful, then his hands come up sharply, the bottle in one dropped, colliding with the tabletop then clattering to the ground, beer gurgling out onto the tiling. His hands are now like claws wrapped about his throat, trying to free the impediment to his breathing. A few of those nearby look over, confusion initially dispersing the festive expressions before urgency takes hold, voices raised, one running over to help.

  Another of the groomsmen, Aaron, tries to administer the Heimlich maneuver, and though he executes it with textbook ability, the obstructing food does not come forth. If the recipient, Greg, could speak, he’d say that it feels as though other hands are beneath his, choking him relentlessly. His lack of breathing is not from food in his windpipe.

  More voices are raised, shouts and cries, but Greg slumps into unconsciousness soon enough. Aaron continues pushing up on his abdomen, hoping to save his friend’s life, but such proves futile.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God!” Kaitlyn’s sister, Kathryn calls out.

  “Someone call for help!” Ryan bellows from where he is trying to help hold Greg as life-saving efforts are continued on the warm corpse.

  Colby turns from staring at the scene with an expression of frozen shock and practically sprints for the phone, everyone suddenly oblivious of their mobiles. He bumps into an end table, a glass structure atop it falling, fracturing against the floor but not shattering. Some clipped, startled cries follow this as he picks up the phone, going to press the buttons, but then his brow furrows, and he lowers the receiver.

  “The line’s dead.”

  “What?” Kaitlyn asks, defiance in her tone, and she rushes over.

  She suddenly stumbles, falling to the side, hard, crying out in pain. Her right foot hangs useless, her bones broken just above the ankle, one spiked horribly through her flesh. She has tripped over the fallen piece of artwork, though it would seem that it has moved from where it fell.

  “Kat!”

  And this is Ryan, relinquishing his place at his best man to run over to his intended. Aaron’s hold on the now dead weight of Greg falters, and his hands come apart, a look of abject sorrow on his features.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Ryan assesses, trying to hold his girlfriend as she screams out in pain, then he looks over to Colby. “Call someone, dammit!”

  Colby looks lost, eyes wide, a miasma of confusion clouding his mind, as though without the functioning telephone, he has no idea what to do. A glance to Kathryn shows she is in worse shape, standing in place, eyes unfocused, frozen in silent panic. Her lips are slightly agape, and a collection of saliva froths slowly at the right side of her mouth.

  “Use a cell phone!”Iris grabs up a nearby mobile, and the forces that haunt this place gurgle with excitement, waiting to unleash this opportunity on the one they assume is the bride-to-be. She quickly stabs out 9-1-1, then waits very impatiently for the operator to pick up. Her small motions of unease stop suddenly, her eyes widening as she registers the sound rising up from the device, as though the hearing of it also gives sight, a growing buzz uncurling from a great distance, becoming a cacophony, a swarm of locusts bleeding through an oily fog. She hurls the phone aside after becoming lost and latched to the rising noise.

  “What the hell!” Ryan demands, “We need help. Someone get help!”

  The remaining groomsman, Joel, nods once, then turns and runs, hoping to hurriedly get to the front desk and have them provide some assistance. He practically rips the front door open, such is the force of his coming to it, but he only gets out a few steps before he stops, halting in a series of stupefied, stuttering footsteps. He looks around at the fog, the thick, low-hanging cloud such an obscurity as to make his immediate locale seem an isolation. He knows there are more buildings out here, he’s recently seen them, yet the fog is so thick. He gives little thought to what must be a very strange change in weather, and he picks a direction in which he thinks the main part of the resort lies.

  After a time of getting nowhere but deeper into the thick mist, he stops as he glimpses a moving shape in his peripheral vision. He blinks, looking over, but then he sees nothing.

  “Is someone there?” he tries, but he gets nothing but the eerie silence in return, “I need help! Is someone there?”

  And then a similar glimpse to his left, and he jerks himself that way only to see nothing. He does feel a deep compulsion, though, in that general direction, and he runs. He shortly hears and feels the sloppiness of the ground beneath him, and he wonders that he has reached the beach. He stops, trying to change direction, but his feet feel trapped, heavy. Extreme lethargy moves up him, gripping his thighs, and he drops to his knees, feeling the soggy ground beneath him yield like mud. He doubles over, his hands going to that ground, also sinking.

  What’s happening, he wonders, where am I?

  “What’s happening to him?” Lindsey cries out, watching as Aaron has tried to administer help to the supine form of Joel, for he collided harshly with the wall beside the front door, physically having never left the room, and he has now gone from quietly leaking blood from his nose and ears to erupting in a series of horrible spasms. The run through the fog to the beach had been in his head, all more tricks from those malignant entities preying on them.

  “He’s having a seizure,” Aaron concludes, but his time in college was not as a doctor-in-training, and his attempts here end as uselessly as those tried on Greg.

  Joel’s head arches back, hair spread and tousled on the entryway’s floor, teeth bared from the tension along with tendons rising in his neck, and an eruption of blood shoots out of his nostrils, a thick, torrential flood resulting.

  “Holy shit!” Aaron recoils just as screams peel out from others.

  This acts as an alarm, and Colby’s eyes blink from their frozen stare, the once white sclera now clouded from a growing red, leaking out from a more vibrant crimson shade at the center. His spine stiffens, mouth opening wide, and he sucks in a loud breath. Everyone who is of sufficient mental focus snaps their attention to him, some looks of confusion but others coated in horror, and as the deep, lengthy intake ends, he unleashes an unbridled yell of rage.

  He surges forth with a sudden, almost preternatural speed, rushing over toward the girls. He ignores the panicked and immobile form of Kathryn, and Iris screams, dodging away and running toward the passageway to the adjoining cabana just as the suddenly animate form of Colby reaches Lindsey. He collides with her, taking her to the ground, snarling like a beast as the two are immersed in a tangle of limbs. Aaron springs up, going for the young man, grabbing him by the shoulders. Colby turns at the waist, not giving up his position atop the screaming woman, flinging out with both arms and knocking away the would-be rescuer.

  Lindsey claws at him, leaving some furrows and gashes on his face and arms, but these only further anger him, and he looks down, bellowing another loud call of fury. He reaches within the chaotic, defensive flailing of her arms and grips the sides of her head, leaning down with a sudden speed to head-butt her face. A sickening thud rises from this, and he does it again, the next sound even more disturbing as it is enveloped in wetness from her now freely flowing blood. Her arms lull, her consciousness not far behind, and he bares his teeth, leaning down to savagely tear at her throat.

  Ryan leaps over, taking
up the broken, heavy glass statuette, and he fiercely swings, hitting his cousin on the side of the head. The other man crumbles away from the blow, and Ryan finishes pushing him off Lindsey. The girl is nearly unconscious and nearly dead, her eyes mere slits, mostly whites, her face a red mask, her right orbital socket smashed, rich blood not only coating her face but also leaking profusely from a terrible wound in her throat, her flesh torn and opened like ripped meat.

  “Oh, God,” he mutters, slamming his hands over the wound, hoping to staunch the flow, giving a quick glance to his fiancé. She has thankfully lapsed into unconsciousness from the stress and pain.

  He then looks down at his cousin, noting the rather mean looking wound at his temple, and the copious blood flowing from this. What is happening? What caused Colby to attack Lindsey like that? He keeps the pressure on the wound, even as he looks at Aaron, the two sharing a look of horror at what is happening. His eyes then travel to Kathryn, the slightly younger lady still just standing there, mute, eyes held open, unseeing. He then looks back.

  “Aaron?” he says, his voice much calmer than he feels, and the other moves his eyes back, imploring, frightened, “We have to get help. Try another phone.”

  Aaron gives a shaky nod then moves unsteadily, trying to find a mobile. Ryan gives further observation to the area.

  “Where’s Iris?”

  Iris has fled to the ladies’ cabana, running with an inexplicable need for safety and protection to the bathroom. She flicks the light on, and a scene of horror awaits.

  Jordan lies dead on the ground, blood about the bathroom indicating the loss of such from her. She has been removed of most of her clothing, the fabrics torn through and ripped away, and her nearly nude form displays multiple wounds, her stomach ripped open, guts hanging out, one of her thighs flayed to the bone. There are creatures standing about, the cause of the carnage. The once elegantly appointed and quite generously large bathroom is enshrouded in darkness and a near over-powering stench. The misty shadows that coat the chamber do give up the slavering, hissing forms of these monsters, their general shape similar to human, though resemblance ends there. Their skin is ashen, their bodies more possessed of a scaly hardness or tight rugosity than any hair or semblance of ‘normal’ covering. Their mouths show deadly crowds of fangs, the digits of their hands and feet adorned in lethal claws. The noisome stench now originates not from the latrine but the large tub, within which stands a thick ooze that lists grotesquely, the gel-like liquid showing blotches of black, floating like tar balls within an otherwise sickening gray.