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  Suleniar’s Engima

  Book 1

  The Man Without Hands

  By Eric Malikyte

  PROLOGUE

  Cory wiped the beading sweat from his dirty face and hung his rifle on his shoulder. He bent over—fighting with his beer gut—and squinted through the leaves, hoping to see some trace of the deer he’d been tracking; but the trail had gone cold.

  He’d been tracking that deer for the past hour, hoping to finish the job he’d started when he tagged her right leg. Now, the trail of blood that she’d left in her wake had vanished.

  To his credit, he was a little drunk from finishing the six-pack of PBR he’d brought along for this special trip—a trip that none of his so-called friends had wanted to be a part of—so it was possible that he just wasn’t seeing it.

  The sun was silhouetted behind a patch of gray clouds in the west; a breeze ran cool against his exposed skin, tickling the hair on his arms. The first hint of evening. He’d have to return to his cabin soon.

  That’s when he saw it.

  A mangled mess of what might have been a man lying sprawled out in the bushes down the hill from his location. With a matted rat’s nest of navy-blue hair. Cory quickened his pace and rubbed his glasses with the one spot on his jacket that wasn’t covered in deer piss.

  When he returned his glasses to his face, the first thing he noticed was that the man was missing his hands. Lying there, sprawled out in the bushes as if he’d fallen from the treetops, both of his forearms ended in scarred stumps, as if someone had cut them off at the wrist and dipped the rest in a campfire or something.

  Cory was certain that the man, whoever he’d been, was dead. Maybe some serial killer had deposited the body in these woods to dispose of the evidence?

  Delaware was miles and miles of nothingness, wilderness, decay, and more nothingness. It wouldn’t have surprised him if there were a few weirdos willing to do a thing like this.

  Up close, the smell of death crept into Cory’s nostrils and made him gag.

  “Shit, you smell even worse than me,” Cory said to the dead man.

  The man’s skin was covered in dirt and grime, and his clothes were nearly white with salt stains. Out of some kind of drunken habit, Cory grabbed his rifle and nudged at the corpse, just in case.

  To his surprise, a snarl erupted from the corpse’s mouth. The man opened his eyes and smacked the barrel of the rifle away with one of his stumps, then passed out again.

  Cautiously, Cory checked the man’s breath, holding his hand up to his cracked and bleeding lips. It was weak.

  Still didn’t rule out the possibility of a killer. Maybe whoever did it just botched the job?

  Upon closer inspection of the man’s stumps, though, Cory could see thick, uneven, red scars that ran deep into the flesh, wrapping about his wrists and fading halfway up his forearm. He winced at the mental image of the poor bastard’s handless arms being dipped in hot coals. He reached into his pocket and looked at his phone, which read the time as 5:25 in the evening. He had no signal out here, so calling 911 wasn’t an option. He glanced back up the hill, then at the injured man.

  He could carry the man back to his truck and call for help once he got back to the cabin.

  That’d be the right thing to do.

  Cory slung his rifle back over his shoulder, snatched up the man’s left stump and hefted him up, carrying him up the slope. He quickly regretted the choice. It was like carrying a deer what had been dead for weeks.

  Cory had made it halfway back to the main trail when he heard the man groan. Instinctively, Cory set him down on the grass and fed him some of his water—taking extra care not to feed him from the yellow bottle with the deer piss.

  The man opened his eyes long enough to take a long swig of water, then passed out again. Cory sat there for almost five whole minutes, staring at the man’s blue-bearded face. When open, his eyes had been a vibrant green unlike any he’d seen before in his life.

  He couldn’t be sure, but he’d almost felt afraid when the man had opened his eyes. Like he was being pushed back by some invisible force.

  That was silly, of course.

  He shook his head and told himself a sweet little lie about giving up alcohol for good this time.

  The man’s clothes were another strange thing. Thick leather boots with frilly, looping symbols engraved into them, and a shirt and pants that looked like they’d been handmade in the dark ages. Maybe this guy had been part of one of them doomsday cults?

  That seemed likely. Cory could imagine there being lots of doomsday cults in Delaware, even though he’d never seen one for himself.

  Shaking his head, Cory draped the man over his shoulder again and told himself that he was gonna be a hero. Maybe Charlene would want to get back together again. Once she heard about how he’d rescued a man in the woods, maybe she’d have a change of heart? And if he started going to AA meetings again…?

  Nah. Not a chance. He shook his head, muttering obscenities. She’d said she was done with him when she took the kids to go stay with their Aunt in Virginia.

  He didn’t understand. He’d only hit her the one time, and it had been an accident!

  He had apologized for days. And after everything he’d done for her, after all these years, she’d still left!

  Cory carried the man back to the main trail and then, after another half mile of hiking, to his rusty tan pickup. He unlatched the bed of the truck and laid the man down on his back, breathing a sigh of relief and wiping his brow once he was free of the burden. That fella was some kind of hea-vy. No way he’d be able to stomach that smell in the cab on the drive back.

  Cory unstrapped his gun and set it down in the backseat along with his pack and the rest of his hunting gear. He tried to feed the man some more water, but he was out cold. Hopefully he wouldn’t die before Cory could get him back to the cabin and dial the police.

  The engine took a few tries to turn over, but once it did, he took the highway heading north. The constant rattle from the engine and the rushing pine trees on either side of the road were enough to keep his thoughts away from the obvious questions.

  Those could wait for later.

  2

  Tires hit gravel, tiny pops echoing over the steady clunking of the engine as he pulled up in front of his cabin. The sun was setting in the west, turning the tips of the tree line in the distance black against the cascade of orange-red light on the horizon.

  Cory’s stomach grumbled. He’d hoped to have deer tonight, but he’d have to settle for sandwiches instead.

  First things first, he had a phone call to make.

  He went into the kitchen and grabbed for the telephone, dialed the local sheriff’s office. The phone went on ringing for a while. Cory wondered if there’d be some kind of reward. He threaded his fingers through the blinds, peering out at the bed of his pickup while he pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

  Then Cory felt his eyes go wide. He rubbed them, cleaned his glasses, opened the blinds, and looked again.

  The man was gone from the bed of his truck.

  Before he could set the phone down, he felt his head slam into the counter. His ears rang something fierce. He smelled the man he’d rescued before he’d seen him.

  His back hit the floor.

  He opened his eyes. The man was using his funny-looking boot to keep Cory pressed against the cold tile floor, and he was shouting at him.

 
; It sounded like garbled nonsense, or German, he couldn’t tell which. The man bent low, into a crouch, and Cory could see the fire in his eyes.

  Cory wasn’t good for much more than drinkin’ and huntin’, but he knew people. And he knew that look well. This man had been through hell and back, and if he felt that his life was in danger, he’d kill.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re saying!” Cory raised his hands up so the man would know that he wasn’t any kind of threat.

  The man stared at his stumps, patted himself down, as if he was searching for something. Now Cory was sure that he was speaking gibberish. He’d heard German, and half a dozen other languages, on the TV before, and whatever he was saying didn’t sound nothing like those.

  The pressure on Cory’s chest got tighter, heavier. He was certain that the man’s boot was going to cave in his ribcage—but then, something happened.

  The man glanced out the window. His face softened. His eyes relaxed. And a deep and terrible laugh escaped from his throat.

  Cory took a deep breath as the man lifted his boot off of his chest and ran out into the evening air, shouting something strange at the clouds.

  Reluctantly, Cory peeled himself off the floor; and after a moment to catch his breath, his shaky legs carried him outside, where the strange man with dark navy hair was raising his stumps to the air and shouting at a red and pink setting sun.

  After the third repetition of the phrase, Cory felt as though he could make out a few of the words.

  Mako vali Oreseth!

  Understanding even those meaningless syllables seemed to make the world grow darker for a moment, and for that fleeting moment Cory was filled with an all-encompassing dread.

  The man repeated the words over and over again until his voice ran hoarse. He turned around to face Cory, and instantly Cory found himself backing away, ready to flee.

  The intensity of the man’s stare.

  Those eyes!

  He didn’t think he’d ever seen such anger in someone’s eyes. It was like staring into the heart of a burning forest. Cory’s boot caught on the first step leading back to the cabin and his back hit the porch.

  The man approached him.

  He felt that same indescribable feeling once again—that pressure that seemed to come from nowhere at all.

  The man’s lips parted ear to ear, carving a deep, joyless grin, full of yellow teeth, and he offered Cory his stump.

  Cory grabbed it without even thinking about it. Then he was on his feet. This stranger was far stronger than he would have thought; he seemed to bear Cory’s weight with no more effort than it would take for Cory to pick up a feather.

  Cory smiled, hoping the man would not notice how he was shaking.

  The man went back to marveling at the setting sun, as though this was the first one he’d ever seen.

  3

  That night, Cory shared the ham-and-cheese sandwiches he’d taken along for his special hunting trip with the stranger. The stranger looked at the sandwiches suspiciously: once again, as though he’d never seen one before. He seemed to like them well enough once he felt brave enough to take a bite of one, though, and by the time they were done, Cory was all out of ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He’d have to catch some food tomorrow for sure. More surprises were in store for the strange blue-haired man when Cory showed him the shower and the bathroom. Everything seemed so new to him, and that made Cory wonder about where he’d come from. Maybe he’d been in isolation for so long that he’d forgotten what civilization was like? Sometimes that happened. He read that in a magazine somewhere. What did they call it? Amnesia? Yeah, that was the word. Amnesia.

  Despite how new everything seemed to the blue-haired man, he seemed to understand the point of the shower, as well as most of the utensils in the kitchen.

  “What the hell am I supposed to call you?” Cory finally asked. “Can’t just keep saying, ‘hey you,’ or ‘hey mister’ like I been doing.”

  The strange man looked at him, pointed his stump at Cory’s chest and said, “Masku.”

  “Masku?” What the hell was a masku? And why was he one?

  The strange man pointed to his own chest and said, “Sulekiel.”

  “Is that your name?”

  The man said nothing.

  “All right then, Sulekiel.” He was sure he was butchering the name, pronouncing it like sue-lack-ee-all, but at least they were finally getting somewhere. “I guess after you shower you’re gonna be wanting to rest up for the night.” He pointed to the couch, and Sulekiel’s eyes followed where he was pointing. “Go ahead and make yourself home on the couch there. It don’t look like much, but it’s comfier than a bush, so I’m sure you won’t be too keen on complaining. I’ll put out some fresh clothes for you to change into.”

  The man stared at him, his blue eyebrows coming together.

  “Right, why the fuck am I even trying to talk to you, anyhow?” Cory left the man to his own business and retired for the night, but he made sure to put out a fresh set of clothing for him before he did.

  When he awoke the next morning, there was a burning smell coming from the kitchen. Panic rose through Cory like a wildfire sweeping through a field of dry grass; he sprang to his feet and rushed into his kitchen to find Sulekiel (whom he’d decided to start calling Su for short) cooking two skinned rabbits on one of the cast-iron skillets he’d brought along for the trip. He’d taken the spare clothes that Cory had left out for him, though they didn’t fit too well on his skinny body.

  The rabbit didn’t smell half bad.

  Cory took a seat at the table and watched the man work. He didn’t seem to have too much trouble moving the skillet with his stumps.

  “Someday, when you learn yourself some English, you’re gonna have to tell me how you lost them hands of yours.”

  Su said nothing.

  It came to Cory like a revelation. How the hell had he skinned them rabbits?

  The rabbits tasted even better than they’d smelled. The two of them wolfed them down quite quickly. Now that Su had showered, Cory noticed that his skin tone wasn’t quite right. When you squinted real hard it looked gray, but otherwise it looked mostly...orange. Maybe he was Indian or something? He decided he’d ask about that one too, when Su learned how to speak proper.

  Since he didn’t have to go out and catch a meal for breakfast, Cory felt it’d be a good idea to call the sheriff’s department again and see if they couldn’t help Su.

  He walked over to the phone, and Su’s eyes followed him with a careful and frankly uncomfortable leer.

  He picked up the phone, dialed the number. It rang twice.

  “Hello, Lincoln Sheriff’s Department, this is Lela speaking.”

  “Hey ya, Lela, this is Cory Johnson,” Cory said. “I’m down here at my cabin out near the campgrounds, and the damnedest thing happened. I ran across this fella what’s got his hands missing, nothin’ but stumps, I tell you. Was wondering if you’d like to get him checked into a hospital, he don’t speak English, and he stands out like a sore thumb. I figure maybe he got himself mixed up in one of them cults you hear about.”

  “All right, Mr. Johnson, the sheriff will be right out to see you. What’s the address there?”

  He told her the address, hung up, and decided to freshen up before the sheriff arrived.

  The hot water was a welcome distraction. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Su had skinned them rabbits. There wasn’t any way he could think of—not unless Su had gone and sprouted bran’ new hands to do the job, then just as quickly lost them again.

  Cory dried himself, put on a pair of fresh blue jeans and a plaid shirt. He heard the squad car’s tires on the gravel outside as he was stepping out of his room.

  Su remained inside, watching the two men carefully from the open window as they shook hands outside.

  “That him?” The sheriff asked, tipping his head in Su’s direction. “Kind of strange for him to be staring from the window.”

  “If you we
re missing your hands, I think you’d be acting real strange too,” Cory said.

  “Hell, can’t argue with that.” The sheriff sighed heavily. “Where did you say you found him?”

  “Down in the forest, a few miles back. I was tracking a deer when I saw him in a bush. Think you can help him?”

  “No idea, but I can have them set him up at the shelter temporarily, till we can figure out who he is.”

  “I figure he got himself involved in one of them doomsday cults.”

  “Say again?”

  “You know, them cults where they do witchcraft and listen to Marilyn Manson records?”

  The sheriff nodded and didn’t reply again except to get Cory’s contact information and give him his business card. Luke Braddy.

  The next thing Cory knew, Su was sitting in the back seat of the squad car, being driven away by the sheriff.

  He figured that was the last he’d ever see of Su. But about three months later, the phone rang in the middle of the night.

  Cory was up, staring at the ceiling after a long night of drinking. He answered, hoping to hear Charlene’s voice.

  It was the Dover mental health facility. There had been an explosion in the east wing of the facility, and a patient had gone missing. When Cory asked what that had to do with him, the phone line went dead.

  He tried turning on a light now that he was fully awake, but the power seemed to be out. After he threw on a robe and stumbled drunkenly out to check the circuit breaker, he saw that the whole box had been fried.

  He checked the sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

  The hair came to a stand on the back of his neck.

  He stumbled back inside to look for a flashlight and his rifle.

  “Hello, Cory,” came an unfamiliar voice.

  “Who’s there?”

  Cory’s eyes strained in the darkness to see the man he’d rescued three months ago: the blue hair and the strange gray-orange skin. He was sitting in Cory’s favorite recliner.

  “Su?”

  “My name is not Su, you idiot.”