Tales From Brightburn City... Hawke: Eternal Rain.

Chapter 3-Belly of the beast

(Hawke and Sinclair arrive at St Michael’s. Sinclair’s face said it all, as she witnessed the state of the area. she muttered under her breath; whilst peering out of the passenger side window.)
“Jeez, look at this place.”
The surrounding area was a ghost town. The pathway up to the cathedral was in ruin and so was the building. Most of the cobbled path had been removed and used to propel at this once-loved structure. The giant stained glass window on the face of the church was mostly smashed to a thousand pieces, and glittered about all over the mudded and water-logged lawn surrounding the property. The building itself had been gated off due to the unstable hazardous surroundings, that had been caused by the uproar of the riots.    After what was discovered, the building was charred from Molotov cocktails that were propelled by an angry mob. The roofing was partially caved in, tiles were missing and some were broken as some of them were trod into the grass beneath. This would have caused a leak, and the leak was most likely due to the lead flashing, as it had been removed and likely sold to fund some sort of addiction.)

I used to love this place. Growing up Catholic, we would come here for service every week. You could almost say I lived here. Now I can’t stand the sight of it.
Just being out front gives me the chills.
What went on here was pure evil.
Enough to make you puke.  it’s probably why I drink so much. Self-medication; just to block it out...

If the almighty lord was here right now, I’d smack him straight between the eyes. How could he let something like this happen in his own house...

(Hawke and Sinclair check the surrounding area before moving in. Many footprints imprinted into what was left of the sorry sodden lawn. Hawke goes left following a small trail of tracks; leading across the front left side of the building. The tracks led to a small break in the fence, only big enough for a small rodent, or maybe even an adventurous alley cat. Hawke stops and ponders for a while, scratching his head, as he was stumped on how he could get into the fortress of bars gating off the ruin.
Sinclair goes off to the right following some slightly bigger tracks; squeezing through a gap between the large wall and the bars, through all the garbage bags and rubble littering the property. She makes her way through the tight ginnel, and into a wider opening. Looking around; Sinclair glances upon a break in the 6-foot steel fence, just about big enough for both her and Hawke to fit through. She calls Hawke over, for he looks to be in his own thoughts.
“Hey, Hawke I think I’ve got something. Come check over here, there is a way through.”
Hawke springs into action and makes his way through the tight ginnel. Quickly and quietly, with their pistols drawn, they move on through the gap and make their way round to the steps that led up to the entrance.
They both climb the cobbled and mostly perished steps. Rags and broken glass left over from the Molotov cocktails covered the steps,  as the broken glass cracked beneath their feet. Hawke pauses briefly at the top; as he stares up at the decayed old building.
His heavy hands now trembling, flashbacks running riot in his mind.
Hawke draws for his cigarettes and matches.
He pulls a much-needed cigarette out of the pack and places it between his lips, then strikes a match off the brick archway that once was the entrance.
He inhales the toxic fumes, and like some sort of magic, his trembling stops.
Hawke levels his head and exhales a gust that was filling his lungs, a special elixir curing his dread, he then mutters under his breath.)

“Let’s fucking do this.”

(Sinclair glances at Hawke, recognising his readying glare. She responds to him with confidence.)

“I’ve got your six partner, move in.”

(Hawke notices that the grand oak door was slightly ajar; held open with the rubble that had fallen from the decaying archway.
Hawke uses his bulldozer-like force, persuading the door to open fully; Sinclair follows him closely as he moves on through to the main hall of the cathedral.)

“This way, books follow me and stay close, like we said, remember?”

(Cobwebs fill the dark damp ridden room; only lit by the sunlight beaming through the hole in the roof and a rainbow ray creeping through the slight cracks in what was left of the boarded-up stained glass windows. Clouds of dust particles fill the air whilst Hawke and Sinclair disturb the growth as they move through the pews.)

“God Hawke I was wrong! Cough! Cough!”

(Sinclair turns towards Hawke, holding her hand in front of her face, trying to prevent the dust from invading her lungs)

“This place looks like it’s been untouched for some time, even the pews look like there prepping for Sunday service.”

(Hawke, unfazed by the particles, continues to smoke his cigarette, while making his way towards the back of the hall; where the staircase leading down to the catacombs would be.)

“Arrh, Hawke, was that you? Jeez, what’s that smell?”

(Sinclair gags at a peculiar odour which was coming from the rear of the room, the ominous retch could only be described as the putrid gust of rotten meat; that had been lying in a hot muggy apartment for weeks, only enjoyed by the parasites and flies which feasted upon it.)

“Books, you think that’s bad?”

“You don’t want to be in the Wishing Well on a hot summer night; that shit will make your eyes burn out, and your nose evacuate your face. You won’t be able to get the smell off your clothes for weeks.”

(Hawke and Sinclair make their way through the main hall. squeaking and scurrying could be heard, as whatever was occupying the what would be thought of as an abandoned paradise for the pests and rodents of the city,  was disturbed and trying to stay undetected.  Hawke and Sinclair eventually reach the top of the staircase, which was situated at the back of the hall; behind where the choir used to chime out, now the only noise that occupied the airways was the infestation of wild beasts. The Steps were leading to the dark descent into the catacombs beneath them.
The malodorous stench gets stronger as they make their way down towards the catacombs. When reaching the bottom of the grand solid stone steps; they are greeted with a well-made solid oak door. The hinges on the door looked rusted as if they were barely holding on. Due to the constant leak that was trickling its way down the brickwork and onto the door. The leak had formed a puddle at the bottom of the stairwell and caused them to erode. With no permission needed, Hawke, carefully pries the door open.)

“What the fuck?”

(Hawke and Sinclair freeze. The blood retreats their faces as they turn pale with shock.
What could only be described as a giant gaping wall of flesh, the doorway resembling a valve opening; looking like the oesophagus of a giant’s throat.
Hawke curiously moves in, with Sinclair following him closely.)

“Well, this is that smell you’ve been going on about.”

(Hawke turns to Sinclair as the colour green fills her face.)

“I’m not tripping, right? Do you see this?”

(Sinclair spews vomit onto the organic floor as they ponder on through the sticky slimy stomach, the inside looking like an internal shot of a rib cage, each rib acting as the stone pillar which was once there. Sinclair wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her blazer. She turns to Hawke for some sort of answer.)

“What the fuck is this place, Hawke? What the fuck have they been up to here?”

(She continues to follow Hawke as he makes his way through the dungeon. The vast corridors were spanning throughout the whole basement of the cathedral. Each corridor led deep into the biological horror; it was almost as if they were on another planet, or maybe even a new dimension, as something so bizarre could not be native to this world. They come to a room stationed in the centre of the dungeon, if they could have guessed, they could have been directly underneath the main hall. The room was extremely ominous as they come across an organic type generator, which was giving off the sound of a hundred heartbeats.
Looking around, Hawke notices a spinel-type structure across the centre of the ceiling, with veins and nerves resembling electrical wiring, powering up the room around them.
Hawke looks to his right. He sees a table made from the bones of a formerly living creature. Its skin was used as some sort of tablecloth. It's strange to think that whatever created this sinister place, had an eye for decor.
Upon the table, there looked to be a computer.
The screen looked as if it were made up of lenses from at least a thousand eyeballs.
The casing was parts of a skull glued together with some sort of resin, possibly the boiled-down marrow, encasing the nervous system, that was powering the contraption.)

In all my time on the force, this is a first for me. Maybe this is where all those bodies have been going. This Trident fucker has got some sort of sick fantasy; I can’t believe my eyes. The place is made up of living tissues, organs, skin, blood and even nails. How the fuck does this even make sense?

(Hawke and Sinclair look at each other lost for words. Sinclair’s face was still bright green as she stood there squinting her eyes, trying not to gain mental images from what she was witnessing, but it was no good, how could you forget something so disturbing? Hawke pulls his cigarette from his mouth and brings an end to their silence.)

“Call it in! We need a crime lab down here fuckin pronto. Tell them they’re gonna need to double up on supplies...

Actually, fuck that, they're gonna need a fucking busload of kit for this mess...”

(Sinclair calls for backup and forensics. Meanwhile, Hawke investigates the area making his way through the horrific biological terror. He reaches the end of the organic dungeon. He is met with a cage; the cage was hanging from one of the ribs that looked to be encasing the room around him. The cage looked to be made up of different shapes and sizes of what looked to be ribs.
Inside that cage were the remains of a priest; he could only tell by the garments the rotten corpse was wearing.
He looked at the corpse and noticed its half-decomposed hand was gripped around a scroll. Rigour mortis had set in so it was like the scroll was being protected even by this priest's dead hand. Hawke removes the scroll from its grip. The corpse's brittle hand almost turns to dust, as Hawke holds the scroll up and rolls it open.)

“Look what we have here,”

(Hawke looks at the scroll and sees a symbol charred into the paper. The symbol was that of a very familiar marking.
Hawke quickly stashes it into his inside jacket pocket, as he needed to do his own research before the forensics team got their mitts on it and before it was lost in the system forever. he then makes his way back and rejoins Sinclair as they wait for backup.)

Some time passes, Hawke and Sinclair made their way out to the entrance of the cathedral. Sinclair was looking ill from the horror she just witnessed.
Hawke was chain-smoking his favourite brand of cigarettes. He noticed Sinclair wasn’t looking too clever; the colour green was subsiding from her face, but she looked to be lost in her own thoughts.
When climbing down the cobbled steps, he turns to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“You ok Books? You know that’s also a first for me.
That place is definitely not how we left it.
I was expecting the tanks that were left over from the former crime scene Davis and I discovered.

All those kids were drained of their blood, and it was sold on the black market to many powerful people.

The blood was used as some kind of elixir of youth.

Rich, celebrities, politicians, and royals the list goes on.

The case was massive. I’m sure you’ve read up on it. It was kept out of the news just to save the face of the police.

Could you imagine the size of the riots if it all went public?...

Yeah, right...

I’m probably not making this any better, but all I’m saying is, we will get to the bottom of it, we always do.

Right partner?”

(Sinclair turns to Hawke, raises her eyebrow and chuckles under her breath)

“Right.”

“You know Hawke, you’re not the best for comfort talk, are you?

But I can see your heart is in the right place.

It just makes me sick to see all that flesh and those body parts, knowing they were living and possibly having families, but it’s part of the job.

It’s why I came to the force to help prevent things like this from happening.

There’s going to be a lot of paperwork I’m not really looking forward to, but I suppose that’s why you call me Books, right?”

(Hawke chuckles and replies)

“Right”

(Police and forensics swarm the area followed by the all-faithful gossip spreaders B.C.N news.)

Like flies around shit, cameras everywhere. The local correspondent Barbara Florence, and her all-worthy crew, as usual trying to get the best possible shot, stumbling and climbing through the hordes of police and civilians.
She never gets into her head that some things can be more important than her shitty news footage.

They still seem to fuck it up by spreading fake news; like some childish school girls playing Chinese whispers.
Hawke was shaking his head in disappointment, as he catches the eye of Barbara antagonising one of the officers; trying to get more information. He then begins to walk over to his vehicle.
“Fuck this Books, you stay and finish off; I’m heading to the precinct.
I’ve got to run some tests. If you don’t see me from now until about 6, I’ll be in the Wishing Well. When you clock off, join me.
I’ve got something to run by you. “

(Sinclair looks over towards Hawke, shocked by the words he was saying and eager to get an answer.)

“Wait, what is it, Hawke!! I think you need to....”

(Before she could finish, Hawke jumped into his vehicle and left the scene, driving through the mass crowds of pedestrians and officers.

Sinclair then was bombarded by the local news reporters, rambling on trying to get answers; she holds them back for a short while just before disappearing into the mass of cameras and journalists...)

(The evening draws in; the constant downpour continues to drown the city. Potholes form small lakes in the road, as cars and trucks splash passers-by drenching them.
Meanwhile, after a long hunt through the files of the Trident massacres, Hawke is perched at the bar in the wishing well, drowning his emotions in the bottom of a bottle. He waves Jan the bartender over to assist his inquisition of liver destruction.)

“Hey Hawke, another bottle right? Sorry to hear about Davis.
I know you guys were close; you kept this city together after the blast.
Tell you what, this bottle is on me”

(Jan reaches up to the top shelf of the bar and grabs an old bottle of Irish whisky, also grabbing a tumbler in one swift motion, crashing it down in front of where Hawke was sitting.)

“Cheers Jan, good job I can count on you, sometimes, whiskey is the only answer.”

(The bar door swings open; ringing the bell chime, as Sinclair walks on in and pulls a stall up to where Hawke was sitting. Jan quickly grabs another tumbler and slides it towards Sinclair.)

“You gonna share that Hawke, after the day I’ve had, and the constant interviews of that shitty news team, I’m gonna need more than one.”

(Hawke grabs the bottle and pops out the Cork. He then fills both his and Sinclair’s tumblers and leaves the cork out, for he has no intention for a drop to be left.)

“Sure.”

“Here, have a look at this.”

(In a Hastie fashion, Hawke reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out the scroll, and tosses it across to Sinclair, giving her no chance to even take a sip of her much-needed drink. Sinclair, curious about the scroll, rolls it open.)

“Jesus Hawke, this looks about a thousand years old. Oh my god, that’s the symbol that we found branded on the skulls of those victims.”
“Where did you get this?”

(Hawke was unfazed by the scroll, as he spent all afternoon trying to find some sort of link, but the only link he could see was the brand that matched the mark on the victims. he reaches onto the bar where his carton of cigarettes lay. He draws one out, sparks it up, and begins to smoke. As he seems to develop a few extra brain cells, whilst sucking on the end of a coffin nail. Holding a cigarette in one hand and whisky in the other, he takes a sip, and replies.)

“I found it back at the cathedral. I took it from a dead priest. It looked like the priest was kept as a prisoner, in some kind of bone cage. I thought I’d take it a try to get some answers before the crime lab got their grubby mitts all over it, but alas, I can’t seem to make out anything that’s on there. It’s some sort of ancient language.”

(Sinclair chuckles and sat up in her chair adjusting her specs. As if she knew the answer to all the problems, with a smug look upon her face She replies.)

“Well...
It’s a good job I’m here because it’s Latin.
It’s an old dead language, but I can read it. Its slightly damaged in places, but what I can make out reads”

(Sinclair leans over towards Hawk using her finger to traverse the old scroll.)

“Risen from the eternal flame... Cleanse... Trident...”

“I can’t make out the rest as the letters are too faded, and the paper is torn.”

(Hawke sighs, and continues to smoke and drink, whilst grumbling out a depressed mumble.)

“Load of hocus pocus if you ask me.”

(Hawke snatched it back from Sinclair, almost destroying the fragile ancient paper, and stashes it in his pocket.)

“Anyway, Books, we got some drinking to do, grab your glass, this one is for Davis.”

(Hawke raises his glass in the air; saluting Davises memory. Sinclair grabs her glass and bumps it against Hawkes. The few people that were left in the bar, looked towards them with a concerned expression. Then when back to their own business, unfazed as they continue to sup their brew.)

“To Davis.”

(Sinclair says as she downs her drink and slams her glass back down on the bar. She then reaches over for a refill.)

“Yeah, to Davis, you poor bastard.”

(Hawke also downing his drink, as they both carried on through the evening drinking the remains of the bottle...

11 o’clock hits as the chime of the bell tower rings across the city. Hawke was woken up at the bar by Jan, he seemed to have passed out. Jan was standing over him, shaking him as it was closing time. Hawke got a glimpse of a note left by Sinclair. The note read, ‘See you at work tomorrow, get some sleep.’)

“Come on Hawke, I’m closing up for the night, get yourself to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

(Jan says as Hawke stumbles to his feet, muttering some jargon, not even a fellow drunk would understand. He then makes his way out of the building and down the street towards his block.
Street lights illuminated his way home like a guide, Hawke stumbles about 300 yards till he was just outside the entrance to his apartment complex.
Then suddenly out of nowhere, the city goes into complete darkness. The rain continued to pour, but not a sound could be heard, not even a distant wine of a siren, or even that annoying reverberation of arguments; that seem to be on a twenty-four-hour basis. Hawke stood confused, he started to look around, just across the street from where Hawke was standing, one single street lamp turns on.
A dog was sitting under it with its eyes fixated on Hawke's movements. The street light was glistening on its wet black fur, but the dog seemed unfazed, just sitting there, staring back at Hawke, unmoved. Hawke pauses, confused and stares back at the mysterious dog. Sobering up by the second, he then goes to make his way over to where it was sitting.

Then boom...
The street comes back to life, that missed wine of distant sirens and the annoying arguments return. all the electricity pings on, as the sound of surging power, hums around the street. the lights return to guide Hawke home, the dog vanishes in the instants of the returning power.

Hawke scratches his head confused like the whisky was making him experience some wild hallucinations, he then Mumbles under his breath.)

“That fucking whisky was some good shit.”

(Hawke makes his way into the complex and goes up to his apartment, rumbling around in his pockets for his keys.

Upon finding them; he opens his door and slams it behind him, the latch automatically locking the door as he then crashes through his apartment and plummets onto his bed, he then slowly starts to drift silently off to sleep...

Suddenly, just as Hawke was drifting away into a state of comforting numbness.

The door knocks....)