Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant (3 page)

The sous-chef returned and acknowledged Jo. “Chef Baron LaVour has chosen your meal, but he wants it to be a surprise.” He then turned to Paul and said, “You, sir, did select a meal that requires heavy sedation. I’m afraid you will have to be put completely under for this operation.”

“Oh,” Paul said with a frown. “Will I be able see when I’m eating?”

“Yes. Although your dish involves the corneas, those only take a few minutes to regrow. Any other questions? No? Good. Ah, here comes the nurse now to prep you for the surgery.”

The handsome nurse – 
they must only hire models,
Jo thought – approached the table again. His rolling tray now held two syringes placed on top. “Are you ready? I’ve been informed that both of you will be under for the procedure. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Paul said.

This was it. The last second to drop out had arrived, and Jo no longer wanted to eat part of herself at Eat Yourself.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to go through with this anymore. It’s despicable, and I cannot believe I ever set foot in this horrid establishment.”

Anger flared in Paul’s face. “Honey–”

The nurse cut him off. “I’ve got this,” he said. “Mrs. Kline, many people have doubts at the last second. It’s perfectly normal. I’ll give you a little something extra to help calm you down, and then you can decide after that. Sound good?”

“No. I want to be unhooked from all of this right now. I – hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

Without her consent, the nurse had picked up one of the needles and plunged it into her IV. She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back into her seat. She would have struggled, but in her weakened state it was no use.

Jo felt even lighter than before. Her eyelids hung heavy, threatening to close and darken the world. She wanted to stay awake, but whatever she had been given was too strong. Her eyes closed, and before sleep claimed her, she heard the comforting words of her husband.

“Don’t worry, Jo. Everything will be perfectly fine when you wake up.”

*     *     *

Everything was
not
fine when Jo woke up.

She opened her eyes to blurred vision. When she went to rub them with her left hand, bandages scratched at her face. Clearing her eyes with her right hand instead, she saw in horror what had happened.

She was in the same chair. Set on the table in front of her was a plate. In the middle of the plate, arranged on a bed of greens, was a human hand. It had been cooked and grilled, the grill marks adding a fresh reality to the otherwise preposterous image.

That’s
my
hand.

Jo’s eyes went wide. She was dimly aware of Paul, sitting across from her, chewing happily on a section of artery, beaming with excitement and pride.

“That’s my hand,” she said. “That’s
my
hand. That’s
my
hand!”

“Jo? Jo, settle down. Jo! Help! Somebody help her!”

Her mind melted into mush. She screamed for escape, thrashing and flailing at anyone who reached for her. After three men pinned her down and another jabbed a syringe into her neck, she felt herself slump to the floor.

*     *     *

“Get her out of here. Take her through one of the underground emergency exits. We don’t want someone to capture a picture of her like this.”

Troy sighed as he watched several of the nurses run off. It was another potential media nightmare. The woman hadn’t died, but it was just as bad. She would most likely never regain her sanity, just like the television star and politician who currently resided in a mental institution.

They should probably count themselves lucky only three people had gone insane.

Not everyone could handle the genius of Chef Baron LaVour. Not everyone could handle Eat Yourself.

But, the couple had signed the waivers, so it didn’t really matter.
Thank God for the legal system,
Troy thought and then headed back to work.

THE VARMINT OF FOSSIL VALLEY

Lewis Unknown

Eugene Verner shifted in the saddle, pain flaring briefly in his old joints. Not for the first time did he regret hiring his services to the wagon train, but he’d been low on liquor money. ‘Sides, it was easy work compared to bounties or herding cattle at his age. Hell, the settlers even had a map to this new Eden of theirs. All he had to do was see them through a thousand miles of Indians, bad weather and the odd bandit gang.

A task he had now completed, as his horse cleared the top of a rise and he gazed for the first time upon Fossil Lake.

It took up a third of the valley, its deep blue waters looking cool and inviting. The reeds at the edge formed a pattern that seemed like a welcoming smile from a folksy old uncle, just itching to tell you a story and share some moonshine.

So why did the sight of it send a cold shudder down Verner’s back?

He was still staring at the lake when the lead wagon caught up to him. The driver, a big red-bearded man with a bald head and hands like ham-hocks, pulled his team to a halt and gazed out across the valley with admiration.

As well he might. The gentle hills tapered to good flat land, tall grass perfect for grazing. It would make for fine fields once spring came. To the north was a stand of woods, amber and crimson leaves blowing in the breeze. There’d be ample timber for good sturdy homes, and game to hunt to help them get through the winter.

“Beautiful place isn’t it, Mr Verner?” said the red-bearded man. “Just right for a good God-fearing community to take root.”

Verner scratched his own beard, mostly grey. “It’s your community, Pastor Campbell, not mine. And I’ve told you before, it’s just Verner.”

A friendly smile shone from his open, honest face. “Ah sorry, my friend, force of habit. Though I’ve told you, it’s only Pastor Campbell when I’m in church. You call me Hugh and I’ll call you Verner, deal?”

Verner nodded, not bothering to fight the wry half-grin that was the closest he came to smiling. They’d had this same conversation a hundred times since setting out for the Montana Territory, and he expected they’d have it again.

Campbell might be a man of God, but he wasn’t afraid of hard work, and was even willing to dish out a little tough love to get lost sheep out of the saloons and into church on a Sunday. More than a few such joints back in Chicago had come to the conclusion that it was cheaper stay closed until after the Sunday service rather than deal with the broken fixtures and furnishings after  Pastor Campbell came to collect his wayward parishioners.

“Still we’re finally here, God be praised,” Campbell said. “Before we enter the valley proper I believe it would be only right to hold a prayer meeting in thanks to the Lord. You’re welcome to join us.”

The prospect of yet another prayer meeting finally shook Verner’s attention from the lake. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said. “Tell you what, you do that, and I’ll find us a spot to camp tonight.” He nudged his horse away before the other man could answer.

Soon Campbell’s voice was booming out over the valley, thanking the Lord for protecting them on their journey and mourning those lost along the way. Of which there had been plenty, and Verner himself hadn’t seen much of God’s hand at work there. A family of five dead of a pox, their wagon set ablaze to prevent the infection spreading; children desperately reloading rifles while their parents fired at charging Indians; a collapsing bridge that dropped oxen and wagons into a swollen river; a little boy breaking his neck in a fall.

All that, he had seen on the trail, but no God. Maybe He’d popped round to offer everyone tea and cake while Verner had been scouting ahead. Still, most of them had managed to make it, and that was something worth celebrating.

He chose a likely spot about halfway between lake and woods, next to a stream. Firewood and water, without having to get too close to the –

Why he felt that unease, he couldn’t reckon, but it preyed on him enough so that when he swung down from the saddle he managed to jar his bum knee. His spate of cursing bounced off the nearby boulders in an echo, startling up a flock of birds that scattered in all directions.

Almost all directions. Even rubbing his knee, he noticed how it seemed even they avoided the lake. Come to think of it, though he’d noticed animal spoor and even some rabbit warrens, there wasn’t much in the way of tracks of any sort along the shore. Weren’t even any bullfrogs croaking in the lazy autumn sun.

He told himself he was being foolish and did his best to put it out of his mind, but he watered his thirsty horse at the stream instead of leading it to the lake.              

As he marked out the campsite, pausing several times to massage kinks in his back that he wouldn’t have noticed even ten years ago, he wondered why he saw no sign of the tribes. This place was practically perfect – water, hunting, farmland, the hills providing shelter from the winds – but as far as he could tell, no one had settled hereabouts in ages.

The folks from Campbell’s wagon train proved eager enough to make up for that lack, happy families grateful to have arrived. It didn’t take long for them to set up their camps, making fires, sending children to fill water-buckets. Everything was lively, noisy activity as they went about preparing for their dinner.

The cooking was done by the Capriones, an Italian husband and wife who’d had themselves a fine restaurant back in Italy. Somehow, out of the goodness of their generous hearts, they’d become burdened with a useless nephew who claimed he was just about the heir of Dante in terms of poetry. He could be a bother, so they sent him out searching for mushrooms and other edibles to get him out from underfoot.

The McAllisters opened up their stash of Scotch, under the disapproving eye of Hugh Campbell … until, that was, he winked at them and asked for a double. Arthur Connolly pulled out his fiddle, his young wife Alice singing along, while Michael and Sarah Thompson danced as they hadn’t since their wedding day. Horst, the stern and serious German, spun yarns for the children of ancient castles, snowy mountains, and ghostly lords who led packs of wolves.

It was a good night, a night none of them would forget. Their first night in their new home … and their last night of happiness.

*     *     *

Deep in the lake, something stirred, its slumber broken by the sounds of celebration. It glided through the water until its snout broke the surface and drew in the scents.

Black, dead eyes reflected the burning fires. A long tongue licked around a mouth full of yellow fangs. A cold heart beat faster in excitement.

Two-legs! With their soft skin and tender meat!

How long? Too long.

Too long, but here they were. To stalk, to catch, to rip limb from limb and finally devour.

But, not yet! First the meat must be ripened, ripened by fear. Then, only then, the feast could begin.

*     *     *

Cries of horror and discovery woke the rest of the camp to find some of their oxen messily slaughtered.

A horde of black flies lifted from the cooling bodies and the blood stained grass as Verner knelt. He waved them away, trying to ignore the stench of blood and ruptured intestines, and examined the wounds. The throats had been ripped open, the bellies slit to spill entrails over the ground. The throats must have gone first, otherwise the screaming of the beasts would have woken the settlers.

That, Verner thought, was worrying. It suggested intelligence. And it wasn’t the only worrying thing. Verner leaned in closer, using his hunting knife to lift flaps of ragged skin.

“Good God,” Hugh Campbell said. “What did this?  A bear? Wolves?”

Grimacing at his complaining knees, Verner stood up and shook his head. “Ain’t been eaten on. Near as I can tell, whatever did this just butchered the poor beast and left it to rot. Only creature I know that kills like that is man.”

Campbell wiped his anxious brow. “Indians, then? You said you hadn’t seen any sign of them before.”

“If it’s an Indian, then it’s a damn big one.” Verner pointed at the ground. “Look there at those tracks.”

“Looks like … foot-prints and hand-prints,” Campbell said. “But the size! That hand-span is twice mine!”

“And whoever he is, he runs on all fours.” He followed the trail of reddish-brown smears with his gaze, unsurprised to see that they led inexorably toward the lake. “I’ll take Horst and Connolly. We’ll circle around, see if we can find where the bastard’s hiding. Meanwhile, keep everyone else close to camp. Stay on watch. The son of a bitch might not be alone.”

Horst and Connolly, having come to trust Verner on the long journey, had no problems with the plan. The other settlers were frightened, but agreed it had to be done.

In fact, the only one who took issue with it was Albert Caprione, who felt insulted at being left behind with the women and children. He pouted behind his sparse greasy beard, wiped a strand of lank hair from his eyes, and started in whining as his aunt and uncle sat in embarrassed silence.

“Why aren’t I going with you fuckers? Not only am I a poet of some fame, I learnt to shoot from Davy Crockett! I can kill an Injun dead at 100 yards!”

Verner just stared at the podgy, callow youth. At first, Albert tried to look away, but his eyes were constantly drawn back to the older man’s. Then he began to sweat, his lips trembling. Not until it looked as though he was about to faint did Verner speak.

“Son, you’re full of shit. You can’t rhyme for shit and you sure as hell can’t shoot for it either. I saw you when the Indians attacked. You just cowered up behind a wagon and cried like a baby. So I’m gonna to tell you what’s gonna to happen here. You’re gonna stay with the camp, and if you give anyone any problems, I’m gonna take you out back and whip you like the cowardly dog you are. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Albert squeaked. He scurried away as Verner climbed into the saddle.

Small as it was, that confrontation proved to be the only success he was to have that day. He, Horst and Connolly circled the entire lake but failed to find any further tracks or any sign of Indians. Far as they could tell, the entire valley was uninhabited.

*     *     *

It watched from beneath the surface as the two-legs rode around the lake on the four-legs.

They were looking for it, just like the others in the past, but they would never think to look here. That’s why it deserved to eat them. Such weak and silly creatures could only ever be prey, after all.

It had planned to leave them be for another night, to let the fear build. But now, it could no longer resist the temptation.

Tonight the feast would begin.

*     *     *

All they could do that night was keep watch and hope for the best. Men walked patrol, shouldering guns. Nervous women kept the fires burning. They were all unsure whether they hoped their attacker would return so they could put an end to it, or that whomever – whatever – it was had fled far away.

Albert Caprione tossed and turned in his bedroll, hidden beneath his uncle’s wagon. He clutched a pistol and prayed that if the Indians came back, they would overlook him for more obvious targets.

The longer the night went on, the greater a stroke of genius his plan seemed. He began to imagine, even look forward to, the attack. The Indians killing the watchmen, only for him to then emerge from his hiding place and shoot them dead like the hero he was.

After all, what did that broken down old trail boss know? He was Albert Fucking Caprione! The greatest epic poet since Dante or Homer! Sure, he might have exaggerated a little when he said Davy Crockett taught him to shoot, but he’d read a story with Crockett in it once, and that was enough for a genius like him to grasp the basics.

It was at that point Albert felt huge hands seize his lower legs, sharp things like knives or claws digging into his calf muscles and hamstrings.

Before he could gasp in a breath to scream, he was dragged bedroll and all out from under the wagon. Dangling upside-down, gazing into a maw of yellowed and impossibly sharp fangs, all he could think was what a great poem this would make.

*     *     *

A wide red blood trail led from the Capriones’ wagon to the edge of the lake, flanked by more of the same large tracks.

They found Albert’s body floating, half devoured, his skull crushed, one eye gone and the other dangling on his cheek. His ribcage had been ripped open and most of his organs were missing. All that remained of his genitals was a bloody, indiscriminate mess that couldn’t have been identified as either male or female.

Some of the searchers, unable to contain themselves, were violently sick off to the side. Others held back Matteo Caprione, who would have otherwise plunged into the water to cradle the grisly remains. His wife wept and wailed and babbled in Italian. Unpleasant, burdensome and bothersome though Albert may have been, he was still their nephew, and no one deserved an end such as this.

Verner stared at the corpse, a cold rage bubbling inside him.