Ghosts of Eden (23 page)

Xander opened his lab coat and dozens of wooden masks emerged, dangling by their strings. One by one the masks began to plop to the ground.

The observer took a knee, his robes billowing and swirling. He thrust his closed fist against the ground and the vermillion smoke twisted outwards, then began to split and coalesce into a horde of clawing hands.

Kayla made a break for it. She ran by the fastest route possible: straight ahead, her eyes fixed on Garty. She had to make it between the two before these warring factions met in the middle. She stumbled, but kept her feet. She ran, keeping her eyes on Garty. He waved her on. She could see the worry in his face. He didn’t think she was going to make it. The ground shuddered beneath her feet, then she felt something grab her leg. She risked a glance downward and one of the vermillion hands had her by the ankle. She kept moving, kicking her feet out, hoping to shake the hand free, but its grasp was firm; it was digging into her flesh. A gelatinous head rolled by and the hand left her leg, flying at it. She knew Xander and the observer were still talking, shouting at each other, but she no longer cared. Three of the heads rolled in front of her and she knew she was going to fall, her foot catching one of the heads in the face, then she was on the ground and another of the hands was on her. More of the heads rolled toward her, biting and gnashing their teeth like frothing lunatics. One of the hands swiped at her face with fingernails like claws. And then they were on top of her, flailing and clawing and rending and biting.

She flailed on the ground, screaming. She kicked and rolled. She covered her face with one arm. She could feel one of the hands climbing on her back, pulling at her hair. Things were rolling over her—heavy—she couldn’t breathe. She was being trampled. She was going to die.

Something grasped her arm and yanked, pulling her over the ground. Someone was dragging her free. She fought to get to her feet, but she couldn’t. One of her knees bashed painfully against a rock; her legs were being scrapped hideously over the ground.

Finally, she came to a halt.

“I’m sorry. I had to get you out.”

Kayla looked up and Garty was standing over her, smiling. They were at the edge of the circle of stones.

“Can you walk?” Garty asked her. “I think I can get us out of here.”

Garty helped her to her feet. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Behind them, she could hear the battle going on: the two combatants yelling while their minions fought.

Garty grabbed her by the hand. “Come on,” he said, and pulled her into the dark jungle.

EIGHT

Pulling Kayla along, Garty looked over his shoulder. He could see things were going to get ugly between Xander and the observer. Constructs of some kind, that looked a little like scarecrows with six legs, were lunging from the portal to join the observer’s forces. And Xander, not to be outdone, was summoning various shadowy creatures from his jungle. They streaked by Garty and Kayla—jaguars, and snakes, and buzzing swarms of insects—too intent on their master’s summons, to notice the interlopers as they fled.

The darkness of the jungle pressed over them. Leaves that felt oily and unclean whipped at their faces. All too quickly the sounds of the battle at their backs began to dim. The path narrowed. “Where’s that door?” Garty said. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

“Wait.” Kayla tugged them to a stop. “There’s no path.”

Garty looked around. “Fuck.”

The jungle had swallowed them. Only distantly could they still hear the battle raging at their backs. And it was very quiet. From the dense foliage came a gaping silence. No longer were there any sounds of insects or small scurrying animals. Yet still, it felt as if they were being watched. By the trees themselves, perhaps, or some unnamed force that loomed over them.

Garty, still gripping Kayla’s hand in his own, turned them, looking frantically around, until they’d made a complete circle. Even the path at their back had closed. There was no breeze, no movement of air whatsoever, except that which he and Kayla stirred with their lungs. The silence was complete, except for the creaking sounds of shifting bark, which they could not be hearing.

Kayla cried out.

“What?”

“Something brushed my foot.”

Garty looked at the ground where they were standing. Nothing moved—even the encroaching bushes seemed painted as inky still-lifes—yet the bushes seemed closer, to be closing in on them.

“Come on,” Garty said. “We have to keep moving. Before one of them comes after us.” He pushed through the oily leaves in front of them. Kayla followed.

Their progress was slow, their feet constantly caught or tangled in the underbrush, but they were moving. Garty wished he had a machete, to cut a path through the trees like they did in the movies. A strange sound escaped his lips at the thought, and Kayla looked at him sharply. “Sorry.” He hadn’t recognized his own laugh. A leaf the size of a small blanket raked his face and he gritted his teeth and pushed on.

Kayla tugged on his hand. “Wait. We can’t do this.”

Garty stopped. He was panting with exertion. “We have to keep going. I know there’s a door up here. I think it’s this way.”

“No. You have to do something.”

Garty looked at Kayla. His heart ached when he saw the four parallel scratches running across her cheek, realizing he hadn’t even taken the time to see if she was hurt, realizing how much he cared for her. He dropped to his knees, looked into Kayla’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

She looked back at him, and there was such strength in those eyes, but it was a reluctant strength, a necessary loss of innocence. Tears began to well, then drop, carving clean streaks through the grime on her cheeks. She began to cry, hitching sobs she could no longer hold back, and when she did Garty forgot everything else, and drew her to him, and held her close.

* * *

Minutes—perhaps hours—later, Kayla said, “You have to get us out, Garty. I don’t know how, but you heard what that strange man said. You can rip this jungle apart.”

“I…” Garty began, but when he saw the look on Kayla’s face he couldn’t voice his insecurities. “Alright. Sure. I’ll try.”

He stood, looking around. He concentrated, tried to imagine the jungle fading, growing opaque, disappearing. He closed his eyes. What could he do? What was the point? He was powerless. He was useless. He’d never been good at anything. When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. For a moment, the jungle leaves seemed to shudder, as if amused with his failure.

He clenched his jaw. He looked down at Kayla. He couldn’t fail. For Kayla’s sake, he couldn’t give up this time.

He took Kayla’s hand. They began to walk. He had no clue what he was doing, but he pushed on, determined now to see this through.

And already, almost immediately, the jungle seemed less dense, parting more easily before them. As they went, they began to see dark soil again at their feet. There was a path, cutting through the trees before them. They followed the path and it began to widen.

Kayla shook his hand excitedly.

They were walking on cobblestones now and there was a clearing before them. Garty kept his eyes forward, his mind focused, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I see a way out,” Kayla said.

Garty nodded.

They came to a small archway made from stone. Within, a dimly lit stairway curved downward.

“Let’s go,” Kayla said, smiling.

The stairs were made from roughly hewn stone and covered in a spongy moss that padded their feet as they descended. They had to jump over one of the steps because it held a small pool of crystal water, containing tiny phosphorescent fish. After that, the steps began to smooth and even out. They became less slippery.

They came out on a small landing, turned, and the next set of stairs was carpeted in regal purple shag. They descended.

* * *

Minutes—perhaps hours—later, they came to a narrow door.

“Open it! Open it!” Kayla said.

It was a normal wooden door, painted a chipped and fading mint green color. It looked like a closet door, like the one in the spare bedroom at his grandparent’s house. He gripped the knob, turned it—opened the door.

INTERLUDE: LOS ALAMOS

Los Alamos is a quiet mountain town. It has history, of course—crime, domestic abuse, murders, political intrigue, lies and rumors—but doesn’t every town? Strange things have always happened in Los Alamos—nobody pays any attention and most keep their experiences to themselves.

Zach Morgan (after an evening spent avoiding his drunken father) had that nightmare again. He dreamed he was exploring the woods and then something was chasing him, something snarling, breathing heavily. Then he was running down the path behind the church and he came to the cave, where some of the teenagers liked to drink and smoke marijuana, and he found Rachel Parker’s body. She was frozen stiff. He shook her, tried to wake her like before. He slapped her. He kicked her in the ribs. He yanked her hair. He spit on her. When he turned her over, she wasn’t alive but she was grinning. “You shouldn’t have done that.” He always woke up screaming.

Leslie didn’t want to let her kids out of the house, not after what had happened. Every time she opened the front door, she lived in fear of seeing the dark jungle with the leering faces on the other side again. Months passed, and, eventually, she forgot her fear and moved on with her life. She saw the jungle one more time before her death.

Unusual reports of wildlife circulated the town. Someone saw a bear. Another person saw an antelope with a giant rack of horns.

One night, Lawrence Tasker, who had always opened the Bradbury Science Museum promptly at nine in the morning and always closed it promptly at five in the evening, went missing. But his wife said he ran off with a woman from Santa Fe and a missing persons report was never filed.

One day, Mark Gordon paid a visit to a large estate home all the way out on the far reaches of Barranca Mesa on behalf of the Los Alamos National Bank. He parked his car outside the gates and, official papers in hand, rang the bell and waited the appropriate amount of time. When there was no response from the intercom, he went back to his car, opened the trunk, removed a pair of industrial-strength wire-cutters, and helped himself onto the property. He smoothed his suit with his hands and walked the half-mile up the dirt road to the house. The garden had shriveled and died, the ground littered with fruit fallen from the trees. He knocked on the front door and rang the doorbell, again waiting the appropriate amount of time before he produced the master key the bank had provided him and used it to enter the house. Once again, he smoothed his suit, cleared his throat. But the house was obviously abandoned, a thick layer of dust shrouding the furniture, shelves, and lighting fixtures. Mark Gordon was, however, a fastidious man, and went through the house systematically, checking each room, snapping pictures for the report he would write when he got back to the office. When he was finished with the first floor, he ascended the stairs and checked each of the six bedrooms, one by one, but found nothing of interest.

He opened the door at the end of the hallway and staggered back, unprepared for the stench that greeted him like a phantasmal force. He doubled over, nearly losing the oatmeal, grapefruit, and coffee he’d eaten for breakfast in the hallway as his gorge rose up, but managed to control himself. He removed a cloth handkerchief from a pocket and covered his nose. Determined, he conquered the first step, then the next. In his mind he hoped only to find a rat’s nest or some sort of dead animal at the top of the stairs, but he feared, in this instance anyway, he was going to find more. He’d heard stories of foreclosure assessors discovering the bodies of people that had died in the houses they inspected, but
he
had never had to deal with such an instance before. The paperwork, he knew, was staggering.

At the top of the stairs, he prepared himself, gripped his nose through the handkerchief, and opened the next door. Inside, the room was a complete mess. He lifted his camera and took some awkward shots with one hand. Everything in the room seemed to have been piled at its center and smashed; fragments of glass glittered amongst the bric a brac. The morning light from the room’s only window seemed muted and gray.

Across the room was another door: a closet. He picked his way carefully around the detritus. He snapped a couple more pictures, then put his hand on the doorknob, began to turn it. For some reason, he was trembling. He knew the source of that horrid stench—a rotten-cesspool smell—must be on the other side of this door. He opened the door, and then he finally did lose his breakfast.

A liquid slush of flesh and blood, gelatinous and sticky, slid from the open doorway, breaking like a wave into the room, burying poor Mark Gordon up to his waist. For a moment, ever fastidious (oh yes, and dependable too), he kept his composure. Nearby, he noticed a rippling fold of something like tripe; then he noticed a pink and malformed hand suspended in the opaque gunk like from an aborted fetus; thin swirls of blood; an open and staring eyeball hung with nerves and severed veins like some sort of grotesque squid…but it was not until he noticed the sightless faces—faces like masks—staring at him from every direction, that he lost his grip on the sane world, and flailed through the gunk, and out of the house, screaming out of his mind.