No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection) (3 page)

“What
about the woman?”

Rawlins
smiled, seldom a good sign. “The order stands; she’s with you until we put in
somewhere.”

The next
day, we took Nils down.

His skin
was burned raw from the ropes, wind, and salty spray. In truth, the man barely
looked human anymore.         It was clear he’d not see out the day. I was
proved right, but before we carried him below, he raised a hand as best he
could and pointed.

“You
didn’t hear me…you couldn’t see…her,” he croaked.

Following
the line of his upraised, crooked finger, we caught sight of what he’d seen
from his enforced vantage point.

Two days
it has followed us. The Bird the crew has dubbed it, lacking the energy for any
other moniker.

Black and
larger than a crow, it should not be able to follow us. So far from land, it
should’ve fallen away to somewhere else long ago.

We took it
for a shit eater to begin with; something waiting for us to leave scraps behind
for it to gorge on. Only the woman seemed untroubled by it, and even less so
when a second bird appeared next to the first and joined in pursuing us north.

Something
told me she knew about it, but would never tell us what.

She slept
well enough, given she was sharing a room with a corpse wrapped in sailcloth. I
trusted the lateness of the hour to leave sickbay. I felt a strong need to
clear my head and fought the urge to sample my own sedatives.

Not
tonight,
I thought.
Not now.
I
made sure my pistol was loaded; a habit I would’ve preferred to forgo, but which
was now very familiar to me.

I was not
long on deck when I saw it. I would’ve passed it by, if not for the fact it was
darker than the night enveloping us.

So close,
the Bird was truly monstrous.

Had it
taken the liking, I am sure it could’ve enfolded me in the span of its wings. A
long beak caught what light the deck lamps threw out, as did its eyes, which
fixed upon me with a keen intelligence. I have no memory of drawing the pistol,
nor do I recall hearing the shot that must have followed.

The right
side of its head was washed away in a cloud of smoke and blood.

Gunfire
drew the men on watch, and there were a few tense moments where I only
gradually became aware of their questions. After I explained, they seemed at
ease.

The
visions - I cannot say dreams, I know now they were more than that - came later
in the night.

Visions of
sacking, pillaging exposed coastline, and laying bare the women and men we
found there. We made little distinction, though it was more about power than
simple lust to spill our seed. The faces of the men with me were those of the
crew, though our dress was ancient and rattling. The ship we sailed in was
equally old; something more familiar to Nils and the stories he may have grown
up with.

I woke
with a start; sure I could taste blood in my mouth. She was gone, and a rush of
footsteps on the deck above made me panic.

Running up
top, I feared the worst, though I don’t know what I expected to do if
confronted by it. One gun against the crew would do little good.

She was
not there, though.

Instead,
the crew was occupied with a dark shape circling us overhead in the early
morning light. It was low and close, turning like a gyre around the mast.

“You only
killed one,” Rawlins said. I’d come to his side among the crowd by chance. “She’s
gone.”

“Damn
fool,” he said and nodded forward to the prow.

A wall of
fog rose ahead of us, and it seemed as if the black bird was guiding us towards
it, though the sails caught no wind.

We watched it
approach, with the ocean empty beneath us and the crew standing in silence. As
the ship disappeared around us, and then one man from the other lost in the
mist, we heard a sound that was not the wind. Wet and rancid, it breathed down
at us without stirring the fog, and we knew we had come home for our sins.

My father
used to tell me life is what you make it; it’s an old one, but it’s true. I
know because my life
is
what I made it — mostly bad, with maybe a few
moments of good in there, although the good is becoming harder and harder to
remember these days. I don’t think the bourbon helps with that.

Things
were better when Iris was with me. Even though she didn’t want to come out west
with me — not at first anyway — but when she saw what Chicago was doing to me,
she changed her mind.

It was
good for a while, but then the land went bad and the dust storms kicked up. We
tried to keep things together, but the darkening skies brought up something in
me I’d tried to bury. Iris finally left when I struck her hard enough to give
up on me. In a horrible way, I was thankful; it didn’t seem fair to drag her
down with me. That’s no justification, but it’s all I have.

The storm
hung in the west; a solid wall of black. I didn’t want to look at it, didn’t
want to do much of anything except sit in the kitchen and drink. Thunder
cracked in the distance and it froze my hand, stopping it short of the bottle
with the fingers trembling slightly, almost within reach.
Nothing for it.

I saw to
the barn and rounded up the few animals I’d not sold or eaten — all the ones I
and the dust had left unclaimed for the time being.

The storm
seemed to stretch across the horizon, churning across the border. It was hard
not take it personally; it felt as if it was coming only for me. A stupid idea,
but it wasn’t the first one I’d ever had in my life.

The air
was already dry — whatever moisture was left was being taken by the oncoming
dust. It was cold, and charged too, and the cloud — closer now — looked to be
tinged a sickly shade of mustard yellow in places.

I saw the
dust plume before I heard the car. Soon enough, I saw its black beetle shape
trundling along the dirt road towards the house.

It was Sam
Carlisle. He was about the only man around with a car, or at least the only one
who’d visit me. I looked at the car and back at the cloud. He’d never make it
back to his place before the storm came down, so I opened the barn door again.
Figured it’d be safe enough in there for a spell, even if the storm lasted the
rest of the day.

Sam was a jovial
sort, different from most lawmen. Officially, Beacon wasn’t a town, but an
unincorporated parish. Still, it needed a sheriff, and everyone knew Sam. He
was steady and a good man. Sometimes that’s enough. I hadn’t carried a badge
for a good few years, but he still saw it on me. It was a mark or sign that
would never come off.

His usual
smile was absent when he got out of the car, replaced by a hard set that was
ill- suited to his soft features.

“Sam, what
brings you out here?”

“Dunno
where to start, Jim.” He sounded tired, and for a minute, it was hard to equate
the man in front of me with the man I knew. “Michael Cameron’s dead; so are all
his folk,” he said, not meeting my eye as he spoke.

I stood
there for a moment, taking in what he’d said. I knew the Camerons. Michael, his
wife Sarah, and their two children; Iris watched the kids sometimes.

Behind
Sam, the cloud loomed larger, though that hardly seemed possible. A dusting of
grit was already falling, covering everything in a fine grey layer.

“Best see
to the car and come inside, storm’s coming down.”

I poured
two glasses of whiskey and set them down on the kitchen table. Outside, the
storm blew itself hoarse and darkened the room enough that I needed to light
one of the oil lamps.

“How?” I
asked as I lit a cigarette and gave one to Sam. He accepted, lit it, and
dragged in a deep lungful, and only after a long sigh where almost no smoke
came out did he reach for his drink. “Shot. Looks as if Michael did it while
they was at dinner last night.”

His words
pulled at something, hauling it up until it came to me. “There was something on
the wall or on the table where it happened.”

Sam looked
at me like he didn’t know me. He didn’t, not really. Reaching into his pocket,
he laid a folded scrap of paper on the table.

He didn’t
need to unfold it for me to know what I’d see. Some things follow you, no
matter how hard you try to shake them off. Even if the past doesn’t weigh you
down, it never really goes anywhere.

After some
hours, the storm passed. Lucky, I thought; all show and little substance. I saw
to the animals and went with Sam.

I didn’t
need to go; didn’t want to. I knew what I’d see there, but it was either that
or stay in the house and keep drinking. The latter was more attractive, but
only insofar as it was my routine and I’m a man of habit. The former got its
teeth into me — sinking into the old wounds, and opening them up again.

“Some call
it witch’s foot or the broken cross,” I said, holding the piece of paper in
both hands — more to stop the shakes than anything else.

“You saw
it before?” “A long time ago.”

Sam didn’t
press anymore; he was good like that. I can’t say if I would’ve put up much of
a fight if he did. Something was wearing down inside me, crumbling with the
trundling of the wheels. The bourbon had eroded the old walls, so there wasn’t
much left to hold it in place.

They’d
been dead a while before anyone found them — not the Camerons, but another
family in another place. It was in the meat-packing district; they were as
Polish as it gets, but that wasn’t anything special. No one else wanted it, so
they gave it to me.

As bad
ones go, it was pretty bad. The father was in his place at the top of the
table; his head leaning back across the chair rest so far that his neck looked
fit to snap. His mouth was frozen in a smile, almost too wide for his mouth to
hold; you might have thought he was happily drunk, if not for the black pits
where his eyes used to be.

His wife
was to his left, facedown across the table in a pool of congealed blood.

I looked
at each of the children, but tried my best not to take in the details. The
flies helped with that. They were so thick and fat you had to squint and cover
your mouth in case one or a dozen found their way in. Left alone to gorge for
so long, they treated us like intruders to a meal, which I suppose we were.

It was
open and shut; the gun was on the floor near the father’s chair, lying beneath
his limp hand. His other held the knife he’d used on himself, most likely
after. The only odd thing was the symbol carved onto the table in front of him.

I figured
they were religious types — or at least he was, and he’d snapped. Wasn’t the
first time I’d seen something like it. People seek solace in something familiar
and sure when they’re confronted with the reality of modern life. The uncaring
nature of a city and the relentless pursuit of money by any means breed a kind
of mania that can only be equaled by religious devotion.

It didn’t
end there, but at the time, I didn’t know it.

They’d
come from an old place across the sea, and it never occurred to me until later
that something else might have come with them.

If someone
wanted to recreate a crime scene from memory — from my memory — then they’d
done a good job of it with the Camerons at their own table. Like for like, it
could’ve been taken from any of the scene photographs or notes. Seeing it from
the threshold of the door, I fought the urge to scream or run.

“Bad,
isn’t it?” Sam asked when he saw my face and reluctance to move any further.
“Yeah,” I said, swallowed, and stepped forward.

“Can’t
figure Michael to be capable of this.”

He wasn’t.
He was a churchgoer, but not the kind who worked himself into a frenzy when the
dust darkens the sky — not like some around here, anyway.

The gun
was below his limp hand, the left rather than his right as happened with the
Polish family. Sarah was facedown in a pool of blood, and the children were
too. Michael had the same leering grin plastered to his face; the same black
pits for eyes.

Sam was
bearing it pretty well, though his face had gone a kind of pasty, waxy white.
Sweat, no doubt cold, beaded his forehead and cheeks.

“You found
his eyes?” I asked. If Sam thought the question indelicate, he gave no sign.
“No, figured he’d pulped them.” He swallowed and dabbed his face with the back
of his hand.

“No. When
the examiner gets here, you’ll see they’re gone like they were never there.”
“Jesus.”

I looked
around the room, my eyes lighting on the carpet and floor. “Place was locked up
when you came in?”

“Tight as
a button.”

Squatting,
I looked at the patterns of dust on the floor. Everyone drags it in with them,
can’t help it. There were prints enough for the family, smears and scuff marks
from where they traipsed in and out.

“Look
here,” I said. Sam came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder. “Not
Michael’s?”

The print
was new as evidenced by its shape and size. Could’ve been nothing; wasn’t like
I knew the shoe size of anyone around here, but there was an odd slant to the
toe and heel. Something was odd about the turn of the instep, and when I looked
around the table, I saw more.

“He walked
around as they sat,” I said, Sam following the line of my finger as I traced
the path.

There was
no dust in the last place, nothing to give away if anyone else might have been
in the apartment. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad, but it gave Sam
something to go on.

He sucked
in a breath through his teeth. “Jim, I know it’s a lot to ask…”

“I’ll do
it. Fuck knows you’ll need help, and the way things are around here, I might be
all you have.” I pitied him his situation.

After they
carted the bodies away, I stuck around and decided to talk to the Polish
family’s neighbors. I didn’t think it would do any good, but it’s a habit and
they’re hard to break at the best of times.

Most of the
tenants didn’t know the family so well except to say hello. They were Polish in
a mixed block of Hungarians and Czechs, for the most part. I didn’t get the
sense of any bad blood between them, more apathy, which was worse in many ways.
Hate I can understand, it’s uncaring I can’t get my head around.

The
elevator was broken, if it ever worked in the first place, so I took the
stairs. The place smelled of sweat and boiled cabbage, and I thought if I
stayed any longer, I’d claw off my own skin to get the smell out.

On the
floor below the family’s apartment, a little girl in a stained dress with no
shoes on her dirty feet waved to me. I waved back, but she kept on doing it,
until I realized she wasn’t waving, but beckoning me. I bent down so I could
hear her; there was something conspiratorial about her.

“You’re a
policeman?”

Her
English was good, almost no accent. She’d most likely grown up here, learning
English at school, which was something.

“Yes, I
am. Did you know the family upstairs?”

She waved,
almost fanning her face, and started walking down the corridor. I followed,
thinking there was no harm in it. At that point, anything anyone could show me
was important, even if it proved otherwise.

She led me
to an apartment in the middle of the corridor, pulling the door’s old handle
with both hands and nudging it with her shoulder. Inside was dim, but the
apartment itself was clean and well-kept compared to what most would expect.
The person who lived here knew they didn’t have much, but made the best of it.

“Čo
je to, Janna?” It was an old woman’s voice and the language sounded Polish, but
it wasn’t. The accent was different — the stresses in the syllables subtly
melodic.

“Babička,”
Janna said and guided me through the small hall into the apartment’s living room.
Small and cramped, it was taken up with an old sofa on which sat an old woman
stirring a spoon in a cup.

She
could’ve been sixty or eighty; her face had a kind of indeterminate quality to
it, frozen between old and truly ancient. A shawl was tied around her head, and
what hair I could see was snow white. Her eyes were dark and inquisitive
without being nosey. The kind of old woman, I thought, who sees a lot without
really trying to do so.

“Miss?
This little girl brought me here, do you have anything to tell me?”

She looked
down into her cup and continued to use the spoon for a moment or two more
before tapping it out and setting it down to one side.

“Please,
sit.”

Her accent
was heavier than the girl’s, but clear and clipped. She gestured to an empty chair
opposite, which I took, easing myself into the worn wicker. Janna walked around
the table and planted herself on the floor near the old woman’s leg. I took her
to be Janna’s grandmother, and she began to play absently with the girl’s hair
while she used her free hand to drink.