Whispers From The Dark (11 page)

Paul fidgeted with the handgun for comfort, watching the lawn and sipping his scotch.  After an hour or so, and a half-dozen whiskeys, an owl began to gently hoot.  Paul’s mind focused on the sound, so soothing and pure, and within minutes the owl’s cries ushered him into sleep.

***

Screams woke him.  He jerked upwards in the chair, flinging his glass onto the deck and shattering it.  He dropped the gun as well; it bounced away from him towards the deck railings, and Paul lunged forward onto his knees and managed to grab it before it skittered off the deck. 

Gun in hand, he sat staring into the darkness and listening to the screams.  There were three or four distinct cries; almost like children screaming but more primal and animalistic. 

“Coyotes,” he whispered to himself.  He remembered growing up and hearing his father talk about the howls of the creatures.  That they sounded like women screaming in agony.  Paul had never heard them before, but he hoped to God that he was now. 

Something caught the corner of his eye and Paul pulled his eyes from the darkness and looked at his patio table.  Three small stacks of rocks sat evenly spaced from one another.  The stones were small: the size of playing cards, but were stacked twenty high. 

Paul stood up and looked into the yard below.

The lawn was filled with dozens of pillars of all sizes and configurations.  Rocks as large as truck tires were stacked atop one another, towering twenty feet over the grass.  Some of the pillars were stacked side by side with longer ones laid horizontally between them, forming a bastardized version of Stonehenge.

The bloodcurdling screams grew louder, more cries joining in the chorus now.  Panic creeping through him, Paul glanced back and forth from the lawn to the darkness.

A shadow, stretched and distorted in the floodlights, leaped out of the darkness and sped across the lawn and disappeared into the forest on the other side.  Paul choked back a scream and raised his gun.  It had moved too fast to make out any details at all, even whether it was human or animal or something else entirely. 

 He stood rooted to the deck, his eyes scanning the lawn, gun trembling in his hand. 

Another shadow darted across the lawn, then another, then another.  A dozen of them danced across his yard, each moving in a different direction. 

A clicking sound joined in the night’s cacophony, far closer to him than the screams.  It sounded like a man clucking his tongue to call a dog, only far more rapid in pace.  Paul staggered backwards towards the door to the house as he realized that the clicking was coming from beneath the deck.  He could see movement through the cracks of the decking boards, dimly lit by the nearby floodlights.    

He backed into the patio door and fumbled with it, finally sliding it open.  As he stepped into the house a hand rose up from below the deck and gripped its edge.  It was smooth and grey, fingers three times as long as a man’s and with no knuckles along their length or fingernails at their tips – like grayed, rotting hot dogs.  Paul screamed and fired the gun at the hand, missing and sending splinters of decking boards flying into the air.

As he slid the door closed behind him, another hand joined the first.  A smooth dome began to pull into view, and Paul ran to the den and snatched the phone from its cradle. 

He had just finished dialing 911 when the picture window above the sofa shattered, a brick-sized stone careening onto the carpet at his feet.  It was followed by a barrage as hundreds of rocks smashed through the den windows. 

Paul could hear glass smashing all over his house as the emergency operator came onto the line.  “Nine-one-one dispatch.  What is your emergency?” 

A head appeared in the broken window.  It was long and narrow and large, yellow, lidless eyes peered in at him just above a gaping maw of a mouth on an otherwise featureless face.  It seemed to grin, the corners of the mouth stretching back towards the side of the head as it placed its hellish hands on the windowsill and began to pull itself into the house.  There were no teeth, no tongue, no sign of anything within the thing's mouth – it was a leering pit set into an alien skull.

“Help me!”  Paul screamed into the phone as he raised the gun and fired at the thing.  The rounds struck home and the thing’s head snapped backwards, a dark mist spraying into the night as the shape collapsed. 

Paul ran for the door to the basement, grabbing its handle just as he saw something fly towards his face.  He dropped to the floor with a grunt as the stone slammed into his temple, a blinding flash of pain cutting through his skull.  He could feel the warm, wet blood leak from the wound and coat the side of his face. 

Trying to fight unconsciousness, Paul pulled himself to his feet, grabbed his gun, and tried for the door again.  Through his blurred vision he saw dozens of gray humanoid shapes moving towards him as more slithered through the broken windows.  So tall that their heads nearly touched the ceiling with long ape-like arms that almost hung to the floor, the things closed in on Paul.

He threw open the door and stumbled through it, hurrying down the steps and trying to clear the fog from his head.  The basement was dark, the only light that which was bleeding through the window on the distant door that led out onto the lawn.  He could still see shadows darting around, dark flashes darting about outside. 

He had no options, he realized.  He could wait in the darkness of the basement for them to come down and claim him or flee into the night and hope that they either couldn't notice him or couldn't catch him.  He reached the door and peered through the small window.  At the moment, he couldn't see anything outside other than the pillars of stone that littered the lawn. 

If he could make it to the jeep...

The stairs creaked as heavy feet started down it, jolting Paul into motion. 

He opened the door and slipped out into the night.  Footsteps thumped here and there, the night making it impossible to pinpoint them.  He moved around the house, keeping close to the wall and trying to stay out of the floodlights as much as possible.  At the corner, a set of rock steps were cut into the slope and led up into the driveway where his jeep was waiting.  He hoped like hell he'd left the keys in it.

Ten feet from the corner, one of the things shambled out of the basement door and spotted him immediately.  He stifled his scream and broke into a run, barely stopping himself as another of the creatures rounded the corner and reached for him. 

Paul's footing slipped and he staggered for a few steps, rushing into the lawn. 

The shadows on the edges of the floodlights sprang to life, a dozen of the creatures moving in from the darkness.  Paul took aim and fired, dropping one of them with his first shot. 

It was pure luck, and the last of his rounds all went wild thanks to his trembling hands. 

“I didn't do anything,” he screamed at them. 

He had to run.  It was the only chance he had.  He did so – whirling around and charging forward too suddenly to dodge the nearby stone tower.  His shoulder connected with it hard and he careened off it and fell to the ground, dimly aware of the grating sound of stones shifting.

The pillar toppled, crashing down around him.  One of the larger stones landed on his left leg and he felt the bones shatter.  Another rock, smaller but no less deadly, slammed into his back and knocked the wind out of him.

 The creatures sped up their approach, their steps graceful as they moved through the pillars. 

Paul gasped for air but couldn't suck any into his lungs. 

He never managed a single scream.

VALENCHENKO IN THE DEAD CITY

The city was the same dismal gray as the ash that had been falling from the sky for months.  Valenchenko supposed it might not always be ash – the ungodly cold certainly made a case for it being snow – but nevertheless, it was always gray.

The whole goddamn country had been gray for almost as long as he could remember, not that he'd left Leningrad for...how long now?  Seven months?  Eight? – he couldn't remember anymore.  The days had blurred together long ago just like the dead rotting slowly in the streets and buildings.  That was the only good thing about the cold – it kept down the stink.  That and that it slowed bleeding a bit if you were unlucky enough to be wounded.

A few distant concussions rumbled through the city square, too far off to identify the exact source.  Hitler's bastards had been shelling them since just after he'd arrived.  He'd heard rumors that the short little fuck had plans on simply starving the city into submission, but the bombardment continued unabated. 

Starvation. 

That was certainly more effective than the artillery.  The Germans were piss-poor with their aim, and only a handful died each day from the bombardment.

But since Leningrad had been cut off from the rest of the motherland, the starvation was slowly destroying the once proud city.  The Red Army had created their 'Road of Life', trying to bring in supplies and help evacuate citizens, but it was barely a road at all, and the winter was even more deadly outside the city walls than within them.

Besides, a Russian deserter like Nikolai Valenchenko couldn't exactly escape the city with the army he'd ran from.  At least in the dying city, he had a chance.  A small one, to be sure, but better than being shot as a deserter.

He had come to Leningrad to meet up with his cousin Peter, who was to help him cross north into Finland and on to Sweden and escape from all the insanity that the Russians were not only fighting, but causing.  He'd seen his share of Russian evil, to be sure.  The women he'd seen held down and raped, the husbands or brothers or fathers who were shot as they protested.  He'd been at Katyn, had himself pulled the trigger and cut down many of the ones they'd massacred for no good reason.  And along the way, he'd grown tired of it all.

No...not tired – afraid that he would be next.  His atrocities were weighing heavy on his soul, and the carnage he'd waded through was bound to drown him soon if he didn't escape.  Life was losing value, and each man or boy he'd shot weighed lighter on his soul than the last.  He was, he feared, becoming a monster.

So to Leningrad, then.  To Peter, and then to Sweden.

And then the fucking siege had begun.  He'd spent days drunk and waiting in hiding for Peter to arrive.  Too drunk to realize that his cousin hadn't made it into the city because of the Germans setting up their goddamn siege.  Peter had either been turned back or shot, Valenchenko realized after the shelling had begun and drug him from his stupor.

His stomach rumbled as he hurried across the street and ducked into an alleyway.  He'd caught a rat here a few days before – one of the last in the city, as far as he could tell – and hoped to find another before the hunger became too much to bear.

He glanced over his shoulder to ensure nobody was following him (you could never be too safe in Leningrad), and froze.

The boy was there again, watching him.

Even from across the street, he could see the pale emerald eyes dancing like tiny flames.  He didn't move, and the two stood like statues studying one another as the low concussions thumped through a distant part of the city.

The boy had been following him for almost a week now.  He was emaciated, his clothes hanging from him like bed sheets on a clothesline.  He was no younger than eight or nine, no older than twelve.  At first, Valenchenko had spied him only once or twice a day, always too far away for him to make out all of his features.  But those eyes assured him that it was the same lad.

As he saw him more frequently, Valenchenko had begun to doubt his own sanity.  Could hunger do that?  Create hallucinations of malnourished, filthy boys with piercing emerald eyes? 

It was incredible that a child could survive in the city at all – there was little heat or shelter to be found that was safe and even scarcer food.  And for a child to follow him?  It must be a dream conjured by his hunger.

Valenchenko turned his back on the boy and pressed on down the alley.

A man, about the same age as Valenchenko, was ushering a young girl towards him, her eyes fixed on the ground.

Valenchenko held up his hand for them to stop.  “Food?  Fire?” He asked.  Gold was nothing in the city now – warmth and food were all that really mattered.  The melted snow and captured frozen rain tasted like ash and sulfur but were enough to stay hydrated.  But food was almost a memory, and little fuel was left to burn and few places were safe to burn it in.  While many of the soldiers in the city were doing their best to save it, others had abandoned the fight and were instead using their weapons and numbers to prey on the civilians.  A fire was one of the best ways to attract them.

“Maybe fire,” the man responded.  “At the church back the way you came.  People gather there.”

Valenchenko nodded.  He'd seen it.  And if worse came to worse, he would use it for heat.  But too many people stayed in the church, and despite having shed his uniform he preferred to keep a lower profile.  His rifle could be enough to give away his true nature.  “No food?”

The woman pressed past Valenchenko without slowing her pace.  The man slowed a step, but still moved onward.  He chuckled.  “Ration day is in two days.”

“Surely there's something.”

“No fire you would want to stand by.  No food for a sane man.  Nothing but death.  You still look strong.  Your best bet is on the Road to Life, where we're going.  This city is dying, my friend,” the man said over his shoulder as he picked up his pace.  “The devil has it now.”

Valenchenko watched them for a moment, until he realized that the boy was gone.  He scanned the street and the alleys he could see into, but there was no sign of the gaunt, pale face.  After a moment, he headed down the alleyway where the couple had come from.

He rounded the corner to find the handiwork of Hitler's artillery.  A huge section of each building had been torn to pieces, as if god had punched holes through the building's walls.  He was surprised they were still standing.