Ashes and Entropy

by Laird Barron

  The man-thing turned his head towards the rooster. His upturned eyes bulged, red and swollen. His mouth, still streaming blood, twisted into a rictus grin.

  "Your...faithful...depart...leave the church...leave me here trapped...you have angered me."

  "WE ARE BOTH BOUND!" the rooster screamed and Charlie, trapped and terrified, had to admire the little guy's balls.

  "You...will continue to sacrifice..." the man-thing said, and his eyes were cherry-red now. His hair was lightening, shading towards white. "With your...deserters...with your faithful..."

  "You will ruin your faithful!" the rooster screamed.

  The man-thing looked beyond the rooster, seemed to pin Charlie in his place. In the firelight, the rictus seemed to tick even further upwards.

  "I...will have my freedom," the man-thing said, and his eyes exploded with absurd little pops of gore. His hair had turned completely white.

  The body went limp, fell face first into the fire. A rush of air, so fierce it rippled Charlie's clothes, bent the bonfire, arrowed towards him. More, he felt the internal wind cycle up, pulling his thoughts apart and away. The world brightened, bleaching out the colors of things, then the shapes, and dimly, he felt the tree root leave his wrist...

  ~

  ...and the world resolved to the ceiling of his apartment. He was lying on his back on the floor.

  He sat up, wincing at the sharp twinge in his back, the leadenness of his head. Early morning sunlight splashed through the front windows. The apartment was cold; he'd never turned on the heat last night. His breath frosted in front of him.

  He was still in uniform, his knees and shoes caked with mud and bits of dead leaves.

  He unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt and jerked it up his arm—a spiral welt traveled the length from his wrist to his elbow.

  "That was real," Charlie muttered, and something clenched in his lower gut.

  (you offer sacrifice for sustenance)

  (we are bound)

  (you will continue to sacrifice with your faithful)

  (i will have my freedom)

  Dizziness slapped him. There was no internal window blowing through the hollows of his empty mind. It was a matter of something too big, too outside-the-realm, to fully comprehend. He tried, and he felt something tilt in his head precariously.

  (that was power i saw last night)

  (it took me home)

  (it controlled me)

  The man-thing, looking at him and grinning before the body—

  (vessel)

  —gave out.

  His stomach clenched again and, before he could stop himself, he vomited into his lap.

  ~

  Later, after a shower, he saw that the hair at his temples had gone white. Not gray, but white, as pure as the driven snow.

  (like the vessel)

  He could hide the welt, but he couldn't hide this.

  (marked)

  (i will have my freedom)

  Charlie Brooks gripped the sides of his bathroom sink, hung his head, and waited for the dizziness to abate.

  ~

  "I don't recall Chester shaking quite so much," Caldwell said, setting his coffee cup down.

  Charlie looked down. He gripped his mug, still sitting in its saucer, and it was porcelain rattling against porcelain. He tightened his grip. "What?"

  Caldwell shifted on the stool. "I figure, I'm Matt Dillon, the toughened and nearly-cynical law man of the west, while you're my Chester—partner, friend, semi-deputy—following me to new experiences and lessons." When Charlie continued to stare at him, he said, "Haven't you ever seen Gunsmoke?"

  Charlie watched the way the nerves in the back of his hand twitched. "I don't watch a lot of television."

  A beat of silence.

  "What happened to your hair, probie?" Caldwell asked.

  "Family curse," Charlie said. He'd practiced this. "It's either go gray early, or start losing my hair. Given the choices, I consider myself lucky."

  Caldwell's eyes flicked between Charlie's gaze and the white temples.

  (he doesn't believe me doesn't believe)

  Finally, Caldwell said, "I think that's the first personal detail I've gotten from you. Got any others?"

  Charlie looked away, studied his coffee. "Not really."

  "Really? Everyone's got something. Hobbies. Interest. A girl."

  He shook his head. "Not really."

  Caldwell looked at him with lidded eyes. "Nothing, you say."

  Charlie shrugged. "Not much of a reader, not much of a jock. I..." He moved his jaw, as if words were dice and he was rolling them around before shooting them. "I always wanted to be a State Trooper. I thought it would, y'know, fulfill me. Personally."

  Caldwell considered this. "And did it?"

  "Not sure yet." A soft voice, a woman's voice he'd known:

  (isn't this what you wanted charlie?)

  (the minister at the lectern, looking down at charlie and his bandaged hands)

  Another beat of silence. Then, Caldwell asked, "Got a lot of family, then?"

  "Not anymore," Charlie said, feeling like he'd stepped from one mine field to another. He spoke slowly. "I'm from the coast. When you live on the coast, you're naturally transient. My aunts and uncles moved off, had small families—if they had kids at all."

  "You're the last?" Caldwell asked, for the first time appearing genuinely curious.

  (he was always curious you're paranoid)

  "As far as I know," Charlie said, and, in his mind's eye, he saw his father, a Roman candle about to burn out, between the bodies of Charlie's mother and Tim. "And I'm no different—I left my hometown, too."

  (when the burns healed)

  Caldwell shook his head. "You'll never see that here," he said, sipping his cup. "I'm nearly a heretic for coming down from Blue Mountain. Around here, people don't leave the land."

  (because it eats you)

  (we are bound)

  Lunch arrived and Caldwell tucked in. Charlie's eyes wandered. A scattering of farmers-who-weren't-farming at the back tables appeared to be staring at him, and he avoided looking back there. The traffic out on Commerce Avenue was listless, barely two cars passing each other at any given time.

  At the edge of the counter, he saw the town weekly—The Anbeten Sentinel. The above-the-fold headline read, LOCAL MAN'S TRUCK DISCOVERED. Beneath, the bullet read, Authorities speculate victim got lost in the forest.

  The picture below was of the red pickup Charlie had seen at the depot. He'd also seen it outside the front window of Mom's when Joseph had come in to say goodbye.

  (people don't leave the land)

  (we are bound)

  (because it eats you)

  (i've been marked)

  When Caldwell asked if he was going to finish his plate, Charlie pushed it over without a word.

  ~

  Charlie was signing the patrol car back in when Harrigan's office door opened in the hallway behind him and Harrigan's voice barreled out: "What do you expect me to do, Dick?"

  He stiffened. In front of him was the bullpen, in that state of transition between shifts. The secretaries were closing their desks down for the day. Men coming on shift were chatting with the ones about to punch out. He still didn't know anyone's name.

  "I expect you to understand the gravity of the situation," Sheriff Dearborn said.

  He heard their approaching footfalls.

  "You think I don't?" Harrigan said, lowering his voice. Charlie still held the pen, poised above the sign-out clipboard tacked to the wall. "We're all together on this."

  "You're not there, Jeff," Dearborn said, matching Harrigan's volume. "It's like you're standing outside the church, hearing only parts of the sermon."

  Charlie resisted shivering at that.

  "I can't direct traffic that way," Harrigan said, a firmness in his voice. It sounded like they'd stopped at the mouth of the hallway. Charlie's back began to sweat.

  "And you know that," Harrigan went on. "The dep
ot boys probably told you the same thing. It takes funds and personnel to do what you're asking, and the state watches those things."

  (would you finish signing in already jesus they're gonna notice)

  He scribbled something on the clipboard sheet, and slid the pen into the holder. When he turned, Harrigan and Dearborn were right there.

  "Brooks," Harrigan said.

  "Trooper," Dearborn said.

  They both looked at his temples.

  "Sirs," Charlie said, feeling his uniform shirt cling to the sweat.

  "I had Trooper Brooks here drop off the file requests for the depot boys," Harrigan said. "For their budget. The fact that they requested it tells you that the state is watching."

  "I understand that, Jeff," Dearborn said, studying Charlie a moment longer, then moved into the room. They paused at an empty desk a few feet away. "But it is a dire situation we're in."

  Charlie turned away, standing in the mouth of the hallway, in front of the men's room. Caldwell had ducked in there when they'd come back to Area 13, complaining about his stomach and leaving Charlie with...this.

  "I know that, Dick," Harrigan said, his voice lower than ever, but now Charlie's ears were tuned. Everyone else's conversation fell to a low rumble. "And I can appreciate how serious it is by the fact you came all this way, but you knew the answer before you got in your car."

  "It's taking us, Jeff," Dearborn said. "Eddington thinks that it'll just whittle us down until that frees it from the pact. We need outsiders. You don't have a congregation if the faithful—"

  Charlie closed his eyes as a dust-swirl of dizziness swept him.

  (we are bound)

  (he's talking about the fire the man-thing the book)

  He leaned against the wall, trying to make it look nonchalant by crossing his arms, but it was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

  "I'll see what I—" Harrigan began, but then Caldwell stepped out of the men's room. Caldwell's face was flushed and cheesy; a sickly sweat clung to his forehead.

  "Oh, buddy-boy," he said, "we should not have had lunch at that roadside."

  Charlie winced. "How bad?"

  Caldwell's sick eyes rolled towards him. In a lower voice, he said, "I feel like I shit out my entire intestine. Thank Christ it's the end of shift." He shuffled forward and clapped a hand to Charlie's shoulder. "You're flying solo tomorrow and this isn't snoozing through a speed trap on 81. Think you can handle it?"

  They'd spent the past four days out on the roads and Charlie had seen more routes than he had in the month prior riding the roads alone. With it came a sense of place—a rough map in his head, with Schlossen in the center. His first night-time impression of the town was right—the dying town was all alone, nestled in a valley, connected to the world via secondary routes that were losing place in favor of I-81. In towns near the interstate—Stephen's City, Middletown, Front Royal—new businesses were opening and traffic was heavier. In Schlossen he saw FOR SALE and FOR RENT signs popping up like crabgrass in an indifferently-cared-for lawn.

  "I think I can handle it," Charlie said.

  "Good, 'cause you ain't got much of a choice."

  He shuffled into the bullpen and Charlie turned.

  To see Dearborn and Harrigan staring at him.

  ~

  Area 13's First Sergeant was a gray, bendable straw of a man by the name of Bulloch and, standing in the front of the conference room the next morning, he looked like a sacrifice.

  Charlie sat in the back row, feeling the emptiness of the seat beside him. Bulloch read through the outstanding news from the overnight, the assignments needed to finish those up. The Troopers—Trooper IIs and Senior Troopers, all local boys—zoned through it. Grayish-blue with cigarette smoke hung above their heads. Backs only straightened when the First Sergeant got to the day's routes.

  Bulloch said, "And Trooper Brooks, with Trooper Caldwell ill this morning, you're assigned to Route 526, from the Shenandoah County line to the Fauquier County line."

  Charlie stiffened. The space between Shenandoah and Fauquier was Anbeten County. He and Caldwell hadn't been assigned that route yet—Charlie hadn't heard anyone assigned to it. As Caldwell had pointed out the night of the Galaxie, the State Police tended to let Dearborn and the rest of the county boys run the roads in Anbeten.

  Harrigan, sitting in the front with the other Master Troopers and Sergeants, had turned around to stare at him. Harrigan often handled the morning rotations.

  Harrigan and Dearborn, staring at him yesterday

  Charlie made his head nod. "Yes, sir."

  Harrigan turned away slowly, and even after he showed Charlie his back, the man's unreadable expression lingered.

  ~

  Two things told you, when driving on 526, that you were in Anbeten County: the small rectangular metal sign that said ENTERING ANBETEN COUNTY at mile-marker 12 (when going west, from Shenandoah), and the complete drop-off of traffic.

  Charlie would add a third: the pins-and-needles tingle that seeped up the nape of his neck when he crossed over the county line. It crept along the nerve-endings and skin, pushing into the soft meat of his brain.

  He wanted to turn the AM high, but didn't for fear of missing broadcasts from the dash-mic, which squawked and spit with cross-talk. His hands slid over the steering wheel, unable to fully grip and get comfortable. He felt Caldwell's absence.

  The highway, still a two-lane this close to the county line, was barren. Charlie passed turn-offs for 55, 37, 340, 522, 11—as if, even without the aid of the interstate, highway planners had tried to steer people away from crossing through Anbeten County.

  (because it's fucking cursed)

  (we are bound)

  526 ran across the top of Anbeten's pear-shaped territory like a stitch across the Frankenstein monster's forehead. It ran for twenty-three and a half miles.

  Charlie checked his odometer. Only nineteen to go.

  He took a deep breath as eastbound and westbound split into separate two-lanes. He rolled his shoulders as he passed the turn off for Route 17, which would take him home to Schlossen—although, since the night of the fire, thinking of "home" and "Schlossen" in the same sentence left a queasy feeling in Charlie's gut—and he felt the absurd urge to take it. Go back to town—

  "—get off the road," he muttered, tucking his chin down, as if the road would see his lips moving.

  (it's not the road but the ground itself)

  "It killed that family in the Galaxie," he said. "Killed that old boy—Joseph." He swallowed a sudden knot in his throat. "Killed the Temoins."

  The tingling in his head ticked up a notch, and that internal wind began to blow. For the first time in days, the welt on his forearm throbbed.

  (it's all in your head all in your head stop it)

  "Easy for you to say."

  He passed mile-marker 28 and realized he'd passed the spot where the...the whatever had taken the Galaxie.

  He checked his speedometer. Pushing seventy-five. He eased up on the gas until it hit sixty-five. Like seeing the turn-off for 17, the urge to just floor the Bel Air's gas came to him; burn through the remaining miles until he reached the Fauquier County line, cross over, then sit and count the hours until he was off-shift. Dearborn handled Anbeten; Charlie's superiors couldn't honestly expect anything to happen during his shift, could they?

  (harrigan does)

  A shiver zipped up his spine at that. I'll see what I— Harrigan had started to say, and then Caldwell had come out.

  —can do, he'd probably finished.

  And now, look—he was assigned to 526, alone, when no other Troopers were ever assigned to it.

  The tickling pressed into his brain, making him shake, making that internal wind blow harder.

  (i had trooper brooks here drop off the file requests)

  (eddington thinks that it'll just whittle us down...we need outsiders)

  (eddington's the rooster eddington's the rooster)

  Dizziness began to tilt thr
ough him, and the Bel Air drifted into the other lane.

  (they knew i was there)

  He bit his lower lip and corrected the drifting car. "Goddammit—stop that! You're fucking paranoid!"

  The interior voice sounded like his father:

  (prove me wrong)

  He crested a rise and, at the top of the next, a sedan sat on the shoulder.

  He braked instinctively. Then reasoning reasserted itself and he hit the gas again, albeit slower than before. He flicked on the turn signal and pulled in behind the car. It was a blue Dodge Royal Lancer; he'd known a kid in high school with one and that memory caused a clench of homesickness he hadn't known he possessed.

  No one stood around the car. He saw nothing trampled down in the field to the right to show someone had walked through it.

  Charlie killed the engine. He glanced at the dash-mic, but then turned away. Investigate first, then call it in.

  As he got out, the tickling in his mind came back stronger. His shoes gritted over loose pebbles, impossibly loud. His patrol car ticked to itself. The morning breeze brought the smell of pine and soil from the woods at the opposite end of the field. But no birds singing, no crickets.

  He walked up the driver side of the Dodge, hand on his holster. The interior was clean. Keys dangled from the ignition.

  The internal wind blew.

  (charrrliiieee)

  Charlie looked around, but of course nothing was there.

  He walked to the front of the car and placed a hand on the hood. Warm, and it was still early enough that the sun couldn't have done it.

  (call this in now call this in)

  He walked around to the passenger side, gripped the handle, and tried it. It clunked open.

  He paused again, looking through the window. Unlocked car, still warm, keys in the ignition. No sign of people.

  (the road ate them)

  (charrrrliiieee)

  Charlie winced, shook his head. His mouth had gone dry.

  He debated opening the door the entire way, reaching in and pulling the keys. Instead, he slammed the door closed again—the chunk echoed out into the field.