Ashes and Entropy

by Laird Barron

  (call this in)

  Instead, he stepped off the shoulder, to the top of the small hill that descended into the field.

  "Hello?" he called, and his voice rolled out and into the woods. The tickling increased, the internal wind grew, dizziness nudged itself more into the center of his brain.

  (what are you doing?)

  "I don't know," he said, and his mouth felt numb, not his own, as if he'd just paid a visit to the dentist. He stepped into the field, and his legs matched his mouth—used by someone else.

  He spread his fingers across the tips of the grass, felt their furry heads. They stung his left hand, which began to bleed along the shallow cuts he'd gotten his third night on the job.

  (but those cuts healed weeks ago)

  The welt on his right arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

  (charrrliiieee)

  "I'm here," he said, and his voice was a sleepy growl. The dizziness was a cap over his mind, the wind blowing through the hollow chambers beneath.

  (this is what harrigan wanted oh yes he wanted it dearborn eddington caldwell caldwell? yes him as well all the local boys they need the outsider they need to keep the congregation full can't sacrifice the faithful)

  A wind came up from the woods, a hollow roar in his ears.

  Charlie kept walking, still feeling the grass tops, leaving bloody dobs on the left. A brightness appeared above the woods, a limning of white over the treetops, and Charlie was not surprised. The brightness thickened, seemed to reach toward him—

  (charrrliiieee)

  —and the wind blew harder now, both inside and out—

  (charrrliiieee)

  —and the dizziness came hard—

  (charrrliiieee)

  —and he kept walking, but he tripped over a hidden rock and—

  ~

  —he goes to his hands and knees and the soil is different—thicker, richer, muddier. More alive.

  Charlie lifts his head and the woods have zoomed forward, the treeline bare feet from him, but they are different, species he's never seen before—or never seen outside of biology and geography textbooks. Tropical.

  The grass here is higher, too, and sharper; he pushes the blades aside and they slice his palms. He hugs his wounded hands to his chest and feels the sweat course down his brow. It's hotter, more humid.

  Around him, strange, unseen animals scream and call out. The sun boils in a molten-gray sky.

  And then the ground shakes.

  It's a small tremor,

  (i've felt this before)

  and then another, and another, another-another-another, until the word is meaningless and it's a constant vibration under him, a grumbling of the earth that obscures everything else.

  Something blots out the sun. At first he thinks it's cloud-cover, but he blinks and, no, he doesn't know what it is. What is covering the sky is gray and roiling, but it isn't just the sky—it approaches across the earth, hiding the mountains (higher and with sharper peaks than the Blue Ridge Mountains). It's a cloud, a curtain of rain, a solid. All of these things and none of these things. It hurts his eyes to look at. He senses a shape behind the shape—the structure's true form, a darkening in the center of this massive thing—but his eyes can't or won't unlock it. It's like his brain knows the truth of what is in front of him and won't let him see it.

  The shape approaches, bigger than anything Charlie has ever seen, but he cannot move. His body shakes above the low-earthquake. His hands burn. His head throbs. His heart is a solid lump of unmoving muscle in his chest.

  The shape pauses. It takes up Charlie's entire view—this gaseous, liquid, solid thing. Its black center is directly in front of him.

  (it sees me)

  And then the shape dives, plummets into the ground, and the low-tremors become a full-scale earthquake. Around him, trees splinter and crack and explode. Rocks and boulders fly. The mountains crumble, rise up, crumble again. The ground beneath Charlie splits in a million directions. Rocks and roots shoot through the gaps. One wraps itself around his right forearm and something pops in his head—a game-show ding!—and suddenly he sees with his mind's eye images of other grayish things, all around, this younger world—going into the sea, into the mountains, into the ice. Burying themselves.

  (we call them gods and to us they are gods but they were just here first they are older than gods)

  The root tightens and breaks skin and the sleeve of his uniform becomes sodden with blood. It pulls and Charlie is dragged, down into the ground—

  —and, lands, standing, onto 526, but it's a 526 as constructed on a movie set—artificially built, in a black soundstage. He cannot see where it ends or where it begins. Hidden spotlights shine on just this section of the highway and it is crammed with cars from the 1950s, 1940s, 1930s—going so far back to show carriages and horseless carts. They are side-to-side, nose-to-nose, stretching into the darkness. He sees traveling sacks, made with animal skins, crafted weapons like spears and tomahawks.

  (all the sacrifices all of them the ones its claimed on its land)

  He sees no people. No skeletons or corpses. They were sacrificed.

  (the family in the galaxie the temoins joseph)

  The root still grips him and it tugs at him again, into and out of darkness, and onto another black soundstage. He sees a dozen men dressed in ways he'd only seen back in Williamsburg, at the historical sites. Colonists. They stand in a loose group and one holds open a large, thin book with rough-cut pages. The man holding the book, Charlie sees with no surprise, is the rooster—Eddington, or someone who looks remarkably similar to him.

  One by one, the men cut their fingers and dribble blood upon the open page. With each offering, Eddington's ancestor says in a doggerel that is, nevertheless, perfectly understood by Charlie: "It will be honored."

  And then the voice of the man-thing Charlie had seen that night out at the depot, booming as if from hidden speakers: "This is what has damned us all."

  The root tugs him again, into and out of darkness, and it's 526 again, but emptier. He sees the Galaxie, Joseph's pickup, a half dozen others, scattered and damaged, but the contrast to before is apparent; the sacrifices have slimmed, become violent. Charlie thinks of all those turn-offs before 526 enters Anbeten County.

  From the darkness at the opposite end, Eddington approaches, walking the center line. Under the spotlights, his face is shadowed, eyes mere sockets and nose a blade.

  He stops and opens his mouth and blackish-blood falls out.

  "This is the end of the pact," Eddington says, in the voice of the man-thing.

  Charlie blinks and now it's Caldwell standing there. "This is the end of my slumber and my acquiescence."

  Blink and it's Harrigan. "I seek my freedom."

  Blink and it was Charlie, his hair milk-white. "They seek your death as supplication."

  Charlie screams, but the root does not pull him back into the darkness. Instead, the Charlie-thing approaches. "The pact must be broken, or you shall die and I shall be condemned."

  The Charlie-thing stands before him. He smells of soil and pine and iron-rich blood. "They must pay for their arrogance, but not with you. You did not sign with blood. You are not of the faithful. Only you can be a vessel and grant me freedom. You will be marked, but you will live."

  His eyeless face grins at Charlie, blood seeping from between his pink teeth. "Break the pact and all will be well. Fail and you will die in ways you have never imagined."

  The Charlie-thing raises his hands, dirt covering corpse-pale skin, closes them into fists with the thumbs out. The nails are long and sharp.

  "Break the pact," the Charlie-thing says and tilts the thumbs to jam them into Charlie's eyes.

  ~

  He was screaming in the driver seat of his patrol car.

  It took him a moment to get himself to stop, and even then, he couldn't stop shaking; his nerves thrummed with delayed reaction, made his teeth chatter.

  Through his windshield, the Dodg
e was still there, but the sun had moved to the other side. It was afternoon—late afternoon, by the look. The sun was behind him.

  His right arm burned, the skin tender against his uniform. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his uniform shredded and stained. He pushed it up—his hand aching and tacky with old blood—and saw a fresh welt, freshly scabbed over.

  Charlie slumped in his seat.

  (real it was real all of it)

  (we are bound)

  (break the pact)

  (you will die)

  "They sent me here to die," he said and his voice sounded like he'd been gargling dirt.

  (harrigan eddington dearborn)

  (break the pact)

  He thought of his family and, for the first time, didn't shy away—his home in the big house on the outskirts of Williamsburg. His father trying his hand at farming, then assisting on other farms, then whatever odd jobs he could scrounge; his mother, too traditional to ever say a word, just picking up the slack whenever she could. He and Tim, trying to find their own places. Tim found it in football. Charlie studied atlases and dreamed about law enforcement, of being a State Trooper, of having a place and a home and getting as far the hell away from Williamsburg as he possibly could. Home wasn't on the outskirts of a tourist trap, never seeing the same face twice, watching his father devolve into a surly paranoid. Home wasn't slowly building debt and madness and transience.

  (maybe it was maybe it is look where you ended up)

  Half-dozing, his body more exhausted than he could've ever imagined, his brow furrowed.

  Look how it had ended up—his mother and brother, dead on the yellow grass outside the weather-battered shack that was supposed to be the family barn, their faces blown off; his father, stabbed and burning, falling to his knees and still reaching for Charlie. Charlie had sustained second-degree burns on both arms and hands, but he had survived.

  He had survived.

  (you will be marked but you will live)

  The squawking of the dash-mic brought him back: something-something-526-something-something.

  He straightened in his seat and reached for the mic. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. His hair was bleached-white, the sockets around his eyes puffy with bruising.

  (the charlie-thing tilting his thumbs to blind him)

  He shook his head and grabbed the mic. "This is Car 19, out on 526. Copy."

  He let go of the TALK button and listened to the ghost-static, the distant murmur of other voices just outside of the channel's range.

  Dispatch came back, but the voice wasn't who he had heard before. "Car 19? What's your twenty?"

  Charlie tried to recall the last mile marker. "Near Mile 36, Dispatch. Witnessed an—" He tried to remember the ten-codes from the Academy, the list of numerics that kept CB-radio jockeys from spying into police business.

  Looking at the abandoned Dodge, he said, "Witnessed an 11-96, but nothing was suspicious. Just abandoned. 10-24, copy."

  Another long pause and then dispatch's unfamiliar—but recognizable—voice came back: "Car 19, you advise a 11-96? Is it an 11-99?"

  Charlie closed his eyes, thinking hard. 11-99 was code for...for...

  He opened his eyes. For officer needs help?

  "Dispatch, be advised," he said. "This is not an 11-99. Suspicious vehicle was abandoned."

  The response was immediate. "19, we have patrols 11-76. Stay calm. Anbeten County's 11-77 is roughly ten minutes." A click, and then: "All units, be advised. Patrol has a 10-31 out on 526. 10-53 all exits leading off and on. Do not engage. Anbeten can be there quicker."

  Charlie tried to keep track of what dispatch was spouting.

  11-76—cars are enroute. Anbeten County's cars.

  11-77—estimated time of arrival of personnel.

  10-31—crime in progress.

  10-53—block all roads.

  Anbeten County was responding to a crime and the State Police were to block all roads on and off of 526.

  For the first time since waking up, his heart was racing. "Dispatch, 10-22 that assignment. 526 is clear. Clear—do you copy?"

  Dispatch came back and he finally recognized the voice over the speaker. Harrigan. "Trooper Brooks, stay—"

  His fist bashed into the dash-mic once, twice, three times—snapping plastic and denting metal. The pain was fantastic, a gruff-roar that made the paper-cuts from the prehistoric grass seem like pinches. Harrigan's voice cut out in a scream of static.

  Charlie hugged his bleeding knuckles to his chest.

  (they're coming for me)

  Dearborn and his county boys would be here in ten minutes.

  Except, their station was over fifteen minutes away, in Schlossen itself.

  (they were waiting for me)

  Eventually, most likely after dark, someone would've driven along 526 and found his car. His body would've either been reduced to something you could put into a shoebox or missing altogether. He was supposed to be sacrificed. He was an outsider. Not of the congregation.

  (now they're coming to make sure i am sacrificed)

  He grunted and, leaning across the bench seats, popped open the glove compartment and grabbed the First Aid kit. He pulled out the gauze and wrapped it around his right hand. The fingers weren't broken, but the knuckles were enlarged. He found aspirin packets and choked two down.

  He straightened and took a breath. His brain kicked along, thinking of the next few moments. He felt no tickle or dizziness.

  (of course not i'm already marked)

  He checked the rearview and the sun was setting fast. It usually did in the mountains. He saw no emergency lights. Not yet. How long was ten minutes?

  What did he want to do? He could stay, he supposed. Allow himself to be the sacrifice they so desperately needed. This home had turned out no better than what he had escaped from in Williamsburg; his survival there had only led to this. Maybe this was fate. He could give in. This wasn't his fight. He was an outsider. Everyone agreed on that—both the people and the god. He could stay and wait for the end.

  Instead, he turned the engine over and the Chevy roared to life. An emergency turn-off came up and he took it, barely touching the brake before twisting the wheel. The back tires skidded and screamed and he roared up the incline, jostling into the westbound lanes and arrowing down the highway. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, the peaks barely highlighted with autumnal yellow.

  His best bet was driving forward, see if he could shoot through their net, then figure out the next step.

  (break the pact)

  But how? How? What could he do and how would he know he could do it before it was too late?

  He thought of his father, turning the shotgun towards him with the air still ringing from gunning down Tim. Charlie had grabbed the World War II trench knife from the workbench inside the shack, but that was as far as forethought had gone. When his father had kept coming, Charlie had literally fallen over the gas can. It was only that and his father's lit cigarette that had saved his life.

  Charlie had to hope for the same blind luck.

  (not the best plan not at all)

  (better than nothing)

  (survivor)

  He drove over one rise, two rises, and still no sirens. Everything before his eyes popped with the most vivid crispness, not quelled at all by the thickening shadows and softening grays of evening.

  He came over the third rise and there they were—a line of patrol cars, two rows deep, barreling down both the east and westbound lanes, lights throbbing. For an instant, Charlie was something akin to flattered—they were doing this for him.

  Everyone braked at the same time and over the shriek of rubber on asphalt, Charlie faintly heard the clunk of cars rear-ending each other. Vehicles rested at crazy angles, blocking all lanes. Charlie stopped a bare six yards away, the headlights blinding him.

  He heard the sound of car doors opening and figures made black behind the headlights appeared. Charlie rolled his window down.


  "You might as well come out now, Trooper," Dearborn called. "You're not getting through and we got an easy two dozen weapons aimed at you."

  (but you won't shoot me you can't if you want a sacrifice for your god can you?)

  For good measure, he revved the engine and Dearborn, still talking, immediately shut up. The figures all blended as they hunched and flinched.

  Charlie grinned, but didn't dare look into the rearview mirror, terrified he would look how he felt—a grinning death's head.

  "We just want to talk to you, Trooper," Dearborn called.

  (right after you tell me how many weapons are aimed at me)

  "This doesn't have to be unpleasant," Dearborn said. "But some things need to be settled and I can't yell all night."

  (he has no idea how much i know)

  He revved the engine again, but it was half-hearted and the figures didn't flinch. The sun was completely gone now and everything behind the lights was a black blob, but Charlie could see there was no getting through that line. All he'd do was get a lot of people killed, including himself.

  (if they have their way i'm dead anyway)

  But he thought of the gas can, he thought of blind luck, he thought of

  (a vessel)

  (break the pact and you will live)

  His hand and arm, burning, burning.

  "I'm coming out!" he called through the open window.

  The engine still running, he opened his door and took a step outside, one foot still in the car. The headlights washed over him, blinded him.

  "I want to talk to Harrigan!" he called, because he felt he should call something out. Anything to stall until the proverbial gas can appeared. "I want him to explain it!"

  "Oh, he'll be here," Dearborn said, lower than before. "You're his boy, and all." Then a sound like a chuckle. "This didn't go exactly according to plan, but it's plain obvious you've been touched, boy. Oh my, this might actually work. Eddington was right."

  He heard the footsteps too late; he started to turn and a rifle butt came crashing down, right into the center of his face. A bright flare of pain, and then he was gone.

  ~

  Charlie’s burning father looks up at him. His face is a melted candle. His eyes are gone, leaving running, glowing sockets. When he speaks, he's easily heard over the crackle of the fire killing him, and his voice is the voice of the man-thing.