by Laird Barron
(you'll know the way)
he says,
(and you can break the pact charlie but you have to wake UP—)
Charlie opened his eyes in the backseat of a patrol car with his left hand burning and the ache in his head a leaden bell forever tolling. The car hit a bump, jostling him, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming.
The interior of the car was pitch-black. Two men sat up front, poorly lit by the glow of the dashboard.
"—Eddington be ready?" Harrigan said from the passenger seat. He spoke in a low voice.
"Old pecker was about pissing his pants when I got him on the horn," Dearborn said. "He and his boys will be ready. You'd think he was almost glad things didn't work out the way we talked. He wants to see your man back there."
Another bump and Charlie let his body go limp, let it roll a bit. He had to keep biting his lip to keep from groaning, and the sucking-pennies taste of blood filled his mouth.
Harrigan nodded and the two men fell silent. Charlie rested his head on the vinyl seat. Through the window, the night sky stared indifferently back at him, the scattered stars like pinpricks. He thought of driving away with Caldwell, seeing the Shenandoah Valley open up when they reached the top of a rise, with Schlossen a tiny alienated cluster to one side.
"What do you think happened to him?" Harrigan asked.
That awkward chuffing sound again. "I think it liked him."
Charlie didn't need to wonder what it was.
"Then why not take him then?" Harrigan pressed. He shook his head. "That's why I sent him out there, for Chrissake. You'd said it was getting unpredictable and Brooks would be good bait. Why not take him then?"
"Getting cold feet, Jeff? Been a few years since you seen a god at work?"
Harrigan's head turned towards the Sheriff. "Our families go back far enough, Dick," he said.
Dearborn shifted in his seat. "Who can know the mind of a god? He's obviously been touched, and not like Eddington and them other boys. He's been prepped." He paused. "You sure he doesn't have family? We had relatives of those people who recorded what happened to the Whitneys, coming around and asking questions. Handled them, but it made a few of my men sweat a little."
Harrigan shook his head. "No. Family's dead....he killed his father."
The car swerved a bit. "What?"
"Father had battle-fatigue, according to reports. World War II vet. Killed the mother and brother. Brooks stabbed him and set him on fire."
Dearborn whistled through his teeth. "Jesus Christ."
"Something feels off about this," Harrigan said, and sighed. "It took the Temoins—after the Whitneys and Joe Ratigan—but that wasn't enough. We have to give it Brooks."
"It's about appeasement, Jeff," Dearborn said. "It wants out of the pact. Those Temoins of yours used to be regular course for it. Now it goes after the Whitneys. And Joseph Ratigan. And Marla Mullins. And anyone else who wants to leave the service before the sermon's done." Dearborn shook his head. "Your boy's just supposed to be a stop-over until we figure things out. Him being touched...that just made us all feel better."
"I'll feel better when it's over," Harrigan said. "The state—the Colonel of the State Police—is going to be looking at us after this."
"You'll figure it out," Dearborn said, and the car went into a turn. Charlie's head thumped against the door and it sent another toll of agony through his skull. He groaned before he could stop it.
"He's gonna wake up before the party," Dearborn said. "Good."
Charlie saw Harrigan's head turn to look back and, although he knew the Master Trooper couldn't see in the darkness, he lidded his eyes, made them appear closed.
The car jostled more and more—they were off pavement now. Charlie caught a flash of light, a porch light, but it was gone before he could make out anything else. The spitting-burn of his hand intensified slowly. A pulse began to beat in his head, rising in slow but steady increments from the back of his mind.
(break the pact break the pact break the pact)
A rumble of something beneath, like a run of stones in the road, and then Dearborn brought the car to a stop.
"Told you they'd be ready," Dearborn said, and Harrigan nodded.
Charlie could smell wood burning, and soil, and pine. He closed his eyes—
(break the pact)
—and saw the eyeless Harrigan, the eyeless Caldwell, the eyeless Eddington—
(break the pact)
—the eyeless him, grinning death's head.
(they seek your death for supplication)
(break the pact)
Dearborn and Harrigan got out of the car. "Lemme get some of the boys to help me," Dearborn said. Charlie heard the crunch of leaves underfoot, dwindling away. The rumble of many male voices speaking came to him—a guttural chant with many parts and, when put together, it sounded like the revving of race car engines.
"Mi him eck torch. Grrritch eck torch. Eck torch!"
It chilled his skin, made his burning hand seem that much hotter, wormed into his head and nestled there, finding a friend in the steady beat already at work in his brain.
On the passenger side, he saw Harrigan walk to the backseat to look through the window at him. He lidded his eyes again, but the Master Trooper's expression, half-lit by the fire, was stone. One eye gleamed like half-buried quartz.
Crunching leaves, growing louder, and the door behind Charlie's head opened. Charlie let his head fall, fully closed his eyes.
"Jee-zus," one man breathed. "What the hell happened to him?"
"Nothing compared to what's going to happen," another man said. "C'mon—grab an armpit."
Hands reached in and gripped him roughly under the arms.
(break the pack break the pact break the)
The men took a breath, one of them going, "One, two, three..." and then they yanked him from the backseat. He felt his ass leave the vinyl, but the weight distribution was off— all three toppled to the ground. One man's foot caught Charlie along the side of his head as he fell and the scream peeled out of him in a banshee's shriek. He hit the dirt, feeling the coldness beneath, smelling the minerals.
(it i'm smelling it)
The chanting paused, but did not stop, and Charlie heard the rush of people approaching as he got himself to his hands and knees, every muscle rippling as if trying to run away from his bones.
The soft voice, the woman's voice, his mother's voice:
(isn't this what you wanted? isn't this what you wanted charlie?)
Everything hurt, everything was wrong, and nothing was his own anymore. He had been chosen, but he was a vessel, a meat puppet, and all he could do was shake and shiver on the ground like a sick—
(father)
(vessel)
—dog.
(this isn't what i wanted this isn't what i wanted)
(the Presbyterian minister at the lectern beside his family's coffins, saying, "and we turn to psalm 107, verse 9: 'for he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness'")
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dearborn hollered.
"He feels wrong!" one of the men replied.
"He's been touched," Eddington said, somewhat far away. "He's been with It." "Get 'im on his feet, goddammit," Dearborn said, and Charlie heard a twang in his words, a little quiver, he hadn't noticed before. Scared. He'd been giving Harrigan shit about seeing gods work, but in the end, the Anbeten Sheriff was piss-terrified.
"Do not do that," Charlie barked, his head lowered, and he hadn't even known he was going to speak. His voice sounded like he was gargling dirt. "Stay back from me."
More crunching leaves, and the men around him were muttering. He heard more twangs.
(me they're scared of me)
(vessel)
(filleth the hungry soul)
And then the voice of the man-thing and the voice of his father spoke up, a choir from hell:
(they will not stop and you must not either)
"Get him,"
Eddington said, sounding the calmest of everyone. "Get him and bring him to me. Now."
A moment's hesitation, and then rough hands grabbed him, lifted him, his head facedown and swinging like the clapper of the bell tolling in his head. They handled him awkwardly, as if unsure how to hold onto him. One man hissed. "Christ, it's like holding onto snakes."
"He's responding to the words," Eddington said, "the calling."
(vessel)
(mi him eck torch grritch eck torch eck torch!)
(filleth the hungry soul)
(eck torch!)
They carried him away from the car. Charlie could feel the heat of the approaching fire, see the wavering afterglow on the ground. His hand burned hottest of all.
He looked up, and the fire was five times the size of the one he'd witnessed before, blazing high above everyone's heads with what looked like tree trunks in the center. The VDOT workers were there, mixed with the county boys and Harrigan's men, wearing heavy robes of rich cloth, cinched tight with silken ropes. Country-rough faces with too-widely-set blue eyes, studied him with mixtures of fear and anticipation. He didn't see Caldwell amongst their number and felt good about that.
Eddington stood waiting by a large lectern built of rounded stone in front of the fire. In his left hand, he held a Bowie knife large enough to gut a deer, but it was the open book in his right that Charlie's eyes locked on. The beat in his head grew adamant.
(BREAK THE PACT BREAK THE PACT BREAK THE)
"Bring him close," Eddington said.
They did and the fire seem to reach for him.
The VDOT workers, joined with the police, began chanting louder as Eddington looked down at the book. "We bring You this meat," he intoned, "in honor and worship for the gifts You have bestowed upon us, and in hopes that You will continue to bless us. With our left hand we bring it."
"Mi him eck torch!" the workers chanted.
Charlie's body spasmed, the nerves spitting through his muscles, but the officers held him tight. His head whipped this way and that, white hair flying, sweat hitting the hot stone and sizzling.
(BREAK THE PACT BREAK THE PACT BREAK THE)
"With our right hand we touch Your face with love and trust," Eddington said, his voice rising to a preacher-shout. "With our left hand we feed You the blood and meat of the worthy. We renew our pact in blood!" He raised the Bowie knife and the firelight slid along the honed edge like liquid butter.
"Grrritch eck torch!" the VDOT workers chanted.
The fire in his hand was excruciating. The pain in his head was a memory owned by someone else in the face of such agony. He was no longer Charlie Brooks. He was the vessel.
(filleth the hungry soul)
"Keep us in Your thoughts!" Eddington cried. "Keep us in Your thoughts and remember the pact our fathers made with You!"
"ECK TORCH!" the VDOT workers bellowed. Charlie bellowed with them, an inarticulate howl.
"REMEMBER US AND OUR HANDS REMEMBER YOU!" Eddington screamed and stepped forward, the Bowie knife held high to plunge into Charlie's back.
Charlie jerked and his left hand was momentarily freed. It knocked the others off-balance and suddenly he was falling, but not before he saw the cuts on his hand glow orange. Flames poured out of the wounds and consumed his hand, turning it into a fisted torch. A glimmer of Charlie's consciousness remained and he thought of his father, reaching for him.
Charlie hit the ground and it trembled beneath him. Eddington staggered. The VDOT workers stopped mid-chant.
Charlie got to his knees, then to his feet, hunched over, favoring his burning hand. It did not touch his flesh. Now that the fire was freed, all he felt was a comforting warmth.
He turned towards Eddington and the rooster flinched. Charlie opened his mouth and it was not the voice of a man-thing, but the voice of a god, a sound that had never been twisted into human speech; the crack of tree trunks splintering in a high wind, the rumble of boulders crashing in a landslide.
"Our time is done," It said with Charlie's mouth.
He heard the click of guns, but when he turned, Dearborn and the other county boys were already faltering, their faces draining of expression, eyes widening. Some dropped their guns but didn't move their hands at all, as if they hadn't noticed.
He turned back to Eddington and the rooster was frozen to the spot, the Bowie knife still held high, the book still open.
"Who grows weary of your tired faith?" It asked, approaching. Blood dribbled from his mouth. "I do."
He reached towards the book and saw the thin pages were ancient, more animal-skin than real paper, and written long ago with heavy inks. Rust-colored blotches covered the bottom portion.
He laid his burning hand on the page and it erupted in flame. Immediately the ground trembled beneath him and something inhuman roared within his head, a bellow of triumph.
The flames slid from his hand—pink from the heat but otherwise blameless—feeding the fire. More flames tasted Eddington's robed arm, found it good, and consumed it. The VDOT leader couldn't move. He stared at Charlie, his eyes vacant windows to an empty house.
"The final sacrifice," It said with Charlie's mouth, "is all of you."
As if that were the order, the fire took Eddington, consuming him and pulling him down. The man screamed, once, a thin, tea-kettle sound, and then fell flat on his face.
The ground erupted around them, heavy cracks zipping in all directions. The pyre spilled beyond the safety rocks, catching some of the faithful. Harrigan and his men plummeted into a gap that yawned beneath them and then were squashed when the ground moved the opposite way. Few screamed. Few had time to.
Charlie fell and hugged his patch of still-solid ground, his throat a ruin, the shaking earth blessedly cool against his cheek. All around him, the ground tore itself apart. The entire night was alive with the sound of destruction.
(just hold on hold on we will get through this it promised)
And then something crashed into the back of his head, driving his face into the soil, and Charlie Brooks knew no more.
~
Birds called him back.
He opened his eyes and did not immediately know who he was.
He got unsteadily to his feet. His body was one huge knot of bruised muscle. His uniform was destroyed—burned, caked with dirt, torn. His exposed skin was pink and blistered. He touched a hand to his face and his eyebrows were gone, his hair a crisp stubble. The back of his head throbbed, but it didn't necessarily bother him. In an odd way, the pain was fairly pleasant, a part of him glad to be feeling anything at all.
He looked around and saw nothing but leaning trees rising out of a morning fog, exposed roots like frozen tentacles, stones like the worn teeth of ancient monsters poking from loose soil. The breeze, carrying bird morningsong, was cool and blessed against his new skin.
For some reason, he expected bodies.
Hugging his midsection, he walked in no particular direction. It began to come back to him. His name. Who he was. His family. Most of what had happened to him. He tried to remember what had led to this and the only thing that came from the blackness of his memory was of a voice, deep and loud and not even remotely human, intoning, "Our time is done."
The sun rose, but could not pierce the fog. It remained an ill-defined yellow disc that he used to set direction.
Eventually, he found his way back to 526, or what was left of it. The crumbled edges rose twenty feet above him, with a steep hill of loose dirt and stone the only way up.
It took him an hour, but he did it. When, finally, he pulled himself up to what remained of the westbound lanes, he turned and looked back.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
A massive crater, too big to see the far edges of, had taken Anbeten County—and, he assumed, a fair chunk out of Shenandoah, Fauquier, and Warren, too. The distant outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains, rising above the fog nestled within the bowl of the crater, were slumped—more foothills than mountaintops now.
And he heard no sirens, no people. Just the breeze. Just the birds. He might've been the only human being in all of Northern Virginia. He knew that couldn't be true, but, looking out, it seemed possible.
Hunger gnawed into his gut, but he ignored it for the moment, instead sitting down on the edge of the ruined road and staring out at the destruction. He'd seen It come, in the vision that had touched him, had made him a vessel, and, now, he'd seen It leave.
(to where? where would it go? what would it do?)
He assumed he'd find the answer eventually, when he reached civilization or whatever remained of it, but, for now, it seemed enough to sit here, to look at the work a god had done and know that it had been done through him.
(for he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness)
Now the land was alive, but empty.
Like he was, still.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
This book wouldn’t exist without the incredible array of talented authors and artists who brought their absolute best work to the table for this project. I appreciate their efforts more than I can possibly express. I’d also like to especially thank Jennifer and Sera Wilson, Jon Padgett, Mike Davis of the Lovecraft ezine, Michael David Wilson of This is Horror, and Michael Denham of Signal Horizon for all of their hard work in helping in any way they could to get this project off the ground.
I’d also like to thank our backers. Without the hundreds of folks who came together to support our Kickstarter, the same above-mentioned lack of existence would have been inevitable. Every person who donated to our campaign has my deepest gratitude. Thank you all so much:
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