The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  THE CULT

  Jason R. Mink

  Copyright © 2014 Jason R. Mink

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration and design copyright © 2014

  by Jason R. Mink

  For absent friends.

  Table of Contents

  ONE 1

  TWO 13

  THREE 23

  FOUR 33

  FIVE 45

  SIX 63

  SEVEN 75

  EIGHT 89

  NINE 105

  TEN 125

  ELEVEN 155

  TWELVE 173

  THIRTEEN 193

  FOURTEEN 219

  FIFTEEN 239

  SIXTEEN 263

  SEVENTEEN 279

  EIGHTEEN 301

  NINETEEN 317

  TWENTY 343

  TWENTY-ONE 367

  EPILOGUE 383

  O NE

  The first thing Baxter noticed was a change in the wind. The sea breeze that blew in through the hut's single window was usually soothing, bringing with it the taste of salt and the subtle odors of the tide. It had shifted in the last hour, the fresh air growing warm and heavy. The taste in his mouth was now that of copper, and the mysterious scents of the ocean had given way to the clear sharp tang of rot. He forced himself to rise from the wooden cot and cautiously made his way to the window. The room seemed to tilt, sliding to one side beneath him. Baxter steadied himself on the edge of the table, blinking his scrambled vision into focus. He'd been mixing his meds again. Out of boredom, he told himself, but he knew it was a lie. He lied to himself a lot.

  At the window he gagged into his hand. For a change the stench was coming from outside of his cottage. Baxter pushed the flimsy drape aside and peered through the thick canopy of leaves towards the beach beyond. Something was happening below, though from where he stood he could not say what. There was a commotion, the singsong language of the island people carried to him on the stinking wind. He could hear children crying and men shouting, but above all came the sound of the village elder chanting. Shaman of the island, his words were electric, sharp slaps and deep shocks that buzzed through the air. Baxter reeled. He could feel the power in the old man's incantations though he did not understand them, understanding from a distance something was terribly wrong.

  Baxter turned from the window, instantly sobered. He pulled his shirt from its nail and slipped it on. The button-down no longer fit, hanging slack and shapeless on his wasted frame. He made for the doorway but stopped to retrieve a pint bottle of scotch from under the cot. No sense in facing the unknown without fortification.

  Barefoot, Baxter walked out of the small cottage and down the path. It was odd. In the two months he'd spent on the island he'd never seen the village so deserted. Only a few of the older women were about, whispering to each other in the doorways of their slant houses. There was nothing unusual in that, as they always whispered when Baxter was around. What was unsettling was the furtiveness with which they spoke, and the ominous gestures they made with their hands. Baxter hurried down the path, taking a swig off of the bottle as he rounded the bend and came within sight of the action.

  A knot of islanders crowded the sandy dunes above the beach, excitement a quicksilver thread between them. Pockets of rapid speech broke against each other, were lost in the roar of the surf. Women held back their fear-eyed children while a small group of men strode forward into the caliginous tide. Sunlight flashed against dark bodies, along the blue-green of the ocean waves, across Baxter's eyes with a blinding glare. Shading them, he watched as the beach was stained black, the sand streaked with gelatinous waste. A large mass could be glimpsed between the moving bodies, it's surface taut and mottled. Baxter strained to get a better look.

  It was an enormous squid, or had been before it met its gruesome fate. Its mantle was the length of three men laid end to end, and was easily as wide as a car. Its head had been crushed and appeared masticated, vicious indentations showing where it had been chewed. Large empty sockets were all that remained of the great beast's eyes: a tiny crab crawled out of the darkness and skittered back into the tide. The decomposing flesh glinted in the bright sunlight: when poked with a stick the skin gave with a small pop, leaving a seeping circular wound. The squid's lifeless tentacles swam flaccidly in the vile tide, their remaining sucker-tips rent and tattered.

  Above it, the gulls were calling madly, crazed by the hot stink of the thing. The men in the group with sticks yelled and waved, but this only agitated the great birds more. They grew bold, landing just out of reach, snatching up the tastier morsels and then flying off when chased.

  It was then that the shaman dispersed the crowd. He gestured with his staff and the small group joined the others on the bluff. Baxter watched as the old man drew a wide circle around the sea-thing, walking out into the tide to do so. Kneeling, the shaman drove his staff into the bank and walked widdershins around the circle. Seven times he traveled its span, scooping up sand with each rotation. Kneeling before his staff he closed his eyes and began to whisper into his cupped fingers. Long moments passed before he rose, rubbing his hands and sprinkling sand up and over the putrescent mass. He began speaking again but his words words were lost in the screeching of the gulls. As he finished he spun as if on a pivot, his arm springing up and out, one root-like finger pointing directly at Baxter. The old man's toothless mouth shaped some impossible word, then he abruptly turned, retrieved his staff and stalked off down the beach.

  Stunned, Baxter leaned on a nearby tree for support. Now trembling, he watched the men return to the carcass, this time with large knives. Heedless of the oppressive stink they began hacking the thing to pieces. Maybe they were planning on using it as bait, or perhaps this was simply the easiest way of removing it. Baxter did not stick around to find out, instead taking the high winding path above the beach. The sound of the hacking knives followed him, chasing him from the scene. He began running in an attempt to catch up with the Shaman, but the old man had somehow already vanished from the beach below. What had he meant by pointing to Baxter like that? Was he implying that Baxter was somehow responsible for this, calling him out in front of the entire village? From the beach came the wail of a child crying "Pramba! Pramba!" Baxter didn't know many of the islander's words, but he did know "monster!"

  Baxter wandered back to his hut. Perhaps staying on at Alquerra was not such a good idea after all. He'd arrived on the tiny island with no expectations but was quickly beguiled by this tiny patch of paradise. Never large enough to be a major tourist destination, it had retained most of its natural beauty, staying lush and green despite its proximity to the mainland. While poor, the islanders had proven to be kind and good-humored, accepting Baxter and his eccentricities with little fanfare. This was a big plus, as anonymity was his main reason for coming. He'd needed to get away from it all and had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams - at least, until today.

  He decided to ask Abbey about the incident later in town. Though he could not speak the native tongue Baxter was still able to communicate, as most of the islanders had cheerfully accepted English as a second language. The children spoke it fluently; they would often mob him on the street and beg him to tell them storie
s. That was his identity on the island, the strange American who delighted in frightening children with his terrible tales. Baxter didn't mind. The stories he told of vengeful sky-gods and soul-sucking corpses were drawn directly from the island's own mythology, and the fact they actually scared his listeners was a rare delight to him. In truth, those off-the-cuff tales were the closest thing to writing he'd done in nearly a year. At another time the hastily-improvised stories might have fired his imagination, but now he forgot them as soon as they were spoken. His priorities lay… elsewhere.

  Baxter reached the little hut he rented for twelve dollars a week American and dropped heavily onto the single wicker chair. He took a battered metal tin from the middle of the table and opened it.

  "Oh, dear."

  The medicine cabinet was nearly empty. A handful of miscellaneous pills, a small packet of reddish powder, and a foil-wrapped lump of hashish were all that remained. Not good. Baxter dreaded the idea of making another run to the mainland, but knew this pitiful stash wouldn't last him the weekend. Hands shaking, he finished the scotch in two pulls, then set the empty bottle on the floor along the wall beside the others. He fished the small ball of hash and a bent and blackened safety pin from the junk at the bottom of the tin.

  Baxter carefully poked a hole in one side of the foil, then stuck the entire ball onto the end of the pin. Lighting a shrunken nub of candle with his trusty Zippo, he began waving the foil ball over the small flame. After a few moments there was a hiss and Baxter lifted the pin to his lips, inhaling the tiny geyser that shot out of the hole. It swirled within him, expanding in a sweet-tasting violet cloud. He held it to the best of his ability but his lungs were weak from smoking the potent, tar-like substance. Wracked by a coughing fit, Baxter pounded his knee with a fist and waited it out, moments later giving himself a do-over; soon, a warm and pleasant sensation began to spread through his body. He then cut a small line of the reddish powder, which he snorted with a dented piece of plastic straw. The feeling immediately took wing, the combination of chemicals now singing through him. It wasn't enough.

  Baxter could still see the rotten husk of the sea-thing, still smell its pungent oily reek: he could still hear the damnable chanting of the shaman though it had long since stopped. Baxter wondered: had he brought misfortune to Alquerra? He knew something had long dogged him, kept him from staying in any one place for too long. Would it all come to a head here, on this tiny speck in the middle of the Pacific? That would be ironic. The island was the most serene and forgiving place he had ever known. If it was possible for a man like him to find sanctuary he would have found it here. But now…

  Baxter cut another line, this one considerably thicker. He chased it with a swig from a fresh pint of scotch. Soon he was barreling along like a freight-train, twitching and rocking, and tapping an unsharpened pencil incessantly upon the tabletop. The roar in his head drowned out the beach-sounds, the villagers, the gulls and, finally, his own heartbeat. Baxter let the sensation claim him, closing his eyes and leaning the chair back against the flimsy wall. Here was the serenity he truly sought; not the sublime joy of some exotic scene, not the bliss that comes of material or spiritual attainment: it was only in the utter dissolution of his conscious mind, in the dissipation of his spirit that he knew true peace. Sober, he could not help but recall the past. Even in sleep the memories came unbidden, the shadowed faces and forgotten places of years before welling up again to haunt, accuse and ultimately condemn him.

  Baxter often wondered how the others handled it; he'd been tempted many times to call one of them and ask, but could never bring himself to do so. How they dealt with their memories remained a mystery to him. Baxter simply stayed high. It was a sound strategy and one he intended to implement further, but he passed out then.

  When Baxter woke it was dark. By the light of his Zippo he made his way to the doorway. The night was starless, suffocating. Down the well-worn path he staggered, past the quiet huts and slanting shadowed buildings. All was quiet in the village, his footsteps the only sound. In time his light began to wane, the flame dancing low and blue. Baxter stopped, watched the fire until it died. He tossed the old lighter into the shadows and moved on.

  It was no brighter on the beach, the black sky merging with the endless sea. Baxter had intended to walk out to meet it, to surrender himself to the ocean and simply be done with it all. He knew it was why he had come here; this should be the time. And yet… the sheer blankness of the world around him made his resolve buckle. While walking out into the ocean at dawn or dusk seemed somehow romantic and apropos, giving himself up to this void was a terrifying thought. In that moment Baxter understood something far worse than death awaited him, something he simply could not avoid. With a strangled cry of defeat he turned and staggered home

  ~*~

  Baxter woke to a low but damnably constant knocking. He cleared his throat and tried to speak but only a dry wheeze came. Upending the remains of last night's pint into his mouth Baxter croaked something incomprehensible and dropped heavily back onto the cot. For what seemed like forever nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, the door creaked open.

  "Mister Baxter?"

  Baxter opened one eye. Standing before him was Aru, the post-master's son. He held a package in his hands.

  "For me? Are you sure?" Baxter asked, dubious. Aru only smiled.

  "Err, okay. Just, uh, put it on the table."

  Baxter glanced at the table, noted his stash container lying on its side amidst a litter of paraphernalia.

  "Actually, you'd better just give it to me."

  Aru approached, watching him warily. Baxter didn't take it personally; he caught those sorts of looks all the time. Cautiously, the boy handed him a large rectangular box wrapped in shipping paper.

  "It's light," Baxter said, surprised. Aru merely shrugged and smiled again.

  "Well, okay. Thanks again."

  Aru smiled wider. "Sir. I need you to sign." The boy extended a battered clipboard and pen.

  "Uh, sure, sure. Here ya go."

  Baxter scribbled onto the line and passed the board back. By now Aru's smile threatened to bisect his head.

  "Thank you very much, sir. And you have good day."

  "Hey, yeah, thanks."

  "Enjoy your package."

  And with that the post-master's son vanished, on to more pressing concerns. Baxter watched him go and rubbed his eyes. Alone again, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up, shaking the box. From inside came a muted thunking. He examined the wrapping. No return address, no indication of from where it was sent.

  Baxter tossed the box into the corner and rose from the cot. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. Anyone who knew he was here had to know they were invading his privacy, and Baxter had no desire to reward their discourtesy with his attention. He wandered to the window and wiped the sleep from his eyes. It was a beautiful morning on the island, almost identical to the morning he'd first arrived two months ago. The sun was high and bright, the air clean and sharp; the dappled light through the trees fell across his inner wall, making beautiful patterns on the stained wallpaper.

  Baxter went to the table and gathered the remaining stash in the container. It was paltry; now that the hash and speed were gone there was little that looked appealing. He hooked down some discolored pills, chased them with a taste from a fresh pint and scavenged a few butt-ends from the bottom of the container. Skinning them, Baxter rolled a lumpy, ill-proportioned joint and smoked that. The island pot was harsh but strong and Baxter put the joint out halfway through; might as well save something for the afternoon. In a daze he wandered outside.

  The little village had returned to normal after yesterday's chaos. Brightly-clad women chatted on corners again while their children ran in the dirt road; a merchant steered his mule to market past two older men playing chess outside the island's single café. Dogs chased each other, bugs bit, and small birds bathed in the dust. Tiny lizards and frogs seemed to cover every green surface.
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  Baxter entered the café. Gently pushing through the throng, he moved around the clean but battered counter, through a low archway and into an adjoining room. Slipping through the maze-like sprawl of tables Baxter made his way to the back; there, he passed through a set of western-style swing doors and entered a narrow hallway.

  The room at the end of the hall seemed to have been built around the woman; Baxter could not imagine how she could have possibly squeezed back there on her own. To call her fat would be a gross understatement. Hefty and obese both failed to hit the mark, while rotund was only suggestive of her sheer bulk. Corpulent came to mind but lacked the glamour and grandeur of her largeness. No single word alone could express her sheer scale, but her name was Abbey.

  “Ah, Story-Teller. Welcome. Are you come to court ol' Abbey?"

  Baxter smiled. "Of course, my flower." He took her ham-like hand in his and kissed it, and she laughed in delight. Her swollen fingers smelled of roses. "I need to go to the mainland, Abbey."

  She looked at him and clucked in surprise. "Already? That's quite the habit you have, Mr. Knowles."

  He felt a flicker of shame. "Yeah, well. I'm on vacation."

  She stared at him reproachfully. "Gonna be a be permanent vacation at the rate you're going." She leaned in, looking at him closely. "Hey, I ask you a question. Why you don't talk to any girls? I know many pretty ones; they say you don't even look. Why, huh? You podeyo?"

  Baxter laughed at the colorful island expression for homosexual. "Come on, Abbey - you know you bewitched me the first time we met. I haven't been able to think of another girl since." At this they both laughed. "Seriously, Abbey. How soon?"

  "Not today baby. Tomorrow, maybe?"

  "Damn."

  Abbey wiped her brow. "Maybe waitin' is not such a bad thing, hey? You get a pretty girl, you take a swim, go for a walk on beach - enough with all the dope for ten minutes, okay?"