The Cult

by Mink, Jason

  the hallway. The light grew, faded, and was gone.

  THIRTEEN

  The next twelve hours passed in a red haze. Baxter lay spent and unmoving in his bed, his mind afire with delirium. He did not sleep but dreamt nonetheless, of a nightmare world of One Flesh. He flew above jagged mountain spires and vast canyons into bleak endless deserts, through untamed jungles and across fertile, downy plains into surging, unknowable seas. All of the things that swam within those seas, that flew from the trees to the sky, all the creatures of the sand and the forest and the frozen lands to the north, all were born of this One Flesh, bound to it in one way or another. Through membranes and tethers, umbilici and nets of nerves, viscous liquids or bundles of veins that dragged along behind them, all creatures were bound to the surface of their world, even the humanoids. These were the worst to watch as far as Baxter was concerned, living mirrors reflecting back his own kind's folly.

  They toiled in cities of this One Flesh, sculpted by group will into fantastic and awe-inspiring structures. These defied description, much less an understanding of their function, but there were some commonalities to conventional human architecture. Spires were a popular motif, though of no type Baxter had ever beheld before. Striated with veins, fluted or bisected, held in place with pulsing muscle or liquidous gristle, they would flex and bend to accommodate the changing weight within, or turn opaque to block the harsh afternoon light. Bridges and causeways were formed in the same way, with thick, flexible tendons supporting the massive spans of flesh which carried the tide of humanoids back and forth. Places of worship or meditation were abundant, remarkable buildings with wide halls and high ceilings filled with archives and artwork. Much of the surface had been given over to sprawling common areas such as town squares, stadia and a remarkable amphitheater-type structure used for a sort of mass communion. These urban spaces were a marvel under any circumstances, a remarkable testament to this curious race.

  Baxter observed their trials and toils, their triumphs and failures, watched as life went on there as it had for millennia. The humanoid's sex lives were especially fascinating, as their transformative abilities enabled them to evolve their bodies to suit mood and need. New sex organs formed constantly, allowing for mind-bending orgies the likes of which Baxter could barely conceive. He watched the endless variations of their love, shifting, changing, rippling across the constant surface, always connected if only by the barest of strands. Impregnation and birth were such as to be incomprehensible to him, his limited senses unable to process the scenes he viewed. Nonetheless he watched, a powerless voyeur.

  Inevitably, war came to the world of One Flesh. What Baxter perceived as a seemingly-inconsequential act of individual selfishness quickly ballooned into a conflict of staggering proportions. It spread as a virus might, its influence a mass infection of the group body, manifesting as a savage and cancerous violence. Baxter had never imagined anything like it, creatures that shared the same skin suddenly intent on maiming and killing each other in the most unspeakable of ways. Their weapons were startling in their ferocity and power. They had to be, as this was a hearty and especially long-lived race. Baxter watched as they destroyed each other with fiendish ingenuity, reducing their foes to memory in the space of a moment.

  The wounded world bled out into space, vital energies leeched into the vacuum. Heedless to the damage they caused, the humanoids battled on, what was once one now two sides divided by reasons unremembered. Conflicted by the notions of duality and separation, all identity and purpose lost, the One Flesh devolved into anarchy and chaos. Awareness of this otherness created self-destructive feedback, a physical contraction that swept shudder-like across the planet. With one final, absolute gesture, the world rejected itself, the perfect sphere of flesh tearing itself violently asunder. Baxter watched as its seas of flesh boiled away, watched the forests burn and the mountains fell, all fodder now drawn into the maw of the destruction.

  Baxter saw it end and end and end, all potential drawn into a massive rift that swirled at the heart of the destabilized world. Expanding ever outward, it snuffed its own sun first, drawing it into the rapidly-expanding corona of fire and rage. Stars went out one by one, as the wave of entropy rolled ever forward, leaving less than nothing in its wake. For no space remained where those stars once burned, nothing but vast tracts of oblivion, their past a fiction to all but him. All those lives, the souls left unmade in the wave's wake left the universe hemorrhaging, unable to sustain its continuity. The central system went out then, its cosmic cortex blown, leaving it to writhe and seizure in the palsied night. It all came undone then, as all that had been simply never was. No chance. No hope. Nothing but an impossibly-distant sound that might have once been called music…

  "Baxter?"

  He opened his eyes. "Erica?" His voice was crushed glass, painful to her ears. She left him for a moment to fetch a cup of water. Baxter took it cautiously, lifting it to his desiccated lips and sipping. The liquid tasted rank, stagnant, but he drank it nonetheless. After draining half of the glass he set it on the nightstand beside him and sat up. His body protested but complied, allowing him to rise into a seated position. Erica immediately rearranged the pillows to provide him some degree of support and he settled back gingerly. "I wish it had been you."

  She looked at him curiously. "What? You wish what had been me?"

  Baxter rubbed his burning eyes. They were raw and dry, catching his eyelids with every blink. Pulling his hands away he was surprised to find himself again dressed, tucked neatly into a bed with fresh sheets. Had it all just been a dream? No. Baxter knew he had been changed, diminished in a way he could not explain. Something had gone from him, some undefinable aspect inexplicably withdrawn from his personal inventory. He sought some scrap of it, some memory or impression, but none came. Maybe it was already long gone and he was only just noticing -- perhaps it had never actually existed in the first place? Whatever it was, it was beyond him now, an ambiguous presence defined only by its absence.

  "Baxter. Please…" Erica was now sitting beside him, had placed a hand on his arm.

  "I'm sorry, Sister. I failed you." He seemed to be smiling but she knew that could not be. "Here." He retrieved something from its place beside the bed and pressed it into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "They didn't get this. Keep it with you at all times. Give it back... when the time is right."

  She looked at the contents of her hand, at the friend who stared into the unseen distance. The light had gone out of his eyes, left him a stranger staring back at her. Head hanging heavy, Baxter Knowles was a thing to be pitied.

  "No. You… we can't give up, Baxter. There has to be some way." But her pleas went unheard, for Baxter was elsewhere.

  THEN

  The morning after the failed ritual was rainy and gray. In an attempt to boost morale, a large and healthy brunch was made, although only Ashton, Chloe and Adam were seated when Baxter arrived.

  "Morning all," Baxter said quietly, slipping into his usual chair. "Where's everyone else?"

  Ashton smiled. "A good question. Annie is feeling poorly and is recovering in her room. Erica left at some point during the night and has yet to return, I'm afraid. Zachary's whereabouts are… unknown."

  Baxter buttered a slice of toast, noted Ashton looking curiously at Adam. "Unknown? That's odd. Where would he go?"

  Adam snorted dismissively. "He probably got all high and wandered off. He's around here somewhere."

  "Brother Pan is a big boy. I'm sure he's fine," Chloe chimed in.

  Baxter remembered his own night in the woods and was not so sure. It had been at least ten hours since he'd last seen Zak; anything might have happened in that span of time, especially if he'd still been high on the Paq'qa. "He's not in the library? The drawing room?"

  Ashton shook his head. "No and no, I'm afraid. But Fenris and Zephyr are right. Our friend is undoubtedly fine; I'm not worried about him."

  Baxter set down his uneaten toast.

  "I gue
ss you don't have to be."

  With that he rose, leaving the table without a backward glance. Baxter quickly made his way through the manor, passing no one in the long dim hallways. Pausing briefly in the foyer for an umbrella, he opened the heavy doors and stepped outside.

  The rain rolled thick in a bilious sideways mist that made his umbrella worthless. Peering out into the gray morning Baxter was unsure of just where to start. It was unlikely Zak would leave the grounds, so he ignored the road to the east, instead following the drive back towards the gardens. Soon he was behind the manor, plodding through cold pools of rain. He walked up the hillside, pausing at the Wall of Faces, but if the wizened heads knew anything about Zak's disappearance they were keeping it to themselves. Baxter walked on.

  He searched the grounds for over an hour but found nothing unusual, save a charred scrap of damp fabric. Discouraged and more than a bit concerned, Baxter made his way back to the manor. Returning opposite the direction he had come, Baxter passed alongside part of the house he didn't usually see.

  "Pssst! Baxter."

  Baxter turned and followed the sound to its source. It was Zak, grim and quietly smoking in the shadows of one of the manor's secondary entrances. He was damp, but not dripping wet. Baxter shook his head. "Well, look what the cat dragged out."

  Zak shushed him, dragging his by the elbow into the entrance-way. "Keep it down, willya?"

  "Damn it, Zak, I've been wandering around in the rain like a moron. What is going on?"

  "No one knows where I am?"

  Baxter nodded.

  "Good. That's good. I just -- I needed to get out of there for a while."

  Baxter leaned in close. "What's wrong with your face? Are those blisters?"

  Zak batted his friend's hand away. "Yes, mother, they're blisters. Just give me a second, all right?"

  Baxter stepped back reluctantly, giving Zak his space.

  The younger man's face was red, raw in spots; tiny burns dotted his forehead and cheeks, the bridge of his nose and chin. Whatever had occurred, the experience had clearly shaken him, leaving his smoking hand pale and trembling."Last night, I made a mistake. I did something I shouldn't have. I was made to pay for it. That's all. It's over now, okay?"

  Baxter looked at Zak as if seeing him for the first time. "You can't be serious…" he began. But Baxter knew he was serious. Through the cloud of smoke he could see Zak's eyes. They shone with both fearful reverence and a kind of desperate passion that was unsettling to note. "Zak."

  His friend remained mute and Baxter threw up his hands helplessly. "I want to help you. I want to know what happened. But if you refuse to tell me there's nothing I can do. It's up to you, man."

  Zak nodded. "Good, good. We go back." He leaned forward and crushed the smoke out on his heel; as he did his shirt fell open, revealing the swatch of bandage across his chest. Embarrassed, Zak turned and strode out into the rain, leaving a helpless Baxter to follow. They rounded the manor and made their way back towards the main door. As they did Baxter caught a flash of movement in one of the upstairs windows. Though it was only for a moment he was sure it was Annie and found himself shuddering; why, he could not say.

  ~*~

  "This is it?"

  Ashton nodded. "Yes. A little spartan, but he liked the view."

  Baxter whistled. He had been in this room before, but had never guessed at its former occupant. Long disused, it was nonetheless free of dust, its rug recently swept, its bed sheets as crisp and white as his own. "I'm surprised none of the others asked you to see it."

  Ashton raised an eyebrow wryly. "I'm not. The thought's a bit pedestrian, don't you think?"

  Feeling slightly chided, Baxter continued defensively. "Well, no, not really. He was Clautney Iris, after all; I would have thought one of your budding young bibliophiles would be interested in the room he stayed in."

  Ashton shrugged. "They understand he's left nothing for them here. What he wanted them to have is in his books. Tell me, how is your reading coming?"

  Baxter rocked back and forth on his heels. "Eh, I've never been much of a reader. I always get bored and doodle in the margins."

  Ashton chuckled. "Riiight. I'll leave you to it." He turned and left Baxter alone. Surprisingly, the room betrayed no trace of its former occupant. It held nothing save a tall wooden bureau, a writing desk and a single narrow bed. The walls and shelves were empty, unadorned with the art and statuary common to the manor's other rooms. The fire-place had been closed with a heavy oak panel, though its poker and other old tools remained in the cast-iron stand. In truth the whole thing was a bit of a let down. But what did he really expect to find? What was he searching the room for? Clues? Toenail clippings? He could not say for sure. Sunlight streamed through the high, wide windows, illuminating stray motes of dust still in free-fall from the recently-opened curtains. Baxter walked over to the window.

  Iris was right about one thing; the view was lovely from here. Baxter found he could see both the lower and upper gardens, as well as the spires and towers of the distant town. What had the good people of Tull thought of the Ashton clan, he wondered? No locals spoke of family's interest in the occult, let alone their Manor being the home base of one of the twentieth century's most infamous people. It was hard to believe such a thing could remain secret, but obviously the people of Tull kept a lid on local gossip - it was in their best interest to. Still, Baxter was willing to bet there was someone in the town he might speak with, who remembered something the rest of the world had forgotten. His thoughts again turned to Michael Shea. Clearly he knew something. The question was, would he actually talk?

  Baxter and Zak had never mentioned the fact they had met the old man previously. At the time they'd thought him a harmless kook, but now he was showing up at the manor with gun in hand, looking for...? It was impossible to say. He'd been guarded at dinner, playing the old innocent and counting on Zak and Baxter not to spill the beans. As to why they had remained silent, Baxter could not say. There was something about the old miner, a sense of importance Baxter could not justify. He decided it was time to take another trip into town. Turning from the window Baxter began to exit the room when something caught his attention. It was a small sound, a musical trill abruptly cut in mid-stream.

  Baxter swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He hadn't noticed the door before, a single narrow panel set into the southern wall. It lacked a conventional knob, closed instead by a simple metal bolt. He held his breath to listen, steadying himself with one hand against a chair. The sound he'd heard did not repeat and a protracted period of silence followed. Baxter quietly moved across the room towards the door. He reached for the bolt and, after a moment's hesitation, drew it back. Unsurprisingly, the small closet was empty, unremarkable save an odious pattern of cracks in the lower left corner of the plaster wall. Baxter shook his head and laughed, wondering what other startling discoveries he'd make that day. He turned away, but his head snapped back when he heard the sound.

  The thing was impossible, all angles. Cleaving the air it came at Baxter with startling speed, already nearly upon him. In shock Baxter dropped to his knees, saw it flash past where his head had just been. The object banked, stopping just short of the wall to zip back towards him. Luminous, colorless it blazed, playing havoc with the light receptors in his eyes. It made a fearful noise as it flew, a violent slitting sound that violated his ears. Baxter realized he was screaming, a primal reflexive action he had no control over.

  Unwilling to let the object out of his sight he could only back away as it ominously drifted forward. A viscous light pulsed within the faceted enigma, drawing his gaze towards it even as he planned to run. But there was nowhere to run: Baxter was trapped, his back against the fireplace wall. For a second the thing hovered as if considering him, then lanced forward straight at his heart. Baxter's hand came up then, the heavy iron fireplace poker firm in his grip. With an ear-splitting clang it connected the oncoming object, the clawed end striking it head on. A blue-white charge
of energy flashed up the metal rod as the object shattered, splinters of light and sound fading to nothingness around him. In agony Baxter shook his fingers free of the poker and it clattered noisily to the wooden floor.

  Baxter looked at his hand uncomprehendingly; the flesh was seared, split along the knuckles. He tried to flex his fingers but they were balled into a stubborn claw, nails biting into the tender flesh of his palm. He bent them back one by one, uncovering the hard truth of the matter. The scar was perhaps an inch in diameter. Fish-belly white, it looked as though it had been there for years. Baxter sadly noted its contours, tracking the shape of it with his index finger. The sight of it filled him with hopelessness, a sense that he had at last gone too far. He stared at the sign of Paq'q and wept.

  NOW

  His balls itched. While he tried his best to ignore it Baxter found he could not. It was a maddening sensation, one which had come to occupy his full attention over the course of breakfast. Beginning early that morning, it had only grown worse as the day wore on, with his testicles now red and raw from the constant scratching. What it was Chloe had done to him he could not say: it didn't appear to be a venereal disease, or at least not one that he was aware of. There were no blisters or sores, just a constant dry itch. Perhaps a hot soak was in order. Baxter rose from the place at the table.

  Zak watched his friend shuffle off, caught Erica's eye as Baxter left the room. She looked grave, her lips pursed, her usually-rosy cheeks ashen. No one else seemed to care, however, continuing to eat with a kind of mechanical abandon, shoveling the ill-tasting food down without tasting it. Zak had pushed his plate away, unable to consume the runny eggs and desiccated bacon he'd been served. Even by his low standards the coffee was undrinkable, a thick sludge more suited to patching holes in asphalt than human consumption. He feared he'd never taste the real thing again.