The Deeps (Book Three of The Liminality)

by A. Sparrow

  It collapsed, but from the wreckage, three smaller creatures, vaguely resembling crabs, reassembled themselves. Sergei’s men had reloaded and returned, appearing at the doors to either end of the gym. The crabs rushed them, oblivious to the spray of bullets pouring into them. I wasn’t even controlling them anymore. Not consciously, anyhow. They seemed autonomous.

  A pincer seized one of the gun men and flung him through a window. His partner disappeared in a tornado of splintered wood. I shrugged off the still writhing rope, popped up off the bench and ran over to Ellen, still bound to that chair. I had never seen eyes so wide. It was almost like she was scared of me.

  “Don’t look at me like that! I’m coming to help you.”

  “H-how are you doing this? Who … what … are you?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get the heck out of here.” I grabbed a set of pruners off the table and snipped her free of the chair.

  “Come on!” I grabbed her hand and ran for the middle door, where one of the crab things waited to escort us. We had to take the long way around the edge of the gym. The whole middle of the court had been torn up, exposing the concrete of the crawlspace.

  We passed some heaped up along one wall. Someone had left a canvas courier bag on top of them. On impulse, I snatched it up.

  One of the wooden crabs was blocking the door. I twiddled the splinter but couldn’t get it to move. The thing was truly on its own now.

  I went instead to the windows, slid one open and punched out a screen. I hopped down onto the soft, deep cedar mulch surrounding a fresh planting of rhododendrons in the flower bed and helped Ellen do the same.

  Two of the crabs were charging and menacing another of Sergei’s men who had tried to make his way down from the main house. The car that had brought us here was gone, along with a couple others that had been parked in the drive, including the Mercedes SUV that I had assumed to be Sergei’s wheels.

  But there was another car parked halfway down the drive next to a heap of uprooted stumps. A Cadillac, old but gleaming. A guy in a suit and raincoat stood by the door, waving at us, waving us over. It was the guy from the airport, the one we had seen holding the sign with my name on it.

  But there was no way I was climbing into another stranger’s car, not after all this, and from the way Ellen balked and veered away from him, I could tell she felt the same.

  We dodged through piles of gravel and boulders, parts of some fancy water feature under construction—an unfinished koi pond, a fake brook and waterfall—and plunged into the piney woods beyond.

  Chapter 10: Trains

  We hurried over springy beds of rusty, fallen needles, through one of the few patches of woods the landscapers chose to preserve. I worried we might find ourselves hemmed in by chain link or barbed wire, but there was only a low stone wall, freshly quarried, lichen-free, marking the boundary.

  Back at the house, a motorcycle engine roared to life and whined through its gears. We hopped the wall and descended into dense and swampy underbrush.

  “This ground’s all soggy!” said Ellen, hesitating.

  “Better wet than dead! Come on!”

  We pushed into water that started ankle deep but steadily deepened. Our footsteps kicked up the musky odor of decay.

  The viny tangles soon gave way to an open understory beneath a stand of large cedars. It was even swampier here though, with little hummocks of bright green sphagnum moss like micro-islands among the amoeboid pools.

  “Stick to the hummocks,” I said. “Some of those pools are deeper than they look.”

  “I don’t know about this, James. We could get lost in here.”

  “That’s the whole point,” I said. “Would you rather be found. By them?”

  The motorcycle was moving closer, and another throatier rumble that sounded like a Harley, had joined it.

  “I suggest we keep slogging ahead. These guys of Sergei’s … they don’t strike me as the most outdoorsy types. As long as we stay away from any roads, we should be alright.”

  She just stood there and stared at me. “I still don’t understand,” said Ellen. “How did you do … what you did?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t understand it myself. It’s not supposed to happen here.”

  “Here?”

  “This world. This side of reality. I mean, there are places I know where dreams rule and anything is possible. But not here. Crap like that isn’t supposed to happen here. This place is supposed to be solid. Or so I thought.”

  “So what are you? Some kind of witch? I mean … a wizard?”

  “I have some skills. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I knelt on a hummock and patted the side of the courier bag. There was something heavy and hard inside. I opened the flap, reached in and pulled out a gun. ‘Pietro Beretta. Made in Italy,’ was inscribed on the side of the barrel.

  “Holy crap. This’ll come in handy.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “It’s just a gun. What’s there to know?” I said. “You pull the trigger, right? I mean, maybe there’s a safety.”

  I fished around in the bag again and pulled out a tightly coiled wad of hundred dollar bills secured with a heavy elastic.

  “Now, this will really come in handy,” I said.

  “Whoa!” said Ellen.

  I sorted through the rest of the contents, keeping a fleece pullover, a lighter, a pack of throat lozenges and some extra ammo. I ditched the porno magazines and packs of cigarettes.

  “You shouldn’t just toss that stuff. They’ll see that we came this way.”

  “Somehow, I doubt they’ll be sending out the bloodhounds. They ain’t coming this way. As long as we stick to the swamp till nightfall, we’ll be okay.” I tossed Ellen the fleece. “Chilly? Put this on.”

  I leapt over a pool to the next hummock and pressed on deeper into the swamp.

  ***

  Hours later, we were still slogging through the mire. Ellen was a real trooper. Even though she had taken a couple flops into some of the deeper pools, she kept right up with me, never flagging. She was soaked and muddy from head to toe. Twigs twined all through her hair. She bled from a scratch below one eye.

  Those damned motorcycles persevered, weaving up and down the back roads. I’m sure those guys would much rather be out looking for us than trying to explain what happened to Sergei.

  We tried to stay away from roads, but there was one, a state route with a double yellow line down the middle, that we had no choice but to cross. Traffic wasn’t the problem. Hardly any cars went by. We could hear the motorcycles coming from a mile away and we could even tell if they were getting closer or not by their engines’ Doppler effect.

  We hunkered in the bushes until everything seemed clear.

  “Now!” I said, and we scurried across.

  “Oh crap!” I said, looking over my shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” said Ellen.

  She took one look at the roadway and she knew. Our soggy shoes had left behind two clear sets of wet tracks on the dry pavement. I ripped off a branch and tried smearing them around, but that didn’t work so well.

  I stood there on the shoulder, pondering my work, when the treble in the roar of a four-stroke engine inched up a notch. A motorcycle had turned in our direction.

  “Run!” I said.

  We hauled ass, splashing through the swamp as fast as we could. We got ourselves behind a screen of trees as a motorbike roared by, its black helmeted rider visible between the gaps.

  He kept on rolling, thank God. Good thing Sergei’s guys weren’t too observant.

  It was starting to cloud over. I hoped for rain. That would cover our tracks for sure if we needed to cross any more roads.

  But Ellen had taken another plunge and was shivering like a jackhammer. At least I had managed to stay dry from the waist up.

  “Hang on, let me see if this works.” I grabbed a hunk of dripping sphagnum, squeezed out the water and placed it on the bark of a fallen tree. I r
etrieved my magic splinter and touched its tip to the moss.

  Nothing happened.

  “Shit. So much for my special powers.”

  I pocketed the splinter, turned and walked away. Ellen shrieked.

  “It’s … growing!” she said.

  Indeed, the clump of sphagnum was expanding. I got out the splinter again and went to work, lengthening the fibers, weaving it into cloth, working from the memory of a Patagonia jacket my mom had got me when we went up to Cleveland once for Christmas. Quilted nylon shell, stuffed with down. Mine came out looking a little crude. Might not be fashionable, but at least it was functional.

  She peeled over her sodden fleece and pulled it on.

  “Now try to stay on your feet,” I said, taking the fleece back from her and wringing it out. “Take small steps. Watch out for holes.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “It’s actually … quite cozy. But what about you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, swinging the fleece over my shoulder. “I can wear this one when it dries. And if I need to, I can make another jacket.”

  “You are … amazing,” she said.

  “Yeah. I’m special,” I said, with bitterness.

  Something splashed behind us. Footsteps. Lots of them.

  “Oh crap.”

  Ellen dropped to her knees and crawled behind a bush. “Are we … are we being followed?”

  “Shush!” I fumbled to retrieve the gun from the courier bag and slipped behind the trunk of a big cedar. I fumbled with it, unable to figure out how to undo the safety and chamber a round. But then something clicked. It seemed ready to fire. I guess I would find out.

  We kept still, waiting under cover as the splashing continued, very regular, almost mechanical. Whoever, whatever was following was taking a bee line straight for us. It was more than one person, or at least, more than one set of legs.

  I looked at that little gun and felt inadequate. Sergei’s people were likely to have some heavy firepower. Automatic weapons. Assault rifles. There was no way I could survive a tussle with them.

  But this swamp was big and occluded enough that maybe they would just pass right on by. But as I looked back the way we had come, I could see all the muddy patches where our footsteps had disturbed the water. They led right up to where we were hiding.

  “Listen. If things get hairy, you take off running and don’t stop. Got it? I’ll try to hold them back.”

  “James, no! They’ll shoot you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself.”

  The splashing picked up its pace. They were zeroed in on us now. I took a deep breath and moved out from behind the tree, gun at the ready.

  Ellen dared to look, and shrieked.

  A scraggly collection of planks from Sergei’s parquet floor stopped dead just before us, straddling a pair of hummocks. It was shaped vaguely like a spider, with two forelegs bristling with nails, waving like feelers.

  “What does it want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think … I think it’s a piece of my will. My weaving might have summoned it.”

  “Make it go away,” said Ellen, her voice rising in pitch. “I … don’t like spiders.”

  “I … uh … I don’t know how.”

  “If it’s a piece of your will, then will it out of here.”

  “I told you. I don’t know how! This has never happened to me before. I mean, usually, the things I make, don’t persist. And they certainly don’t walk around looking for me.”

  “We can’t have it following us,” said Ellen. “I can’t handle it. And … and it’ll attract attention.”

  “Shoo!” I said. “Go away.”

  The thing just stood there waving its feelers.

  I looked around and there were some bleached-out leaves clinging to the dead branch of a beech tree. On a whim, I took out my splinter, pointed it and twiddled it.

  A whole branch full of leaves plucked themselves free and fluttered over to the parquet monster. They hovered for a bit, defying gravity, before alighting on what passed for the creature’s head. As soon they touched, the planks collapsed en masse, splashing into a pool. But whatever had animated them moved into the leaves, which folded and wrapped themselves into a headless bird-like thing the shape and size of a sparrow.

  It flew over and landed on my shoulder.

  Ellen gawked. “Well, that’s a little better, I guess. Still freaky, but ... better.”

  “We gotta keep moving,” I said. Those damned motorcycles still zipped and buzzed down the network of roads as they scoured the countryside.

  Ellen couldn’t stop staring at my new familiar. “So that’s your will, huh?”

  “Yeah. A piece of it, I guess.”

  She gave me a goofy smile that was oddly sexy. “How about we call it Billy, then?”

  I just shook my head and looked away. “Let’s go,” I said, pressing on.

  ***

  It was getting darker, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the clouds getting thick. I wore no watch and neither did Ellen.

  High above the tops of the cedars a helicopter appeared, gliding sidewise with the wind.

  “What are the chances that Sergei guy has an air force?” said Ellen.

  “That’s probably a traffic chopper,” I said. “In which case, that might be the Jersey Turnpike over there.”

  “So should we head that way?” said Ellen. “I mean, if we can find a rest stop, we could … like … catch a ride, with a trucker or something.”

  “No. I don’t like rest stops,” I said. “Too obvious. Too many shady characters. I say we just keep walking. Find a town.”

  It was getting darker by the minute. This was no mere change in the weather. Clearly, the sun was going down.

  The motorcycles had finally fallen silent. Maybe they had given up, or we had just moved out of earshot. Or maybe they were waiting in ambush. At least the darkness would conceal us. I wondered if a guy like Sergei might own stuff like night vision scopes for midnight drug deals and such. Not much we could do but stay alert.

  As night fell, we came to a causeway carrying a set of train tracks across an open marsh. I had enough of slogging through the slop. The time had come to take our chances on dry land. Ellen certainly didn’t object. We had both had enough of the swamp.

  Atop the graveled berm, I stared both ways down the tracks. There were lights in both directions. Civilization beckoned.

  “Which way do you think we should go?” I said. “Left or right?”

  “From the looks of the sky, I’m pretty sure left is north,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Is that what we want.”

  “Well, it’s … home,” she said. “Used to be, for me, anyhow. I grew up in Maine.”

  “So, you want to go home?”

  “Not particularly,” she said. “My parents kind of … uh … disowned me.”

  “Well, I don’t particularly want to go south,” I said. “Too many bad memories.”

  “Let’s go North, then,” said Ellen. “I’m still friendly with my Grams. And she knows how to keep a secret.”

  We followed the tracks across the marsh, and into sandier, drier terrain, thick with pines. I got nervous as we approached an overpass, worried someone might posted there and watching for us. I didn’t see any parked cars, so we kept on going.

  “How about we follow this road?” said Ellen, hopefully.

  “Uh … I’d rather not. They might still be out looking for us.”

  “If a car comes, we can just duck into the woods.”

  “Nah. Not yet. I’d feel more comfortable if we put a little more distance between us and the swamp.”

  Ellen sighed. “Oh. Alright.”

  As we passed beneath the road, a truck rattled over our heads. It was pitch black. I had to tap the rail with my foot to make sure I was going straight.

  “I’ve always been liked the darkness,” said Ellen. “Makes me feel cozy. I’ve got
great night vision. I guess I’m a night person.”

  “It shows. In your complexion.”

  “I’m not that pale, am I?”

  “You’re pretty pale. In a good way.”

  “Right.”

  We emerged under a starless sky. But the clouds caught the glow of a nearby town. We had to be close. It was somewhere around the bend.

  “Maybe we can find a station. Get you on a train headed north.”

  “Me? What about you?”

  “I’m not so sure I want to come along. It doesn’t really matter where I go. As soon as I can stash my body somewhere, someplace safe and cozy, I’m tuning out. I’ve got business … elsewhere.”

  “What do you mean ‘stash your body?’”

  “This is gonna sound kind of weird, but … I travel. Not me, physically. My spirit. I go into these trances and my spirit just kind of … goes off. It doesn’t matter where I am. I can where I need to go from anywhere. So—”

  “I knew it! You’re like, some kind of shaman.”

  “What? No. I’m just—”

  “You are a shaman. That bird thingie on your shoulder is your familiar.”

  “O-kay. Whatever. Listen, I don’t need to cramp your style. You should just go home, or … to your Grams or wherever you were going before we got waylaid.”

  “I still think you should come with me. Sergei will find you here. How far did we walk. A mile or two? We’re still in his backyard. You can’t hang out here. They’ll get you. At least, go to a city or something. Or, just come with me to my grandma’s in Naugatuck, Connecticut. She remarried, so she’s got a different last name. Sergei would never expect you to go to Naugatuck. I mean, who goes to Naugatuck?”

  “Hey, listen. You really don’t want to be caught up in all this. I’m bad news. Hang around me, I’ll only bring you trouble.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I want some trouble in my life.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m no Charles Manson. I don’t need no Squeaky Fromme.”

  “Huh? What the hell you talking about?”

  “That cult guy. From the sixties.”

  “Cult? Get over yourself. I’m not worshipping you. I’m just … interested … in whatever it is you’re up to. I mean. It’s not like I have anything else going on in my life. You know … I’ve never seen … magic … before.”