Janus’s words almost seemed to come from the goat-faced mask strapped to the back of his head. “Alright, damn it, I admit it—this is a rather fun game!”
The four of us joined our silences together, and the resulting void was so fragile, a moth’s shadow could have shattered it. The train seemed to vanish, leaving nothing but motion behind. The earth shrank to the size of blades, stun guns, and masks as eight cold eyes rose like killing moons above the surface of the diminished world. The shadows chose their champions and gathered around them, cheering.
I finally achieved a decent look at the killer who’d drawn my name. He was known as the Mad Merc. A killer of some repute, he was rumored to have been quite the accomplished mercenary. His last known act as a sane killer was the paid investigation of a residential block that had suddenly and quite mysteriously appeared in the middle of the city of Nailwood, compliments of the Darkness, naturally. No one knew precisely what had happened after he entered the mysterious location, but a good many persons are frightfully aware of what he did when he left it—he murdered and mutilated from one side of the country to the other, his services now free of charge.
I had once acquired a small bit of rumor that indicated many of his victims included popular proponents of the very unpopular Black Sun Theory—the tedious and vastly incorrect notion that a heretofore unseen phase of the sun caused the Great Darkness, its unusually high output of some type of radiation or another driving us all mad, and then saddling us with amnesia once the unique solar phase concluded. If the Mad Merc had indeed performed such a service, I would view his deeds as rather practical and not insane at all. Still, there was certainly some kind of madness upon him—in him—but it was frozen into a killing thing, disallowed from spilling out uncontrollably, channeled by skills that had been perfected over a lifetime of professional murder. Whatever his past, at that moment he was a large and volatile shadow, one with a heavily modified stun gun at his side and a smile painted across an otherwise ordinary gas mask.
Magnificently insane and incredibly crafty he may have been, but he wasn’t particularly fast. My left hand crushed the gloved fingers around his weapon as my right denied his windpipe air, all before his eyes could do more than widen in shock. I slowly lifted him from the floor, my fingertips registering the intricate snapping sensations of his collapsing throat. Unbeknownst to me, his free hand had been busy clawing for the machete strapped to his leg. The weapon cleaved into my side, sending blood rushing down my leg and onto the floor. I was not amused by his willpower, or even his resourcefulness, so I kicked him unceremoniously down the aisle and into the sliding door at its end, hoping the resulting impact might take the fire out of him.
He tumbled past the rows of seats, catching himself with outstretched hands. However, my time with his throat in my hand had not been spent idly—I had successfully dislodged my sister from his chest armor. As he dropped into a crouch, my sister took him in the gut, just below his chest armor. I was unsure if she had managed to find a vital organ, but the scuffle had also compromised my secondary target—the breathing hose of his mask.
I rushed forward, my remaining sister laughing as his machete tried once more to taste my blood. She leapt into the oncoming blade, sliding merrily down its length, turning it away. Once deflected far enough, my sister reversed course and hissed across his fingers, sending at least one of them and the machete tumbling to the floor. In an effort to pull away from me, his bloodied hand thrust the stun gun to the wound in my side. But I was no longer in the mood for falling and writhing. Despite the truly exquisite explosion of pain, I crushed the stun gun and the hand holding it. His breathing was heavy beneath the mask as blood loss and his own knock-out gas sipped leisurely at his consciousness.
I tore the mask from his face and held him close to my ear. “What did you see in that place that should not have been? Tell me quickly, so that I might put the memory to good use after you are gone.”
The mercenary wrapped his crushed hand around the back of my neck and pushed his lips close to my ear. “I saw a place that couldn’t quit the Darkness. It . . . downright refused ta go. I wanted ta stay forever, but the things living there told me ta leave and never come back. They were so incredible.” The memory seemed to renew him as he continued. “They were in love with the mystery of things. Some of ‘em just sat at tables, all huddled together in the dark streets, sippin’ cold drinks . . . watchin’ and applaudin’ the gigantic freakin’ things that floated around the sky, blottin’ out the colored stars that zipped around in all directions. Others were just lyin’ in the trees, gazin’ without eyelids at things that were never meant to be seen all at once. You would’ve loved it . . . I know you would’ve. I dreamed yer dream, remember? I needed ta get back there, but the only way back was ta win this freaking game. Ya see, they want me to help their little parcel of unreality spread—that’s the only way they’ll let me come back. But fer them ta stretch out, they need the world to loosen up, become a little less rigid, more bendable. So I been busy takin’ out the load-bearing beams, ya know? The jerk’s whose disbelief makes it hard for the roof to collapse, so’s the whole thing can be torn down ta make room for a completely new place, a better place. That’s overkill, I know, but I like to make sure a thing’s done the right way. So here I am, with the rest’a you, tryin’ ta be the last wolf standing. And I mean ta be. Cuz their aint no way yer gonna stop this house from comin’ down, big man!”
The Mad Mercenary had been up to more than merely demonstrating his gymnastic ability when I’d thrown him from me—he’d been collecting one of his fallen handguns. Three bullets entered my belly. Not wishing to accommodate a fourth, I whipped my sister across his throat.
The killer’s body fell to the floor, his head remaining firmly in my grasp. I turned, eagerly expecting to see Janus and Jack locked in their deadly contest. Jack was fully present, but Janus—his head and both his faces—hung pendulously from the Soul Carver’s clenched fist. Jack, his pumpkin face aglow, raised his empty hand and waved furiously. “Happy Halloween, Family Man!”
“Happy Halloween, Jack,” I responded with equal sincerity. Halloween is, after all, my favorite holiday.
We searched each other, sinking our gazes into the other’s soul, seeking out even the smallest of insights. I had yet to determine if Jack intended to kill me, and so I used the moments leading up to that discovery to reach down and collect my fallen opponent’s kill list. Upon standing, Jack’s face seemed to grow inhumanly large and comical. I realized I was losing quite a bit of blood. I certainly couldn’t blame Jack if he tried to take my life. I was clearly weakened, and removing one more player from the game—in the proper order or not—would certainly benefit him.
I was disappointed to learn that such a lean calculation could find a place in Jack’s head—I’d hoped it was too full of candy corn and nonsense to do anything other than spread plump orange nightmares. He was airborne and above my head before I even realized he’d moved. He slashed down at my head with one of his reddened carving knives, laughing like a child. I simply bent low and allowed my father, asleep on my back, to intercept it. Jack dragged his blade across my father’s face, calling up sparks that outlined the remainder of the Carver’s leap to the far end of the passenger car.
I knew I was unfit for a second conflict. I flew to the opposite end of the car, gathering Janus’s heads along the way, barreling through the sliding door at its end. I hopped to the connecting car and swung my father in a wide arc. His anger at being awoken for such a menial task produced a blinding shockwave that not only separated the cars, but tore through the immediate area with such ferocity that all became dust and wooden shrapnel—the Red Dream was surely upon us. I was launched through the door of the car behind me, the shriek of mangled metal and exploding wood close on my heels.
I groaned to my feet amid the whipping wind and swirling dust. Jack Lantern shrank into the distance, standing at the jagged edge of
the disconnected train car. He was cheering, his hands clapping wildly above his head. “Bravo!” he called. I smiled and took a deep bow.
Despite the utter lack of a third of its construction, the train somehow still facilitated the expression of Jack’s gallery, allowing it to remain intact. The decorated heads swayed smoothly to the car’s motion, rocking gently to the rhythmic clacking of its travel. I replaced the mask of the Mad Mercenary, slipping it gently over his face—a thing that had no meaning beyond the gas mask that obscured it. I reached down and gathered the engraved remains of Janus’s three now-grinning faces. I took the heads of the two monstrous killers and hung them from the ceiling, far from the other assortment of dangling, whittled heads of Jack’s design. Wolves had no place among sheep, which was almost certainly true in life, and most definitely true in death. Perhaps Janus would have conceded at least that much, if not the larger analogy concerning killers and wolves. Although, if I’m being honest, I’m none too fond of the analogy myself, as no wolf was ever possessed of the powers of an artist, let alone the vision of a dreamer.
I nearly collapsed into a seat on the now tenantless, broken train, injuries pushing my mind further and further into blackness. I imagined my blood as the sole, dwindling weight anchoring me to the earth. As it leaked away, I feared drifting into the sun, where yellow gods peer from an infinite boredom, laying a sick-warm sight upon dead worlds long rusted into their orbits. I grasped the armrests to form an additional hold upon the world. Slowly, my mind started to inch back into focus. My eyes slowly moved across the combat theater turned art gallery that had formed almost organically from the day’s events. Poor Janus, I thought, looking at his three faces, each spilling its collection of chaos across the floor. What has the world lost with your passing?
I hoped whatever was lost from Janus had been conserved within Jack. Of course, my hopes were the same regarding the Mad Merc and myself, but I felt only shame—nothing of the unique forces or insights that had made a monster out of a common killer-for-hire. I had hoped to learn at least something of the means by which one might enter the delightful place he mentioned, but I was no wiser for having held his head in my hands.
I wasn’t sure if the blood loss had affected my vision, or if the previous dream had continued to swell like some contusion upon the skin of reality itself, but the passenger car in front of me seemed to house some remaining particles of life. As far as I knew, all the previous occupants were now the wet ornaments of Jack’s grinning holiday. I could see dark shapes drifting through the aisles, moving away from me, apparently engaging some greater and more distant darkness closer to the front of the train. Having nothing better to do than bleed, I decided to follow them.
The second I moved from my seat, I knew I was dreaming. My body fell into a current of invisible movement that pushed me forward. As I glided, a group of strange young women standing on both sides of the aisle turned to look at me. Every one of them was raven-haired and possessed of the lightest blue eyes—glimmering beads of water that defied gravity through sheer force of beauty. The tallest of the group, whose height was only slightly less than my own, spoke to me. “Have you any idea who conducts this train? As many times as I’ve tried to ascertain that fact, I’ve never learned.” Her eyes were rainstorms. I could hear the water of weeping skies falling across a world of tender young leaves. I almost forgot to respond.
“I have no idea,” I said, “but I’m sure they’re competent. Certainly, you have no cause for concern.” My words seemed lost to the rain, and I was curious if I’d spoken at all. The woman smiled at me, as if I’d given precisely the answer she desired, and quickly withdrew behind the shadows of the train. Before I could begin to contemplate what had happened, invisible hands pushed me onward, far away from the women, where I felt compelled to refocus my attention upon a line of wandering shadows. In service to my new obligation, I observed that after each shadow crossed into the next car, the darkness beyond the threshold deepened, gaining the appearance of a massive hole that extended beyond the dream of the train. I drew up behind the last shadow in line and waited my turn to move into the next world.
The opening did not lead to some other dream, but into a supernal synthesis of darkness and silence which I theorized to be the product of the shadows merging together. The hybrid substance approximated the closest thing to a fully realized oblivion, and all of it stitched together from the rootless bodies of sacrificial shades. Within that near-nullity, I could detect the absence of memories and dreams, and most importantly, I could hear the sound of something about to begin. Swiftly, but with the caution of a mother lifting her child for the first time, the darkness enfolded me. It was at that moment when the calm broke upon a sweet and breathy whisper. It said, “The silence before the womb and beyond the grave—it’s all for you, my son. Seek out the quiet of lonely places, and death may not hear you.” It was my mother’s voice. I determined the whispers must have come from some distant memory, sealed up within a void that required the death of several shadows to reacquire.
I thought I was about to exit the makeshift oblivion when another sound entered into the nothingness, unapologetically and sloppily scattering muffled voices as it blundered about. Again, I could feel the burning eyes of my family throwing fire, trying to force me to ignore some scorned thing that dwelt—hid—within sleep. Or was the sound coming from someone else’s dream? With all the dream-swapping of late, the question had become a valid one. The sound became progressively distinct, gelling into the pathetic cries of a child. This was quickly accompanied by another sound, which seemed the inversion of the soft sadness.
What surprised me most about the second sound was that it frightened me, yet it was nothing more than a man’s raised voice. “Stop whining and hold still! If you make me ruin another painting, I’ll hang you in the room with the rest of them!” An image tried to connect with the voice, but it was blocked out by the high-pitched sound of a train whistle.
I woke up on the floor of the passenger car—it appeared that I hadn’t even managed to make it to one of the seats. The train was in the process of exiting a tunnel. The shadows were stripped of their plump inky flesh, leaving behind only the boney silhouettes of solid earthly objects. I rose to my feet. There was no pain and no blood. I opened my coat, looking for what should have been an abundance of ruined tissue. There was nothing, not even a scratch.
The day was dying into twilight, the train bound for the source of all that wonderful crimson. The failing sun splashed bloody light across my skin, confirming my lack of injury. I walked deeper into the light, certain that once the dusk was more concentrated upon the areas where I had been shot and cleaved, there would be a mark. Still nothing. As I stared at my woundless body, something stood briefly in front of the red sun, throwing a rectangular darkness into the train. The shadow belonged to a large sign that read Black River City. I had arrived at the location of Miss Patience’s first recorded kill, apparently no worse for the wear.
The doors of the train opened as I reached them, but before I departed, I looked back into the vehicle. As my sight moved into the dim passages and over the empty seats, I knew the train was far from vacant. The means by which it moved was not solely dependent upon the steel of its tracks or the fire of its engine. My eyes lingered upon the swinging faces of the two fallen Wolves.
As I followed the only road leading away from the station, I encountered a sign bearing the name of my destination, a small painted arrow indicating its general direction. I was surprised at its wholeness, as nothing along my path seemed entirely unscathed. I hoped it was due to the game I played—every death a blow against banality.
Closing on my destination, my mind was filled with mountains drifting like dandelion seeds, softly glowing rivers tugged along by the gravity of foxfire moons—I was more content than I believed possible. In retrospect, I should never have left the train.
CHAPTER NINE
Bared teeth, hungry
mouths, and sightless eyes were all I saw as my blood complemented the already considerable red of the falling sun. They came from the tall grass, quiet and vicious. My sisters barely managed to fend them off, eliciting only a handful of shrieks for their troubles. They suddenly vanished, withdrawing behind the sinking day, spilled blood the only proof of their passage. I was sorely wounded again, but the renewed silence from the monsters’ absence felt soothing against my ruined skin. My assailants might have been dogs, or even wolves, but I doubted it. They were too large, too fierce, too calculating. Preparing for another clash, I took to the deep grass and waited for chance or circumstance to deliver me a killing opportunity.
The very tops of the grass seemed aflame with the last touches of twilight, a calming breeze playing against the savagery of the previous moments. The creatures, whatever they were, seemed to be waiting for something. It wasn’t long before that something approached through the field with a calm, two-legged gait. The steps paused to inspect—or admire—the joining of twilight and blood, creating an exquisitely deep crimson. The creature’s movement was light and graceful—a woman, most likely.
I gathered the silence of the field, inhaling it while I listened. The night began trickling in as the sun grew colder. My sisters began to giggle softly, two impatient children eager for their turn at play. Clouds tumbled grey and ominous through the distant sky, mumbling. Having long since discovered where the great beasts crouched, I targeted their leader, an estimation based on the size and shape of its silence. But I wouldn’t strike until I knew more about the woman.
The Red Son Page 10