69: A Short Novel of Cosmic Horror

by Tim Meyer

  Amanda was slow, but she took his meaning. She scrambled over to the center of the pit, mindful that the beast feeding on Phelps's heap of a ruined body could abandon his meal at any time, and picked up the closest stone, immediately shifting on the offensive.

  “Let's attack it at the same time,” Barnes said, and then led the charge, leaving no time for her to question his judgment.

  Amanda followed him, zero reluctance in her first step.

  Barnes got there first, jumping and striking The Field's head. The rock crashed into the side of its mud-caked cranium, knocking the thing sideways. It stumbled. Amanda went for it at the knees, winding her arm back as if she were ready to deliver a fast-pitch softball. The sound of the stone connecting with the thing's bone reminded Barnes of snapping a twig over his thigh. The Field dropped, landing on both knees. Now its head was level with his chest, prime position for one final blow. Gritting his teeth, Barnes brought the stone over his head.

  Don't.

  The thing changed suddenly. He saw Brian kneeling there instead, his face puffed, swollen from the midnight beating that had ended his life. His eyes couldn't be seen behind the inflamed skin. His flesh had split in places, revealing the raw, red muscle beneath.

  Barnes stopped immediately.

  Don't hit me. Please.

  Shit, he even sounded like Brian.

  He was scared. His breathing was labored, his body taxed from the violent assault. One letter appeared on his neck.

  F.

  Please don't do that! Spittle spurted past his bloated lips.

  Barnes felt tears trickle down his face.

  No!

  A.

  “Stop it,” Barnes heard himself mutter. “It's not real.”

  He felt Amanda's hand on his shoulder. It provided little comfort as the last letter split his boyfriend's flesh.

  Brian howled louder than The Field had when Amanda had driven the scissors into its face.

  “Not real,” Barnes convinced himself.

  Brian turned to him. “It's real, buddy. It's as real as you want it to be. It's as real as I can make it.”

  Something snapped in Barnes's chest; he could feel it. He no longer felt the sadness, that soul-emptying sorrow. There was regret—that would never leave—how he wished he could go back and take back all those hurtful insults, the ones he had thrown in Brian's face moments before his final departure. But the sadness was gone. The thing before him was not Brian. It was a shallow replica. A fraction of what the man had meant to him.

  “You're not real,” Barnes said again, and this time he felt numb. He brought the stone forward, cracking The Field on the top of its dome. When the skull broke open, squirting mud and other earthly fluid, Brian's visage vanished. Disappeared. The Field returned to its natural state, even though Barnes struggled to call whatever that thing truly was natural.

  The impact rocked the thing, made another awful crunching noise, and Barnes knew that he'd fractured the thing's skull, if that indeed was what it had hidden behind the mud and hardened-earth shell it wore for a face. It sounded like someone stepping on a carton of eggs. He slammed the rock down again, this time forcing the thing onto its back. Amanda joined in this time, driving the stone down on its chest, crunching and cracking the brittle bones beyond its muddy filth of a body. Over and over again, they took turns striking The Field, breaking whatever they could.

  Once the thing lay still, no longer breathing like an ordinary living creature, Barnes and Amanda stepped away, admiring what they'd accomplished. Behind them, they heard muscle being torn from bone, sounding like worn Velcro being ripped apart, and the slurping of their dissected friend's blood being lapped up by the hairless creature from the woods.

  They turned on it. Its head rose from the good meal, its whiskered maw covered in glistening scarlet smears. Barnes and Amanda took one step forward, and the thing took one step back.

  It's afraid of us, Barnes realized. The thing appeared to be a scavenger; not a hunter as they had previously thought. The Field had been the hunter, a thing that sought out food and aggressively pursued its quarry—but not this thing, this white, bald monster, whose gangly legs reminded him of a spider's, the way they were hinged in several places. No, not this thing that lived in the woods, or whatever void occupied the space beyond it. Some black, eternal expanse that harbored monstrosities and unseen things, horrible beasts that shouldn't exist—couldn't possibly exist—in the world they knew.

  Yet, here the things were.

  Barnes pretended to launch himself forward, a stutter step that was meant to test the thing's skittishness. The threat worked and the thing recoiled, fearing a frontal attack. Barnes and Amanda advanced on it, equipped with their mud-covered stones.

  The bone-white creature reached out and grabbed one of Phelps's legs, bit down on it like a dog recovering its bone, and then retreated into the tall grass, slipping beyond the tree that had once sprouted green vibrant leaves. But now those green leaves had curled and crisped, reduced to the same color as the muddy earth. Barnes knew that was because of what they'd done to The Field, that they'd effectively exorcized it from this world, the world of the living. Barnes watched the bone-white creature make for the trees with surprising quickness. Amanda rushed past him, but Barnes reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

  “Don't.”

  She shot him an are-you-serious glance, and he nodded.

  “We'll never catch it. Besides, wherever it's going, I'm not sure we want to follow.”

  That statement brought a cool breeze that rippled across the straw grass and moved the dead branches of the lifeless tree that stood at the end of a dying field.

  It took a moment, but she finally agreed, silently, nodding and resting her forehead on Barnes's chest, sobbing into the fabric of his dress shirt. He let her get as much of it out as she had to give, then backed her away from their friend's sickening remains with both hands on her shoulders.

  “One more thing I think we need to do,” he said and bent down. He tried his best to avoid what had become of Phelps, but in order to do what he needed, he couldn't help it. He concentrated on her body, the appendage-less mound, and dared not to look at the woman's face. He felt his emotions overcome him and he began to cry, his eyes filling with a blurriness that he was somewhat thankful for. He felt around the lower half of her, and, ten seconds later, he located her back pocket, the place she'd kept her lighter, the one he'd borrowed and used to smoke many of her cigarettes.

  Once he had retrieved it, he stood up immediately, walked over to The Field, kneeling down and grabbing a fistful of straw grass. Then he stood over the crumpled, ruined mass that was The Field, and lighted the straw grass, watched as the flames took to the source. Once the grass was burning, he dropped the makeshift torch onto The Field's carcass. Then he bent down and gathered more grass and straw, lighting it as well. Amanda came over and provided a barrier between the flames and the wind, blocking out the earthly currents that tried to sabotage their final task.

  After a few minutes, The Field was burning good and steady, progressing with each moment. Flames climbed higher. Raged. The turbulent black smoke reached for the darkening skies, which, in turn, brought the fire-starters instant satisfaction. The combined putrid stink of the fire and mud and whatever lay beneath it didn't bother them.

  Together, they watched the fire. They watched the sky. Darkness settled over The Field, a darkness that would end and, eventually, bring new light.

  23

  The walk back to Spring Lakes took less time than anticipated. When they emerged from the woods, Amanda expected bedlam. Police activity, sirens and bouncing lights, but there was nothing of the sort. The Spring Lakes Assisted Living Facility sat in the pale purple glow of the dying afternoon, looking abandoned. And it pretty much had been; there wasn't anyone left inside except a few souls, the sixty-niners, Kim Charon and her small crew. Two of them, she noticed, were outside leaning on the railing.

  The Lawyers.


  Hatterman and Hart.

  One of them, Hatterman, was kneeling down, holding onto the railing for support, as if the world were a boat that had hit turbulent waters. The other kept his hand on his partner's back, comforting him. Over what, Amanda hadn't the slightest. All data suggested that, since they'd dispatched The Field, everything should return to normal. The sixty-niners should be cured from whatever hold The Field had over them, whatever methods it had used to paralyze them while it leeched off their memories. After all, her own memories had come flooding back to her once Barnes had set fire to its corpse. She could remember everything now—her grandfather's depravity, the fig tree, the pink Power Wheels—so, if that was true, then it stood to reason the others would be okay.

  Then why did Hatterman look like he'd just been sucker-punched in the gonads?

  Barnes escorted her up the steps, making sure she didn't lose her balance. Once at the top, the lawyer who wasn't kneeling spotted them, turned his attention away from his friend.

  “Don't go in there,” Hart said, his voice shaky, clearly panicked. “The police will be here soon.”

  Barnes and Amanda ignored his request and hustled inside. They heard the man make another plea, begging them not to look around, but they tuned him out, headed down the hall.

  Jogging now, they made for Kim's office. It was slightly ajar, and the way it had almost been pulled shut set off an alarm in Amanda's head. Barnes got in front of her, made his way to the door first. He pushed it open.

  Amanda backed away, shielding her eyes from the sight, though it was hardly the worst thing she'd witnessed that day.

  Kim, dangling from the end of a garden hose, hanged in the center of the office. Her chair had fallen over, lay motionless beneath her feet.

  “Shit,” Barnes said, raising his eyes to the fan that the woman's weight had pulled from the ceiling. They'd been too late, clearly, and Kim Charon had successfully committed suicide.

  There was no way to know that she'd do it, Amanda thought. She put a hand on Barnes's back, readied herself to tell him such, and then he shut the door, closing it all the way until they heard the latch bolt click into place.

  He turned to her.

  “We should check on them,” Amanda said. “The sixty-niners.”

  Barnes let her take the lead. He followed her down the hall and to the left. She went directly to Manuel Renteria's room.

  She turned the handle, opened the door with her shoulder. She poked her head in first, had herself a look around before committing to entering. She saw the sixty-nine-year-old man sitting in his chair, much where she'd left him.

  His eyes were open. Blinking. At the sound of her stepping into the room, he glanced up. Toward her. At her. He was conscious, aware of what was going on around him.

  “Mr. Renteria?” Amanda asked the man who, now, looked nothing like her abuelo.

  “Yes?” he asked, no evidence of confusion in his voice.

  “Are you... feeling okay?”

  “Fine. Quite fine.”

  He didn't look like her grandfather, not in the slightest. He looked like his own person, a man she'd never met before. Someone she wouldn't recognize in the streets if their paths crossed. Someone she wouldn't mistake for a friend, a relative, an immediate family member. Manuel Renteria was his own self and seeing him as he truly was brought a warm, toasty feeling to her limbs. To her soul.

  “Glad to hear it,” she told him.

  “Could I have a glass of water, sweetheart? I'm parched.”

  Amanda smiled at him. “You can have whatever you want.” She kissed the crown of his head.

  Barnes had walked away from the room to check on the others. When he came back, he told her, “They're all fine. No memory of anything. It's like they... just woke up from a dream or something.”

  “A nightmare is more likely.”

  “No,” he said. “Just a dream. They're all fine. More than fine, actually. A lot of them are lucid and making sense. Talking about things that are... well, that are normal. Some of the nurses are quite shocked. Said this is the most normal they've ever seen them. Hardly exhibiting any signs of dementia.”

  Amanda nodded. “Good. That's... that's really good.”

  Outside, sirens whistled, getting closer and closer. The authorities would be there momentarily. Then the real fun would begin. The explaining. The lies. It would take some good ones to make sense of all this.

  “What's our story?” Barnes asked. “What do we tell them?”

  Amanda shrugged. “We could tell them the truth.”

  Barnes sighed, and never said if he agreed or not.

  Amanda's phone interrupted the moment. “Yes,” she answered. “It's Guerrero.”

  “Amanda,” said the voice belonging to her boss, Denny Cohen, one of the team members who should have been here by now. “Amanda, I'm so sorry we were never able to meet you. We've had issues all day. You wouldn't believe it. First the plane, then there was a mix-up at the car rental place, and—well, suffice it to say, we're still on our way.”

  “I see.”

  “Tell me you've found something. Anything as to what it is?”

  “Actually, I think our work here is done.”

  Cohen took a pause. “It is?” He sounded surprised. “You sounded so panicked earlier. So perplexed. I mean, I'm damn glad you figured it out. What was it? Brain-eating bacteria like you thought?”

  “Yes,” she said, and almost smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well, that's great. Because we're gonna need you in California.”

  Barnes and Amanda looked at each other. The doors at the end of the hall swung open, and a parade of police officers and emergency first responders funneled inside.

  “What's in California?”

  “A woman, sixty-nine years young, never woke up this morning in Sacramento. But she's alive, all her vitals are registering. Just... paralyzed. Also, she's pre-Alzheimer's, just like the fine folks you apparently just saved.”

  Amanda's throat clenched. She couldn't respond. Her voice locked up.

  “Amanda? You still there?”

  Barnes took the phone from her. “Cohen, it's Barnes. Listen, things are getting a little hectic over here. There have been some... fatalities.”

  “Fatalities?”

  “Yes, Kim Charon, the facility's director—she... took her own life.”

  “She what?”

  “Yeah, I know. I don't know why, but things—as you can imagine—are getting a little crazy. Phelps is also...” Amanda shook her head. He improvised. “...she's missing. Can't find her anywhere. I'm sure she'll turn up, but it's unlike her to disappear. Look, this California thing—can you stick someone else on it? We're gonna be tied up for at least the afternoon.”

  Cohen paused as if he expected Barnes to change his tune. “I'll see what I can do. Atlanta wants a full report ASAP, though. That way they can get it out to Cleveland, Detroit, and Portland too.”

  Amanda's nerves took another shot. She suddenly found herself against the wall, sliding down it.

  “Why? What's... what's happening in those places?” asked Barnes, his voice nearly failing him.

  “Haven't you guys been checking your emails?” Cohen asked, sounding a little aggravated. “Damn thing is happening in several places. All the same symptoms. Sixty-nine-year-olds. Looking dead but still showing a heartbeat. All previously exhibiting traits of Alzheimer's. Dementia. I don't know what the hell is happening but if you three solved it in New Jersey, then I'm guessing you have a pretty good idea. So yeah, we're gonna need those reports and fast.”

  “I see,” Barnes said through his teeth.

  Amanda felt lightheaded. Weak. Her world swam. She planted herself on the floor.

  Barnes hung up the call, handed her the phone. The iPhone slipped through her fingers and hit the ground, hard. The screen cracked. She hardly cared.

  Next came the wave of police officers and medical personnel. After a few minutes, she stood up—w
ith Barnes's help—and pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the onslaught of “ma'ams” and “are you okays.”

  “I need air,” was her answer to everyone and everything.

  She stumbled out into the dying light. The lawyers were sitting on the back of an ambulance having their vitals taken. The parking lot was littered with police and emergency vehicles. Overhead, a news chopper circled the area. Beyond the parking lot, several people with cameras and microphones were climbing out of vans.

  But she ignored them all and stared straight into the tiny entrance into the woods.

  Her grandfather was there. Smiling. Waving her on.

  She waved and smiled back, watched as he slipped behind the foliage, dragging his awkwardly bent appendage out of sight. His entire backside was charred to a crisp.

  She knew where he was headed—The Field. Where he lived and breathed.

  And she, of course, would have to follow.

  69

  Missy Tisdale brought Rachel Downey a cup of tea, set it down on the table in front of her. Rachel looked up from her game of solitaire and accepted the tea with a smile. She thanked Missy and returned to her game, taking a moment to remember exactly where she'd left off. Missy pointed out a potential next move, then left her to it.

  Next, she patrolled the common area, asking the guests if they needed anything; tea, water, a soda pop; whatever their hearts desired, Missy would bring it.

  After she finished with her rounds, she headed to the break room. It wasn't even noon yet and a third cup of coffee called to her. As she loaded the community Keurig with a pumpkin spice K-cup, she felt a shadow approach, fall over her like a cloud on an otherwise bright and sun-shiny day.

  “Missy?” a small, sorrowful voice asked.

  Missy pressed the start button and turned around. “Yes, Emily?”

  “I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

  The expression on the young CNA's face drove a spike through her heart. “Oh god, who is it?”

  “Miss G.”