“Modern convenience? Dad, we’ve been wearing sunglasses over a hundred years!” Laughter then arose from all around the house.
Joe had been one of the first to go mad when the crimson replaced the yellow sun. He murdered his wife and his baby boy, Francis’s only grandchild, and then Joe swallowed a bullet—in the front yard at midday for God and all the neighbors to see.
Francis hoisted his hiker’s pack onto his back and shouldered the scoped hunting rifle. The damn pack must weigh eighty pounds, he thought, and the dread of hiking ten miles on his aching knees sunk in.
Nearby, Martha stood, smartly dressed head to toe in camo coveralls except for a green gardener’s hat and a pair of yellow plastic sunglasses. She carried an oak walking stick Joe had decorated and polished as a birthday gift for when she hunted ginseng.
Martha smiled uncertainly.
“Adorable,” Francis said.
Martha grimaced. “I was hoping more for ‘vicious’ considering the adventure we’re undertaking.” She adjusted the small .30-.30 rifle strapped over her left shoulder.
“Pessimism, Martha, is a terrible trait in a person.”
“I married you, didn’t I? I believe I overflow with optimism.”
Francis chuckled. “That you do. Ready to hike?”
They stepped quietly through the woods, not speaking much. After two hours, they paused to rehydrate and rest their feet. A mile into the trek and Francis’s back ached something miserable. He could feel the strap burns forming over his shoulders from the weight of the pack. He and Martha bumped elbows as they leaned against a tall and leafy oak tree. Fall was here and leaves blanketed the forest floor around them with a mix of yellow, orange, and red. Beautiful, if not muted by the crimson.
The forest smelled damp, although it hadn’t rained in two days. Somewhere close, Francis recognized the scuttling of squirrels making a nest.
Francis took a drink and passed the water bottle to Martha.
“Want me to carry your bag, old man?” Martha asked. “You’re looking a bit winded.”
He snorted and looked to his wife. “I’m like a pack mule. I’m ugly, and I never tire.”
The September heat had matted Martha’s black and gray curly hair to her face. A drop of sweat balanced delicately on the tip of her sharp nose. She slipped her sunglasses off momentarily and rubbed her dark and dilated eyes. Incredibly, Francis reckoned the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had faded some over the months, giving her a youthful boost of at least five years. As he had watched her transform, Francis often wondered if the same effect was happening to him, but in reverse. Perhaps the red light had a weird and random aging quality. Like the same mysterious mechanism that made Joe want to kill, while others, like he and Martha, remained normal. The cracks and creases in his face had never been sharper.
In fact, if truth be told, he felt five years older.
“Don’t stare,” she said, “it’s impolite.”
Francis blinked. “Oh, sorry. Just—”
“Gawking.”
He wiped sweat off his forehead and scratched his neck, blushing. “No, just thinking about something.” He waved a fly away.
“That I’m turning into an old maid?”
She said this often to Francis. “Of course not! You know, fishing for compliments doesn’t suit you,” he said.
“Then what is it, old man?”
Francis dug absently in the forest soil with a twig. “I’m finding it harder to remember the times before the crimson. The house we lived in, the people who were our friends. Our pets. I know I love dogs, but I can’t remember the last time we had one.”
Martha smiled. “Spike. He was a sweet old guy, half-chow half-mutt. Black hair and a purple tongue. As he got older, he grew a white beard. Just like yours. The world ended, Francis, the stress—”
He frowned. “Spike? Are you sure? I don’t remember owning a dog named Spike.”
“You’re outside too much. This light,” she waved her walking stick around in various directions, “it’s messing with your head. When we’re done playing heroes and we’re back home, why don’t you let me do the hunting for a while until you get your wits back?”
“I’ve always got my wits.”
“You think you’re witty only because I play along.” Martha pushed a curl behind her ear and smirked playfully.
A crackle beyond a thicket of shrubs caused Francis to motion for silence. Martha crawled to the other side of the great oak. He picked up his rifle, switching off the safety.
Wood snapping. Something stepping lightly through brush.
Based on the sound, Francis guessed it to be a deer or a small black bear. If a black bear had stumbled upon them, he would be forced to frighten it off with a shot. And if that didn’t work, he would have to kill it. Then a shock of worry nearly sent him into a panic. The .30-.30 Martha carried would not stop a black bear, small or not. Why hadn’t she taken the shotgun and given him the rifle?
Francis eased into a shooting crouch, aimed in the direction of the noise. The shrubs parted.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he murmured.
A creature peered at him with one wet unblinking eye, a golden-brown iris outlining a dilated pupil large as a dinner plate. Francis pictured himself crawling into that viscous darkness and forgotten by the universe. Flies buzzed over quarter-sized graying spots of putrid flesh lining the eyelid.
Inside the inky nothingness, Francis watched a lifetime, his lifetime, play out. He saw himself playing on a red tricycle. Having dinner with his mom and dad. Kissing Martha at their wedding. Bouncing Joe on his knee. Listening to the preacher eulogizing his murderous son. Francis’s body and heart ached, and his tongue felt dry and fat.
“Git! Get on out of here.” He motioned with his shotgun toward the forest beyond.
The thing blinked—a languid movement of sclera sliding down a jelly-covered bowel.
“What are you going on about, Francis?” Martha’s face had filled his vision. She pushed down Francis’s gun with her hand.
The creature was gone.
“Did you see it?”
“You mean the rabbit? That was the biggest bunny I’ve seen since the fever broke. Would have made good eatin’ tonight had you bothered to shoot it.”
Francis blinked. “I don’t think so. Had the biggest eye . . . eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. Big around as a basketball and black as a piece of coal.”
“No animal I know of has eyes that big. Maybe a Tyrannosaurus rex, but I’m certain they died out millions of years ago.”
Francis scowled. “This ain’t no laughing matter, Martha.”
“I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “Look, we have a long way to McKee. Let’s get moving so that we can make camp inside a cave and get out of this light. It’s messing with our heads.”
“Our heads? You seem fine to me.”
“I’m being polite, Francis. The world may be ending, but what have we got if we’ve not got our manners?” Martha crossed her arms and appraised him as though that was the final say on the matter.
He tried to remember the crimson having this effect on him in the past, but nothing came to mind. Certainly, he blamed it for his forgetfulness and muddied. But seeing things? That would be new. Schizophrenic new. Maybe he was having one of those ongoing strokes. Didn’t folks get them sometimes, where it went on and on until the person affected keels over dead?
He wiped away dirt and leaves from his clothes and stood up. “Maybe we should go back. If there’s trouble, having me scatterbrained will get us killed.”
Martha cupped his cheek with her hand. Like always, her skin was warm and comforting. “We’ll be okay. We’re always okay. The couple in McKee needs our help. She’s with child, remember?” Then she kissed him. “And I’m with you.”
Francis nodded in mute agreement, brushing his lips against hers.
He hoisted his pack, she took his hand, and together they walked on.
***
They
reached what the locals called Hector’s Falls, a small creek that tumbled twenty-five feet over a limestone embankment before snaking its way to the North Fork River some eight miles away. Francis removed his sweat-stained trucker hat and dipped his head underneath the chilly clear water.
The cold shocked his body, as expected, and he hoped the shock would shake the unease and mounting anxiety right from his bones. His mind dwelled on the one-eyed beast. It was following them, Francis was sure of it. The first time he’d seen it, he’d pointed it out to Martha, but again she claimed not to see anything as the damned thing had darted back into the forest growth. He spotted it later that day walking next to them only a few yards away. This time the creature wore a trucker hat and used a walking stick. Mocking him. Threatening him.
I will kill it, Francis decided.
He lifted his head from the waterfall and wiped his eyes clear. The cold reset had worked. He considered their next move. The smart play would be to go back to the cabin, lock the door, get in the cot with Martha, and rest his eyes and mind. Let this dementia, or whatever it was, lift. Perhaps he would radio the pregnant couple and tell them help would be on the way soon, and for the love of all that is holy, stop broadcasting your location. Or, he and Martha could find shelter, perhaps in one of the many nearby caves, to escape the crimson long enough to gather his wits. He had packed enough food for two days’ travel, and water was readily available. Francis made a decision. He would tell Martha they would rest the remainder of the day and approach McKee under the cover of darkness.
Francis turned to his wife. His left foot hit a patch of damp moss, slippery as melting butter in a skillet, and he fell to his backside. The impact jarred his vision and knocked the breath out of lungs. Water soaked through his old Levi’s.
Damn, old man, break a hip and you will die out here.
The world snapped into focus, and a swirling darkness stared at him a mere three inches away from his nose: sulfur and rot, flies buzzing, rotting flesh.
He scrambled, failing to find purchase in the slippery creek bed, flailing like a skittering fawn on a slab of wet ice. The creature smiled, exposing two half-moons of sharp, white teeth, and its pupil shifted into a shade of red. It took a step back and disappeared behind the wall of falling water.
“Francis?”
“Stay away, Martha! It’s back!”
Martha appeared at the creek bank and reached out her walking stick to help Francis gain his feet.
“Oh, Francis, what happened?” She fussed over the scrapes on his hands after he’d waded to her and collapsed on the ground.
“I told you to stay away!” he snapped, jerking his hands free. “Why can’t you just listen to me?”
“I watched you fall, darling. I’m not going to leave you in a creek with a broken hip.”
“My hip ain’t broken, foolish old lady. And didn’t you see the creature in front of me?”
“See what creature? The only thing I saw was an elderly man drowning underneath a tiny waterfall.” Martha smiled, and years melted from her face, teeth white and perfectly aligned.
“You didn’t see it? A beast, probably stood eight-feet-tall. Has one giant black eye that turns red.”
Martha looked at Francis ruefully. “Did you give it a shiner? You’re always a tough guy.”
“Please. Stop.” He breathed deeply to keep from screaming. “One eye, Martha! It had one eye in the middle of its forehead.”
“I think you’ve rattled your marbles. I must insist we go home until you feel better.”
His backside hurt—probably was bruised. And his ankle throbbed, and likely would be swelling soon, but all things considered, he was still whole and mostly mobile.
Martha pressed her hand to his forehead. “You’re cold and clammy.”
“Of course I’m cold and clammy. I fell in a creek.”
“We need to get you back to the cabin. I think we have a few ibuprofens stashed away. It’ll help with the swelling in your ankle. Elevate your foot on this log, I need to wrap it.” Martha had already unpacked their meager first-aid kit and taken out the elastic gauze.
Fatigue nipped into Francis’s body. Perhaps he was coming down with something. It would sure beat having a stroke. Was it a cold or the flu that made a person feverish? Like so many other facts, the knowledge had slipped away at some recent point. He started shivering even though the air was warm. He needed dry clothes.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just need to rest a moment and change my clothes. The fall knocked me good is all.”
“We need to build a fire and dry you out.”
“No fire,” he mumbled. “They’ll see us.”
“Who’ll see us?” Martha asked, her face creased with concern.
“You know who.” Francis leaned back, using his backpack as a headrest. “The hunters.”
He promptly fell asleep.
***
Nightmares chased him under.
Francis reached his hand into the black maw of the creature’s eye. It accepted him readily, a mass of jelly absorbing a proboscis. He jerked his hand back, but a slurping suction held him tight.
His skin tingled. Black jelly oozed from his pores in little ropes like cooked spaghetti. The unearthly organics stained his clothes, bled out in gooey streams from his eyes. The fluid steamed under the crimson day and rose like morning fog from his skin. Boils, melting flesh, veins, tendons, smoldering black jelly.
Pain. Unbearable pain that made him cry out.
His body grew weak. Fragile. He sagged, an arm inside the huge eye held limply aloft. The tarry fluid traveled down his forearm before it dripped in streams from the crook of his elbow to the ground.
Strong hands lifted him. His arm slid free with a sickening slurp. He discovered that he rested against a tree trunk.
“Joe!” Francis cried out. Vitreous muted his words, like rancid swamp mud trapping a prey animal.
Joe stood in front of him. His only child had a gun. Francis recognized the pistol. It had haunted his dreams on too many nights.
Joe pulled the trigger.
***
Francis awoke to darkness and the trill of crickets. His back and ankle throbbed. His body trembled from the dampness of his clothes and the September night chill falling over the forest.
He looked around for Martha. The moon, full and red-faced, blanketed the landscape in an eerie maroon glow.
It surprised Francis that Martha hadn’t made camp. Certainly, he hadn’t expected a fire, but some blankets and dry clothes would have been advisable. This lack of attention was unlike Martha. She should be with him, watching camp, but in the moonlight, he saw no sign of her. Her oak walking stick was also gone.
“Martha!” he called out. No response.
A flare of panic erupted in Francis’s chest. Perhaps she’d hiked back to the cabin for medicine? Or maybe he had forgotten their flint rock, and she couldn’t spark a fire. Though he distinctly remembered placing it and the kindling in his pack. Or had he? Dammit, he couldn’t remember.
Something rustled in the brush nearby. Martha? In the dim angry-red of the moon, he could see several feet into the bushes.
The woods crackled and the nightlife fell silent.
Just not the creature. Please, just not the creature. It sounded large, and it breathed heavy. Just not the creature.
He rooted around for his shotgun but found nothing. The best weapon he could find was a large muddy stone that had bit at his back while he’d slept. It had a reasonably sharp edge and some heft.
The shivering became uncontrollable.
He watched it step clear of the forest growth, moving slowly, ponderously toward him, until it loomed over Francis’s prone body. The beast’s hairless hide gleamed in the crimson light. In one scarred hand, it waved Martha’s walking stick.
“Get away from me!” Francis screamed, hoisting the rock, biting back a yelp of pain as a pulsing agony in his ankle threatened to send him unconscious. He threw the rock with as m
uch force as he could muster at the unholy monster. Incredibly, the rock hit home, and instead of bouncing off the lens, the rock lodged halfway inside the cornea. The beast wailed, its banshee scream cracking the nighttime silence like a sledgehammer to a frozen pond, and off it sprinted into the darkness.
Francis turned and limped away as best he could; running was out of the question. After a few minutes, he heard it again, following him, matching his pace. Had the thing killed Martha? Probably. He stood no chance. No rifle. No food. Wet clothes. So he did the only thing he knew to do—find his way to McKee and seek out the young pregnant couple.
He needed their help.
***
Francis emerged from the woods onto US Highway 421-80 at the break of dawn. Every step created an eruption of pain from his swollen ankle. The one-eyed creature had only stalked, relentless, dogged, the slap of its feet on pavement behind him.
The address the man had given on the radio was nearby. Francis knew the town of McKee and its layout, more or less. After being laid off by Sandy Creek Coal, he had spent a few years cutting lumber far up Jacks Creek, and it didn’t take a genius to figure their way around a small mountain town with only one red light.
As he limped down the highway, he spotted a small, rusting mobile home perched on the side of an excavated hill. A muddy, gravel-specked driveway led up to prefabricated concrete steps that stopped in front of a broken screen door. The interior door appeared to be open. When he reached the steps, he stopped and listened for activity within. Nothing, but the address on the dented mailbox matched the one he’d scribbled down after hearing their initial plea for help.
Suddenly, the beast was nearly upon him. Francis stepped into the trailer, slammed the door behind him, and flipped the lock.
***
Acting on automatic, Francis grabbed a nearby kitchen chair and wedged it under the doorknob.
The beast rammed the door, shaking the trailer like a loose pebble in an earthquake. A picture of Jesus with outstretched hands clattered to the floor. Dishes jumped from the cabinets and shattered all around him. A cheap china cabinet toppled over and glass erupted. The door held, but the cheap fabricated material looked ready to cave in any moment.
Tales from The Lake 5 Page 4