9 Tales Told in the Dark 8

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Okay, so having written off these clowns as the silliest of human refuse, I didn't expect any actions I undertook to spoil their squirmy fun likely to keep me up nights. These bozos had the Eye, Wright wanted it and would pay, so—hey—he was going to get it.

  Theft? My client informed me that the Eye was his property, stolen from him by ingrate subordinates. Return of purloined property, pursuant to the collection of agreed upon fee, was moral and just, in accordance with a coherent understanding of law and order. What I was about to do proved me a good citizen.

  I lifted the Eye. Now, I could go on about the details of the operation: how I chose the time of darkness to return when guard is most down, how the various devices of security are cunningly circumvented, the avoidance or deactivation of sensors and beams; but that might bore and, besides, I have trade secrets to protect. There are things I don't tell, methods I won't describe, any more than would a successful stage magician. Pop! I got it; into the bag it went, and scoot I did, slinking back to my car tucked off-road at the base of the mountain and speeding away. A job well done, if I do say so, although as I peeled harsh sirens of the klaxon variety rent the skies over the summit. I tisk-tisked myself for them catching on that fast, didn't suppose it mattered to me. Ten minutes saw me through Sedona and eating miles. A couple hours more had me back in my place safe and sound, entirely undetected, a perfect coup.

  The return drive to Phoenix went without incident, but in retrospect I don't style it uneventful. I deemed myself tired, uncharacteristically out of sorts after my bold accomplishment. That long stretch of highway up and down the stark valleys of the desert seemed unusually dark, an oppressive blackness that squeezed me with the racing miles into a kind of mental tunnel. It was just me, the roaring engine, the pavement flashing beneath, and a miasma of night. At whiles a nothing of something distracted me, by which I mean off to my immediate right a thing would catch my eye, only when I glanced that way nothing was discernible, just the bag on the seat with its precious contents. Had the Eye gleamed from a fold in its container? No, it was well tucked. Boy, I was tired.

  A celebratory glass, a hot soaking bath, an early morning snack, and I hit the sack. Still feeling peculiarly unsettled, I was nevertheless extremely weary—I always crash after a stimulating caper—so I was out in minutes. Unfortunately, well-earned rest wasn't my destiny. That's when the weirdness came stomping on Godzilla feet.

  Unconscious me faced a blank ebon wall. Then it shivered into fragments, shards of pitch glass exploding past sight. The image of a harshly lighted face burst forward, narrow and sunken of cheek, swelling to fill vision: the face of Harris! That unwelcome visage glared for a moment, distorted by hate, brow wrinkled in puzzlement. Thin lips convulsed, emitting reverberating shrieks of sound.

  "Sterk Fontaine? I know not the name, nor the mind. You are nothing to me, yet you have Blug's sacred Eye. A mere thief? No, more; the Eye whispers, discloses the machinations of Wright. His hand clutches yours in a death grip.

  "Fontaine, you are a fool! Have you yet touched the Eye? You must have done. If so, soon you will understand, when His delicious poison sears your soul. I have possessed the Eye, crushed it to my flesh, therefore it is part of me, and I of it. The wondrous toxins of Blug spurt through my veins, and I see through Him to you. You can't hide, nor escape. So long as I am of Blug—now, forever, and always—I can track you with the most fearful of hounds, the spawn of the Great One Himself. Make ready, for we come."

  The face of Harris blew up, disintegrated, and the awful, mushy fragments coalesced now into the scarcely more cheering fat mug of Sir Alistair, who demanding in a vibrating scream, "Do not heed that base one, Fontaine! Blot him out. I, too, have held the Eye to my bosom, and it has invaded my heart, thereby opening precise knowledge of its location to me. You have it. I want it. Our deal stands. Focus on the money, Fontaine; only that matters, naught else. Picture yourself smothered in cash. I come for my property as arranged. Cross me, and for you the tortures of eternity commence. In Blug, death is no escape. What you taste from the Eye's touch is nothing to what I shall call up against you."

  And then I woke up, as the saying goes in such cases. There I'm supposed to declare, "Oh, it was only a dream," except I knew it to be nothing of the sort. The worst fit of DTs must resemble how I felt then, as Wright's face irrupted like a rotten puffball, the screen went to black again, and I sat upright staring eyed at the Monet print on opposite wall. The vision had all been real; experience told me that much. Ye Gods, I'd gotten myself in a fix. Rising, a stiff slug from a bottle calmed the jitters, leaving me with a clear enough head to ponder my difficult situation.

  Sometimes the magic is real, sometimes not. I've dealt with frauds, phonies, and kooks. I can smell them, and the genuine articles as well. These guys, the acolytes of Blug, were the real deal, wielding concentrated evil for their own ends, perhaps for those of their master. I'd gotten myself caught in the middle of a shoot-out between supernatural desperadoes, none of whom gave a damn about my welfare. I currently held the prize, to be sure, yet it looked like I could only lose.

  In case I required confirmation of this hypothesis, as I stood there in my den gnawing a thumbnail and deliberating, events took an ugly turn. Came a sound at the window, the second story window, a dull thump, then a heavier one. A stupid bird—they do that sometimes, flying blind—but when with trepidation I yanked aside the curtain I beheld a horrific conglomeration of bulbous stalked eyes and jellied feelers pressing hungrily against that oh so thin pane. The hideous gray mass heaved. The glass cracked.

  Give me this much credit, that I thought to grab the bag with the loot before I fled. I didn't touch the contents, nor had I, having worn gloves at the taking, and I'd heard enough now to guard against contact. Whatever that signified, it could only land me in deeper doo, and God knows I was up to my teeth in stinking muck already. Why bring the Eye in my flight? I didn't reason. Write it off to habit, from an old hand at hard bargaining.

  No speculating on the nature of what I fled; tripping and leaping down the stairs, I tumbled almost headlong into the parking lot and into my car. While I gunned the engine a trio of brain-busting horrors slopped around the corner. Despite the lack of legs or any visible means of locomotion, they oozed in my direction with terrifying rapidity. I spun out with a squeal of rubber, clipped a fender, zapped open the apartment gate and rocketed into the night.

  One-handed manipulation flipped out my cell phone, activated it, punched in Angie's number. I had to make contact, let her know where I was, make a plan. She didn't answer. No surprise there, since the blasted phone refused me a dial tone, much less a ring. It did operate, however. A voice came on the line, that of smarmy Sir Alistair.

  "Show wisdom, Fontaine," he urged. "I can tell you are on the move, so keep moving, bring to me the Eye. I also am on the road. We shall come together at the seat of power. Meet me in Sedona, at the site of the gathering. Deliver the Eye to me. You will get your money. Then you can safely bow out. There is no other chance for you."

  "If you don't kill me," I retorted, "the others will. I'm not keen on the options."

  "True, that. Too smart, Fontaine; of course you will be superfluous afterward. Therefore, I will promise you an easy death."

  "Get stuffed!"

  Wright laughed. "Obviously you have no idea how bad your situation is. My ex-colleagues chase you with the larvae of Blug. I possess unique powers of my own. You are boxed in, Fontaine, caught in a dimensional trap. You have nowhere to go but the gathering. Otherwise, the iron walls of time and space form your prison."

  "What's that crap mean?"

  "You connect the dots. As a beginning, note the time." His voice stopped. The cell phone went totally dead.

  What did he mean? Time—the dashboard clock showed 7:30—so what? 7:30 in the morning… yet it was still deepest night! Dawn hadn't come, not for me. I was in the grip of powers beyond reckoning. It was vital that I get back into the groove of the world, but that pro
ved extraordinarily difficult. Where was I, anyway? Plowing along a city lane, which now struck me as oddly empty. No other moving vehicles, no pedestrians, no signs of life. An ugly thought invaded my mind. Passing a police station, I made to turn in—couldn't hurt—and a shadow fogged my eyes, and then I was cruising on the street again, help denied. A highway sign loomed at an intersection: north, to Sedona. I turned the other way, but a minute of straight driving led me to the same spot. I wasn't in control! Geography made common cause with my enemies.

  Roaring along northward, I didn't worry about gas. I figured the spooks could handle that. In time (minutes, hours, years?) I plunged into the benighted Verde Valley, then up through the weird, gloomy buttes surrounding Sedona. The city lights gleamed faintly ahead.

  I couldn't out-maneuver this fate, but I couldn't imagine any benefit from proceeding. No matter what I did, I'd end up on Schuerman Mountain, at the mercy of Wright or Harris and their goons, human or otherwise. God, what then? Where the path of safety? Whatever I came up with, it had to be something mighty slick. Thus far, cunning was sitting out this match.

  The mountain rose before me. Ascending the gravel drive, I reached into the glove compartment, armed myself with revolver, aught thirty-eight, comforting if nothing else. Parking in the huge, mainly empty lot, I pulled up farthest from the crummy dark pre-fabs of the Ultimate Truth gang. I got out, stepping into cool, dry desert air, the breeze patting my cheeks, the bag with the Eye slung over a shoulder.

  It took no more time than my eyes needed to adjust to a sliver of moonlight before I spotted dim, blobby shapes humping my way. From three sides writhed the hideous, gelatinous entities, showing slimy mouths full of ooze-dripping teeth. I guess I yelled, certainly ran. I dodged toward the nearest buildings, but that did me no good, for they were driving me in that direction, and I was shocked again by how they covered distance, gaining on me each pulse-pounding second. My best speed merely delayed the moment of stomach-churning doom.

  A flicker of radiance gleamed from around a corner: a flashlight. A skinny human silhouette appeared, uttered freaky words, gibberish that halted, quivering, my loathsome pursuers. The man held up the light under his chin, revealing a hatefully joyful visage.

  "Thank you for coming, Fontaine," jeered Harris, "and I appreciate the return of our master's Eye. For reward, Blug shall savor you as a choice morsel, until dies the last atom of the cosmos." Another figure stepped out beside him from the shadows. Was that—I'll be damned—it was Ernst Klinghofer, the scummy movie man, who chortled, "Like you said, Harris, the fly to the web. Has he got the thing?" Harris nodded, pointed his beam at my bag. "Right there, Klinghofer. I feel it. As I've told you, flesh of my flesh, and all that."

  Klinghofer clapped his hands and pranced a silly jig. "At last I get to touch it, and Lord Blug will bathe me in his loving filth." He strode forward.

  In tones of sheer threat Harris commanded, "Hand it over, Fontaine."

  At arm's length I whipped out my gun and shot Klinghofer through the heart. He went down like a sack of boiled oatmeal. Harris chuckled. "No great loss, Fontaine, pointless as well. I have embraced the Eye, and through it Blug lives in me. That pistol is useless junk. Throw it away, or I release Blug's pets to dine on your bones."

  Naturally I didn't take his word for it, but I might have been firing peas for all the damage it did. Harris sniffed his disdain, and when the revolver clicked empty he raised a hand, started to mutter crazy talk.

  A big, long sedan thundered into the lot, crunched to a stop in a spray of gravel. A door flew open and chunky Sir Alistair rushed upon us at a fleet waddle. Calling out, "Treat with him, Fontaine, and you perish in agony!" he stomped past the squishy beasties as if they were nothing to remark.

  "Stand-off, Wright," drawled Harris. "I too am of the Eye. I meant to keep you at a distance until my ascendency was complete." Turning to confront the newcomer, I lamely pointed the revolver at him. Wright snorted.

  "Eat that, Fontaine," he growled. "We of the Eye do not fear physical death. Have not you learned? Having touched it yourself, the devouring fate rising to engulf you exceeds your wildest terrors. An eternity as the plaything of Blug, chewed and floundering aware in His oily cess. It's time to clear decks, erase you, so that you and I, Harris, may finally conclude the great matters before us."

  "Indeed, noble sir," Harris mockingly replied. "Let us put down this idiot, for our glorious master grows impatient, Wright, to choose between us. Blug craves the leader who shall drag this world down into His bottomless abyss."

  "Excuse me, gentlemen," I broke in. Both gasped in irate dismay as I upended the bag, carelessly dumping their precious Eye onto a big rock. "You assume too much. I haven't touched the vile thing, not by as much as the scrape of a fingernail. Unlike you, I'm still clean, without any of Blug's gunk inside me."

  "Congratulations, Fontaine," Wright jibed. "Then you earn for yourself a common death. That is the only difference."

  "Not quite," I replied evenly, "not if my hunch strikes the bulls-eye. It means it doesn't matter to me what happens to this." As I spoke, I acted. This was Sedona, the Red Rock Country. Rocks lay everywhere about those grounds. In one deft movement I scooped up a nice-sized stone and, hard as I could, smashed it down on the Eye.

  Wright and Harris screamed. Screams of rage and horror become ghastly screeches of pain when their unholy relic shattered under the blow. The result shocked me; I hadn't really expected the relic to crack and splinter as it did. The central gem burst like a soap bubble, emitting a stench calculated to bring up my last meal. From a cavity amidst the wreckage a sinuous shape with numerous legs and random protuberances thrashed and scuttled into the darkness, laying a slimy trail as it vanished from sight.

  I'd been right. Destroying the evil relic didn't matter to me as it did to them, for they, in some creepy supernatural fashion, had mated with it, and what became of it became of them. Harris and Sir Alistair died before my eyes, and I don't have it in me to document the gory details. Had Klinghofer lived, he'd have made a fortune by recreating that scene in his next piece of cinematic slop. They took it badly, that sweet pair, with much noisy commotion, and they seemed entirely conscious of the process even after they started to fall apart in juicy, ruptured chunks.

  The lurking monsters disappeared like smoke as they lunged forward—a moment of maximized fright, be sure—and then did so the whole scene. I twitched, sprang from bed, with sunlight filtering through the window drapes. Oh, come on, was this another one of those "only a dream" bits? I was still rocking with fear, barely able to manage the bedside telephone.

  Angie huffed in response to my lunatic introduction, "You thoughtless dope, what have you been about? I haven't heard from you in days!" Days? When I demanded news of the Sir Alistair case, she really unloaded on me. "Didn't figure I'd worry about you, huh, Sterkie, with all that going on while you're off gallivanting? That cruddy Wright dead, with half the leaders of that weirdie convention, and the police sitting on how they died, and the craziest rumors going the rounds, and nobody bothering to mention you. What was I supposed to think, you moron?"

  Okay, so it did happen, in another frame of reference, an altered state conjured by Wright or Harris or both, and when they went to meet their maker, or shake slimy paws with Blug, the hex fell off of me and left everything pretty much the way it was before. I lost a bit of time, which I could spare, and a bunch of money, which I regretted, but under the circumstances I considered that a fair trade in return for a lot else I held dear, like body and soul.

  The great Blug convention collapsed of course, and I haven't heard of those jokers since. Blug and His cult have been around a long time, so I don't pretend that the destruction of the Eye put them out of business. How many Eyes has Blug? I'd bet more than a basket full of spiders. The world's a mess and getting worse, more and more the way He wants it. I reckon we'll hear from Him again.

  THE END

  AL DENTE by D. A. D'Amico

  "Well, you
're right about one thing, Mister Chopra." The dental technician harrumphed as if she'd just found an enormous chunk of toenail tucked beneath Dev's tongue, tossing the magnifier back into the tray beside the chair. "There's definitely something going on in there."

  "Do I have a cavity?" Dev's words bubbled through the plastic mouthpiece like the gurgling of a sleepy baby. He smelled lemony antiseptic, and the garlicky stench of the salami sandwich he shouldn't have eaten. "What's it say?"

  "It says here you have an... incursion."

  The technician's name was Gina. She'd told him twice in the long two hours since he'd arrived, the whole time flipping through a series of schematic screens on her tablet with long polished nails the shade of rotten eggplant. She didn't seem completely familiar with the technology, but she adjusted the sensors until they dug painfully into Dev's cheek like a seasoned professional.

  "Is that bad?" Dev grunted, the noise erupting in stringy barks like a loud fart. "It's not going to hurt, is it?"

  He'd been foolish to volunteer for the experimental implants. Shooting billions of nanorobots into his teeth was madness, no matter what they'd promised. He'd really needed the dental work, but the constant throbbing pain and weird noises weren't worth the benefits. He hadn't had a moment's peace in weeks.

  "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Gina smiled with sincerity, but her watery brown eyes said differently. She tapped the button phone behind her right ear, whispering in sharp tight tones.

  He'd had enough. Dev yanked the short bundle of electrodes dangling like a forest of crazy straws from his mouth. Blinding pain shot down his throat. He screamed, tasting bile. Gina screamed. He had no idea why, but her panic added to his own, and he screamed again.

  She shrieked. He yelled. They howled in unison like a couple of coyotes until she tucked an empty rubber glove into Dev's mouth and shushed him as if he were an unruly toddler.