by Brom
“Baby?” Chet shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen any babies.”
Pain creased her features. “You have to help me find her.” Her grip tightened.
“Sorry, lady. I can’t help you right now.” He tried to pull away but she wouldn’t let go.
“She’s my baby. My little girl. Please.”
“I can’t.”
She tugged Chet, trying to pull him along with her.
“Let go,” Chet said, giving her a shove. She tumbled to the ground.
“Shit, ma’am. Sorry.” He reached to help her up. “Here—”
She cringed, let out a cry, and scrambled away on her hands and knees. Chet watched her crawl along the path, sobbing, peering into every alleyway and shadowy corner, calling for her baby.
“I hate this place,” he whispered.
Chet continued, coming upon two men and a woman ahead—also shades of gray like the lady. When they noticed him they stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“Do you know the way?” one of the men asked, a thin fellow, with a shaggy beard and thick spectacles.
Chet shook his head. “To where?”
They glanced at each other. “We don’t really know,” the bearded man said.
“We think we’re dead,” the woman put in—she was elderly, short, and heavyset. Her words were also muted, out of synch and with that distant echo to them. It seemed everyone’s were.
“We’re hoping there’s a path,” the bearded man said. “To the afterlife. You know anything about that?”
“No,” Chet said. “But I got a feeling we should be heading down.”
“Yeah, we got that same feeling,” the bearded man said. He gave Chet an apprehensive look. “Just hope we’re not heading for, y’know—”
“Don’t you start with that again,” the woman said, her face grim. “There’ll be answers ahead. Have to be.” She headed away.
They followed the woman and it wasn’t long before they began to run into others. At first people seemed glad to find other souls, their faces full of hope that someone would have answers, but as more and more people joined the line, it became evident that there were no answers, not among the dead. And the line grew, first dozens, then hundreds, the procession stringing out through the floating boulders and stones, disappearing into the foggy gloom, everyone and everything dull shades of gray. Many souls appeared scared, confused, mumbling, sobbing, but most wore a grim mask, the face of people on a sinking ship, marching quietly, clinging to some small bit of hope that answers, good answers, lay ahead.
As the crowd grew, Chet began to hear other languages mixed in with English. People sat and lay about the path and between the stones. Many appeared to be fading, almost invisible on first glance, not moving, just staring heavenward or blankly out into space.
Chet felt something above him, like a weight bearing down. He looked up into the swirling grayness and saw nothing. Slowly, an immense shadow materialized, taking shape and blotting out everything above. Long, stringy tentacles of black smoke dangled from beneath the mass as it drifted, like some enormous jellyfish, right toward him. The tentacles swept along the ground, stirring up large clouds of gray dust.
Souls began to scream and Chet saw that every person touched by the tentacles became part of them. Those stuck flailed and shrieked as they were slowly absorbed.
Souls floundered as they tried to run, sliding about in that painful slow-motion dance of nightmares. Chet fell as others crawled over him, clawing to escape. A tentacle slid right above him, taking the woman on top of him away. Her eyes lit up, actually began to glow as she was absorbed into the smoky appendage.
The creature drifted on, disappearing into the mist, yet still Chet could see those eyes in the gloom, hundreds of glowing eyes staring back at him. He lay there, shaking, until the eyes were finally gone, until the last screams faded.
“What was that?” Chet cried. “What the fuck was that?” He scrambled, trying to propel himself down the slope as fast as he could. But his efforts were fruitless, and soon, like those around him, he gave up and just continued his slow descent, sparing furtive glances toward the clouds and wondering what other horrors might await.
A murmur arose ahead. Chet tried to peer over the crowd to see what was going on, but it wasn’t until the path made a hard bend that he understood. One side of the trail opened to reveal a steep ravine shrouded in thick, rolling clouds. The clouds broke for a moment and Chet caught a glimpse of a wide dark river and something else: a spark, or flickering flame, on the far side of the river. Chet squinted. Torches. Those are torches.
CHAPTER 10
Trish’s knees buckled and she stumbled, almost fell on the steps. A hand, a big hand, caught her. The hand belonged to Jerome, Lamia’s handyman. He put an arm around her and helped her onto the porch.
“Sit her on the couch,” Lamia said, holding the screen door open. Jerome guided Trish into the sitting room and over to the couch.
“Here, now, child,” Lamia said. “You just sit while I fetch some tea.”
Lamia left Trish staring out the window, out across the bay. Trish could see the sun glistening off the distant waves. The day’s got no right to be so beautiful, she thought, not with Chet lying cold in the atrium. She’d never have believed it, not if she hadn’t seen him. Lamia had tried to soften the blow, laying him out on the bench and surrounding him with white camellias, but nothing could’ve prepared Trish. She shook her head. No. It’s not possible. Lamia had told her she’d heard a cry early this morning and sent Jerome out to investigate. The big man had found Chet at the bottom of the seawall. Lamia thought Chet must’ve gone for a walk, hadn’t seen the cliff in the fog.
The bay blurred as the tears returned. A sob grew, doubling her over as it wrenched its way up from her guts. She let out a wail, slapped the sofa, again, then again. “No!” she shouted. “No!” She fell over onto her side, spent, clutching her belly as she sobbed. “Oh, God, Chet. You can’t be dead. You can’t. You just can’t.”
Lamia walked back in the room carrying a tray, set it on the coffee table. Trish realized then that Lamia was walking without her cane. “Lamia, your cane. You shouldn’t be—”
“Don’t you worry. I have my good days and bad days. Here now, this will make you feel better.” She handed Trish a cup of warm tea. “It has a touch of dandelion and poppy. Might make you a bit drowsy. I like to have a cup in the evenings to help me sleep.”
Sleep, that sounded good to Trish. She took a sip. It numbed her tongue and she noticed a slight bitter taste beneath the sweet. The warmth spread through her body and she felt lighter, and lighter, until she felt she could just drift away. The room appeared to sway and she found it hard to keep her eyes open.
She looked at Jerome; he still stood by the door, hadn’t moved or spoken. Lamia’s right, Trish thought, he’s sure not one for words. And a thought struck her. What’s Jerome doing here? And so early? Lamia doesn’t have a phone. So strange. She tried to ask Lamia, but found it hard to speak.
Lamia took her hand. “There, there, darling. Don’t you worry about anything. I’ll take care of you.”
Trish closed her eyes and drifted away.
CHAPTER 11
Chet followed the throng of souls as they plodded along the riverbank. He could see nothing of the far shore, no sign of the flickering flame through the dense rolling fog. He came to a low-lying embankment and left the line, walking out onto a slim sandbar in hopes of catching a glimpse of the far shore, all the while scanning the sky, watching for any sign of the shadowy jellyfish creature.
A few dozen souls shared the shore, their eyes distant, lost, staring into the depths. Chet heard a low melodic sound, almost a chant, coming from the river. He stepped closer, right to the edge, found only the dark, churning water. He caught movement, noticed shapes swirling deep below—wispy and writhing, like bones tangled in gossamer. The shapes drifted toward him and he saw faces, just a few—sad and tormented. Then more and more, a mul
titude, all twisted into tortured masks. The chant rose, individual voices distinguishing themselves, calling to him, beckoning him, begging him to help them.
Chet gasped and backed away.
A man walked past, face full of anguish. He pushed right out into the water, his ghostly form mingling with the black water, deeper and deeper, sinking up to his waist.
“Hey,” Chet called. “I don’t think you should—”
The water began to churn about the man and still he pressed on. Arms and hands—bony, sickly, and all but translucent—rose from the waves, grabbing, clawing, pulling him under. The man didn’t resist, just sank beneath the surface.
“Oh, jeez,” Chet gasped.
A long moment with just the surging water, then the man broke the surface several yards out. He let out a horrible wail, flailing, eyes full of terror and pain. Long fingers clawed his flesh, his hair, digging into his eyes, his mouth, stifling his cries, tugging him down until he disappeared beneath the black waters.
Chet scrambled back to the ledge. He made the top of the bank and stood there, chest heaving, watching the river, sure those tormented faces would be clawing their way up the bank after him. He fell back in line, continuing his trek. The trail followed the shoreline and Chet kept a keen eye on the river, staying well away from the ledge.
About a mile farther along the crowd began to slow and bunch up. Chet tried to peer over and around the others, but could see nothing beyond the fog, found himself caught in the crowd with no choice but to shuffle along.
The crowd pressed through a row of large boulders, stopping and going periodically. It became evident that something was allowing the souls through in groups. The crowd halted again. As Chet waited he heard a squall from somewhere nearby. It was hard to pinpoint, as all sound was muffled and full of echoes and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from near his feet. There, among a cluster of rocks, he spotted a small shadow. “Oh, Lord.”
It was a baby, not more than a year old, naked, a boy. The first thought that came to Chet was of the woman far back in the tunnels, the one searching for her child. Could this be her child? He didn’t think so. Hadn’t she been searching for a little girl?
The baby met Chet’s eyes and reached out to him.
Chet looked around, hoping to find the baby’s mother or father—someone to help. A few souls gave the child anxious, pitying glances, then looked quickly away. It dawned on Chet that the child probably didn’t have a mother or father, not down here, that it was on its own. God, what’s gonna happen to it?
The crowd began to amble forward again. The baby waved his arms at Chet.
“I can’t help you . . . I just can’t,” Chet said, more to himself, hating feeling so helpless, hating that death was so unfair, so merciless. He gritted his teeth and began to move away. After a few steps, he glanced back, expecting to see the baby crying at the crowd again, but the child was still staring at him, his look of hope replaced with confusion, then fear as Chet walked on. It was obvious the child had no one, but what hit home, what cut Chet to the core was the fact that this child had no way of understanding what had happened to it, what was happening to it.
“Keep going,” Chet said under his breath. “Keep going.” He thought of Trish, of his unborn child, her tiny kicks against his hand, how much that little life was counting on him. Chet stopped and turned, staring at the infant. He’s got no one. “Fuck,” Chet said and pushed his way back to the child, scooping him up. The child grabbed him, his tiny hands clutching tightly to his shirt. Chet glanced about, hoping someone might step forward and claim the child. But other than a few worried, furtive looks, he found only an endless line of dazed, shell-shocked faces.
“How did you get here?” Chet whispered. “Did you crawl all this way alone?” The child stopped sniffling, leaned his head on Chet’s chest, began to suck his thumb. “Oh, you’re just what I don’t need,” Chet said with a sigh as the crowd began to surge forward again.
Bits of stonework began to appear along the path, turning into a crumbling wall. The wall led to a rampart and then a tower—a crude, ancient-looking structure. The tower was the entrance to a great bridge, the span of which disappeared into the gloomy mist. The massive doors were shut, barring any from crossing. People formed lines, making their way down the wide stone steps along either side of the tower to the landing below. Chet joined one of the lines.
A wide barge drifted toward the landing from out of the mist. A lone cloaked figure manned the wheel, cranking it along two thick cords of rope strung out across the river. A hood fell across the figure’s face, obscuring all but its hard-set mouth. The ferry bumped against the dock.
The ferryman didn’t look up, didn’t say a word, just stood next to the wheel, waiting.
The souls began murmuring anxiously among themselves, but no one boarded.
“Where does the ferry go?” a man called out.
When the ferryman didn’t answer, others began to call out. Soon they were talking over one another, all demanding answers, in several different languages. The ferryman continued to stare at the black river.
A man boarded, just walked right onto the barge and took a spot next to the railing. The crowd quieted, all watching. When nothing happened, a few more boarded, then a few more until a line formed.
Chet followed the crowd, the infant making a small whimpering sound as they boarded. “It’ll be okay,” Chet whispered, but inwardly he shared the child’s unease.
The ferry quickly filled, at least a hundred souls. When no more could board, the ferryman began to crank the big wheel, tugging the craft slowly away from the landing and out into the river.
Chet clung tightly to the rail as the craft bumped along the slow-moving current. Low moans echoed up from the waters. The tormented faces were there, following in the wake, staring up at him from the depths. Chet suppressed a shudder and clutched the baby tighter.
As the shore disappeared into the mist behind them Chet noticed a young woman in a flannel shirt, with short-cropped hair, staring at the baby. She met his eyes then pushed toward him through the crowd. As she approached Chet saw she carried an infant on each hip, both clinging tightly to her shirt.
“Are those yours?” Chet asked, then saw they weren’t, as neither child shared her Hispanic features. He hadn’t noticed at first, as everyone was ghostly pale down here.
She spoke. It sounded like Spanish to him.
“You don’t speak English?”
“English, no,” she said, shaking her head.
He pointed at the infants, then back at the shore.
She nodded, looking sad.
A man bumped into Chet. He was carrying another man on his back whose arms and legs were twisted and bent, emaciated like those of a quadriplegic. Chet noticed then that most of the souls appeared elderly, hunched and crippled, and thought again how unfair death could be that one should have to carry their ailments even into death.
The mist continued to thicken, becoming so dense Chet could barely make out the souls nearest him. It settled around them, on them, dusting them in a powdery whiteness. The mist felt as if it were crawling over his flesh, into his flesh. That sensation of floating, that he might drift away at any moment, dissipated. He felt the press of the planks beneath his feet, the weight of the child in his arms. Slowly he began to feel more and more substantial, as did the child, as did those around him. He squeezed his own arm, then that of the child’s, and there was no doubt that he was touching flesh—cold, clammy, and fish-belly white, but solid, real flesh.
There came cries and gasps all around. Cold water splashed against his ankles and he noticed with some alarm that the barge was taking on water, settling in the river from the weight of all the souls.
The tang of sulfur hit him. He sucked in a breath. Realized he could smell again, really smell, and could feel his cold, wet clothes against his skin. Colors deepened as the world around him came into sharp focus. His ears popped and he could clearly hear the mur
murs of joy and relief as they swept the crowd. It was almost as though they were alive again. People grinned, some laughed. Souls looked heavenward as though granted a reprieve, a second chance. Hope began to show on their faces.
But something else, something so obvious, Chet didn’t even notice at first. The old people, they were gone. No, he thought, not gone. He looked again: they were the same people, most now in their prime. And the man, the one with the bent, emaciated limbs, he was a teenager now, standing on his own feet and staring at his hands as he clasped and unclasped them.
“None of this makes any sense,” the woman with the two infants said.
“Oh, you do speak English?”
She looked at Chet confused. “No. I don’t.”
“Huh? You’re speaking English now.”
“No, we’re speaking Spanish.”
Chet glanced from face to face, listening to those nearest him. He could understand everyone, not perfectly—there was an odd, barely perceptible echo at times—but somehow they all seemed to be speaking the same language.
The child in Chet’s arms reached for one of the children the woman carried, a little girl, patting her hand. The little girl laughed and the woman managed a weak smile. “Did you find the child along the way?” she asked.
“Yeah, not too far from the landing.”
The woman hefted the two infants. “I found these two in the tunnels.”
Chet nodded.
“Did you see any others?” the woman asked.
“Other babies? No.”
“I did. Several. Just sitting by themselves, y’know. I couldn’t . . .” Her voice choked up. “Couldn’t do anything . . . just couldn’t carry any more.”
Chet’s mouth tightened and he nodded. They held each other’s eye a moment longer, not speaking, yet somehow sharing something on a deeper level. Seeing her, holding those children, caring so for them, made him feel that at least some humanity survived in this cold world of death.