by S. A. Sidor
“How do you know about this?” I blocked the door. I couldn’t have him leaving, and he looked like a man ready to bolt. “Are you one of them?”
Calvin shook his fist in the air. “I’ll never be one of them! They killed all that was important to me!” Anguish contorted his face. Hot tears came. But he was not ashamed.
“Who are they?” Nina draped her arm around him as he lamented.
He shuddered. “I don’t know. Not exactly. I’ve been chasing shadows on two… no, three continents. There’s more than one group. That I know about. They are aware of each other, but not always. It is… very complex. Cults are active in Arkham. They have members inside New Colony. I can’t prove my suspicions… not yet. I came to stop them. And I will!”
“I don’t understand,” I said, frustrated. “Are these secret cultists worshippers of this Un-Sun? Is it a star in the galaxy? Are they sacrificing to the Sun like the Aztecs?”
“They are not like the Aztecs. They do not build. They have no society, no religion but destruction. Their goal is annihilation. You said you saw the gargoyle alive. Well, it was never alive. Animated, yes. But not alive. Did it still look like me? The face?”
“Yes,” Nina said.
He gasped. “Sorcerers can copy life. Take a being or an object and control it, like a puppet jerking on a string. But who holds the strings? I’ve heard they change themselves. Walk around like your twin, a perfect double. It comes before they possess you. Each step is a higher display of power. Masks, all of them. Lies. If it’s gone this far… they’re close to something big.” Calvin surveyed the squalid room, talking to himself as much as to us.
“Slow it down.” I grabbed him by the shoulders. I needed to make sense of what he was saying. “You said they have members in the Colony. So which ones are doing it? Not Nina. Or Dunphy. Where did you see these signs?”
“The Black Cave. The signs are there. Painted on the walls deep in the cave. Old paintings. But paint was added to them… fresh paint. Wet, bloody smears on the rocks. We heard voices chanting when we moved the hooch… They always come at night… in their cloaks. We can’t go back there. Who’d want to? The other boys in the gang ignore it. Keep silent. Get away from there, son, they tell me. Come up to the cave mouth. But I need to see for myself… under those robes and hoods… they’re not human. We have to do something before it gets too–”
Thorn began to whimper.
I knew of a place in Arkham called the Black Cave. Calvin couldn’t mean that. It was a minor geological site. Unworthy of a city plaque. Hardly the stuff of sinister machinations.
The lunchroom door burst open.
The doorframe filled. I’d have known him even if he didn’t have that ball bat gripped in his right hand. His face was a granite block. But the granite had flaws; a row of stitches crawled along his forehead. Purple wedges under both eyes, and his nose was swollen, bending to the left. When he spoke, it sounded like he had a bad cold.
“What the hell is this, now? A church meeting?”
Calvin snatched up the broom. “I’m just cleaning up. These folks are leaving.”
The brute stared at me. “Don’t I know you?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced. My name is Johannes Vermeer.” I held out my hand, but he didn’t take it.
Thorn growled. I wrapped his leash tighter in my fist.
The night watchman pointed his bat at my dog. “I’ll bash his brains out.”
Nina slid between us and the guard. “We were hoping to buy a fish for our dinner. I have such a taste for winter flounder in a lemon butter sauce. Johannes was trying to procure one.”
The watchman’s gears turned. “You can’t buy no fish here.”
“Off the books,” Nina said, smiling. “You can do just about anything off the books.”
He wouldn’t budge from the doorway. His smell was beer breath and Tres Flores hair tonic. “If it was a fish you wanted, why are you back here jawing with these bums?”
“She opened the wrong door,” Calvin said. “The lady’s lost–”
“I ain’t talking to you.” He poked the barrel end of his bat into Calvin’s breastbone. “Say, I thought you quit here. Went to work for O’Bannion.”
“No, I’ve been sick is all.” Calvin coughed. “Flu, likely.”
“Flu?” The watchman backed off a step.
Calvin kept his hand on his chest, ready to snatch the bat. “I’m feeling much better now, though.”
“Huh. Tell your story to somebody that cares.” He snapped his attention back to me. “I do know that cocky mug of yours. You ever take a tipple down at Donohue’s?”
“Me? No, no. I’m a teetotaler. Nothing stronger than a root beer for me.”
“Shuddup.” Softly, the watchman appraised us, rocking on his heels. He slapped the bat into his palm. It made a meaty thump. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You’re going to let us go.” Nina threw back her shoulders, moving ahead and taking Thorn’s leash from me, ready to slide around the guard. “I’ve had quite enough of your games.” Her free hand disappeared into her pocket. I wondered if the stiletto was hidden there. Was she about to shiv him?
To everyone’s shock, the watchman turned to let her pass.
“Good day. Hope you find your fish.” He touched the bill of his guard cap.
I went next. Not looking at him. Keeping my gazed fixed on Nina’s back as she retreated into the swirling snow with Thorn. After I turned out of the doorway, I let out a sigh of relief and breathed in the crisp, metallic flavor of snow. The waters of the oily Miskatonic rolled in the distance. A fishing boat coasted into my view as sailors moved about the pier, securing its moorings.
Calvin will be behind me.
He’ll duck past this overgrown galoot, and we’re home free.
Just keep walking. Not too fast or too slow.
You made it.
That was the last thought I remember having before the sky fell on my head, and I watched as a star exploded – a spray of gold sparks – fluttering as they fell in the snow, and the Miskatonic overran her banks, flooding around me, cold, inky black, pulling me down, down, down into its blank heart, a void, and me caught spinning like a snowflake, melting to nothing.
Chapter Nineteen
I woke up under a pile of mackerel. I tasted blood. Not theirs, mine. I tried moving and found I couldn’t. Not without a sledgehammer pain squarely smacking my forehead. I puked.
“Easy there, fella.” An invisible hand pushed me down. Unfriendly? I couldn’t tell.
Another voice. “He’s awake. Hoo-wee! Stinks worse than today’s catch.”
“At least he’s not dead. Naomi wouldn’t want us bringing in a dead guy.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“Nina,” I sputtered. My mouth and throat burned, like acid. “Where’s Nina?”
“I don’t know who that is, boyo. But she ain’t here. Keep still, or I’ll tie you up.”
“You don’t need to tie him. He’s half dead, poor sap. What a walloping he got.”
I let that assessment sink in. Where was I? How did I get here? Ah, yes. The watchman and his bat. I kept my eyes shut because when I tried opening them, scissors stabbed in between them. I wiggled my fingers and toes. At least I wasn’t paralyzed.
Cold, I was so cold. I felt like another fish on ice. Limp as a rag, twice as wrung out.
Was this death? When your body gave up and your soul slipped over the brink, is this how it was? The truck hit a bump and jolted me out of my stupor. Someone was moaning.
Me. That was me making a pathetic, gurgling, clubbed-seal lamentation.
I clenched my fists. My fingers dug into scoops of ice. I opened just one eye a slit. Not too bad. There was a man beside me sitting on a Burdon’s Fishery crate. They’d tossed me in the back
of a Burdon’s truck. We were probably taking one of the detour routes Calvin talked about. Delivering contraband whiskey smuggled into Arkham in the bellies of those ships moored at the docks. Riding uphill, the engine growled. Tires spun. Downhill it eased off, but the brakes made a racket, grinding. Axles squealing. Mackerel were sliding around me as the truck negotiated uneven ground. My guess: a dirt road, the ruts clogged with snow and ice. The wind screamed outside the truck, pushing it with each strong gust. The driver was being careful not to end up nose-down in a ditch, because he wasn’t headed to any fishery, and losing his shipment might cost him a few years in the slammer, or his life. Through half-lidded eyes, I assessed the man to my right. He was eating an apple, cutting wedges with a short knife, sliding them off the blade into his mouth. Freckles, short red hair. A white man. So it wasn’t Calvin.
The driver – the one who called me half dead – didn’t sound like Calvin either. It was the voice of a teenager, a farm boy.
Of course, that didn’t rule out him being a killer. These two might both be killers, I thought. The night watchman wasn’t around. That counted for something.
I went to sleep again. No dreams. Nothing. I was on, then I was off, like a switch.
I don’t know for how long.
But when I woke the second time, the truck was parked up, its engine off.
I was alone. My back was wet. I picked up a handful of red ice. I rolled onto my side, thinking I might be sick again. But the nausea subsided. I propped myself up on my elbow. I touched the back of my head. My hair was gummy, my fingertips red. The side of my neck sticky with blood. My blood, I realized with a sickening thud. Wide-open, dead moony fisheyes stared at me from the bed of glistening ice – my unlucky travel companions, sleeping the sleep you never wake up from. Hours ago, this school of blue mackerel was swimming in the ocean, making their way in the salty world. Gutted, they were bound for somebody’s Friday fish dinner. At least I was still swimming. I had a fighting chance.
The big cargo door was open a crack.
I sat up. My head pounded. I waited to see if it would quiet down.
I looked out.
Men talking, smoking. At work. If I was a ghost, then this was going to be a terrible group to haunt. They looked too tough to scare. Scars and muscles. Just like the dock workers, they hauled merchandise. Illegal merchandise. Loose bottles clinking until they packed them away in crates lined with straw. They were getting the liquor ready to ship out again. I smelled coffee brewing, and spotted a pot chained to an iron tripod over a campfire. There was a kettle over the fire too. Clam chowder by the smell of it. But I wasn’t feeling hungry, not that anybody was asking.
My head was a little quieter. Why had they brought me here? Blood trickling from my broken noggin was more pink than red when I dabbed it again with my fingers. The bleeding had slowed down. I didn’t go searching too high on the top of my head. I was afraid if I reached up there, I’d feel a crack in my skull, bone chips, and wads of gooey brain.
This way I could almost pretend it was a bad hangover.
Give it a few hours and my normal self would return. Shamed but intact. No permanent damage. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a meal and sleep. I scooted half out of the truck. Legs dangling. I felt like a broken clock. My springs sprung. The minutes I heard ticking by were my pulse, and it wasn’t keeping regular time.
I put ice on my tongue to rinse out the foul taste. Gritty, but better than before.
I sucked. Spit. I mopped my brow with my wet sleeve.
When I checked the interior of the truck, I found the booze was already unloaded.
Just me and the fish left behind.
So long, I thought. Here’s my stop, boys. Fare thee well.
I hopped out. Nearly ended up flat on my back again. My legs were rubbery, like the bones were going soft and bendy inside. Shit. I was dizzy to beat the band. I held onto the truck.
We were in the backwoods somewhere. A curious cardinal was watching me from a pine. I looked around toward the other end of the truck and saw a hole in the side of a hill.
What had Calvin called that place where he saw the symbols painted?
The Black Cave.
Like I said, I’d heard about it growing up in Arkham. But I’d never been there.
Was this it?
Hand over hand, I made my way to the front bumper, out of sight of the men.
Sure enough, the truck was pulled up to a cave. Inside the cave mouth, torches burned. Off to one side stood several copper pot stills, and stacks of firewood for heating up the pots. Above them, a natural chimney formation in the rock let the smoke out. Distillers worked at night to avoid attracting attention. But nobody had been distilling whiskey here lately. The equipment appeared to be stored away. Instead, the cave acted as a kind of warehouse for shipping and receiving barrels and crates of illegal alcohol smuggled in via the docks. The men were working outside the cave today, emptying the Burdon’s trucks of their hidden cargo and repacking bottles to fulfill orders waiting on pallets in the snow. Here was a band of pirates divvying out liquid treasure. But the truck I arrived in was parked away from the action. Nobody was bothering with me for right now.
Where were Calvin and Nina? What did the night watchman do to them? I didn’t want to think about it. They were smart. Maybe they got away…
I tried standing on my own. Wobbly. But I didn’t fall right over like a bowling pin. I stumbled into the cave. I had to stare at my feet to make sure they did their job properly. I bumped into a wall. Or two.
It was darker here. Better for my battered brain. I shuffled in the sandy soil.
Then it was hard rock under the soles of my shoes.
Rock on every side. I ran my hands over the surface of the walls like a blind man.
“Where the hell is he?” a voice said, from not too far away.
“I left him right there. Out cold. I swear to God. I put my hand under his nose to make sure he was breathing. He couldn’t just up and go, I’m telling you. Down for the count he was.” I recognized the second voice. He was the guy who rode in back with me.
“Well, he isn’t here now. Go find Freddie. Maybe he took him somewhere. Go!”
“You got it, boss,” said the voice I knew.
“Get back before Naomi hears about this. She’ll put both our asses in slings.”
I listened to one man walking away. The other climbed into the truck and then jumped out again. I put one foot in front of the other and kept going farther into the cave.
Darker and darker.
It smelled like the sea when the tide goes out and things are left to die on the beach. But I didn’t care. It felt good being back there in the blackness. I was protected. The cave floor ramped downward. I kicked something solid that rattled and fell over. Rolling.
“Freddie! Hey, Freddie, that you back there?”
I had to keep low in the dark. If they found me, who knew what they’d do. I wasn’t about to go and find out. I knelt on the floor and felt the shape of the thing I’d kicked. Smooth, cool glass. Scratchy metal. When I shook it, liquid sloshed around inside.
I smelled fuel.
A lantern!
I tucked it under my arm and felt my way until I turned around a corner.
It took me a little while to dig my lighter out of my pocket and get the wick lit in near total darkness. When it blazed, I put the cover on and covered it quickly with the flap of my coat. The man standing by the truck, the one who asked if I was Freddie, couldn’t see me unless he came deeper inside. My only choice was to explore the cave.
The passage turned to the left. So I did too.
Lifting my light, I continued down the ramp and came to steps chiseled in the rock.
Down I went.
The swinging lantern and the shadows on the bumpy walls didn’t help my dizziness.
But I tried to look straight ahead, and I still was climbing down.
A helluva lot of steps this cave had. I had to sit for a while and rest my head on my knees. The effort of walking had my head pounding again. I don’t know how long I sat there, quietly. But then I thought I heard footsteps and voices murmuring. Not behind me, where the bootleggers were likely searching for me by the cave mouth, but in the opposite direction, ahead of me.
Deeper inside the subterranean cavity.
I held up the lantern.
Movement… maybe… a piece of the darkness darker than the rest… separated.
I stood up and bent forward, trying to see more. But it was no use. I had to keep going down to make sure.
Eventually I got to a sort of landing. It was as wide as a dance hall. At the far end were more stairs, and I didn’t want to walk any more. I was feeling tired. Sleepy. And the blood was pumping from my head wound again. I had to wipe my neck a few times with my wet sleeve. I thought about curling up on the landing and taking a little nap. When I wake up again, I can go back, or I can take those steps going down. That’s what I was telling myself when I saw them.
I don’t know how they got behind me.
But there they were, huddled by the wall with a fire, not yellow-orange like my lantern but encased in a greenish glow all their own.
Three figures in cloaks, like monks.
I remembered Clark Abernathy in his Friar Tuck costume. I recalled how later, when we discovered him, he had no head. Sprawled out on the observatory floor, his neck stump chewed, his cloak hung up on a peg.
The three figures were bent over a little. Close to each other, their backs to me. One was finger-painting on the wall, one chanting, and one stayed silent but attentive.
“You, you,” the chanter said. “You, you… you, you…” He said it over and over.
I walked up, more curious than alarmed, and raised my lantern. “Me? Are you addressing me, by chance?”