Kzine Issue 16

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  Clearly someone else had seen the potential of the abandoned shed. That explained the neatly cleared away glass, the shiny new padlock.

  The corpses were carefully arranged in groups of three, each lying head to foot, forming a triangle, the three groupings together forming a larger triangle. A nasty, unnatural shape, all sharp edges. Understanding traced a cold path down Myna’s spine. A round bowl sat in the middle of each group of three, dark with dried blood, a stain she was familiar with. And in the middle of the large triangle, a rectangle of disturbed earth, an ominous focal point.

  The patter of hooves and a plaintive bleat startled Myna. A goat poked its head out from behind the piled concrete. She stepped around the corpses, careful not to disturb any lines, feeling inside a discord that set her teeth on edge. The goat was tethered to a long line. She reached out absently to scratch the questing head, then ducked down and checked between its legs. A female goat sacrifice. Regeneration and abundance.

  The power of three, a sacrifice to regeneration, an unmarked grave. A summoning, then. She fumbled in her backpack for her mobile. Whatever was supposed to come out of that grave would be anathema to human life. Time to call Pace, and get this cleaned up.

  A flash of light on the wall caught her eye. She pushed past the goat and between more piled boxes. A knife hung on the wall. She tugged off her gloves, touched the silver sickle blade. Ice cold. Not good. She wiped her hand on her pants and pulled her glove back on.

  The pigeon flock exploded from the rafters. She froze, mobile phone half-raised. Over the cooing and flapping came the sound of footsteps.

  Myna dived to the side, pushing her way between the boxes and the wall. She came out near some empty shelving and threw herself to the ground. Over the pounding of her heart she heard the goat bleating.

  Someone started whistling. If she hadn’t been so scared, she might have admired their skill. But they were between her and the window. She was trapped in the shed with whoever had laid out those corpses.

  #

  Myna edged carefully forward under the shelves, her backpack abandoned against the wall. If she was lucky, she could send Pace some photos. She texted the address to him, adding he’s here now. Trying for photo.

  The phone buzzed in her hand. Coming straight over. Get out.

  Not really an option right now, but maybe the person was just here to feed the goat. She edged forward again, fearful of each scrape of her shoe on the concrete.

  The boots crossed her field of vision. Definitely a man by the size of them. The rattle of a chain startled her and she nearly dropped the phone. The goat screamed, a high-pitched, human sound. She turned her head away, fought the fear in her gut. She’d killed enough animals in her time, but the terror of the animal ate at her. A quick, clean death was what they owed their sacrifices. That was a law as old as worship itself. She bit her lip. The unknown man would pay for that, later. Diana would take her vengeance at judgement time.

  The goat’s squeals cut off abruptly, to be replaced by the splatter of blood into a bowl, a familiar sound. Myna steeled herself and crept forward, lips pressed together. Corpses weren’t scary, but she feared this man and what he could do. She was no fighter.

  His voice rose in a chant, the old words searing the air. She used the sound as cover to scuttle forward until he came into view.

  To her surprise he was young, in his late twenties at most, strongly built. Sweat burst from his skin as he chanted. Myna cringed at the words. Demanding, pleading, accept my gift, take this blood, return to me what was taken unjustly.

  The disturbed soil in the middle of the room churned. Myna, her mouth dry, knew what was coming out of that grave. Return to me what was taken unjustly. The grieving wish of a loved one.

  How often had she said similar words into the darkness since Laura’s death? But she knew enough to know what this man was raising would not be the one he loved.

  “Stop!” she cried, pushing herself out from under the shelves.

  The man’s voice faltered. He stared, hands raised, blood marking his face in two neat lines through the eyes. The earth still boiled, white mist seeping up through the cracks. The chanting resumed, the man getting to his feet.

  Myna dived for the nearest group of corpses, reaching for the bowl with the blood drying so quickly. Too quickly.

  The impact of a heavy body knocked her down and then she was wrestling with the summoner, his weight pinning her to the ground.

  “Stop. You have to stop!” she said, gasping. He raised his hand, slammed it down onto her cheek. Pain exploded across her face. Another punch that rattled her teeth in her head. And still he chanted. She felt the earth crack beneath her and then his weight was gone. She rolled over, crying tears of pain, her vision blurry.

  The man kneeled beside the open grave, arms open, welcoming the thing that sat up. A woman once, maybe beautiful, but how could you tell now with the empty eyes, dirt crusted on the mottled skin?

  “Don’t—” Myna tasted blood in her mouth. Could he not see what he was reaching down to kiss? Myna pushed herself up, head spinning, crying a warning.

  The corpse opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the man’s face. He jerked, struggled, tried to push away. The corpse closed its jaws. The summoner’s body fell away, the face gone, fragments of white skull shining through the gore. The corpse pulled itself out of the hole, swallowing the last of his face.

  Myna thought she heard a ripple of laughter at the edge of hearing. Of course, Vetis would love this, a dark undeath let loose in the world. Destruction and chaos. And she was trapped in here with it. She needed to get up, to run to the window, run to her car.

  Myna managed to get her legs under her, moving slowly though her mind screamed at her to run. The undeath was feasting on the carcass of the goat with wet relish. She could make it to the window. Slowly she stood, stepping carefully backwards.

  The undeath’s head whipped around, focused on her. Adrenaline surged and Myna bolted. How fast was it? Too fast. She could hear the sound of it behind her, the meaty slap of dead limbs on the concrete.

  It grabbed her ankle and she fell hard. She kicked out, sobbing, connected with its face. She rolled away, felt dirt beneath her hands. Wrong way. She leaped to her feet and ran, in no conscious direction, just away.

  She tripped over her backpack and landed heavily, scraping her knees and hands. She felt, more than saw, movement at the end of the shed. It oozed over the top of the concrete pile and clung to the wall, head turned at an unnatural angle. Myna fought down the screaming urge to run. Slowly she edged along the wall away from it. Down between the shelves, the bright yellow mini-excavator came into view.

  Myna took a deep breath and ran, hearing the creature slithering behind her. The excavator just ahead. She dived into the seat, pressed the button, hoping that it had fuel, hoping that it would start.

  It rumbled to life beneath her. The creature came out from between the shelves and dived for her. Myna scrabbled at the two levers in front of her, slamming them both forward. The arm swung, the bucket on the end knocking the creature down. She pulled them back and shoved forward again, missing the creature entirely.

  The third time she didn’t miss. The bucket swung down, teeth digging into the rotten flesh which tore with a dry rasp like old cloth. Dark blood welled, oozing into the dirt. She drove the bucket into it again and again, until she was sure the mangled mess wouldn’t be moving again.

  Her legs trembled as she collected her backpack and mobile phone. She dragged herself through the window, stumbled through the grass to her car.

  She was sure she saw lights cresting the hill behind her as she drove away.

  * * *

  Myna sat on the couch, an ice pack pressed to her face. She’d had a shower but the smell of the corpses seemed to cling to her. Darkness had eased into the house while she sat there, but she couldn’t summon the energy to turn on a light.

  Her phone vibrated. A message from Pace. WTF, Myna?

>   She snorted, wincing at the pain in her cheek. Do I have another day in court to look forward to?

  Not this time.

  She dropped the phone on the couch and closed her eyes. She would find out more from Pace tomorrow. Now, she thought she might just lie down here on the couch for the rest of the night. Maybe the rest of the week.

  Princess Puttri yowled from the doorway, demanding her dinner. Damn cat. Always wanting something from her. Well what about what Myna wanted? What about—

  Ha. She was a fool. She grimaced in the darkness. She had asked the question, kneeling on the rug in front of Puttri’s dead bird. The omen had been for her. A warning. Of where obsession with the dead might lead. She murmured a quick thank you to whichever god had sent her that warning.

  There was a tiny impact on the couch and the soft pad of cat feet. Myna opened her eyes to find Puttri sitting beside her, upright and disapproving.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a hard day.”

  Puttri wailed, a long, plaintive cry of loss.

  “Yeah. I know.” Myna reached a hand up to stroke the furry ears. Puttri leaned into the caress, then to Myna’s surprise, curled up in her lap.

  She lay a hand on the warm body, feeling the ribcage rising and falling. Not purring, as she would have been with Laura, but content to sit in shared grief.

  “Good enough,” Myna said.

  STRANDED

  by Thomas Canfield

  They came ashore in the depths of night, when the only light was the pale glimmer of stars in the sky overhead. They rode the last, long, rolling breaker right into the beach. The rubber dinghy scraped bottom, buffeting the men. Foam splashed and hissed on every side. When they leapt overboard the men barely got their feet wet. Behind them, a pale ribbon of phosphor marked their passage, stretching far out upon the face of the ocean and disappearing into the line of the horizon. They came out of nowhere, or so it seemed, and stood now without moving, listening to the wash of the surf and to the silence which compassed the night.

  They were eight in number, dressed all in black, their faces darkened by greasepaint. They had arrayed themselves in a semi-circle facing inland, weapons at the ready. They stood so for several minutes, marking the passage of time by the crash of the waves upon the shore. Their profiles gradually faded, blended in with the night, seeming to adopt its rhythms and identity as their own.

  “Bassford. Rankin.” Strickland designated two of the commandos. The men sprinted forward, crouched low, shadows within the deeper shadow of the night. They moved with fluid grace, weaving through trees and brush, their reconnaissance thorough, disciplined, relentless. A brief squeal of electronic feedback echoed across the beach. The two men returned.

  “Well?” Strickland demanded

  “Nothing. It’s clear.”

  “Rankin?”

  Rankin hesitated. “Nothing. I don’t believe that anyone is present.” Rankin took a deep breath of the salt air. “I can’t be certain.”

  Strickland frowned. “Did you see something? Hear something? What?”

  “I didn’t see anything.” Rankin’s pupils were awash with starlight. “Only I can’t be certain.” Strickland gave a clipped nod of acknowledgement. He trusted instinct, believed in it, encouraged it in his men. There might be enemy present. They might be under observation. Strickland had to throw that into the mix, incorporate it into their plans.

  “Two columns, wide dispersion.” The men fell into formation. “Stay alert. The enemy won’t announce himself. Anything that moves, we assume it to be hostile. It’s likely you won’t recognize the threat as human. Doesn’t matter. We destroy it anyway. Questions?” “It’s true that the enemy won’t perceive us as human either, isn’t it?” It was Daniels, of course. He had a habit of indulging in idle speculation. Such philosophical musings only muddled their mission and undermined the team’s operational efficiency. “They shouldn’t catch sight of us at all. Not if we stick to the shadows and remain silent. If someone should see us,” Strickland offered a taut smile, “I expect them to be dead soon after. That way, it isn’t going to matter.” Daniels frowned, dissatisfied. But he knew better than to pursue the subject. Discipline was second nature to them all, the core principle of their existence. Doubts and reservations were accorded only so much leeway—and no more.

  Strickland withdrew a knife from his belt. The blade glistened in the starlight. Strickland walked over and slashed the rubber dinghy. The air escaped in a violent rush. Strickland kicked the deflated shell back in to the water. No trace remained of their arrival. Nor had they any means of retreating back the way they had come.

  “Bassford, you have the lead. I estimate we landed five nautical miles south of our objective, more or less. Remember: nobody breaks formation and nobody falls behind. We want to pass as quickly and with as little fuss as we can. Nobody need ever know that we were here.”

  They began jogging up the beach, staying just beyond the reach of the water. Here the sand was hard-packed and firm. The sound of their boots was a distant drumbeat, submerged in the thunder and crash of the surf. The sand was the color of brick, a dull, muddy red that stained the waters along the shore and swallowed the starlight without a trace.

  This was Strickland’s seventh mission. The previous six had been carried out successfully and without a hitch. He could only hope that this time would be no different. The team was part an elite unit specializing in political assassinations. Their objective, unstated, was eliminating targets whose future careers jeopardized the preferred trajectory of historical development. They slipped back across the boundaries of time to rectify ‘errors’. Any whom the ruling Junta perceived as a threat to their hold on power was marked for destruction. The Junta eliminated mistakes before they became mistakes—and so assured themselves of unchallenged supremacy. They were proactive in the ultimate meaning of the word.

  Strickland kept his eyes trained on the tree line off to his left. Every so often he would detect a flicker of light, lodged somewhere beyond the thicket of woods. He could not say at what distance it resided or whether it was stationary or moving. He could not determine what was causing it. It would not resolve itself into any kind of coherent threat. It seemed to dog them, seemed to follow their progress up the shoreline. It was unnerving and unexpected. Yet there was nothing that Strickland could do about it.

  They were within sight of the headland marking the outer entrance to the Straits when things suddenly went sour. A scratchy, hollow sound, a sound the men instantly recognized as human voices filtered through the lens of time distortion, assaulted their ears. What anyone was doing in such an isolated area was impossible to say. But it changed everything.

  The commandos deployed in a defensive perimeter, waiting to see what would develop. The voices drew nearer. Strickland thumbed off the safety on his weapon, peered through the sights. His heartbeat slowed as his concentration grew more focused. The weapon became a mere extension of Strickland’s body, no longer an inanimate object but an extra appendage indistinguishable from himself. Time telescoped outwards.

  A scattering of figures emerged from out of the dark. Their movements were jerky and disjointed, conveyed a sense of incompleteness. They appeared two dimensional. When they turned, they seemed to disappear altogether, becoming mere creases within the fabric of the night. They possessed no distinguishing traits or features, emitted an aura of chilled remoteness which stripped them of any fellow feeling. Abruptly they halted, uttering high-pitched noises of distress and incomprehension.

  The men let loose a concentrated volley. An eerie silence prevailed as they fired, punctuated by the crash of the surf and a thin piping noise of protest that might have been screams. Their targets crumpled and fell, withered like leaves cast upon a fire. They left a dull, ash-like residue that the first breeze whisked away. All were dead in under a minute. There was no indication that they had attempted to return fire or even that they realized what was happening to them.

  “Cease firing!” Stri
ckland commanded. The men complied with palpable reluctance. Their features were twisted in expressions of anger and revulsion. Something about the human form unmasked by time deceleration elicited a murderous rage. Strickland had experienced it firsthand and knew how easily it could spiral out of control.

  “Face front! Resume formation.” The men fell into line, the brooding masks of their faces sulky and lit by incipient rebellion. “On my command – move!”

  They resumed their march, skirting the edge of the tide, the physical exertion blunting the edge of their anger. The stars overhead had once again crystallized, becoming discrete points of light. Two additional stragglers were encountered. The commandos cut them down amidst amused snorts of laughter. The men never broke stride or altered formation. It was that easy and smooth. They were all in high spirits, caught up in the heady rush of the kill. But when they swung around the far point of the headlands, they walked straight into an ambush.

  A bolt of light stabbed across the water, catching them in its glare. The men stood frozen, transfixed. The light shackled them to the spot. It seared the retinas of their eyes, flayed them with its blinding intensity. The beam lingered for a moment then panned out across the face of the ocean. Strickland managed to tear himself away, stagger over and collapse behind some boulders. He lay there wracked by spasms.

  The beam swung back again, caught the commandos huddled on the beach. The air around them began to spark and glow. The boundaries of the time rift in which they existed fluctuated wildly. The light infiltrated their shield and the men jerked and twitched, as though experiencing an epileptic fit.

  On the beam’s next pass the rift disintegrated irretrievably. Strickland peered out from behind the boulders. The men, his men, no longer appeared in the guise of human figures. Strickland saw them as they would have manifested themselves to the residents of these temporal coordinants: stretched out in a nexus of future time, resembling a string of carbon molecules affixed in the shape of a curving helix. They glistened and hissed, moved with a sinister snake-like stealth and fluidity. They were horrible to behold.