Rust: One

by Christopher Ruz

"Or maybe that isn't the question," he mused. "Maybe better to ask, who were you?" He grinned up at the window, the streetlights flashing on his bright, neat teeth. "Strange lady arrives in a strange town, first thing she'd wanna do is get out. It's what I did. You need answers, right? Better you listen to me. That is, if you want to live long enough to get home."

  Kimberly took a deep breath and counted to five, until her hands stopped shaking. She crossed the bedroom and pressed one ear to the door. Nothing moved downstairs. The baby was silent.

  Then back to the window, leaning out into the rain, letting it patter on the back of her head. She stared down at the ragged man and forced her voice to stay steady.

  "Your five seconds has been extended to five minutes," she said. "Tell me everything."

  * * *

  Saint Jeremiah's had enough of a budget for two security guards: Fredericks and Olly, two hulking men in sharp blue uniforms who traded between watching the front doors and patrolling the corridors. It was months since Jacinta May had had to call on them - a particularly troublesome patient had objected violently to a routine tick-shot - but she still felt more comfortable with them around.

  Especially since they'd found the body in the woods.

  It was three am, and Doctor Keller was checking out, punching his card at reception. The old man of Saint Jeremiah's looked thin, drawn tight by too many long shifts. Jacinta knew his surgery schedule: he'd removed the appendix from an eight year old girl that day. Children's ops were always hard even when successful, and she reached across the desk to pat Keller on the hand. "Hey," she said. "Good shift?"

  "Better than most." Keller smiled wearily. He was barely fifty years old, but Keller had lost his hair early, and the lack of sleep combined with his huge glasses and a bad smoking habit made him look closer to eighty. He was stooped, his cheeks spotted with moles, eyes yellowing, but his hands were still quick and precise and that was what counted. "What're you working these days? Four to eight?"

  "Used to be. I get off at six, these days. Just in time to watch the sun rise."

  "You're a good woman, Jacinta." Keller signed his name in the register and loosened his tie. "Better than this place deserves."

  Keller was halfway out the door when Jacinta blurted, "Did they ID the woman?"

  The doctor stopped. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of Kools. "The dead woman?"

  "I guess it's ghoulish," Jacinta said, "but she was just a mile down the road, and I thought-"

  "No."

  "Even with her teeth?"

  "The injuries to her face were severe," Keller said. He lit a cigarette, leaned out the door, took a drag, exhaled smoke into the night air, and ducked back inside. "Animal damage, I assume. Also, massive swelling of the throat and tongue. Possibly through infection prior to death, possibly rot. I watched the autopsy. Very hard to tell. Either way, whatever ruined her tongue did the same to her teeth. We've taken casts, but..." He shrugged.

  "Poor thing," Jacinta whispered.

  "Exactly." Doctor Keller's smile had vanished completely. "I have a jigsaw waiting for me at home. One thousand pieces. A picture of the Hochwanner. If you don't mind-"

  "Of course. Drive safe, Doctor. The roads are wet."

  "Aren't they always?" Keller said, and slipped out into the night.

  Jacinta was alone with the ticking of the clock. She concentrated on her papers, filling out bulk orders for Paracetamol and Bendectin. Hospital management had assigned her to administration for the past month as part of her eventual move up the employment chain. The scratching of her pen on paper filled the lobby until her hand was numb.

  The doors slid open. Jacinta looked up.

  Bo Tuscon stood in the doorway, rain dripping from the ends of his sleeves and puddling on the tiled floor. His cheeks were pale and his eyesockets bruised by exhaustion. His hands hung limp by his sides. Water beaded on his fingertips.

  "Bo?" Jacinta set her pen down. "Are you okay? What the hell, Bo?" She rounded the lobby desk, the papers forgotten. "Where the hell've you been? Two weeks now, two goddamn weeks! Your Mom called, the police were here... You can't just take a holiday!"

  She stopped. Bo hadn't turned to meet her eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched. His tongue darted out over his lips.

  "Bo?" She touched his arm. His skin was slick, heat rising off him like fever. "I called you so many times. They said your house was empty. Where've you been?"

  Bo shuddered. His shoulders jerked. Finally, he turned. His eyes were yellowed, his pupils tiny black flecks. "Jacinta," he whispered. "I don't feel very good."

  "No shit. You look about two heartbeats away from a wooden box." She touched his forehead and winced. "Yeah, that's more than a flu. Skip the paperwork, I've got some aspirin in my purse."

  She led Bo around the desk and sat him down as she rooted through her purse, searching for the familiar plastic blister-packs. "You're lucky you weren't fired," she muttered. "I was worried about you. Seriously worried. You think it's okay to scare people like that?" She pressed two pills into his hand. "Okay, swallow and drink some water, before you pass out. God, I hope you haven't gotten pneumonia. What were you doing out there? Rain-dancing?"

  Bo whispered, "I don't remember."

  She frowned. "You been taking something? I thought you'd given that up. Your mother will have a heart attack if you don't stop playing with pills-"

  Bo's hand twisted. His fingers tightened around her wrist, and she felt the bones crunch together. The pain was sudden and sharp. "Jesus!" she gasped. "Bo, what the fuck-"

  "It's eating my guts." An awful clacking sound rose from his throat like insects chittering in his oesophagus. "Jay, please, you've got to get it out."

  "I-"

  Bo yanked her off her feet, throwing her to the floor as easily as if she were a child. The world span around her as she hit the linoleum, her head smacking the ground. Her teeth clicked together on her tongue.

  She blinked back tears as Bo stalked after her. There was mud on his toes. Blood dried on his ankles.

  "You've gotta get it out of me," he said, his eyes blank, and descended upon her. Something black and sharp uncoiled in the pit of his throat, worming past his teeth.

  Jacinta began to scream.

  Chapter 5

  Kimberly knew bad dreams. She'd been in and out of nightmares for weeks while strapped down in St Jeremiah's, sweating in the grip of night terrors, being chased by faceless things, gibbering creatures, silhouettes crying in Aaron's voice. She wanted the man standing in the garden to be a dream as well but he was as real as the windowsill beneath her sweating palms.

  "Five minutes," she repeated. "Then I call the cops."

  The hobo strutted across the back garden with his left hand in the hip pocket of his coat, the other scratching at his chin. "Lot to fit into five minutes. Cold out here, too. A polite person would make me a cup of tea."

  "No chance."

  "This rain is drowning me, lady!"

  "Four minutes."

  The hobo grumbled. Now that Kimberly had a chance to look the man over, he didn't seem half as filthy as she remembered from when they'd met outside the tunnel. The ends of his coat were ragged and stained with something dark like blood or gasoline and his cheeks were scrubby with a patchwork beard, but his hands and face were clean. He wore a watch on his right wrist with a sparkling silver band and his teeth were bright behind scowling lips.

  If she'd met him anywhere else - a gas station, a mechanics, in a library - she would've assumed him a tradesman with a bad burn. But just because he scrubbed up nice didn't change the fact that he'd stalked her across town. If she let him inside, she'd be lucky if they found her in any less than five garbage bags, strewn from one end of Rustwood to the other.

  "They say a man can only die once," the hobo said. "That doesn't hold true in Rustwood. Everyone here died once already, so far as I can figure, but not many remember. Some turn up and believe they were always a part of the place. Some fight for a
couple days. Take the tunnel or jump into the ocean or head out over that goddamn bridge. Those that stay... well, after two, maybe three days they stop fighting and forget where they came from. But you've been here two weeks now, and you've still got your mind. So, where was it? Germany? Lots come from Germany. Oklahoma?"

  She didn't want to remember that moment on the platform. The lights bearing down. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

  "You drove the tunnel! You saw! If you don't believe me, go in again. Or you scared you'll come out where you went in?"

  Sweat ran down the nape of her neck. "I thought I was dreaming," she whispered.

  The ragged man grinned. "Three ways out of Rustwood. Two go in circles - that one, and West Channel. South Bulwark Bridge doesn't go anywhere. You know the longest bridge in the world? It's in Louisiana. Manchac Swamp Bridge, almost twenty three miles. I drove down South Bulwark for a whole day and didn't find the end. Lucky to get back. Betcha you remember things from before, huh? They tell you it was a dream? I still remember. Getting harder now, but I remember a whole lot."

  Her hands trembled on the windowsill. She could slam it down so easily, she thought. Cut the stranger off mid-word and crawl into bed. Maybe in the morning things would look different. The dream would finally peter out.

  Instead she found herself saying, "Who are you?"

  The man licked his lips. "Lots of power in a name. But I figure if we're going to do this... Fitch. The name's Fitch."

  "I didn't ask your name," she said. "I asked who the hell you were."

  "I'm the guy that needs your help."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Lot of things happen here that nobody sees," Fitch said. "Then again, lot of things happen here that everybody sees, but everybody chooses not to believe. But you, you're not blind yet. Precious few like you. I don't want to die here, but I can't kill whatever's poisoning this place on my own."

  "This place?"

  "Rustwood. It's a big old funnel and the further you fall down the harder it is to climb back out. Thing is, I'm not trying to climb out. I want to bust a hole in the side and escape."

  Kimberly swallowed. "So it's a one man war?"

  "Could be one man, one woman. Unless you're scared."

  "I'm too tired for reverse-psychology bullshit." Kimberly drummed her fingers on the windowsill as the rain pattered down on the roof. Then, finally, she said, "Best of luck, Fitch."

  The man straightened. "What?"

  "You heard right. I don't know how you really found me but you're crazy if you think I'm gonna run around in the rain with a delusional conspiracy theorist."

  "But you said-"

  "I saw a weird tunnel. So what?"

  "You died before you came here."

  "I took a fall. That's it."

  Fitch scowled. "You lie to yourself all you want. Time will come when the town catches up, Kimberly Archer, and then you'll come begging. I betcha a dollar you're crawling back to me by this time tomorrow."

  "And I bet I can get the cops here in less time than it takes to run a bath. Get out of here!"

  Fitch ducked his head. His shoulders rose and fell. "Sure thing, lady," he said. "Try to sleep in the wrong bed, in the wrong damn town. I was there too, once. I know how it goes. Call me when you wake up. I'll have your proof."

  The man shrank back into the rain. His left hand had never left the hip pocket of his coat. Then he turned, joined the shadows, and was gone.

  Kimberly let herself exhale as she eased the window down. So, the nutcase had a name. Fitch. That'd help when she reported him to the police. First thing in the morning, once she was rested enough to drive and give a statement without freaking out. She had Goodwell's number somewhere...

  Then again, would he believe her? Detective Goodwell had been as useful as a wet sock and she didn't know whether he'd give a damn if she complained about a stalking hobo in addition to her fake husband and fake baby. If they took her back to St Jeremiah's...

  No, she decided. It was easier to keep quiet and hope he stayed away. She'd be out of town by morning. Fitch had mentioned a bridge, and you couldn't get all turned about on a bridge. They only went one way.

  It looped, a voice in the back of her head whispered. You know it did. It looped and you're a liar!

  It was easier not to think about those things. Easier to wilfully forget.

  She didn't think she was in a mood to sleep, but as she sat on the end of the bed she found it near impossible to stay awake. Her exhaustion was a warm blanket swaddling her, binding her tight.

  She closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Kimberly woke clear-headed for the first time in days.

  She lay on her back, staring at the blank canvas of the ceiling, waiting for Aaron to roll over and envelop her in his arms. If he did, then she knew it was all over. The dream was done. But as the seconds ticked by she knew Aaron wasn't there. It was still the wrong house. The wrong world, even.

  At least the bed was comfortable. After two weeks rolling around sleepless on a thin hospital mattress, the huge empty double-queen was a revelation. It was almost enough that she could forget the man downstairs, the stranger who'd stolen her last name.

  She was still a thousand miles from home and Peter's house was still a prison. But it couldn't be any worse than the hospital. At least here there was a phone.

  She glanced at the alarm clock. Eight in the morning. Somehow, unbelievably, the baby was sleeping. Downstairs was quiet. If the stranger was awake, he wasn't moving about.

  If she was going to act at all, it'd have to be fast.

  She dressed quietly, tugging on bluejeans and a heavy coat, marvelling at how well they fitted. Other pants and shirts were bundled in the bottom of the closet, with wide waistbands and flowing fabrics. Maternity wear. She shuddered and jammed them back into the drawers, into the darkness, where they belonged.

  She still had the car keys - she'd hidden them in a bundle of old socks the night before. The stairs creaked as she crept downstairs, and she winced at every groan of wood. Nobody was moving down there and the baby was mercifully silent. She peered into the living room where Peter had slept. The sofa was empty, blankets balled on the floor. The kitchen was empty as well.

  Her stomach clenched and gurgled like a drain, and Kimberly realised she hadn't eaten since leaving the hospital the day before. There was a box of cold pizza in the refrigerator, and for a moment she considered wolfing it down, but she thought of Peter's needles and decided she didn't trust anything in the house that hadn't come out of a can.

  There'd be time to eat later, once she was out of town. A glance out the front window; the stranger wasn't in the yard either, but the car was still there, the little red Volkswagen parked where she'd left it the night before.

  At least she could still escape.

  The only phone in the house sat on a sideboard in the hallway that joined the kitchen to the living room. She circled the rooms once more, looking for any sign of the stranger. She was alone. The phone was cool and heavy in her hand, and as she lifted it to her ear she found herself shivering, as if she were holding not just a telephone but a talisman, something of great and unutterable power.

  Her fingers hovered over the buttons. She remembered what had happened in the hospital. The whispers.

  She dialled Aaron's number.

  Dialtone grated in her ear. She waited for twenty rings, but nobody answered. She swore under her breath and hung up. Where in the hell was he? If it was Aaron that'd disappeared, she would've waited by the phone day and night for the call. Unless he'd already gone to work? It'd been two weeks, after all. Maybe Rustwood was further west than she'd thought, and it was already past ten in New York. She imagined Aaron sitting at his desk, numb, forcing himself to type and transcribe, waiting for the police to call...

  His office. She dialled with trembling fingers, trying to recall the exact number. Three four, or four three?

  "Kimberly."

  She jumped out of
the chair, the phone still clenched tight in her fist. Her so-called husband was standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, looking down at her with an expression of weary finality. Kimberly drew back as he entered the room, her shoulders against the wall, her heart rate cranked.

  He saw her fear and sighed, backing away until he no longer blocked the exit. "Who're you calling?"

  "Get out of my face."

  "Kimberly, who-"

  "Get away!" She held the phone tight against her chest, knuckles white on the plastic. "Just-"

  "Okay, okay! Jesus." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I just want to talk. Can we do that? Talk like adults?"

  She still struggled with thinking of him as someone with a name as opposed to her jailer, but she managed to keep her voice even. "About what, Peter?"

  "Where'd you go last night?"

  "None of your business."

  "It's my car, so you better believe it's my business."

  Kimberly didn't answer. She held Peter's gaze, hoping he'd flinch and turn away.

  He didn't. "Okay, forget the car. Let's talk treatment. I'd like to work through those exercises Doctor Keller gave-"

  "Doctor Keller doesn't know what he's talking about."

  "This is important! This is about us!" He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it with trembling fingers. "The first step is to discuss how we feel in this relationship, if you're angry, if there's something causing stress-"

  "Causing stress?" She almost laughed. "Tell me how the hell you rigged this all up and then I won't be so stressed! Did you pay Keller off? What about Goodwell? Where the fuck is this town, anyway?"

  Peter scowled. "You lied to the doctors, didn't you?"

  "Don't come any closer." She punched the last numbers. Dialtone burred. "I'll kick your ass, I swear."

  "I just want to-"

  Aaron wasn't picking up. She hit the receiver and dialled again. "If you touch me," she hissed, "if you even come close enough to breathe on me, I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life in a cell somewhere very dark and cold. I have friends back home who'll put you away for life, you hear me?"