Rust: One

by Christopher Ruz

  She shuddered. This wasn't some cheap Last House On The Left bullshit. This was her life, and she didn't have time for horror fantasies. She set the bag down by the front door and peered into the living room. Still empty. A glance out the front; Peter wasn't by the car either. The rain was beginning to ease. She'd come to understand that it never truly stopped in Rustwood, only slackened for a few hours before building again to a blinding tumult, but she figured she had long enough.

  But the vase where she'd seen Peter drop the keys was empty. She shook it, turned it upside down. All that fell out was dust.

  She swore under her breath and flipped the sofa cushions back. No keys there, either. The coffee table drawers were empty and there was nothing beneath the stack of National Geographic magazines scattered on the floor.

  The tick of the clock in the hallway was a metronome rhythm that made her palms sweat. The car was parked out front so the keys had to be somewhere, maybe behind the fern, or slipped between two of Peter's hardcover Tolkeins. She cleared the shelves one by one, stacking the books silently on the floor, desperate not to make a sound.

  Then, finally, as she reached atop the bookcase, her fingers brushed jagged aluminium. The metallic jingle she'd been waiting for. She clenched the keys tight, the hard edges biting into her palms.

  And then, the back door slammed.

  There was nowhere to run, no way to cross the house before Peter caught her. Instead, she took a deep breath and went to collect her pack. She was still shrugging it on when Peter walked into the kitchen, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, shirt soaked by the rain, tartan sleeves rolled up over his elbows, smelling of fresh-cut grass.

  "Hey." His gaze jumped from Kimberly's face to the backpack. "Huh."

  "What?"

  His Adam's apple bobbed. "Nothing. Thought you might be asleep, so I cut the lawn." He took two glasses from beneath the kitchen sink and a bottle of milk from the fridge. His hand shook as he poured. "It's almost nice out there."

  "No such thing."

  "Heh, that's what Mom always used to say. I swear, sometimes it's like I don't remember the last sunny day." He sipped his milk, never taking his eyes off Kimberly. "You want some?"

  "Not my thing."

  "Always used to be your thing. I poured you a glass already."

  "I don't want it."

  "It's a waste of milk."

  "What do you care?"

  She turned to leave and before she could slip through the door Peter's fingers were clamped tight around her wrist. "Where're you going?"

  "Let go."

  "You tell me-"

  "Let go!" She jerked back, and as Peter released her she crashed shoulder-first into the door frame.

  Peter's hands flew up to his mouth. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" The baby was crying again, a siren wail rising and rising. "God damn it."

  "Your problem." Kimberly yanked the straps tight. "Be seeing you."

  "Oh Kimmy, come on." He rested a hand on her arm. "I said I was sorry. Can we just-"

  She pulled away. "Goodbye, Peter."

  Peter's face fell. "Please don't."

  She slipped into the hall, putting some distance between herself and the crying child. "Don't what?"

  "I have no idea what's going on in your head," he whispered. "I'm doing my best, Goddammit. I really am. But if you won't talk to me, if you can't even tell me what you're doing before you do it-"

  Kimberly stopped with the keys in the door. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I don't owe you an explanation for shit. I don't know if you're a kidnapper or just some bad dream or what, but I'm done. Have fun with your baby."

  "Kim-"

  She yanked the door open and ran, feeling his fingers brush her sleeve as she dashed across the lawn to the Volkswagen. He was close behind but not close enough, and she'd locked the car door behind her before he had a hold of the handle.

  "Please!" Peter slapped the windows. He was panting, the rain soaking through his shirt, plastering his hair to his forehead. "Please, Kim, don't do it."

  "What?"

  "I love you! You can't do this! You can't leave Curtis!"

  Kimberly scowled and turned the key. "Take care of it yourself," she said, and hit the gas.

  * * *

  He was being herded. Fitch knew that much.

  The figures in plaid and denim and bug-eye sunglasses were always one step ahead. When he'd approached Rulet St, the turn that led out to the Pentacost River and the rotten convent, two of the bastards had been blocking his path. He could've swerved straight through them, smashed them flat on the tarmac, maybe even taken the time to reverse over their bodies, but something stopped him. Maybe the fear that they'd be faster. That in the moment before impact they'd jump on the hood of the car, claw the windows open, snatch at his neck. Or maybe...

  A worse fear again. That he'd grind them to pulp beneath his wheels and then step out of the pickup and find nothing but flesh waiting. No monsters, no curls of bone hidden inside their sleeves. Bright blue eyes behind their sunglasses, wet with rain.

  So he'd pulled right, and every turn after that they'd been waiting. Sometimes the men slouched by the side of the road, chewing their fingernails, the midday drizzle running down their sunglasses. Sometimes the lone woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her lips painted an appalling shade of red. She blew kisses as Fitch yanked the wheel, leering, her tongue jutting over her teeth. "Give me a break, Fitch! I'm getting bored of this game!"

  South, he realised. Every turn led him further towards the seaside, the cold grey beach where brave souls went to swim and be lost in the waves. Were they trying to push him out over the bridge? Trap him there like so many others? Or just put his back up against the wall, leave him with no exit but to throw himself into the shallows?

  He cupped the chittering thing and let it nibble at the pad of his thumb. "I don't know what to do," he whispered. "This is all messed up."

  The thing in his pocket lapped at his palm, although whether it tasted with a tongue or just with one of its many muscled phalanges Fitch didn't know. It soothed him either way. His pulse was still ratcheted up to the limit, thudding in his temples and blurring his vision, but at least he could think straight.

  First step: weapons. He opened the pack and found one of his ready-made pipes. The black powder was in a cannister in the glovebox and the scraps of steel he'd collected as shrapnel were in a plastic sack under the passenger seat. He held the pipe between his knees as he drove and poured the black powder, hissing in frustration as it spilled over his jeans. A sprinkle of ball bearings and steel screws followed, but he didn't dare stir the mix. The slightest bit of friction would ignite the powder in his hands.

  The pickup swerved back and forth across both lanes as he screwed the steel lid on the pipe and inserted the blasting cap. The seal wasn't perfect, but it was the best he could do. The fuse was already tamped down - all he needed was a flame.

  A sign blurred past: SOUTH BULWARK BRIDGE. Up ahead, the turnoff that led to the bridge and the beach. One of the plaid-men waited by the turn, hair slicked down with rain. He grinned as Fitch passed, jerking his thumb as if to beg a lift.

  "Asshole," Fitch whispered, starting on his second pipe bomb. The black powder ran over his knees in a fine black tide. "Fucking-"

  One moment the road was clear, and the next the woman was waiting on the yellow line, arms spread wide. "Fitch!"

  He swerved left, the pickup bouncing hard as he slammed over a pothole. Fitch's head cracked against the ceiling, and he swore as the pipe bomb slipped from between his knees. Powder and shrapnel tinkled on the floor. He'd pulled onto a thin single-lane track that wound along the beach, following the curves of the coast. The surf was close enough to touch.

  Damned if he was driving out on to the bridge. Not where they could back him up against the fog. If he had to die, he'd die running.

  His pickup shuddered as he guided it
off-road, down the grassy slope and on to the cold pebbled beach. The engine whined as the wheels caught in rain-soaked sand. A glance over his shoulder; the woman in the blue suit was waiting on the road a couple hundred yards back, grinning like a fox surveying a chicken locked in a mesh coop.

  He wasn't gonna give them an easy target, though.

  The second pipe bomb was still rolling around under the seat, and he scooped it out with trembling hands, trying to pour the remainder of the powder inside. His palms were slippery and the cap was hard to grip, but he almost had it in place...

  The men in plaid were off the highway, running down the slope. Fitch hit the gas but the pickup only whined and spat sand. He'd dug in deep. One bomb would have to do, he figured. He slammed the door open and jumped out into the rain, the sudden shock of cold water down his spine slapping him upright.

  "In a hurry, honey?"

  Fitch didn't turn. His wrist was caught in the seatbelt and when he yanked it free the belt snapped back, knocking the cannister of black powder off the seat and on to the floor. "Fuck fuck fuck..." He tried to scoop the black powder back into the cannister but it was too late. The rain was already sheeting in through the open door, turning his precious explosives to mush. He swore and slammed the door closed. At least he had his lighter...

  "Nice place for a stroll, Fitch. Didn't take you for the romantic type."

  He spun. The woman was already down the slope. She'd kicked off her leather shoes and now traipsed barefoot across the sand, her pink toes leaving shallow footprints. The wind blew her suit jacket back out around her hips and the rain seemed to sizzle off her brow, like she was superheated, electrically charged.

  "Should've taken the bridge!" she called. "Now we have to do this the hard way!"

  Fitch ran. The chittering thing was in his left hip pocket and the pipe bomb in the right, slamming against his sides with every stride. He didn't have time to worry about the powder igniting from friction, or the thing in his pocket getting bruised. The other sunglasses-men were on the beach now, kicking up sand and pebbles in their wake, nubs of white bone extending from their sleeves.

  The beach stretched out before him. On his right, the churning waves, speckled with grey foam, rainclouds growing darker out towards the horizon. On his left, the hard slope leading up to the highway, quickly becoming steeper, rockier. Up ahead, a sheer stone cliff and the black mouths of coastal caves at the base.

  Bad choices in every direction. If he threw himself into the ocean he'd be snapped up by whatever predators waited beneath the foam. If he tried to climb the cliffs... Well, he'd never had a head for heights. And the caves...

  Bad news when the tide came in. He'd heard about teams sent in to retrieve bodies, children gone exploring and left drowned and blue. And then there were the noises that echoed in those caves at night, the squealing like metal grinding against stone...

  But the woman was closing the gap, not running but simply taking long, impossible strides, like the beach was bleeding away beneath her feet, and the three men were at her back. Their sunglasses shone like mirrors.

  The caves were midnight pits cut from the landscape. They reminded Fitch of the mines beyond the Pentacost River. The thought of descending into that darkness made him want to vomit, but he was out of options.

  "Getting tired, Fitch? We can end this right here!"

  He dove into the darkness.

  For a moment he ran blind, scraping against sharp rock walls, slamming his head against a hidden shelf of stone. The pain was intense but he didn't dare slow. Only when the mouth of the cave was a small circle of light behind him did he crouch low and pull the lighter from his pocket.

  Fire glittered on damp quartz walls. A rock ceiling studded with stalactites. The beat of the waves echoed in the depths, a steady thrumming like a blood pulse. Sand slipped beneath his feet - a thin layer of grit atop the rock, washed in by the tides. The plink plink plink of dripping water.

  The back end of the cave was dark. Fitch had no idea how deep it went, if the cave branched and forked and wound beneath the entire town. Maybe it even connected with the mines out past the Pentacost River.

  That thought scared the shit out of him, but there wasn't any turning back. Footsteps at the mouth of the cave sent him scurrying further into the blackness, following the wall, brushing the damp stone with his sixth finger.

  Deep in his pocket, the chittering thing flexed and clawed at the lining of his coat. "Hush," he whispered, wary of how those high squeaks would carry in the cave. "Just-"

  "Hide and seek, Fitch? It's a classic!"

  He dropped low behind a ridge of stone, trembling, letting the flame die. He could just make out the mouth of the cave and the silhouettes there, four figures spreading out, communicating in whispers. The woman was at the front of the pack, stepping lightly, feeling her way through the shadows.

  "This has to end," she called. "She forgives and forgets, you know. She misses you. Misses all her little runaways. Why don't you be the bigger man, Fitch? Patch things up?"

  He crept deeper into the cave, wincing every time a rock squeaked beneath his boots. The four stalkers were almost silent, not even breathing as they followed him into the darkness. The cave bent and narrowed and soon the little square of light that marked the exit was gone entirely.

  "Come out, honey," the woman called. "This isn't fun any more. Not for you, at least."

  His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. At his back, the cave split into three distinct passages, each large enough to swallow a truck. He could go deeper, thin the stalkers out, but then he might never find his way back to the light again. Could be weeks spent wandering, bumping his head on the walls, waiting for a hand to land on his shoulder, or a claw to tighten around his leg...

  He knew enough about the bodies retrieved from the caves. The damage done to those poor kids. Some things were worse than drowning.

  No, he had to make a stand. Get them while they were still clustered together. The pipe bomb was hot in his hand, like it'd been waiting for his touch. One chance.

  He flicked the lighter.

  "Uh oh, Fitch." It was like her voice was right beside him, echoing inside his ear. "I hope you're not about to do anything silly."

  "Fuck you," he whispered, and touched the lighter to the fuse.

  Again, the voice in his ear, even though he knew it was impossible. "Say that louder, darling."

  "Fuck you!"

  He hurled the pipe bomb overarm and ducked behind a hump of rock. As he threw he caught a glimpse of the four stalkers spread across the cave, their sunglasses tucked inside their shirts, turning to follow the steel pipe as it bounced off the stones.

  Then came the explosion.

  It was an animal roar, a punch in the guts that smashed Fitch back against the rock wall. He fell to the floor, gasping, clutching his chest. His ears were ringing, a high brass peal that made his skull ache.

  He dared peer out into the cavern. All was dark, but he thought he could make out two men lying tangled, grasping at the air. The air smelled of black powder and burned flesh. But where were the other two?

  He was still coming to his feet when fingers seized tight around his wrist. Her lips brushed his ear. "Naughty," she whispered. "Clever, but very naughty."

  She threw him to the floor, his head thudding against the wet stone. He jumped up but the last of the three men was standing in his way, his shirt torn by shrapnel, blood pearling on his chest.

  Fitch was hemmed in, backed against the wall. His breath came in ragged gasps. "What do you-"

  The woman gripped Fitch's jaw and jammed her thumb into his mouth. "This has gone far enough. She's getting impatient."

  He pulled away, spitting, trying to clear the taste of ash from his tongue. "I've got another bomb."

  "Bad liar."

  "I'll shoot you! I've got a gun, I mean it!"

  "And then what? Keep running? You know she'll send more."

  Fitch hung his head and the woman grinned.
"Thought so. You look tired, baby. You need your beauty sleep. Don't you agree? Don't you want to rest a while?"

  Fitch licked his lips. His ears were still ringing, but he was sure there was another sound rising up above the thunder of blood. A clicking in the darkness, like the tapping of fingernails against a window pane.

  He fought the urge to run screaming. "Go fuck yourself."

  "We're all parts of the big machine, Fitch. Less you fight, the kinder she'll be."

  "That's not you talking! You even remember your name any more?"

  The woman frowned. "What's it matter?"

  "It-" He wasn't imagining it now. A definite click, scrape, click, scrape. Something heavy dragging against the stone. It was coming from the tunnel at the woman's back.

  "You had a good run," the woman said. He could barely make her out in the gloom, just a shadow against larger shadows, but the touch of her palm against his forearm was enough. "Did more damage than we thought you could. Be proud of that, but it's time to walk now." She shoved him towards the mouth of the cave. "Walk or I'll take you off at the knees and drag you out. Don't fuck with me-"

  The rock trembled beneath Fitch's feet. A slow tectonic thunder. The air shuddered, stilled, shuddered again.

  The woman swore and snatched at the lighter in Fitch's hand. The flint crackled and caught. "What the damn hell is-"

  The thin blue flame of the lighter played over rock, wet stone, stalagmites...

  No. Not stalagmites. Legs. Serrations and blade-thin bone. It was huge, ten foot tall, scraping the ceiling, too large for Fitch to take in all at once. Hard knobs of chitin, scaly flesh sandblasted lobster-red. A creature the size of a bus crawling up from cold, subterranean pits, woken by the thunder of the bomb.

  The man in plaid turned, raising his hands, but he was too late. One massive claw scissored out of the darkness and snapped closed.