Rust: One

by Christopher Ruz

  "You were supposed to meet me!" The man's fingers twitched. His lips were drawn back over his teeth, and she saw how flaky they were, how the skin of his cheeks was cracked. A skin condition, some illness-

  He lunged, and Kimberly danced back, the branch held out before her. "You get away! I'll kill you, I swear! I've had enough shit-"

  The man met her eyes. His teeth were spotted with blood. He wasn't snarling, she realised. He was drying out, his gums receding, his eyeballs yellowed. Like a corpse left to blacken in the sun.

  "Oh God," she whispered. "What are you?"

  "You were supposed to wait!" he said, scrambling up the hillside. He stumbled and landed on hands and knees in the scree, kicking up pebbles in huge drifts. "You lied to me, you lied!"

  Kimberly kept backing up. The path was thinning, the overgrowth squeezing it from both sides. She could clamber through but she sure as hell couldn't run. "If you come one step closer-"

  The man surged up, moving faster than Kimberly thought possible, and she swung blind. The branch caught him in the jaw and he screeched, rolling in the dirt and clutching his face.

  Kimberly didn't let go of the branch. "You keep running or I'll open your fucking skull, you-"

  His hands came away from his face and she saw the hole the branch had torn in his cheek, flesh ripped clean through, his yellowed teeth and gums showing through the flap. There was no blood on his palms. The wound was dry.

  Through the hole in his cheek she saw something moving, something black and chitinous. It unfurled from the pit of his throat.

  "Jesus Christ no," she whispered. "No way. You-"

  He lunged and she hit him again, this time smashing him to the ground at her feet. He grasped at her shins, and no matter how she thrashed he held on tight. The toe of her boot caught him in the chin, snapping his head back, but his grip was firm.

  Those corpse-dry hands inched upward, grabbing at her knees, her hips, her wrists. She drove an elbow into his neck and heard muscle crack but he didn't even blink.

  The hands came up and up and up. One clamped over her mouth and the other around her throat.

  She tasted dead skin, scratching against her teeth. She had no air left to scream.

  The fingers squeezed.

  Chapter 12

  There was something comforting about being behind the wheel of a police cruiser.

  Detective Jonathan Goodwell hadn't owned many cars in his time. A detective's salary only stretched so far, and most of his purchases had been ratty 60s era refurbs. He'd never purchased anything with power windows, or wipers that didn't sound like they were grinding themselves apart with every swipe across the windshield.

  But while Rustwood PD had more than its share of underpaid, underskilled beat cops, someone high up the chain had done one thing right by striking a deal with the local mechanics. When the alarms went off at Sparky Joe's at two in the morning, there wasn't a cop in town that wouldn't rush down there to drag the thief out by their ears. In return, Rustwood PD had the smoothest patrol vehicles a detective could hope for. Every time Goodwell borrowed one of the unmarked cars from the garage he took his sweet time returning it, touring the back streets and cruising up the mountain pass to St Jeremiah's. There was beauty in a heavy cruiser. The purr of the engine. The weight as he took the sweeping turns.

  "You like to drive?" he asked Peter Archer, who was slouched in the passenger seat. "I figure America was made for driving. Something powerful about it. There was this time I-"

  Peter hadn't looked up. Goodwell coughed. "Sorry. You've got a lot on your mind."

  "It's no problem, detective." Peter stared fixedly at the dash, hands in his lap. His fingers twitched, drumming against the fabric of his slacks. "Just anxious."

  "I've made the call and alerted dispatch, so all we can do now is wait. I recommend you find some way to distract yourself. You'll chew yourself up with worry otherwise."

  "Wouldn't you be worried?"

  Goodwell thought of his wife Hannah and the enduring silence between them, as solid and immovable as any stone wall. It'd take a heavy hammer to knock through that bullshit, and he didn't know if he had the strength any more. He could barely remember the last time they'd spoken. Surely there'd been good times in the past - he wouldn't have married her otherwise. Even so...

  "Yeah," he said. "I'd be scared out of my mind."

  The radio beeped, and Goodwell snatched it up, glad for any excuse to break off the conversation. "Car three-three-eight?"

  "Receiving."

  "Following up on your eleven-fifty-four, can you confirm that plate number?"

  "Echo, eight, four-"

  They turned on to Lexington Avenue, cruising past the old cinema and the adventure playground. The bushes were growing up tall around the playground again, which meant it was shielded from the street. To Goodwell, that meant more places for kids to get stoned and for men to go cruising after midnight. Every time municipal services neglected to cut the hedges down to size, Rustwood PD would be inundated with reports of public indecency, condoms and plastic bottle bongs left to yellow and rot in the rain...

  The radio squawked. "You got it?" Goodwell asked.

  "No registration," came the reply. "Might be fake plates. Someone reported a near miss with a blue pickup by the Rosenfeld Mission yesterday, possible five-oh-two."

  "Nothing else?"

  "Hold on." A pause. Static crackled. "That's it, sorry. You're on your own, Detective."

  "Well, damn." Goodwell gave Peter his most reassuring smile. "Time for some classic police work, Mister Archer. Mind if I knock on some doors?"

  The Rosenfeld Mission was one of the most colourful buildings in Rustwood. Mrs Rosenfeld made a point of setting up tarpaulins and enlisting her 'guests' to clean and repaint the entire building twice a year with whatever she could beg from High-Top Hardware. Goodwell always enjoyed watching her army of homeless and addicts out with rollers and buckets in hand, covering over what little graffiti had accumulated there. Funny, how so few of the kids in town dared scrawl their names on the Mission.

  "Five minutes," Goodwell told Peter as they parked out front. "Don't go running off."

  "Where am I gonna run?" Peter looked almost sheepish. "I'm relying on you."

  "Sure, sure." He patted Peter on the shoulder. "We'll find her. Just think good thoughts."

  But his own words rang hollow as he entered the Rosenfeld Mission. He'd have to report in soon, and the boss wouldn't be happy if he didn't have answers. There was always a price to be paid for fucking up on this scale, and he didn't want to be the one who paid it. Either he located Mrs Archer very goddamn quickly, or he found someone else to stick their neck through the noose...

  The first thing that hit Goodwell as he stepped into the lobby was the stink of cabbage and beans. The air was thick with it, the heavy flavour of bad stew left to congeal. Even so, there were men and women alike wandering past with bowls clutched tight in their grubby hands, eating with care, trying not to slurp from their plastic spoons. At the far end of the lobby was the kitchen, and Goodwell could just make out a dark figure behind the steam, ladling soup as the line of homeless and poor passed by with their heads bowed and hands outstretched.

  He waited for a gap in the line, then darted in and muscled his way to the front. "Mrs Rosenfeld? Can I speak to you for a minute?"

  The woman behind the counter glanced up, met Goodwell's eyes, and sighed. "Yes, officer?"

  "You know me?"

  "I had a premonition."

  "You prone to those?"

  "Only when shit's about to roll downhill and land at my door."

  Goodwell couldn't help but grin. Mrs Rosenfeld was a slim black woman with muscles bunched beneath her paisley-print dress. In her fifties at least, maybe even sixties, but still ticking with nervous energy. The sort of person that couldn't sleep for fear of leaving a chore undone.

  Nine days out of ten he'd have shaken hands with her and made idle conversation, but Peter Archer was
probably already throwing a fit in the car and Goodwell's benevolent overseer would be expecting a midnight update. "I need information on a guest of yours."

  Rosenfeld shrugged her bony shoulders. "Ask them yourself."

  "I don't know the man's name. But he drives a blue pickup, license plate-"

  "Hold on, son." Mrs Rosenfeld dropped the ladle back into the cast iron pot with a wet splat. "You looking to make an arrest?"

  "Just asking questions."

  "That's some very thinly veiled cop talk, Mister Goodwell."

  Goodwell frowned. "I didn't introduce myself."

  "You think you need to? Now, if you want soup, you go to the back of the line."

  Goodwell stared. "You can't be serious."

  "Line's there for a reason, officer."

  "Detective, Mrs Rosenfeld. And if you won't cooperate..." Goodwell leaned over the counter, doing his best to loom. "There's a reason this place is allowed to exist," he said. "It serves a specific purpose and the moment it stops serving that purpose it'll just..." He clicked his fingers. "You remember the public baths?"

  Mrs Rosenfeld nodded. "I get it."

  "Thirty people inside. Poof. You ever wonder where they are now?"

  "I don't want to know, Detective."

  "Funny how it sticks with you," Goodwell said. "Most people I meet have a nice little blind spot when it comes to the old baths. Like they were never there."

  Mrs Rosenfeld's lips became very thin and very white. "Get out."

  "What's different about you, huh? Who'd you cut a deal with? Hope you shook hands with someone on the right side."

  "And is that your side, detective? I asked you to get out, so if you'll kindly-"

  "A woman's life may be in danger."

  Mrs Rosenfeld ducked her head. "Man who owns that car never hurt anyone, and you accusing him puts me in a real mood."

  "If he's done nothing wrong then he has nothing to fear. All I need is a name-"

  "You know the power in a name!" Mrs Rosenfeld's scowl was so severe it could melt sand into glass. "And you know what'll come down on my head if I say it."

  "Both our heads, Mrs Rosenfeld."

  "I won't invite it," she whispered. "You do your own police work. Keep away from me and my friends."

  Goodwell knew when he was beat. He slunk back from the counter, letting the line of hungry men reform around him. "You take care, Mrs Rosenfeld," he said, tipping an imaginary hat. "Keep your doors locked."

  "You think I'd still be alive if I didn't know that?"

  The last thing Goodwell saw of Mrs Rosenfeld was her jabbing her skinny middle finger into the air. Then he was out the doors again, into the drizzle.

  He turned his collar up as he hurried back to the car. Peter Archer was shouting, waving him over, although he couldn't make out any words through the glass. He slid into the driver's seat and shook the rain from his hair. "Sorry for the wait. I'm gonna bring a beat cop down to do interviews. One of the homeless here will spill for a Big Mac-"

  "Start the car!" Peter's eyes were wide, almost manic. "Goddamnit, we need to move!"

  "Excuse me?" Goodwell cranked the engine, the throaty purr vibrating through his seat, massaging his spine. "Take a breath, Mister Archer-"

  "I saw it!" He pointed west, towards the mountain range rising up over the rooftops of Rustwood. "The blue pickup! Heading down-"

  "When?"

  "A minute, maybe?"

  Goodwell dropped the clutch. The tyres squealed on wet macadam.

  * * *

  Kimberly woke.

  Her skull ached and her tongue was a dry weight in her mouth. Her eyes were almost sealed shut with muck and she could only make out blurs, dim sweeps of colour, brown and black and the red of clotted blood. When she tried to wipe them clean she realised her hands were bound behind her back. Not by rope, but with something heavy and enveloping like glue.

  She tried to stand and found her feet stuck hard to the floor. A patch of light gleamed overhead, a thin slit that looked like the gap between two floorboards. The air smelled of must and damp, the stink of stagnant water. Her back ached, the floor cold against her buttocks. Bare concrete. Against the far walls, piles of garbage, tin cans and old clothes.

  Basement, she realised. She was in someone's basement, tied to... a pipe? She flexed her fingers as far as she could manage and found rusted steel. It was strangely warm. A heating pipe, then.

  Basement. Pipe. She blinked, the last of the grogginess peeling away.

  She'd been kidnapped.

  Fear rose up in her chest and clamped tight around her throat. "Oh Jesus," she croaked, "No, no, this isn't..." She tried to pull her feet free of whatever had stuck them to the floor, but the best she could do was drum her heels on the concrete. The pipe refused to give. "Oh fuck, wake up, wake up-"

  She yanked on the pipe, jerking sideways, until it felt like her shoulder was about to pop free of the socket. The steel groaned.

  The pile of clothes in the far corner stood up.

  This time she screamed. It was the man from the walking trail, unfolding like a marionette, his spindly limbs slick with sweat, pants hanging loose on his hips, stomach sunken, eyes yellowed. There was a series of high cracks as he shook his limbs, like he was slowly waking from hibernation, all his muscles taught. He took one long, wheezing breath, phlegm rattling in his lungs.

  Then he turned, gaze fixed on Kimberly, and she was struck mute.

  "You woke up," he whispered.

  Kimberly tried to scoot back but there was nowhere left to go. "Get away from me."

  "I was scared." The man's voice came out in a glottal croak. He coughed, and something thick and yellow dribbled over his lips. "You hit your head. Thought you'd be asleep forever."

  She wanted to scream but the fear had choked her completely. The more she tugged at the membrane around her wrists, the more it pulled taut, until the ends of her fingers tingled.

  He cocked his head. "How did you get here? I didn't invite you. Or did I? I can't-" He coughed again, then convulsed, clutching his stomach. He hacked and spat, and finally vomited thickly into his cupped hands.

  Kimberly wanted to throw up as well, but she couldn't look away. The man was inspecting the mess in his hands like a prospector sifting through dirt in search of flakes of gold. Finally he slapped the wet mess on to the ground and kneaded it with his knuckles. It clung to his fingers, coming away in strings.

  Not vomit at all, Kimberly realised. It was some sort of glue, and it looked exactly like the bubbling filth binding her ankles.

  "What are you?" she whispered.

  The man didn't look up. He reached behind him, groping in the darkness. Kimberly's eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and she could just make out the shapes in the shadows. Some of those garbage piles held worse things than tin cans and greasy pizza boxes. The long pale cylinders of limbs and the white half-moons of fingernails.

  There was sound like paper tearing, and the man came up with a scrap of something dark and pink. It might have been a flap of skin, or the rough square of a dead man's cheek. He turned it over in his hands, then began to chew.

  "I don't know why," he said, words slurred as his jaw worked furiously. "Sometimes I don't know why I'm doing this. I can't remember." He was crying, Kimberly realised. There were tears on his cheeks and snot running thick over his lips. "You understand, don't you? Don't you recognise me? It's Bo. Me, Bo!"

  She could barely manage a whisper. "Let me go."

  "I do things and it's not me and I forget. I didn't want this, I promise. You have to help me. You love me, don't you? Say you love me."

  "Please let me go, please-"

  "Jacinta, tell me you love me!" The glue poured from the ragged hole in his cheek. She saw the meat there, crushed by his molars, and the black thing emerging from his throat to snatch at the scraps. "Tell me! Tell me!"

  She couldn't scream. Terror had squeezed her lungs. All she could do was squeak, "Don't hurt..."

  The ma
n fell back on his haunches. His hands tensed into fists. He coughed again, spitting on the floor between his feet.

  "I'll take you on a date," he said. "Yeah. Some place nice. I know nice places. We'll have a real good time." He wiped his mouth, and the black thing in his throat darted out to nibble at his fingers. "You and me, Jay. Did I ever tell you how your hair smells? I..."

  The man blinked. He tilted his head, as if someone were whispering in his ear. Then he turned and dragged his way to the stairs at the back of the basement. He leaned heavily on the railing with every step, as if just standing upright pained him. His toes caught on the edge of the stairs but he didn't stumble.

  A whisper at the top of the stairs. "Yes," Bo said, his voice a rattling husk. "She'll be ready soon."

  A door creaked, then slammed shut.

  Kimberly was alone.

  She counted to ten as the man's thudding footsteps echoed through the ceiling. Her breath came fast, panicked, and she had to force herself to bite down on the fear to keep from hyperventilating.

  "No screams," she whispered. "Won't help anyone. No screams." She yanked at the pipe. It didn't move. She tensed and pulled again. Still nothing. The pipe was solid.

  As solid as the bodies in the corner. She couldn't pretend they weren't there any more. Couldn't imagine they weren't just piles of rags and newspapers. How many? She counted three hands jutting from the muck. Thin fingered, the nails delicate. All women.

  She yanked on the pipe again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Chapter 13

  Fitch was running low on gas.

  He'd been up and down the mountain and poked his head as far into the West Channel tunnel as far as he dared, but there'd been no sign of Kimberly Archer. The tug was fading too, even when he closed his eyes and concentrated. An hour before it'd been a harpoon through his sternum, dragging him westward, so sudden and fierce he could barely breathe. Now it was more like a second pulse, an arrhythmia fading minute by minute. Almost as if Kimberly was being muffled by cotton wool.