Rust: One

by Christopher Ruz

  Or something worse.

  He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and let the thing nibble at his knuckles. "Options," he said. "What can we do? Wait to feel the tug?"

  The thing squeaked like a baby bird begging for food. "Yeah," Fitch agreed. "Risky. Might not even be near a road. Could've dragged her off to the old farm or drowned her in the river. I'd ask Rosenfeld but I don't wanna bring more shit down on her head. Or maybe I could ask..."

  The thing knew what he was thinking. It curled against his palm in disgust.

  "He's tapped in, though! He always knows what's going on."

  The thing chittered in high, panicked tones.

  "He never did anything to you. Never wished harm on me either, far as I know." Not for the first time, Fitch wondered if the thing in his pocket actually understood what he was saying, or whether he was only talking to himself, projecting the other half of his uncertainty onto a creature that didn't even have visible ears.

  Even so, when the thing was afraid, he usually had good reason to feel the same.

  "I don't have any other options," he whispered. "She could be dead already and the longer I wait the more likely that is, so don't shame me for getting a little help."

  The thing squirmed, turning in circles, rustling the fabric of his jacket.

  "Yeah, yeah. I'll make it quick." Fitch tried to calm his shaking hands by thinking of better times, better places. Towns where you could walk in the ocean shallows without losing your feet. Where the shadows didn't have fangs.

  It was time to visit Mister Gull.

  From a distance, Fitch could've mistaken Mister Gull's house for any of Rustwood's gentrified bungalows. A neat little two story shack with an attic extension, the lawn trimmed neat, a black gate with GULL spelled out in calligraphic iron, the garage door down and the curtains drawn. A windvane cut into the shape of a bird in flight - Mister Gull's namesake, Fitch supposed - spun atop the highest peak. A plaster garden gnome grinned from beneath a hedge, marble eyes flashing.

  But as Fitch drew closer, a distinct feeling of wrongness settled around his shoulders. It wasn't anything he could see, but rather something he could taste. A metallic flavour on the back of his tongue. His palms felt greasy. The spot between his shoulderblades itched.

  Mister Gull. The sort of name you only ever whispered.

  He rang the bell, then rubbed his finger on his dirty jeans, like it'd imprint into his skin otherwise. For a moment he considered running back to his pickup, but then he thought of Kimberly lost out in God-knows-where and forced himself to stand still. If he couldn't even keep his cool for ten minutes, what good was he? And, after all, Gull had never messed with him. Strange guy, sure, but the only time he and Fitch had run into each other before had been cordial.

  Cordial, only because Gull had been preoccupied at the time. Fitch had stumbled across him one evening while he'd been... attending... to some of Rustwood's less savoury clientele. Gull had twisted his hands, and there'd been fire, bright blue flames... God, he could still smell them cooking into the brick.

  Fitch shivered and buzzed the bell again. "Maybe he won't be home," he whispered to the thing in his pocket. "Guess we're back to the streets, huh? Betcha a dollar he won't be home. Betcha-"

  Steel clicked, and the front gate swung open.

  Fitch jumped back, pulse thudding behind his ears. "Jesus," he whispered. "The man likes his theatre."

  The thing was silent. For once, it'd been cowed.

  It seemed to Fitch that every step up Mister Gull's garden path took supreme effort, like he was pushing through thick spiderwebs, struggling to breathe as the fibres pulled taught around his limbs and nose and eyes. The air was pregnant with power. That was how Gull got things done, he supposed. There were some people in Rustwood who served the beast and some like Fitch who fought it but as far as he knew Gull didn't do either. He lived without allegiances or enemies.

  That scared Fitch the most. Nobody was neutral in Rustwood. You could know the truth and fight it, or you could stay cow-ignorant and let it use you instead. But Gull had carved out a little niche for himself and held it despite attacks from all sides.

  Fitch hadn't believed there was anything to the rumours. Not until he'd seen things go bad in the empty lot down the end of Canif Street. The fire, the walls melting, the way those men had screamed...

  But now he was at the front door, too late to turn back, and the door was opening, hinges silent, drawn back by an invisible hand. The hallway beyond was dark apart from a single Tiffany lamp casting strange colours across the honeycomb-pattern wallpaper. Fitch smelled something like cinnamon toast. His stomach rumbled.

  That's the lure, some part of his brain screamed. The hook, the bait, you're being suckered, run, run-

  The door slammed shut behind him. Fitch shivered. He didn't bother trying the doorknob - he already knew it wouldn't turn. "Hello?"

  "Fitch, old son? Is that you?"

  The voice echoed from deep inside the bungalow, and Fitch followed, hands tensed into fists inside his jacket. This was the first time he'd been inside Gull's house, although he'd stood outside it many times, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he inched closer. He'd seen things moving behind the curtains, shadows that didn't look like men or women or anything in between, and now he was inside, one of those same shadows.

  He wished he'd brought a knife, a gun. Anything would've been better than his fists. Or maybe they'd all have been just as useless.

  "Mister Gull?" he called.

  "You deaf? I'm in here!"

  "I'm just-" The hallway turned, twisted back upon itself, and opened up into a wide room bathed in soft, early morning light. Plush carpet gave softly underfoot. A huge sofa stretched across one wall; across the other was a kitchenette, smoke wending upward from a stainless steel toaster. Mister Gull stood behind the counter, a butter knife in one hand and a plate in the other. "Fitch! You made it."

  Fitch couldn't think of anything to say. Mister Gull was a thin man, hair receding, his little white moustache trimmed neat, dressed in a sleek bathrobe that looked like it cost more than Fitch's pickup. His smile was strained and didn't extend to his eyes.

  "You've been avoiding me," Mister Gull said. "I thought we were closer than that."

  "No, not avoiding. Just-"

  "Setting fires? You always had the touch of the pyromaniac about you." Mister Gull reached below the counter, and for a moment Fitch flinched back, expecting the man to raise a pistol, or something worse. But Gull only had a handtowel, which he tossed across the room to Fitch. "You look half drowned, man."

  "Appreciated." It was amazing how good it felt just to dry the rain from his forehead. "Didn't mean to bother you on a day like this-"

  "Oh, you meant it. I knew you were coming before you did." Mister Gull finished spreading his toast, took a bite, frowned, and dropped it in the trash. "Nothing tastes right any more. Did you notice that?"

  "I had other things on my mind."

  "Like your bombs?"

  "Sometimes."

  Gull rounded the kitchen counter, leaning against the arm of his plush sofa. "And your little guest?"

  The thing in Fitch's pocket was still silent. "How'd you know?"

  "She's in my house, isn't she? Nothing comes past those doors that I don't invite in."

  For a moment Fitch and Mister Gull stared at each other, locked in place, neither daring to look away. Fitch's eyeballs itched. If he glanced at his feet, if he blinked, if he showed fear for even one second...

  Mister Gull grinned. "Don't worry. She's a guest. No harm done. You want to sit?" He motioned to the sofa, but Fitch shook his head. No reason to get comfortable. "Suit yourself," Gull said, and stretched out across the sofa, kicking off his slippers, wiggling his toes inside jet-black socks. "I was getting bored, to tell the truth. Things get so busy here that I feel like a hermit. Pass me that glass, would you?"

  Fitch followed Gull's finger to a tall glass of what looked like milk set
upon the side table. It was ice cold, and Fitch's hands began to ache in the few seconds it took to carry it across the sitting room. Gull didn't seem to mind. He sipped and sighed contentedly. "Delicious. If you'd like some, the mugs are under the sink. Now, what do you need?"

  Fitch tried to keep his voice even. "Advice."

  "On... finances? Love?" Gull smirked. "Fashion?"

  The taste was back. The coppery, bloody tang on his back teeth. The sensation of falling, like his guts were rising up to jam his throat. It took every scrap of control Fitch had left to keep from running out the door. "A woman."

  "So it is love."

  "Not like that. She's just arrived, and she's-"

  "I felt it too." Gull settled into the plush cushions, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. "When she turned up it was like I'd just jammed my fingers in the toaster."

  "She's strong."

  "Strongest in a long time, at the very least. And what do you want with her?"

  "I need to keep her alive."

  "So you can recruit her into your little club?"

  "She'll be safe."

  "You think you're safe? You think they don't know where you are every second of the day? Believe me, if the town wanted you gone..." Gull clicked his fingers.

  "So why am I still here?"

  "Why are any of us here? Something has a plan. Or maybe there're more plans than I can count. I'm beginning to suspect..." Gull shrugged. "Does it matter, so long as you're alive here and now?"

  Fitch's palms were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans, glad that Gull's eyes were still closed. "Last time we met, you said you could see things."

  Gull nodded. "When the mood takes me."

  "Could you locate someone?"

  "Your mystery woman?" Gull's grin widened. "What would you give for this woman you barely know? Yourself, for her?"

  "Don't be stupid."

  "I'm just teasing, my good man. I'll help you. I'm curious, at the least. But..."

  "You need something."

  "Not for me, no. For the ritual. You know how this works. You can pray all you like and not get an answer, but an offering in a bowl does a world of good."

  Fitch had known from the moment he'd pressed the bell what Gull would ask of him, but was still stumbling over his excuses. "I can offer hair, or fingernails, or-"

  "Tut tut, Fitch. Blood or nothing." Gull's smile drooped. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?"

  Fitch's mouth was dry as sand. "How much do you need?"

  "About half a cup. Can you spare that?"

  Fitch nodded. His hands shook as he rolled up his left sleeve. There was a knife in his hand, although he didn't remember Gull passing it over. In fact, Gull hadn't moved. He was still stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, bobbing his head like he was listening to some distant tune.

  "Get it all in the bowl," Gull said.

  Fitch thought of those poor men in Canif Street. The way they'd obeyed before the end, before the flames took them. Fitch couldn't refuse. The blade was cold against his skin.

  It only took one quick jerk.

  The pain was sudden and intense. The knife fell from his fingers as blood welled in the cut, pooling in the crease of his elbow. "Jesus," he hissed, "Shit, shit, where's-"

  The bowl was in his right hand. It'd always been there. He held it beneath the cut and grimaced as blood splashed against porcelain. Mister Gull finally got off the sofa and sauntered across the room, hands crossed behind his back. "Oh yes," he said. "That'll do. Put pressure on it, Fitch. Didn't your mother ever show you?"

  "Stings," Fitch whispered, as Gull took the bowl away. But the pain was already fading, and when Fitch lifted his hand away he realised the wound was quickly scabbing over, flesh knitting, the skin pink and tender.

  Mister Gull was already lighting candles. "Got to have the proper atmosphere, you understand." Smoke wended across the ceiling. Fitch waved one hand before the candles; the heat made the hairs on the back of his hand tingle, but his fingers were still shadowed, like the light of the flame couldn't reach that far. "Now, let me see..."

  Gull set the bowl on the coffee table and knelt before it, dipping the tip of one finger into the blood. Bubbles were already rising, the smell of cooking blood making Fitch's stomach turn.

  "How do you-" he began, but Gull waved him away. The man was silent, head bowed, one hand clenched into a fist and the other deep in the bowl, blood hissing and spattering up to his wrist.

  For one long minute, the only sound was the electric fizz of the blood.

  Gull looked up. He blinked, tears shining at the corners of his eyes. "Goddamn," he said, and withdrew his hand from the bowl. The blood left behind was cooked into a cake. "You do lead an interesting life."

  Fitch licked his lips. "Where is she? Is she alive?"

  "For now. She's being kept. Don't know why."

  "Who took her?"

  "He's not a who any more. Just a puppet." Gull staggered to the kitchen, washing his hands in the sink. "It got on my robe. You know how hard it is to wash blood out of this fabric?"

  "Where is she?"

  "East end. Row-house. I'll draw you a map."

  Fitch blinked. The map was in his hand, blue biro scrawled on a paper napkin. "What did you see?" he whispered.

  "Dead things." Mister Gull dried his hands very carefully on a teatowel and then dropped the towel in the garbage, upper lip curled in distaste. "You've got no chance, Fitch. I keep telling you, but you won't listen. You have to know when to quit if you want to make it through this alive."

  "I'm not going to just roll over and-"

  Gull crossed the living room in a blur, too fast for Fitch to track. One moment he was hanging the teatowel and the next he was close enough to kiss, his breath warm on Fitch's cheek.

  "What the hell does a life matter in this place?" Gull said. "One here, a hundred there... You're a fucking sheep, Fitch. You think you can save the world if just one of the flock jumps the abattoir fence? There's always a bigger fence waiting! You could make something of yourself, Fitch! Live a life worth putting on paper instead of beating your head against the walls!" Gull grabbed his left hand and turned it over. "Six fingers. Which is the littlest piggy? Does it itch at night? Can you feel it growing?"

  Fitch jerked his hand away. "Don't touch me."

  "No need to be rude, good man." Mister Gull snapped his fingers. The echo of the front door slamming open carried through the winding corridors. "Run along, then. Be the girl's lapdog."

  For a moment Fitch waited for Gull to laugh, for the rug to be yanked out from under his feet. But Gull stood with his hands behind his back, a knowing smile on his lips, and he made no move to stop Fitch as he retreated down the hall. His voice carried through the corridors, as clear as if he were still leaning over to whisper in Fitch's ear.

  "You're not looking so good, my friend. As one of the few people in this town who isn't walking around with their eyes closed, you should hold yourself to better standards."

  "Leave me alone."

  "You owe me one, Fitch. I'll pop around some time. We'll do lunch."

  "Leave me alone!"

  He burst out of the front door into the rain and gulped down fresh air. The spatter of water on his cheeks was a cold shock, so sudden and intense that he almost dropped to his knees. The chittering thing was going crazy, squirming in circles, little clawed pseudopods reaching over the lip of the pocket and grasping at his fingers.

  "We're all good," he whispered, patting his pocket. "No muss, no fuss."

  Behind him, Mister Gull's voice floated from the shadowed doorway. "Be seeing you, Fitch."

  The door slammed shut. Fitch was alone. He looked down at the napkin still crumpled in his hand, the ink already running in the rain.

  Time to move.

  Chapter 14

  She'd been sleeping, although she didn't know for how long. One minute she'd been tugging on the pipe, her wrists aching, pain shooting up her fingers like they were about
to drop off from lack of circulation, her left hand almost free, almost, just a little further, and then exhaustion had smothered her, dragging her down into lead-heavy darkness.

  And then, a hand on her cheek. Ragged nails scraping her skin.

  Kimberly woke.

  The nurse, Bo, was crouched before her, close enough that she could see every broken vein across the bridge of his nose, the sclerotic yellowing of his eyes. His lips opened and closed silently, like he was singing her a lullaby.

  "No..." she whispered, and Bo darted back. "Get away-"

  He scratched at his face with one greasy finger, his nails catching in the ragged hole torn in his cheek. "Jacinta?" His voice rasped like he was gargling gravel. "You awake?"

  Kimberly swallowed hard. "Whoever you think I am, I'm not her," she managed. "You have to let me-"

  "I brought you something." He scrabbled in the dark, coming up with a fine white plate heaped with food Kimberly couldn't recognise. Some of it might have been meat. The rest was rotten, black and sunken, maggots crawling through the mould. "Dinner for two," he whispered. "I told you I'd take you out some time, I did, I-"

  He thrust the plate up into Kimberly's face. The stench filled her nostrils, coiled inside her skull. She gagged, tasting bile.

  "You don't like it? I'm sorry, I'm real sorry." Bo slid the plate away into the dark. "I haven't cooked in a while. I forget things. I..." One spindly hand came up to massage his neck, and Kimberly almost vomited as the skin there bulged, pressed outward by hidden claws.

  When Bo blinked Kimberly could hear the skin scraping over his eyeballs. He was dry from the inside out. "I had a bad dream," he whispered. "I dreamed I hurt you. I hurt a lot of people. Should I see a doctor? Ha. Keller knows. Keller knows everything. I wish you'd talk to me."

  He reached up to brush her cheek, and she saw blood on his palm, bright and fresh. He followed her gaze. "Oh," he said. "I don't remember. I didn't cut myself. Maybe someone else. I was walking in the rain. Or was that the dream? I wish..."