Rust: One

by Christopher Ruz

  A knot of cloth caught around Kimberly's foot, and as she yanked it free she saw the bodies properly for the first time. She'd thought them old, shrivelled by years, but up close she realised they were simply desiccated, drained of blood and sweat. Their stomachs were opened, ribs splayed like beartraps, and inside-

  A clutch of black golf balls, slick and sweating in the evening light. Like moist leather.

  Kimberly staggered against the wall. "Those are eggs."

  "We have to move!"

  She couldn't look away. The body closest to the stairs was a young woman, her skin dried taut over her cheekbones, eyes wrinkled inside her skull. There were more eggs in her stomach than she could count. One hundred? Two? When Kimberly squinted she was almost sure something was squirming beneath the crusty shell.

  "Come on!" Fitch had her by the wrist, hauling her up the stairs. "You can't help them."

  "But the-"

  "Later!" He yanked her so hard her arm almost popped from the socket, and together they stumbled up the last few stairs. The door at the top was open a bare inch, and through it came a sickly yellow light. The steady thud of rain echoed through the house, and with it another sound, one that made Kimberly's skin crawl.

  Fitch kicked the door open and threw one arm up over his face. "Jesus!" he hissed. "Don't look, don't-"

  It was too late. She saw.

  Bodies. Some standing, propped against the walls like mannequins, bound with rope and spit, others splayed across the floor. Eyes open and yellowed, hands outstretched. Their stomachs opened, guts roped around their feet.

  Little round eggs poured from every stomach. Not hundred but thousands, forming a slick carpet across the floorboards, crunching and popping beneath Kimberly's feet.

  They'd walked into a forest of limbs and gaping mouths.

  Kimberly couldn't scream any more. She'd seen too much. All she could do was stagger onward, eggs bursting under her boots, black yolk soaking into the cuffs of her jeans. She ducked beneath outstretched arms, cold fingers dragging across her scalp, blank eyes staring.

  A hundred eggs in every body, she thought. Five bodies downstairs, twenty or more here. How many had the bastard tucked away in the other rooms? How many were lying beneath leaf mulch in the woods, waiting for the rain to stop before they hatched and squirmed upward towards the light?

  Incubators. A warm place for the young to nestle.

  If Fitch was worried by the corpses then he said nothing. He stomped his way through the eggs, down the hall to what looked like the front door. The handle turned but the door was locked tight, top and bottom. "Goddamnit! Out the back." His grip was iron. "Gotta be another way. There's gotta-"

  A moan from downstairs. A long, scraping cry.

  Fitch thrust his hand in his left jacket pocket. His lips fluttered like he was whispering to himself, or praying. Then he said, "Kitchen."

  "Isn't there a key?"

  "No time!"

  The sound was getting louder. A scratching of nails on wood. A steady thump. As Fitch led her down the hall she saw a flicker of shadow from the stairwell. One thin hand grasping at the air.

  She shoved past bodies mounted on the walls, shuddering as twig-fingers dragged over her shoulders. The kitchen at the end of the hall was dark, slick with mildew, the tiles lost beneath slime and standing water. The refrigerator door was open, and the stench wafting out left Kimberly gagging.

  There was only one window, and a back door with a ratty cat flap. Fitch slammed into the door at full speed and bounced off uselessly. "Everything's boarded up!" he swore. "Help me!"

  They counted to three and kicked the door together, the whole door frame bending, but the wood didn't splinter. "Again!"

  Kimberly didn't have the strength. She hadn't eaten, her legs were wobbly and her fingers still numb. She kicked out once more and sagged against the wall. "I can't," she whispered. "God help me, I can't-"

  A scraping sounded at the kitchen door. Kimberly turned.

  Bo crawled on hands and knees, dragging himself along, fingernails scratching on the floorboards. His head was tilted back so far that the nape of his neck was pressed flat against his shoulderblades, his spine shattered, jaw broken, the black thing clawing free of his throat. It gnashed at the air, cilia flailing, legs rising and falling like sewing needles, stitching a path across the rotten floorboards.

  There was nothing close enough to grab, no kettles or kitchen knives, and for a moment Kimberly wondered whether it might be easier to just let the monster crawl up her leg and claw her stomach open. What had he said? He'd fit. Good to walk around in her.

  She understood that now. Not Bo, but the thing nesting in his guts.

  And then, as Bo inched past the refrigerator, she saw her chance.

  It was only three steps across the kitchen but that small distance seemed a hundred miles. Fitch screamed for her to stop but she was already running. The black thing reared up, tugging free of Bo's ruined neck, as Kimberly slammed shoulder-first into the fridge.

  It was already wobbling, the floorboards soggy beneath its weight. A little extra pressure was all it needed. The refrigerator groaned, tipped, and fell with a great crash of steel. Kimberly jumped back just in time. The black thing clattered, cilia grasping at Kimberly's legs, and then came a great crack of bone and the wet sound of meat being pounded flat. A short, high screech. Then silence.

  Kimberly sagged against the wall, panting, wiping the sweat from her eyes. Her breath came in fits. "Is it dead?"

  "Fuck that, lady. I'm not poking it." Fitch had abandoned the back door and was trying to lever the kitchen window open. "I need something heavy!"

  Kimberly eased around the body beneath the fridge and ripped open the closest cupboard. Inside were cast iron pots gathering dust: she chose the biggest and didn't bother handing it over to Fitch. One good swing sent it flying. The crash of shattering glass filled the kitchen, and Kimberly scrambled after it, over the countertop and into the rain.

  Glass sliced her hands but she barely noticed. The pain was washed away by the splash of rain on her cheeks. She tripped on the soft grass, staggered to her feet, forced herself to keep moving around the house, towards the street. Fitch was behind her, swearing as he leaped from the open window. "Lady, slow down! Slow-"

  And then, perfectly timed, came the rhythmic flash of police lights reflecting on the wet macadam. The throaty burr of an engine. She could've sobbed with relief as she staggered the last few steps into the blur of red and blue. The screech of tires in the rain was a hymn. Three cars pulled up, and a door was already flung open. A man running towards her, calling her name.

  She recognised the stranger just as he enveloped her in his arms. Peter held her close, squeezing, his grip too tight to escape. His breath was hot on her ear.

  For a moment she tried to pull away, but he was so warm after the hours spent in the basement, and she didn't have the energy to fight. It was easier to closer her eyes and sag against his chest.

  "Oh god, Kimmy, I thought I'd lost you, I thought you were dead, I thought-"

  She barely heard him. The police were already running towards the house, pistols in hand, rain bouncing off their caps. They framed the door, shouted something lost in the roar of sirens, kicked in the lock and charged inside.

  She glanced back towards the garden, expecting to see Fitch waiting for her, but the man was already gone.

  Chapter 16

  They kept Kimberly waiting in the patrol car for a long time.

  Peter sat with her in silence, clutching her hand, his palm warm and dry. He stared straight ahead, watching the rotten house through the windshield. From time to time he opened his mouth as if to ask some terrible question, and every time he thought better of it, letting the quiet hang over them like a shroud.

  That was the way Kimberly liked it.

  Detective Goodwell was busy, running back and forth between the house and his patrol car, shouting at the radio, shaking off his umbrella each time he ducked insi
de the car as if it would bring bad luck to allow the rainwater to touch the seats.

  It wasn't until the white vans arrived that he finally slumped into the driver's seat and shook the water from his hair. "Hell of a night," he said. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Not enough officers, nobody available for interviews... this is a clusterfuck, excuse my French."

  "Did..." Kimberly coughed. Something itched at the back of her throat. Dust, wood splinters, the sour taste of meat gone bad. "Did you get him? There was something in his-" She stopped. The white vans were disgorging men in face masks and full-body suits, like nuclear-plant workers. "Who're they?"

  Goodwell raised one eyebrow. "Forensics."

  "You don't need forensics, you need a goddamn exorcist! Didn't you see it? There was something in his fucking neck! He-"

  Goodwell met Peter Archer's eyes. Something passed between them, and Peter Archer stepped out into the rain, slamming the car door behind him. Goodwell sighed. "Take a deep breath, Mrs Archer. We're all friends here. Why don't you help me help you, and tell me everything about the man driving the blue pickup."

  Kimberly's breath caught. "What man?"

  "His car was seen passing your house several times. We found it just up the hill. How did you end up here, Mrs Archer?"

  It was all too ridiculous. She wanted to laugh but she knew Goodwell wouldn't take it that way, so all she could do was shake her head. "His name was Bo."

  "The man with the pickup?"

  "The man who took me. He was messed up. Something growing in him."

  Goodwell licked his lips. "Excuse me?"

  "I don't know! It didn't make any sense! Just lift the fridge and-"

  One of the white-suited men was already returning. He knocked on the window and passed Goodwell a polaroid through the gap, still fresh and glistening. "One of yours?"

  Goodwell squinted. "Where was she?"

  "Dining room. Maybe a week, maybe less. Matches the dates."

  "We'll wait for the family to ID." Goodwell passed the photo back. "Mrs Archer, did you meet a woman called Jacinta May during your stay at St Jeremiah's?"

  Kimberly shook her head. "What does that have to do with-"

  "Bo Tuscon has been listed as missing for a couple weeks now. Both he and the dead girl in that flat..." His mouth twisted. "One of the dead girls, that is... were nurses there. Possibly during your stay. Which raises some questions as to why he targeted you."

  "Are you saying I deserved this?"

  "Not at all. I'm hypothesising that he may have built a kill-list while working at St Jeremiah's. Or maybe he fixated on women he saw but couldn't attain. Or..."

  The same white-suited man was waving Goodwell over to the door. Goodwell mumbled an apology and stepped out into the rain. The two conferred, and Goodwell returned.

  "Scratch that," he said, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "There're men in there too. Lots of them."

  Kimberly felt sick to the stomach. She glanced out the window to where the stranger was waiting. He looked like he'd been crying, his eyes red and puffy, and when he saw Kimberly looking at him he turned away.

  For a moment Kimberly felt nothing. Dumb fuck in a nightmare town had chased the wrong girl. If they'd turned up ten minutes earlier Peter might've gotten himself killed. It wasn't her problem. But she saw the way his shoulders shook, and how he hunched away from the patter of rain on his crown, and she thought poor bastard. Goodwell was probably right. If he was a kidnapper he played the role poorly. Wasn't his fault he was delusional. Inventing himself a wife to go with his noisy kid.

  "Excuse me," she told Goodwell, and stepped out into the chill.

  She forced herself to walk, one step after the other, across the rain-soft soil. The man looked up as she approached, then went back to staring at his boots.

  "You didn't need to come," she said.

  He choked, "How can you say that?"

  "I don't know you! I don't. None of this makes sense to me. But-"

  "Yeah?"

  She offered him her hand. "Thank you."

  The corners of his mouth twitched in a parody of a smile. Then he said, "We'll work it out. I love you, Kimmy. Even with all this bullshit. We'll work it out."

  She let her hand drop. "Yeah." She forced herself to match his smile. "I guess we will."

  * * *

  It would've been too easy if they'd just let her sleep.

  The first stop was the police station, where a medical examiner inspected every inch of Kimberly that she dared to bare. They catalogued her bruises and took her statement three times. When she mentioned the vomit-like glue or the black thing that had uncoiled from Bo's throat, they only nodded and coughed. She watched how their pens stopped moving when she talked of how it'd stretched out between the ruins of Bo's lips. Their eyes went blank and unfocused.

  She wondered whether they weren't hearing, or whether they didn't care.

  Goodwell was waiting at the station doors, an umbrella in hand, ready to escort her to his patrol car. "I dropped your husband home," he said, helping her with her seatbelt. "He wanted to wait but I told him he'd be better off in bed." A pause. "He mentioned there were... tensions."

  "They're not so bad," Kimberly whispered. They passed down a steep hill and beneath a concrete bridge, the patter of rain on the dash ceasing for a moment as they slid through the shadows. Scrawled in yellow paint on the side of the tunnel in tall letters were the words THE TRUE QUEEN LIVES.

  "Damn shame," Goodwell said. "I guess some people get off on making things ugly."

  "It's just kids," she said. "Kids playing stupid games. I saw-"

  Goodwell straightened. "You saw them?"

  "Three boys. Well, I think they were boys. They had their hoods up. One had a jacket with FUCK CHINKS on the back. I mean, chinks? Really? Did they forget that it's the eighties?"

  But Goodwell didn't laugh. "What else did you see?"

  "Barely anything. I think one was black, but that might've been the paint."

  "That's enough. I think I know the boys." Goodwell sighed. "I'll go have a talk with their mothers."

  "Don't you have better things to do?"

  "Many. Like cleaning up that mess back there."

  Kimberly closed her eyes. It was easy to pretend she hadn't seen the things festering inside that apartment. Harder to forget the smell. The stink was etched into her sinuses.

  "At the end," she said. "When you looked under the fridge. Did you see-"

  Goodwell's hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed. "Lady," he said, suddenly stern. "I didn't see anything."

  She blinked and met his gaze. "What?"

  "And neither did you." He pulled into Kimberly's driveway. "This is your stop."

  There was a strange silence as she climbed out into the rain, a sudden hush where she and Detective Goodwell were doing their very best not to speak. She watched his hands tense on the wheel. The dash clock said it was nearly five AM. Her so-called husband would be waiting by the door, ready to hug her, to pretend he knew her. The screaming baby, the wrong bed, the wrong house, the wrong life...

  She bent low and whispered, "I never married that man. I don't know who he is and I don't know why you won't listen to me."

  Goodwell stared straight ahead, through the windshield. "Doesn't matter how many times you tell me that, I'm not gonna believe you."

  "You think I don't see how you look at us? You know, don't you?"

  "Mrs Archer-"

  "Don't lie to me. Not any more."

  Goodwell reached across the car and slammed the side-door closed. "I'll be back to take your statement, Mrs Archer!" His voice was distorted by the glass but he shouted loud enough that she made out every word. "Don't go anywhere without calling me first. Good night!"

  Tyres burred. Goodwell pulled away.

  Behind her, the front door creaked open. The stranger called, "Honey? Come in out of the rain before you freeze!"

  She took one long, shuddering breath. Then she forced a smile. It wasn't so h
ard - she was getting a lot of practice.

  He took her hand as she stepped inside and she didn't pull away. Peter's eyes were dark, almost bruised by tears. "Are you okay? They wouldn't tell me how long they were keeping you-"

  "Shh." She was bone-tired. Even blinking took effort. Her legs were wet paper and it was easier to lean in to the stranger's chest than stand. His skin was warm against her forehead. "Just..."

  It was easier not to fight. She closed her eyes and, standing there in the doorway, cradled in the stranger's arms, fell asleep.

  * * *

  Goodwell was getting sick of the stink of burning blood. It got into his clothes, and he was running out of excuses at the office as to why he always smelled of barbecue.

  The smoke wended up around his head. He breathed deep, like he could take some small part of himself back if he inhaled hard enough. The job was draining, literally as well as figuratively. There was only so much blood he had to give, and the anticipation of the pain was making his hand unsure. Sometimes he lined up the blade and found himself unable to make the cut without closing his eyes. Sometimes the knife wandered.

  He only had so much skin left. Soon his arm would be nothing but scars from the elbow to his fingertips.

  Oh well, he thought. The job was worth it for the perks.

  The blood began to sizzle, and Goodwell sat back, legs crossed, waiting for the voice. It came quickly. First, the static hissing. Then the volume grew, the voices echoing between his ears. The amalgamation of voices, the words all jumbled together. Stolen syllables becoming louder and louder...

  "Is she safe?"

  Goodwell nodded. He kept his eyes closed. Even though he knew he was alone in his basement, it sometimes felt as there was a figure standing beside him, a huge shape that breathed pure heat and bent the shadows.

  If he couldn't see it, it couldn't be there. At least, that was the lie he told himself.

  "She's at home," Goodwell said. "Her husband will keep an eye on her."