West awoke to find Dr. Quinley choking Tristan, both hammy hands wrapped around the fair lad’s neck. Tristan’s head rolled from side to side as Quinley throttled him, moaning and groaning like a creature in a horror flick. West could tell at a glance that Tristan was not yet dead, but very close to that final state.
“Oh, Dr. Quinley,” said West pityingly, as he retrieved a bottle of powerful muscle relaxant from his private supplies. “The pressures of academia seem to have finally gotten to you. What a shame. But you can’t do that in here, no no no. You might get me in trouble, and then where would we be?”
Calmly, West drew an enormous dose of carisoprodol into the barrel of his syringe. Then, hands perfectly steady, he injected the whole of it into Dr. Quinley’s neck.
Quinley cried out and then fell atop Tristan’s prostrate form, the professor once again insensible if not now entirely dead. That could wait. What was important was Tristan being so close to death; West thought, after watching Quinley’s reaction to his reagent, that he had gained some insight into the proper dosage.
He pushed Quinley’s body off of Tristan’s, humming “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman” as he did so. May nothing you dismay, indeed—there was always something to keep one from idleness and despair. Tristan’s lighter body would be fairly easy to get on the dissecting table, and West would strap him down in case he had the same rage-reaction to being called back from near-death. A resurrection more appropriate for Easter than Yuletide, West mused, but science follows no calendar but its own.
Molly Tanzer lives in Boulder, Colorado along the front range of the Mountains of Madness, or maybe just the Flatirons. She is a professional writer and editor, among other things. Her debut, A Pretty Mouth, was published by Lazy Fascist Press in September 2012, and her short fiction has appeared in The Book of Cthulhu (Vols. I and II), Future Lovecraft, and Fungi, and is forthcoming in Geek Love: An Anthology of Full Frontal Nerdery, and The Starry Wisdom Library. She blogs—infrequently—about writing, hiking, cocktail mixing, vegan cooking, movies, and other stuff at mollytanzer.com, and tweets as @molly_the_tanz.
Story illustration by Miko.
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Wind Walker
by Neil John Buchanan
It occurs to Hugh Gibson as the Fiat Galaxy shudders beneath his feet that driving a clapped-out banger through the worst snowstorm in history might have been a bad idea. He should have bought the hire car like Maggie wanted: something big with four-wheel drive, and six-foot tyres, capable of driving over any terrain – snow, ice, even water – and making it to their cottage in the woods.
Hugh changes down a gear, and a solitary red light starts to flash on the dashboard. Engine trouble. He forces a smile and clicks the wipers up a notch. The snowstorm came out of the mountains as if cast by the hand of God. If only they had set out a few hours earlier, but Stuart wanted extra beer, and Maggie forgot her doll. Naomi had slouched in on time, backpack hanging from her shoulders. That was something, at least.
Maggie finishes off her chocolate and rubs her eyes, mouth smothered in a smooth brown paste. “Problem, Daddy?” she says without the slightest hint of concern. Why should she be bothered? This is a holiday with Daddy and his teacher friends. Nothing can go wrong in Wales, a stone’s throw from the nearest town, cash machine, or Tesco express.
Only Hugh hasn’t seen another car in the last hour. Occasional glimpses of the crags of Crib Goch assure him they are, at least, on the right road. The National Park has been hidden beneath a blanket of glistening snow. A sweeping desolation that stretches as far as the eye can see. The nearest town must be three hours walk away should they break down.
“Daddy?” Maggie touches his shoulder.
“Sorry.” He fixes the smile. “The car’s complaining, that’s all. She’s ten years old next May. Your Mum bought it as a birthday present.” He glances towards her, suddenly aware that he mentioned Penny. It has been six months since her mother died, and the wound remains fresh. Maggie is a survivor. They both are. They should carve that into a plaque, and put it over the fireplace. A new family motto, for generations to come.
“Ten years?” Maggie teases, taking out a packet of sweets. “You must be very old.”
“I was never so rude at your age.” Of course, that wasn’t completely true. He had his moments, but being shipped between foster families could do that to a kid. He steals a handful of sweets. “Time is relative. By your standards, I’m ancient. But to the Aldabra giant tortoise, I’m just starting out in life.”
She makes a face. “You promised no professor speak for the holiday.”
He grins and shovels the sweets into his mouth. His stomach growls, and he wonders when they ate last. “Tell you what,” he mumbles between mouthfuls, “share that packet, and I won’t mention the Romans or Greeks for the entire time. Deal?”
She thinks about it while cramming sweets into her own mouth. “Deal.”
Stuart leans forward and scratches his grey beard. “And no talking about your previous holidays either. There are places in the world other than Snowdon National Park.”
“What can I say,” Hugh gives Maggie a sly wink, “it’s my welsh blood. This place always feels like coming home.”
“Some home,” Stuart says peering out the window.
Naomi, who until this point has remained quiet, holds up her mobile phone. “I would draw your attention to the phone situation. Namely: no reception. Although that might be standard out here. Can’t imagine they get much coverage. Anyone else have a signal?”
Maggie fishes for her BlackBerry, pulling out the contents of her purse. Hugh cringes when he thinks of a twelve year old with a phone, but it was a parting gift from Penny, and he wouldn’t – couldn’t – say no. Abruptly, she closes her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “Kitchen side. Still plugged in and charging. I’m such an idiot.”
“Maggie,” Stuart says with mock annoyance, “how do you manage to live?” He pulls out his iPhone and stares at the screen, then gives a disgusted snort. “Nothing. Can’t even access my email.”
Hugh slips his phone from his pocket and hands it to Maggie. “Open it for me. Hold the button on the side. Anything? It’s usually good for a few bars.”
“Nothing. How long before we get to the cottage?” There’s a hint of concern in her voice. It seems out of place, like something unpleasant has wormed its way in.
“Not far,” he lies. “We turned off the main road a while back, and this leads straight there.” He omits the part where it’s still a thirty minute journey by car, twenty miles between them and their cottage in the woods. “We’ll be fine.”
The car judders, and the main beams flicker. The engine splutters as if choking on its own fumes. Maggie’s face falls. Naomi puts her head in her hands, and Stuart swears softly.
Hugh laughs and strokes the wheel. “She’s just complaining of the cold. I’m telling you, she’s got life left-”
Something explodes out of the storm with a high-pitched whine. Hugh catches a fragmented glimpse of horns, fur, and blood – lots of blood – before the windscreen shatters. Glass and ice tear into the car. Maggie shrieks, and he slams the breaks and yanks down hard on the wheel. He doesn’t think, just reacts. The breaks lock, the car spins, and he loses control. It flips, rolls, and smashes off the road.
The world becomes a kaleidoscopic whirl of colours, twisting metal, snow, screaming faces and pain. It blossoms out of the night, born on wings of fury. It becomes him. Hugh Robert Gibson lost to the pain, a blinding white heat that sears through all thought and reason and lifts him on dizzying heights of sensation.
Soon after, the world sinks into cool velvet.
They awake to the siren call of their master; their eon-long slumber broken at last. From their dark, sunless caverns they creep towards the surface. The ice and the cold are their friends; it’s all they have ever known. The lights of the towns are strange, different, but the men, women and children remain the same. The elder
is the first to step once more into the world, and the first to answer the master with a call of his own. “Gnopkeh.” The tribe’s ancient name. Over and over again. A chant taken by the multitudes that follow. And the hunger, never forget the hunger. It eats away at their bellies and drives them into the wild. They crave the taste of warm flesh, the flow of young blood. Then they look at you. At you! And invite you to join them.
Hugh gasps, opens his eyes, and sits upright. He has been deposited on a steep slope, marked by the odd tree and jagged rock. Thick clouds linger in the sky, gathered around a half-moon in an uneasy alliance. There’s no sign of Maggie, Stuart, Naomi or even the Fiat.
“Maggie!”
Three red stains mar his shirt, and he lifts his hands to his face in response to a sudden, throbbing pain. They come back sticky and wet.
I’m injured.
Down the glittering slope a ravine stretches away, marking the edge of Crib Goch. The snow is smooth and untouched, a perfect white blanket that runs for miles. The mountain begins in earnest upon the other side, climbing away into the night. Caves stand like ragged black slashes amongst the boulders. He never came this way, that’s for sure.
Hugh turns to look back up the slope and is immediately reacquainted with his pain. A needle of white-hot brilliance slams through his skull, and the world splits in two. He grips his head, as if scared it might fall off and lies still for a long time, his breathing shallow and laboured. When the world at last rights itself, he is surprised to find frozen vomit hanging from his shirt in thick yellow icicles.
They watch you through the snow, half-formed, weak and wretched. You do not move like their master. Nor do you act like him. The taint of humanity has ingrained itself through your flesh, clings to your clothes and hair. Unclean, unworthy. You should be eaten and another found. They hate you. They love you. You are connected in a way that transcends mere being. They know your thoughts, your love and losses. And understand none of it.
What was that? A dream? The image still lingers behind his eyes, and a chill which has nothing to do with the cold seeps through his bones. Slowly, he turns his head and again looks up the slope. The snow is broken in a long, uneven slide which he can trace all the way back to the road, a good fifty feet above him.
“Maggie?”
Is she close? Injured or worse? He has to get up, screw the consequences. Hugh struggles to rise. The pain flares in his head, and he gives a soft moan. Stay with it; let it pass. This is all his fault. His idea. He booked the cottage, planned the route. A winter break, walk the paths and slopes of his youth. Perhaps visit the towns and villages where he grew up. Nostalgia, it makes him sick. What was he thinking?
He inches up the slope. A fall back down would kill him. He has no intention of dying. Not today or any day, for that matter.
“Stuart, can you hear me? I need help.”
Stuart cannot help you, other than to provide sustenance for the journey ahead. Ithaqua has summoned you home.
Hugh staggers onto the road, clutching at his eyes. What was that? He can hear voices, wet and sweet, in his head. Do it, they say, do it. Dear lord, is he going mad? He gives a snort of brief laughter that dies on his lips when he sees chunks of frozen gore that litter the road like glittering, obscene marbles.
A wind picks up, and it starts to snow. He tries to speak, but the words die in his throat. It occurs to him he should feel cold. He doesn’t. In truth, he feels hot, flushed even, like suffering from the first signs of a high fever.
The fiat appears out of the gloom, the front windscreen missing. All the seats are empty, and the doors stand open. Perhaps the others survived, after all? He shields his eyes with his hands and peers into the swirling white chaos in which he has wandered. The moon casts disjointed light through the snow creating lurching shadows and fleeting shapes. Am I being watched? Hugh shuffles around, a little pirouette that turns him full circle.
He tries to summon the energy to call for help. His throat is raw and refuses to work. Then at the last moment he thinks better of it. He can’t explain why: a feeling, little more than a primal, instinctual urge.
Keep quiet, keep safe.
An odd sound cuts through the storm: neither the soft flutter of snow, nor the wind as it races across ice-locked tundra. Something else then? A grating sound followed by a wet thunk, like an axe hurled into a slab of meat.
Hugh freezes, a rabbit sensing danger. He holds his breath, conscious of every sound he makes: the rustle of his jacket, feet crunching ice, even his heart is deafening, drumming out a powerful beat.
Two malformed figures squat within the snow, their shoulders hunched, arms busy as if in the midst of a difficult task. Naomi lies between them, her head turned to one side, skin white like marble, eyes glazed and pale. She shudders, and the figures make cooing sounds. One lifts an arm covered in coarse hair, its fingers stained a dark red, before punching down to a loud, wet crack.
Naomi jerks as if in the grip of a violent convulsion. Steam bursts into the air, and the creature – Hugh already knows it can’t be human – lifts up a pile of dripping bits. Hugh thinks of food critics and wine connoisseurs, and he sees now that Naomi has been split from groin to chin.
“No!” The word comes out in a guttural rush. Not really a word at all, more a hot blast of air and sound. He flinches at the noise, speaking was a mistake, and both creatures twist around with a tense, coiled synergy.
Their eyes – my God, their eyes – are urine yellow, set back into craggy faces. They are large, muscular things, bent over like apes. They wear no clothes, have no need, bodies covered in rugged fur.
And in that instant, his mind whirls like a clock wound too fast through the hours. He thinks of ancient Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon man. But these things are neither. A vague humanoid appearance links them to humanity, and that is where any similarity ends. The one holding the pile of innards opens his mouth to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. He offers Hugh a bite. The gesture unmistakable. Go on, have a bit. Forbidden fruit, my friend.
Hugh’s stomach grumbles. Hungry, so hungry. The steaming mass of tubular things could be a rare delicacy, served at a party or as nibbles in the Conservative club. He licks his lips. Smack those lips.
“Get away.” The word comes out a hoarse shriek, and he stumbles back. He falls and sits down hard, then scuttles back, eyes rooted to the offering – yes, an offering – glistening and smooth. He hits the car, spins, jumps up, then runs into the storm. A scream starts low in his belly, a powerful knot of fear which builds with such intensity it bursts from his mouth in a savage howl.
The last thing he expects is a response, but he gets one all the same.
Ithaqua has answered. He knows you are the one. The prodigal son returned. Blend of man and beast. You will show him the way. Walk the unknown path and release the keeper of the gate. They come. They come.
A blast of senseless noise erupts from the storm, the roar of some unknowable creature, some monstrous entity. Hugh lifts his hands to his mouth, eyes wide with terror, as what he thought to be the side of Crib Goch stirs, shifts, then stands.
He gets a sense of power, strength and rage – so much rage. A heady, chemical rush that fills him like an empty tumbler with its dark magnificence. It moves with the storm – or rather, he realises, the storm moves with it – taking one vast, lumbering stride. A glimpse of bloodied talons, an emaciated form, then it’s gone as if it has never been.
Hugh runs with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. He runs through the snow. He runs over tundra. He runs past trees and rocks. His heart is a freight train. His tongue lolls from the side of his mouth, his vision blurred. And he is hot: so damn hot.
Arms reach out and grasp his jacket. He growls like an animal and lashes out, but a figure piles into him, and he goes down. A voice, hard like stone, says, “Hugh, it’s me.” Hugh struggles for a moment more, before focusing upon Stuart, grey beard flecked with blood, left eye swollen to the point of closure.
“
Did you see it? My God, Stu, Ithaqua has risen.”
Stuart’s eyes are pinpricks of black. “What are you talking about? Get a grip; Maggie needs you.”
“Maggie?” Hugh struggles to rise, but Stuart keeps him pinned.
“Are we cool?”
“I’m fine. Get off.”
Stuart hesitates, then let’s go. His coat is ripped at the sleeve; frozen blood covers his arm like red body paint. The flesh is torn. Are those bite marks?
“Where’s Maggie?”
Stuart points to the nearest tree, where Hugh can see a small, crumpled form.
“No!” He scrambles towards her. Let her be alive. He couldn’t stand it if . . .
Her face is washed-out grey, her eyes watery and weak. A deep cut runs from her forehead to chin. But she’s alive.
This can’t be real.
But it is.
It is!
“More of them,” Stuart hisses, his face an ugly grimace. Hugh freezes in place, holding Maggie close to his body. Stuart crouches low to the base of the tree and points to the distant ridge. Several shapes make their way amongst the rocks.
They move with a certain grace and nonchalance, almost ignorant of the blizzard, as if this was no more than a pleasant walk on a summer’s day. Some part of Hugh remains detached enough to analyse the things in the snow as if they were they latest anthropological curiosity. Each is tall and muscular by human standards, covered in thick, coarse hair that ranges from muddied brown to the darkest of blacks. Their leader has his misshapen head low to the ground, pausing now and again to stare into the night and bark like a dog. Like bloodhounds on the trial of a fox they make their way towards him.
“We have to go,” Hugh says. “We can’t stay here.”
Stuart nods, ice breaks from his beard and snot freezes upon his nose. He shudders and holds his arms to his chest. “So cold.”
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20 Page 76