Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Bray

  II

  Back on the surface, Melody was inconsolable. Her screams had died away, but her sobs and shaking persisted. Even Dane, a man who had no emotional attachment to any of them, could feel her anguish, and it cut him deeper than he expected. A low rumble emanated from the ground, shaking the topsoil. Dane lurched to his feet, staring at the earth along with the others, wondering what was coming next.

  Something pushed through the ground by Isaac’s foot; something wet and pink. It hesitated, tasting the air, and continued to push upwards. Another joined it, then a third and a fourth, all of them emerging around Isaac’s body.

  “What’s that? What the fuck is that?” Dane said, his voice too high, too shrill.

  “It’s come for him,” Mrs. Alma said. “It wants its prize.”

  “Don’t let it take him. Don’t you let it take my baby,” Melody screamed, eyes wide, somewhere in a place far beyond fear.

  The tentacles were already on Isaac, wrapping around his arms and legs. They watched in horror as a larger one joined them, this one thick and strong. It began to clamber over Isaac’s stomach, pulling him down into the soft earth.

  “Re-form the circle, quickly!” Mrs. Alma said.

  The others began linking hands, and she shook her head. “No. around the boy.”

  Dane was about to join them when Mrs. Alma held up a hand. “Not you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not part of this. You need to go to your brother. Ensure he doesn’t interfere. Even now, he wakes.”

  Dane saw that she was right. Henry was on his hands and knees, blood streaming down his face from where Dane had hit him. Nodding to Mrs. Alma, he went to his brother, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. It was the move Henry had been waiting for. He tackled Dane to the ground, snarling and snapping, biting at his brother with his lethal dagger teeth.

  “You won’t deny them, you won’t deny me!” he roared, blood and drool spilling from his mouth. Caught off guard by both the ferocity of the attack and the feral look in his brother’s eyes, Dane froze, not reacting until Henry bit his forearm, shredding flesh and exposing fatty muscle. Dane fought back then, his eyes frantically searching for his gun while he tried to hold his brother at bay.

  III

  Mrs. Alma closed the circle, the four of them linking hands around Isaac’s body. As the link was made, the tentacles seemed to flex, as if in pain, then doubled their efforts, pulling Isaac deeper into the dirt. Melody stared at her son, guilt and rage surging in equal measure.

  I failed him.

  It was an idea she couldn’t escape from.

  Isaac was pulled lower, his midriff now almost under the dirt. His head lolled to one side, and his dead eyes landed on her. She was certain she could feel the accusation within them; the pain. The lack of understanding of why they’d been separated.

  “I won’t let you take him!” she screamed, breaking the bond and falling to her knees. She pulled at his arm and grabbed around his chest, wrestling to keep him above ground.

  “You mustn’t break the circle,” Mrs. Alma said, trying to yank Melody to her feet.

  “I won’t let it take him. I have nothing left!”

  “He’s already gone.”

  “I won’t accept that. I won’t.”

  “We need you, Mrs. Samson. We can end it, but not this way.”

  Melody stopped pulling at her son, the fight knocked out of her. Mrs. Alma took her hand and pulled her to her feet, and Emma grasped her other hand and reformed the link around the boy. Once again, the tentacles shuddered and flinched.

  Across the clearing, the Marshall brothers continued to fight. Henry snapped and snarled at Dane, who in turn was still looking for his weapon. Dane rolled, getting Henry underneath him, and from his new vantage point, he saw his gun in the dirt nearby. He scrambled for it, risking putting his back to Henry for the few seconds it would take to retrieve it, and reached out, snatched it up and turned it on Henry.

  “Stay where you are, Henry. I don’t want to do this, but I will if I have to.”

  Henry glared at Dane, and then at the others grouping around Isaac’s body. “I won’t let them stop me, nor you,” he growled, slowly getting to his feet.

  “I told you not to move. Don’t think I won’t use this just because you’re my brother.”

  Henry grinned maliciously, closing the distance between himself and Dane. “Then why don’t you stop me?”

  “Henry.”

  “Do it, Dane. Shoot me. You know what I intend to do.” He showed Dane what was in his hand. A palm-sized rock he’d picked up from the ground. “I’m going to use this to beat your brains in, Dane. Then I’m going to use it on them and stop them taking our prize.”

  “I swear, I’ll do it,” Dane said, hands trembling, the pain from the bite Henry had inflicted excruciating.

  “No you won’t. If you’d intended to, you would have done it already.”

  There was no distance between them now. Henry walked right up to the gun, pushing his chest into the barrel. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “If you don’t shoot me right now, I’m going to kill you.”

  “I’m not bluffing, Henry.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Henry swung the rock, the smooth surface smashing into the side of Dane’s head. He went down hard, gun skittering across the ground, and lay there motionless as Henry stood above him. “I’m going to make you suffer for all the times you made me suffer when we were young. But first, I have to kill your friends.”

  Henry turned and started to walk toward the group as the chanting from the trees began again.

  CHAPTER 45

  Petrov reentered the chamber where the gelatinous creature dwelled, once again reeling at both the sight and stench of it. His hope had been to save Kimmel, but he saw that it was already too late. The lower half of him had been taken in by the creature, numerous small tentacles further feeding him into the mass. He was considering how relieved he was that Kimmel wasn’t suffering anymore when the General moaned, and blinked, wide eyed and pleading. Petrov set down the fuel can and torch, ran to him and grabbed him under the arms, trying to pull him free. Kimmel attempted to speak, blood welling up in his mouth.

  “Shut up and let me help you,” Petrov screamed, planting his feet on the ground and pulling with every ounce of strength he could muster.

  There was a sound; a brittle, wet crunch as Kimmel’s upper torso came free, intestines snaking. An impossible quantity of blood gushed out across the floor and was quickly set upon by the smaller tendrils at the creature’s base. Petrov fell back, dragging the upper half of Kimmel on top of him, at first unsure of what had happened.

  He scrambled aside, pushing Kimmel’s body away and watching in morbid fascination as the jelly-like creature flexed and stretched toward him, keen not to lose the rest of its meal.

  Petrov turned back to the task at hand and his eyes focused on the fuel can he’d retrieved from the upper tunnel. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap and tossed it aside before splashing the contents on the creature. When the liquid made contact, the creature convulsed and rolled. It began to flatten its mass, extending around the walls, inching toward the exit. Petrov glanced over his shoulder, seeing what it intended to do. He set the remainder of the fuel down by Kimmel’s upper torso, sparing another glance at the exit, hoping that when he put flame to the creature it would retract, allowing him time to escape.

  He searched his pockets, hands trembling as he looked for his matches. He found them with his cigarettes in his jacket, distantly thinking how much he wanted to smoke, how he would love to just be somewhere outside in the fresh air where he could lie down and stare at the sky and smoke in peace and quiet.

  Later. He could smoke later. Right now, he had a different purpose. He pulled out a match and struck it, the head fizzling briefly into life and then dying, its blackened head leaving a wispy trail of smoke. His panic was starting to increase, and he flicked another quick glance tow
ards the exit. The creature had almost completely sealed the way out, its slick flesh meeting as it closed off the top third of the door.

  Petrov took another match, placed the head against the phosphorous strip on the side of the box and dragged it across. This time the flame held, and he almost screamed in excitement. The creature quivered, closing the gap around the door even more. He touched the live match to the others in the pack, each igniting its neighbor until they were all ablaze. The flames licked higher, sending orange shadows dancing along the walls. Petrov drew his arm back and threw the fiery box at the creature, a guttural scream escaping from his lips as he did.

  He wasn’t sure what happened next. A sound, like the distant echo of laughter, filled the air, and Petrov watched in horror as the matchbox lifted above the creature on a motionless breeze. The flames fought for life for a few moments before ebbing away to nothing more than an orange glow. He stood there, eyes fixed on the box as the glow faded and it slowly dropped to the ground, its contents withered and cold.

  It was over.

  Petrov fell to the floor, staring at the creature as it continued to burrow into the roof. There was no escape. Not anymore. He wondered how long it had been down here, if it was older than humanity itself. He thought Kimmel might have known, and he glanced over to the general’s body, staring at the remains, wishing there was more he could have done to help him at the end. Something caught his eye. He scrambled over to Kimmel’s butchered upper half, stomping on the few tentacles that were already probing against the hollow where his stomach had once been. There was something in his hand, something catching the dim light generated by the creature. Petrov peeled back Kimmel’s fingers and felt a moment of such elation he almost forgot how much danger he was in. He snatched the gold lighter out of the general’s hand and hoped it would be as lucky for him.

  With renewed hope, Petrov stood, took a step toward the torch, and fell, pitching over and landing on his knees. He stared at the tentacle wrapped around his ankle and the sense of elation faded. The torch was hopelessly out of reach, but he stretched for it anyway, pulling against his restraint, unable to believe just how strong the creature was. It was no good. Even at full stretch, he was still at least four feet from the torch. He scrambled back, staring at the tentacle, barely reacting as others inched forward. The fuel can at his side mocked him; half the solution to the problem, but a meaningless half without the torch. At least that would withstand any attempt to extinguish it, unlike the lighter. He could feel the tentacle pulling him, dragging him toward the larger mass of the creature. He stared at it and wondered how it would feel to be digested, how long he would suffer. He glanced at Kimmel again and was suddenly jealous that his suffering was over.

  You know what you need to do.

  It was the rational voice, the one he relied on when investigating homicides. It hadn’t had much call to be used during the horrors he’d endured so far. Now though, it had something to say.

  Do what needs to be done. You know the answer.

  He did. He had known from the second it grabbed him; it was just that the idea of it terrified him.

  It has to be better. The voice in his head told him. Has to be better than the alternative.

  He stared at the convulsing mass, knowing the suffering he would endure by it would be far worse than the relatively quick end he could provide for himself.

  And quick it would have to be because he could feel the creature pulling him closer, drawing him in. Petrov tucked the lighter into his pocket and stood up, pulling on the creature, using it as leverage. After all, it didn’t matter now. He grabbed the fuel can and lifted it above his head, dousing himself and the creature with the rest of the can’s contents. With the fumes burning his nostrils, the reality of what he was about to do became clear. He thought of his wife. How she would be expecting him home later. How she would wait by the window when he didn’t return, desperate for news. How that news would never come.

  Not now.

  He took the lighter from his pocket, shaking and afraid. The simple gold lighter was old, its case scuffed. Petrov flicked it open, thumb poised over the roller. He glanced at the creature and hoped it would work, hoped it would burn and die. He, of course, would never get to find out. He put the lighter to his fuel-soaked shirt, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thumbed the flint.

  The flame took immediately, greedily eating its way through the fuel. Petrov didn’t feel anything for a few seconds, then was consumed with an impossible agony as his flesh seared. He threw himself onto the creature, the flame passing between them. It sizzled and withdrew, its skin splitting and spewing its foul contents, releasing gasses which further fed the fire. It was a spectacular display as the creature burned and withered. Petrov held on tight, the pain easing as his nerve endings died. He gazed at the display of multicolored flames erupting from its skin, their seductive dance the last thing he would ever see. His blackened corpse fell to its knees and bent back toward the floor as the chamber filled with smoke and fire. Quivering and rumbling, the creature was powerless against its fate, its weakness in the end, the humans it had manipulated into being its protector.

  CHAPTER 46

  Even as it burned, the creature was determined not to give up on its prize. More tentacles shot out of the earth and tried to pull Isaac down. Smoke began billowing out of the ground as the creature’s movements became more erratic.

  Mrs. Alma broke the contact with the others and dropped to her knees. “Pull him clear. Now’s the time. Pull him clear!” the others complied, dropping to the ground and grabbing onto any remaining part of Isaac they could. An arm, a leg. Melody went to his head, holding it up, brushing the dirt away from his face as he was dragged deeper.

  “You won’t deny it!” Henry screamed. He lurched toward them, bloody rock in hand.

  “Ignore him,” Mrs. Alma said. “Pull the boy clear.”

  “I’ll kill you all. Every last one of you. Starting with you,” he said stumbling toward Melody. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide as he reared back with the rock, his face a filthy mask of hatred.

  A gunshot, crisp and loud.

  Henry’s forehead disappeared in a red spray, taking his eye with it, the devastating impact of the bullet deforming what remained of his face. He stood for a second, framed with the moon at his back, and then fell forward at the exact same time Isaac was pulled free of the creature’s grasp. The group dragged Isaac’s limp body aside, the void where he’d been now filled with Henry. The creature grabbed at him, tentacles wrapping around his body, pulling him down, the blood from his head wound sending it into a feeding frenzy despite its own death throes. Dane looked on, gun still in shaking hand, cheeks wet with tears.

  “His part is played,” Mrs. Alma whispered as Henry was dragged under, his spine snapping under the pressure.

  The ground began to vibrate, and then the trees followed suit, swaying and hissing. Truman picked up Isaac’s body and followed the others to the outer edge of the clearing, watching as the creature withdrew with its trophy, an orange flicker of flame now visible as smoke continued to billow upward.

  The wispy spirits of the dead came from the trees, circling the clearing; a screaming, thousand-faced cyclone. One by one they faded, freed from their bindings to the creature below.

  Emma put a hand on Melody’s arm, drawing her attention to the clearing.

  Steve and Isaac stood in front of them, father and son together.

  Melody couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed with emotion as her senses were flooded with forgotten memories. The smell of Steve’s aftershave, the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to explain, but now he was there, the words wouldn’t come. Just a jumble of feelings and emotions which conflicted with each other. She wanted to be with them, couldn’t wait to die so they could be together at last.

  No.

  It was him, his voice, his presence injected directly into her head.

  It
’s not your time yet. Nor is it his time.

  She watched as Steve took his hands off Isaac’s shoulders and gave him a gentle push. His spirit form drifted toward Melody, moving through her and back into his body.

  He inhaled, gasping and blinking, coughing and putting his hands to his throat. Melody dropped to her knees and pulled him close to her, kissing his head, hugging him as tightly as she could.

  There were no words she could say, nothing she could express to the spirit of her husband that could possibly articulate the gratitude she felt. She turned back to him, hoping to find some words that would mean something. The smile on her lips faltered. He was gone.

  They all were. All that remained was the clearing, the ground smoldering and spewing out smoke.

  “Do you feel that?” Emma said quietly, turning to the others.

  “What?” Truman said.

  “Nothing. It feels… safe.”

  Mrs. Alma nodded, looking at the trees. “This place is cleansed now. The dead can rest.” She began walking toward the dirt path leading away from the clearing.

  “What do we do now?” Melody asked, still hugging Isaac.

  “We go home. It’s over,” she said simply.

  “What about you?”

  Mrs. Alma paused, considering the question. “Tea,” she said. “I could really use a cup of tea.”

  Without saying anything else, she headed off down the dirt road toward the hotel.

  EPILOGUE

  Two Years Later.

  Melody Samson was tired. She looked at the world in a different way now, changed by the things she’d experienced. Gaunt, and missing most of her hair, she pulled the hat down further over her ears.