What the actual fuck was it?
Human? Hell no, he’d never seen anyone that big. And even though it was showing up in his goggles, it seemed to have an almost ethereal quality, as if it was trying to exist in two alternative dimensions at once. Here, and as long as you were looking directly at it, the figure appeared solid. But glance at it out of the corner of your eye and it flitted in and out of phase. He also felt wave after wave of hatred coming from the thing, slamming into him like the Atlantic on spin cycle. This fucker was majorly pissed off, and it seemed majorly pissed off at Jones in particular. It loomed over the prone man, a snarl contorting what would otherwise pass as a face. Broken and rotting teeth dripped pus and drool, and the massive muscles on its arms and shoulders flexed.
Moving faster than anything that size had a right to, its right arm shot down towards Jones and taloned fingers slashed at the front of his MTP camouflage jacket, shredding it into ribbons. Jones screamed as the claws sliced into his flesh.
Cox’s scream matched Jones’, only his was one of fury at what this thing was doing to his sergeant. “No!” Cox scrabbled to his feet and fumbled for his bayonet, willing his shaking fingers to do what they were told. The bayonet clicked and locked into place. He picked up every ounce of courage he had left and charged at the creature.
He got three steps, tops.
The thing looked up, flicked a hand and Cox was sent spinning across the chamber by an invisible force and slammed into the wall. The creature’s hand stayed outstretched towards Cox, and he slowly raised it, as if it were conducting some demonic orchestra to a crescendo. As he did, Cox slid painfully up the wall, pinned to the rough stone and unable to break free. The stone slabs jarred against his vertebrae and no matter how hard he struggled, he could only watch, helpless, as the creature turned its attention back to the whimpering form of Jones…
* * *
Jones stared up into the eyes of a creature that had no fucking right to exist. Not here. Not anywhere. The thing snorted then pressed its palm against Jones’ forehead. Instantly, Jones was engulfed in a wave of flashing images bursting through his brain. The stinking piles of corpses he’d seen in that slaughterhouse; the dead child, expiring in his arms, her fingers grasping at his hand in a vain attempt to hang on to life; his mate Chris, when that IED had taken his legs off at the knees and blown the shreds of the poor bastard’s skin and muscle tissue into Jones' face. Foul, tainted images of combat in a distant land, etched into his soul and twisting like rotting fibres in his mind. He wept, crying for everything he’d suffered.
Then new images came. More savage, more horrific than he’d imagined possible. This place, filled with the screams of the dying as a circle of hazy figures chanted incessantly, calling to the darkest god of the Stones – Aeron, the Celtic god of slaughter. Images of a war waged by the real druids against the Roman Legions filled Jones’ mind. He saw them hunting Aeron in the Welsh Preseli Hills, capturing the God using trickery and guile, bringing him back here and entombing him in the bluestones that were erected at the entrance of this portal to the Underworld. Here, on the open Plains, Legionnaires were lured to their doom, tumbling into the cavern as its roof gave way and they were deposited at the feet of a starving, angry god. A god who revelled in slaughter. A god who could sense the mind of a soldier and lure him to this place, calling him with images of unimaginable savagery and a lust for power.
And now, Aeron had a soldier crawling and pissing himself in terror at his feet, and another crying and raging against his helplessness, pinned to the chamber wall like a butterfly collector’s prize possession. He felt the pulsating power throbbing through his loins and into his blackened soul. Time to feast once more.
It had been too long. Far too long...
* * *
Aeron stood over Jones, examining his victim, savouring the rising smell of fear. He reached down and, clawing his fingers, forced them through the soft, yielding skin, sinking through flesh, pushing aside the other organs. They could be spread at the feet of the stones later for the ravens to dine upon.
He ignored the screaming, the frantic and futile grabs by his victim at his wrist as his hand sunk deeper into the man’s chest. He could feel the pulsating, throbbing heart, pumping furiously, as if it knew it was about to be torn from the warm safety of the body. The screams grew weaker, interspersed by choking gurgles as blood filled the man’s throat.
His fingers closed around the pump and slowly, agonisingly slowly, he tore out Jones’ beating heart and held it up, blood dripping between his fingers, paying no attention to the pathetic, blood-frothed gurgles as his victim died in agony, twitching and convulsing.
He licked the still warm heart slowly, letting the blood and fluid coat his tongue, savouring its deliciousness. It had been so very, very long since he had tasted such fear – the fear of a warrior in the throws of his agonising, prolonged death. He took a bite and swallowed, letting the hot lump of tissue slide down his throat, the coppery taste filling his mouth, giving him strength, vigour, power.
Then he crushed what was left of the organ between his fingers, amused by the sheer fragility of the soft muscle tissue as he turned what was the most precious of all organs into useless mush.
Jones died badly, a victim of his own horrific fantasy. Aeron feasted on his flesh, tearing at his throat and moaning with pleasure as the still-warm tissue slid down his throat.
Aeron stopped mid-gorge and turned his eyes towards the terrified form of Cox and smiled lazily, blood and flesh dripping from his teeth. He stood, and strolled across the chamber towards Cox, relishing the sensation of Jones’ warm blood swirling around his feet and mingling with the juices of decay that coated the floor. He stretched out a taloned hand towards Cox’s chest, hungering for the pounding heart caged behind the man’s ribs. It called to him. It sang to him. And the screams of the doomed man made the song so much sweeter...
Blank White Page
(Songs in the Key of White)
James A. Moore
Lucas Slate sat astride his dark horse and stared into the sprawling affair with little or no expression on his gaunt face. He looked upon the collection of hastily assembled buildings and well-used tents with eyes half-lidded. An unwary sort of soul might have thought he wasn’t paying attention, but he was.
“It occurs to me, Mister Crowley, that this place looks too much like other areas we’ve both seen in the past.”
The air had a hard bite to it. The wind was dry and cold and cutting. Winter was well and properly on its way and the people in the small town knew it. They were shilling their goods with a sort of cheerful desperation that said at least a few of them could think of better places to be. He wondered if any of them would succeed in finding those better places before the winter came properly.
Jonathan Crowley, who was riding his own horse and sitting only a few feet from Slate, allowed himself a small smile and shook his head. “And, what, exactly, is it that you think we’re going to find here, Mister Slate?”
Slate did not bother turning to the sound of Crowley’s voice. He knew what he would see. The same lean, plain features and brown hair, brown eyes. Same offensive smirk on the man’s longish face, though at the moment it was hidden behind almost a month’s worth of beard growth. They’d ridden across half the Arizona territory, riding past patrols of Cavalry and Indians alike, because something inside of Lucas Slate told him he had to be here, but he had no idea what that something was.
He just knew it chewed at him.
Only a short time ago he’d been quite a different man. His hair white, and his skin was as pale as snow, same as always. He was an albino, after all. But beyond that there was remarkably little that was the same.
When he’d lived in Carson’s Point, Colorado he’d stood at least eight inches shorter and he’d been told more than once that he had the face of a woman. True, a few of the folks who’d made that claim had been drunk and desperately lonely, but he knew that his face had been different, as su
rely as his body had changed.
Slate stood over six and a half feet now, and while he still sported the same hat he’d taken to wearing as the local undertaker – a fine old hat that served him well and looked somber enough for funerals – he could no longer fit in his old suits and had been forced to buy new shirts and new pants as well; rawhide in this case because the damnable cold would have sunk through anything less.
He had always been thin. Now he was gaunt, and his muscles were cords of leather under skin that had long since stopped being supple and soft. No one would ever mistake him for a woman these days. Instead they’d contemplate whether or not someone sharing his old profession should have buried him. He was not dead. He just looked the part.
He had always been soft spoken, but these days his voice was lower and seldom seemed to want to come out as much more than a whisper. The only thing that had not changed was the cultured southern drawl that moved through his words. “I’m intending to find answers, Mister Crowley.”
Crowley nudged his horse closer. Slate looked toward the man and considered the beard he was growing. Jonathan Crowley did not look like a man who should have a beard to him. It didn’t seem to fit his long face. “I am very fond of answers, Mister Slate. But I have to ask, what, exactly, is the question?”
He looked at Crowley. The man was dressed in fine clothes. A cotton shirt, a charcoal, pinstriped suit with a vest, and over that a great duster that kept the cold and wind from touching anything under it. He sported a gambler’s hat on the top of his head, and a heavy wool scarf of a dark, somber red hue.
Slate offered a thin-lipped smile of his own. “I believe the question is the very one you’ve been contemplating since we started riding together. What, exactly, am I becoming?”
Crowley nodded. “That is a question worth answering.”
“Indeed it is, sir.”
* * *
You could hardly call it a town, really. More a collection of shops and brothels all shoved together and becoming a town already called Silver Springs, Arizona. The place was an assortment of thieves and whores and criminals, as could be expected in a boomtown. The rumors of silver had driven herds of people into the area and the fortunate few who had struck solid claims guaranteed they’d stay. There were white folk, red folk and black folk, all of them in the same area. Crowley imagined if he looked around he’d even see a few Chinese as well. That seldom happened in places that were properly called civilized. There were too many who considered the other races as enemies for that. Here, where money was more important than opinions, there was less need of being selective.
Crowley rather liked that part of the situation. He’d never much cared for the need to believe one people were better than another. One on one, most of them seemed all right. It was only when you gathered any of them in groups they tended to be stupid.
The ground was as dry as the air, which is to say most of the folks in the area would be getting their water from wells, or from the barrels a few enterprising people were bringing with them. It was a commodity. The Verde River was a few hours ride from the area, and he had already seen a group of men at the edge of town working on figuring the best way to get the water from there to here. What they lacked in equipment they seemed to make up for with enthusiasm.
He could see that Lucas Slate was tense. Slate, who seldom seemed bothered by much of anything since he’d begun changing. Slate, who calmly and methodically followed through with some very grisly work, was currently as taut as a bowstring.
“We have traveled through Indian territories and been shot at several times, Mister Slate. Who do you think is most likely to be of assistance to us in this situation?”
The two of them were still at the edge of the crowded area. Someone, somewhere, had claimed they found silver in the area. A week later the first building seemed old. Now? Now the crowds kept coming and the buildings kept popping up like mushrooms after a rainstorm.
Slate looked slowly over the area and then finally shook his head. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
Crowley smiled. “Look around us, Mister Slate, and tell me what’s different about the people here?”
“Nothing that I can see.” He spoke even as he once more scanned the crowds. “Ah. I see it now.”
“What do you see, Mister Slate?”
“The Indians. They’re more afraid of me than they are of you.”
Crowley chuckled. “Well now, don’t you think that deserves a bit of investigation?”
Slate took off his hat for a moment and ran long, pallid fingers through his long, thin, white hair. “Indeed I do, Mister Crowley. Indeed I do.”
They rode forward at a leisurely pace, two men who scared most people without even trying.
* * *
Silver Springs wasn’t old enough to be on any maps. The town had been hastily assembled and that tended to make navigating the structures challenging. There were no rules, really, except the ones people managed to force on each other. Most of the folks who saw the strangers eyed them warily, rather like one might contemplate a substantial rattlesnake that was minding its own affairs but was looking at you with one ophidian eye.
To be fair they struck quite a few notes that qualified them as unusual. The gaunt man rode on a pale grey horse that didn’t seem to breathe. It did not snort, nor did it whinny. The beast seemed oblivious to most of the other animals in the area, though the same was not true in reverse. A good number of dogs made it a point to be elsewhere when the horse got too close, and they made certain to bark their dissatisfaction just as soon as they were far enough away to assure the great horse could not easily get to them.
The man riding with him seemed of particularly good humor, with an eager smile that did not sit well. More than a few of the faithful crossed themselves when they saw his broad, even teeth. When Crowley was not smiling he was hardly remarkable, but there was something inherently wrong with his grin. There was something about the way he moved, the way he looked at folks, that left them a mite worried that he could just possibly take note of them. His horse was only remarkable in that it did not run from the larger grey beast the gaunt man rode.
Both men sported weapons, but that was hardly unusual in this area. The gaunt man had a long rifle draped across his saddle, held in place by the weight of his hands. A shotgun rested near his leg, and a careful eye would make out the two Colt Navy revolvers tucked into saddle holsters. There was a knife hilt at the top of each boot and at least one large blade strapped to his hip. He carried enough weapons to promise mayhem, even if his deathlike face and grim pallor hadn’t already advertised a penchant for destruction.
Crowley slipped off his horse with an unsettling grace. He didn’t bother stretching or adjusting his posture as so many did. Instead, he seemed perfectly relaxed and comfortable. Lucas Slate dropped down with substantially more difficulty and looked around the area with hooded eyes.
“You’re not feeling well, Mister Slate?”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t quite know what, or why, but I’m feeling decidedly ill at ease.”
Jonathan Crowley adjusted his wide brimmed gambler’s hat and looked around carefully. “In the time I’ve known you I’ve run across remarkably little that put you under the weather.”
“Indeed, sir. It is a rarity.” Slate’s soft southern drawl was more pronounced. “And one I daresay I do not enjoy.”
“Close your eyes, Mister Slate.”
The man did as Crowley suggested.
“Now, tell me what you feel both in your body and outside it.”
To most, the conversation would have seemed foolishness, but Lucas Slate knew better. He was changing and his changes included some very devilish alterations to his senses. He could often see past the lies that presented themselves to most people, and he could occasionally feel much more than he should have been able to consider.
“Well now…”
Crowley said nothing, but he watched the man very carefully.
Slate t
urned his head slowly to the left and tilted his ear higher, as if trying to catch a sound. “Well now,” he repeated. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“What might that be, Mister Slate?”
“I can hear something. Sounds almost like music, but nothing that makes sense.”
Crowley nodded slowly. All around them people were going on about their business and giving a wide berth to the two of them. “Then I might suggest you investigate. Shall I come with you?” He made the offer already knowing the answer.
“Not at this time, Mister Crowley. Though perhaps I could count on you to remain within shouting distance.”
Crowley nodded again. “I expect I can make myself available to you, should the need arise.”
Crowley turned his horse away and started on a parallel course. The smile dropped from his face as he merged with the people moving about the bustling area.
* * *
Crowley knew that if you sit long enough, people tell the most amazing stories. It wasn’t hard to find a place that was selling food, but finding one where the food wasn’t dubious was more of a task. Still, Crowley managed well enough.
There was a tent not far from the first stable that had slices of roast beef, a thin gravy, and potatoes for a few pennies. A single penny bought a plate of beans from a pot that looked diseased. The establishment also had a bar, and that almost always guaranteed conversation. Crowley bought his food and settled in to listen.
Most of the people were talking of only two noteworthy things. The first was the silver in the area – amazing how many wanted it and how desperately they were willing to search for instant wealth. The other major topic of conversation was the ongoing Indian wars.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 32