“Something like a code?” By now, Bernard had deteriorated into an animated ghost clinging to the vestiges of fading aspirations. He resembled Hawthorne’s archetypal scientist: His beard had thickened and his hair had grown terminally disheveled; his face, lacking any color, appeared ashen and fibrous; angst and apprehension sullied his once focused eyes. Throughout his half-muttered ramblings, his voice cracked with hesitation and self-doubt. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“All the recordings we have made, all the electronic voice phenomenon we have gathered—there must be a clue there.” He gazed skyward, seeking answers from the apathetic twilight. “There are 37 of them—different languages. We can only identify a handful of them, but we know that there are 37 altogether.” He paused, eyes darting about in sunken sockets, fingertips tapping against the wooden table top. “Each voice recites a distinct passage nine times. There are 333 stanzas in Conversations avec les Morts Nine goes into 333 37 times.”
Like gentle ripples traveling across the surface of a secluded pond, I believed the heavens wavered in that instant as dark matter beyond the furthest stars pressed its weight against distant cosmic boundaries. I felt lightheaded and nauseated, felt as though the earth might slip away beneath my feet as some parallel universe collided with our own in a calamitous failure of natural laws.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” I said, watching as puzzle pieces repositioned themselves in my mind’s eye. “The ninth word of every 37th stanza, a total of nine words.” The revelation poured over my lips though I could not claim to be its lone source. I gave voice to an ancient idea the origin of which I dared not contemplate. “That is the key. That is the invocation we have sought.”
Gods and devils of man’s construct generally reflect the physical and emotional framework of their creators. Religion and mysticism extend only as far as the imagination of its earthly designers. Science, likewise, finds its limits amidst the most abstract musings of the most progressive and intellectual minds produced by civilization. Glimpsing the wonders and horrors beyond the threshold of human comprehension leads inexorably to lingering fear, paranoia, delusional behavior or complete madness, depending on the degree of exposure.
Nothing that occurred that evening after our unfortunate realization can accurately be conveyed since there is no comparable phenomenon with which to contrast it. Bernard prepared the transmitter as I selected the appropriate words to compose the ancient epitaph. I jotted the words on a steno pad, counting and writing, translating each term as I identified it and hoping that the result would be no more than gibberish. With each successive word, I recognized the pattern emerging and I sank deeper into despair. Instead of eliminating the wild theory, I found myself growing more confident in it.
“Some things are better left undiscovered,” I heard myself whisper, repeating my own dire warning. An intangible darkness had settled over the sterile laboratory, insinuating itself into every corner. I felt it churning in my belly, scratching at the inside of my skull. “We ought to stop. We should forget about all this, let it fall back into obscurity.”
“Obscurity? It’s been waiting for discovery, Preston. We’ve just tapped into something that was there all along, a natural resource.”
Since Walid had retired for the day, I suggested Bernard read the completed phrase. His understanding of Syriac, though limited, would have to suffice for the initial transmission. He held the piece of scrap paper in his shaking hands, stumbling to find the appropriate Aramaic, struggling to remember the proper intonation.
“Hell, I can’t do this,” he said, and for an instant I thought reason had vanquished his curiosity. His hesitation lasted only moments, though, and an instant later he read the words aloud forgoing the translation. “When the stars align so shall their dark design,” he said, and the universe trembled almost imperceptibly.
Although I expected an instantaneous response, I could not begin to fathom the mechanics behind the visual distortions I witnessed over the next few minutes. The very fibers of existence seemed to flutter. Sounds shriveled and light warped. The floor rolled and the walls bowed. Fighting to keep my balance, I watched as a stream of armed guards rushed into the room.
Looking toward Bernard, I saw his lips continuing to move. He realized that he had to follow the set protocol, reciting the nine-word verse nine times. The guards had surrounded him, seemed suddenly eager to incapacitate him. I saw an inexplicable darkness spilling from his head, curling corporeal strands that might be likened to tentacles. A transformation had begun. A passage in the text claims shadows lurk in our hearts; perhaps, the shadows linger in our DNA. When recited in any language, the invocation’s catalytic capacity initiates not a transcommunicative response but a physical metamorphosis. I could no longer hear Bernard’s voice, but I heard other voices bleeding through from alternate dimensions—voices that whispered a familiar mellifluous mantra. Mercifully, darkness overwhelmed me before the completion of the transmission.
Later, I awoke beneath the retreating darkness just prior to dawn. I found myself outside the electrified fence, resting along the border of the Pisgah National Forest. The facility had been reduced to rubble, and a detachment of soldiers picked through the debris. I smelled smoke and chemicals and some other putrid stench that hinted at burnt flesh. I staggered to my feet and surveyed the ruins from a distance.
“There’s not much left,” a uniformed officer said, approaching me from a nearby jeep. “Probably for the best. Most of the equipment was stolen. The experiments were unsanctioned and dangerous. You’re lucky you made it out alive.”
“Have you found anyone else,” I asked, though I knew he would not tell me if they had taken Bernard into custody. Perhaps they had apprehended what remained of him, partially transformed into something hideous, something alien and yet rooted in his very cells. “Did you recover anything useful.”
“Everything was destroyed by the fire. There were no survivors.”
“I don’t really remember what happened in there.”
“Relax, Mr. Carver, we already know your involvement. We have no intention of holding you responsible for any of this.” The officer offered me a cigarette which I thankfully accepted. “Name’s Roth. Lieutenant Colonel Mark Roth.” He leaned against a towering balsam, watched as his troops began a methodical cleansing of the area. “I joined the service to protect the country against foreign aggressors, to help spread democracy. Instead, I’ve got to face an invisible enemy with no loyalties, no form, and no face,” he said, looking toward me as if I could offer some kind of advice. “How am I supposed to do my job, Mr. Carver?”
“Do you hear the voices?”
“All of us hear them,” he said, and I knew that Bernard’s invention had progressed much further than he had realized. They had shut him down because they were afraid of what he might ultimately discover. They were afraid he might crack the code. “You’ll hear them, too, if you don’t already. You’ve been infected—if you can call it that. Damn nanotechnology.”
Roth barked a few commands to a group of soldiers who seemed interested in some bits of parchment. The surviving pieces of Conversations avec les Morts soon fell to ashes.
“Kirkuk, Baghdad, Damascus, Cairo—there are a groups forming across the Middle East, all over the world, searching for the code to breathe life into these ancient horrors. It’s only a matter of time before someone succeeds.”
“Do you need help?”
“Every army needs new recruits.”
Standing there that morning, watching as Bernard’s ill-fated aspirations smoldered beneath a timid spring morning in the Appalachians, I perceived the insistent tug of the universe. All the events leading up to that moment seemed exquisitely orchestrated, predetermined and deftly executed. Even an ostensibly inconsequential creature on an insignificant world had a purpose in the incomprehensible design—a design which only now revealed its paradoxical nature.
In all my studies I had again and again encountere
d grimoires reiterating the theme of clandestine gates leading to veiled passages connecting the known universe with recondite realities—realms of the preternatural housing horrors beyond reason and imagination, distant cosmic vistas and distorted dimensions sheltering godlike atrocities and servitors of chaos. The physical and spiritual portals mystics had long strived to unlock, however, were the metaphorical reverberations of ancient science and genetic manipulation.
Gone from my nightmares are the horrors from beyond.
Now, I fear the horrors within.
ICE CREAM
JAY CASELBERG
LEANING DOWN, USING THE small, sharp, pocket-knife he carried just for the purpose, Krieger sliced off a nipple. He popped it into his mouth and chewed experimentally. Too firm. It didn’t quite have the melt-in-the-mouth texture he desired.
He looked down at the woman—yes, it was a woman this time—and sighed. When would he find what he was looking for? Her pale white skin looked silken in the alley light. The thin trickles of blood pooling between her breasts were colored black by the darkness. So untidy. He reached down, sliced off another piece, and flicked it with thumb and forefinger toward the alley’s end.
It all started with ice cream—ice cream with a cherry on top. The problem with ice cream was that it melted. People didn’t melt, well not straight away. Leave them for a few weeks and they became all gooey and sticky. They got that greenish-gray tinge that made them useless for what he wanted. But at least people lasted for a while. He spat out the small round hardness with a disgusted expression.
Krieger thumbed his lapel and said “Clean.” Sadly there was nothing that would clean the memories of disappointment.
Maraschino cherries were the best. They were rich and dark and filled your mouth with a rush of flavor and sensation. Then the sweet coolness of the ice cream would wash over the taste, leaving hints of the mystery beneath. Ice cream with a cherry on top.
He glanced up the alleyway. His suit would be clean now—nothing left to match and identify. Modern technology was a wonderful thing.
He slipped the knife back into his rear pocket and walked out onto the street, out of the darkness and into the light. A quick glance in either direction, then he was on his way, returning to his modest dwelling where yet another night of dissatisfaction awaited him.
He made plans as he walked. He’d get home, shuffle past the black plastic sacks that cluttered the apartment. Maybe peer inside one or two of them and reminisce. There was no smell. The wonders of modern technology saw to that. If any of the contents were too far gone, he’d lug them outside with the rest of the leavings for collection. Eventually he’d turn on the visual unit, don the small cap and be whisked away to a world of pleasure. The tiny, invisible probes would pierce his skull and he’d be transported. But always, always, there’d be something missing. What he wanted was permanence.
Krieger loved the visual unit. First had come the programs, but since the advent of advert-surround, the experience had become so real. You could feel the wind rushing in your face, smell the pine needles of the forest heights, and taste. Taste was the best. But there, stuck in the chair with his eyes closed, it was transitory. The images and sensations lasted for such a brief time. He couldn’t just move to the kitchen and make himself a drink. It presented too many problems, trying to see through the sensations and slice through to the real—too confusing. They’d designed the unit that way purposely so you couldn’t get stuck in the make believe and waste away. Get too far from the sending unit and the whole thing cut out. It was so frustrating. He wanted to hold on to those creations inside his head forever, to have the cool trickle down the back of his throat, the pressure at the bottom of his belly as he filled with the flavor. And then he wanted it to last.
As he reached the steps of his apartment block, one of the other residents was coming out, an older woman. She carried a large brown-paper bag clutched before her with both arms. Wisps of silver hair eddied about her lined face. She glanced at him, quickly looked away, but nothing more. Not even a sign of recognition, though they’d passed each other day after day for three years now. Others were the same. People kept pretty much to themselves these days. He paused for a moment in front of the entrance and watched her limp off down the street. Huddled and hunched. That’s what she was. Huddled and hunched. He watched her until she moved from view, then he hurried up the stairs.
Four days passed before he had the urge for ice cream again. One of those damned ads washed into his brain over the unit and caught him unawares. There it was. A tub. Rocky Road this time. He could taste it, rich and crunchy over his tongue. Then the next image. A beautiful round bowl piled high with the stuff, and it had a cherry on top. It didn’t quite have the purity of vanilla, that creamy whiteness, but it was close. He tore the cap from his head and sat staring at nothing, running the sensation through his mind. The sharpness, the clarity, was fading already.
“Show me how,” he whispered, closing his eyes and licking his lips. He knew it was time. He stood and smoothed down his suit. He always wore the suit, the same one. There wasn’t any need to change. It at least provided some continuity. Everything else in the world changed and decayed. Besides, the suits were expensive. He couldn’t afford another on his meager budget.
He patted his rear pocket, making sure the knife was there, in its place.
Twenty minutes by maglev and he was where he wanted to be.
This was the real world, away from the idealized constructions in his head, here amongst the fleshpots and the slick glare of the shop fronts. Here with the brazen. Here in the dirt.
He strolled casually along the street, tasting reality. The red and yellow lights cast harsh shadows against the shops and faces and forms as he sauntered past. The oldest profession they’d called it, and so it was. One by one he passed them, and one by one they eyed him up. None of them was right.
He walked transfixed by the peristaltic wobble in the buttocks of a woman in front of him. Each step sent a new vibration he could see through the tight fabric that hugged her shape. Step, vibrate, wobble, step, vibrate, wobble. No, it was definitely wrong. She wore yellow and it was the wrong color. Nor was the flesh firm enough to conjure the images of his desire. His gaze flickered on.
And then he found what he was looking for.
Leaning back against a wall, one leg crooked and the other straight, stood a young man, cigarette dangling from his lips. His face was soft, pale, white, accentuated by the dark lank hair that fell about it. The face was round and smooth and the boy carried a bit of weight. Krieger saw the way the teen’s eyes scanned the passersby, making eye contact mainly with the men, hardly a second glance for the women. His skin was unblemished, silky smooth, young. Krieger passed the tip of his tongue over his lips.
Casually, he wandered by, flicking a quick glance to the boy’s face as he drew abreast, then walked on past. He looked back over his shoulder and the boy was looking. Big brown eyes like chocolate buttons and the barest hint of a smile. Krieger turned and kept on walking. A few minutes later, he walked back. The boy watched him as he approached, slowed, held his gaze for an instant then walked on. Krieger looked back over his shoulder. The boy was watching. Involuntarily, Krieger sighed. The look of him was enough.
He turned on his heel and sidled back. The boy watched him approach, watched him even as he stood in front looking at him. He said not a word. Finally, Krieger spoke.
“How much?” he said. This close, he could see the slight plump roundness of the young man’s chest beneath the tight-fitting white shirt. White and round.
The boy spoke the litany. Fifty, sixty, seventy, it didn’t matter. Krieger nodded. “Have you somewhere we can go?” he asked.
The boy looked him up and down, then shook his head. Shame. Krieger didn’t really want to take him back, back to the apartment with its black plastic sacks and clutter. What if the boy asked for a beer and went to help himself? What then? He stood rocking on his heels, considering. His nee
d was great, filling him with urgency, but this boy was too close to what he wanted. He didn’t want to cheapen things by finding some dark alleyway. There had to be a better way.
“Okay,” he said. “Come with me. I have somewhere we can go.”
The youth looked at him with a flash of suspicion. “No funny stuff, all right?”
Krieger glanced up and down the street, but nobody was even interested.
“Of course not,” he said.
The skullcap nestled firmly onto his head, and he waited while the images grew to solidity inside his mind. He was in the middle of the tail end of a sitcom. Then the station announcements and … news? Somewhere in there he’d find ads; somewhere among the flotsam and jetsam that boiled inside his head he’d find the sweetness, the perfection and he would be sated, if even for those brief moments it was there.
The sitcom finished.
Then came the news.
The boy’s face floated pale and ghostlike in his inner vision. For the barest moment, he couldn’t distinguish it from memory, then he realized the disembodied head was part of the news—the same disembodied head that sat in a sack just inside his front door, a little to the left. He snorted. Why had they only shown the head? Life was full of strange ironies. The newscaster’s words spoke to him, but he didn’t hear. All he could see was the face, turning slowly in three dimensions, giving him a view from every angle.
Krieger tore the cap from his head and swallowed, his mouth dry. Had anyone seen them? He had no way of knowing. But if they had, and he’d been recognized, it wouldn’t be long before …
Krieger leaped to his feet. He had been careful, but the sacks were there. They were evidence. He smoothed his suit and stood in the middle of the room chewing on his lower lip and thinking. If he took the sacks out for the nightly refuse collection, then he could clean the kitchen. It wouldn’t take long; not too long. He massaged the bare patch at the top of his head with his fingertips, then nodded.
Dark Horizons Page 19