We overbalance and crash to the floor, the drunk on my legs and pulling himself up me. His face looms over me and there it is, his open mouth and the thing inside—and for a split second I see that, no, it’s not looking out at me from there, because what emerges is the tail, that flopping tapeworm tail, spooling out and flexing, pulsing and bulging as something moves through it—and I ram both my hands under his arms and push with all my strength, shoving his head up past mine just as a stream of pale, lumpy fluid gouts from its open end to splatter on the floor. I gag. It wanted that in my face, in my nose and mouth.
When I let go he collapses on me but his weight is high and I can wriggle out under a flailing arm, roll away and yank my gun from the holster. He turns my way, the blue-grey tapeworm lolling down his cheek and into the spew, like a dog lapping tapioca pudding off the floor.
I pull back the hammer and jam the pistol into the soft of his cheek at an angle. I’m not making Bellow’s mistake. The shot tears into his mouth and on down through his throat to stop inside the body somewhere, but the drunk’s crazed thrashing tells me I hit the real target. The back end of the insect thing flies out of his mouth, leaving the top half still inside. It curls up around its obscene hind parts, then falls still. A moment later the drunk stills, too.
I slump back against the desk, the dark office quiet around me. Through the open door to the street I can see the shape of the buildings opposite, dim shadows with window eyes and doorway mouths. Holes we enter, holes we look out from. I wonder how many of the townsfolk are serving as walking houses for these little invaders right now. I wonder if any of them heard that shot, are being pointed this way by their evil parasites like the sheriff was. I wonder if the fire spreading back there will bring them running the way it would have when they were still just people.
I wonder if the lumps in the tapioca spew were eggs.
I wonder where Bellow is, because I want to kill him.
I get up and check the office by the flickering light coming through from the cells. There’s a long leather duster that I shrug on, but if the sheriff kept a rifle here it’s well hidden. Bellow aside, this could be a one gun town, but at least that gun is on my hip now. There are thin muslin curtains across the windows. I tear one down, fold it a few times and wrap it across my face like a kerchief, knotting it behind my head—painful, the knot sits right on top of the split lump in my scalp, but my mouth isn’t an open invitation any more.
Nothing left to do now but leave. The screams and shooting of earlier are all over, which I might take as a good sign if I hadn’t just struggled for my life with a silent adversary. I crouch by the doorframe and peek into the night. The street looks deserted, but there’s not much in the way of lights on and there’s no moon. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s cold and it could be hours until dawn. If I’m getting out of here alive I need a better plan than just to run east to meet the sun, it’s a long walk from here to anywhere else. I need to find a livery, a horse, and put some serious distance between me and this nightmare place.
I take a steeling breath and creep outside, hunched low, looking back and forth and all around as I go. I’m on the edge of the town, judging by how quick we were to it when we arrived, but I didn’t see us pass a stables and there must be one around. Traversing the town appeals not at all, but what are my options? It’s bound to be close to the main street, probably at one end or the other, so sticking to it is my fastest approach. I could circle the town and maybe avoid coming across any poor souls like the sheriff or the drunk, but who knows what I’ll find on the edge of the scrub. I don’t fancy stumbling across a stream of insects coming in from the wilderness like ants towards a picnic.
I keep on up the street, low to the walls, watchful, but I’m starting to think that the place is actually empty. Then as I pass a gap between buildings I hear a high noise in the dark and stupidly freeze, framed between the walls for whatever might be viewing me. At first nothing moves, but then I make out two low bodies, dogs, one backed up to the dead end by the other.
The trapped dog alternates between whimpers and snarls, then the other vomits the same disgusting lumpy fluid the drunk aimed at me, splattering it all over. The victim howls and leaps away, lands clumsily and wobbles, then drops on its side as though stunned. It just lies there. Then the vomit dog turns around and sees me. Its mouth hangs wide, tongue and tapeworm across its teeth.
I aim the pistol as it starts to charge, lumbering the first few steps, then coming on fast. When it’s five feet away I fire, straight down its gape, and jump aside as it jerks and falls and rolls to a stop in the street. I back away, not waiting to see if anything comes out, just keen to be far away as fast as I can be. Not just people, animals too. I don’t pray, but tonight I’ll say a prayer: that I can find a horse with nothing in its mouth but the bit.
I don’t meet anything else before I finally spot the livery, a two-story stable with a largish corral beside it, and it seems my prayer was answered because there is a horse right there, too. It starts prancing as I vault the fence so I steer clear for the moment. It’s not alone: another lies motionless in the middle of the corral with its head caved in, by a kick is my guess. The horse and I have that in common, that we have survived so far by whatever means it took to do so. I hope we can add escape to that list in short order.
I keep my eyes peeled as I approach the stable, but I reach the open doors without seeing any sign of the insects. I edge inside and find a lit lamp on the floor is illuminating the aisle between the nearest stalls—I can see better in than I could out, though the far side of the stable is still impenetrable. The uncertain flickering causes shadows to jump in every corner, but I can detect no movement beneath them. I hear nothing, not even the low sounds of livestock.
Can this all be over? Perhaps two prayers would risk tempting fate. I approach the lamp, eyes twitching with every shift of the flame, crouch for it, reach out my injured, unarmed hand…then I see what the stall to my left contains, my hand falls away, and I rise.
There’s four of them. Two grown men, a boy in his teens and, next to him, Joe Bellow. They’re bunched up together at the back of the stall, where they were hiding, I suppose, all coated head to toe in the spew. Their clothes and hair and skin shines with it. It’s not lumpy anymore, and I think the reason for that is the puckered holes I can see through the translucent fluid, punctures in their skin, left behind as burrowers dug inward. Little things are growing in them.
How many others like this are there, hidden in the town? Filled with crawling mouths, food and fuel for more of this dreadfulness? I’m sure my capacity for nauseated revulsion has reached its peak, until Bellow groans and I realise he’s still alive and looking at me, and I find a still higher mountain revealed beyond this one. He shifts a little, all he can manage, then the boy groans too and the two other join them, and whatever flicker of hatred I had for him, whatever notion of revenge I may have entertained before is replaced with horrified compassion.
I weigh the pistol. One for the drunk, one for the dog. Now four men, and only four rounds left. I curse, but I know this to be a necessary act of mercy on my part. I cock the hammer and take aim, at Bellow. He wasn’t a good man, and mere hours long ago he would have relished killing me more or less for entertainment, but even allowing for my animosity it would be petty beyond measure to leave him for last. And—
To hell with thinking.
I shoot Bellow in the brow, emptying his skull, then do the other three in turn the same way. I cock the gun once more and see that, yes, the firing pin of the next bullet is already struck—my ammunition is expended. I drop the hammer and holster it, wondering briefly whether Bellow’s pistol is on him…but I won’t risk touching the liquid to find out, in case it still carries the ability to incapacitate. Or other eggs, unseen.
As I back out of the stall, I kick over the lamp and bend to grab it before an accident happens. Then I pause. More fire is exactly what is needed. With the lamp in hand I move deeper,
unable to ignore the other stalls for fear of attack, but only seeing the slumped forms of horses within, each sprayed, each no doubt still living and awaiting the same gruesome demise I just spared Bellow from.
At the back of the stable I find saddles and tack, harnesses for cart and plough, the various tools of horse care, and an open trapdoor to the hay loft above. I grab what I need, then hurl the lamp up through the trapdoor. I hear breaking glass and light flares immediately. I flee, not looking at the various bodies as I pass. Not a good death, but probably a better one. And hopefully an end to the things waiting to hatch from inside them.
As I emerge, bright light greets me and for a moment I imagine it’s the sunrise, but it’s not. It’s the sheriff’s building, a full blown bonfire, and I can see flames licking from the roofs of the buildings on either side, too. If I didn’t know this town was lost, the total absence of warning cries would be all the proof a man would need. No one left to form a bucket line, no one not as good as dead already, that is. Tomorrow night this place will be charcoal, and a Goddamned good thing too.
The living horse is pressed against the corral fence, as far from the dead one and the now smoking stable as it can get. It looks at me wild-eyed, but the sight of the saddle, the normality of it must calm him, because he lets me close enough to pet his nose and tack him up. He follows my lead out through the gate as the new fire starts to roar behind us.
I mount, take one last look at the flaming ruin of the town, then point the horse the other way. He needs no encouragement, but we’ve barely passed the last of the buildings when I see amber ghosts ahead of us. I drag on the reins, bring the horse to a rearing halt. They can only be townsfolk, all with their backs to us, thankfully. They walk with a swaying motion, plodding steps taking them away from the firelight to be swallowed by the dark.
The night air is cold, but my chill comes from within. This is why the town had emptied. Whether because it’s burning or simply because there’s no one else left, it is useless to them now. They’re leaving in search of fresh pastures. Spreading. They get into people, into dogs and horses too…what else? There’ll be no way to track down all of them. If just one reaches a city or infests a herd, how many more will be born? How can I possibly stop them?
I yank the reins left and kick my heels to the horse’s flanks. He shies, then drives his hooves to the ground and we race back into the burning town. He pounds the main street and the heat rolls across us from both sides. As we pass the smouldering shell of the sheriff’s office the sky beyond is beginning to brighten against the black of the horizon. The sun will be up soon.
The one chance we have is that they are only animals, whoever they might be hiding in. They can search blindly, but I know where to ride. I can try to get the word out before it’s too late, even if no one buys my story any more than they did the ones about the new science. The crazy truths of reality. Call it an infestation, sparking homicidal mania in man and beast alike. Forget what they won’t accept, just make them believe enough to do what they must.
I rest one hand on my empty gun, forlorn. I can only hope we don’t come up behind them on the road towards the dawn. All the bullets in the world may not be enough now, but it would have been nice to have just one left for me.
Then I remember the little lump in my pocket, and smile.
Andrew Leon Hudson
Andrew Leon Hudson is an Englishman living in Madrid, Spain, and 2013 is proving lucky. His first novel, The Glass Sealing, a Steampunk adventure for Musa Publishing’s shared world project, The Darkside Chronicles, will be available in all good eBookshops in time for Christmas, by which point his serialised sci-fi novella, A Harmonious World, will no doubt have already taken the internet by storm. News about all that and links to his previous writing can be found on his minimalist, pseudonymous website: andrewleonhudson.wordpress.com.
3. Military Magic
Michael Aaron
As long as Marene kept counting the dragon’s wing-beats, she could hold back the air-sickness. One, whoosh. Two, whoosh. The whole cabin lurched with each thrust, and the backward-facing seats of a military transport didn’t help.
Sitting behind her was a young woman who Marene knew as Specialist Alya. She was lithe and sinewy, with short, black hair scraped back from her face.
“What’s the matter, white-beak?” Alya said, leaning over the chair next to Marene. “Didn’t your library have a book about flying?”
Marene’s red-brown braid was coming undone, strands catching in her glasses. She pushed hair under her hood and hugged herself with gloved hands. One little spell would make them all nice and warm, but the Skipper had been clear: No magic, under any circumstances.
The wing beats stopped while the dragon banked into a steep turn. Marene looked out of the canvas cabin to see the first light of dawn over a snow-capped mountain range, and dug her hands deeper into her pockets.
Alya nudged her. “Up you get, bookworm. Skipper’s calling.”
Marene got up and teetered along the aisle. A small table was fixed between the front seats, next to which stood the Skipper. He was slim, with a dashing mane of silver hair and a moustache of the same colour. Like the others, he wore black, unmarked tactical clothes and carried a substantial backpack. A signet ring twinkled on his left thumb, a privilege reserved for nobles.
“Alya, so good of you to join us. And you’ve brought our guest! Splendid.” He gave a courtly nod. “Everybody, this is Marene. She’ll be an acting Specialist for this mission. Marene, this is Vorn…”
Vorn took a hand off a metal lockbox to wave at her. She couldn’t tell if the lines on his face were from age or battle scars, but there were a lot of them.
“Alya you know, this is—where’s Haig?”
A young man swung in through the front flap of the cabin. His hair and eyebrows were shaved, showing a spiral tattoo on his scalp. “Just checking the drop zone, Skip. Hello, Mary.”
Marene gave a weak smile. “Uh, Marene. Hello. What did you mean about a drop—”
“And that’s Derrick,” said the Skipper. “Now then. Everybody gather round, mission briefing.”
Marene couldn’t help but stare at Derrick. While the rest of the team radiated health and finely toned superiority, he was pale, almost flabby, with blotchy skin and greasy hair under a leather skullcap.
The Skipper took a scroll from his backpack and unfurled it on the table. Marene stood on her toes to see over Haig’s massive shoulders, only to see it was blank.
From a breast pocket, the Skipper took a tiny vial of clear liquid, uncorked it and let a drop fall on the paper. In seconds, lines appeared and branched out, forming a map of a large building.
“Lord MacNaven’s castle,” said the Skipper. “Otherwise known as Demonsgate, or Stonecrag’s Eye. A fine example of Tuathan architecture, and as impregnable a fortress as you could hope to find this side of the Empire. The north wall backs onto the face of Mount Lugh, and to the east, west and south are sheer cliffs, stretching to the valley floor.
“The roof is under constant guard and, like all other means of ingress, spied upon continuously by a coven of scryers under MacNaven’s employ, making a covert air approach impossible. As the King does not wish to show his hand in this endeavour, we will be going in here.” He stabbed a finger on the only route in and out. “This bridge connects the castle to the road from the valley. A local agent has bribed one of the suppliers to smuggle us in.”
Alya pointed out a cellar store. “So we’ll start off there, Skip?”
“Correct. At the beginning of First Watch, we will break cover and make our way to the main objective, which is the library, here. I anticipate little or no enemy activity on the route, but any encounters must be dealt with quickly and quietly.”
“Then what am I doing here, Skip?” Haig said. The others laughed.
The Skipper pointed out a room in the centre of the map. “Haig’s elemental powers will be needed to take out the scrying room. This will also draw atte
ntion from the roof, which is our extraction point. From there, we fly off into the sunset, job done. Questions? Excellent. For King and Empire!”
The team raised their hands in salute. “King and Empire!” they chorused. The scroll went blank and the Skipper started to roll it up. Marene held up her hand.
“Um, excuse me? I think I need another minute or two. I never was very good with maps.”
“Don’t you worry, Marene,” said the Skipper. “Just keep your head down and stay close to me. King and Empire!”
“King and Empire,” Marene said, hand half raised.
A deep, bass rumble shook the cabin. The dragon was saying something.
“That’s our cue, ladies and gentlemen!” said the Skipper. “Final kit check!”
The relaxed atmosphere disappeared. The team buzzed round the cabin, snapping things shut and tying down flaps. They lined up at the rear in tense silence.
“Are we landing? Won’t someone see the dragonbreath?” Marene was no expert, but she knew the creatures always blew enormous gouts of flame when they landed, something about gases and lift.
The Skipper raised an eyebrow. “You are exactly right, my dear girl, which is why we must make our own way downward. Have you ever used a potion of instantaneous velocity cancellation before?”
“A potion of what?”
He handed her a little bottle. “Frightfully expensive and very short-lived. Use it just before you hit the ground.”
Another rumble coursed through the cabin. “Off we go!” shouted the Skipper. At the front of the line, Vorn lifted the flap. In the dim light, the long tail of the giant beast could just be seen. The old soldier stepped through and jumped off. Haig followed, then Derrick.
Alya was next. She turned to Marene and waved. “See you soon, bookworm! Don’t worry—the potion almost never fails!” She jumped off the scaly flank, leaving Marene and the Skipper in an eerie silence.
Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate Page 5