Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  Rose barely noticed.

  She advanced on Palmer, hand outstretched. She grabbed the slippery, foreign Rage in its body and Twisted so hard one of the tentacles exploded in a cloud of meat. It staggered backwards over the wrought-iron fence encircling the park grounds. It stood, struggling to turn towards Rose, to feed on her, that bright star of hate blazing in its mindless vision.

  Rose tore at it with sorrow. With fear. And then with everything else in her numb, shocked, deranged body—every horrible, detached, and ugly feeling of loss she had. The thing reeled under the feast of feelings, mutating further, growing new limbs.

  Die, die, die—DIE!

  She was trying to choke it on her emotions, force-feed it until it shredded apart. But the Host’s hunger was bigger than her, and stronger. The emptiness where Palmer’s soul had been was endless, and full of a ravenous void.

  It rallied, it rose to full height… and it grew.

  CHAPTER 17

  GUS STRUGGLED back to consciousness through a fever-dream of falling coins. In the dream, the coins stuck to his skin. Then they started melting at him, burning, dissolving him. He had to get them off!

  “Gah!” He burst awake oddly refreshed, despite the wooden beam currently resting on his face. It had been weeks since he’d slept—weeks of crouching over money, counting it, stacking it. Lounging on it. He hadn’t told any of the boys, but lately he’d been making a nest of hundred-dollar bills. It just felt natural, now. Money needed to be arranged, organized. Protected.

  Of course, it wasn’t just his money in danger tonight. That thing had nearly killed him! That was unacceptable. He couldn’t make money if he was dead. How was he supposed to make a profit, stuck in a coffin somewhere?

  Christ, what a fuck-up. He hadn’t meant for Frank to kill that skinny black guy—this was what happened when you outsourced jobs to other people. That goddamn Irish idiot had set Rose against him, just when she was warming up to his plan.

  Alright, enough bitching. Pull yourself together. He was underneath the wreckage of a crumbled structure: the remains of the bandstand. He could see out from under the mess, just barely. A homeless tramp stared at him from a park bench.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Gus. “You got a dime?”

  The vagrant fled in horror, screaming.

  Of course, he thought. The scales. Everyone’s a critic.

  He placed his hands against the column pinning him, and pushed. The strength that had come to him earlier was gone, It was obvious he no longer owned this town, was no longer master of it, and that seemed to reduce his power. Money was power. He was power. Or… at least he had been. Now, he wasn’t sure.

  He finally managed to push the beam off him, rising in a cloud of tumbling dust. Gus tossed away his big coat, noting with annoyance his vest of Benjamins was shredded. Ah, well. He had more Benjamins where those came from.

  He peered across the Common. Rose was doing something to the spider-thing, holding her arms out and screaming at it. The big fucker wasn’t attacking her… but it was getting bigger, fast. He could see limbs growing longer and more hideous, more maddening to look at.

  He licked his fangs, tasting blood. “Well… That’s bad.”

  Clearly, he had work to do. It was time to get back on top. If he could get to the trucks, get out some guns—

  Take the girl. Take her far away to our lair, and add her to our hoard!

  “Huh?”

  He spun round, massive feet scraping up clumps of sod. His pinstripe trousers were stained and shredded; he’d have to replace those, too.

  Take her! And kill any fools who come for her! You are the Wyrm, the Serpent of Old—

  “Aw, come on.” He lit a cigar, one of the few that had survived his fall. “Rose is my buddy. I did wrong by her. We gotta fix this. C’mon, spooky voice—you know the score here.”

  It paused, seeming incredulous.

  You are a fool, Gus Henderson. You could own this earth, and all the mortals on it. You could own the entire world, if you but stretched out your hand—

  “Eh, I’d be okay with just Southie.”

  Fool! Madman!

  “Yeah… yeah, I guess so.” He sighed. “But… I’d rather be crazy, than an asshole.”

  He began stomping toward the Host, ready to take back his last friend on earth. Assuming she’d let him.

  CHAPTER 18

  ROSE WAS weakening.

  She’d poured everything she had into the God-Host, struggling to crush it under the weight of her anger, but it just kept eating—and growing. It was pushing forty feet, now, with more legs than ever. Its offspring were entering the Common, drawn by the light of their battle.

  Lucas, baby.

  You can’t go.

  Memories hit her in waves. Burning houses in Florida—rooftops crumbling, collapsing.

  You can’t leave me like everyone else.

  The Host reached one winding tentacle towards her. She was on her knees, arms outstretched, the last of her Grief pouring out of her.

  Maybe this was meant to be, she thought. Her strange, sad life would meet a strange, sad end, and no one would weep for the crazy colored girl who loved to run and drive and do all the things women shouldn’t do. She didn’t want to live without Lucas, without the one person who’d made her feel something—anything. There was no point in fighting on without him, in this bloodbath of a city. So she lowered her arms, and stopped Twisting. And she waited.

  When death didn’t come, she raised her head.

  Gus was standing over her, gripping the twisting tendril of muscle with both hands. Absurdly, there was a lit cigar in his mouth.

  He looked different—smaller, somehow. There were scales missing from his face, pink patches of skin showing through the holes. His eyes were still cold… but she saw feeling there, fear and sullen rage. Whatever was happening to him, pieces of the old Gus were showing through.

  But there were downsides to that. Instead of the effortless violence he’d shown earlier, now he was struggling to keep the God-Host away from her, its feelers playing over his snout. He staggered as it pressed down on him, knees buckling.

  “Rose,” he said, “Get outta here.”

  “Gus—”

  “I didn’t mean to kill the guy, okay?” He was forced back several feet as the Host threw its weight behind the arm; at the tip of it, a mouth like a leech opened and rasped at him, seeking succor. “I didn’t mean any of this. Christ, I just wanted to make a few bucks.” The cigar fell from his lips, rolling into the street. “It got outta hand. I’m sorry.”

  She tried to focus, tried to think, but all that came out was more spite and bitterness. “You know I can’t forgive you.”

  He sighed as wet, gray tentacles probed his eyes and mouth. “Yeah. I… I know.”

  There was a brittle crunching sound: Gus’ scales were falling off. Piece by piece, they tumbled to the ground, as if every moment of their conversation was destroying him. He was falling apart, from the inside out. Every second not devoted to profit made the Greed protecting him weaker.

  The Host swung an arm around at Rose, and Gus barely caught it, his claws cracking as he sunk them into the thing’s rubbery flesh.

  “Dammit! If you’re not gonna go, at least give me a hand!”

  She shook her head. “Just let it happen..”

  “Oh, for God’s—” A tentacle slid around his neck, threatening to choke him. “This thing’s not gonna stop after just killin’ you! Your neighbors, your landlord, your fuckin’ milkman—this thing’s going to Drain all of them! You’re the bleeding heart here. Act like it, dammit!”

  “I…” She was coming back from the brink, bit by bit. Each time she looked at Lucas she felt cold, afraid of a future where his dead face lived behind her closed eyelids… Yet, there was a certain sanity in fear.

  And she wasn’t just afraid—she was furious. At Gus, at the whole city. She hated them, detested her world for its selfishness and violence… but they didn’t deserve to d
ie like this. She didn’t get to sentence them to being Drained and devoured. That wasn’t her place.

  If the people in this city were to die, they would have to dig their own graves. She wasn’t doing it for them.

  Rose stood up, her fists clenched.

  “Gus. The pendant. What happened to my pendant?”

  He blinked. “The what?”

  “The necklace! The one you took off me when I—”

  “My coat. Front pocket! It’s in the gazebo!”

  She stood, then hurled herself away as one of the Host’s limbs smashed the ground where she’d been. It was mad with hunger, and Gus couldn’t hold it back much longer. Not after she’d pumped all those horrible feelings into it.

  She ran like the devil, sprinting over footpaths and manicured grass. There was a growl of frustration, and then a yell that dimished into distance as Gus was hurled away. Clearly, the thing had grown bored with him—it wanted fresh meat.

  She darted around trees, and past abandoned carriages and walking-sticks. She was almost at the bandstand wreck when something knocked her over.

  “KILL!”

  It was one of the Myths she’d made, in her moment of unleashed rage. The thing’s suit was shredded by red spines and razor claws, but it vaguely looked like Jim Wallace, now the last of the Wallace clan. It grabbed her leg, cackling.

  She tried to focus and Twist it, but a heavy blow landed on her chest, slamming her down and shattering her concentration. A white burst of pain bloomed inside her chest—the thing had cracked her rib. She gasped with agony, struggling to get away.

  The monster’s gun had fallen to the ground, a shiny new Winchester pistol. She picked it up, and for the first time in her life, Rose shot with the intent to kill.

  It was a good shot—right between the eyes. But unluckily for her, the Myth she’d made was too resilient. The bullet bounced off its armored forehead, and a forked tongue flickered over its lips.

  “Kill,” it hissed. “Kill, kill, kill—”

  The God-Host smacked the Myth off her like an insect. She pulled herself up as the monster tore into its brethren; she had no doubt who would win that fight. Palmer was too strong, too bloated with hate to go down. Even now, she felt fresh grief welling to the surface of her.

  They took him away from me. This… thing took him away from me.

  I have to kill it.

  I have to kill Palmer.

  Her chest burned, broken rib screaming at her to stop moving. The pain helped. It focused her. She crawled toward the bandstand ruins, digging at the rubble. The hammering footfalls of the God-Host shook the ground underneath her.

  There was that awful vest of Benjamins, lying shredded in the dirt. She dug through it, seeking the Mystery… and something seized her around her waist, heaving her into the air. She clutched at the coat, knowing her last chance to survive was inside it.

  The necklace—there it was. Slipping out of the jacket, into the air. Her bloodsoaked fingers caught it just in time. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Palmer.

  Except “face” was no longer accurate. Palmer’s wrinkled features and white beard flowed upward in a reverse-pyramid of flesh and carrion to the enormous, lumbering thing sprouting from his poisoned mind. His not-eyes burrowed into her, and it was like gazing into a time before mankind: full of black, thoughtless, joyless silence. Everything without a soul lived there, rageful and full of fear, with no remorse. Palmer’s mouth began to move.

  “Dear, there’s been a bombing. Don’t go downstairs. The police will see to it... Don’t cry, my dear. There’s been a bombing. Don’t go downstairs…”

  She paused. It was so easy to believe there was something left in there, that he could be saved. But two smaller arms sprouted from his chest, and moved towards her, pincers emerging from them—snapping, clicking. He would rip her apart to get at any scrap of feeling. The god-thing in front of her could not be pitied, or loved, or even hated. Whatever had made him human was gone.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and snapped the chain, pressing the charm against Palmer’s forehead. It seemed to stick there, half-swallowed by the folds of flesh above his eyes. She withdrew her hand as chitinous, bony claws began stripping away her overalls, tugging at the fabric. Ready to dissect her, in order to get at the Humours within.

  But the moment the pendant touched the thing, that emptiness she felt disappeared. The God-Host was obsessed, mindlessly so, and the amulet began to pulse, absorbing the obsession.

  The limbs around her shrank and withered. The pincers dropped Rose, and she tumbled to the ground, landing on her side. The grass broke her fall, but the impact of having her rib smashed into the earth made her gasp … and pass out from sheer agony. She wandered in and out of consciousness, with pain as her only companion.

  Overhead, the Host took a few staggering steps… and then it fell. Palmer’s body crawled several feet, tree-trunk spider legs retracting, growing flaccid and tiny. Soon the mighty God-Host was just another Drained: a sinful victim of distillery use, indistinguishable from the rest. He slumped against a tree, scooped-out sockets staring straight ahead, and spoke no more.

  In the distance, sirens began to howl. Police were sweeping the city, taking back the streets. The cavalry had mustered their courage, and were learning to handle the enemy. Kill-squads with Thompsons worked their way through Boston, mowing down Drained or clubbing them into submission. With their creator gone, they offered little resistance.

  None of it mattered. For a lot of Boston, and Lucas Harvey especially, the cavalry had come too late.

  CHAPTER 19

  IF THAT creature had pitched for the Sox, Gus thought, they would’ve never needed Babe Ruth in the first place.

  It had plucked him like a rag-doll and flung him over entire rooftops, over the city itself. He spun through the North End, bouncing off several buildings—protected, for now, by his remaining scales—and skidded into Boston Harbor. He splashed down on a bed of kelp, laying there stunned, in pain… and really pissed off.

  The Harbor water tasted of piss and salt. Which, given that the city’s sewage drained into it, seemed about right.

  He began to tread water, feeling his humanity inch back into him. It was a good feeling, but uncomfortable. For the first time in weeks, he felt sensations through the scales: the water around him was freezing, seeping into cracks in his armor. Scales popped off and drifted to the seafloor. Razor teeth fell from his mouth, bones cracking and shifting as his frame receded. His whole body hurt like a bitch, which he’d expected after being thrown across town. But at least that weird faraway voice was fading.

  Henderson…

  He was nowhere near Rose, nowhere near the action, and he’d lost his enormous shape. He paddled up to the pier, noting it was the same stretch of dock where they’d done the grab job. Way back, on that night when Mick got stabbed.

  Small city, he thought.

  A Drained man staggered by, out of the mist… then doubled over. It vomited several strips of wriggling flesh into the water, and Gus pulled away, unsettled. The eyeless man flopped to the pier, shivering… and then sat up, staring blankly in that eerie way Drained people had. Whatever had happened to it, it was no longer “hungry.”

  Well… uh, I guess that’s over, then.

  He regarded the man, a young laborer in overalls whose life had been stolen by forces beyond his control. He would never marry, never hold office, never gamble in a blind pig after midnight—but that was probably for the best. Gambling was a sin, and all that.

  He pulled himself up onto the docks, sitting next to the Drained guy. Unsure what to do, he stared out at the sea, where a dull glow lit the tugs and schooners. It was dawn, and the usual forces of logic and authority were creeping back to Boston.

  The coming storm was clear: the Army would be back, and likely would lock down the city again. The Family and Solomon, whom he hadn’t seen for months, would come out of their holes and start gunning for him. And their heist
had gone sideways, with his trucks and loot left sitting on Tremont… after that moment of weakness, with Rose. It was unlikely he could get to a safehouse, either, without a car or a single dime to buy a subway ticket.

  Damn it, Rose. I really had it made here. We could’ve lived like kings.

  Now that the emergency was over, he assumed their little alliance was ended, too. He’d killed Rose’s lover—on purpose or not, it was something she would never forgive. She’d probably never speak to him again.

  Maybe… maybe it’s time to go.

  Why not? With the Drained attack over, Rose was probably safe. Or… safe-ish. No further shots or howls rang from the Common, and he could hear plenty of sirens. Sure, she would be fine. The heroic forces of justice were here, to take back the town. Yee-haw, remember the Alamo, and other such bullshit.

  Besides… there was money to be made, beyond the city. His vast financial empire was spread out, and there would be pockets of it all over Massachusetts. He’d had cash stashed in obscure places, bought stocks in a number of companies. If he liquidated a few assets… he could get back on his feet again. Consolidate power.

  At the thought of it, his brittle claws hardened.

  Muffled cursed sounded from down the docks. Without a real plan, he approached the sound. He was losing his teeth quickly, now: whatever had kept the Greed in control was gone. That strange voice called him again, from the depths of his mind.

  Gus Henderson, you fool… You can’t keep me down forever!

  He shrugged off the mental tirade, and walked up to the tiny woman he saw working ropes, next to a skimmer. Coast Guard lights were cutting through the fog, racing up the Charles; whoever this woman was, she didn’t look happy to see them.