The Umbral Wake

by Martin Kee

  “A plague broke out… or that’s the best way to describe it. Some say it was a serial killer, but I’m not certain I agree with that either. But that’s beside the point. People died, brutally. Cleaved in half. Some who witnessed the deaths said that it was as if the body had simply failed to hold together, fallen apart. Arms and legs would simply fall away, bloodless. Entire rooms were discovered with limbs stacked like cordwood.”

  “Was the killer ever caught?”

  Another pause and Scribble imagined the man smiling. “That’s a story for another time. But your Reverend used the opportunity to unite all the factions. He’s considered a great man to some. But it wasn’t until after nearly a third of the population was culled.”

  “That sounds awful,” said Harold.

  There was the clink of ice again, another pause. “You’ve lost much, Harold.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have sir,” said Harold.

  “So the girl? The mute? Are they intended to fill that deficit?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you think that by saving them, you are somehow saving your daughter, the one murdered by The Church?”

  Ice swirled in glass and whiskey. “I couldn’t let her die.”

  “I suppose not. But it won’t bring your Melissa back either.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. As long as we are both on the same page.” There came the sound of bodies shifting in leather chairs. “Because understand me now, Harold. No matter what you think you’ve lost up until this point, you have no idea what life is capable of taking from you.”

  “But the girl… Gil. She’s…”

  “She’s past the worst of it. She’ll be just fine.” A pause. “It’s funny, you know. Her name on record is Gillian Kastner, a soft G, yet she went by Gil, a boy’s name. Safer to be a boy than a girl in this city. Children are as adaptable as they are cruel sometimes.”

  “That bath… the vat.”

  “It’s stolen,” Felton said. “Technology from a lost age, much like Quentin. I’ve used it. You might want to consider it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Now, don’t judge, Harold. It’s good for you. Heals and rejuvenates. You’d never guess how old I am.”

  A pause. “Sixty…”

  “Eighty seven.”

  “That’s… remarkable,” said Harold. “Does it… regrow…”

  “Limbs? Sadly no. But I think we’ve done a fine job.”

  More ice in glass. “Speaking of losing things…”

  There was the sound of glasses being clinked together, a toast.

  “To the survivors, Harold.”

  “To the survivors.”

  Scribble backed away from the stairwell, turning instead to the noises coming from the far end of the hall. Doors lined the walls. Were all these rooms for different people? How many people lived in this mansion? It couldn’t be for just one man. If this were the hideout, a dozen boys could fit into each room with space for dice games in the middle.

  The ticking sound came from the far door. He must have been hearing it in his sleep, dreamt about it—a gentle, whir-click, whir, the gurgle of bubbles. It sounded like a person drinking the last of a beverage through a straw. And there was murmuring. He stopped at the door, the sounds muted from inside. Holding the knob with both hands, Scribble opened it and stepped inside.

  A six-foot aquarium sat glowing at the center of the floor. Inside swam ocean creatures obscured by a film on the glass. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he realized the light wasn’t coming from the fish tank itself, but from the machines lining the wall behind it. They glowed with strange symbols and flashing lights. Most were words he didn’t know.

  As his naked feet crossed the floor, Scribble found the source of the bubbles. Several thin rubber tubes ran from conduits in the wall to the fish tank. Others fed fluid into the sides. A large sea anemone drifted at one end, its tentacles flowing in wisps, its base growing from a large rock at the center of the aquarium. As his eyes traveled down the marbled base, the hairs on his neck began to prickle. This was not a rock.

  It was long and burned, fleshy, ending in a tiny hand, a girl’s hand, one finger ending in a nub. The anemone swirled as the hoses gurgled. An eye opened, and Scribble took a step back towards the door. His heart leapt into his throat, hammering in his ears.

  He was only barely aware of a figure moving through the shadows behind him, the sound of leather creaking. The ticking grew louder. But it was impossible to look away as the sea creature became something else entirely. His throat worked soundlessly, struggling with impossible reactions, as the anemone turned in its tank.

  A second eye, white as milk opened, staring blindly through the churning liquid. A hand made of pressure tubes and metal cogs, reached across her bare body, fingers ending in small rubber pads. They pressed against the glass leaving imprints, a parody of waving. The sea creature lurched to the surface, breaching its tank. The largest tube went slurp as the girl sat up, her wet hair pressed flat against porcelain skin. She smiled, and Scribble felt the floor drop out from beneath him.

  That’s not skin at all, he thought, as a gloved hand covered his mouth.

  Chapter 46

  Bollingbrook

  DONA HAD PLENTY of time to think as the words bounced over and over in her head.

  “…just because it worked on Melissa…”

  In her mind, Dona stood in a timeless place, free of the reality that demanded her attention through bruises and cuts. She found herself floating above the St. Anthony’s schoolyard, that schoolyard where everything changed. And there was Skyla, stepping through the fence, looking at a younger Dona, looking at a younger Victoria, Melissa and Beth. The twerp froze, standing there, looking at the gang of young girls, their hair in ribbons, their faces filled with brutal anticipation. Skyla’s face was resigned that day. She knew what she was in for.

  And Dona saw herself there, three years younger, a thick girl, muscular from all the years of taking out her aggression on a grass field. There stood Vicky, those pliers in her hand. The only face that wasn’t unreadable was Melissa’s. Her gaze shifted, guilty over the role she was about to play. Melissa would always be young, Dona thought. She would never see thirteen.

  Dona watched herself grab Skyla by the hair, tangling those curls in her fist. She saw Vicky flash those pliers so gleefully, saw the fear and in the twerp’s eyes.

  Vicky was always this cruel, she realized. I just never noticed until now.

  Beth moved around behind Skyla, blocking the missing board in the fence—not that the twerp could have gotten far.

  All of them stood frozen in time, statues celebrating the act of youthful cruelty.

  All this because an eleven year old girl said some stupid things to the wrong people.

  A raven hovered in the air, its wings wide, swooping in on Dona’s face. The young Dona didn’t even see it.

  Dona blinked and the scene vanished like a sandcastle in the tide. She knew how this panned out already. Melissa talked her down, Skyla broke her nerve (Where’d he hit you this time?) and then that bird was in her face. Dona still hated birds to this day.

  In some dark and pleasant way, it was nice to lose herself in this childhood image, as unsavory as it was. Things had been so simple then, before they all had to play these grownup games.

  A new image grew in the old memory’s place. She stood at the chapel steps of the school. It was later, much later, and rain had begun to drizzle. They hadn’t seen the twerp all day, though now Dona suspected she might have been inside the church still. They had scared the hell out of her, that much was certain. Though now Dona thought that it might have been Vicky that did the scaring more than she ever could.

  All this time I thought I was the leader, she thought. And it was Vicky. It was always Vicky.

  “I don’t know where she is!” Vicky said from the steps. Dona knew she wasn’t talking about the twerp. She meant Melissa.

  Victoria hugged herself in th
e dampness, her eyes wet and red with worry. Neither of the girls was dressed for this weather, or to be out this late. They should have been in their homes, in front of a fire, reading Vicky’s stupid romance novels. But they were missing Melissa.

  “Did you check behind the fence?” Dona asked her.

  “I did. Twice,” Victoria glanced that way.

  Dona followed her gaze. Melissa had taken post at the fence, ready to grab the twerp when she finally thought it was safe to go home.

  “I’ll check,” Dona said. She started to walk that direction, but Victoria grabbed her arm.

  “I told you I already did.”

  “Maybe she went home then,” Dona said, her hair clinging to her neck. “Let’s just go. The twerp isn’t going to show.”

  She saw now how Victoria had lied, the way her eyes shifted. She had honed her craft over the years. But reliving it now, it was so obvious.

  Dona heard noises then, a man’s voice from beyond the schoolyard, a girl’s reply—

  “Melissa wouldn’t go home,” Victoria said, her voice raising a pitch, drowning out the distant conversation from beyond the fence. “She wanted to get away, remember? Let’s check the front steps again.”

  Time froze again as Dona focused in on the conversation, how perfectly scripted everything had been. She watched with dismay as her younger self paused, and nodded.

  “Yeah, I remember.” Young Dona shrugged, shivering from the rain. “I’m sure she’ll have an excuse when we see her tomorrow.”

  And was that a struggle behind the fence? Or was it just her imagination? She heard scuffling, the sound of dragging shoes. But Victoria didn’t react. She held Dona in those large blue eyes.

  I could have saved her. I could have saved Melissa’s life.

  You couldn’t know. You were just a kid.

  I’m still just a kid. I’m just an older kid now… or maybe this is what it feels like to lose what kid is left in you.

  The memory faded, replaced by slick brick and cold metal bars. She sat in her cell. Dona blinked, listening to the whispers, the voices. Something was wrong. A gunshot made her jump. It was distant, from outside the walls, followed by yelling.

  Overhead the lights flickered a moment before something louder and deeper than a gunshot made her look up. Dust fell from the ceiling. The ground heaved. Something had exploded outside the sanitarium. Dona got to her feet and ran to the cell door.

  Her neighbors gripped their bars as well. Hands, filthy and raw, emerged from cells along the wall. One of the corridor lights flickered out and the chemical bulb smashed onto the floor. For a moment it seemed to Dona as though that entire cellblock were cast into deep space. There was no floor, no ceiling, no cells. Nothing but void.

  “Somebody let me out!” a man from behind bars called. “Let me out! It’s in here with me now! It knows my name!”

  She heard the shuffle of something not feet, not shoes—not human. Claws. Nails dragged across concrete.

  “Let me out—” The voice rose and ended with a shriek, the hands retreated into darkness. Dona pressed her head to the bars to see, but couldn’t. Another inmate began ranting, pounding fists against the bars. A loud gurgle spilled up from the cell. Blood seeped from beneath the bars, black in the half-light. It pooled in the center of the corridor.

  “Let me out! Oh for Christ’s sake!” another screamed.

  “Please! I’m sorry. So sorry!”

  Others laughed. One inmate sang, “It’s here! It’s here! It’s here here here!”

  Dona heard clapping—silenced suddenly by the sound of tearing cloth. Other inmates began to cry out, their voices systematically silenced one by one. The silence moved in her direction and Dona backed away from her cell door.

  The jingle of keys, urgent voices, guard boots—these things broke the silence from the opposite hallway. A heavy door opened and Victoria entered, followed by Gareth, wearing a gray and black uniform. His executioner’s mask was gone and Dona saw that he was quite handsome, his face almost innocent in its cherubic roundness. His eyes were no longer indifferent, but worried. Sandy hair fell over one eye.

  Victoria marched along the concrete, ignoring the grasping hands. Her hair had been pulled back in a severe ponytail. Blue eyes, full of concern, found Dona.

  “Mind the shadows,” she said as Gareth pulled a windup torch from his belt. He aimed it at the darkened corners, and for a moment Dona saw something standing there. Some spidery figure leaped away, part of it dissolving in ash.

  Keys clanged in the cell door and Victoria looked directly into Dona’s eyes. “Can I trust you to follow me?”

  “Vicky, what’s going on?”

  “Can I trust you?”

  Dona glanced at the cell doors. Another pair of hands vanished into the darkness. There was a wet crunch. “Yes.” She looked back at Victoria. “Yes, you can.”

  “Because we don’t have any time for formalities,” Victoria said. “Follow me and don’t say a word. Gareth will protect us, but only if you do exactly as I say.”

  They walked through cones of light towards the exit, through the door, down the stairs. Dona glanced at the floors as they descended to street level. Frightened eyes looked back from cages, doomed and resigned.

  A heavy iron door slammed behind them and they were greeted with silence in the lobby. The receptionist’s desk sat unoccupied, a BOLLINGBROOK SANITARIUM sign hanging against the back wall, its bronze letters spattered with blood.

  “Vicky, what’s going on?”

  “Not now,” she snapped, turning to Gareth. “You get the boy?”

  Gareth nodded at the front doors. He pointed up. “Lights flickering.” Dona realized that it was the first thing she had ever heard the torturer say.

  Vicky grabbed her hand and led her out the door into blinding light. Guards stood along the walkway holding chemical torches. The two girls ran down the stairs toward the parked carriage at the end of the yard, in what felt to Dona like some bizarre marriage ceremony. Somewhere in her mind she heard organs playing and laughed. From over the sanitarium wall, Dona heard screams, and shrieks. Confused voices shouted orders. Gunshots rang out. Pop! Pop! The sound of confetti firecrackers. More boots scuttled through darkness.

  “Idiots,” Victoria muttered. “The archbishop told them bullets didn’t matter. I guess men rarely listen when scared.”

  They reached the car, but Dona stopped “Vicky, tell me now. What’s going on?”

  “Get in the car, Dona.”

  “Don’t make me hit you for the truth,” Dona said. “Now tell me.”

  Victoria nodded to Gareth and Dona felt his huge hands on her shoulders. Her feet left the ground. Victoria opened the door and Gareth tossed Dona into the back seat. She landed with an Oof! and felt herself butt up against someone. It was too dark to see who it was.

  Doors slammed and the carriage lurched with Gareth at the wheel. He reached forward and pulled the light switch. Dual cones flooded the lawn before them as Gareth turned down the driveway and out onto the street. Dona’s hand went to her open mouth. The city was under attack.

  Citizens scurried in pairs, in threes and fours, stopping only to look behind them, or to change course as they paused before an alley or at the shadow of an awning. At first, Dona couldn’t see what they were running from, the pursuers lost in the shadows. Not until she saw movement did Dona realize it was the shadows.

  A window shattered from the fifth floor of a nearby house, the glass raining down over a fleeing couple. Shadows burst from the hole, tumbling to the pavement and lurching across the street like tar-covered rabbits. Black shapes turned abruptly toward the pair. One flung itself at the woman’s chest. Her friend, or lover, or maybe even her husband, reached to grab it, to pull it off. He shrieked, backing away, his arms ending in stumps. The woman, meanwhile, continued to flail, a blind dance of agony and panic. She spun before falling to the pavement, the black mass pulsing along her body.

  Dona was floating, her world undone
. A dreamlike, moving mural of horrors slid by the carriage as it rolled through the city. People ran. They held hands and crosses up to ward off unseen attackers. People fell to pieces like broken pottery. Arms fell out of sleeves. Legs fell out of pants. Bodies crumbled. People chased the carriage, reaching for Dona even as they were pulled into alleys by living black ropes of tar.

  A platoon of soldiers set up a tripod and placed a light at the top. They wound the crank and a cone of white light lit up a nearby alley. Shadows squirmed and retreated beneath dumpsters and crates. One soldier spun as a shadow fell across his back. He twisted on his heel, a seam opened along his body. He fell to the pavement—a bag of meat in a uniform.

  My mind is gone. Dona tried to locate the point in time where she had truly gone crazy. Was it in the torture room? Was it losing Tom? Or had it been even earlier? Had she lost her mind in the schoolyard? It was the only explanation for what was happening around her now.

  The carriage hit a bump and the world snapped into focus, sharp lines and clear textures. Dona spun to look out the rear glass. They had run over a woman. She rolled in the street as darkness descended on her like a swarm of ants. More soldiers fired shots into the shadows, and shapeless monsters recoiled, only to lash out, cleaving them in two.

  The figure beside her didn’t move. Her seating partner stared straight ahead as the carriage lurched and swerved. Headlamps sliced through living shadows as they rolled.

  “What was that?” Dona asked, clutching the seat in front of her. “Vicky, tell me.”

  “A little busy,” Victoria said. She held up a torch and shined the cone of light against her window. Something peeled away from the glass. It crumbled in the wind.

  “Tell me!” Dona shouted.

  Vicky turned around in her seat, glaring. “We’re being invaded. It’s an outbreak, just like before the Dark Ages, Dona. They’ve pretty much taken the city.”