Midnight Diner 3

by Edoardo Albert

  "Well, Colonel," he said, twisting his chafed wrists in their bonds. "That mountainside’s a near impossible climb as it is. How do you propose to get me up there with my hands tied?"

  Haywood’s gold tooth gleamed in the flickering firelight. "I’m gonna untie you, and you’re gonna climb. Isn’t that how you got to the pyramid last time?"

  Croaker dodged that question. "You going to have me in front of you, or behind?" Apparently, the colonel could eat around his plug of tobacco as easily as he could talk around

  it; he spat a juicy wad around a hunk of hardtack before he answered. "In front, where I can shoot you if I need to."

  Croaker felt his eyebrows knit together. "Aren’t you worried that I’ll drop something on you, or knock you off the mountainside?"

  Haywood treated his captive to an evil leer. "You want me to tell you why you ain’t going to do that, Lieutenant? You’re a doubly wanted man, that’s why."

  Croaker’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing.

  "I left behind some letters in Roanoke that’ll implicate you in killing both me and the detective. They’ll get mailed next month if I don’t go fetch ‘em. You know how bad the Pinkertons will want to get a hold of the miserable coward that gunned down one of their own?"

  He bit off another hunk of jerky and continued talking around the brown mess in his mouth. "You reckon they’ll turn you in for the bounty, or take care of you themselves? Or maybe the Army’ll get you first. They’d have you court-martialed and hung before the day is out."

  Croaker’s gut felt like it had been weighted with lead. The Colonel had him there. He was going to have to go back, stand staring at the hideous faces carved into the pyramid’s stones once more, breathing in the primeval malice of the place. And this time, the Colonel was going to make him go into that corrupt and brooding structure at gunpoint, looking for gold.

  Croaker sighed. It would almost be better to take a bullet now. But the idea of letting Colonel Haywood have that pleasure was a stew he couldn’t stomach. Besides, Croaker still had one trick left up his sleeve. It wasn’t one he relished using, but it seemed like things were stacking up in a way that made it necessary.

  "I reckon they would," he said finally. He kneeled at the edge of the waterfall pool, put his bound hands into the churning foam and scooped himself a drink of the clear cold water.

  Haywood grinned and nodded at Croaker. "Foresight. That’s a trait I like to nurture in my junior officers," he said. "Now let’s get you situated for the night."

  He stepped close enough that Croaker could smell the last two week’s worth of sweat on the man. He was probably about as ripe himself. Croaker said, "Colonel, I think I’d like to wash up some first. We’ve been bivouacking all over Creation for the last week or so, and I could use a dip." The Colonel looked confused for a minute, then sniffed the air. "Got another good week before it gets bad. But hell, Lieutenant, never let it be said that Colonel Norbert Haywood didn’t look out for his subordinates. Take you a dip, if you want."

  "Thank you, Colonel." Croaker held his wrists up to Haywood, turning them so that the knotted hemp ropes were accessible. "Want to cut me loose, or would you rather help me get stripped?"

  Disgust boiled across the Colonel’s face. He pulled his pistol out and aimed it at Croaker, then fished a small horn-handled pocketknife from a shirt pocket. He tossed the little blade into Croaker’s hands. "I ain’t stripping you. Cut the ropes your own self then throw back my knife." He squinted at Croaker suspiciously. "And don’t try anything funny, either, or you’ll spend the rest of the night hogtied. I guarantee it."

  Croaker smiled his most innocent smile, working the pocket knife’s blade out as best he could with a thumbnail. With a little effort, he had cut the rope from his hands, palmed shut the blade and made to begin unbuttoning his jacket.

  "I said no funny stuff." Colonel Haywood shook the gun’s muzzle at Croaker. "Give back that knife right now."

  Croaker jerked his head back a little in surprise. "I wasn’t trying anything, Colonel. I was going to leave it on top of my clothes."

  Haywood chortled. "You must think I’m a fool, Lieutenant. Now don’t get on my bad side.

  Toss it here, right now."

  Croaker obliged, sent the pocketknife whirling through the air to land just behind the colonel’s left foot. Haywood took a step back, scowling at Croaker.

  "Now get yourself wet and get out," he said, slowly reaching down to pick up the knife. The end of his gun wavered as he groped for the blade.

  Croaker saw his chance. "Now that I think of it, my clothes could use washing too," he said, then dove headfirst into the bitterly cold pool.

  He heard Haywood’s shot peal out, sounding dull and almost ponderous from beneath the water. It went wide, and Croaker could hear the colonel cursing him as he swam for the noisy wall of white water at the foot of the cascade.

  Another shot, this one close enough to hear as it buzzed by. Croaker’s lungs strained till they were fit to pop, then he surfaced, drank a bucketful of sweet air and ducked under again. For the short moment his head was above water, he heard Haywood shouting after him, thundering loud enough to be heard over the rush of falling water. A third bullet zipped through the water, then Croaker was beneath the waterfall, pulling his body through the frenzied turbulence with a series of brisk strokes.

  The frigid torrent battered his body as he passed beneath it. A million ice needles pricked his skin, even as his lungs ached for air. He could see the blackness of the hidden cave just a few feet above him. The chill water bit into him like a rabid thing; he wanted nothing more than to escape its frosty maw. The Way of Cold Teeth, indeed, he thought, breaking the surface.

  His clothes were heavy and dripping as he clambered to the black-sanded shore of the inner lake. He lay on his back, chest heaving, sucking up great mouthfuls of air tainted by the ancient pyramid that loomed somewhere in the blackness behind him.

  The light in the cave was sparse, and it had an odd, refracted quality about it. The outer wall of this expansive cavern had been purposely slotted—Croaker shuddered to think by whom—in random places to let in skewed pillars of light, some of them stained green by the plant cover outside. Other slots appeared to be directly behind the cascade; shiny rivulets of water detoured down the stony interior wall, eventually reaching their final destination in the black pool from which Croaker had just emerged.

  If Haywood was still following, his pistol was probably useless by now. There hadn’t been any further shots, so maybe Haywood had figured out that Croaker had been lying all along about the pyramid being atop the mountain and was getting prepared even now to follow his quarry. With any luck, the colonel wouldn’t have anything suitable on hand to waterproof his pistol and ammunition.

  Croaker took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he did. The one place in this world I never wanted to see again. Why, oh, why Lord did you drag me here? He rolled over and stared into the gloom. Shafts of green and gray light settled uneasily on the ancient structure. From this distance, he couldn’t make out the hundreds of wretched faces that adorned the pyramid.

  But he knew they were there, glowering at him from every malformed stone.

  ~

  Unsure of the lead he had on Colonel Haywood, Croaker staggered to his feet and moved toward the pyramid. When he was here last, he had circled the entire structure looking in vain for another entrance. Not only was there no obvious way in, but he had discovered that the cavern itself had no adjoining passages or chambers. The granite walls were impossibly smooth and featureless and none came closer than a dozen feet to the ancient pyramid.

  And the pyramid itself: stepped layers of black stone and outlandish faces that rose to a point just a little shy of the cavern roof. It looked to Croaker like the ceiling was shrinking away from the pyramid’s point like a white woman threatened by an Apache spear. For the simple lack of anywhere else to go, Croaker ran around the base of the pyramid, stopping every few seconds t
o listen for the sound of pursuit. On the third stop, he heard the colonel sputtering and cursing on the beach.

  "Lieutenant, you’ve done good work," he shouted. "I’m ready to give you a field promotion right this minute if you come out where I can see you." When the echo of his words finally died out, Croaker heard the sound of a saber leaving its scabbard, unusually loud in the cavern’s green tinged light. "Well, you know what they say about an officer that don’t want a promotion, don’t you, Croaker?" A pause to let the echoes fade. "He ain’t no kind of officer at all."

  Croaker looked left and right, knowing that a game of "Chase Me ‘Round the Barn" would have to end in the favor of the man with the sword. That left him with only one option.

  He put one hand then the other upon the stones in front of him, doing his level best not to let his fingers get too close to the mouths and eyes carved out of them. The bricks were cold and covered with a dark sheen that could have been some kind of mold, if only it didn’t feel so oily and blasphemous. The feeling of it on his hands made Croaker’s eyes shut of their own accord; his mind and stomach fought a wave of dizziness. He took a deep breath and began to climb, one foot after the other, one hand after the other, up the pyramid’s grotesque outer wall.

  Haywood must have heard him scrabbling up the side, because a few seconds later he was below Croaker, huffing and cursing his way up, climbing with one hand on the stone and the other waving his sword for balance. "This ain’t going to end well for you, Croaker Thomson!" he shouted between panting breaths.

  Croaker had just one strategic advantage over the Colonel: height. If he turned to fight the

  Colonel now he might be able to push him down the pyramid, but then he might also end up skewered by the man’s saber. If he kept up his lead, though, he might be able to make it down the other side and back to the horses in time to get away clean. At this point, the Colonel knew where the pyramid was, and truth told, Croaker would be happy to let him have whatever treasure there might be hidden within it. He’d be perfectly content to find him a good woman and raise a crop of children and corn somewhere out west. Never think about the Army or this hidden cavern again.

  And that’s the plan he would have followed, if the capstone of the pyramid—featuring four obscene faces, one on each side—hadn’t shifted and nearly gone clopping down the other side when he grabbed it. His eyes shone with an eerie light as he shimmied around to the left until he was on the side opposite the one Colonel Haywood was working his way up, and waited. He would only get one chance.

  "You yellow-bellied—" Haywood began, saber weaving in one gloved hand.

  Croaker pushed the pointed stone with everything he had, not caring whether he followed it or fell backward when it broke free. His only concern was getting the Colonel before he made it to the top with that blade and all advantage was lost.

  The stone grated slowly, too slowly. The colonel was nearly at the top, his open mouthed smirk revealing the odd glow of green light on a gold tooth. Finally, the stone broke free and rolled, point first toward the colonel. The big man crab-crawled out of the way with just inches to spare. The capstone went clopping down the side of the pyramid, plummeting like Croaker’s hopes of making it out of this hellish cavern alive.

  Haywood was laughing now, staring right at Croaker and mocking his puny efforts with eyes that burned like black stars. But Croaker hardly noticed; he was fighting the hurricane of terror that rose up from the cavity that he’d exposed beneath the capstone. The air clung to him, thick with the taste of fish oil and sewage. An eight fingered golden hand, twitching. The whimpering of children and the bleating of goats filled his ears. A thousand times a thousand times a thou- sand years entombed in fleshless, bloodless stone. The hand wasn’t a hand, wasn’t a hand....

  And Haywood’s face was peering, leering above the rim of the shortened pyramid, greed written on it as he spat, spat right down on the crawling golden thing before reaching for it. No longer aware of Croaker, no longer aware of anything at all it seemed. Anything but the golden eight fingered thing at the top of the pyramid. His saber had fallen and lay balanced precariously with the handle resting atop one carved head while the tip of the blade scritched against the open eye of another.

  And the eight fingered thing was climbing Haywood’s arm of its own accord while Croaker watched, his disbelieving eyes unable to look away. Two of the thing’s fingers bit into each of Haywood’s eyes and one bent into each nostril while the others crowded into his mouth, muffling the screams that Croaker only suddenly became aware of. Whatever it was, whatever this place was, the Lord Above had never planned for it—This couldn’t be His creation, could it?—and the very concept formed an aching ball in Croaker’s throat.

  He could make for the saber, slice it from the colonel’s head, or the colonel’s head from his neck, either way, but he wasn’t sure even that would stop the madness teetering at the peak of the pyramid with him. He could fight it, but what if he failed and those fingers went digging to his head instead? Who would warn the world of this place? But even as the thoughts were flashing through his mind, his hands and feet were working their way mechanically down the pyramid. He glanced over his shoulder to the black beach behind him every so often, but his gaze always returned to the uniformed body with the golden face.

  What used to be Haywood wobbled atop the pyramid, its face a featureless golden plate beneath gouged-in eyes and above a bearded chin. It screamed and howled and spun left to right, then the whole body pitched forward as if pulled by an invisible force back into the cavity from which the eight fingered hand had emerged, bones cracking and skin slackening like a cut open sack of grain.

  It was the last thing Croaker remembered when he awoke that night—or several nights hence; he couldn’t be sure how long he had been incoherent. The sound of his own muttering had awakened him and the first thing he noticed was that the horses were gone. There was no fire or moon, only the lacework of stars above peeking through the shadowy outline of the treetops. He heard rushing water in the distance.

  Something within him lost its balance and he was on his hands and knees vomiting, his head reeling. It felt like an icy hand had clamped around something inside him and squeezed, squeezed until the world quit lurching around him.

  He looked at the thing in his hand, not comprehending at first. Haywood’s pistol. Were there any shots left? Should he put one in his own head to get rid of the nightmare memory it now held within it? Should he go back?

  No. Whatever was in there hadn’t seen fit to follow him out, and there was no sense giving it a good reason to. It was something God hadn’t planned on, he tried to convince himself. Surely. He choked on the taste of bile thick in his throat, but there was no way he could bring himself to drink from the pool below that waterfall. Maybe Colonel Haywood (rest his evil soul) had been right about what kind of officer—what kind of man—Croaker was: when it came right down to it, he’d all but pissed himself running away.

  He got slowly to his feet, putting his back to the rising sun and the bounties and the rushing waters of The Way of Cold Teeth. He started walking west. Croaker hoped to find a place where no one—and nothing—would come looking for him. A place where the fear and trembling could be forgotten, or at least covered up with the honest dust of hard work and singing from hymnals.

  Somewhere in the pinkening sky above, a bird of prey swooped down on something too small and scared to get away in time. Croaker quickened his step.

  A Better Place

  Virginia Hernandez

  "Stuart is in a better place."

  If another person said that to Ginny Pearson, she would rip their head off and cry a good sized container of hot, salty tears right into the bloody cavity. Maybe fill a gallon, maybe a hundred gallons. Maybe she’d never quit bawling.

  Why did everyone think Stuart was in a better place when he wasn’t with her?

  The young pastor slowly lowered his hand when he realized Ginny was ignoring the offer and staring
at the large painting on the church wall."Um, I’m sorry," he said."That’s not the right thing to say at all. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m quite new at this."

  Ginny smiled slightly and she turned her attention away from the church decor and onto him. At least he could acknowledge his opening line lacked artistry. She tried to imagine what it was like for him, officiating the funeral of someone he’d never even met. If it could be called a funeral. Could you have a funeral without an actual body?

  "This is my daughter, Lizzie," she said.

  He lowered himself to Lizzie’s level and stuck out his hand. "Hey there. My name is Pastor

  Mike and I’m very sorry about your daddy."

  "It’s ok," she said. "My daddy’s just very confused. He’ll be home very soon."

  Ginny closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. How was she ever going to get through this when her five year old kept saying things like that? Lizzie’s imaginary friends had always been endearing, but adding Stuart to this list wore out Ginny. Surely it wasn’t healthy, not to mention the constant reminder of his death grated her nerves.

  "She’s having a hard time understanding what’s happened," she explained. "It’s all so new." She turned to her mother-in-law, Ruth."Could you take Lizzie into the other room before we go into the sanctuary? I’ll finish up with the pastor and then we can start."

  Ruth and Lizzie left the small room and Ginny turned to Mike."Look. I know this is difficult for you. Ruth meant well wanting to have this kind of thing, but it really wasn’t, well, him. Stuart was more a man of science than he was spiritual."

  "Well, let’s agree that one can be spiritual and scientific and don’t you worry about how this situation affects me. I just want to do what I can to help you through this difficult time. I won’t fill your ears with a lot of platitudes, although I didn’t quite get off to a brilliant start in that department."