In the morning, as Spencer gently spoke with her, a blond-maned man wearing a brown sport-jacket and tan slacks came in, airing a confident, almost cocky demeanor. He introduced himself as detective Larson, asking Spencer if he would move from her bedside. He then replaced his seat.
"Hello Ashley. All right if I call you that?"
Ashley managed a weak nod. "Uh-huh."
"The doctor told me you're feeling better today. I'm happy about that."
"Yes, me too."
"I'm terribly sorry about what happened to your mother and sister. It must be very hard." He tried to pin her gaze, but Ashley looked away, running a hand through her hair.
"Ashley, can you tell me what happened to your sister and her friend Dennis?"
She nodded and continued to play with her hair.
"What happened to them?" Detective Larson asked again.
"The plane. It got her. And Dennis too." She looked up and faced the detective. "Just like it got my mom."
"Ashley, Carrie drowned," Detective Larson said.
Ashley just nodded. "Yes, of course she did," and then she looked off again into space, twirling her hair with two fingers. She began to hum something very quietly, and a dribble of saliva seeped from the corner of her mouth.
"Ashley, I'd like to ask you a few more questions. Is that okay?"
She twisted her head back up, a bubble of saliva frothing from her mouth as she said, "Yes sir."
"Now Ashley, try and—"
"My things..."
The detective peered inquisitively at her. "What things?"
"My things."
"What about them?"
"I don't have them."
"Where are they, Ashley?"
"In the dunes."
Two days later, Spencer pulled into the driveway of his home. A large, nighttime moon illuminated the air and made the ocean appear as if it were on fire.
"Are you okay?" Spencer asked.
Ashley nodded. Spencer knew she was lying.
Then Ashley began to cough. It quickly increased in tone and frequency until it culminated into a quick, hacking frenzy.
"Ashley! What's wrong?"
Ashley hurtled from the front seat. Spencer chased her down onto the beach, just in time to catch her before she charged into the water. "Ashley!" he shouted. "Ashley!" He wrapped his arms around his daughter's chest as she convulsed, her breathing rasping, whistling, chest heaving.
She pitched forward, shuddering, vomit spewing from her mouth. The odor of it struck Spencer, something hot, rancid and awful. He knelt beside her and in the moonlight saw wet sand and seaweed puddling below her, green spittle sliding from her lips in a thin stream. Then, a small fish. It wriggled from her mouth and landed in the puddle of vomit, its body flickering about like a windswept candle flame.
Spencer wiped the sweat on her forehead. "It's gonna be all right, honey. You're sick. But you'll be better, I promise you that. I'll take care of you."
Ashley broke away from Spencer's loosening grasp and bounded down the beach.
"Ashley!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet and pursuing after her, fear and pain hissing through his body like a snake's venom, poisoning his very soul.
She ran about twenty yards and splashed her way into the water. It started raining, and the waves churned up in roughened swells, parroting the storm. Spencer ran into the water, up to his knees, reached out to grab his daughter, almost clutched her arm, but the waves took her away. The waters! They seemed alive, lit with an extraordinary emotion, the wind an extension of its harsh passion, frustrated and seemingly fraught with unfathomed threat. Spencer felt like a jilted puppet in some vast, strange new game in which the rules fell far beyond his realm of understanding.
Spencer felt a wash of matter at his knees. Shreds of refuse, dead fish, seaweed. Bits of clothing, jewelry, pieces of sharp metal. Small objects that could have only come from the downed plane.
Isn't it odd how they haven't yet conducted a search for the bodies? The ATF men, they came once, went into the waters once and never went back. They left the plane, the bodies, beneath the water. And stranger still, no one seemed to complain about this. Myself included. Why?
Something groaned in the water. Something huge. Spencer slid backwards, felt a sudden tide push him to the shore. Then came a cracking sound, the rush of parting waves. He tried to scream, but the forceful din of the winds and rains and waves smothered his voice.
He could see Ashley floating on the surface of the water halfway across the river. "Ashley!" he screamed, but she could not hear him. Then, from amidst the parting of the waters came a great shape, a writhing infrastructure of cold, wet plane parts and flesh, intertwined to form a living thing of immense size.
Clutching himself for warmth, Spencer fell back onto the hard sand, watching as his daughter became a part of the object, her arms and legs and head and body suddenly torn away and placed amidst the network of parts, her face now staring out from a shattered window, alongside the others. He knew that if he had more time to gape, he would find Elisabeth in there with her. Dennis would be in there too, with his mother.
And now, Spencer decided, me.
So, carefully, he walked into the water and surrendered to the water's call, allowing the waves to take him to his family. Night had fallen. The only light in the room came from the candles burning on the table. The mosquitoes returned, buzzing in a frenzy as if in anticipation of the event. A large block of wood about four feet high painted in many glossy colors had been centered next to the table, as if placed to discourage anyone from taking that spot.
"That's where the sacrifice will take place," Camille revealed. "It unites the mortals with the dead."
"Sacrifice! What is this? Roberta, please, let's leave!"
"Corbin!" Roberta muttered in panic. "Don't move. Don't do anything."
"Damn it! I'm very uncomfortable."
"I am too, but remember, we are guests. As long as we keep our mouths shut, all will be fine."
Corbin blew out a nervous breath. "I didn't know your enthusiasm ran to this extreme."
A few more people dressed in black entered the room and then the doors were shut. The high-priest appeared again from behind the brown curtain and retrieved the bottle from the table. Pouring out the syrupy contents, he drew a rough circle in the soil on the ground before the wood block. One of the participants lit a fire atop the surface of the vat of oil. The cobalt flame painted the walls in a ghostly phosphorescent glow. The room immediately smelled of burning oil.
The high-priest began an exotic song of prayer, pouring the liquid from the bottle into the four glasses on the table. Filling them halfway, he completed this stage of the initiation by quickly shaking his hands in the air.
"This phase provides us with sect acceptance," Camille explained quietly. "Without this we wouldn't be permitted to participate."
When the high-priest retreated from the table, two black-clad men brought the glasses over to the four of them. "Drink it," Camille said, taking a glass.
The men before them nodded. Corbin looked at the brown liquid. "Here goes nothing." He swilled it in one shot. Thick. Sweet-tasting spirits. A mix between rum and amaretto. He handed the glass back to the man in black, taking in a deep breath as the alcohol seeped to his stomach. He looked at Roberta, grinned. "Not bad."
The high-priest ran his hands across his face. A man dressed in a red robe separated from the crowd and stood before the master of ceremony, eyes turned upward, the whites exposed. Drums sounded from an unseen area and then the prayer began, the entire crowd chanting in unison. It went on like this for perhaps five minutes before the drums slowly tapered, then ceased altogether. The crowd remained still. Soon dead silence filled the room.
The man in red removed his robe, exposing his nakedness.
In the meantime Corbin had caught quite a buzz. The drink the high-priest had given him wasn't cooperating with the gin in his stomach. Closing his eyes, he forced back a gag. When he open
ed his eyes, the naked man was kneeling before the colorful block in a solemn, prayerful position, tongue stuck out and pressed against the flat wood surface. The high-priest leaned before him, a hand-held razor in his grasp. In one sudden flick of the wrist, he thrust the razor down and split the man's tongue down the center, forking it. Blood sputtered in a geyser, darkening the block. The drums resumed, along with the chanting.
The initiate staggered up and backed away from the high-priest, blood pouring down his chin. As the chanting culminated to an emphatic point, he slowly walked over to the vat of fiery oil. He climbed in, feet first, fully immersing himself in seconds.
Steam spurted up from the vat: a shocking geyser rife with the stench of burning flesh.
The nightmarish scene propelled Corbin to the climax of his nausea. Dizzied and stunned, he reeled forward and collided with the high-priest, sending the man to the soil-packed floor. A forbidding silence seized the room. Corbin was too sick to notice. Hunched over and blinded by the smoke, he vomited on the squirming voodoo-master.
Trembling, Corbin peered up, saliva on his chin. His eyes were filled with stinging tears. Darkened faces stared at him, flickering candlelights dancing across them. Fear consumed the room, and the thick stink of cooked man was making him sick again.
The high-priest scrambled up, pushing his vomit-slathered chest out as if showing Corbin the evidence of the travesty he just committed. He was seething, hot breaths spouting from his twisted mouth like dragon's snorts. Yelling in Creole, he confronted Corbin, arms flailing. Corbin tried to yell his defense, but it did him no avail. Squealing like pig, the high-priest abruptly lunged forward.
Corbin quickly defended himself, greeting the assault with two quick fists, one to the collarbone, the other to the side of the head. The voodoo-master collapsed to the floor in a crumpled heap, writhing in agony, cursing in tongues. Corbin lunged away from the altar across the room, looking back to see if Roberta and the Hellers were following. Indeed they were, their faces twisted with fear and revulsion.
He also caught one last glimpse of the gnarled face of the high-priest, his lopsided eyes staring out from beneath his death-mask, steadily fixed on Corbin. Corbin shuddered, inflicted with the horrible feeling that those vindictive eyes possessed were drilling terrible poisons into him. He twisted away in terror and stumbled into the hall, down the steps and out into the heat-stricken night, where he threw up again, all over his shoes.
He went to the suite, the soft mattress a welcome relief to his aching body. Roberta was sitting in a chair next to him, staring at him in silence. At first he recalled the displaced eyes of the houngan pinning him, warning him of something secretive as he rushed from the ceremony. Now, in his waking, he saw his wife's troubled gaze revealing to him nothing less than a dozen pent-up emotions. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed, placing a gentle hand on his forehead.
"How do you feel?"
"Lousy. Hung over. My head is killing me."
"Too much gin—"
"It was that stuff we drank last night." With great effort Corbin wriggled up and gazed about the room. A single lamp in the foyer sent a dim yellow light across the room. The curtains were open slightly, enough to see the darkness outside. "Damn, it's still night?"
"Still night? You slept through the day."
"What? How can that be? How long have I been asleep?"
"About twenty hours. You're sick, Corbin. You're running a high fever. You must have been coming down last night. It's probably why you threw up."
Corbin smacked his lips. "Ugh, I can still taste my puke. Can I have some water?"
Roberta nodded then left the room. Corbin closed his eyes and massaged his damp forehead, thinking about the disaster he caused at the ritual. Now he feared for everyone's safety, realizing the seriousness of his reckless act. Roberta returned with a glass of water. The Hellers were right behind her.
"How're feeling Corb?" Darren asked.
"Like shit on a stick." He took the water from Roberta. "Is everything okay?"
The three of them looked at each other, then at Corbin. "We hope so," Camille said. "I haven't heard from Namor. That worries me. No doubt he's been reprimanded for bringing us into their private circle. And to think it had taken me months of convincing him there would be nothing to worry about."
"What about ugly? I hit him pretty hard."
Why am I worried about the freak? What about the poor bastard that...
"Hey, wait a second. That guy from the ceremony, the one who climbed into the oil?"
His question received blank stares in reply.
"The guy who got his tongue split by the ugly voodoo guy?"
Roberta placed a hand on his forehead. "What are you talking about Corbin?"
He looked at the others in the room, their gazes unflinching as if her were a freak-show oddity. "The naked guy. He came in, the voodoo priest cut his tongue with a razor. Then he climbed into that big oil bath? C'mon, how can you not remember?"
"He's really burning up," Roberta said. Camille left and returned a moment later with a tray. "Here's some toast and rice, orange juice and aspirin. It will help the fever."
Corbin dropped his head back onto the pillow. Having this conversation had exhausted him, and now he felt like sleeping again. "I didn't dream it. I'm telling you..."
"We're going to get some dinner, hon. We'll be back shortly. Call me on the cell if you need anything. Okay?"
"Hmph..."
Corbin fell back asleep.
Corbin awoke with the terrible taste of vomit in his mouth. In the darkness of the bedroom he could barely make out the outline of the untouched food tray on the nightstand. He fidgeted up on his elbows, the stench of puke thick in his nostrils. Had he vomited in his sleep? Dizzy. The fever had culminated. He was burning up.
Sweat trickled down his face and back. A high-pitched whining sound zipped by his right ear. Mosquitoes. Damn, how'd the hell they get in here? It took a great effort to swipe them away, his muscles tingling painfully, numbed. Spasms lanced through his cracking bones.
He wiped the sweat from his face. His hand came away soaked.
Something feels different...
He went back to his brow, to his cheeks and chin, prodding the skin. What began as curiosity quickly culminated into terror as his fingers surveyed the landscape of his face: the tender meaty texture of it, the twisted flaps of skin...
Dear God, please tell me I'm hallucinating. In the dark, he stumbled out of bed down the short hall to the bathroom. Dizziness nearly sent him to the floor. He flicked the lights and peered at his face in the mirror. Oh my God...
His skin. It was virtually gone. In its place, bleeding blisters. Globules of pussing fluids. Strips of tattered flesh. His hair, reduced to a few singed wisps.
Dazed from fever or not, he couldn't deny the change of his appearance. Nor could he withhold the fact that the few remaining tatters of skin on his face were no longer white. He looked at his arms, his hands. They were blackened, charred.
Dear God, it looks as if I've been...burned.
No longer able to think, he staggered into the shower, peeling away his tee shirt, his shorts. His entire body was blackened and blistering. His legs, stomach, shoulders. Everywhere. Even his privates, shriveled away. He ran the cold water. It attacked his burning body like falling needles, steam rising as it sizzled on his skin. Unable to cool off, he stepped from the shower and re-examined his body in the mirror. The person staring back at him was wide-eyed with fear, a man who had been severely burned and lived to tell about it. This was a man who should have been dead. He tried to scream. The only thing to emerge from his mouth was a bloated black tongue.
We're about to witness a black magic ritual, Camille had said.
Again Corbin thought of the man who immersed himself in the boiling oil. Why didn't anyone else remember him? Why?
Fleeting snippets of the ritual besieged him:
Listen, these people take this initiation quite seriou
sly.
The high priest is not pleased with our presence. He feels we are a danger to his service.
We must be on our best behavior then.
Drink it. It gives us sect acceptance.
Corbin reeled into the bedroom. Still naked and burning up, he flung himself onto the bed. His skin screamed. Again he tried to yell but could not, his tongue filling his mouth. He tasted vomit, then recalled, I threw up the drink of acceptance...
He heard the door of the suite open. The lively chatter of Camille, Darren, his wife, and—and—
Who is that other voice?
Weren't they worried about him? Why weren't they coming in here to check up on him? He needed help. He needed them. He smelled the sheets on the bed. They were beginning to smolder.
Corbin finally managed a weak yell, a muted blare barely making it past his swollen tongue.
Silence inside.
Footsteps. The light came on in the bedroom.
Darren Heller appeared, a look of shock and revulsion on his face. "Oh my God..."
"What is it Darren?" Roberta.
Corbin tried to speak. He couldn't. He could only twitch his fingers and toes.
Then the rest of them appeared. Camille. Then Roberta.
Then Corbin.
The man standing next to his wife was an exact replica of himself. To the tee. Just like he was to...
To the man at the ritual. The one who climbed into the oil.
Camille and Roberta fled in tears, screaming who is he? and what's happened to him? Darren ran from the room, calling for help.
Leaving Corbin alone in the room with his twin. Corbin.
The twin Corbin walked over to the bed, staring. He rubbed a gentle finger on his chin. And smiled.
Inside, Corbin heard the police arrive.
The last thing Corbin saw before the police came to take him away was his twin taunting him, licking his red lips with a long, forked tongue.
Within the Darkness, Golden Eyes
For three years I've attempted on many occasions to leave my home, but they wouldn't let me. And my wife, my daughter, they have pleaded with me time and time again for a vacation—nothing extravagant, merely a simple break from the ordinary. I only wish I could explain to them why it isn't possible.
Dregs of Society Page 18