Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant

by Ramsey Campbell

  Teresa handed them each a stack of papers and a pen. “These arg. “What does it all say?”

  “Basically, that you know what you’re getting yourself into,” the hostess said. “You can’t sue if something goes wrong, we’re not liable if you die or are unsatisfied ... minor legal things like that.” She raised an eyebrow, the implication clear. Sign, or leave.

  “Honey, come on,” Paul said. “Just sign the papers.”

  She caved. Without even reading what was written, she signed and dated all twenty-three lines. Paul grinned at her and pulled her close.

  “Excellent,” Theresa said as she took the waivers. “Now, if you follow me, we can begin with the drugs.”

  Jo’s worry increased. “Drugs?”

  “Of course,” the hostess said. “You don’t expect to be operated on without any drugs, do you?”

  “Um, no, I guess not.”

  Theresa smiled and winked at the couple. “Don’t worry, it’s a good cocktail of stuff. It’ll help calm you down, too.”

  She brought them into a large and noisy room filled with tables and reclining chairs. At several tables were diners in various stages of their meals. Many were awake, drugged and laughing, and trying to hold conversations with those around them. Some were passed out, the doctors in the middle of the operations. Those with bandages either ate in quiet, or loudly to proclaim their achievement. Jo saw rich politicians, famous movie and television stars, athletes, and many people who belonged to royalty.

  “Oh, wow!” Paul grabbed Jo’s arm and pointed. “Is that the queen’s son? We can see right into his chest. And so can he!”

  Depending on what was removed, the surgery could be done on someone who was fully conscious. The prince had apparently opted to be awake, and he stared in horror and excitement at the open cavity in his chest. Jo looked away from the gruesome sight.

  “Ribs,” Paul said. “He must be having ribs. I hear that’s a popular choice.”

  Jo avoided looking at anyone else’s table, focusing on the hostess and the empty chairs she brought them to.

  “Here you are. If you two will have a seat, I will inform a nurse to come and hook you up. Congratulations on winning this once in a life time opportunity. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” With a smile, the woman was gone.

  “She was nice,” Paul said.

  “You mean pretty,” Jo said. It was a joke, but with her nerves it might have sounded a little harsh.

  Paul blushed and was about to say something, but a very good-looking man approached the table, pushing a rolling tray equipped with various medical instruments.

  “Hello, my name is Daniel, and I’ll be your nurse tonight. Are you two ready?”

  “We sure are,” Paul said.

  Jo nodded but kept silent.

  “Good. There’s nothing to worry about. First, I’m going to take a quick blood sample and attach these IVs to you. Lay an arm out on the table, either arm works.”

  Both Jo and Paul complied. With professional care, like they were at any hospital or doctor’s office, the nurse pricked their arms, filled up two small tubes of blood, and then attached them to the IV bags.

  “The saline will feel a little cool as it travels through you. Next, I’ll inject the mix of drugs that will help mellow you out and prepare you for your surgery.” He pulled out two syringes and injected a purple liquid into the bags. “While that circulates, I’m going to go and test your blood, just to make sure there’s nothing to throw off the operation.”

  Jo stared at her arm in disbelief. I can’t believe I just let that stranger do that, she thought. What am I doing? I’m really going to let them hack a part of me off so they can cook it and feed it to me? How is this right?! How can this be the “in” thing? She wanted to scream, but her mind and body felt as light as a cloud. She was nervous and angry, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered much anymore.

  “Say, these drugs are working pretty fast, huh?” Paul lifted his arms and waved them across his face. He giggled and put them back down. “Can you feel it?”

  “Oh, I’m feeling something,” she said. She wanted to sound upset, but it only came out in a mumble.

  Paul giggled some more, and before she knew it, Jo was laughing right along with him.

  Daniel returned. “Both of you are good to go. I’ve got some menus for you, and in about ten minutes Chef Baron LaVour will be out to take your order. Any questions?”

  Jo had one. “How long will it take to regrow the limb, or whatever part is removed from the body?”

  “That depends. A finger usually takes an hour. Nothing takes longer than a day, though. With the highly trained scientists, geneticists, and doctors we have here, Eat Yourself has the most advanced technology involving medicine and health in the entire world.”

  After the nurse left again, Jo opened the leather-bound menu and glanced at what the restaurant had to offer. It all sounded fancy, and oh-so gruesome: blood bisque, fillet of tongue, roasted thigh. If she hadn’t been hopped-up on drugs, she might have either fainted or puked all over the table.

  “Paul, I’m really having second thoughts about this.”

  He scrunched his eyebrows. “Are you serious? You want to back out now?”

  “Well ...”

  Two men walked up to Jo and Paul’s table. The larger man was tall and thick; he looked ex-military. With strong arms crossed over his barrel chest, shades tinted so his eyes could barely be seen through the lenses, and a black toque resting on top of his head, Chef Baron Lavour was indeed an intimidating person. The smaller man reminded Jo of a remora, the fish that hangs onto a shark through suction. Dressed with a black bowtie and holding a high-end electronic tablet, he never wavered more than an arm’s length from the boss.

  “Good evening, and congratulations on your winnings. I am Troy, Chef Baron LaVour’s personal sous-chef and assistant. I will be speaking on his behalf. Any questions before we begin?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Good. Before you order, I will need to ask a few questions. First, what are your names?”

  Paul spoke for them. “Paul and Josephine Kline.”

  The assistant pecked away at the screen and continued on. “Ages?”

  “I’m thirty-nine, and she’s thirty-seven.”

  “Had you heard about Eat Yourself before receiving an invitation?”

  “Yes, of course. Who hasn’t?”

  “You’d be surprised, Mr. Kline. Do either of you have any food allergies?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Now, have you decided what to order?”

  Paul smiled and winked at Jo, and it was then that she realized what dish he had chosen. No, not that one, she thought.

  “I want the Suicide Feast,” he said.

  A hush fell among those seated nearby. It was the most dangerous meal in the entire world. Choosing the Suicide Feast involved the aorta, a section each of the carotid and radial arteries, and both corneas. It was prepared only one way, and that was Chef Baron LaVour’s way.

  The chef’s gaze bored through the tinted glasses, narrow slits studying Paul as if taking his measure. Then the large man nodded. He turned to Jo and waited for her order.

  “Um, I’m not really sure ... can I just have, like, a couple of fingers fried? Like, only one, maybe two?” Her voice quavered. She didn’t want to do it, not even with the drugs pumping through her system. She hoped the chef would see her unease and dismiss her from this gruesome trend that was somehow acceptable in today’s society, but she could tell he would have none of that in his restaurant.

  The chef’s eyes glowed with a fiery anger. He hissed something to his assistant and stormed off.

  “Chef Baron LaVour has little patience for indecision,” Troy told Jo. “He will decide for you and return when he is ready.”

  Before she could argue, Troy snatched the menus from their hands and left the table.

  “Geez, Jo, way to embarrass me,” Paul said.

&nb
sp; Her face flushed. “I’m embarrassing you?”

  “Shh, honey, don’t raise your voice–”

  She cut him off. “I’ve been telling you how uncomfortable this whole thing has made me, and you’ve ignored every bit of it. You just ordered something that could potentially kill you. Remember when that actor ordered it and died from complications?”

  “That was when Eat Yourself first opened. It still had its bugs to work out. Nothing like that has happened in months.”

  “Right, months,” she said.

  “It’s perfectly safe, Jo. They have scientists and doctors on standby just in case. I bet they’re always updating their procedures to keep up concerns. A business can’t continue if the customers keep dying.” He paused and added, “I won’t let you ruin this experience for me. We’ll talk about it later. Sit back, and go along with the ride. When it’s all over, you’ll be happy you went through with it.”

  Divorce had never been a thought in her head until now. Paul had never acted so stern toward her before. Never. This whole experience had changed him, and not into someone she appreciated. She wouldn’t divorce Paul, of course; she loved him, but they were definitely going to talk when the night was over.

  The sous-chef returned and acknowledged Jo. “Chef Baron LaVour has chosen your meal, but he wants it to be a surprise.” He then turned to Paul and said, “You, sir, did select a meal that requires heavy sedation. I’m afraid you will have to be put completely under for this operation.”

  “Oh,” Paul said with a frown. “Will I be able see when I’m eating?”

  “Yes. Although your dish involves the corneas, those only take a few minutes to regrow. Any other questions? No? Good. Ah, here comes the nurse now to prep you for the surgery.”

  The handsome nurse – they must only hire models, Jo thought – approached the table again. His rolling tray now held two syringes placed on top. “Are you ready? I’ve been informed that both of you will be under for the procedure. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Paul said.

  This was it. The last second to drop out had arrived, and Jo no longer wanted to eat part of herself at Eat Yourself.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want to go through with this anymore. It’s despicable, and I cannot believe I ever set foot in this horrid establishment.”

  Anger flared in Paul’s face. “Honey–”

  The nurse cut him off. “I’ve got this,” he said. “Mrs. Kline, many people have doubts at the last second. It’s perfectly normal. I’ll give you a little something extra to help calm you down, and then you can decide after that. Sound good?”

  “No. I want to be unhooked from all of this right now. I – hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Without her consent, the nurse had picked up one of the needles and plunged it into her IV. She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back into her seat. She would have struggled, but in her weakened state it was no use.

  Jo felt even lighter than before. Her eyelids hung heavy, threatening to close and darken the world. She wanted to stay awake, but whatever she had been given was too strong. Her eyes closed, and before sleep claimed her, she heard the comforting words of her husband.

  “Don’t worry, Jo. Everything will be perfectly fine when you wake up.”

  * * *

  Everything was not fine when Jo woke up.

  She opened her eyes to blurred vision. When she went to rub them with her left hand, bandages scratched at her face. Clearing her eyes with her right hand instead, she saw in horror what had happened.

  She was in the same chair. Set on the table in front of her was a plate. In the middle of the plate, arranged on a bed of greens, was a human hand. It had been cooked and grilled, the grill marks adding a fresh reality to the otherwise preposterous image.

  That’s my hand.

  Jo’s eyes went wide. She was dimly aware of Paul, sitting across from her, chewing happily on a section of artery, beaming with excitement and pride.

  “That’s my hand,” she said. “That’s my hand. That’s my hand!”

  “Jo? Jo, settle down. Jo! Help! Somebody help her!”

  Her mind melted into mush. She screamed for escape, thrashing and flailing at anyone who reached for her. After three men pinned her down and another jabbed a syringe into her neck, she felt herself slump to the floor.

  * * *

  “Get her out of here. Take her through one of the underground emergency exits. We don’t want someone to capture a picture of her like this.”

  Troy sighed as he watched several of the nurses run off. It was another potential media nightmare. The woman hadn’t died, but it was just as bad. She would most likely never regain her sanity, just like the television star and politician who currently resided in a mental institution.

  They should probably count themselves lucky only three people had gone insane.

  Not everyone could handle the genius of Chef Baron LaVour. Not everyone could handle Eat Yourself.

  But, the couple had signed the waivers, so it didn’t really matter. Thank God for the legal system, Troy thought and then headed back to work.

  THE VARMINT OF FOSSIL VALLEY

  Lewis Unknown

  Eugene Verner shifted in the saddle, pain flaring briefly in his old joints. Not for the first time did he regret hiring his services to the wagon train, but he’d been low on liquor money. ‘Sides, it was easy work compared to bounties or herding cattle at his age. Hell, the settlers even had a map to this new Eden of theirs. All he had to do was see them through a thousand miles of Indians, bad weather and the odd bandit gang.

  A task he had now completed, as his horse cleared the top of a rise and he gazed for the first time upon Fossil Lake.

  It took up a third of the valley, its deep blue waters looking cool and inviting. The reeds at the edge formed a pattern that seemed like a welcoming smile from a folksy old uncle, just itching to tell you a story and share some moonshine.

  So why did the sight of it send a cold shudder down Verner’s back?

  He was still staring at the lake when the lead wagon caught up to him. The driver, a big red-bearded man with a bald head and hands like ham-hocks, pulled his team to a halt and gazed out across the valley with admiration.

  As well he might. The gentle hills tapered to good flat land, tall grass perfect for grazing. It would make for fine fields once spring came. To the north was a stand of woods, amber and crimson leaves blowing in the breeze. There’d be ample timber for good sturdy homes, and game to hunt to help them get through the winter.

  “Beautiful place isn’t it, Mr Verner?” said the red-bearded man. “Just right for a good God-fearing community to take root.”

  Verner scratched his own beard, mostly grey. “It’s your community, Pastor Campbell, not mine. And I’ve told you before, it’s just Verner.”

  A friendly smile shone from his open, honest face. “Ah sorry, my friend, force of habit. Though I’ve told you, it’s only Pastor Campbell when I’m in church. You call me Hugh and I’ll call you Verner, deal?”

  Verner nodded, not bothering to fight the wry half-grin that was the closest he came to smiling. They’d had this same conversation a hundred times since setting out for the Montana Territory, and he expected they’d have it again.

  Campbell might be a man of God, but he wasn’t afraid of hard work, and was even willing to dish out a little tough love to get lost sheep out of the saloons and into church on a Sunday. More than a few such joints back in Chicago had come to the conclusion that it was cheaper stay closed until after the Sunday service rather than deal with the broken fixtures and furnishings after Pastor Campbell came to collect his wayward parishioners.

  “Still we’re finally here, God be praised,” Campbell said. “Before we enter the valley proper I believe it would be only right to hold a prayer meeting in thanks to the Lord. You’re welcome to join us.”

  The prospect of yet another prayer meeting finally shook Verner’s attention from the lake. “I wouldn
’t want to intrude,” he said. “Tell you what, you do that, and I’ll find us a spot to camp tonight.” He nudged his horse away before the other man could answer.

  Soon Campbell’s voice was booming out over the valley, thanking the Lord for protecting them on their journey and mourning those lost along the way. Of which there had been plenty, and Verner himself hadn’t seen much of God’s hand at work there. A family of five dead of a pox, their wagon set ablaze to prevent the infection spreading; children desperately reloading rifles while their parents fired at charging Indians; a collapsing bridge that dropped oxen and wagons into a swollen river; a little boy breaking his neck in a fall.

  All that, he had seen on the trail, but no God. Maybe He’d popped round to offer everyone tea and cake while Verner had been scouting ahead. Still, most of them had managed to make it, and that was something worth celebrating.

  He chose a likely spot about halfway between lake and woods, next to a stream. Firewood and water, without having to get too close to the –

  Why he felt that unease, he couldn’t reckon, but it preyed on him enough so that when he swung down from the saddle he managed to jar his bum knee. His spate of cursing bounced off the nearby boulders in an echo, startling up a flock of birds that scattered in all directions.

  Almost all directions. Even rubbing his knee, he noticed how it seemed even they avoided the lake. Come to think of it, though he’d noticed animal spoor and even some rabbit warrens, there wasn’t much in the way of tracks of any sort along the shore. Weren’t even any bullfrogs croaking in the lazy autumn sun.

  He told himself he was being foolish and did his best to put it out of his mind, but he watered his thirsty horse at the stream instead of leading it to the lake.

  As he marked out the campsite, pausing several times to massage kinks in his back that he wouldn’t have noticed even ten years ago, he wondered why he saw no sign of the tribes. This place was practically perfect – water, hunting, farmland, the hills providing shelter from the winds – but as far as he could tell, no one had settled hereabouts in ages.