Shard

by John Richmond

  Chapter 17

  The wasp roared onto the breakdown lane of Highway 20 about three hours west of Toledo. Fallow fields of long grass stretched for miles, tossing in the breeze. A chalky blue pick-up truck skimmed the horizon on a farm road to the south. Dawn grayed the air. He could be back at the source, the mother cunt from his world into this one before the sun touched the other side of the sky. But it wasn’t yet time. If he faced the dragon and its dog now, he would lose. His agents were at work, he could feel them, see through their faceted eyes as they enlarged the swarm, but it wasn’t enough. It would take a thousand more just to beat the spider, let alone the dragon. There wasn’t enough meat in Shard to make that many wasps.

  A redwing blackbird flared like a match and settled on a barbed-wire fence a few feet away. The Pompiliad allowed it to draw his eye and scanned the land beyond. An empty barn with a sagging roof hulked about a quarter mile off the highway. He thought of Shard, thought of the outrider swarm and felt through them. The balance of power still favored the dragon. “Time,” he whispered and the blackbird’s tiny heart shriveled like a raisin. It fell into the grass where ants would find it and take it apart.

  The Pompiliad blew a kiss at the fence. Rust stained the wire and ran along its length like blood poisoning. It infected the wood posts and they rotted in the space of a second or two. The motorcycle pushed through that section of wire like wet tissue and crushed down the grass in a line for the barn.

  Inside the barn: strong smell of decay, wet grass, ammonia from the guano-painted beams; dawn light gassed through the many chinks in the walls. The Pompiliad guided the big chopper into the middle of the wide dirt floor and killed the engine. For a moment, he slumped in the saddle, greasy hair hanging around his face. He smelled the air, past the obvious natural odors. He inhaled sharply—there it was—someone had died here. He swung a long leg over the bike and got down on all fours, snuffling at the dusty ground like a bloodhound. He paused where a support beam grew up out of the floor. His tongue snaked out and tasted the earth. Right here. Images fluttered through his mind: a highway, the cocked thumb of a teenager, a slowing car and a wide smile. The Pompiliad crunched the grit on his tongue and considered. Still here.

  He scrabbled at the hard-packed dirt, breaking his ragged nails and shredding the tips of his fingers. The earth came away an inch at a time and soon he was pulling aside strips of rotten clothing. A new smell rose with the gathering light, mildew and old, wet trash. His fingers tangled in a mat of long, blonde hair. “Yessss,” he hissed and yanked, the resulting crack disturbed an owl far above. He held up a brown skull with dirty Barbie-doll hair, the jawbone still attached by a piece of dry sinew. He brought it up to his face and slid his long black tongue into the mouth, running it over the gritty surfaces, tasting death.

  For a long time after, the Pompiliad sat cross-legged in the dirt, the skull in his lap. He stared off into the worlds between worlds, stroking the long platinum hair. A wolf spider wandered over his knee, froze and tried to bite him but its fangs couldn’t penetrate his leather jeans. He glanced at it and the spider flared into quick flame and was gone. It broke him from his reverie. He bent low over the skull and whispered something into its ear hole. He got up and walked to the open barn door, holding the skull by the hair like a lantern. He swung it back and forth, a sensor in a church, and spoke into the clear August morning.

  “Find my servant. Give him my message.”

  * * *

  The screen door slammed, but T.R. had been up at his computer until past two in the morning, so the sound did little more than roll him over in his dirty bedclothes. He dreamed he was strolling down 5th Avenue in Manhattan by the Metropolitan Museum. T.R. had spent hours virtually roaming the streets of Manhattan using Google Maps Street View, but in his dream he felt rough sidewalk under his bare feet. He slept naked and was so on the street as well, but his arms swung freely and he walked right out in the middle of the street. As with Google Maps, the people and cars were frozen in a three-dimensional still-frame and only T.R. could move.

  He strolled past a blurry woman walking her blurry dog—some small, yellow thing. T.R. touched it and drew back at its warmth. He stood and planted his foot on the dog’s side. Its heart fluttered against the sole of his foot and he grimaced. T.R. gave a good shove and the dog toppled over like a cheap lawn ornament. He walked on to another woman, closer to his age.

  Her face was blurred out like all the people on the street. It sort of looked like she was made out of colored sand and the wind had eroded her features. He could make out her rack, though. She was one of those high-toned exercise honeys out for a run in tiny jogging shorts that had some slogan or brand printed across the back so you had to stare at her high ass to read it. T.R.’s cock jumped as he looked both left and then right. Legions of stony New Yorkers watched him as he cupped her breast. Like the dog, her heart fluttered in her chest. His dick throbbed in time with her pulse and he squeezed her tit, hard. Her heart began to hammer. She could feel him. These people were frozen, but they were aware. T.R. took a step back, eyes wide. He could do anything he wanted to these people. He was God here!

  He walked around behind her and yanked down her little shorts. He was panting now, his cock was dripping. What a way to lose his virginity. He hoped she was a virgin, too, that would make it awesome. There was a little blurred out tattoo on her right cheek. He bent to inspect it, but couldn’t make it out. T.R. got of whiff of her: fresh sweat and some kind of feminine lotion or soap. What was she feeling right now? Was she just jogging down the street in her world aware of him as just a breeze or pressure? Could she feel it now as he pushed his penis against her?

  The tip of his dick touched her lower back and a black mark bloomed on her skin. T.R. yanked himself back as the mark spread, flashing over her pretty curves and blackening her entire body. Even her ponytail, frozen in mid-swing, was dark as ink. T.R. poked her with his finger and she collapsed in a heap of slag. Holy hell, had he done that?

  He ran over to a blurred sand-sculpture of a tall man in navy-blue suit, one hand pressed to his head, mouth open. It was hard to tell but this guy looked like he was on a cell phone. T.R. touched his arm and stepped back. Nothing happened. Maybe he had to touch someone with his cock to turn them to dust. He looked down at his wilting erection and had another thought. T.R. touched the man’s face, skin to skin, and watched as the black stain appeared. A moment later, business dude was a pile of dust at T.R.’s bare feet. Why didn’t it work with the dog? The fur maybe? T.R. ran over to the little capsized yellow lump and touched its side—nothing. He touched its nose, wet and cold, and the dog disintegrated like the others.

  T.R. straightened and looked around at the hundreds just within his sight. He thought of the thousands, millions in this city—his city. It was a shame he couldn’t actually fuck anyone without turning her into a pile of dust, though. That pretty much sucked. Wait, maybe if he used a condom? First drug store he passed, he’d find out. Well, if he couldn’t bust his nut right away he could stimulate his brain.

  He walked toward the Metropolitan Museum of art, naked butt flat and a little cold. He snared a hot dog right out of street vendor’s hand, “Thanks, Abdul,” and walked up the stairs.

  The Armory drew him like a needle to true north. T.R. stood in front of the Samurai Kitanas with his hands pressed against the glass. The blades were so fine they glowed as if electrified. This had to be where George Lucas got the idea for light sabers. Man, he’d do just about anything to have one of these things. Imagine getting to use a five hundred year old Samurai sword to lop off the head of that little brat, Childe Howard. He knew just how he’d do it, too. T.R. would tie up that ugly fucking beagle so it had to watch its master get his cute, curly blonde noggin lopped off. No, wait, he’d tie up Childe and stab the dog to death, nice and slow, in front of him. And then he’d kill the boy. T.R. picked at a zit on his chin. Maybe he’d run here, to New York, and disappear afterward. If only he could get that
sword.

  He was just wondering what he could use to break the thick glass when he caught the reflection of someone nodding behind him. T.R. covered his crotch and froze. Squinting into the glass, he stammered, “Uh, hi. I’m lost.” Whoever the hell it was didn’t answer, just kind of rocked back and forth. “Someone, ah, someone stole my clothes.” And then to clarify, “Because this is New York.” Still no response, just that pendular rocking. The hair was weird, too, really light and sticking straight up like some kind of punker or something.

  “Listen,” T.R. said, “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but if you could just maybe help me get some clothes…” he trailed off and turned around, hands still cupping his privates. “What the shit?”

  Across the wide hall, flanked with suits of medieval armor, a huge black knight stood with its arm raised. T.R. could tell it was as empty as the rest of them from its open visor, but someone had hung a human head by its long hair from an upraised fist. It looked kind of like the knight was holding a lantern at the end of an extended chain. That sure as hell hadn’t been there when he came in. Someone must have sneaked in behind him and done this while he was gawking at the kitanas. T.R. padded over the cold marble on tiptoe and stood a few feet in front of the swinging head.

  The skull was browned and stripped with age, but the jawbone was still attached by a little piece of tendon or something that hadn’t quite rotted away. One of the lower front teeth was a little crooked, but the rest were white and tombstone straight. The eye sockets were empty, but it felt like the damn thing made eye contact with him every time it swung up on its arc. Up and back, up and back, up and back. T.R. began to rock forward and back on his feet a little, pulled and pushed by those blank eyes. His jaw hung open a bit just like the skull’s and his eyelids drooped. He became dimly aware that his cock had grown rigid, the muscles in his groin contracting in time to the swinging skull.

  It spoke: “Tommy Ray Dalton.” The voice was a grating bass. T.R. could feel the thumping syllables in his skinny chest. He rocked back and forth with the pendulum head, back and forth. “You are chosen.”

  A sleepy smile spread T.R.’s lips, still greasy from his hot dog. “I knew it,” he mumbled. “I always known it.”

  “Soon I will be among you, and the world above the world will be taken back.” The jawbone never moved, the voice issuing as if from a megaphone. “You will prepare the way.”

  T.R. was swaying, almost pitching forward and back, his feet planted, his legs straight. “Prepare the way?” His brow furrowed, “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You will know at the appointed time.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will be rewarded for faithful service.”

  “Rewarded.” T.R’s eyes squeezed shut as his cock exploded into orgasm. He seemed to come for a full minute, the pleasure so intense he couldn’t even moan. When the warmth and muscle convulsions passed, he opened his eyes. Instead of ropes of white spattering the marble floor, ribbons of thick blood made strange art at his feet. The skull had stopped swinging and a line of blood dripped from the mouth where T.R.’s cock had spit its ejaculate. It looked like it had been feeding.

  * * *

  The Pompiliad dropped the skull in the grass and brought a heavy boot down on the temple, crushing it. He turned his back on the gathering dawn and slumped back into the shadows of the old barn. His servant would prepare the way, skew the odds a bit more in his favor and then he would ride into Shard. He had been waiting a hundred thousand millennia, another day or two wouldn’t matter. The Wasp found a pool of darkness in a cluttered corner and nestled in. A passerby might mistake him for a jumble of twisted lumber or old machinery. He was still. His eyes were open.

  Chapter 18

  Will and George stood at the base of Castle Wall and stared into the maw of Outshaft Six. The sun shone straight down but it was a little chilly in the shade. Fall was already on its way into the mountains; by midnight it might be down in the low sixties. There wasn’t even the slightest puff of breeze and a reedy line of gray-yellow smoke spilled over the lip of the entrance and dripped skyward. The throaty smell of sulfur was very strong today.

  “You lied about the fire not being here, Two-Bears,” George said, checking his flashlight and the length of yellow striped climbing rope slung over his shoulder.

  Will’s cheeks colored a little as he adjusted his gun belt. Smaug needed to be within easy reach. If all went well there wouldn’t be any shooting, of course, but having the huge revolver at hand just felt better when going into a burning hole in the ground with the express purpose of talking to a dragon and its pet giant fucking spider. “Yeah, well, I figured you wouldn’t a come otherwise.”

  “You’re right, you half-blooded injun dickweed,” George said. “But, I’m far too intrigued not to try this.” In reality George was here to prove to his best friend that there were no dragons or giant spiders living in the mine. If it took a little afternoon cave crawling to do that, fine. They used to do this all the time when they were kids anyway, right? The only difference now was that they’d be a little sore the next morning. That and Will would see that he really did have a concussion dream or what-have-you and abandon all this end-of-the-world-final-battle hoo-hah. It was disconcerting as hell when a man with a gun that big started talking like a hobbit.

  George clapped Will on the shoulder a little too hard, “Ready, Tonto?”

  “You’re not going to leave off the Indian shit are you?”

  “You kidding? You’re making me walk into a burning hole in the ground and I’m almost sober. Lead on, kemosabe.”

  Will gave a grateful smile. “If I knew how to speak Cherokee, I’d be calling you motherfucker or something right now.”

  “What do you think ‘kemosabe’ means?”

  They switched on their lights and sprayed cones of dusty white into the dark. George squinted and said, “Yeah, I can just see that side opening you were talking about.” Will was concerned with their feet. “There’s another set of prints, here.” He squatted down. “Shit, there’s two more, Georgie. Lookit this.” George hunkered down and Will pointed to the different tracks in the dust. “These’re mine from the other day and these,” he glanced at George, “these are my Dad’s, or that thing pretending to be my Dad.” Before George could say anything, or worse, nothing, Will pointed to a set of smaller bootprints. “These here're new, though.”

  “You’re just like an injun scout or something; I’m impressed.” George laughed. “All joking aside, I really kind of am, Sheriff.”

  “Then shut up about that injun shit, will you? We prefer The Noble Native Disenfranchised. Anyway, see how these new ones are a little smaller?”

  “Kid?”

  “Maybe. He’d be a teenager at least.”

  “Your spider pretending to be someone else?” George said, half humoring Will.

  Will didn’t catch it or ignored it. “I dunno’.” He pulled the coil of rope off his shoulder and motioned toward an old support beam that looked to be in pretty solid shape. “Let’s tie off on that. If memory serves the drop-off down to the big chamber is only a few feet in.

  Will had been expecting a straight drop through the rocky floor into the chamber below, but they found something more a like a chute that angled at about forty-five degrees. They were able to slide on their butts a foot at a time until Will’s boot stuck out into space. “Okay, hold up,” he whispered over his shoulder, his voice echoing as if they were inside a large soda can.

  George stopped a couple of feet behind him and shined his light around the inside of the natural shoot. “This looks like regular old granite, but did you get a look at the walls up top before we dropped down here?”

  “Talk a little quieter, Georgie, Jesus.”

  “Sorry, man, I’m just excited.” George stage-whispered. “The walls were mostly rhyolite up there.” He waited.

  Will checked his climbing harness, tugging here and there. “Uh, huh.”

  “You
numb-shit, you know what rhyolite means in a formation like that? Will, we’re probably inside a volcanic pipe. There could be diamonds down here.” George was talking fast now. “I read this article about how there are only a couple of places in the continental U.S. that have diamonds. It takes a seriously heavy operation to sort through all the crap to find the diamonds, but if we did this right… ”

  Will looked over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t make sense for us to mine the diamonds ourselves, but we could stake a claim and then sell it to a mining concern. Shit, your new girlfriend could be our agent in this.”

  “Turn your light off for a second.”

  “What? Are you listening to me, Two-Bears?”

  “Yes. Just do it, George.”

  George clicked off his flashlight and Will did the same, a second later their eyes adjusted. A weak green glow filled the tunnel. George whispered, “There’s light down there.”

  “Yep.” Will slid over the edge of the tunnel and hung in space, swinging like a worm on a hook. The light was low, but he could still make out the vast chamber with its glowing emerald walls. The metallic floor flowed frozen beneath him about twenty feet down. The diamond horde lay in the center.

  George poked his head out of the hole in the ceiling. “Oh. My. God”

  Will smiled in spite of himself. “C’mon.” He let out some rope and slid down until his All Stars hit ground. Will’s hands were sweating inside his gloves and his fingers shook as he unhooked himself. That spider was in here; he could feel those eight red eyes on them. He was invited last time and it felt like Yïn could barely keep from attacking him. What would it be like now that they were dropping in unannounced? He patted Smaug and hoped hollow points would be enough if it came to that.

  George touched down and let out a whoosh of air. Will turned to him and tried not to laugh; his friend’s mouth hung open like a seven year-old boy confronted with a shiny monster truck. George turned in a slow circle, gasping and jerking every time his eyes filled with some new wonder. “Is it…? It’s all emerald, isn’t it? How’s it glowing? Oh my God, Two-Bears.” George froze and pointed at the massive pile of diamonds in the center of the chamber. He grabbed Will’s arm. “Holy shit.”