Dust (Hellsong: Infidels: Cris Book 3)

by Shaun O. McCoy

  Clement freezes.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Harris says, raising his hands in the air.

  Other than Clement, only Durgan and myself fail to step back. Me, because I’d have to hop, and I assume the marble man just doesn’t care because his stonewight ass is immune to bullets.

  “We didn’t know you felt this strongly about it,” Keith says. “Point the gun down. Let’s sit and talk. We’ll have a little powwow. You can tell us what you mean and we can work this out.”

  Alec looks left and right. “It’s with us,” he squeaks, his face seeming for all the world like a lost child’s. “He’s with us.”

  “It’s okay,” Keith says. “We’re safe now. We just need to get to Tintagel and we can rest. We can heal our wounds, our mental wounds. But we have to make it there first.”

  Alec blows his brains out so quickly I don’t even jerk in shock until after parts of his skull hit the ceiling and the wall behind him. His lifeless form falls, knees hitting first before face planting into the ground.

  I look to the faces of the hyenas. Even Keith is fucked up, and it’s Durgan alone who remains impassive.

  Only now do I realize how deeply Soulfall damaged them. They really do need me—and then, with the terror of a personal epiphany that can only come when you accidently discover a thing you’ve hidden from yourself, I realize I need them every bit as much.

  Wordlessly, we enter the Carrion.

  Well, Q, if you really are back there, brother, you can’t say I didn’t leave you a nice trail.

  After five minutes in the Carrion, I find I’m mentally exhausted.

  The air is cold and for some reason that makes my ankle ache all the more. With my intellectual faculties drained, I no longer have the fortitude to ignore the burning agony shooting up through my leg.

  Brilliant lights shine out from distant cubbies, doing almost nothing to illuminate the black nightmare around us, but easily destroying my night vision. The ceiling is about ten feet above us, but the chambers are so large, perhaps half a mile wide and similarly deep, they seem oppressive. Visibility here is absolute shit. Pillars and walls, arches and barricades, they all rise up from the floor to meet the low ceiling, blocking our vision in the short term while the darkness swallows all in the distance.

  We could be in the center of an army of dyitzu and not know it.

  The long lights turn our shadows into living things, and the different sources cause us all to jump here and there as the dark shapes of our friends, their forms discombobulated by the sharp angle of the illumination, quickly cross our paths.

  This place is a God damned nightmare.

  Durgan leads us carefully forward, and everyone has their shotguns at the ready. Everyone but me. I stretch my hands against the rope to test my bonds, but there’s no give at all.

  We pass under an arch that leads us into the next chamber, and I notice it has a violet keystone at its top.

  Perhaps that is why the ancients chose purple hellstone to mark off the Carrion.

  We take a left turn, and then a right, and then we walk across another half-mile chamber. I think I’m about to faint from the pain, but then Durgan turns back, his black eyes glistening in the distant light of some far-off cubby.

  “We’re here,” the wight says.

  And we follow him to yet another arch, but this one has a double door. I don’t know whether this door was made by man or the architect, but its woodstone seems very ancient indeed. In the place of handles, it has the carved stone heads of lions. Carefully, Durgan reaches his hand into the maw of one head and pulls open the door. The hinges are completely silent.

  A wind blows fiercely from within, and its howling causes the muscles in my back to stiffen with fear.

  The wight leads us in, and my heart sinks.

  This room is epic in scale, perhaps several times the size of an old world football stadium. Rising for perhaps half a mile are tiered levels, set up almost like bleachers, each about twenty feet tall. Wide stone stairways lead up at even intervals, providing access to the rising tiers. Along the face of each tier are yawning openings, about fifty or so between each set of steps. Altogether, there seems to be thousands of exits from this chamber. Unless I leave a good sign for Q, there is no way even a tracker of his skill would know which path to follow.

  Good god.

  “Pick one, Keith,” Durgan says. “I’ll keep my eyes on Cris. If any of the dyitzu do follow us into the Carrion, they’ll lose us here. Short of a hound, our path will be untraceable.”

  Dyitzu my ass. Would Durgan take such a precaution to avoid dyitzu? Maybe, but I’m betting my friends are on our tail.

  Keith takes us left along the room and leads us up the stairs. I want to drop a piece of hair, or drip some blood, or something, but Durgan is following right behind me, and who knows what those black eyes see. Often he stops, and when he does, the others pause, giving him time to pick up whatever tiny bit of detritus we’ve left behind.

  And even if he misses something, I realize, the wind would soon scatter our trail anyway.

  Honestly, I think even Hansel and Gretel would be fucked right now.

  We walk into one of the myriad entrances, and I realize this is some sort of catacomb. Bones, stripped bare of flesh in what I guess is an attempt to ensure they do not rise as corpses, are sometimes entombed in clear crystal. In other areas, entire enclaves have been devoted to store the piles of bones.

  How many lie here?

  The howling of the wind becomes distant, and the gusts which muss my hair and cool my skin become more and more infrequent. Then Durgan leads us to a half-empty enclave.

  “Here,” he says. “We may sleep among the bones.”

  In the cold, surrounded by the dangers of the Carrion, with the sounds of the whipping wind, I doubt many men could sleep here comfortably . . . but I’m so tired, I care not for the blasphemy I commit against my ancestors as I fall down upon the bones . . . and like a babe, I sleep.

  I awaken to the smell of devilwheat. Normally, my hands would have been tied behind my back, but they are still bound in front of me as they’d not retied them last night. I shift, disturbing the skulls which double for my pillow and the ribcage which I had—and believe me, this grosses me out more than it does you—been cuddling with in my sleep.

  Sorry buddy, I hope you were into that kind of thing before you died.

  With my bound hands, I push aside the ribs like an unwanted hooker and check out my ankle.

  On a scale from one to FUBAR, my ankle is on the far side of the US Congress. Well, maybe it’s exactly like Congress. I can make some slow progress with it, but an amputation would probably speed me up.

  Dry bones crunch under Keith’s booted feet—and I remember how quietly this man can move when he wants to. Of the hyenas, he’s the one most like an infidel, but even so, Soulfall is weighing on his shoulders—and there is no one here who can support him, not really.

  Only me.

  “You awake, Godslayer?” he asks.

  “Damned and ready.”

  “We have some food we’re going to feed you, and some water, but you won’t be allowed to piss or shit for another mile. Think you can handle that?”

  I think I can, but I don’t want to betray his trust without good reason.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him.

  “Can you stand?” he asks, looking at my ankle.

  Somewhere, in the depths of my being, I get the sudden feeling I should give up. There’s no reason to fight. My son’s gone. My friends won’t be able to follow me. I failed my one mission from God. I’m just . . .

  “You don’t know,” Keith states.

  It’s as good an answer as any, I suppose.

  “Feed him now,” Keith orders back over his shoulder.

  “Aye, sir,” Fin answers.

  Keith does me the honor of untying me so I can feed myself.

  I am both ravenous and not hungry. That must mean I’m depressed. Which means m
y wounds will heal slowly. Which means . . .

  As mechanically as I have ever done anything, I eat.

  Again I hold my wrists flat together to have them tied in front of me.

  It strikes me as odd that they didn’t retie my hands last night. It’s a pretty damn bad sign that I didn’t even consider escaping. If I could somehow be healthy, and not mentally fucked, I’d be able to take advantage of the plight of my captors.

  And as an infidel, it’s my duty to be that strong.

  But I’m not.

  And I can’t help but admit that.

  Keith and Fin help me up from the bones, and I realize that, in the mess of skeletons, I can’t identify the one that kept me company last night.

  Putting my wounded foot down on the uneven bones is a level of excruciating agony I would have thought was only reserved for eyes or genitals. Got to give some credit to my ankle, it’s really stepped up its pain game today.

  My eyes water as I hop out of the bone enclave. My stomach is already rumbling, and I feel some pressure on my asshole. I’m not horribly sure whether I want to shit myself or not. Fortunately, the adrenalin rush caused by my next limping footstep seems to tighten everything up.

  The hyenas must not have eaten much lately either because they’re farting pretty seriously. I giggle out loud as I imagine Q tracking us by scent. Of course, that’s impossible, but it’s funny to me all the same.

  “Whatchya laughin’ at, boy?” Clement asks.

  “All I got was devilwheat,” I say. “I didn’t know you guys ate the beans.”

  Ryan looks at me oddly. “You are the queerest infidel I’ve ever met.”

  His face is an absolute mess. Somehow it looks even worse than yesterday.

  “You catch something from the dead guy you slept with last night?” I ask him.

  “Fuck you.”

  Clement snickers.

  “Don’t let the Infidel Friend get under your skin,” Harris warns Ryan.

  “I wouldn’t dare go under his skin,” I shoot back, “that shit looks fucked up.”

  Clement snickers again.

  Ryan doesn’t seem angry, but he does appear to be deeply confused. What the hell is he thinking about?

  The hallway is insanely long. On either side, enclaves open up, little dugouts full of bones. The numbers of the dead here are mindboggling, particularly considering how many paths there were leading out of the stadium chamber. Could they all be so full of bones?

  My ankle limbers a little as we go, but as the pain recedes, my need to shit returns. Fortunately, I’m not alone in this regard.

  “We far enough to piss yet?” Fin asks.

  “Yes,” Durgan answers.

  “Little help?” I ask, offering my bonds forward.

  Ryan goes to untie me but after a few attempts, can’t. What’s worse is that, unlike Fin, he doesn’t even seem to know where to start. At first I think he’s getting some petty revenge, but the look of consternation on his face is so complete I begin to suspect he’s earnest.

  Man, Soulfall has these people good and deeply messed up.

  He leaves to go shit in the bone pile.

  Keith eventually returns and lets me free.

  I accept the pain of hobbling into the next enclave, a fresh enclave, before beginning to relieving myself.

  I squat amongst the bones.

  “. . . that’s bullshit!” Clement’s uncontrolled voice reaches me from the next enclave. “You saw him blow his brains out, right there in front of us.”

  Whoever he’s talking to hushes him harshly. I cock my head to one side and listen, but their whispers are just too soft.

  It does not take long, though, before Clement gets agitated again.

  “Of course it was suicide!” he says.

  Fin’s voice is the one that replies, equally agitated. “I’m telling you, I felt it. It’s following us. It’s driving us crazy, one by one. Ryan’s probably next. We’re cursed. I think that’s why Keith is pushing so hard to get us to the Angel—”

  Their quiet voices are interrupted by Harris’ sharp words. “I can’t hear myself shit. Keep it down.”

  They become silent.

  They’d mentioned that Angel before, but it can’t really be a white-robed, harp and wings Angel, can it? How much of that Christian mythology is actually true?

  I ponder this while I try my best to shit.

  My ankle swells into its wraps every time I push, which is annoying. The first part of my bowel movement is almost constipated, but the remainder is fairly explosive.

  “Guess you got the beans too, huh?” Harris mocks me, and I’m surprised to see he’s moved to the hallway.

  I feel like I should have some barbed quip ready to fire back at him, but I don’t, so I let his comment pass.

  I use someone’s rib to scrape clean my asshole.

  Then I hear a sharp intake of breath from the next enclave.

  “Oh,” Clement says.

  “I know. I know.” Fin’s words hang for a moment in the cold Carrion air.

  “I believe you.” Clement’s whisper is forlorn.

  I feel my back tense in fear. The hell does Fin know that I don’t?

  Harris’ eyes narrow. “Quickly, Godslayer.”

  I limp out of the enclave.

  Fin is there, eyes red as if he’s been crying. His hands shake as he ties my wrists up.

  Harris glares at me, as if daring me to take advantage of Fin’s vulnerable state.

  My eyes bore into Fin’s face, hoping for some clue as to the context of his conversation, but all I see in him is terror.

  Then we’re off, and all I’m left with is a sense of foreboding deep in my stomach.

  It’s following us. Fin had said. It’s driving us crazy, one by one.

  After a mile, my ankle just won’t support me anymore.

  “Keith,” I say. “I have done my best. I can no longer walk.”

  He looks sad.

  Durgan comes to me and then stomps on my ankle.

  I don’t remember falling, but I’m on the ground, tears pouring out of my eyes.

  Clement is laughing a high pitched yet quiet laugh. “Not so funny now, are you?”

  I want to kill him. He’s a shithead, he’s worth nothing. A stupid motherfucking redneck. He has no right to laugh at me.

  Why? Why had Durgan done this?

  Because now that I can’t walk, he doesn’t need to worry about damaging me anymore. They have to carry me anyway.

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Like a sack of potatoes, Durgan hoists me up from the floor and tosses me across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He makes no effort to avoid bumping my ankle against the walls.

  I cry out in pain. Surely that will make him stop. He can’t afford any nearby demons hearing me.

  Durgan speaks quietly. “Shout not, Godslayer. Do so again, and I’ll remove your ability to shout with my knife.”

  Cid, please save me. Please.

  Sometimes I feel . . . like a motherless child.

  I don’t know if we’re close enough to the Erebus for shared hellsong, or if this is just the normal effect from the distant howling winds of the stadium chamber behind us, but I hear the notes clearly.

  And sometimes I feel . . . like a motherless child.

  I have to start memorizing each chamber and path if I’m to have any hope.

  But now that I’m being carried, it’s much harder to pay attention. I make a compromise with myself and agree to memorize the veins . . . but even so, I have to admit I probably won’t remember any of this.

  Ryan stops them all.

  “What’s wrong, Ryan?” Keith asks.

  “Harpy den,” he responds.

  Durgan grunts. “Not so. It has been abandoned for some time.”

  I look up to see Ryan and notice just how bad his peeling face looks.

  Poor motherfucker.

  “I smell something,” Ryan mentions.

  Dur
gan bends his head back and sniffs. “Pomegranate.”

  “Sounds tasty,” Fin says, and I shit you not, I hear his stomach rumble.

  Durgan shakes his head. “It might be enough to obscure the scent of harpies. Ryan’s right, we should go around.”

  They all stare at Durgan. How often has he been wrong? How often has Ryan been right? Something about this exchange must be very odd to elicit such a reaction.

  Durgan manages to crack my ankle against a wall on the way out, and I almost lose consciousness.

  I start thinking of information I can trade them for a reprieve.

  I sicken myself because as soon as I think of something convincing, lie or not, I’m going to give it to them. I’m supposed to be an infidel, and I shouldn’t, but I’m going to.

  Q isn’t coming.

  There is no way he could track me through the stadium chamber.

  I’ve lost faith in my ability to save myself, and no one’s coming for me.

  I don’t have a ton of experience with this crippling self-doubt thing—or rather, when I’d experienced it before, I’d had a sufficient amount of denial on hand to push through it. I’m not sure if I’ve become more adept at avoiding my own self-deception, or if the complete and total nature of just how unbelievably fucked I am is more than my poor animal brain can handle.

  Probably the latter.

  Whelp, looks like I’ll just have to step up my game.

  You’ve got this, buddy. You’re skilled. You’re smart. Everyone thinks you’re handsome. I believe in you, Cris. Be the ball. Don’t let a little damnation get you down. We’re not going to take it anymore.

  Now why the Hell didn’t I get that for hellsong?

  I need an intermediate goal. Something that I might be able to achieve in the next few hours. Something that would raise my morale.

  Durgan rams my head into a stone wall as we pass through an arch—just hard enough to hurt like hell, but not quite hard enough to make much noise.

  He’s strangely attentive to details like that.

  Something. I’ve got to do something.

  Something like strangling Durgan to death. Wights need to breathe, don’t they? Hell, I don’t know. Corpses breathe, but they don’t need to breathe—I’ve definitely seen a few without lungs. He doesn’t seem to sweat but blood goes to his head, right? A choke cuts off a person’s blood supply, and the black ichor which runs through his veins probably brings something to his brain, even if it’s not oxygen.