Shadows of Tockland

by Jeffrey Aaron Miller

  Gooty responded with another groan.

  “Something burning on the roof of my mouth,” Annabelle said. “Teeth hurt.”

  “Yeah, same here,” Telly said. “On both counts.”

  David felt his heartbeat in his temples, pounding like little needles deep into his skull. He clutched his forehead in both hands and made his way to the sink, thinking maybe some cool water on his face might help.

  “I don’t know what you lot are complaining about,” Cakey said. “I feel perfectly fine. I was sleeping like a baby until you all starting moaning and groaning and dry heaving.”

  David gathered water in his cupped hand and splashed it on his face, rubbing it into his eyes. It didn’t help. If anything, he felt worse. Even the touch of water on his skin was unpleasant. Telly kept trying to make himself vomit, jamming his fingers in his throat, but he only made retching sounds.

  “We’ve got it,” Gooty said, after a moment. “The sickness.”

  Nobody responded for a long time. David felt a fresh wave of nausea, mingled with fear, come over him.

  “How’d we get it?” Annabelle asked. “From fighting the rubes? All that blood and saliva. I knew that would do us in eventually.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gooty said. “I think he gave it to us.”

  “He…who? Hess?”

  “No,” Gooty said. “Mattock. When he gave us a drink of water.”

  Annabelle gasped.

  “Goot, old boy, I think you’re right,” Telly said, sliding off the toilet and pushing himself back to his spot on the floor. “Parasites in the pitcher of water. I'll bet he gave us a strong dose, too. That’s how he means to finish us off.”

  “So Karl was the lucky one,” Gooty said. “If it’s to be this way, it is fitting for me, at least.”

  “I’m telling you clowns, I feel perfectly fine,” Cakey said. “Wrists hurt a little from all those hours in the handcuffs, but other than that, I’m healthy as a horse.”

  “So you’ve resisted it a bit longer,” Telly said. “Good for you.”

  “He’s gonna leave us in this cell until we go mad,” Annabelle said. “Until we tear each other apart,”

  “Maybe not,” Cakey said. He rose suddenly and pressed his ear to the door. “You guys hear that?”

  Everyone got quiet. David held his breath. Outside in the corridor, he heard the sound of many booted feet. There was a loud clank, and the door swung open. Light flooded into the cell, but Cakey followed the shifting shadows, slipping back against the wall and staying out of sight. Black-uniformed officers filled the space outside the cell. Captain Helt worked his way through the crowd to stand just inside the door, a pistol clutched in his hand. He gestured with it.

  “General wants to speak to the boy,” he said.

  In the light, Telly’s face looked pasty and greenish. “Parasites in the water? Is that how your general means to finish us off?”

  “I only need the boy,” Helt said. “The rest of you keep quiet.”

  David rose, looking around. He didn’t want to go. Maybe Gooty was right. Maybe Karl was the lucky one. Three bullets and done. That seemed a lot better than a slow, painful descent into violent madness. Better, perhaps, to provoke the guards to shoot them and be done with it. For a second, he actually considered it, but, in the end, it wasn’t in him to seek death, nor to get the others killed. He moved toward the door.

  “You don’t have to go, kid,” Cakey said.

  “He does,” Captain Helt said. “The General commands it.”

  “You already poisoned him with brain worms,” Cakey said. “Not sure what else you can do to him at this point. David, if you want to stay, stay.”

  Helt pointed the pistol in the direction of Cakey’s voice, aiming into the shadows along the wall. “I can deal with you now or later, it makes no difference to me. The general wants to speak to the boy.”

  “I’ll go,” David said. “Don’t shoot anyone.”

  Helt nodded and holstered the pistol. David stepped over Telly and around Gooty. Just before he reached the door, Annabelle snagged his hand. He looked back at her. Half her face remained in shadow. He saw the welt from the rube’s club across her cheek, faded to a red streak like some misapplied makeup. She offered him a sad smile.

  “We’ll see you again,” she said.

  “Sure,” David said. “He just wants to speak to me.”

  “Just wants to speak,” she echoed, nodded once and let go of his hand.

  Captain Helt reached for his pistol again, so David turned and went to the door. The soldiers moved back, opening the way, and he stepped out of the cell. He wanted to say more to Belle and the others. What if this was his last time to see them? Some kind of farewell, some expression of gratitude—was it absurd to feel grateful to them in light of how things had turned out? He didn’t know what to say, and then the opportunity was lost. Helt closed the cell door and nudged David ahead of him.

  Outside the cell was a long corridor, tile floor, concrete walls. Cell doors lined the corridor, some closed, some open, and a stink—a mingling of sweat, old blood and fear—filled the air. At the end of the corridor was an open space that served as a guard station, small stools in either corner. David was marched, soldiers in front and behind, through the guard station and through a door into a wide open room. More guards patrolled here, moving from door to door, corridor to corridor, all armed. Every room was a flurry of activity. Through another doorway and around a corner, and they entered a low, drab room where the walls were lined with long concrete slabs. The room had been cleaned recently—the concrete was wet and glistening—but a hint of blood stains remained on at least three of the slabs. And David realized he knew this place. It was where they had taken the dead bodies.

  The door on the far side of the room had no visible handle or knob. Helt pressed his hand against the center of the door, and, with a soft click, it opened. This led back into the tiled chamber with the dais on one end. It, too, had been cleaned, and water still seeped between the tiles. David was not handcuffed, but he presented his hands to Captain Helt, expecting to be reattached to the contraption.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the captain said. “Not this time. Stand here.”

  He pointed to the middle of the room, a spot just in front of the drain hole. The soldiers spread out, taking up positions against the walls. David felt unsteady on his legs. He wanted to lean against something, but he did as he was told and moved to the center of the room. Captain Helt watched him for a moment, then nodded and left, heading back through the secret door and closing it behind him.

  David stood for long minutes, surrounded by armed soldiers, waiting for something to happen. His whole body hurt, his head felt like it was going to crack open, and the skin in his mouth felt like it was dissolving. He stuck his fingers in his mouth to check for blood, but there was none.

  Finally, the curtain parted, and General Mattock stepped out, tipping his head back so the silver star on his hat caught the light. He walked to the edge of the dais, raised his hands and nodded.

  “Boy, what is your name?”

  David cleared his throat. “David, sir. David Morr.”

  “David. Come with me.” He turned back to the curtain. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

  David went. Some of the soldiers started to follow, but the general waved them off.

  “We do not need your assistance,” he told them. “Remain here until you are summoned.”

  He passed through the curtain and was gone. David stepped up onto the dais. He might have felt more terrified—surely some strange new torment awaited him backstage—if the symptoms of sickness had not been commanding so much of his attention. He brushed the curtain aside and stepped through.

  Beyond was a small, poorly lit alcove, featureless except for the black and white tile on the floor and walls. On the far side of the alcove was a door, half-open. David moved through the door and found himself in some kind of parlor, plush couches along t
he walls, tables in the corners covered in silver platters and dishes of half-eaten foods. Banners of varying shapes and sizes, all bearing the silver star on black, covered the walls. Mattock stood next to a plush recliner, though he did not sit. The recliner was angled away from the door, but David could see the overstuffed cushions poking around the edges. As he spoke, Mattock rested one hand on the grip of one of his pistols, the other on the handle of a knife. David, not knowing where to go or what was expected of him, remained standing just inside the door, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I have not been entirely honest with you, boy,” the General said in that oddly high-pitched voice. Long face full of crags, draped all in black, he cut an imposing figure, but David could smell him, that unpleasant chemical odor, caustic in his nostrils.

  David shifted on his feet and bumped into one of the tables, knocking over a silver cup. Wine, dark as blood, trickled out. He righted the cup and steadied himself against a nearby chair.

  “I’ve had Fayette under observation for years,” Mattock continued. He took a step back and placed his hand on the headrest of the recliner. “But I was not concerned about the walls or the amassing of arms. No, what finally drew me into Fayette was a story.”

  “A story,” David echoed. He felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, like a needle working its way into his spine. He winced, clapped a hand to the back of his neck and sat down in a chair.

  “Of a kidnapped boy,” Mattock continued. “A host of evil clowns attacking decent people. Ah, the indignity of it was compelling.”

  Mattock clamped down on the headrest of the recliner and began to turn it around. And now David heard the shaky, tremulous breath, saw the hint of a pink elbow sticking out of a tattered, gray sleeve.

  “He came to the guard station on my eastern border,” Mattock said. “Pleading for help. He and the others.”

  The elbow became an arm, so fat it flowed over the cushions of the armrest like jelly. Fingers like sausages, one wrapped in a filthy bandage. And then a dirty shirt, a cheek speckled with stubble, sparse and greasy hair, a pig’s nose above thick lips. And there he sat in all his glory, as filthy as he’d ever been, stains all over his shirt, mud-covered pants and threadbare slippers on his feet. Rheumy eyes, hard but tempered with some new emotion, some animal terror, scanned the room and fixed upon David.

  “Vern,” David gasped, and he would’ve run if the sickness had not kept him in his seat.

  And now David saw the metal cuffs at Vern’s wrists and ankles, thick rings protruding out of the recliner itself, holding him fast. The contrast between the comfortable seat with its thick cushions and the cold, silver cuffs made David laugh, despite his revulsion at seeing this least-loved of all men, though it was a hoarse and unhappy laugh on the edge of madness.

  “Ah, it amuses you to see your father so,” Mattock said, and his hand slipped from the headrest down to Vern’s shoulder, his gloved fingers biting into the soft flesh there.

  “He’s not my father,” David said.

  Vern roused himself now, shifting his considerable bulk, straining against the cuffs. Then he cleared his throat and spoke. His color had never been good, always an unhealthy patchwork of splotches, so it took David a few seconds to notice the bruises. Under his right eye, beside his mouth, his left temple, the top of his head, his jaw, his neck, up and down his arms, dark patches of red and blue.

  “I’m the only father you ever had,” he said, thickly. And did he have fewer teeth? David thought so.

  “No, that’s a lie,” David said. “I had a real father, even if I never knew him. He was killed by robbers when I was a baby.”

  Vern sneered, and the bruise beside his mouth shifted his lips to one side. “No, you idiot, he was a robber. I don’t care what your Mama tolt you. She lied. Your daddy was a thief and a robber, and he got killed trying to filch jewelry from a travelling merchant. There’s the truth for you, you brat.” And he strained against his cuffs again.

  “You lie,” David spat, and the fire awoke in him. He rose from his seat and lunged across the room, despite the sudden dizziness, the ache in every muscle.

  Mattock, laughing, stepped in the way, pressed a gloved hand against David’s chest and drove him back into his seat.

  “You see why I find this story so compelling,” Mattock said, walking around behind Vern’s seat.

  David crumpled in his seat, tucking his hands under his thighs, but his whole body shook with rage. He’d always had one good thing about his childhood, one story to hold onto, and even though he had doubted it himself at times, it had meant something to him. To think that his real father had been normal, a good man, a decent man. And how dare this vile pig try to take that away from him. David wanted to tear Vern apart, rend the flesh from him, gnash at his face with his teeth, but Mattock loomed tall, a dark and ominous shape restraining him.

  “Tell the boy,” Mattock said, leaning down close to speak in Vern’s ear. Swollen ears, misshapen, like mangled bits of dried meat. “Tell him the story of your journey to Tockland.”

  Vern’s eyes, yellow and sickly, rolled about for a moment, before settling again on David. “Yeah, Cash got the Jeep working,” he said. “You didn’t think I’d follow you, Davey, did you? But I did. Got to West Fork the morning after you and your clowns left it in ruins. Them poor people, injured and bloodied and dead, and I told them. I told them about your clowns. Show’s a trick, I said. They come to take what’s yours. That’s what I said.”

  “We never did anything to those people,” David said. “They attacked us. We had to fight our way out of town.”

  “Of course you say that,” Vern said. “Take up for them, after all they done. Nearly killed me ‘n Cash. Nearly killed a whole town of poor sick people in West Fork.”

  “It’s not true,” David shouted. He lunged off his chair again, but Mattock’s hand moved toward his pistol. David sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest. “You brought the sick people to Fayette, didn’t you? You disgusting old man, you brought them there and made them attack.”

  “Not quite,” Mattock said. “He came to me. Along with some of the sick, they turned up at the eastern guard station, pleading for my help. I was contacted by radio.” He leaned down again, his face close to Vern, fingers grinding against his collarbone. “And what did I say, Vern? What did I tell you and your infected friends to do?”

  Vern’s tongue flicked out, licking his cracked and swollen lips. “Get your revenge,” he said, approximating Mattock’s high voice. “Swarm the walls of Fayette and root them out. That’s what you said, and Hess…Hess liked it. He liked it very much.”

  “An opportunity had presented itself to deal with Fayette, so I took it,” Mattock said. “I let the hordes of sick be my vanguard.” He rose, released his grip on Vern’s shoulder and came around the recliner. “Not that I bear you any ill will, boy. In fact, explicit instructions were given to take prisoner any unusual persons encountered during the operation. And here you sit, as a result.”

  Vern slammed his wrists against the handcuffs and flung his head back against the headrest. “I was the only real father you ever had, Davey! I raised you. I took care of you!”

  “You beat me,” David said. “Punched me, kicked me, called me names.”

  “I put a roof over your head,” Vern shouted, thrashing against his restraints. “Food on your plate!”

  “You took away my books,” David replied. “You never let me own anything. You only allowed me a few years of schooling.”

  “I taught you discipline, boy. I taught you to be a man!”

  “You taught me to hate you. You taught me to hate myself.” David’s voice broke, and tears clouded his vision. He wiped them away angrily.

  Vern started to say something else, but General Mattock cut him off. “It’s a tiresome story, after a while,” he said. He clenched his left hand into a fist and pressed it against his chest. “We have heard what you had to say, Vern of Mountainburg, and we begin to
lose interest.” And with that, he spun, thrust his fist out and punched Vern in the face. Vern’s head rocked back, and his nose exploded, spattering blood from his forehead to his stomach. The recliner tipped backward and would have fallen, but Mattock caught it and righted it.

  Vern uttered a last weak moan, his head flopped to one side, and he said no more. Despite the anger, like acid coursing through his veins, David felt a moment of numb horror. Vern’s nose had been smashed flat and pushed to one side, and a white knob of cartilage poked through one nostril, as the blood poured down. Mattock wiped the knuckles of his glove off on the armrest. Then he turned the recliner around, mercifully blocking Vern from view.

  “I wanted you to hear the story,” Mattock said. “But we needn’t bother with him anymore.” He approached David, his hands sliding back down to the array of weapons on his belt. “And what about you, David? What do you say for yourself?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” David said. “Vern lied about us. We didn’t attack those people in West Fork. We had to defend ourselves. We had to—”

  Mattock raised his hand. “I don’t care about any of that. Tell me, how long have you been with this—what did the little one call it—this Klown Kroo?”

  David tried to think. How long had it been? It felt like months, years, it felt like he had known those people all his life, but as he counted backward, he realized how very brief his time had been. “About a week,” he said, after a moment. “Feels like a lot longer. Sort of lost count of days.”

  Mattock nodded. “You are new to them. That was my guess.”

  “Yes, sir,” David said.

  Mattock had a settled expression, calm, the tone of his voice warm, almost genial, but looking into his eyes, David could only think of poor Karl, his blood and brains on the floor. And here was the man responsible. Here the man who had poisoned Annabelle, who had poisoned them all. David tasted the acid in the back of his throat, felt it burning in his guts. But he knew he couldn’t let his feelings show. His life hung by a thread.

  “Let me tell you my story, David, if you’ll hear it.”