The Brotherhood of the Wheel

by R. S. Belcher

  “Hello?” Ava said, her voice cracking a little from fear as she took another step down. “Agnes sent me. She said you might be able to help me.… I feel stupid as fuck talking to an empty basement.” She paused on the fourth step; there was a creaking sound below her. For a heart-stilling instant, she thought it was movement below in response to her calling out. She realized what it really was a second too late to do anything about it.

  The lower half of the staircase to the basement disintegrated, cracking and splintering as it collapsed. Ava fell. She had time to squeak in fear and surprise before she hit the floor, hard. There was a hammer blow of pain and pressure on the back of her head and a brilliant nova of white light behind her eyes. The dark basement was nothing compared with the blackness inside her head as it swallowed her.

  * * *

  At some point, she became aware again, but she couldn’t move. There was stuff on top of her, and she was cold and her head hurt. That was her last thought for a while, then she was back again. She focused on the white Bic lying in front of her face. She watched it for a time and then went away for a little while. She couldn’t tell how long. She slowly began to try to get up. She pushed the boards and rotted wood off her. There was some light in the basement. It came from a few narrow, filthy windows high on the basement walls near the weed-choked lawn. Each window was only a few feet wide and long. They were covered in a greasy film of dust, grime, and cobwebs.

  “Thanks for the help,” she mumbled to the basement as she began to sit up. Nothing seemed broken, but plenty was sore and a few things stung, as if they had been cut or scratched. Her head hurt, but she didn’t think it was serious. Alana could have told her, if Alana were still alive. She had dropped about five feet when the stairs caved in. She had gotten lucky; she laughed as the thought crossed her mind. She struggled to stand, groaning. The light outside was dimmer than it had been, even through the filth on the windows. It was late in the day, and the shadows were growing longer. Soon they would swallow the light. I must have been out longer than I thought. Shit!

  The scent of wood smoke was strong, clawing at Ava’s nose and throat. A rancid, sour smell, like greasy, rotten meat, was there, too. The smells mingled with the dust and the mold and made Ava feel as if she was coated by them.

  There were shelves here, as in Agnes’s basement, but these were overturned, and many had been devoured by fire, as had their contents. They were set up in rows, almost like a library or a pantry, and those that had fallen had knocked other shelves over as well, like dominoes. Ava moved between the maze of shelves and found a small cluster that hadn’t fallen. She stepped between them and saw the well and the body.

  The well looked exactly the same as the one in Agnes’s basement, including the capstone with the symbol of a circle and two crescents. On top of the capstone was a skeleton, its back resting on top of the symbol, its yellowed skull, jaw agape, looking up at the rafters. Several ragged holes broke the pattern of the rib cage, and the sternum had been reduced to powder by the force of an impact. Old, dark stains had seeped into the capstone and the strange symbol that adorned it. Ava stepped closer, hesitant—half expecting the old bones to rise up, those hollow orbits, filled with shadow, to regard her as the figure climbed off the well and lurched toward her.

  A flash of fading sunlight caught her eye, and she saw that the shelves had also hidden a basement door. The door was broken and had numerous holes in it, which were covered in scraps of patchwork wood. A few slivers of daylight were slicing through the cracks. Ava pushed against the door and felt it give a little and then hold. She could see the silver hasp of a padlock on the other side of the door through the small crack between the jamb and the door.

  There was a creaking sound on the floorboards above her head—footsteps. For a second, Ava hoped it was Agnes, come to rescue her. Then she heard other footsteps follow; it was several people. She suddenly envisioned the Scode brothers finding her trapped in the basement, and dizzy panic vomited over her. The footsteps moved toward the open basement door and the demolished steps. She could hear shuffling and little sounds of movement now from the open doorway above. The pressure was building in her, a blind panic, like the night the shadow men killed Alana and Gerry—instinct kicking in, running like a terrified animal in the darkness. She moved to the basement door, picked up an old hammer handle off an intact shelf, and thought of desperately trying to pry the door open, to pop the lock’s hasp, or to scream and tear at the old wood patches, to get out, get out!

  Her fingers brushed the well’s capstone—cool, ancient rock under her fingertips. A calm settled over her, water quenching the wildfire of fear and panic. She had felt this way the night she ran, the night she survived and met Agnes. The panic was pushed down, deep below, controlled. Ava knew—she knew, as she knew how to breathe—what she had to do to survive and to triumph. Some distant part of her, half remembered from a childhood dream, knew as well.

  She took the hammer handle, chucked up on it like a baseball bat, and knelt low near the lip of the well. Her eyes locked with those of the skeleton on the well, and in that instant Ava felt a strange and unexplained kinship with the dead woman. She didn’t even know how she knew, but she was certain this had been a woman.

  There was the wooden moan of the damaged stairwell, and then the soft thud of feet hitting the basement floor—again, again, again. There were five of them. The daylight was bleeding out of the room, but there was still enough for Ava to make them out as she slipped her glasses back on.

  They were children, all wearing baggy jeans, high-top sneakers, and hoodies, concealing their faces in shadow. They made Ava think of monks. There were two girls and three boys. The children weren’t talking, but Ava thought she heard an odd sound passing among them—like dead winter leaves, blowing. Some hardwired instinct told her not to stand up or say hello. These weren’t kids, not innocent children. They were … wrong … dangerous. She held the hammer handle tighter, her knuckles whitening.

  One of the children was being held up by two of the others. He appeared to be in great discomfort, doubling over, wincing in pain, and making very human sounds of distress. That was when Ava saw their eyes, and she knew that her gut reaction had saved her life. Dark, lifeless pools of midnight peering out of innocent faces—reptile eyes, shark eyes. The child-creature screamed in pain, showing rows of needle teeth. It was a human voice, though, and deeper than Ava expected. All these kids looked to be in their early to mid teens. The one hurting seemed to be the oldest—maybe sixteen, seventeen. He screamed again and clutched his stomach with both hands, falling to his knees. The other children stepped back a few paces and formed a ring around him. The boy writhed and made a lot of noise. Whatever was happening to him, it was getting worse.

  Ava’s attention was locked on the spectacle happening in the last dingy motes of light her eyes could clutch. She felt a cool hand slip over her mouth and a presence slide up beside her. She screamed, but the hand was tight; it allowed for nothing to escape. She looked over and saw Agnes’s disapproving scowl. The old woman’s eyes demanded silence. Agnes nodded in the direction of the basement door, and Ava saw that it was partly open now, the outside lock gone.

  The child howled again, and both women looked. He was on his hands and knees, convulsing. There was a sound like stitches being ripped from fabric, and the boy’s body began to jerk. The back of the hoodie split cleanly and fell away. The boy’s back was pale and waxy; his hair was the color of sand. There was another sick, tearing sound, like meat being pulled from a bone. A slit tore in the boy’s back, along his spine. The boy stopped screaming; he crouched there, mindless, shuddering, mute. He seemed almost to sag. Inky, black fingers wriggled up out of the slit and clutched each side. They pulled, and the boy’s body seemed to slip away as effortlessly as the fabric of his clothing. A featureless head appeared through the widening slit. The skin wrinkled and sloughed off, and a being made entirely of shadow crouched in the puddle of smoking, evaporating skin, bor
n in the instant the sun died. The shadow person stood, and the four Black-Eyed Children bowed their heads.

  Agnes grabbed Ava, pulling her up. The girl was shuddering in terror, and, truth be told, so was Agnes. They moved toward the door, only a few feet to go. All of Agnes’s training was humming inside her. It had been a long time, but nothing helped you recall old skills like the chemical anthem of “fight or flight” thudding in your blood. Ava was moving, but shuffling—she was numb, clumsy with fear at what she had just seen. They were at the door, and Agnes was slowly, carefully opening it. There was a random sound, a small sound, but it was enough. The shadow person and the Black-Eyed Kids all turned and saw the two women in one horrible, frozen instant of a nightmare. Ava almost peed herself, but instead brandished the hammer handle. Agnes pushed her through the basement door as she raised her Mauser and began to fire at the hissing BEKs, who were already launching themselves toward her, bouncing off overturned shelves as they bounded forward.

  “Run, dear,” Agnes said calmly, as her bullets exploded in two of the small fanged creatures. They screamed and fell with ragged, burning holes in their chests. The newborn shadow person strode toward her silently. She could hear Ava running up the crumbling concrete steps outside the basement door. She closed the door and began to run back up the stairs, her legs already weak and trembling from the exertion; once, she could have run all night, but no more. Night had fallen, and they were very far from home. Far from Dennis, alone in his bed, helpless, dead if anything happened to her.

  “Oh shit!” she heard Ava say behind her. “Shit!”

  The shadow person slid through the narrow gap in the basement door. Agnes fired as she reached the top of the stairs. The shadow person hissed as the tracer bullets hit it and turned it to smoke. Agnes spun to see what had Ava so panicked, fearing that she already knew. She was right. The backyard of the manor was full of shadow people standing silent and still—dozens of them. More were dislodging themselves from the branches and trees of the forest that was encroaching on the edge of the manor grounds.

  “Ava, dear, language,” Agnes said, even as she did the math. She didn’t have enough bullets, certainly not enough time to reload. “Run, run for the road, run for the house. Care for Dennis.” Agnes started firing, dropping a shadow with each bullet, making each round count. Her breath was deep and even, and she controlled it as she squeezed each shot, just as old Wild Bill Donovan had taught her so long ago. She might be able to buy the girl time, time enough to live. Another shot, another shadow flaring, churning into smoke. She felt a hand on her shoulder. A hiss and a sulfur sting, like a match, bit her nose. Brilliant red light pushed back against the darkness.

  “Bullshit!” Ava screamed, swinging the road flare that she had transferred from Alana’s bloody bag to her own at the swarm of shadows closing in on them. The creatures backed away from the light, silently. “You can take care of Dennis. You run, old lady, run your ass off! Come on!”

  Agnes couldn’t help smiling. She ran, headed down the drive toward the road, firing behind her as she did. They stumbled, almost tripping and falling on the slippery cobblestones choked with weeds. If one got close to them or tried to flank them, Ava swatted at it with the flare. She hit several and saw them melt into black smoke. They reached the pavement of the two-lane and started to run. Agnes tried to reload as she bounced along the hard road, her knees and ankles screaming in painful protest. Her lungs were starting to burn. Ava, in her athletic shoes and with her youthful legs, could have been halfway up the road by now. She wasn’t; she stayed right beside Agnes, dropping back to hold the line and give her a few extra feet to run. The young girl seemed angry, furious. The fear was gone, replaced now by something stronger.

  “Come on, you bastards!” Ava screamed. “Come on! You’re not getting anyone tonight. You hear me, you fuckers—no one!” Agnes fired the pistol again and again and destroyed a few more. She was almost out of bullets. They ran down the center of the two-lane, pursued by dozens of silent shadows, more spilling out from the darkness on either side of the road. It was like being chased by the night itself.

  “I can’t keep running,” Agnes gasped, and fired again. Ava wondered how many of the castaway citizens of Four Houses were hearing the gunfire, the screams? How many were witnessing her and Agnes’s last stand on the two-lane from the safety of their bright homes, behind curtains?

  “Help!” Ava screamed. “Somebody help us, please!”

  The night was silent.

  Agnes fell. A slight gasp escaped her lips as she scraped her hands and knees on the asphalt. Ava knelt beside her, waving the flare as the shadow people swarmed toward them. Ava picked up the Mauser. She had never fired a gun in her life. Agnes gripped the young girl’s arm with her bloody hand and squeezed gently. “It has been an honor,” the old woman said. Ava nodded and stood beside the old woman, flare in one hand, pistol in the other. The shadows were legion.

  There was a rumble, far off down the highway, echoing. Brilliant twin halogen stars of blue-white light came into view; it was headlights! The car was upon them in seconds—it must have been going over a hundred miles an hour. The high beams ripped through the army of shadow people, turning them to black steam and scattering the few that managed to avoid the accursed light. The car screeched to a stop only yards from Ava and Agnes, pinning them in the headlights. The engine rumbled like an angry steel god of thunder. The driver’s door opened, and both women squinted to make out their rescuer past the wall of light.

  “You two need a lift?” Lovina Marcou asked.

  EIGHTEEN

  “10-20”

  Cecil Dann, FBI special agent in charge, stepped into an interrogation room in the Atlanta Police Department. Jimmie Aussapile was alone in the room, deprived of his baseball cap, his belt, and even his chaw. An empty Styrofoam cup sat in front of the trucker, and he was sitting back in his chair, napping. When the door opened, Jimmie yawned and sat up.

  “Took your sweet time,” Jimmie said.

  Dann took the chair across from Jimmie and sat down. “You’re lucky I came at all,” he said. “You and your friends are in a hell of a lot of trouble—suspicion of murder, possibly kidnapping, firing on police officers, high-speed chases, reckless endangerment on the highway. You just bring a shit-storm around with you wherever you go, don’t you, Aussapile?”

  “How soon they forget,” Jimmie said. “I handed you the Marquis a week ago, remember, Cecil? I’m trying to stop another one, and I need your help.”

  “It’s not your job to stop them,” Dann said. “Your job is to deliver produce, or batteries, or Tampax. Your job is to drive a truck. You’re not a cop, Aussapile.”

  “We do what the cops can’t do, what the FBI and the CIA and the NSA and everyone else who thinks they’re such a BFD can’t,” Jimmie said.

  “And again with the ‘we,’” Dann said. “I’m tired of you jerking me around. Who is ‘we’? Who hacks the Justice Department’s systems and leaves no trace? Who can access my secure, encrypted phone? Who knows the things you people know? Who are you?”

  “The good guys,” Jimmie said. “And we need your help, because you’re a good guy, too, Cecil. It’s really that simple.”

  “Nothing is that simple,” Dann said. “Anyone who thinks it is isn’t just a fool but, in this kind of work, they’re a dangerous fool. I’m done getting stuck with the check for you ass clowns.” Dann stood and walked to the door.

  “The Pagan,” Jimmie said. Dann paused, his hand on the knob. He released it and turned.

  “Ancient history,” Dann said.

  “You never caught him,” Jimmie said. “He’s still out there, making you guys look like ass clowns every time he kills another victim.”

  Dann sat down again. “The Pagan is dead or wearing a diaper somewhere in a nursing home. He’s got fans who study the cases on the Investigation Discovery Channel and read the paperbacks, and a few of them are batshit enough to go copycat.”

  “He’s one
man,” Jimmie said. “He doesn’t age normally, and we were damn close to catching him. I need your help to stop him. Please.”

  The trucker and the federal agent stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Dann stood again and walked out the door. On the other side of the door was a door off from the hall. Dann knocked on it and stepped inside. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, had an old, worn couch and a few metal folding chairs. There was a desk, and above the desk was the two-way window on the other side of the mirror in Jimmie’s interrogation room. A speaker hung on the wall above the window. A tall, muscular man with a shaved head and a goatee leaned against the table, his back to Jimmie. The lanyard around his neck held his Atlanta PD detective’s badge and credentials identifying him as Captain Lewis Keegan. “Well, that was worth the plane trip down from DC, huh?” Keegan said to Dann, who smiled and shut the door. “I have to say, I’m surprised you came down at all, Agent Dann.”

  “Aussapile and I have a brief but colorful history,” Dann said, nodding toward the trucker, who had gone back to sleep in his chair. “Have you got the phone call yet?”