She absently massaged the wound on her neck, tracing the branched line with her fingers. She didn’t remember getting it, but perhaps that wasn’t such a surprise, she was still discovering bruises and cuts all over her body. Stranger were the bits of blood she found beneath her nails. She wiped her face dry with the back of her hand, turned on the small lamp next to her cot and took a sip of water, trying to stifle the tickle growing in the back of her throat. The police had given her a small room at the station, letting her get what rest she could before questioning her further. With her wardrobe lost aboard the ship, one of the officers had lent Desdemona his wife’s clothing, including the now sweat soaked nightgown that clung to her frame. She pulled away the blanket and screamed at the sight of the small puddle of blood that had formed between her legs.
She tumbled out of the cot and crawled across the floor as if she could retreat from the sight. All around her the walls began to whisper her name, a thousand voices— her mother’s, her father’s—calling out to her, repeating over and over again: “He is here. He is here.”
“No, no, no. Please, God, please—” Desdemona sobbed. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples as a sharp pain stabbed from the center of her mind, threatening to rip her skull in half. She started coughing violently until blood speckled her chin. The scar on her neck grew crimson, squirming madly as if it were trying wrench itself free of her skin. Her body twitched and writhed violently as if something were clawing up inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and grew black as a smile curled her lips. “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh!” she screeched in a voice that was no longer her own. The nightmare had begun.
• • •
Daniel Rohn scratched at the stubble on his neck as another body was trucked into the morgue. At last count there was over three hundred, but that was hours ago, and more bodies kept flowing in. Though “remains” was a more accurate term, the carcasses shredded beyond anything recognizable as a human body. There was a time Rohn would have been disturbed by the unending stream of dismembered corpses, but that was a long time ago. Now all he felt was exhaustion.
“Where do you want this one?” one of the uniformed officers asked, pulling back the cotton cover to reveal the torn visage of a man in what Rohn guessed was his late sixties. Most of the man’s right cheek had been ripped off, giving him a twisted, angry grin. His eyes had been gouged out, the sockets red and black pits.
“Any identification?”
The officer snorted. “Right.”
Rohn sighed and jotted down a description in his notepad before slipping a tag on the victim’s toe. “Drop him over there with the other males. You might need to start piling them up.”
“Wonderful,” the officer grumbled as took the body deeper into the morgue.
“Don’t bitch to me. I’m the one who’s gonna have to try putting them all back together again,” he retorted under his breath. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…”
“Um, excuse me?”
Rohn looked up to find a man and woman standing in the doorway, their hands clasped. The woman was a beautiful blonde who’d look at home at a high society ball, while the man had a face that belonged on a wanted poster.
“Can I help you?”
“We—We’re here to, uh…” the man stuttered, his eyes glassy and red.
“We’re here to identify a body from the Bartlett,” the woman finished.
Rohn flapped his arms. “Take your pick, we’ve got plenty. What do you want? Male or female?”
The woman walked over to Rohn, a thin smile on her lips. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I talk to you for minute, Mister…?”
“Rohn,” he answered, pursing his lips.
“Right. Mr. Rohn.” She grabbed him by the tie and pulled him down. “My husband just lost his mother to this tragedy, so you better show some goddamn respect or so help me I will make sure the next body they tag is yours.” She twisted the tie. “You get me?”
“Yeah, I get you!” Rohn coughed.
The woman smiled sweetly and let him go.
“Jeez, lady,” he swore, adjusting his tie. This was just what he needed right now. “Fine, what’s the victim’s name, I’ll see if she’s on the list.”
“Margaret Brown.”
Rohn scratched his cheek as he flipped through the pages. “She might be here, but a lot of these folks came without any I.D.,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need a description or something. How old was she?”
“Early fifties,” the woman answered.
“Fifty four,” the man corrected absently, leaning heavily against the doorway.
Rohn felt he should apologize but couldn’t find the words or the desire. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but it probably wasn’t anything good. He gestured toward the other side of the morgue. “She might be over there,” he said as kindly as he could manage. “We’re still getting more in, so if she isn’t here, she might be soon.” If she isn’t floating around in the water, he didn’t say.
The man nodded in muted understanding as the woman took his arm.
“Come on, hon,” she whispered, eyeing Rohn with contempt as they walked to the other end of the morgue. “It’ll be all right.”
Rohn sighed when the couple was out of earshot and waited for the next body to come in.
• • •
Wilfred sat hunched over the counter, carefully sipping at his coffee, bitter heat dancing angrily over his tongue. His body ached, muscles trembling as much from the cold as fatigue. Frankie had insisted on him getting some sleep, but Wilfred had refused, only risking closing his eyes for a second. Any longer and the memories would come rushing in like water from a broken dam.
At least, they felt like memories. When he closed his eyes he saw visions of pain, blood, and screams. He saw his hands indiscriminately tear apart the flesh and bone of men, women, and children—but they weren’t his hands, not really, as if his mind had been switched with someone else’s.
“This is bad, ship crashing into ol’ Lady Liberty like that,” a dockworker commented, pipe clenched in his teeth. He was seated across from another man, plates piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast between them. “They’re gonna start asking questions about the docks, just you wait and see.
“The hell that ship have to do with us?” the other man asked, his mouth full of bacon.
“That ain’t the point, man,” the pipe smoking man said, slamming his palm onto the table. “You know how they are.”
“Who’s ’they?’”
“Them! The people on top, the crazies in masks. Them! They’re like sharks, they smell blood in the water and it’s a feedin’ frenzy.”
“You ever actually seen a shark?” the other man scoffed.
“How’s that coffee?” Frankie said. Wilfred jumped in his seat, almost knocking over his cup. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
Wilfred shook his head, unconsciously scratching at the scar on his neck. “No, it’s fine. Coffee’s great, thank you.”
“Piss is what it is, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same,” Frankie chuckled. He scooped up a forkful of eggs and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s good to see you talking though. For a while there you seemed like you were in another world. You remember anything else?”
Wilfred’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Blurs,” he lied. “You know, nothing but colors and shapes. And screams.”
“Hmm,” Frankie sounded, his mouth full of food. He gestured to the men seated by the window. “You hear what they were saying? About the boat that hit Lady Liberty’s island? Rumor has it was screaming when it did. Screaming like the devil himself was onboard. Think it might be that you’re remembering?”
Wilfred frowned in reply, his head aching. He wouldn’t look outside, couldn’t. The ship made the hairs on his neck stand on end, made him sweat and shiver all at once; just the thought of it—
He put down his coffee and grimaced. His body began to tremble, from his chest ou
t to his arms and legs, the scar on his neck throbbing. Bile rose in his gut. He could hear someone whispering to him in the distance, calling him, pulling him away.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he heard himself ask.
Frankie gave him a wary look. ’“Round back.”
Wilfred stumbled from his stool, knocking his coffee off the counter, black liquid and porcelain scattering over the floor. He mumbled an apology and staggered into the narrow restroom, locking the door behind him. He turned on the faucet and threw water on his face. He started coughing, at first a soft tickle in the back of his throat, growing more and more violent until blood started speckling the sink. He looked at the grime covered mirror and saw the scar on his neck turn a deep crimson, squirming beneath his skin like a worm struggling to burst free. A sharp pain stabbed at the center of his forehead as if his skull were threatening to cleave itself in half. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples in hopes of containing it, but it was no use. He could feel something climb up inside him, latching onto his bones and pulling itself up from the darkest pits. Wilfred’s eyes rolled back in his head and turned black.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh!” he screamed through crimson lined teeth.
Between visions of blood and violence, Wilfred saw a twisted, drowned city grow around him. A thousand voices living and dead called his name, begging for release. And at the very center, he could see a creature looming over it all, waiting and dreaming. Its wings stretched out, its tentacled face writhing as its eyes opened and saw straight through him to the monster he was.
“Ul’prah” he screamed. “Iä! Iä! Nroac shrnek!”
His eyes suddenly cleared and his legs gave way as he slumped to the ground, shivering. “God, oh God.” He pulled himself up on the sink and tossed handfuls of water over his face to wash away the blood.
Someone knocked at the door. “You okay, son?”
In a moment of panic, Wilfred rushed out of the bathroom and crashed into Frankie, knocking the older man to the ground.
“Sorry, sorry,” Wilfred murmured before running out of the diner, his feet moving as fast as they could. Voices began to whisper in the back of his mind, calling his name, telling him to find “her,” to find the “Keystone.” He swatted around his head, desperate for relief. He pinched his eyes shut, the voices growing louder, the visions becoming more and more—
“Hey, watch it!” a woman shouted as Wilfred nearly rammed into her.
Wilfred skidded to a stop and gazed at the woman, her hair red like fire. There was a sharp buzzing in the back of his head. He stumbled back, unable to look away.
“There a problem, buddy?” the woman’s blond friend asked.
“No… No,” Wilfred mumbled as he dropped his gaze to the ground and walked away.
“What the hell was his problem?” he heard the woman ask.
“Probably on reefer.”
The voices in Wilfred’s head grew louder, screaming at him. He dropped to the floor as something latched onto his mind and burrowed in. His eyes grew black and a smile curled his lips. “Jean Farrell…” he whispered with another’s voice. “The Keystone.”
Chapter 4
SURVIVOR’S GUILT
KEN WATCHED the seagulls circle overhead; their screeching calls sounding like screams. The docks smelled of oil, liquor, trash, and sweat, a pungent mixture that nested deep in his nostrils. He lit himself a cigarette, his sixth of the day, which—considering the hour—was a feat that would make a lesser man proud. All around him burly, unwashed men worked, cursed, and argued, though at times it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. A sharp wind cut through and Ken buttoned up his jacket. Despite the distance, the Bartlett seemed to fill his vision, towering up and extending out, a bruise in the water. It made him nervous. Hell, it made the whole city nervous. He could feel it in the air, like a cold snap before a storm. Dark days ahead, he thought, though he wasn’t sure why. He supposed he’d call it a premonition, if he believed in that stuff.. .and after working with the Lama so long, he was beginning to.
“I’s donno mo tha whatcha see thr,” a dockhand said in a cacophony of slurs before spitting out a wad of phlegm into the water.
“Big damn ship hits the biggest damn landmark in the city,” Jean said, waving a vexed a hand toward Liberty Island, “and you don’t know anything?”
The dockworker shook his head and returned to wrapping rope. “Didn’ hit the Empi’ Sta’, di it?”
Jean sighed and looked to a hunchback grizzled thing that claimed to be a man. “And you? You know nothing too?”
“Just work ’ere,” he said, tossing aside a crate.
“But the Bartlett was supposed to dock here,” Jean said, pointing down as if it proved her point. “Someone has to know something!”
The second man shook his head like a man fighting with his wife. “All I know, Miss, is whatever happened ain’t good and I want no part.”
“Useless,” Jean huffed as she pounded past Ken.
‘You know what I want to say,” he said following after her.
“Then don’t.” She walked for a few feet before angrily kicking a pile of rope. “Dammit! He makes it look so damn easy.”
“Vigilanting?” he asked, rubbing his eyes in a vain effort to push away the exhaustion.
Jean frowned. “Is that a word?”
“Sounds like one,” Ken shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We’re still technically apprenticing the trade. Besides, he has that whole crazy green costume and that red belt… thing.” He puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. “You ever realize how many times we say green?”
“I try to say jade every so often to mix things up,” Jean said, though her mind was elsewhere. “Dammit, I need a drink.”
“It’s not even eleven in the morning and you’re looking for a drink. There’s a name for that.”
“I didn’t really sleep,” she retorted as she snaked her way through the unending bustle, “so technically, for me, this has all been one long, wild night.”
Ken raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t they all?”
She looked back at him and smiled. “Only when you’re around, Blondie.”
Something caught the corner of his eye, a shadow shifting besides a pyramid of crates. “You know some of us actually like sleep,” he said absently as he looked closer. He could just make it out, a man hunched over, watching them like a savage in a Tarzan film. Ken felt his hair stand on end.
“What’s the hold up, movie star?” Jean asked when she realized Ken had fallen behind.
He waved her over and pointed his cigarette at the man.
“You think we’re being followed?” Jean whispered with more excitement than Ken cared for.
“That or I’m just jumpy.”
“God, I hope so. Means we’re on to something, whatever it is we’re on to.” She hooked her arm with his and pulled him along, careful not to look back over her shoulder. She slipped her free hand into her jacket and unhooked the clasp on her holster. “Come on, let’s see if he stays on us.”
Ken’s eyebrows pinched together. “Who talks like that?”
Jean scoffed. “Redheads who save the world, obviously.”
“You’ve never saved the world,” he retorted.
“Saved your ass more than a few times.”
Ken rolled his eyes. “You just like to keep pouring salt on the wound, don’t you?
“It’s why I always carry a salt shaker,” she said with a nod.
“You frighten me, Farrell.”
“At least I’m consistent. He still on us?”
Ken glanced over his shoulder as they turned a corner. He could just make the man’s face out. Besides a long branched scar in his neck, he looked nondescript, though there was something unsettling about his eyes. “Like a mosquito.”
“Good. This way,” she said, pulling him into an alleyway.
Ken tossed his cigarette and grabbed his sidearm. Such an odd thing, a gun, he reflected, that some
thing so small could decide the course of events with a single bit of metal. He had grown so accustomed to them since joining up with the Lama, he sometimes forgot there had been a time when the only weapons he handled shot blanks. The question he kept coming back to was whether he was playacting the hero or the actor. But now was not the time for woolgathering. He pressed himself up against the wall while Jean moved against the opposite side, the hammer of her gun already cocked. Through the shadows he could see the slight curl of a smile on her lips. She enjoyed this too much for it to be healthy.
“You’re sure he was following us, Clayton?” she whispered.
Ken ignored her and kept his eyes on the street when he heard something move behind them. He turned around to find the hunched silhouette of their stalker watching them from the other end of the alleyway.
“What the hell? How did he—?” Ken breathed. He looked to Jean, her face steeled over. He held up a hand for her to stay back, which Jean pointedly ignored.
“Hey! Hey, buddy!” Jean shouted, stepping forward, her gun raised. “It ain’t polite to follow a guy and his gal, especially when they’re armed.”
The man’s head cocked unnaturally to the side, a puppet whose string had been cut. Ken could hear him breathing; short rattling, phlegm filled gasps of a drowned man. Unconsciously raising his own gun, Ken moved closer, his muscles twitching.
“You didn’t answer my question, pal. Don’t make me ask—” Jean let out a gasp as the man turned to face her.
A low-pitched growl rolled from the man’s throat as a manic smile stretched across his tattered visage. Bloody bits of flesh hung off his face in long strips, his eyes pitch black. Large chunks of skin hung from beneath his nails while the branched scar on his neck throbbed violently.
“Keystone…” he hissed, his breath misting in the air. He let out an undulating scream and rushed at her. Jean tried to jump aside, but the man was faster and was on her before she could break away. She managed to fire off a shot, the bullet slicing through the man’s side. Unaffected, he grabbed her wrist and twisted violently. She screamed as the gun fell from her hand.
The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) Page 5