by Tim Waggoner
He sighed, and without turning to look at Olivia said, “Do your best to keep the van steady.”
He thought she might give him a snarky reply, but she didn’t say anything. He then pushed the button to lower the passenger-side window. It came down slowly—far too slowly, it seemed to him—and wind rushed in, bringing with it a stink that made him gag. It was the smell of rotting meat combined with the stench of fresh feces, and he knew what he smelled was the odor of the Durg. He had an insight to the creature’s nature then. It wasn’t merely a carrion eater. It was an everything eater, a thing whose sole purpose was to break down existence as swiftly and efficiently as it could. It was a servant of the Gyre, perhaps in a way even part of it, an avatar of sorts. That meant the creature was diametrically opposed to everything Maintenance stood for, and it had to be stopped—even if killing it ultimately increased entropy too. But there was no escaping entropy, no reversing it. All he could hope to do was slow it down a little, make reality last as long as possible. The Gyre was eventually going to devour everything. It was unbeatable. But it didn’t have to gulp its food. It could be made to eat more slowly, its meal seasoned by the extra time it took to ingest it. That was Maintenance’s ultimate goal, hence their slogan: Flavor to the Feast. In a universe doomed to extinction, which had perhaps been born solely for the purpose of becoming food, it was the best they could hope for.
Kevin pulled the ring to activate the extinguisher, then he rose from his seat, leaned out the open window, shouted, “Flavor to the Feast!” and began spraying foam at the Durg.
* * *
Joan put the mail on the kitchen counter along with her purse. She then got a bottle of water from the fridge, opened it, and drank the entire contents in several long swallows. Her stomach was still touchy, and the cold water hit it hard, but she kept the liquid down, and after a few moments the discomfort eased.
Hot damn! If this kept up, she might actually be able to eat something soon.
She tossed the empty plastic bottle into the recycling bin, then walked over to the counter to sort through the mail. She saved the padded envelope for last since it promised to be the most interesting. Water bill, flier for a lawn service, electric bill—which made her think of the cute guy she’d met outside—and a flier filled with coupons for places she never shopped and restaurants she never ate at. She tossed the junk mail in the recycling bin, put the bills to the side, and then finally allowed herself to examine the envelope. It was addressed to her, not to Jon and Joan or Mr. and Mrs. Lantz. Her name was written in black marker, thick strokes, all capital letters. There was something about the handwriting that seemed almost familiar, although she couldn’t say what. There was a number of colorful stamps on the envelope, depicting bright tropical flowers or lush green cacti with needles. A single word accompanied each of the images: Suriname.
She went numb at the sight of the word. She didn’t want to look at the return address, would rather have thrown the damn envelope in the trash—or better yet, take it into the backyard, put it on the gas grill, and flame on! But she looked. Written in smaller letters, but with the same ink and handwriting:
Mark Maegarr
Placidity
Republic of Suriname
She dropped the envelope onto the counter and ran to the hall bathroom. She managed to get there in time to vomit the water she’d just drank into the sink, along with a fair amount of bile. She stood there for a moment, head bowed so she wouldn’t have to look at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she wouldn’t like what she saw. Eventually, she turned on the water to rinse the sink out, took a drink from the faucet to do the same for her mouth, spit, and then returned to the kitchen. The envelope was waiting for her on the counter.
She leaned over to look at it, not ready to touch it again just yet. It looked real enough. The stamps had been cancelled and there were numerous postmarks on the envelope. And no matter how long she stared at the sender’s address, it remained the same. She didn’t see how that was possible, though. She’d only dreamed about Maegarr and Placidity last night, and she hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Jon. Not that he’d be interested. He wasn’t the imaginative type, and to him dreams were meaningless, merely night-static for the brain.
So this couldn’t be a joke. And even if she had told someone the details of her dream, how could they have faked all those postmarks, especially in so short a time? She supposed it was possible. Anything was these days. But who would go to such lengths? And again, she hadn’t told anyone about her dream, so there couldn’t be anyone.
But there was one person who could’ve done it, she realized. And in its own way, the thought was as frightening as if Maegarr had somehow sent her the envelope from beyond the grave. She could’ve done it. She could have sent it to herself. She knew she hadn’t, though. At least she had no memory of doing so. But what if she was, if not exactly crazy, somewhere in the ballpark? She could’ve sent herself the envelope, forgotten about it, and then had the dream about Placidity without knowing she had been responsible for it.
“Listen to you,” she said aloud. “You get one weird envelope in the mail and you’re ready to question your sanity. Suck it up, Buttercup.”
She picked up the envelope without hesitation, and if her hands trembled a little, so what? She tore it open with a single, sure motion, but before she could look inside, warm humid air wafted forth, bringing with it the smells of moist earth and green plants, the tang of sweat and the musk of sex. Her head swam with vertigo, and for an instant she could’ve sworn she stood in a clearing beneath the star-scatter of a clear night sky. Then the smells faded, and with them the impression that she stood anywhere but in her own kitchen. She told herself not to think about what had happened—seemed to happen—yet. Right now she needed to get this over with and see what the goddamned envelope held. She hesitated, as if afraid there was something inside that might bite her. But then she slipped her hand inside, took hold of the contents, and drew them out.
Papers. Old and yellowed, edges curled and torn in places. There was writing on them, ink scrawls done in a cramped hand, the words small and close together, as if whoever had written them wanted to cram as much information as possible onto each page. The ink was thicker in some places than others, and occasionally there were tiny dots or splotches, and she guessed whoever had composed this—clearly not the same person who had addressed the envelope—had done so with an old-fashioned fountain pen. Who knows? Given the aged condition of the paper, maybe whoever it was had used a quill. There were at least a dozen pages altogether, maybe more, all of them written by the same hand. What sort of letter was this? And why send it to her? Then she noticed the pages were numbered at the top right-hand corner, and in front of the numbers on each page were the same four words.
The Book of Masks.
She turned a page over, saw there was writing on the back. Held it up to examine it more closely, saw the ragged edge on one side, as if it had been torn from a book. All the pages had the same ragged edge. She stared at the writing on the page. It was hard to make out, but it was English. It would take a bit of effort to read, but she thought she could manage it, especially with the aid of a magnifying glass. But if she was going to make the attempt, she’d need the aid of something else as well.
She returned the pages to the envelope, set it down on the counter, and walked to the fridge. She opened it and removed a bottle of Shiraz. She’d opened it last night at dinner, but she rarely drank alcohol, only with food, and even then only half a glass or less. So the bottle, which now had a stopper in it instead of a cork, was nearly full. Wine on a touchy stomach might not be the smartest move, but there was no way she was going to read the pages without it. She put the bottle on the counter next to the envelope and opened a cupboard to get a glass. She paused, said to hell with it, and shut the cupboard. She removed the stopper and tossed it onto the counter. Then she picked up the padded envelope with one hand, grabbed the wine with the other, and headed for the bed
room.
* * *
“Broad daylight, and in the middle of the fucking street, no less. Man, you two have got some titanium balls, I’ll say that.”
Kevin didn’t know Royce Bigelow very well. He was a fiftyish African American man with a shaved head and a round face that didn’t match his slender body. He wore the Maintenance uniform, as did the other members of the Intervention Team, including smart glasses. He and his team had an additional element to their uniforms: they were all carrying 9mm Glocks in side holsters.
Kevin and Olivia stood off to the side with Royce as his people worked on cleaning up the scene. They’d placed orange traffic cones in the street around their two vans, and a man was spraying the front of Surveillance Van Number Two with an acrid-smelling chemical he carried in a red container. A rubber tube stretched from the container to a metal rod with a nozzle at the top, and the man moved it methodically back and forth as he worked the sprayer’s trigger. When the chemical hit the mixture of foam and black goo covering the van’s windshield, the mixture started to hiss and smoke, and several seconds later, it evaporated to nothing. A second team member with a sprayer worked the mess on the street in front of the van, with similar effect.
The Durg had already been sealed in a body bag and loaded into the Intervention Team’s van. The team had worn rubbers gloves to handle the creature’s corpse, and they still wore them now, Royce included. Kevin hoped the gloves were an unnecessary precaution. He was covered in so much of the Durg’s black ichor that if it was in any way toxic, he’d likely drop dead within the next few minutes.
“So you really killed the fucker with just a fire extinguisher?” Royce shook his head in wonder. “Like I said, titanium balls.”
“I sprayed foam on the windshield to loosen its grip on the van,” Kevin said. “It still managed to hold on, though, so I used the extinguisher like a club. I had to hit it a number of times before it finally let go. Olivia running back and forth over it is what killed it.”
He looked to Olivia, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She was watching the Intervention Team finish their work.
“Even so,” Royce said, “I have to hand it to you two. Taking down a Durg is no easy feat.” He gave Kevin an appraising look. “You ever think about moving up to Intervention? I think you’d be good at it.”
Now Olivia did look at him, and her dubious expression told him what she thought of his potential as an Interventionist.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Royce went on. “You’re the guy that dealt with Harris last night, right? Tough to lose a partner like that. You heard about him, right? Harris, I mean.”
Kevin shook his head.
“Crazy fucker killed himself in Holding this morning. Chewed off one of his hands when no one was watching and bled to death. His whole fucking hand. Supposedly the shit he bled looked a lot like the crap that came out of the Durg. Pretty damn nasty, huh?”
Kevin heard a voice in his ear then, and from the way everyone else suddenly paused what they were doing, he knew they did too.
“This is Erika. We’ve just received an alert that someone’s called the police and reported ‘suspicious activity.’ You’re ordered to vacate the area at once. Kevin and Olivia…” A pause. “Deanna wants to see you.”
There was a soft click as the transmission ended.
“All right, people!” Royce called out. “You heard her. Let’s go.” He turned back to Kevin and Olivia. “Good luck with Deanna.” He didn’t add You’re going to need it, but he didn’t have to. His grin said it for him.
The Intervention Team headed for the van, but one of them came over and sprayed Kevin with the foul-smelling chemical first. The substance stung his skin and made his nasal passages feel as if someone had stuck burning matches up into them.
“You should be okay,” the woman said. “Just make sure to get your eyes examined once a month and get a yearly CT scan.” She considered for a moment. “Maybe twice yearly.” And then she headed off to join the others.
“I’d shake your hand,” Royce said to Kevin, “but even with gloves on, I’m not touching that shit.”
Then he turned and jogged for his van. Once he was inside, the driver fired up the engine and roared off, leaving the traffic cones behind.
The black goo on Kevin’s power company uniform was already evaporating, but unfortunately large swaths of cloth were vanishing as well. The smell pouring off him was beyond atrocious, and Olivia’s mouth wrinkled in disgust.
“You’re riding in the back,” she said.
They ran for their van.
* * *
When a police cruiser arrived on the scene less than a minute later, all that remained were the traffic cones—half of which had been knocked over as the Maintenance vans drove off—and a large wet patch of some god-awful-smelling gunk in the middle of the street. Adelaide Fletcher had been on the Ash Creek police force for eight years, and she was used to seeing some damn bizarre shit in this town, so a few traffic cones and a strange wet spot didn’t faze her in the slightest. She collected the cones and tossed them into her cruiser’s trunk and then drove off. She didn’t bother taking a picture of the wet spot, nor did she bother to speak to the resident who’d called in the report. There wasn’t any point. Whatever had happened here, it was over. And if it was like most of the weird shit that happened in town, no one would ever learn the truth behind what had taken place. Best to drive away and move on to the next thing and hope that whatever it was, it might at least be normal.
But as Adelaide Fletcher left the neighborhood, a chunk of black goo about the size and length of an index finger—congealed Durg blood that had fallen in the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb—began to move, inching itself along like a caterpillar. It moved slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, headed in the direction of the Lantzes’ house.
* * *
When Joan had first climbed onto the bed and started reading pages from The Book of Masks, she’d taken liberal swigs of Shiraz. But she’d become caught up in the strange text and had forgotten all about the wine. She hadn’t been able to find a magnifying glass, so she had to hold the pages close to her eyes to decipher the cramped scrawl. The paper smelled of mildew, and it made her eyes water and itch and her nose run. She’d gotten a roll of toilet paper from the master bathroom and set it on the nightstand next to her. Every once and a while, she pulled off a long section and dabbed at her eyes or blew her nose. She’d taken a hit from her inhaler as soon as she’d started reading, but she’d since taken a second one, and the medicine had left her feeling jittery and on edge.
She remembered The Book of Masks from her dream, and she’d looked it up on the Internet using her phone, but she hadn’t found many references, and those she had found were maddeningly vague. They all boiled down to “largely unknown book of esoteric occult lore.”
She hadn’t learned much more from reading the pages themselves. They were all consecutive, coming from somewhere in what she guessed was the middle of the book, pages 203–218. There were references to concepts she was certain she’d never encountered before, but which seemed strangely familiar nevertheless. Things like Shadow, the Gyre, the Nightway, and the Vast. The pages also detailed a rite of some sort, the purpose of which seemed to be removing a symbolic “mask” that disguised the true nature of reality. But what the ultimate goal of this rite was remained unclear. She felt confident this rite was the same as the one that had taken place in her dream. Some of the phrasing reminded her of the lyrics to “Eat the Night,” and she wondered if Mark Maegarr had used The Book of Masks as inspiration for his work.
When she finished reading the pages, she put them back in the envelope, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She went to the bathroom to throw away the makeshift tissues and pee. She then returned to the bed and sat on the edge. She took a drink of wine and thought. She didn’t bother trying to puzzle out if the pages were authentic, and if so, how th
ey’d come to be in her possession. For reasons she didn’t understand, those questions didn’t seem important now. It almost felt like, on some deep level, she already knew the answers. No, the real question was what was she going to do with them?
The easiest course would be to put them away somewhere and forget all about them, maybe even go through with her original impulse to burn them into bits of black ash outside on the grill. It was almost as if these pages—or more accurately, the information contained in the words written on them—was dangerous somehow. As if they carried some manner of disease that exuded a harmful energy, as if they were radioactive. She felt as if she were taking a great risk by simply having them near her, let alone handling the damn things. She needed a long, hot shower, but she knew that no amount of water could wash the pages’ taint from her skin. It was not only on her, but in her, and sinking deeper with every passing moment.
Stop it! she told herself. All this shit is weird enough without your imagination making it worse.
So if she wasn’t going to destroy the pages—and she wasn’t; there would be time enough for that later—how could she use them to help understand what was happening to her?
A voice seemed to whisper in her ear then. A woman’s voice she recognized from her dream. Debbie’s voice.
The basement.
She waited to see if there would be anything else, but that was all.
The basement was definitely part of all this strangeness. So what had the voice—had Debbie—been suggesting? That she take the pages down to the basement, add two bits of weirdness together, and see what happened? She didn’t believe Debbie was real, not in the sense of being an actual individual separate from her. Debbie was only another part of herself, a character conjured by her subconscious. So whatever advice “Debbie” was trying to give her, she was really talking to herself in the end.