Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

by David Niall Wilson

  Johnson and Ezekiel stood before a huge video monitor. On the screen, Angus stood, disheveled and coated in sweat, before one of the white walls. He held a dry erase marker in his hand, poised. Behind him, the woman lay back across the table, spent. It was difficult not to stare at her; something in the aspect of her pose gave her a sensuality her street-urchin attire and schizophrenic actions had hidden. She did not look at Angus, but instead stared back at them through the monitor, as if well aware her naked flesh was on camera and reveling in the attention.

  "My God," Ezekiel said. "Who is she?"

  "You know who she is. You know what she is. What neither of us knew was how profoundly real she would turn out to be."

  "She calls herself Prine?" Ezekiel asked absently.

  "I think we may have been mistaken. It sounded like Prine, and we have assumed that to be correct, but upon closer examination of the original document, I believe she is called…Prime."

  "It's her last name?"

  "It's her only name."

  "My God."

  "Not exactly, but…wait! He's writing."

  On the screen Angus reached out with the marker. He started drawing horizontal lines. After only a few seconds work the hexagram was complete. "Obstruction". He stared at it, and then turned.

  "There is no new flaw in the numbers," he says.

  It's not a question, but it's directed to the girl."

  "Of course not. There is only the one flaw. You knew this once."

  "I know it again," he said.

  He dropped the marker on the floor and it rolled under the table. He walked to the table and lifted her to a sitting position. She smiled into his stern gaze. Angus leaned in and kissed her, and then turned toward the cameras.

  "Numbers are pure," he said. "The system by which you calculate them is a language, and it is the closest to perfection man may ever come, but there are flaws. There have always been flaws. You have built a world on numbers, filled in the cracks when the foundations shifted, and applied new paint, but the central flaw was always there. It's eaten at the foundations since the first dollar was saved and reinvested. It's the root cause of all the tiny cracks I patched for you, and the thousands more rising to the surface."

  "Tell them about Schrödinger's Cat," she said.

  He turned and frowned at her, and then the frown cracked into a crooked smile.

  Ezekiel turned and started to ask Johnson a question, but Johnson held up a hand. He focused intently on Angus.

  "I spent my life looking for flaws in the perfection of the data. No matter how many times I found and fixed a problem, the imperfection screamed at me, and I had to go on. All I was doing was plugging holes in a sinking ship. There was never any perfection to mar, only a crumbling façade."

  Johnson stepped back from the monitor. Behind him a red light began flashing slowly, and then another. Alarms sounded. Ezekiel turned and glanced at them. He touched Johnson on the shoulder, but Johnson shrugged him off.

  "It's too late, Ezekiel," he said.

  Johnson reached out and pressed a button. He leaned down and spoke into a microphone on the desk beside the monitor.

  "Angus," he said.

  Angus turned and looked directly into the camera.

  "I cannot speak to you," he said. "I have a message for Ezekiel."

  The old man stood very still. Johnson turned to stare at him, and then pressed the microphone button again.

  "Ezekiel is here."

  "Now is the time, old friend. You must remember. Mr. King and his minions have built this false idol of greed and gold, this mountain of numbers. You know what will happen should it crumble, and yet, the choice remains yours. Worship, or be taken by fire."

  "Your name is not Angus," Ezekiel said. His voice was soft, as though he was forcing memories from somewhere deep inside.

  "What are you talking about?" Johnson said. He shook Ezekiel hard. "What do you mean he isn't Angus? Who is he?"

  "Call the main office," Ezekiel said, ignoring the question. Get Nebbu…get Mr. King on the line. Tell him…tell him that we choose the fire."

  The blinking lights and alarms lit the wall behind them like a holiday celebration. Johnson ignored them. He stared at Ezekiel, and then turned back to where Angus still stared through the camera and into his soul.

  "Who are you?" Johnson asked. "Who, in God's name, are you?"

  "Names are only patterns," Angus replied. Then he smiled. "I am many, and I am one. I would tell you that I am the way, the truth, and the light, but she–pointing at the girl–would tell you I am Hermes, or Mithras, or Odin, and she cannot lie. It does not matter who I am. What matters, and what has always mattered, is who you are, and what you will become.

  "The numbers have failed. In the beginning, there was the word–and that is all there has ever been. Plurality is divisive. Heaven isn't a chord; it's a single, pure note. Go, and learn to sing."

  The monitor went dark. Power in the building flickered, and then dropped. For a long moment auxiliary power tried to kick in and bring it back to life–and then that too died. Ezekiel had gone. Johnson sifted through unfamiliar memories. He thought of the three in the other room, staring at blank screens that had been filled with numbers only moments before. He mouthed their names, and almost laughed.

  "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego," he said softly. How had he not seen?

  It didn't matter. Without a backward glance he turned, left the room and the building and walked out into the world. Behind him the monitor blinked to life without external power. Angus and Prime stood, wrapped in a tight embrace. Dark flecks danced up from the floor, peeled off the walls, and began to whirl. The flecks grew, diving and dancing through the air until they enlarged to numbers, and words, letters and symbols. The cloud whirled faster and darker until the room was obscured by a tangle of dark images and shifting patterns.

  And then it was gone. All that remained in the room was a battered spiral notebook and a number two pencil. On the top sheet, the Hexagram symbolizing "Obstruction" had torn down its center. On the streets beyond the building, men and women stepped out into bright sunlight…so bright, it burned.

  LOCH NESS

  That foul Loch Ness shall be no more a cairn,

  Nor nightmare for the wives of sturdy men,

  Nor used to fright the dickens from the bairn,

  No, not a cairn, that hellish pit's a den,

  For that most fearsome beastie, sliding deep

  Within those darksome keeps of mud and slime

  Awaiting only time, a chance to seep,

  Up from the gloom and shadows, slowly climb,

  Upon the surface, breaking like a wave

  To claim as nightmare brethren all who see,

  And those unlucky few we cannot save,

  Killed, or eaten? Merely ceased to be?

  My eyes bear witness to that hideous beast,

  And thankful not to be part of its feast...

  Attributed to Angus William Griswold–rough translation

  Headlines

  Harry O'Flanagan stood alone in the center of a field one mile south of Nyxon and watched the wheezing, gasping approach of the old truck impatiently. It was no Chevy, or Ford that chugged over the uneven terrain. Exhaust puffed out of every available pipe and a few unplanned holes. The afternoon sun glinted off bits and pieces of crystal and chrome. There was no single material that comprised frame or body, nor was there a color that could be ascribed to the paint. If any pair of parts had originally been designed to work together, there was no indication of it. Harry noticed none of this; he'd seen the truck plenty of times and long since given up guessing at its secrets. All he cared about at that moment was its cargo and how god-awful slow it was moving. Harry was on a schedule–he had places to go, things to see.

  The truck pulled to a stop, gave a final kick and a bang, and died. Steam whistled up and out of the engine in so many places it might have been a metal statue of a wheel of Swiss cheese. The driver's side door opened,
and a tall, gaunt man stepped out. He was dressed in jeans so faded they seemed to have no color at all, worn boots that looked too long and narrow, and a green plaid flannel shirt. He stood at least six foot five, and when he'd unfolded and stretched, Harry had to crane his neck and shield his eyes from the sun to meet the newcomer's gaze.

  "Afternoon, Cyrus," Harry said. "I was starting to wonder if you'd make it."

  Cyrus turned toward the truck and frowned. "Had some trouble loading. It's a big one, Harry. Biggest one yet. Not sure what's going to happen when we let it loose."

  Harry followed Cyrus' gaze to the truck, then shrugged.

  "Only one way to find out," he said.

  Cyrus nodded. He turned back to the truck and leaned in over the seat. When he straightened and stepped back he held a double barreled shotgun cradled in his arms. The truck shook violently.

  "Jesus," Harry said. He stepped back a few feet. His camera dangled from a strap that hung around his neck. He lifted it about as high as his chin.

  Cyrus stepped around to the back of the truck. The rear of the vehicle was like a U-haul designed by Escher. The angles were all wrong, though it was somewhat box-shaped. The rear sported double doors currently held tight by a metal bar that slid across and rested in brackets to either side. There were dents and dings on the metal face of those doors. All of them had been made from the inside out. Some of them looked fresh.

  "What in hell is in there," Harry asked.

  "Tick," Cyrus said solemnly.

  "Tick? You created a freaking mutant tick?"

  Before he could comment on how little he thought of this idea, Cyrus kicked the bar loose from the rear doors of the truck and stepped back. They burst open immediately, but nothing rushed forth. Instead the massive rear end of a huge, slick-skinned creature popped through the opening. It was very still, just for a moment, then there was a horrible scrabbling sound and the truck started shaking again.

  "Jesus, Cyrus, how the hell did it get in there?"

  "Wasn't so big then," Cyrus explained, keeping the shotgun steady, the barrel leveled at the thing pulling itself free of the truck. "Hadn't fed. Used to be a cow in there too."

  Before Harry could form a proper comment the thing freed itself with a loud, wet pop. It reared up, towering a good three feet over Cyrus' lanky frame. It seemed unaware of their presence, sort of shifting up onto the roof of the truck's rear section and rolling from side to side. Harry glanced past it into the truck's interior. A thin, shriveled bundle lay on the floor. Spots of blood flecked the walls.

  "We'll want a picture of the cow, too," he said. "It's a great angle."

  Cyrus nodded, but he never turned his gaze from the thing on his truck. At the sound of Harry's voice, it lurched up and back, pivoting grotesquely on segmented, many jointed legs. It was bloated, and as it moved, something wet sloshed. Bile rose in Harry's throat, but he squashed it back down and raised his camera.

  It was fast. For all its lumbering bulk, the thing moved like lightning once it spotted them. Harry stumbled back with a cry. He heard the muffled roar of the shotgun and saw Cyrus fall beneath the tick. Harry's heel caught on a protruding rock, and he fell too, wind milling one arm and clutching his camera with the other. When he hit the ground, all breath left him. His vision was stolen by an explosion of stars. He fought for clarity, just for a moment. He heard Cyrus call out to him from what seemed like an impossible distance. He thought he should answer, but the wash of darkness tossed the thought aside easily and dragged him into oblivion.

  He awoke with a start, turned to the side and retched. His hand flew instinctively up to wave in front of his face, and he heard someone step back with a grunt. Harry blinked, retched again, and then glanced up through tear-streaked eyes.

  Cyrus stood over him. The man was so tall that, from his vantage point seated on the ground, Harry thought he looked like a giant. There was something green and glittering in Cyrus' hand, and Harry's thoughts focused. The stench that had invaded his senses had faded somewhat, and he took a chance, shaking his head lightly to clear it. The pain wasn't too bad.

  "What the hell is that STINK?" Harry asked.

  Cyrus didn't answer. He stoppered the bottle and tucked it into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. "Best you don't know," he said.

  Harry stared at Cyrus. Had the man smiled? In all the time Harry had known the strange, thin man, he'd never seen his expression change.

  "What happened," Harry asked. He rolled over and got shakily to his feet. He glanced past Cyrus as his memory returned full force. The rear of the truck was splattered with gore. Thick, red blood mixed with some sort of mucous clung like a crimson tarp to the rough surface of the field. The tick's carcass lay behind the truck, feet up and twitching slightly, but it was only about half the size it had been when Harry fell. He frowned.

  "Damn." He said.

  "You get any shots of it?" Cyrus asked.

  Harry glanced down at his camera dubiously. "I'm not sure. Maybe. We'll take some more now. It's still a damned big one, and with that deflated cow…"

  He already had the headline fixed in his mind. "Farmer Bags giant Bloodsucker." As usual, before he'd even stepped forward and begun posing Cyrus and the dead monstrosity for his photographs, the words of the story itself formed and embedded themselves in his brain; by the time he sat down to type he'd be doing no more than transcribing a finished product.

  "Sorry about the mess," Cyrus said. He walked straight through the red mess toward the truck, and Harry shuddered.

  "Damn," he muttered.

  When they were done with the shoot, and Cyrus had kicked, shoved, and prodded the carcass of the tick into the rear of his vehicle and sealed it away, Harry shook the man's hand.

  "It'll make a dandy cover," Harry said. "Just dandy. You let me know if you get something new or outstanding."

  "Of course," Cyrus said, folding himself into the odd driver's seat of his truck. "I've always got something …in progress."

  "I'll be in town a few days," Harry said, speaking before Cyrus could fire up the belching, steam-spitting beast. "I'm looking for Danny. You seen him? I got a message to call him, but no one answers. Really could use something from him this time out–the fan mail is piling up. America can't get enough of the Rat Boy."

  Cyrus shook his head slowly. "Not this week," he said. "He brought me some…" The man hesitated, and then shrugged. "He brought me some supplies last weekend. Saturday. Haven't seen or heard from him since. He was staying at The Plaza."

  Harry nodded. "Thanks. I'll see if I can find him."

  Cyrus started the truck without another word, and moments later he headed back across the field, leaving clouds and a raucous roar in his wake. Harry watched until the truck was halfway across the field, and then turned back toward the line of trees behind him that masked the road into Nyxon. His car was there, an old Dodge Dart closing in on 250,000 miles and looking every inch of it. He really needed a new car. A new job, life, and a dose of sanity wouldn't hurt. He tucked the camera into its weather-beaten case, climbed in and headed for town.

  The Plaza looked pretty ordinary by day, and after the fracas with Cyrus and his pet, Harry was glad to see it. He turned into the horseshoe shaped drive and parked outside the chrome-framed glass doors. He left the Dart where it was, took his battered overnight bag, camera case, and laptop with him, and headed for the desk. Most of the hotel's staff was nocturnal; he didn't expect his car would cause any major traffic difficulties in the time it took to get a room.

  He was right. Twenty minutes later he had the old fashioned skeleton key in his pocket, the Dodge was tucked away in the parking garage beneath the building, and Harry was planted securely in a thickly padded leather chair. He had the laptop open on an old, ornate roll-top desk, the cursor blinking halfway down a page of text. He'd typed feverishly for the first ten minutes he was in the room, wanting to make sure he captured the story about the giant tick just as he'd imagined it.

  It seemed that a
farmer, Cyrus, had been plowing his field early in the morning and had come across the thing sucking the life from one of his cows. Being ready for anything, he'd had a shotgun strapped to the back of his tractor, and before the thing could turn on him, he'd bagged it. Harry had already downloaded the pictures, and was pleasantly surprised to find he'd managed to snap off a good shot of the monster rearing up and spinning, just he'd fallen over and missed the whole show. It would make a good two-page spread backdrop for the article, and the shot of Cyrus, standing over the drained cow, shotgun in one hand and dead tick in the other by its scruff would, as Cyrus had observed, "make a dandy cover."

  It was a good day's work, but it wasn't Harry's purpose in Nyxon. The cover story was gravy this time out. What Harry needed was the next installment in his greatest creation–the continuing adventures of "Rat Boy," the boy with the face of a rat. He'd been writing the stories for years, ever since meeting Danny the very week he discovered the city of Nyxon, and they were one of the staples of his paper's popularity. Every month or so, Rat Boy would take on some terrorist world leader, or negotiate a treaty with aliens. Harry scripted the adventure, Danny acted out the part, posed for pictures, collected a nice stipend for his trouble, and the world got their laughs.

  This time out Harry wanted to find something fresh, something totally unexpected that would drive the Rat Boy fans nuts. He'd taken the week off because he knew that he could write while he was in Nyxon and e-mail the files to the paper as easily as he could make them up in his own office. He hoped that the proximity to Danny would provide the necessary inspiration. The last couple of stories had been too formulaic, even for outright fabrications. It was time to push the human rodent envelope.

  Harry finished proofreading what he'd just written, changed a couple of words, then rattled off another rapid-fire paragraph or two. He did a quick word count, found it satisfactory, and hit save. Lights blinked as the story was committed to the laptop's hard drive, and Harry rose. He went to the phone and punched "0" for the Lobby.