Dark Valentines

by Mark Onspaugh

  “Clayton Mullavey’s family founded this town back some fifty years ago,” Miles said. “That’s their family house up on the hill.”

  “And the Mullaveys?”

  “Silver mine produced for a spell, then played out. All the ore they got after that was too fouled with lead to be useful. Everyone moved on except Clayton, who some folks claim wasn’t right in the head. Some say it was something in the ore that made him mad as a damned hatter. Meanwhile, the rest of the family had packed up to move back to Ireland, and their ship went down with all hands, leaving Clayton the sole heir to the Mullavey fortune. He suddenly took off to travel and was gone for two years. Folks had given him up for dead when he suddenly returned with his new bride.”

  “And his wife?” Bill asked.

  “Some say she was of Egyptian royalty, others that he found her in a tomb in India. The local preacher thinks she was a conjure woman living out in the Louisiana bayou.”

  Bill raised his eyebrows at these outlandish yarns.

  “I ain’t saying I believe it,” Miles offered, “that’s how folks around here tell it. The only thing they agree on is that she bewitched him and had him bring her to America. Except for the bayou woman, who was already here,” Miles amended.

  “How did Clayton die?”

  “Well sir, they found him naked in the street one morning with his neck broke. Doc ruled it ‘death by misadventure’, and said it was a blessing of sorts.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Doc says he was eaten up with the French Pox, and that the broke neck probably saved him a lot of suffering.”

  “Damn it, Miles, if her husband had the pox then she probably does, too.” Bill hated himself for saying it, but he wanted to discourage his brother from courting the Widow Mullavey, a notion he found repugnant and worrisome.

  Miles shook his head. “Mullavey got drunk the night he brung her back and claimed she was his virgin bride. They got married by a justice of the peace the next day, and it was the day after that that they found Mullavey decoratin’ Main Street in his all-together.”

  “One night is all it takes, Miles, didn’t Pa ever tell you that?”

  “What I am trying to tell you, Bill, is that Doc asked the widow if they had consummated their vows, and she said ‘no’.”

  “I guess the lady wouldn’t lie,” Bill said, starting on a second slice of pie.

  “So I’m gonna court her, and then be part of that Mullavey fortune. Don’t worry, Bill, I’ll take good care of you.”

  Bill set down his fork and wiped his mouth. He looked at his younger brother, ever earnest, ever full of big dreams.

  “Miles, you have to understand, a lady like that is used to men of sophistication and breeding. They want heirs and tycoons, not the son of a shopkeeper from Bayberry, Massachusetts.”

  “Look, Bill, I know you look down your nose at me because I ain’t as smart as you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it is. I never learned proper grammar and fancy speaking and all, so I guess it makes folks think I’m dim. But I know Theridia has eyes for me.”

  At that, Bill felt the jealousy swell in him, and he found it harder to quell this time. The truth was, he had always envied his brother his easy charm and good looks. While Bill had been studying hard in school and working at the store, Miles had used his gifts to get out of work and spend his time fishing or sparking.

  The more Bill thought about it, the more he was sure the widow wanted a strong and practical man.

  A man like him.

  Now when he tried to bury the thought, to be the practical one, the thought would resurface almost immediately.

  Your brother saw her first, he thought, she is his to pursue, never mind that the whole concept is ridiculous.

  His inner voice chided him, reminded him that he had manners and was well-read, while Miles was a fool and a braggart.

  You are the son of a shopkeeper, same as him, he thought. You are no more her equal than Miles is.

  She wants someone strong, she wants someone like me. The thought kept returning to him, wrapped in the sweet scent and memory of Maggie Coulson, her hair thick and tousled, her freckled skin dappled with sunlight, her laughter musical and bright with invitation and joy.

  He knew that to continue on this course would lead to a rift with his brother. The damage to their relationship might be irreparable.

  A tiny part of him wanted to run, to put Rusty Saw far behind him, and continue running until he was unable to return.

  But a larger part wanted to stay, to make a home here, to have a life, a family with Theridia, to have the life with her he had never had with Maggie.

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  Now it had become his refrain. He was the oldest. It was his birthright, his due.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  When they returned to their hotel room Bill Perry strangled his younger brother. It was surprisingly easy to kill him, because Miles trusted him. Bill pretended the Widow Mullavey was watching him, her dark eyes bright and shining, and this gave him the strength to complete his grisly task.

  It was over in moments, and then Miles was dead.

  Bill Perry had no time to weep.

  The scent of her called to him, and he felt as strong and vital as his first time with Maggie. He wouldn’t spend hours agonizing over pretties for her like Miles had done. This was a woman who had crossed the Atlantic and the nearly the entirety of the United States to be here. She wasn’t going to be enchanted by some bauble or sprig of wild flowers.

  She needed a man.

  A man like him.

  He did wait until dark, for patience was also one of his virtues. True, he had run out of that commodity where his brother was concerned, but he also reconciled this by telling himself that any moment Miles would have blundered into Theridia’s company, perhaps causing her to think Bill was every bit the clod his brother had been.

  When all of Rusty Saw was quiet and dark, he carried his brother downstairs. While Miles had spent his formative years cutting the fool and charming the ladies, Bill had been hauling sacks of flour and crates of supplies at the store. That strength stood him in good stead now. He loaded Miles into the wagon and made his way up to the Mullavey house.

  The lights were on, he was glad to see, and the cheery warmth of lamp and candle did much to dispel the desert chill as he ascended the hill.

  He tethered the horse and wagon behind the house, not wanting to give the prying townspeople anything to gossip about. He figured he and Theridia would be leaving this place soon, off to the excitement of California or perhaps Europe.

  He knew he should bury Miles in the nearby hills under the cool cover of darkness, but his need to see Theridia was now a painful pitch.

  He strode around to the front of the house, and the door was already opening as he mounted the three wooden steps of the front porch.

  She was there in a dress of scarlet, now accented with black lace and petticoats. Her eyes shone behind a veil of black and he was disappointed not to see her face.

  But then her scent washed over him, and he was consumed with some version of love that was equal parts adoration and animal lust. He knew soon he would see her, all of her, that he would possess her and make her his own.

  “Theridia,” he said, and then he was taking her in his arms. She pulled him into the house, and he gave her time to close and lock the door.

  No one would disturb them.

  He was about to tell her of his brother, of the sacrifice he had made for her as she was guiding him to a large, overstuffed sofa, upholstered in some Chinese silk that looked very sumptuous and very old.

  Before he could make any pronouncement she was on top of him, pushing on his shoulders with surprising strength, until he lay back to accept her ministrations. Again that heady scent wafted over him, and he was once again transported to a field run riot with wildflowers and sweet clover.<
br />
  And Maggie.

  “I love you Maggie,” he had said, “let’s run away and find a house overlooking the sea. We’ll have a dozen babies and fill our lives with music and sunlight!”

  Maggie had sighed his name, and kissed him ardently in answer.

  Then sweet Theridia kissed him on the cheek, little tickling kisses like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. Bill Perry laughed at the sensation of it, truly happy for the first time since Maggie so long ago.

  Then he felt her lips on his throat, and he was about to pull her face to his when he felt a sharp and burning pain to his neck, as if heated knitting needles had pierced that tender flesh. Bill struggled, but she held him down with little effort.

  He opened his eyes, and she looked up to face him. Her veil had been cast aside, and he saw now a Venetian theater mask of finest porcelain and a wig of ebony. These now hung askew, allowing him to see her true visage.

  It was the face of a nightmare.

  What he had seen of dark and beguiling eyes were only the largest of eight eyes on a forehead of skin mottled in yellow-white and calf leather brown. The thing had no nose, only slits, and its mouth was two sharp fangs flanked by grasping mandibles and stiff, dark hairs.

  Bill tried to scream and found he could not, that he was incapable of moving save for turning his head or blinking.

  She carried him upstairs as if he were a down pillow, and deposited him on a large, four poster bed that looked as if it had served Henry VIII.

  He found he was growing thirsty, and hoped he might wake up in Doc Sanderson’s office, having just been rescued from his desert misadventure and suffering some intense fever dream brought on by too little water and too much sun.

  She stripped out of her clothes and he saw now with horror that the dome skirt had hidden an enormous abdomen and six legs, each one ending in a dagger-like foot. Once free of her garments she moved with unsettling speed, though the grace he had witnessed on the street was in no way diminished.

  He closed his eyes, trying to use what remained of her scent to convince himself that he was back in that New England meadow with pretty Maggie Coulson, the preacher’s daughter. It was no good, for the scuttling, chittering sounds she made were nightmarish unto themselves, and now the odor she was exuding was foul, like rotted meat and moldy potatoes.

  She left, and he prayed that he might die before she returned. She was so horrible, so alien, that he was sure he would go mad if he saw her again.

  She returned with Miles’s body, which she dumped on the floor near the bed. Bill wanted to scream, but his paralyzed throat would not allow it.

  She climbed up onto him and settled on his legs, her face poised over his chest. He shut his eyes tight, the tears springing forth seeming to mock his dry, parched throat. He prayed now she would kill him, or that whatever she intended to do would be painless due to his paralysis.

  Theridia Mullavey bit deep into his abdomen just under the sternum. The pain made her initial bite on his neck seem like the annoyance of a mosquito or horsefly. This was pain beyond measure, the pain of being gut shot or burned alive.

  She worked quickly, slicing down to his groin and spreading him open with the efficiency of a trained surgeon. The widow exposed his abdominal cavity to view, and chittered approvingly that there was no sign of disease or corruption, unlike her late husband. There was a lot of blood, but she had not nicked any major vessels. Bill would not die.

  Bill felt her shift, and the weight on his legs was gone. He prayed his ordeal was over and opened his eyes.

  She poised her distended abdomen over his, and her ovipositor extended, like a leprous and swollen bit of intestine.

  She began to lay eggs in his belly. Soft, red, gelatinous things the size of marbles, all nestled within the guts of Bill Perry where they would stay warm and be provided with food when they hatched.

  Bill somehow managed to scream, then, and he tore his throat raw with a howl of pain and fear and loathing.

  The Widow Mullavey regarded him calmly.

  “Water… please… I am… so thirsty…” There was no sound, he could only mouth the words. Still, he thought she understood him.

  She chittered then, and Bill could not tell if this sound was nonsense or laughter. He suspected it was the latter.

  He watched her from the enormous bed as she dressed, once again assuming a semblance of humanity. He hoped she might favor him with one more with a final whiff of that fragrance that had seduced him so well and so completely.

  But he was hers, now, and there was no need to be merciful or kind.

  She left the bedroom, and soon he heard the horse and wagon carry her away.

  He lay like that for several days, his thirst and regret constant companions that grew ever more painful to endure.

  A little ditty sprang to life in his head, and it meandered through his thoughts with the persistence of a child’s nursery rhyme.

  I’m remaining in Rusty Saw for now

  I’m remaining in Rusty Saw for now

  I’m remaining in Rusty Saw for now

  When Theridia’s eggs finally hatched and her brood began to feed on him and the remains of Miles, he only had a brief glimpse of them before he went completely mad.

  It didn’t matter, as he was young and strong, and his strength insured that several dozen of her children would live to grow and flourish in this new land.

  THE BROKEN HAND MIRROR OF VENUS

  The tripod at City Hall was the largest Dillon had ever seen.

  Easily two hundred feet in height, it leaned against the Los Angeles landmark like a drunk being escorted home by a slightly taller friend.

  Like every other Martian device he had ever seen, it showed no sign of rust or corrosion. It gleamed in the afternoon sun as if its operators would return at any moment to finish razing downtown.

  Dillon knew what he would find if he went up there. Martians a good three years dead, still managing to produce an ungodly stink, their loathsome triple eyes displaying the same amount of humanity and compassion that they had in life.

  Zero. Zilch. Nada.

  Dillon took some small satisfaction in the English ivy that was making its way up the legs of the machine. Within a couple of decades those gleaming death machines would be hidden under thick vegetation, serving as housing for various birds and rodents.

  His stomach rumbled, and he wondered if there were any food stores in the old government building. Looters had cleaned out a lot of warehouses and markets, but sometimes the vending machines held enough stale or rancid treats to get him through another day.

  As Dillon drew nearer, he saw that the top of City Hall was a charred and crumbling ruin on one side. The squids had gotten off a shot or two before the AV-19 had claimed them.

  AV-19 had been the savior of the human race, the super-virus that would wipe out the goddamn squids once and for all.

  It worked, worked fast.

  Too bad AV-19 had mutated a few times after its encounter with the Martians, until it found it also liked killing humans just as quickly, albeit more painfully.

  Science freaking marches on.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  The first invasion of the Martians would have been a success but for their vulnerability to Earth’s bacteria. They died within weeks of landing and humans thought they had seen the last of them. The early tripods were also susceptible to the elements, and had quickly rusted and fallen apart without their Martian caretakers to maintain them.

  Almost a hundred years passed, and the human race had nearly forgotten the invasion, regarding it with the same nostalgic distance as World War I.

  Probes sent to Mars showed no signs of life, and economics and politics prevented manned missions.

  A fatal error.

  In 1992 the first of the new Martian ships landed, and now the Martians were immune to all the natural pestilence Earth might have to offer. Newer, more resilient tripods and smaller bipods be
gan razing cities.

  Dillon was only five when the attacks began, but his family lived in Jasmine, Florida, far from the conflict. By the time he was twelve, everyone was fighting with whatever weapons they had.

  The Martian war machines were quicker and far more deadly than ground and air forces, so the scientists of Earth turned to biological warfare. The team consisted of scientists from every country, and was housed in an underground bunker far out in the Australian Outback. Named Project Dreamtime, they worked tirelessly to find a viral or bacterial strain that would kill the Martians.

  Thanks to captured specimens, Project Dreamtime perfected the Ares Virus. Strain 19 proved to be the most lethal, and the spin doctors dubbed it “The Fourth Horseman”. A quorum of nations elected to release it where wind and water currents would carry it worldwide.

  A small minority of scientists pleaded for more testing, but New York, Chicago, Moscow, Tokyo, Paris and London were all in ruins, and the Martians were moving in on every landmass that supported life.

  AV-19 was released on Christmas Day, 2003.

  And what the Martians had begun, the Fourth Horsemen was now finishing.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Dillon found a candy machine near the cafeteria, but it was full of mice nests. He had managed to get along without eating anything living. It wasn’t that he was opposed to eating vermin, hell, the idea of mouse stew made his stomach rumble. He just couldn’t take the chance that the creatures were safe to eat.

  Like Marie had.

  Shaking off such dark thoughts, he found the cafeteria ransacked. It always made him sneer when he saw a cash register emptied. What had those idiots thought that cash could buy? Life was strictly back to bartering. Spam for guns, soup for bullets.

  No Good Money. Good Cans = Cash.

  It was a bit of graffiti he had seen often since working his way from Tallahassee to Los Angeles. Trouble was, most of the proprietors of those make-shift trading posts were often dead, their bodies swollen like purple sausages, their mottled skin splitting under the ravages of AV-25. Either that, or their corpses lay rotting in the rubble of their enterprise, bodies partially reduced to ash by carelessly aimed death rays, the Martians who had employed them either too sick or too demoralized to aim properly.