by Неизвестный
Feeling herself losing control, Martha had envisioned storming into the nursery and shaking the child, her mouth shouting cruel words, a scene that upset her further. Before her awful prophecy could resolve, however, the baby’s howling had miraculously petered off, leaving the entire house smothered beneath a stifling and unfamiliar silence that was no less welcome for its eeriness.
Martha had sighed with relief, the angry flush gradually draining from her cheeks. Settling into her chair, she had turned her attention back to the magazine. No sooner had her eyes focused in on the first sentence, though, when the buzzing had begun.
Unable to find the noise’s source and knowing that her respite from the baby’s cries would no doubt be a short one, she redoubled her efforts to put the grating sound out of her mind. Her eyes trundled over the words on the page before her like the wheels of some antiquated truck traversing a pitted country road. Regardless, the longer she perused the periodical, the louder the buzzing grew until, at last, she was jolted to her feet by a shock of exasperation so violent that she nearly sent her chair toppling over.
Without thinking, she wrung the magazine into a makeshift cudgel and conducted a heated inspection of the kitchen, her careless hand leaving no potential hiding place unturned. Still, the origin of the infuriating drone eluded her. Not only that, its maddening volume increased with every moment, so that the noise soon seemed to come from all around.
Wincing, Martha put her free hand over one ear and the fist clutching the magazine over the other. As if the buzzing came from within her skull, its severity continued on unabated. Horrified at the thought of the multitude of flies such a tumult would require and unable to think of anywhere else for them to hide, she slowly glanced at the low ceiling overhead which had always seemed like that of a prison cell to her. It was then that, for some ineffable reason, she suddenly thought of the baby. Her stomach churned as she attempted to estimate how many seconds or minutes had passed since he had last made any sound whatsoever, but with no real frame of reference the period seemed interminable.
On trembling legs that felt too stilt-like to support her weight, she staggered out of the kitchen and down the hall, already picking up a foul and rotten scent. The odor worsened as she approached the nursery, feeding her hungry panic. Hurrying inside to the crib, she called out her son’s name, but there was no response. A thin membrane of hope the only thing holding back her tears, she reached a trembling hand toward the blanket covering him. A scream clawed at the base of her constricted throat, struggling for release. Slowly, she parted the swaddling.
No longer restrained by any conscious force, Martha’s imprisoned shriek erupted from its insufficient prison. Nestled in the crib, her eyes traced the form of a hollow, molted shell caught in the rigid shape of a baby, its epidermis resembling translucent wax paper with her child’s features painted across its chitinous surface. And running down its center, a ragged slit through which some dripping beast had crawled and taken flight.
The following sample is from the novel Season of the Wolf by Jeffrey J. Mariotte, available in print from Dark Fuse in 2013. Available from Amazon for Kindle here.
4
Alden Stewart, the mayor of Silver Gap, descended the four front steps of Town Hall and started across the street. Whenever he passed through the big, weighty double doors of the building, he felt a thrill of pride. Silver Gap was his town, and he was the town’s devoted servant.
He had sought the job not because it paid well, because it didn’t, and not because it conferred on its holder a great deal of power, because it didn’t do that either. The town council retained most of the power, and not only could they enact legislation without his approval, they set his salary, which—in the interests of the taxpayers, they claimed—they kept on the low side, barely enough to keep him from having to attend to his duties buck-naked and barefoot.
But he had, as a younger man, read John Buchan’s autobiography and been struck by the British author’s claim that politics was “the greatest and most honourable adventure.” He had determined then that he would have a political career. Now, he figured, it was too late to correct his error.
Silver Gap was a small town, with all of any small town’s trials and tribulations. But it was a good town, its people mostly fair-minded and willing to do for one another. He had been to other places, towns and cities that felt, to him, as if evil thrummed beneath their streets, turning those who walked them sour and mean. Silver Gap had its share of small tragedies: death and betrayal and heartbreak, as anyplace inhabited by that failed tribe known as human beings would. On the whole, though, her townsfolk cared. They made an effort. He could do no less on their behalf.
He and his wife Belinda lived mostly on proceeds from the Cup & Cow, the restaurant and bakery that Belinda ran. She served beer and wine, but not hard liquor; most of the town’s heavier drinkers spent their paychecks at Spud’s. But people came to her for food, especially her baked goods.
From the middle of the street, the aroma of steaks on the grill inside the C&C reached his nose, perking him up. Alden had never known a better cook, and he was glad she had opened the restaurant and found an appreciative audience. He’d had an early supper, and the smells made him consider adding a second one to his day.
Instead, after he pushed through the glass front door, ignoring the tinkle of the bell that hung on a leather thong from the handle, he veered straight for the bakery counter. “Any doughnuts left?” he asked.
An attractive woman who clearly enjoyed her own cooking gave him a smile and a nod. Her hair was dark and basically helmet-shaped, her eyes twinkling, her grin impossible to look away from. At least, for Alden. “I can probably scrounge one up,” Belinda said. “You hungry again?”
He looked down at a stomach that had, sometime during the past two decades, bulged to the point that he had to lean forward to see his feet. He had never thought of himself as a fat man, but he had to accept that he had become one. Thanks, primarily, to his deep and abiding appreciation of his wife’s cooking and baking skills. “I wasn’t, until I walked in.”
“We like to hear that.”
“I was really coming over to tell you to raise your prices.”
“In the middle of a recession?”
“Charlie Durbin says there’s some kind of nutty millionaire in town. Bought out the entire Mountain High for two weeks, just for three people. Says he’s making a movie.”
“A movie? Here?”
“That’s all I know about it. Except it sounds like he’s got money to burn.”
“If I raise the prices, the locals won’t eat here.” She slid a glazed doughnut on a plate across the glass case toward him, and turned back toward the coffee pot.
“This guy spends enough, we won’t need ‘em to.”
She returned with a brown earthenware mug of black coffee. “He’s only here for two weeks. After that, we’ll still need the locals.”
“I know.” Alden sipped from the mug and eyed the plate. Best doughnuts in town.
They were, he knew, the only doughnuts in town, but that didn’t negate the point. “I’m teasing about the prices. Mostly. But I wanted to let you know they’re here, three of them, and apparently they’re happy to share the wealth.”
“If they come in,” Belinda said, “we’ll take good care of them, just like anybody else.”
“That’s what I love about you, Belinda. What do I owe you?”
“For you, Mr. Mayor? Two-fifty.”
“That’s the other thing I love. You don’t cut anybody a break.”
“My silent partner would pitch a fit if I did.”
He was the silent partner, and she was right. He always paid full freight. But it all went to the same place, so he didn’t mind.
He carried his doughnut and coffee to an empty table near the window, greeting other diners on the way. He had run for office because he believed in government, in the idea that government really should do what it could to help the people it serve
d. He also knew that politics went hand-in-hand with government, so he never wasted an opportunity to be seen around town, supporting local businesses and being friendly.
He had just sat down and bit into the doughnut when his cell phone buzzed. He eased it from his pocket and saw the name “Deeds” on the screen. Morris Deeds, the chief of police. Alden always took his calls, day or night, though they rarely brought good news. “Hello, Morris.”
“Alden,” Morris Deeds said. His voice was dry and tight. “We might have us a situation here.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just been over to see Marie Hackett. Mike went out after elk yesterday. Was supposed to take Frank Trippi with him, but Frank sprained his wrist and backed out.”
“So Mike went by himself?”
“That’s right. And he hasn’t come back, or called. Marie expected him last night, latest. Now it’s almost another full day gone by and she’s worried sick.”
Alden glanced out the window and drummed his fingers nervously on the table. “What do you want to do? It’s dark now.”
“I’d like to pull together a search party, go out at first light and see if we can’t find him. In the meantime I’ll have some of my guys drive the back roads looking for Mike’s truck.”
“That’s a good idea, Morris. I’m away from my desk now, but I’ll head back over there and start making some calls.”
“Thanks. That’ll help.”
“You know Mike better than I do. Is he a good hunter? Good outdoorsman?”
Morris paused a moment before responding. “He’s not bad. He’s brought home some trophies. But I wouldn’t say he’s the most careful man who ever picked up a gun.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Keep me posted, okay?”
“Will do.”
“And let’s hope for the best.”
5
After getting unloaded and into their bare-bones rooms, Alex, Peter, and Ellen met up again, piling back into the Lexus and tooling into town to look for some dinner. There wasn’t much of town, five or six blocks along the main street, lined with brick buildings housing shops and businesses. Side streets appeared residential and quiet. Fully a third of the storefronts were empty, and “For Rent” signs plastered walls and windows. The only place that looked busy was Spud’s, a square brick building with blacked-out windows illuminated by neon beer signs.
Peter wanted to go in, but Alex overruled him. He would hear about that for an hour, he was sure. Peter was a skilled cinematographer—more than skilled, he was maybe a genius, and that wasn’t a word Alex slung about easily. But he was insufferable. If people considered him merely a genius, Peter thought they underestimated his true worth. He brimmed with opinions, each the true and final word on any given subject. Ellen was happy to feed his ego, which Alex guessed was why he kept her around.
He pointed at a sign that said “Cup & Cow Bakery/Cafe.” The windows were clean, and the interior appeared to be as well. Several of the tables were occupied, but he could see a few empties. “Here we go,” Alex declared.
“It’ll do, I guess,” Peter grumbled.
“Looks yummy,” Ellen said. She wore perkiness like a badge of honor. Alex found it draining, and wondered how Peter could stand it. Then again, he wouldn’t be able to put up with Peter’s glum cynicism for long, either, so maybe they balanced one another out.
“It’s charmingly rustic.” Peter oozed sarcasm. “Sort of like that motel you found us. I’d think it was the place Janet Leigh stayed at, in Psycho, except that one had shower curtains. It’s not exactly the Ritz, is it?”
“You wouldn’t stay at a Ritz,” Alex countered. He eased the SUV to the curb. “It’s much too bourgeois.”
“Yeah, well, it sure as hell isn’t the W, either.”
The restaurant smelled great, the scents of grilled meat and fresh coffee and baked goods combining in a sort of aromatic hug. They were greeted at the door, seated in a booth alongside a pine-paneled wall, and had placed their orders within a few minutes.
While they waited for their meals, Peter left the table. A burly guy in a down vest was talking on a pay phone—arguing with someone, Alex thought, from the pained animation of his face—and blocking much of the narrow hallway that led to the rest rooms. Peter squeezed past him, but he must have muttered something as he did, because the guy’s face turned dark red and he dropped the telephone receiver, which spun and dangled on its cable, and stalked after Peter.
“Shit,” Alex said. “Wait here.” He bolted from the table and hustled to the hallway. Pine lined both sides of it, and a handful of framed photos that visiting minor celebrities had autographed decorated the walls. Alex caught up with the big man just about the same time he reached Peter, who had pulled the men’s room door open.
“Listen,” Alex said. He put a hand on the big man’s shoulder, startling him. The man looked away from Peter and fixed Alex with an angry glare.
The guy was huge. Bigger than he had looked from the table. He was Peter’s height, only without Peter’s lankiness. A curly red beard clung to his chin, seeping down his neck and beneath his plaid shirt. “What?”
“I don’t know what my friend said, but he’s tired. We’ve had a long trip, and he might have mouthed off or something, but he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s sorry. Tell him you’re sorry, Peter.”
“Sure,” Peter said with a shrug. He looked anything but sorry. “Like he said, I’m tired.”
“Tired is one thing, but rude is something else.”
“It’s the California in me,” Peter said. “Takes a while to slough off when I go someplace civilized.”
The big man almost grinned in spite of himself. “I hear that.”
“Can I buy you a beer or something?” Alex asked. “Make it up to you?”
“I can buy my own beer.”
“I know you can, I just wanted to do something for you.”
“Then tell your pal to keep his hole shut.”
Alex lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Brother, I tell him that every day.”
The big guy laughed. Peter shrugged again and disappeared into the men’s room. “You’re okay,” the man said. “Your buddy there, he’s an asshole.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Maybe I should kick his ass just on general principle.”
“Wouldn’t help,” Alex said. “Did you look at him? People have been kicking his ass since birth. He’s used to it.”
Alex had only known Peter for about two months, but he was on a roll, and the more he insulted the cinematographer, the more the big man relaxed. The burgundy color faded from his face, and he suddenly remembered his phone call. “Damn it!” he said, brushing past Alex and lunging for the receiver. “Baby, you there?” he asked when he picked it up.
When Alex returned to the table, Ellen greeted him with a smile. “That was ballsy,” she said. She sat on the bench with her legs crossed under her, wearing a tight, white, ribbed cotton shirt with long sleeves, snug over small breasts and a flat stomach.
“What?”
“That dude’s about as big as you and Peter put together. He could’ve snapped you in half like a toothpick.”
Alex put his hands under the table. They’d started shaking as he realized how right she was. He hadn’t even considered that, had simply rushed to make sure Peter didn’t get them involved in a scrape on their first evening in town.
Peter returned from the men’s room without further incident, and their food arrived soon after. As they ate, chatting casually about their plans for the next few days, a couple came inside and spoke to the woman behind the counter, the one who seemed to be running things. Her face took on a grave appearance, and within a few minutes word spread throughout the restaurant. The people in the next booth told Alex, Peter, and Ellen, as if they were locals. “Mike Hackett’s missing,” a woman said. “There’s gonna be a search party out, first thing in the morning.”
“I don’t know Mike Ha
ckett,” Alex said. “But we’d be glad to help search.”
“We’re meeting in the parking lot behind Town Hall, at seven.”
“We’ll be there.”
“We will?” Peter muttered.
“You started us out by pissing off one of the locals,” Alex said, keeping his voice low. “This’ll be a good way to get them on our side, and what we’re doing here will be much easier if they like us.”
“What if it’s dangerous?” Ellen asked.
“How could it be dangerous? We’ll be with a bunch of people. They know the area and they’ll probably be armed—”
“What’s more dangerous than a bunch of Cletuses with guns?” Peter interrupted.
“Look, the guy’s probably sleeping off a drunk under a tree someplace, you guys. The whole thing probably won’t take more than an hour or two. We walk around in the woods, make some friends, and then when they find out why we’re here maybe they’ll go easy with the pitchforks and torches.”
“Seven is awfully fucking early.”
“Peter, we’re making a movie about climate change. These are rural people, mountain people, who probably don’t believe in it. They’re going to think we’re a bunch of assholes from the city, and so far you’re proving them right. We’ve got a chance here to make them go easier on us, and we’ve got to take it.”