The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  Why? Fear, Mr Holsten. Earlier, I said that fear was my armor. So it was, and I clung to it. I feared to return to the meat grinder that had almost claimed me. And, too, a part of me saw the hand of fate in my new berth. Had I not been guided to safety, after all?

  The dogs – yes, Mr Holsten. Yes, indeed. Their howling continued to haunt me, at the edges of my hearing. I never spoke aloud of them to Ramsden or any of the others. I could not believe that they did not hear it, but I did not wish to reveal it, if it was simply a trick my mind was playing on me.

  No – no, Mr Holsten. Save your questions, please. My tale is almost finished.

  Slowly, but surely, I fell into their routine. By day, we would crouch in our hole, listening to the thunder overhead. And at night, we would slither out and salvage what we could. I don’t know how Ramsden found our bounty. Luck, perhaps. He claimed it was God, looking out for his flock. Later, I wondered – but no. We are not there, not yet. We scavenged weapons and ammunition, clothes… food. We were always short of food. That is my most vivid recollection of those shadowy days.

  I became a shrunken ghost of the man I had been. But no matter how often the specter of starvation haunted us, Ramsden always seemed to find food, just as we needed it most. Whenever I thought I might faint from hunger, there Ramsden was, with a bowl of trench stew and the occasional bolt of rancid protein – rat, I thought. Maybe horse, or dog.

  I began to wonder about that, however, for the howling of the dogs never seemed to lessen. Indeed, it swelled, and often I awoke to hear the sound of frantic digging from somewhere on the other side of the dirt walls that sheltered us. I feared that at any moment an invading horde of starving animals would pour into our lair and devour us all.

  Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I spoke to Ramsden of it, and he laughed. “Nothing to fear there, my lad. We’re all of us dogs here, and they know their own kind. Besides, there’s a world of corpses out there – plenty for everyone.” His words comforted me, though I found them confusing at the time.

  What? Oh yes, the corpses. We collected them as well. No, no; not for the reasons you think, Mr Holden – though perhaps that might have been preferable.

  If I am to be a monster, let me be an honest one. Someone famous said that, I think. I am a monster, but an honest one. My fangs are bared to the world, and I do not clothe my wolfishness in sheepskin. Eh? Yes, yes, forgive me. Where was I? Oh yes. The dead.

  Ramsden, you see, insisted on giving them a proper burial, whatever their country of origin. He was, it seemed, something of a religious man. His argument against the war was as much theological as it was philosophical, and I spent many hours in friendly debate with him. He believed that our situation was akin to a holy calling – that we were pilgrims of a new way of peace and brotherhood. Men united in their hatred of the war, and their reverence for the wronged dead.

  I could not find it in me to argue with him on that point, for the evidence was unmistakable. The men he had gathered to him spoke more than English or French; Dutch, German, Flemish – even a few Russians, though God alone knew how they’d wound up so far west. Regardless, all of them believed as Ramsden did – and fervently, with a devotion that was frightening at times. Perhaps it was simply that Ramsden fed them – fed us.

  When we found the dead, we buried them in communal graves – artillery craters, often – using whatever tools were to hand. Ramsden said words over them, as kindly as any country vicar, as we heaped mud and dirt over them. At the time, I thought these homilies to be Latin – a sign of Papist leanings in the good doctor. It was only later that I realized… Well. I’m getting somewhat ahead of myself.

  But for every one we buried, two more would be found the next day. I suspected that at times we were burying the same men over and over again, so similar did they look – then, all dead men resemble each other. Yet I was certain of it, save that the bodies were often more mangled on their subsequent interments. The others ignored my suspicions, though from the looks that passed between them, I knew that I was not the first to take note of it.

  At first, I thought the dogs had been at them. That as we hunted, so too did they. And yet, as before, I never saw them. Not once. I could not imagine such a large pack of animals hiding anywhere in the wasteland without leaving some sign – but I never saw so much as a paw print. Nor were any of my new compatriots helpful in that regard. They did not admit to it, but I knew that they heard them nonetheless.

  How? Ah. The looks on their faces. The way some of them flinched, or turned – as if listening to the howlers in the dark. Whenever we found a twice-buried body, they murmured to one another in quiet voices, always excluding me.

  Finally, I decided to satisfy my own curiosity. I told Ramsden of my suspicions, and my intention to wait beside one of the recent graves to see what came, if anything. To his credit, he did not try to talk me out of it. Somewhat to my surprise, he offered to join me.

  I armed myself with a rifle, and as night fell and the rest of our merry band dispersed to scavenge, I settled myself to wait near the most recent grave. It was a deep crater – deeper than most – and we’d rolled at least a dozen bodies down into it the previous night. Then we’d heaped mud and dirt onto them as best we could. I could still just make out the vague suggestion of bodies, but had no interest in looking any closer.

  We sat at the edge of the crater, in the lee of a lonely wall – the last remaining vestige of a farmhouse, perhaps. I felt a curious sense of anticipation. Not fear, but eagerness. As if I were on the cusp of solving some great mystery. I said as much to Ramsden.

  “And what mystery might that be, my lad?”

  “The dogs, Ramsden. I will find where they go – where they hide.” I could not tell you now why such a thing mattered to me then. I knew only that I must.

  “Dogs?” Ramsden chuckled. “Yes, I suppose they are dogs of a sort. Us too.” He settled himself against the wall and scratched his bearded chin. “All of us dogs together. But not street curs, no – prize hunting dogs, we are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many have we buried, lad?”

  I had no answer for him. I had not even considered it, through all our weeks together. Ramsden smiled and something in his expression made me shiver. He went on. “In all this time, we’ve never seen another living soul.” He gestured vaguely. “The war continues, but we are untouched. God’s hand.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “Don’t you see? We’re protected,” Ramsden insisted. “They led you here, lad, the way they led all of us. They saved you, so that you might do our Lord’s work and serve him up the banquet he desires.”

  “The…” Words briefly failed me as I at last grasped his meaning. “The dead?”

  “The dead, yes. They belong to him. Always have, always will. That is why we bury them in this ravaged earth – so that they might join him, in Heaven.”

  I made to speak, but was interrupted by a sudden noise – a bark. I rose and hurried to the edge of the crater, rifle at the ready. I saw movement. Ramsden followed me. “Keep quiet,” he murmured. “They startle easy.” I paid little attention to his words, being more intent on what I saw below.

  They were not dogs. Not unless they were the very hounds of Hell, loosed to feast on the detritus of man’s murderous hubris. Spindle-legged and raggedy, they squirmed up out of the mud and slithered among the dead, barking to one another with what I took to be guttural amusement. They were grotesque creatures, like some horrid jumble of man, animal and corpse, with pale, piebald flesh and fangs and claws.

  Ah. I see by the look on your face that you recognize my description, Mr Holden. Perhaps in your research you have read of the ghul of the Arabian Peninsula, or the giaour of the Turk. The Romans knew them too, as canes ad infernis – the hounds below.

  Yes, I have learned much of them since that night, though I wish that I kn
ew nothing at all. I wish… I wish I was ignorant, or dead, or anything but oh so hungry.

  I am hungry, Dr Fern. I know you say it is nothing, but I feel it gnawing away at me. I… No. No. I will finish my story. To do otherwise would be rude.

  My breath caught in my throat, and before I knew it, I had the rifle up, and I sighted down the barrel. But before I could fire, Ramsden’s hand fell on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t. You’ll only go making them angry, lad.”

  I glanced at him, and saw that he had a pistol in his hand. Though it was not aimed at me, I knew it would be, if I did not lower my rifle. “What… What are they?”

  “Dogs, lad. Just like us. Our master’s hounds.”

  “I am nothing like those… those things down there,” I hissed, hoping they would not hear us. But, to my horror, those closest to us turned and looked up, their eyes gleaming in the gloom of the pit. Then, slowly, a handful began to creep towards us.

  I made to back away, but Ramsden shook his head. “No, lad. It’s time you saw this – time you took part, the way the others have. We’ve all done it.” He turned and gestured to the creeping things. One gave a gurgling chortle, reached down and tore a red strip of meat from the nearest body. It tossed this gory prize to Ramsden, who caught it easily, as if he had done so a thousand times before.

  He turned back to me, and I am sad to say I flinched back. Ramsden shook his head, disappointed. “It’s not like you haven’t had it before, lad. Just a bit fresh, is all.”

  I stared at him in incomprehension. His smile was almost fatherly as he said, “The stew, lad. Where did you think the meat came from?”

  It is obvious, in retrospect. After all, dogs are often fed from their master’s table, are they not? And like any spoiled dog, I have grown to long for the taste of my master’s food – a longing which has only grown in the years since.

  Ramsden extended the chunk of meat. “This is different, though. It requires witnesses. Eat, and you will truly know the glory of he who waits below.”

  At his words, the creatures howled as one, and I knew then that it was their voices I had been hearing, their voices that had guided me to Ramsden and the others. I saw it all in that instant – the terrible scope of it. I was damned, and had been damned the moment I had survived where the others had died.

  “Eat – or be eaten, that is the way of it.” Ramsden held out that gory hunk of meat, and for a moment I was tempted. Something about it, about the smell of it – my stomach growled, and Ramsden smiled, and it was that smile that shook me loose from my horror. For it was not a sinister smile, or a cruel one.

  It was a smile of contentment. Of satisfaction.

  The smile of a well-fed hound.

  I fired the rifle without consciously choosing to do so. A reflex, prompted by sudden revulsion. Ramsden fell back, slowly – so slowly. He tumbled down into the charnel pit, there to join the rest of the meat. And I – I turned and ran.

  I ran so long and hard that I thought my lungs might burst. I do not know whether they followed me. I do not think so. After all, what need had they to chase me down, when I was already theirs?

  I do not recall the events of my flight, or how I managed to stumble back through Allied lines. I remember only the quiet murmur of a nurse’s voice, and the harsh lights of a hospital tent. And the howling, of course. Distant, but ever-present.

  Malnourished and sick – I could keep no food down – they invalided me home. My tribulations continued as I searched in vain for some way to cure my affliction. I could not sleep, could not eat. I dreamed of dead men, and bestial maggot-shapes barking in joy. I dreamt of Ramsden, falling back, a single word on his lips.

  No. I cannot dwell on it. Not when my stomach clenches, and I dream of great feasts. But what sort of feasts? And who are these others in attendance?

  I do not wish to think about it.

  And yet, I cannot stop.

  •••

  Drew completed his tale and sagged back on his haunches, head bowed. His hands gripped at the air. Holsten and Fern were silent. From the look on her face, Holsten thought she might have heard the story before. But even so, it still repulsed her.

  Witless fool.

  Holsten cleared his throat. “Very… interesting.” He fought to keep the glee from his voice. Drew’s tale was exactly what he’d hoped it would be.

  Drew’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. For a moment, Holsten thought he might lunge – and felt something like a thrill of anticipation. But instead he shook his head and looked away. “You think I am deluded.”

  Fern spoke up quickly. “No, Philip, he doesn’t. None of us do. Confused, maybe.”

  Drew laughed, a raspy, rusty sound. “Confused. Yes. Maybe I am.” He looked at Holsten again. “Are you still going to write about me?”

  “I… Yes. Yes, obviously. The… The name. What was it?” He regretted the question even as he asked it. It was something better asked in private, without the disapproving presence of Fern to put Drew off. Even so, he could not stop himself.

  He needed to know. Had to know. Else what was it all for?

  “What name?”

  “The one Ramsden spoke. What was it?”

  Drew stared at his hands. “I do not recall,” he said, slyly. “Some nonsense. He was mad, as I am now mad.”

  Holsten frowned and made to press the issue when he heard a sudden, sharp clangor – as of a fire alarm. He turned to Fern. “What is that?”

  “The general alarm,” Fern said, her face going pale. “Something is going on.”

  “Go check it out. We’ll be fine – won’t we, Mr Drew?”

  Drew nodded his shaggy head. “I shall be on my best behavior.”

  Fern hesitated. “Are you certain? He’s not violent, usually, but…”

  “I have a few more questions, and the orderly is right down the hall. We’ll be fine.” Holsten lifted his bag and opened it. He took out a leather notebook with a golden clasp, and a pen. He tried to appear nonchalant even as he prayed she would take the hint. Just a few minutes alone – that was all he needed.

  Fern paused for a moment longer, then nodded and left the cell. She closed the door behind her, but did not shoot the bar, leaving it unlocked. Holsten listened to the tap of her heels on the linoleum, a staccato counterpoint to the alarm. When he raised his eyes, Drew was staring at him.

  “You asked me the name,” Drew said. “I did not say that it was a name.”

  Holsten froze. Then, with a sigh, he popped the clasp on his notebook. Inside, the pages had been cut to provide a hollow cavity. Inside was nestled a snub-nosed revolver. “No. You didn’t. A slip on my part.” Holsten drew the revolver from the book and cast the latter aside. “They didn’t even check. Standards are not what they were.”

  “Have you come to kill me, then?” Drew straightened. He seemed almost relieved.

  Holsten smiled. “No, Mr Drew – quite the opposite. I intend to free you from this place. You will be my Virgil.”

  Drew cocked his head, yellow eyes narrowed. “Virgil?”

  “My guide into the underworld. You see, I too hear them howling. Though in my case, it is but dimly.” Holsten paused. “I have heard them all my life, though for the longest time I did not know what it was I was hearing. But then I learned, and I began my search… looking for the one who might lead me to my destiny. The one who might know the name of that which I seek.”

  “Your book…”

  “A convenient fiction.” He turned towards the door. “Fern will be back soon. She will be our ticket out – a hostage always comes in handy. I didn’t count on the disturbance, but it was timely nonetheless. It gave me a few moments to explain things to you.”

  “I’ve tried to escape before,” Drew murmured.

  “But this time you’ll have help. They’ll follow us, of course, but I think between us we can come up
with a good hiding place, don’t you?”

  Holsten turned back to Drew, still smiling. Faintly now, he could hear the howls, as they shivered up from far below. Even muted and distant as they were, they promised him such delights as no man had ever known. Delights that had been denied him for so long. If he would but free their long-lost brother and bring him home.

  “We’ll have to kill her, of course…” He bared his teeth. “Then, I expect we’ll have worked up quite the appetite in the interim.” The thought filled him with incalculable joy. He had tasted human flesh before, but only hurriedly. Less a meal than a snack. But to savor, to feast – that would be a true pleasure. He was practically salivating at the thought.

  Drew pushed himself to his feet. “I knew it from the first,” he said, wearily. “I could see the beast in your eyes as you introduced yourself. You are not so far along as I, but you walk the same path nonetheless.”

  “Yes, yes,” Holsten said, intently. “We are members of the same brotherhood, you and I – the servants of blessed Umôrdhoth.” As he spoke the name, the howls increased in volume. The room seemed to echo with them, and Holsten closed his eyes, glorying in their raucous thunder. Drew clapped his hands to his ears.

  “Do not say that name,” he growled.

  “Forgive me,” Holsten said. “It is only that I am excited by the prospect of it.” He paused. “They have forgiven you, you know – for your fear and weakness. I was weak too, once. I did not understand. But now I see. I hear the glory of it in their cries. So shall you, in time. And soon, we shall join our voices to theirs and howl our joy forever beneath the welcoming earth.”

  Drew smiled, but there was no mirth in it – no joy. “No.”

  Holsten paused. “What?”

  “No. No, I think not.” Drew shook his head. “What makes you think I would go with you – or let you harm Dr Fern?” His yellow eyes widened. His smile stretched into a snarl even as he spoke. “But you were right about one thing, Holsten – I have worked up something of an appetite.”