Keepers

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “THEY, AND EVERY BEAST AFTER HIS KIND, AND ALL THE CATTLE AFTER THEIR KIND, AND EVERY CREEPING THING THAT CREEPETH UPON THE EARTH AFTER HIS KIND, AND EVERY FOWL AFTER HIS KIND, EVERY BIRD OF EVERY SORT.

  “AND THEY WENT IN UNTO NOAH INTO THE ARK, TWO AND TWO OF ALL FLESH, WHEREIN IS THE BREATH OF LIFE.

  “AND THEY THAT WENT IN, WENT IN MALE AND FEMALE OF ALL FLESH, AS GOD HAD COMMANDED HIM: AND THE LORD SHUT HIM IN.

  “AND THE FLOOD WAS FORTY DAYS UPON THE EARTH; AND THE WATERS INCREASED, AND BARE UP THE ARK, AND IT WAS LIFT UP ABOVE THE EARTH.”

  … EVER TAKE A LOOK AT THAT STORY AND ASK YOURSELF, WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE? AFTER ALL, GIL, WEREN’T THERE MORE ANIMALS ABOARD THE ARK THAN HUMAN BEINGS? BUT WE’LL GET BACK TO THAT …

  ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW IS THAT GOD JUMPED THE GUN A LITTLE BIT. NOT EVERY ANIMAL MADE IT ONTO THE ARK, BECAUSE NOT EVERY ANIMAL HAD A MATE.

  TAKE ME, FOR INSTANCE.

  I WAS THE FIRST ANIMAL, ALL OTHERS SPRUNG FROM ME … YET WHEN IT CAME TIME FOR THE RAINY-DAY CRUISE, I WAS LEFT BEHIND! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT HURT MY FEELINGS, GIL? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW ANGRY I WAS? HOW ANGRY I STILL AM?

  SO I WENT AWAY. WHEN GOD DESTROYED THE WORLD, HE OVERLOOKED

  SOMETHING … THAT ONLY ONE WORLD AT A TIME CAN BE DESTROYED. HE WAS SO BUSY PISSING ALL OVER THIS ONE, HE DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE THAT I SLIPPED OVER INTO ONE OF THE OTHER ONES, WHICH I MADE MY KINGDOM. I’VE HAD TO START ALL OVER FROM SCRATCH, GIL, BUT THINGS ARE COMING ALONG NICELY.

  SO NICELY, IN FACT, THAT I’M READY TO ADD AN ADDITION, SO TO SPEAK.

  AND I THINK YOUR WORLD WILL DO JUST FINE.

  OF COURSE, I’VE HAD TO HIRE SOME … I GUESS YOU’D CALL THEM MOVERS.

  OR KEEPERS.

  A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME, BLAH-BLAHBLAH.

  I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG THIS WILL TAKE, GIL—RAW MATERIAL BEING SO DIFFICULT TO COME BY—BUT THINGS ARE WELL UNDER WAY. THE TEAR IN THE GREAT SCRIM IS GETTING WIDER EVERY DAY. NICE TO KNOW I STILL HAVE A FEW TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE IN THE MEANTIME.

  WHICH REMINDS ME—YOU MIGHT WANT TO SAY GOOD-BYE TO YOUR “NEPHEW” NOW.

  Carson dropped the comic book.

  He was shuddering; from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, he was shuddering as if in the grips of a grand-mal seizure.

  “Jesus—Carson! What’s wrong?”

  I moved toward him but he screamed and waved me back.

  Outside the barn, I could hear the roaring of lions, the trumpeting of elephants, the growling of bears, the barking of dogs, the screams of loons. The walls shook as the animals began pressing against them from outside, clawing at the wood.

  In the back of the barn, a massive shadow moved as Carson’s scale model of Long-Lost took its first few tentative steps.

  Carson screamed again.

  He collapsed to his knees as his face began tearing in half, he felt it—I felt it, felt every sensation chewing through his body and there was nothing I could do—felt the fire burning through his nose as he struggled to his feet and stumbled away from me, hoping that it was all over now, please let it be over, please let this be the last of it, but then his face began swelling around forehead and nose, swelling like a goddamn balloon, so he looked away, looked down at his hand and saw it pulsating through layers of dried mud, felt the cold thing crawling between his shoulders again, eyes twitching, and then his face split apart like someone tearing a biscuit in half, only there was no steam, just blood, spraying, spattering, geysering around, and he tried to look behind him and see the animals as they clawed against the walls of the barn, tried to see me, tried to see if UncGil was still there, but the pain was killing him because the cold thing shuddered down between his shoulders and began to push through, snapping his shoulder blades like they were thin pieces of bark, and he screamed, screamed and whirled and slammed himself into the wall trying to stop the pain, trying to stop the thing from getting out, but he stunned himself for a moment and slid down to the floor, leaving a wide, dark smear behind him, howling as the first thing sawed through his back and fluttered to life, he was on his hands and knees now, waiting, trying to breathe, breathe deep, and now, OHGOD now the second one was tearing through, making a sound like a plastic bag melting on a fire, pushing through, unfurling, and he could see them now because their span must have been at least fifteen feet, and he threw his head back to cry out, but he couldn’t make any more human sounds, so he screamed, screamed so loud and long that his eyes bulged out and his face turned a dark blue and then his scream turned into the wail of an angry bird of prey as his body jerked back into a standing position, his arms locking bent, his hands clenching, every muscle in his body on fire; writhing, shifting, bones snapping, he shrieked in the cage of the barn as his chest puffed out through his shirt and covered in thick layers of brown feathers and the flesh dropped from his body like peelings from an orange and he tried to move his arms, tried to grab something, then he jerked around from the waist and his arms dropped off, brittle branches from a burned tree, and he yowled again, louder than before, wishing that the pain would end and just let him die, then he fell back on his great wings and looked up into my face, into my eyes, and for a moment I thought I heard his voice whispering, I’m as much a part of you as you are of me, and then something snapped below his waist; snapped, wriggled, pushed up.

  With one last shriek he jerked back as the spasm took hold of him, pushing the corded claws up through his groin.

  And I stood facing a huge brown marsh hawk that stood nearly as tall as I did. It flexed its wings, then shook itself, spraying the walls with ribbons of meat and liquid that had once been my nephew.

  I looked into its red marble eyes, then began backing toward the door.

  The gigantic hawk that had once been my nephew stomped through the barn, its massive wings unfurling, making splinters out of the stall doors and rafters.

  I turned and ran.

  Outside, animals had gathered off to the side to watch.

  Rhino, elephant, manticore, bear, gryphon, lion, centaur, cat, swan, and so many others I couldn’t see their features.

  They had no interest in me.

  They were watching the barn behind me as its roof splintered outward.

  I heard a roar, and a screech, and the vibrations of something very, very large working its limbs back into life.

  I ran across the field, not looking back, cutting myself on tree branches when the light of the moon was obscured by massive wings.

  Somehow, I made it to my car and managed to get back on the road without killing anyone.

  It never once occurred to me to go anywhere else but home.

  Above me, the shadows of giant wings seemed to guide my path.

  Or watch to make certain I didn’t try deviating from it.

  III

  THE VALLEY OF LOVE AND DELIGHT

  ONE

  I pulled up in front of my house, killed the engine, and ran inside, slamming the door closed behind me and locking it.

  The sound of massive, pumping wings flew over the house. The force of the downdraft from them shattered a couple of windows.

  I leaned against the door, shaking.

  Jesus Christ, what now?

  It wasn’t long before I had the answer.

  A pair of bright headlight beams cut a path through the darkness. I pulled back the curtain to see a large tan vehicle shaped like an old bread-delivery truck crawl past my house, its driver sweeping the street with a handheld searchlight. The truck came to a stop and the driver killed all lights. It took my vision a moment to adjust afterward—the light had shone directly in my face at one point—and by the time I could focus clearly the driver was out of the truck and looking in my yard. It was already dark so I wondered how he could see.

  He adjusted a strap on something he’d just put on his face, then reached up and hit a switch between his eyes. It wasn’t actually between his eyes, of course, but that’s how it looked. I caught a flash of a small green light glowing where the bridge
of his nose should be and realized that he’d just donned and activated a pair of night-vision goggles. I wondered if they were Starlight technology like the scopes soldiers used in Vietnam. I wondered how expensive they were and how Cedar Hill Animal Control could afford such high-tech gear.

  An SUV came around the corner, its headlights shining on high, enabling me to both see the driver and read the name on the side of the truck.

  Neither came as a surprise.

  He was impeccably dressed, expensive suit, tie, bowler hat on his head.

  The side of the truck read: KEEPERS.

  Still, my legs began to buckle, my chest felt tight, and my heart once again tried to squirt through my ribs; my breath came up short as I pressed my back against the wall and slid to the floor, a hand over my mouth.

  I held my breath, listening to his footsteps as Magritte-Man made his way up the walk, then to one side of the front porch before turning around and going back to his truck; I continued holding it until the sound of his engine faded into cricket-song and streetlight buzz. When I finally allowed myself to exhale, everything inside me became miasma and dissipated into the twilight.

  —grabbing my shirt through the bars of the cage and pulling me toward him, blood seeping into the cotton of my shirt as I lifted the bowler and showed him that it was undamaged, looking into my eyes, lips squirming in a mockery of communication because his vocal cords had been cut out long ago, sounds that were a burlesque of language, but there was something there, something that drew him to me or me to him, and he turned his head ever so slightly to the right and pulled me closer to the bars—

  —I shook my head and pulled away from the wall. A thin layer of perspiration covered my face, neck, chest, and hands; my arms were shaking, and for a moment I feared I was going to vomit. This last, at least, proved to be a false alarm.

  Pressing a hand against the front door, I eased myself onto my sponge-like feet and dragged in a few deep breaths to steady my nerves and my balance. Grabbing my shirt through the bars of the cage? Where the hell had that come from? I never get my memories mixed up in that way, one bleeding over into the other until the seams couldn’t be spotted.

  (Are you sure about that one, pal?)

  Christ.

  Rubbing my eyes, I made my way into the downstairs guest bedroom before I even knew where I was going or why. Ever notice how there are times when your body’s memory and will operate independently from your own? Synapses take a detour and you’re left wondering, Why am I here? / Doing this? / Looking for … what?

  I reached for the light switch but at the last moment my body’s will took over again and wouldn’t let me turn it on. This room had to remain dark; I’d have to rely on the light spilling in from the other room to see things.

  I moved the bed several feet to the right, then yanked away the cheap throw-rug that lay underneath to reveal the area of flooring that had been torn up and then replaced with a 3 × 3 trapdoor—an addition the plumbers suggested in the event that the new pipes running underneath needed to be accessed during an emergency. A padlock held the door firmly closed. I retrieved my keys from their hook by the front door and flipped through until I found the one for the padlock, opened it, but did not pull up the door. Not yet.

  Trying to look as casual as possible, I made my way through the downstairs, turning off a few more lights but not enough to slide everything into darkness; the light over the sink in the kitchen, the table lamp in the living room, and my desk lamp remained on. They would give me plenty of light for what I needed to do.

  I went into the linen closet for the second time that day, pulling out all of the hand towels and wash rags on the top shelf, then reaching back and flopping my hand around until I felt the curved brass handle on a wooden box; pulling it out and setting it on the floor of the closet, I turned the dials on the combination lock until the lid popped up with a soft click. I hadn’t opened this thing in years, hadn’t really wanted to, but now I had to. My body’s will commanded me.

  The 7.65mm Deutsche Werk semiautomatic pistol looked just as it had when Mom gave it to me after Dad’s funeral, along with his medals. He’d taken this gun from a dead SS officer in Austria near the end of World War Two. He’d kept it cleaned and oiled and had insisted on firing it at least once a year to make sure it was still in good working order. When I was much younger and still thought of guns as something powerful and romantically alien, Dad would sometimes let me fire it in the air at midnight on New Year’s Eve. The gun was small but its recoil packed a wallop. Dad used to laugh every year when the thing’d knock me on my ass after I fired.

  I jacked back the slide to make sure it was empty, then loaded the clip, chambered a round, set the safety, and shoved it into the back of my pants. (I’ve always hated movies where some guy shoves a gun into the front of his pants to hold it in place; sneeze, trip, or bump into something and it’s hi-diddle-deedee, the eunuch’s life for me. I hadn’t been with a woman for a very long time, but it seemed a good idea to keep the package attached, just in case. It’s the little fantasies that keep us going.)

  From inside the lid of the box I removed the serrated SS dagger in its ankle-sheath and strapped it on. After double-checking to make sure it was securely in place, I reached under the closet’s lower shelf, shoved aside a few mid-sized storage boxes, and pulled out the one weapon that hadn’t come from my father: a Mossberg 500 pistol-grip, pumpaction twelve-gauge shotgun. I took down the box of shells and fed it until it was full, then pumped a load into the chamber, stood up, and kicked the closet door closed behind me. I still wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to arm myself like a road-company Robert DeNiro in the penultimate reel of Taxi Driver, but my body told me I’d know soon enough.

  A few moments later I was back at the front door, peering through the window.

  Magritte-Man was back with at least two others of his ilk. The three of them stood, all bowlers and dapperness, on the sidewalk, night goggles at the ready. I stood up straight and looked right at them. I wasn’t sure they’d seen me, so I waved at them.

  Magritte-Man returned the gesture, but neither he nor the others made a move toward the house. At least there wouldn’t have to be any sneaking around now, dim light or no.

  They might—mark that—might know about the crawl-space, but not the trapdoor.

  I started back toward the guest bedroom, moving the shotgun from one hand to the other and shaking each empty hand in turn because my fingers had gone numb.

  Not you, I thought, hoping some small part of the universe would scatter the thought Magritte-Man’s way. She will not go with you.

  I will not allow that.

  I will bury her here.

  You won’t get your hands on her, not you, not you, not you …

  I’d kill all of us before I let that happen.

  TWO

  I put the Mossberg on a small table just inside the guest bedroom and knelt to open the trapdoor. This was the first time I’d used it since having it installed, and I was surprised by the thin cloud of sawdust that blew into my face. Coughing, I waved the cloud away, blinked until my eyes were clear, and started to drop my legs into the opening.

  Something outside slammed against the side of the house with enough force to shake the floor and cause the Mossberg to nearly fall off the edge of the table.

  I scrambled to my feet, grabbing the shotgun as I ran toward the living room. Whatever slammed against the house had raised some dust of its own, because a dissipating smog of sandy debris was swirling against the window. It wasn’t until I was just a foot or so away from the window that I realized it wasn’t dust at all.

  Crouching, I pulled back one side of the curtain to take a look.

  It was a cavernous silver mist—so thick in places it was nearly impossible to make out the shape of Magritte-Man’s truck in the street—that churned as if caught in a strong wind. But there was no wind. There hadn’t even been any humidity. The old joke might say that if you don’t like the weather in O
hio just wait a minute, and sometimes it sure seems that way, but barring any sort of significant meteorological aberration, no way in hell could a mist this heavy and wide-spread form in a matter of … I quickly played in reverse everything that had happened since I’d loaded the shotgun … ninety seconds?

  I looked out the window again. At the rate this was going, the mist would turn into heavy fog in no time.

  Ninety seconds.

  Dropping the curtain back into place, I moved through the living room toward the back door. The mist couldn’t be a natural phenomenon; yes, the weather here can make some extreme swings from time to time, but not like this, not a mist-bordering-on-fog that looks like it followed the tail of a major storm in summer, not in less than two minutes. So it stood to reason (didn’t it?) that Magritte-Man and his droogies had to have created it. It had only been two minutes, so whatever they were using to generate the mist couldn’t have worked up enough vapor to encircle the entire house—hell, even if they had more than one means of creating the mist (dry ice, a fog machine maybe?), there still hadn’t been enough time.

  (There you again, pal—trying to create logical reasons for stuff that you know damned well—)

  Up yours.

  I threw open the back door and stepped onto the porch, the Mossberg pointing out from my hip.

  The mist formed a semi-solid wall that spread out to create a barrier around the yard and rose so far into the evening sky it was impossible to see where it ended and the October clouds began. I leaned over the porch railing to see just how far the barrier extended; at both the far left and right edges of the house it curved so sharply and so abruptly it actually formed corners before continuing.

  It was surrounding the house.

  I felt a damp chill and exhaled; my breath became silver vapor as soon as it hit the air and billowed in front of my face, faintly glowing. From deep inside, the mist shimmered with silver light—nothing bright or blinding, but enough to illuminate the yard and the outside of the house.