by Clive Barker
“Just a little reunion,” answered Orthlieb. “A couple of us who remember what the old town was like.”
“In the pouring rain? You’ll have to do better than that.”
Digger stepped closer, straining to hear over the rain’s percussion. His feet sank in the growing mire but he didn’t notice, absorbed as he was by the unlikely scene before him.
“Are you Ken Depp’s son?” This from the woman.
Frank seemed perturbed by the question, although Digger wasn’t sure if it was because it was such an out-of-the-blue non-sequitur, or because he couldn’t escape his heritage even with a complete stranger.
“Yes,” he said finally. “And you are…?”
The woman took a step forward. “My name is Agnes Woolrich. I knew your father very well.”
Digger recognized the surname. He knew the Woolrich family had once been major land barons here in Karn County, but he hadn’t heard the name in years. The notion that they’d sold out and moved away seemed vaguely familiar.
“We’re here,” she continued, “to right a wrong that occurred thirty-eight years ago. You see, none of this”—she looked around her, drops of water slewing from her face and hair— “had to happen. There were better places for a dam, more logical places, more economical. But a few influential people, including the two of us, got together and realized we had a way to make even more money than we already had. We bribed a few people, got our way, and made our new fortunes.”
“You’ll have to excuse her,” said Orthlieb. “She’s been institutionalized for several years now. I suspect she’s here without her doctor’s permission, or knowledge.”
Agnes Woolrich laughed, but it was a short, unpleasant sound, without a hint of mirth. “Quick thinking, Henry. Well done. But you have much more to worry about than me telling the police you’re a murderer.”
“All right, I’ve heard enough,” said Frank. “We’re all going back to the station and talk about this some more. A lot more.”
Night had crept up so that the only real illumination came from the jeep’s headlights, and from the lightning strikes, which came every few seconds now, followed closely by thunder strumming low on its backside. But there was enough light for Digger to see that Orthlieb’s face was twisted like a wadded-up rag, with a grimace mean enough to kill sitting dead-center.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, reaching beneath his shirt. When he pulled his hand back out, he was holding a revolver. “I’m sorry you and your friend have stumbled into this, Frank. You were always a likeable enough buffoon.” He moved the gun back and forth between the brothers. “But your timing couldn’t be worse.”
Digger’s heart went from 0 to 60 in a blink. A minute ago, he was about to drive a tractor a short distance and then head back to a warm, dry house. Now…
His ears were prepared to hear the loud crack of a gunshot. Instead, there came a massive, churning rumble, like a gigantic subwoofer, that seemed to spread from his feet up through the top of his head. A moment later, the ground heaved, knocking Digger and the others off their feet.
When Digger looked up, Orthlieb still had the gun, but he was on all fours, both hands thrown out before him, fighting for balance as the ground continued to lurch. As Digger watched, the lakebed suddenly seemed to liquefy beneath Orthlieb.
His hands and feet disappeared beneath the surface, the gun going with them. Mud seemed to crawl up his body as he sank.
Alongside him, the Woolrich woman was sinking as well. Digger and Frank seemed to be on solid ground, at least for the moment.
They’d all been stunned into silence by the sudden events, but now senses returned.
“Christ!”
“What the hell?”
“Somebody help me!”
* * *
Only Agnes remains quiet. She seems oddly calm as the mud wraps her in its cold embrace.
“Help me, dammit! It’s like quicksand!” Panic creeps into Orthlieb’s voice, overtaking fear.
The shaking subsides slightly. Frank struggles to his feet and takes a halting step. A few feet behind him, Digger rises unsteadily.
“No!” It’s Agnes, finally speaking. “Stay back, or it will take you, too!”
Ignoring her, Frank staggers forward.
Digger watches, not moving, stunned.
Orthlieb is whimpering, swearing, up to his armpits. Sinking faster.
Frank takes another step.
“No!” she cries again. “It will take you in place of your father.”
Frank stops suddenly, as if struck. “What?” he shouts. “What do you mean?”
“Just walk away,” says Agnes, calmer now that Frank has stopped moving. “Leave us; it’s what we deserve.” Mud licks beneath her chin.
Frank breaks from his paralysis, leans forward, arm extended. But then the earth lurches again violently, purposefully, throwing him backwards.
Orthlieb is screaming now, thrashing helplessly.
“Your father was a good man,” says Agnes, while her mouth is still uncovered. “Remember that.”
Digger moves at last. He reaches out, wraps his arms around his brother, holding him back from any last-second heroics.
Agnes’s eyes are serene as they slip below the surface.
Orthlieb’s screams bubble through the mud, his hands reaching up desperately as he sinks.
Digger holds his brother tightly as Orthlieb’s straining fingertips slip hopelessly beneath the mire. Frank’s struggles to pull free slowly cease but he continues to shake violently in his brother’s arms.
Around them, the lakebed grows darker.
And the rain comes down.
And the earth rolls on.
That Long Black Train
Travis Heermann
“You no ride this one,” the nasal voice said, thick with a Vietnamese accent.
The December air was chilly but Sean hadn’t noticed it, even in his thin batik shirt, until the sound of that voice. A shape emerged from the shadows along the crumbling train platform. A short, lumpy man with a pencil-thin mustache, wearing the ubiquitous olive-green uniform and red-banded wheel cap with the yellow star above the bill. Vietnam People’s Army. The man’s uniform had pips on the collar like an officer, and he wore a sidearm.
The train ground to a halt a few feet away, its massive diesel engine growling, rumbling.
Sean scratched his head in a moment of panic. Was this the wrong train? He and Phil glanced at each other.
Phil turned toward the officer and pointed at the train. “Night train to Nha Trang?”
“Yes. You no ride this one.”
“We have tickets.” Phil pulled out his ticket and showed it to the officer, but the man didn’t appear to be interested. His gaze was fixed on Sean.
Sean looked around. Two more shadows lurked near the area from which this man had emerged. A spot of cigarette orange flared against a dark silhouette.
The dim yellow lights of the platform made dull yellow circles on the glossy black cars. The same tone of dull yellow seeped through the closed blinds from inside the cars.
Back toward the ticket office, dozens of other passengers shambled, dispersed along the platform, looking for their assigned car numbers, climbing the steps through the passenger doors. Most of the Vietnamese were going home to the countryside for the Tet holiday, getting out of Ho Chi Minh City to visit their families. But even thirty-five years after the Communists took over, the locals still called it Saigon. In the chilly air, they wore long coats and scarves, compared to Phil’s and Sean’s short-sleeve shirts and shorts.
The rest of the passengers were foreigners, wearing dreadlocks, beads in their hair, scruffy beards, no bras, lean and carefree as they lugged their massive backpacks. Europeans, Aussies, Israelis, all on a cheap vacation to exotic Southeast Asia. Just like Sean and Phil.
Phil was almost a foot shorter than Sean. He was Filipino by heritage, but he had a generic Asian ethnicity, leading him to be mistaken for Chinese, Vietnamese
, Thai, even Japanese. His hair was shaved close to his head. He had the upper body of a heavy-weight boxer and the lower torso of a dedicated beer drinker. By contrast, Sean stood six-foot-three with a stiff brush of red hair and broad, linebacker’s shoulders.
The officer looked at Phil. “You no go. He go, OK.”
Sean looked at his friend again and felt his insides clench. He did not want a run-in with the notoriously corrupt Vietnamese authorities. How many times in the last week had he felt that twinge of nervousness? The feeling of being off the beaten path in a country where anything goes. Until Phil had talked him into this trip, Vietnam had just been a vague painful notion that nevertheless had cast a pall over his entire life. It had made his father into a difficult man, all but ruined him. Vietnam and everything about it was best left at arm’s length, just like his dad. That is, until Angie had dumped him, and Phil had called him up and said, “Let’s takes a trip to Southeast Asia!” He had been so enthusiastic. “C’mon! I need to get out of this one horse town for a while. We’ll meet some girls and tear a swath through every bar that crosses our path! You can forget about that cheatin’ ho-bag for a while. Whaddaya say?”
He had to admit, his friend had been very persuasive.
But now, four days into their trip…
Those men in uniform were just the right age to be former NVA or Viet Cong. The same people who had driven the U.S. Army in disarray from their shores. The same nervousness had twinged inside his gut at several points during their trip. At the gleefully propagandistic War Museum, and the graphic photos of “atrocities” committed by “the American aggressors” and the French-made guillotine so proudly displayed, said to have been used only by the “evil South Vietnamese government.” And the next day the grim and sullen Cu Chi Tunnel System sixty kilometers west of Saigon, nestled in jungle and rubber plantations that looked as if Agent Orange had never existed. The ingenious subterranean mazes where American G.I. “tunnel rats” had met booby traps and ambush. Now it was a tourist attraction. The prominent displays of booby traps and animatronic Viet Cong freedom fighters. The burned-out shell of an M-48 tank near one of the entrances where it had rotted like a steel corpse for 35 years. And the real U.S. Army issue .50-caliber machine gun that tourists could fire for a mere twenty dollars. The history had pressed down on both of them, made this trip more than just the hedonistic free-for-all that Phil had intended.
Sean stepped forward and pointed at Phil. “My friend. We go together.”
The officer gave them one last long look, then shrugged and walked back to the other men standing in the shadows.
They shrugged at each other to try to dispel their mutual discomfort and boarded the train.
The sleeper compartment that matched their ticket number was a dark, four-bed cracker box, two on each side, with frayed, naked mattresses that looked like they were new when the train was built, in about 1974. Sean and Phil took the top bunks.
The small reading light at the head of Sean’s bunk helped dispel the gloom. Passengers shambled past the bright doorway, dragging luggage behind them.
It had been a long, challenging evening to make sure they reached the station on time. Neither of them spoke a syllable of Vietnamese, even though Phil made a hilarious imitation. The bar girls had loved it.
They stretched out in their bunks, arranging bags and blankets. Phil pulled out one of the baguette sandwiches they had bought from a street vendor for thirty cents apiece. “So how long was your dad in Nha Trang?”
Sean took out his own baguette and unwrapped it. “His whole tour. A year.” The baguette he had eaten yesterday had been fantastic. At least the French had left something worthwhile behind.
“He saw some heavy shit there, eh?”
“It messed him up. Mom said he was kind of gun crazy when he came home. Figured the Russians or the Chinese would invade or something, so we always had a bunch of guns in the house.”
“How does he feel about you going to Vietnam?”
“I think he wants to know what it’s like now. He really wants pictures of Nha Trang.”
“Is that why you came on this trip? Or is it to take your mind off the ex?”
Sean nodded and lied. “For Dad. Maybe we’ll have something to talk about now. Angie can go fuck herself.” Six years. And for three of it, she had been fucking her yoga instructor.
“That’s the spirit!”
He took a big bite of his sandwich, chewed a little, and then the scent of rancid meat smashed him in the nose. He spewed the rotten paste in his mouth onto the wrapping paper. “Fucking hell!”
“Something wrong?”
“It’s rotten!” The processed luncheon meat that gave the sandwiches their particular flair stank like a carcass left in the sun for three days, and as he opened the bun, he saw that the meat had a sickly greenish cast. His stomach heaved.
Phil continued munching his. “That sucks, man. Mine’s good.”
“Are you sure? We were standing right there when the old lady made them both.” He grabbed his bottle of water, climbed down, and headed for the bathroom. Passengers clogged the hallway, sifting into their respective berths.
The bathroom was a corrugated stainless steel cell with a six-inch hole in the floor that opened onto the tracks.
He did his best to wash the rancid taste out of his mouth with the bottled water, rinsing and spitting into the tiny steel sink.
Then the whistle blew a long, wavering squeal, and the cell lurched. Through the hole in the floor, he could see the ground beginning to move. Through the small, grimy window, the station platform began to slide.
The whistle squealed again, a strangled, ululating sound, like someone throttling a rabbit. Something rumbled in his belly that was not hunger and was not the lingering taste of putrid meat.
“Toss that sandwich in the garbage, man. It reeks,” Phil said.
He was right. The compartment stank of rotten meat, so Sean bundled the sandwich back up into its paper and took it out to toss it into the garbage bin.
As he turned, he found himself belly-to-face with a short Vietnamese woman. Her eyes were milky and half-lidded; her pink, toothless mouth hung slack and open. She stopped one step away from him. Her gray hair was shot with streaks of white, and her skin looked like a desiccated mango. She did not look up at him, just stopped as if she had dimly perceived some sort of obstacle in her path but did not care to examine it. She lifted her nose to sniff the air. He stepped aside, and she moved on without acknowledgement.
By the time he returned to his compartment, the disembodied lights of Saigon were picking up speed outside the window. Haloed globes of halogen white suspended in ink moved across the filmy glass like headlights coming sideways on a dark night.
Phil thumbed through his copy of Lonely Planet: South East Asia. “Looks like a couple of good hotels in Nha Trang.”
Sean lay back on his bunk wondering what to do about his returning hunger. He felt like something in his chest was vibrating, defibrillating, and it would not let him relax. Finally, he said, “I’m going to go find the dining car, get something to eat.”
“Sounds good, man. I’ll come with. Maybe we’ll meet some of those smoking hot European girls.”
After threading their way through three sleeping cars identical to theirs, they came to a different kind of coach, dark and dingy, with quiet people squeezed into ancient cast-iron seats. Furtive eyes flicked their gazes at the pair. They picked their way around boxes, luggage, and haphazardly sprawling legs, down the center aisle between rows of seats. Phil said, “Jesus, man. Who chose the upholstery on this train?”
An old man slept soundly on a seat made of worn vinyl the color of flesh. The vinyl looked deep and soft, like a fat woman’s belly. The clenching unease in Sean’s belly returned, stronger. He caught a strange scent on the air, like a tangle of sweat and smoke and…
They found the dining car a couple more coaches forward. As they neared it, the smells of hot steaming noodle broth and
warm beer drifted back on waves of rockabilly music. An Elvis song, one of his early ones that Sean had heard many times, but could not name.
“Looks like we’re missing the party,” he said.
“And me without my condoms.” Phil’s sarcasm could peel paint at times.
The foreign passengers they had seen earlier looked to be all here. Tables were filled with bottles of Tiger beer, empty noodle bowls, and half-eaten spring rolls. A man and woman were dancing, their bodies grinding at the hips, tank-tops and shorts clinging to their sweaty flesh. His hand was down inside the back of her shorts, cupping one of her buttocks, and her eyes were half-closed and dreamy. The air in here was hot and steamy, like the Mekong delta in high summer. The other partiers watched the couple with hungry, rapt expressions, as if waiting for the man to throw her up on a table and bang her right there.
Behind the counter was a tall cook with a big grin on his face and an array of steaming pots behind him. A half-drunk policeman slouched on a stool, leaning against the wall, clutching his beer and enjoying the spectacle with piss-colored eyes.
The cook’s plastic smile did not change as Sean ordered two beers and a bowl of pho. The cook ladled out noodles and handed out beers with his lips and teeth in exactly the same position, as if they were glued in place.
Phil squinted, mimicked his expression, and said, “Sank you velly mush.”
They sat down near the door, keeping an eye on the other foreigners. The music pulsed from an old, worn boom box on a corner table. Suddenly the music stopped as the cassette player kicked itself off at the end of the tape. The sudden silence roared, and the partiers filled it with a surge of cacophonous conversation. Sean did not speak any of those languages. The two dancers continued their sensuous movements as if listening to hot, juicy, throbbing music only they could hear. Then someone flipped the tape over, and the music resumed with “Surfin’ USA.”
Sean and Phil looked at each other.
“Wacky Europeans,” Phil said.
“Yes, we are quite ‘wacky,’ aren’t we,” a man’s voice said behind him, with a heavy French accent and an undecipherable tone. “Some of us more than others.”