by Alan Baxter
For one wild moment he imagined taking it with him, introducing his old family to his new one. But no, the egg needed water. He would return to it.
He dressed and pulled on a baggy hoodie despite the summer warmth, aware he needed to conceal his swollen right side. Sweating already, he stared at his right hand. His fingers had thickened, pressed close together like fat sausages, but purple-black, the skin tight and irregular. His hand itself was swollen almost to a ball. In truth, it barely looked like a hand any longer, more like some strange coral growth.
Troy went into the bathroom and found a small first aid kit, and in it a large triangular bandage for making a sling. He’d had to do a first aid course as part of his job safety protocols and remembered how. He made a sling, big enough to conceal his hand if he tucked the leading edge over it. It was tricky, working it into position left-handed, but he finally managed. It did the job. He’d think of a reason for it on the way there.
It was a long walk to his parent’s house, right across the south side of town and up the steep hill. He was sweating profusely by the time he arrived, ten minutes late, but knew he’d have to suffer that as he couldn’t take the hoodie off.
“Troy! What happened to you?” His mother’s face was shocked as she opened the door.
“It’s nothing, Mum. I fell and dislocated my shoulder. The sling is just a precaution.”
“Oh, darling!”
“Really, don’t fuss, Mum. It’s been put back. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Troy broke his arm!” his mother yelled into the house as she headed back down the hall.
“Ya fucking nong,” Simon said. “How’d you do that?” His brother grinned from the doorway into the dining room, leaning laconically against the frame. “And take the hoodie off, idiot. How hot are ya?”
“Slipped and dislocated my shoulder. Really, it’s fine.” He wanted so badly to be back with his egg.
Laura stepped up behind Simon, wrapped her arms around him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re very red in the face.”
“I’m fine!”
Simon patted the air with both hands. “Okay, weirdo, calm ya farm.”
Rose was sitting at the dining room table, a glass of wine in hand. His sister was always more relaxed than the rest of the family. She smiled and shook her head, rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Let’s eat!” his mother said. “Everyone sit down. We can all catch up.”
They moved into the dining room and took their seats around the large, dark mango wood table. Troy’s father poured the wine, stoic as usual. He smiled and nodded as Troy sat down. “How long does the sling stay on?”
“Just a few days, until the shoulder has rested.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.” His dad frowned. It was clear he wanted to say more, probably about the hoodie. Troy was sweltering in it, but thankfully his parents had air-conditioning on in the dining room, and that helped.
“What a dickhead,” Simon said with a laugh. “How do you dislocate a shoulder by slipping?”
Troy sighed. “Let it go, mate.”
“I will, actually,” Simon said. “Now all the glasses are filled. Mum, come back.” Their mother paused on her way through to the kitchen and looked back, eyebrows high. “Show them, Laura,” Simon said.
Laura grinned like she’d won the lottery and held up her left hand, fingers fluttering. A diamond ring glittered on her finger. “He popped the question!”
Troy’s mother squealed, Rose rolled her eyes again, Simon beamed like the proverbial cat with the cream.
“And what was your answer?” Troy’s dad said, a dumb half-smile stretching his cheek.
“Dad, come on!” Simon said, but he laughed anyway.
Their mother danced around the table, grabbing Laura in a hug, then Simon. Troy’s dad looked puffed up with pride and stood to shake his son’s hand. Even Rose, usually cynical, had a warmth in her eyes despite the earlier roll. Troy trembled, a mild panic rising in him. It was all so normal, so fucking domestic. How could they be so excited about something so bloody mundane? In thirty years Simon and Laura would be two more husks like his parents, their lives dribbled away on nothing.
“... okay, mate?”
Troy jumped, caught his brother’s eye. “What?”
“I said, are you okay, mate? You look ill.”
“I’m... I don’t know...”
“Can’t you just be happy for me or something? Why are you always the bloody weird one, Troy?”
Troy stood, knocking over his chair. He was lightheaded, his entire right side and arm burned with an intensity that made him grit his teeth. Despite the air-con he was hot as hell.
His father stood, brow furrowed. “What’s happening, son? Take the top off, you’re overheating. Here, let me help.”
The rest of the family stilled, all celebration drained away.
“Fucken hell, Troy, pick your moment!” Simon said.
“Wait, don’t be mean,” their mother said. “Troy?”
He heard that unearthly siren, like the one he’d dreamed. He felt the pounding wind and rain, the storm as the sky split red and purple. He couldn’t breathe. The vastness cajoled him.
“My egg!”
“Your what?” Rose asked.
“I have to go!”
His mother reached for him, her eyes wide. “Troy, what’s happening. Let me call the doctor.”
He pushed past her and headed for the door. “No, I’m fine. Really. Maybe the fall affected me more than I realised.” The fall. Everyone in The Gulp dreams of the fall. Whose voice was that in his head? A scratchy old woman’s tone. “I just need to go home. I’m sorry. Congrats, Si. Well done, mate. Laura.”
“The fuck?” Simon said, scowling.
Troy half-ran, half-fell along the hallway and pulled open the front door.
“Let me drive you, son,” his dad said, hurrying along behind.
“No, I want the walk. The fresh air.”
“It’s a scorcher out there, the car has AC–”
“I’m fine! Thanks though. I’ll see you soon. Sorry!” He pulled the door closed and strode off along the path towards the street. As soon as he knew he was heading back to his egg, his head cleared a little.
The front door opened again, his family crammed in it, looking out.
“Troy?” his mother called.
“Honestly, I’m fine,” he shouted, without looking back. “I’m really sorry. I’ll call you later.”
He turned onto the footpath and walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. He needed to be home, simple as that.
Standing back in front of his tank half an hour later, he stared in wonder. The egg had grown again, almost filling the tank. The fish and plants had become a part of it, multi-coloured appendages to the mass. The finger-like growths all around its edge had also begun to blur together, making a thick skirt that rippled softly in the current.
Troy tore away his clothes, left them piled on the floor, and lifted his family from the water. He held it tight against his chest, both arms wrapped around it. It was so hot, and so heavy. Orgasmic waves of satisfaction pulsed through him. He sank to the floor under the weight of it, nestled one end into his lap as he sat cross-legged. Hugging it tightly, he rocked gently, murmuring words of love, promises of protection, soft gasps at the pleasurable sensations it sent through him.
Time passed, hours or even days he didn’t know. Or care. His phone rang repeatedly, but he ignored it. Eventually it stopped. He assumed the battery had quit. On several occasions, he heard banging on his door. People called his name. He recognised his mother’s voice, then his father, more stern. A female voice at one point that might have been Rose, might have been Cindy.
The skirt of clear flesh around the egg spread over his shoulders and merged into his skin. The thickening, purple, blistered flesh of his arms and chest spread to cover his whole upper body, burning with a delicious, insatiab
le itch. He felt it creep up his neck, spread across his face where he kept his cheek pressed to his beloved.
His vision began to blur, everything tinged purple. His bones grew, spreading up and outward. Over time irrelevant, his spine arched back, his ribs flowered open. His legs shifted and reformed beneath him as his face tipped back. The egg was heavier than ever, more than a metre across, maybe almost as deep, nestled in the cradle of his reforming flesh.
There was purpose to his transformation, he knew. It was the next stage his family required. First the water, now this. Next? It didn’t matter, he would do whatever it needed. He would be whatever it needed. He exulted in the twisting of his flesh and bones. His arms had merged with it and with each other, wrapped protectively around. His torso had become a basket of blistered, purple flesh atop the thick short stumps of his legs. His head and neck had swollen and become one, pressing out somewhere from the edge of the new entity he had evolved into. Purple sheened his vision, a sound of distant waves constantly filled his ears.
Something called to him, some presence beyond normal hearing. An urge irresistible. On stocky limbs he shifted awkwardly towards the door of his flat and heard them gathered on the other side. He realised he had known they were coming. Or the egg knew, which was the same thing really. They knocked, and he tried to tell them he had no hands to open the door. Instead his voice was a thick slurry of noise, his tongue five times its normal size twisted up inside his contorted face, letting out only strangled coughs and barks. He leaned, tipped one purpled eye towards the door as the knocking became pounding.
“Yeeessssstthhhh,” he called, as loudly as he could. “YEEESSSSTTHHHH!”
The door burst inwards, the lock splitting from the wooden frame.
Four people stood there, all pale as chalk. An incredibly old man, a young woman in her late teens, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a red jumper, long hair tied back, and a middle-aged man who had kicked in the door.
“It’s time,” all four said together in voices that resonated with vibrations he felt right through his new self. A fungal aroma hung around them.
“Tiiimme,” Troy slurred, staggering on his crooked legs, the swollen, blistered bulk of his egg-cradle body ungainly on top.
“For so many months we bided our time,” the four said as one. “Prepared. Waiting. We knew you were coming.”
They helped him through the door and supported him down the stairs, out into the night air. It was hot, redolent with scents of night jasmine and the sea. The egg buzzed and trembled in the nest of his flesh.
“Whhheerrre?” Troy managed to say as they surrounded him and hurried along the footpath.
“A place is arranged,” they said in unison. “Not far. The re-emergence is imminent. The return is upon us.”
“Yeessss,” Troy slurred as he trundled between them. “I ffeeeeelll itttt. Sssoooonnnn.”
In Clooney’s, Carter leaned on the bar talking to Chrissy. He didn’t often come into the pub, but now and then he liked to get a taste of life down in town. And it was his pub, after all, named after his great-grandfather Clooney P. Carter. A colonial settler, Clooney had built the place by hand, so the story went, and though he named it The Gulpepper Inn, everyone then called it Clooney’s, and the habit had stuck. He suspected few people knew that story any more. Time marched on.
Chrissy said something, but Carter shivered, then looked up, instantly forgetting whatever she’d been talking about.
“You okay?” Chrissy asked.
“Something’s changed.”
“Changed?”
“The energies around us just rippled.”
Chrissy nodded. “It’s starting?”
“Yes. We knew something was coming. Well, I hope Ingrid Blumenthal got the vessel for the ritual. She was dealing with the Macedonian.” Carter frowned, lips pursed. “Come to think of it, I should have heard from her by now. It’s been weeks.”
“She’s a strange one,” Chrissy said with a shrug. “She’ll come through, right?”
“I hope so. I wonder why she’s been so... absent. Normally Talbot keeps me up to speed, but I haven’t heard from him in ages either.”
“Her husband?”
“And her brother,” Carter said distractedly.
Chrissy frowned, opened her mouth to say more, but he turned away. He went to the door of the pub and looked out into the night, sniffed the hot air.
The old woman who was always at the harbour stood on the low wall surrounding the water, staring up into the stars. The sea witch, the locals called her. Carter thought maybe it was a fair moniker.
She felt him looking and met his eye. Even from this distance, he saw her old face was twisted in concern. Carter lifted his chin in a question, and she nodded, resigned. She climbed down and shuffled away towards the lighthouse.
“You okay, boss?” Dace Claringbold asked, strolling up to the pub.
“Yeah, son, I think so. But gird your loins, we might have work to do soon.”
“You know me, Mr Carter. I was born ready.” He slipped past, heading in towards the bar.
“Time marches on,” Carter said to himself. “A new time is coming.”
He wondered what might be required of him soon. And he wondered why it felt like Ingrid Blumenthal wasn’t in town anymore.
Maddy Taylor sat in Clooney’s with Dylan, chatting to Rich, one of Carter’s newer goons. He’d only been around a year or so, she thought. Nice guy, but anyone who worked for Carter needed to be kept at arm’s length. He’d been telling her how he wasn’t from around The Gulp, but had found himself a place here. He seemed a little preoccupied as he talked about it, like he was trying to remember something else. Despite her concerns about having anything to do with Carter or any of his people, she had to talk to someone because all four members of Blind Eye Moon were sitting right there at the next table, drinking beer and chatting quietly. Dylan was mesmerised by their proximity. She was in danger of fangirling if she didn’t distract herself. Wait until she told Zack the band had just been hanging out in Clooney’s like regular people, in full make-up and everything. They weren’t playing a gig that night, but another local band was due to take the stage in an hour or so. Maybe they’d come for them. Imagine being a regular pub band, Maddy thought, and have Blind Eye Moon show up to your gig.
She noticed Rich and all four members of BEM were distracted, looking towards the front of the pub. She followed their gaze and saw Carter standing in the open doorway, looking out into the night, still as a statue. The man gave her the creeps. She didn’t want to think too much about what he was doing, but he looked weird framed by the doorway like that. The tableau looked, she thought, like a Blind Eye Moon album cover.
“He can feel it too,” Howard said.
Edgar nodded. “Of course. How could he not?”
“You think he’s got it in hand?” Shirley asked.
Edgar turned to the drummer. “We’ll see, I guess. He takes care of stuff usually, and leaves us alone. So I’m happy to return the courtesy. There’s something about him I don’t like, anyway. Let’s continue to enjoy the truce, shall we?”
“Do you think he’ll ask us for help if he needs it?” Clarke asked. “Or too proud?”
Edgar shook his head, took a gulp from his beer. “Not sure. Powers shift in this place all the time. For now, let’s get drunk and see if this band is any good.”
“Yeah, but this is bigger,” Shirley said. “Something major is unstable. Or changing. You can feel it, same as us. And if we all feel it, if Carter is concerned about it, we shouldn’t ignore it.”
“True,” Edgar said. “But let’s wait and see, yeah? If it needs our attention, so be it. If not, we let it be.” He grinned, shrugged. “Weird shit happens all the time in The Gulp.”
The End..?
Read more from Alan Baxter
https://www.alanbaxteronline.com/my-books/
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed this selection of dark weirdness. I’ve a
lways been fascinated by life in country towns, especially Australian ones. And I’ve always loved harbour towns. I live in one, after all. The Gulp is not the town I live in, though its geography may seem familiar. The Gulp is a gestalt of many country towns, set in something that’s a version of many coastal regions. It’s a concept more than a place. Let’s all enjoy it from a distance and hope we never find ourselves there. Unless, of course, you enjoy this book enough that you’d like to revisit The Gulp through more stories like these. There are certainly more tales to tell...
Glossary
Throughout this book, I’ve used Australian English spelling, and a bit of Aussie slang. Hopefully this will help you decipher some of it.
Akubra – Akubra is an Australian hat manufacturer. The company is associated with bush hats made of rabbit fur felt with wide brims that are worn in rural Australia. The term ‘Akubra’ is sometimes used to refer to any hat of this kind, however the company manufactures a wide range of hat styles including fedora, homburg, bowler, pork pie, and trilby. The name is claimed to derive from an Aboriginal (possibly Birpai) word for a head covering.
arvo – slang for afternoon.
bumbag – fanny pack.
cunjevoi – the aboriginal name for a sea squirt that lives around the edge of the low-tide mark, and often forms mats over the rocks.
doona – duvet, continental quilt.
esky – an Australian brand (Esky) of portable cool box, but the word is commonly used generically for all portable coolers or ice boxes.
flannie – flannel shirt, usually red or blue checks.
grog – booze, any form of alcohol.
jaffle – a toasted sandwich.
parma – parmigiana, a way to prepare chicken with a tomato sauce, ham and cheese covered schnitzel. Regional arguments over chicken parma versus chicken parmi will never be settled in Australia.
RBT – Random Breath Test – roadside sobriety check.