Songs of Dreaming Gods

by Meikle, William

  It didn’t appear to be any darker in the room, so he couldn’t have slept long, but the swirling fog continued to block any chance of a view. He put the rest of the smokes and the lighter in his jacket pocket. He didn’t intend smoking any more of them, but he wasn’t about to let go of that crutch completely just yet either.

  The only other light source was coming from the dancing static from the television, the cosmic background radiation hissing and sparking its incomprehensible messages to anyone who wanted to listen. As yet the singing hadn’t returned, but the song had already wormed its way into his brain, and John had to keep concentrating to stop it looping in a repeating phrase in his head, lyrics that were as meaningless and unknowable as the random static.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  Jon had no idea what the song meant, if it meant anything at all, and he didn’t intend to spend any time more thinking about it. He headed for the apartment door to go back downstairs and try harder to get back to something more approaching reality.

  Time to go.

  But the door leading out to the landing was shut. He was sure he hadn’t closed it on the way in, so it must have happened while he was out of it. Maybe a gust of wind, or maybe one of those bad guys he’d just been thinking about. Whatever the cause, he soon found that he was now locked inside the apartment. The door had as little give in it as the main one downstairs, and proved just as stubborn against any attempt to open it.

  He banged on it hard with his free hand, slammed into it with his shoulder, then took out his pistol and started rapping the butt hard against the handle, but all to no avail. The door stayed shut and all he succeeded in doing was to tire himself out and raise fresh pain in the not quite fully healed scars in his belly.

  Somebody will be looking for me. Janis will be looking for me.

  But he’d already made enough noise to raise the dead and no one had come. How was anybody going to find him if he had indeed gone insane and was locked in his own brain? That particular scenario was something he was trying hard not to think about as he went back to the chair to put out the smoldering butt of his smoke. The television cracked and hissed as he stepped close to it, but thankfully didn’t start up with any more of the singing. John wasn’t sure his fragile mind would cope at that moment.

  He went in search of another exit, heading for the archway to the kitchen, but before he got there he heard the clink of glass on glass from the room ahead. His heartbeat immediately shot up, and dizziness threatened to overwhelm him again, but he steadied himself by leaning against the archway, and managed to keep a tremor out of his voice as he spoke.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  He got no reply, and standing in the doorway leaning on the wall wasn’t going to help matters. This time when he removed his weapon from the holster he got it on the first attempt. His hands didn’t shake, and it was anger and frustration he felt now rather than fear. And that was something he knew what to do with.

  He had his pistol in hand again as he stepped through into the kitchen.

  The room was empty, but it felt as if someone had just left. There was the faintest hint of a smell, of piss and shit, not strong enough to be really objectionable but definitely strong enough to be noticed. The poster above the stove wafted and waved, as if disturbed by someone’s passing, and it steadied slowly and fell still as John walked over to it. Something had changed. The red star inside the black circles now had a bright yellow center area that he was sure had not been there earlier. He put a finger on it, and left a smudged print, right in the middle. It wasn’t paint, more like somebody had used a Sharpie, and just seconds ago at that.

  There was another corridor beyond the kitchen, and a shadow, a large shadow, moved just beyond the open door of the room at the end, followed by a thud, as if somebody had just fallen over.

  “Armed police,” John shouted. “Come on out here where I can see you.”

  Again, he got no reply. He paused, reining in his temper. The way he was feeling right now, he was liable to shoot first and ask questions later, and that was almost as dangerous as being too naïve.

  He walked forward, past the open door of an empty washroom where the smell was much stronger and definitely objectionable. He passed it quickly and stood at the door of the room at the end of the small hallway.

  “I’m coming in,” he said. “Nobody needs to get hurt here if we all just keep our heads.”

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped through the doorway.

  Almost immediately the door slammed behind him, but John scarcely noticed.

  He’d expected to walk into a dingy bedroom.

  Instead he found himself in a high place, at the topmost point of an ancient tower, what appeared to be a tall spire of black weathered stone that fell away below. He had come through to stand on a turret looking over a parapet and a view that fell down into abyssal depths filled with swirling fog. Sometimes the fog shifted enough for him to see the main body of the tower itself, stretching away impossibly far below, a decaying edifice, seemingly empty of life. There were no lights at the many windows he could see, no movement, and no sound save a gull-like screeching from high above.

  Far to his left, hugging a distant horizon, a blue-black mountain range marched across the skyline, tall and snow tipped with jagged peaks like spearheads piercing the sky. To his right, and stretching away, many miles distant, a dark sea shimmered like black oil under a pitted yellow moon far too big for the sky. There was no knowing smile on this satellite, no jolly man in the moon. Yes, the surface was riddled with craters, but it was also cracked and split, with long scarred ridges big enough to throw shadows over the plains. One scar in particular ran across the face of the moon from pole to pole and must have come close to tearing it asunder in some long, distant past.

  He was so intent, so full of a mixture of bemusement and awe at the spectacle that he almost didn’t notice when he came under attack. He felt a tug at his clothes, like an insistent cat trying to get his attention. That insistence turned quickly to something more forceful. He turned to see what was there, and found not one, but three, maybe four beasts, too fast to see properly, pulling at him, tugging at his jacket, and now starting to rend the material, intent on ripping him limb from limb.

  He had no time to think, but John got the message. He had a pistol in his hand and something to fire at. He got off three rounds as he looked for a way back toward the door he’d come through. He started to catch glimpses of the things that attacked him. They had him pinned with his back to the parapet, all too aware of the drop behind him. Black fluttering wings, blazing red eyes and claws like iron nails were all that he saw as he pulled the trigger again and screamed until the things backed away and left him alone.

  The beasts took off. The smell as their wings beat reminded him of old books in dusty libraries. They soared and circled high above him and he finally got a good look. They were man-sized, with wide bat wings ten feet or more across, heads like rodents, and all the charm of an angry polecat. They had no arms, but their feet seemed to have an opposable toe that let them grip at their prey, one foot holding while the other raked talons across flesh. John had three deep welts that had gone through jacket and shirt and into his left forearm to show for their efficacy. Without the gun, he might have been torn to shreds or tossed, a discarded toy, down into the swirling depths below.

  A dozen or more of them circled up above, screeching while John squeezed himself into an alcove in the central turret that seemed to form the highest point of this strange tower. It provided him a modicum of protection from the rat-things, though he suspected it was only the weapon that was keeping them at bay.

  Minutes ago, he’d been sitting in an armchair, admittedly not that cozy an armchair but he’d take it now over this alternative. He’d thought the old house to be strange, but this place was beyond anything he’d imagined, at least anyth
ing he’d imagined recently, for his presence here wasn’t the worst thing.

  I know them. I’ve seen them before.

  Although this place was strange indeed, he recognized these beasts. They came from a place and time he thought he had mostly forgotten, childhood days in Mrs. McKennie’s schoolroom overlooking Trinity Bay. He used to doodle them on notebooks during dull schoolboy lessons, as if the act of putting them on paper might free them from the nightmares they gave him several times a week. That had worked, for a while, and John hadn’t thought about them for many years. But now, here they were.

  My Burdens.

  A name and a beast from the past were made flesh in the here and now.

  Wherever that last doorway had brought him, John thought that his Burdens might have come here with him.

  The rat-things kept swooping and screeching, sometimes coming almost within range, trying to get at him, but as long as he paid attention and was careful to stay in the alcove he was safe.

  But he could not stay in that spot forever, and the door through which he’d come was only yards away. He could see it, white, peeling paint and a copper number six, the front door of the apartment, somehow here, a slab of wood that looked as out of place as he did himself. He inched out of the alcove and started to sidle toward the door, keeping his back to the wall. The first of the Burdens came at him almost immediately, but it was as if the pistol anticipated the attack. It came up and fired, shooting the beast in the breast and sending it, wailing all the way, far down into the foggy deep beyond the parapet.

  That made the others wary, and John was able to reach the doorway without further mishap. He had a bad moment as he fumbled with the brass handle and thought that this might be another door that would be locked against him, but it opened when he tugged at it. He threw himself inside just as the Burdens launched another attack. Luck and the pistol saved him. He fired three quick shots and the beasts backed away again as he slammed the door shut and turned, expecting to have returned to relative safety, but he was not back in the hallway leading to the kitchen. He was inside the stone tower, in a narrow passageway, with steps leading away downward into darkness.

  His attempt at escape had only succeeded in imprisoning him further.

  He went down several flights of steps and cowered on a small landing, waiting to see what this place would throw at him next.

  Talons scratched like nails on blackboard as the Burdens tried to reach him through the door above. It was cold here, almost frigidly so, and the pistol was colder still in his hand, although it felt like it had always been there. Its weight and heft were comforting, here in this place.

  There was something else think about too. Normally pistols didn’t sing, but this one did, a deep drone, like a bass choir that swelled until it filled his head, then died to a whisper that was almost soothing, something to remind him that he might not be quite alone. He recognized the tune, it was the blues song again, and once more he had the lyrics looping in his head.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  After a time, John realized that nothing was going to happen unless he made it happen. The Burdens still scratched and tore against the door above, and unfortunately that seemed to be the only way out of the tower apart from going deeper inside.

  He walked down more stairs and found more landings, going down two levels from the parapet, levels in which he found nothing but dust and cold stone. The only marks in the dust were the scuffs and footprints he left as he passed through. He had a feeling that the turret had sat empty for a long, long time.

  By his reckoning, laying the path of his descent over his mental map of the house, if he were still in the St. John’s townhouse he’d be at the front door right about now. But here there was only more corridor, more steps, and a single window that he could just about see out of if he stood on tiptoe.

  He took out the smokes and lighter and got a cigarette out of the pack, then looked out the window, surveying the scene beyond.

  To his right, now that he had a chance to spend some time looking, he saw that the tall pointed tops of the mountains were not rock, but were in fact fallen ruins of towers, towers that may well have been much like the one he was in now. A long row of them, one on each peak marched off far into the distance, having been built in a time immeasurably long past. More winged things fluttered above the peaks, their screeching cries carrying across the still night air. There was no vegetation, at last none that John could see, just black rock. He saw what looked to be a forest, climbing high up the sides of the nearest peak, but the trees were all black and skeletal, any leaves they may once have had were long since gone to dust. The sight of them made John wonder just how long it had been since this place had seen any daylight, or if indeed it had a sun at all.

  There was a blanket of stars overhead, but they did not twinkle, and nor were they massed in any great profusion, but were dotted in sad little clumps around the firmament. There were no recognizable constellations. The main source of any light came from the huge gibbous moon, a sickly glow that lent everything a pale yellow aspect. Things scudded intermittently under the moon’s surface, things that must be impossibly huge to be seen at this distance, leaving trails, worm trails, across the surface like a crazed roadmap. John was just glad they were up there on the moon and not here in the turret with him, for the winged rat-things were bad enough to have to deal with for now.

  He never got a chance to light the smoke, or to take in any more details of the scenery. He heard it first, a rustle of leathery wings brushing against stone just outside, then the thing was right there in front of him. One of the Burdens tried to come through the window. It pulled the bulk of its body through, but the space was just too narrow to allow its wings easy passage, and it thrashed and squirmed, then heaved, free and ready to launch itself at him. It might have managed it too, if the pistol hadn’t warned him with a pulse of heat in his palm and a swelling chorus of song in his head that gave him enough time to raise the weapon. The rat-thing screamed, its mouth open, showing rows of yellowed, chipped teeth, and he smelled its fetid breath, rotten meat and vomit. The pistol screamed back; the choir raised in a shout that felt like joy as John pulled the trigger, again, and again, blowing the thing’s head into a pulpy mess. It fell into the room off the window ledge and was dead and still even before he stopped pulling the trigger.

  He realized he’d fired many more bullets than he had in the magazine, but when he checked, the magazine was still full, and the ammo felt warm, almost tingly in his hand.

  A land without sun, winged demons and a magic gun. Well, at least that’s different.

  Madness and hysteria crept close again but he pushed it away.

  You’re obviously here, and obviously alive. And you’re still a cop. Deal with it.

  He kicked at the remains of the thing that had come through the window, but it was all just dead meat, and he had no need to look any closer, it wasn’t playing dead, not without most of its head. Besides, it gave off the most awful stench. His foot sank further than it should have into the chest, and the torso started to bubble and seethe, putrefying at an impossible rate. He left it where it lay, and headed back to the stairs and cleaner air.

  More of the dead thing’s brethren screamed and chattered high above, and he heard them battering at the door on the parapet. It was only a matter of time before they broke through, or realized, like the dead one obviously had, that they could use the windows. He might have a magic gun that would probably have more bullets than there were Burdens, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust his life to something so unbelievable. It was just too far from any concept he had as to the way things worked, should work, in any normal place but here.

  He made for the stairs.

  The only way for him to go was down.

  7

  Janis stood in the opulent bedroom with her back to the door, breathing almost as heavily as she had
after the experience on the stairs.

  This can’t be happening.

  It was more than obvious that it was, and that she was way beyond anything she’d been trained to deal with. But given the details of the crime scene and the blonde’s witness statement back at the station, Janis now thought that she might have come into contact with some strange new hallucinogen, one that closely, but not too closely, mimicked reality. She’d never heard of such a thing, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist; new highs were coming to the streets all the time, each one more potent, and more dangerous in Janis’ eyes, than the last.

  All she could do was keep on keeping on and either ride it out or have someone come to her aid. She wasn’t holding out much hope for the second option, for if there had been anyone else in the building, surely, they too would be suffering similar effects?

  The gramophone quickly wound down and the old blues song faded and died with a last wailing whine that, oddly, seemed like a perfectly fitting end to the song, leaving the room silent.

  I preferred it noisy.

  She fought to get her breathing under control and had her first good look around. She’d noticed the velvet drapes and ornate bed already. Now she saw that the furniture was of similar vintage and design as the bed itself. There were two dressers and an armoire, all with a shiny black lacquered look, inlaid with red, purple and gold flowers that was far too fussy for her tastes. The gramophone, while of a design that had been old before Janis was born, looked pristine, like new almost, and the vinyl, or was it Shellac, 78rpm of course, was shiny and unscratched by age. The tops of the two dressers were covered in small porcelain ornaments. Again they looked vaguely Japanese in style to Janis, but she wouldn’t know one ornament from another, apart from the fact that these all looked far too cute—pink cherubs and angels, Christ figures and tiny neat churches. Whoever lived here didn’t want for some of that old-time religion.