Old Broken Road

by Alexander, K. M.

  Leading the way with Wensem close behind the six of us pushed down a passageway that seemed to run the length of the chamber. Our pool of light followed us like a spotlight. The smell in the chamber was awful—a mix of excrement, sweat, and the lower scents of blood and rot. Someone gagged and I pulled my keff over my face, wrapping it around my nose and mouth and pushed onward.

  One after another, we checked the cells. Each cell was empty. In the vacant silence, the scratches on the packed earth walls told stories. Buckets swarmed with white wriggling worms, and rusty chains littered the floor like dead snakes.

  “No sheriff,” I noted quietly.

  “I’m not sure if that bodes well for him or not,” said Samantha from somewhere in the darkness behind me.

  I nodded invisibly in the darkness.

  The chamber ended in a larger cell at the far end from the entrance. A few pews that looked like relics from the chapel had been dragged down and sat vigil along the walls. It gave the space the feeling of a sinister waiting room.

  The openings of two narrow tunnels gaped at us and lead away from the waiting room, one leading right, the other to the left. No sound came from either and both seemed to smell equally horrid.

  “He would wait over here sometimes...” Hannah's voice drifted into the gloom. “Speaking with someone. I couldn’t understand the language... It wasn’t Strutten, Cephan, or that weird language the bufo’anur speak.”

  Samantha moved next to me and I met her eyes: dark pools in the flickering torchlight. She held up Curwen’s worn journal.

  Aklo, we agreed silently. The language of the Firsts.

  “We should stick together,” said Wensem pulling on one of the two operating gas masks. My own hung at my side in its sack.

  It had been Wensem’s decision about who carried the masks. It should have been his decision from the start. He’d selected me and himself. We had more experience killing. We could shoot if it came to that.

  Everyone agreed.

  “Left or right?” I asked, looking over my shoulder to where Hannah stood.

  “Left,” said Hannah. “Wait—no. Right. Yes, right.”

  I turned and looked at her, that same deadpan expression on her face. “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Wal, one of us should take the lead and the other should follow up the rear,” said Wensem.

  I looked down the tunnel. “Which do you want?”

  “How about you and Sam lead, Shalers in the middle, Hannah and I can follow?”

  “All right,” I said, squeezing into the narrow tunnel.

  My shoulders rubbed the sides and I ended up walking sideways, torch outstretched, head lowered to avoid the protruding roots and rocks.

  No one talked. The only noise was the crackle of the torches and the scraping of boots on the dirt. When I first heard the hiss of whispered voices I thought it was a breath of air passing through the network of shafts and tunnels. But it didn’t dissipate and disappear. It grew louder.

  The voices were muffled initially, but soon we could hear their inflection. The rising and falling of voices, what sounded like a discussion. We paused and crouched down, trying to block the light from our torches as much as possible.

  I leaned back. “Samantha. Come up here.” I hoped she’d be able to understand the words and perhaps provide translation.

  “Too muffled,” she said with a shake of her dark hair.

  We pressed on.

  The packed earth eventually gave way to stone and the tunnels widened slightly, the low ceiling rising so that even Wensem could finally stand upright.

  The floors and walls were smoothed out now as if chiseled by machine and cut through the ground by some raw power. We were in the mine.

  “The Kadath,” I hissed over my shoulder to Wensem. In the dim light I could just make out a nod.

  Our pace slowed. Some to quiet the sounds of our footfalls, some to make sure we didn’t trip. It seemed a number of loose stones had fallen from the ceiling.

  The voices grew louder and Samantha could make some of it out.

  “They’re speaking Aklo, but… gibberish. I don’t understand it. The words are all jumbled. The sentence structure is unfamiliar… happenstance… and… kill, no… create… green… but, your Guardian.” She shook her head and looked confused. “I honestly don’t know.”

  My heart was pounding against my ribcage and I paused to wipe my palms on my trousers. We were close now. I could feel it.

  I double checked the chambers of my gun. It felt heavy and cold in my hand. The five shells stared up at me from the cylinder, twinkling in the torchlight. Ready. Waiting. I heard sounds of metal and leather behind me and knew the others were drawing their guns, too.

  As if in answer more mumbles came from somewhere ahead. Echoing off the stones in a gibbering rush.

  “Come on,” I said, not wanting to take another step further.

  Time underground is funny. I don’t know how long we moved along those mine shafts, the voices ahead guiding us forward.

  We spilled from the mouth of the tunnel into a vast chamber, other tunnels pockmarking the wall like the aftermath of the blast of an enormous shotgun. Meager light oozed downward from a hole in the ceiling and an elevator descended like a stalactite into the gloom. It was thick, square, and rusted to ruin. It was clearly not functional. The ropes that would have lifted its cage upward had long since rotted away. A spiral staircase wound alongside it, missing a few of its steps.

  Four figures were gathered near the base of the elevator and they started as we emerged. Heads snapped in our direction.

  The faces.

  There was something wrong with their faces. They lacked, well, everything: no eyes, no nose or mouth. Heads covered by a dark fabric. A cold sweat broke across my shoulders and ran down my spine.

  My arm snapped upward, Judge in hand.

  These figures were familiar. I knew these figures, though I had never seen them up close: tall pointed hoods and billowing ink-black robes that soaked up the light. These were Hannah’s gargoyles, the ones who watched us from the ridges as we moved toward Methow.

  I could see now that they were completely covered in the dark fabric: faces, arms, legs, hands, even individual fingers were wrapped in a shroud of black. It seemed to hang off them like heavy folds of skin, moving about them like the branches of a willow.

  At once the four of them turned towards us and began to howl, a high-pitched sound that filled our ears.

  Hannah responded with a scream of her own that sounded like a battle cry. She dropped her torch and lifted her rifle in one fluid motion. Resting the forestock atop her wounded arm, she began to fire one-handed. The strangers didn’t return attack, instead their howl choked into mewling cries of panic and they scattered, rushing to opposite corners of the cavern.

  The sound of the gunshots crashed against the stone and echoed throughout the space. I fired at another figure, the Judge erupting in my hand as I drove the thing into the shadows.

  Hannah advanced on the gargoyles, shooting as she went. She was livid. Her teeth were bared and raw hate burned in her green eyes.

  The closest gargoyle wasn’t quick enough. It stumbled, then went down, bleating a wet cry before evaporating into a cloud of black smoke that quickly dissipated. Other figures were diving for cover as my crew continued to drive them down.

  “He’s making a break for another tunnel!” shouted Chance, running to intercept an escaping figure, rifle to his shoulder. Seeing his route cut off, the stranger dropped down, pinned by Range’s gunfire.

  We were now in a standoff. The three figures were hiding behind stones and we had them surrounded.

  “Waaait!” called a voice, echoing off the stone. It sounded oddly like rushing water. A pair of wrapped hands shot up behind a big rock, barely visible in the light of our torches.

  “Noooo,” hissed another voice. “Noooooo.”

  Hannah’s rifle clicked—empty.

  “Hannah, Ra
nge, stand down,” I said, advancing next to Hannah’s position. The Judge bled smoke in my hand.

  “Come out!” I demanded. “Now.”

  “You will kill us.”

  They had me there.

  “It's possible,” I admitted.

  Eventually one of the figures rolled out from behind the stone. Bits of moss and dirt were stuck to the black fabric. The figure huddled on the floor pathetically, the blank covered face seeming to look up at me. Its arms were raised in surrender.

  “Peace! Peace. Guardian, we are not your opponents.”

  “Then who are you?” I asked. “Were you watching us on our way to Methow?”

  The thing backed up a few steps and raised its head in a motion that seemed to indicate it was studying me.

  “Why are you here?” it asked. “This is not your place, Guardian. This is not the great tottering city on the sea.”

  “I asked first,” I growled, drawing the words out menacingly.

  A second figure rose from its hiding spot and spoke, tilting its tall pointed hood to the side like the hand of a clock. “We are messengers. We are watchers. We observe in silence and carry word across the stage.”

  “Get up, you,” said Range, moving to the third figure. The creature rose and Range pushed it towards the others with a shove of his boot. It went sprawling across the floor of the cavern, coming to rest near its companions. My crew circled, guns trained on the three of them.

  “What stage?” Samantha asked, and then repeated the question in Aklo.

  One of the figures looked at her but didn’t respond. Another made a whimpering sound. The fallen gargoyle clambered to its feet.

  “If we trade question for question now it is your turn to answer,” one said.

  “I came to stop Boden,” I stated.

  They disregarded this, but closed in together like a flock of birds. Moving and twitching as they slowly rotated in place, each taking an opportunity to study us. It was impossible to differentiate between them and in the wavering light it was difficult to completely distinguish their forms.

  “Boden is dead,” one of them said flatly.

  “Fine, whatever that things calls itself—Curwen, whatever. I am here to stop it. That thing that took my people. It slaughtered half that town.”

  “You speak of Curwen... but he is Chaos. Mirza of a thousand forms. He cannot be stopped.”

  Hannah, who had been slapping more shells into her rifle, now brought the gun up in a rush.

  “Hold!” I ordered.

  “Let me kill ’em, boss. It’s clear they work for the bastard.” She licked her lips nervously.

  “No. Wait. Not yet,” I said. I didn’t know what awaited us deeper in the mine but I knew these creatures could have answers. “What is the stage?”

  They erupted in loud whoops of laugher, sending a wave of chills through my body. I was grateful none of my crew were startled enough to begin firing. When their laughs calmed down one of them finally spoke in a sing-song, saccharine tone. “You are a fool, Guardian, to ask such a stupid question: all the world is a stage!” More laughter. “Do you intend to bury Curwen? Like you did his niece?”

  “I intend to stop him,” I said.

  More laughter.

  “Let me kill ’em, boss,” Hannah pleaded through gritted teeth. A sheen of sweat glistened along her brow and her hair stuck to it.

  I ignored her and asked, “Where is he? Curwen. Is he in the tunnels?”

  “He is where he deems he should be.”

  One of the figures turned to Samantha and asked, “Who taught you the old words?”

  “Th-the words?” Samantha stammered and blinked in surprise, shocked the creatures were speaking directly to her.

  “Yes. Yes, impertinent priestess,” it said, impatient. “The royal language. Who taught you?”

  “Nobody! I taught myself. From books.”

  “You speak it poorly. It is profane on your tongue. You do not understand the meanings,” it said, and then turned to me. “You do not stop the Mirza. You cannot hope to stop him. You just delayed him.”

  “I stopped Cybill,” I said.

  “Humm… did you?” asked one of the figures.

  I blinked.

  “We grow tired of this chatter. We abhor this gutter speech… these raw words. The questions are over.”

  As one, they took a step towards the elevator.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I said, stepping in their path.

  “You do not order us around. We serve one greater than you. One greater than the Mirza. You are not in a position to make demands, Guardian.”

  “Oh?” I said, looking at the six of my caravan that surrounded them, weapons still raised. “I could probably say the same about you. Don’t move. We’re tying you up.

  “Range, see if you can find some rope, chains. Check by the elevator.”

  The three figures all began to howl and pushed forward, one struck me in the chest and sent me sprawling backwards. The touch felt like ice. It burned into me. I gasped for air.

  Wensem immediately opened fire. Blasts of light lit the faces of my company and the robes of the gargoyles. The smell of gun smoke filled the chamber and stung my nose. I struggled to my feet, lifting my Judge from the ground and stepping towards the last of the strangers left standing.

  It was hunched over and seemed to be wheezing though its shoulders and back didn’t rise and fall. I placed the barrel of the Judge against its face and immediately felt a cold surge down the gun and chill my hand. It seemed to ooze off the thing.

  It stood motionless. My finger tightened around the trigger and it gave one final, agonized whoop. The Judge barked, and the thing was thrown backwards.

  Slowly, we all lowered our guns.

  I edged closer and nudged the figure I shot with the edge of my boot. Ragged bits of fabric lay scattered across the ground. Unlike the first stranger Hannah killed, these creatures didn’t evaporate and drift off into smoke. They just lay there in a pile of fabric.

  “By the Firsts. What the hell are these things?” I asked the room.

  “I have never come across anything like them in my research,” said Samantha. She edged closer. “Their robes, the hoods. They seem... I don’t know.”

  Hannah spat on the pile. “Damn them.”

  The Shalers mumbled in agreement.

  “Let’s find out who they are,” Wensem said, squatting down and drawing a big bowie knife from his boot. He reached a hand out toward the pile. “They seem to radiate coldness… OH!”

  There was a burst of motion and a sound of wings as the bodies erupted into the air with extraordinary speed. They moved up the stairwell, and disappeared above. Wensem jerked back, falling onto his ass, his knife clattering to the ground.

  “After them!” I shouted.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WE RUSHED UP THE RICKETY STAIRCASE. My knee howled in pain. From somewhere I could hear the noise start up, the bending metal moan, only this time it was closer.

  The elevator shaft and stairs landed inside a wooden structure about thirty by thirty feet and continued upwards. Mining gear filled the building: ropes, spools of cable, and stacks of rough-cut lumber. The strangers were nowhere to be seen.

  I looked up, my gaze following the stairs as they ended at the ceiling twenty feet above my head. A small trapdoor was nestled at the terminus.

  We were in the headframe. Inside the mining tower that watched over the valley from its mountainside throne.

  Slivers of light seemed to be leaking between the slats of the old building so I swung my torch around looking for the exit. A door was set into one wall and it swung on its hinges as if it had been recently used.

  Outside, I thought. They went outside.

  I shouldered through, emerging into a heavy rain and a sky darkened by gray clouds. I was in the Kadath mining camp.

  I spun, looking for the gargoyles but I didn’t see them anywhere.

  No signs hinted at their passing
. No footprints. No rocks rolling down the steep hillside that pressed in around the camp.

  They were gone.

  The strangers had disappeared.

  “Where’d they go?” asked Range, coming up behind me. His chest heaved as he caught his breath.

  “Gone,” I said. “When I came out at the top the door was swinging.”

  “Could they have gone up higher?”

  I looked up at the building we just exited. “I doubt it. They’d have been more trapped up there than they would be out here.”

  “So, where’d they go?”

  Spinning, I took in our surroundings. How could they do that? I had seen them take round after round. I had seen them collapse. How could they just escape like that?

  The landslide had taken out about half the camp, and an old road that cut through the middle of the Kadath at one time had disappeared beneath a pile of boulders to the south.

  Other buildings withered away within the depression sprouting next to the steep hillsides like mushrooms. A brown and withering machine shop. A brick dynamite house with a moss-covered roof. A few graying management structures gathered near a huge crater at the far north end of the camp. Heavy timbers covered its opening and a faded sign hung off the wood reading: “Keep Out. Mine Closed.”

  The structure nearest the mining tower looked to be the remains of a bunkhouse. I surmised the other half was buried somewhere beneath the slide. Saplings were growing in the open spaces, rising up from tall wild rye that covered the ground.

  Wensem and Chance burst from the mine’s tower and skidded to a stop when they saw Range and I standing there. Samantha and Hannah weren’t far behind.

  “You see them? Where did they go?” Wensem asked.

  I shook my head and holstered the Judge. “They’re gone.”

  “Shit!” shouted Hannah, kicking at the dirt. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!”

  “They could still be in one of the buildings,” I said.

  Wensem nodded. “Hannah, you stand guard here. I’ll take the Shalers and start on the western side. Wal, you and Sam work the eastern buildings.”