The Red Son

Home > Other > The Red Son > Page 28
The Red Son Page 28

by Mark Anzalone


  Entry 3

  My captor has taken to calling me by a new title, and I have to admit, I really like it—the Grey Scribe. I feel it somewhat dignifies an otherwise undignified station, as well as an otherwise undignified person.

  Today I’m writing to you from the top of a ruined church, balanced quite precariously between two jutting turrets. Mr. Grey has insisted that I accompany him on his newest dalliance with death. I’m none too thrilled to be here, but I must confess, the view is quite amazing. The wind up here feels like God’s breath whispering across my body, the Lord’s face just barely discernible within the gathering darkness, slowly disappearing behind the herd of clouds presently lumbering overhead. I forget too often—especially of late—that I’m a writer, if not a particularly good one. Yet even I prove capable of a few decent sentences, now and then, and this place seems to be facilitating their creation.

  My owner explained to me—earlier this morning, while I made him eggs and toast—that there’s been much ado about this new player in the Game, having killed quite a number of its participants. “The contest itself has become a hunted thing, and each Wolf that falls to the interloper will bring the dream closer to waking. This cannot be allowed. But while the beast has all our names, we know nothing of it. Some of us, those who are disposed to speak, have suggested hunting it together. You must bear witness to this, for the Wolves shall become a great ravening pack, and we shall taste the blood of this trespasser.”

  The upshot of such terrible news is that I’m secreted away on this roof while Mr. Grey meets with some of his would-be victims—and quite possibly, the killer that will finally clip him. Provided the monster doesn’t rip him to pieces first, of course.

  I’m not sure how I’d feel about that, Mr. Grey getting himself murdered. He’s a decent enough guy. He lets me stay up late, eat all the junk food I want, he even buys me gifts. Why, just last week he bought me an antique writing set—it even came with a fancy-ass quill pen. But, like most things my captor does, there was purpose behind his actions.

  “Your penmanship often appears like squirming insects curling and sprawling about the fine pages I’ve provided you to write upon. This just won’t do, I’m afraid. You see, writing is the art of trapping thoughts on paper—laying them to rest, if you will. The shape of a letter can reveal much about the writer, even beyond the content of his words. You have the fine job of preserving my thoughts, and I should not want to give the impression that I would take on the services of an indelicate penman. So, I’ve gifted you with this calligraphy set in the hopes of improving your ability to properly lay my thoughts within their delicate white graves.”

  I was never one for cursive writing, let alone calligraphy, but what the hell, right? I gave it a shot, and it turns out I’m not too bad at it. I like it, in fact. Mr. Grey was right, the shape and style of the handwritten word lends a distinct sophistication to the content being written, even transposing that elegance to the writer’s thoughts themselves. Pretty cool, don’t you think?

  I can see Mr. Grey down there in the courtyard, his cane-sword gripped casually in his left hand. He lit a small fire just outside the broken entrance to the church, to signal his location. Not a great move if you ask me, but he seems to know what he’s doing. This gathering was arranged entirely within the collective dream the killers all share, so I’m curious if anyone shows. If someone does pop up, it’ll be just one more crack in the foundation of my sanity, such as it is.

  Yup, here comes someone. They’re wrapped in a weird-looking cloak, almost looks like a single ragged batwing. The guy’s tall, but thin as a needle. His movements are sharp—controlled and quick. He and Mr. Grey are talking, now. Whoops! It’s not a guy at all. She just took down her hood, and I can see black hair flowing ephemeral, almost weightlessly, like gobs of spiderwebs. I can smell her perfume (from way the fuck up here?). Wow, that perfume. I bet she’s a knock-out for sure.

  Here comes someone else. Wait just a minute, their shadow’s all wrong. It’s moving against the firelight! It’s coming up the goddamn wall—

  Ok, I’m back. Almost dropped my damn journal. Mr. Grey appears to have asked the thing to knock its shit off. I don’t know what the hell it is, but I’d wager it isn’t human. It keeps fading in and out, and . . . yeah, it keeps changing in height as well. About the only constant is its mask—a golden goblin’s face, caught somewhere between a leer and a smirk.

  A big guy just showed up. He seems to have just one arm, the left one, and it’s huge. From what I can see, it’s wrapped in all kinds of weird tattoos. He’s pointing at me. How do they all know I’m up here? Am I glowing, or something? These Noctu-psychotics and their weird-ass senses, I’m telling you.

  They’ve been talking for a while, now. The fire’s all but smoking ash, and my back is killing me. Mr. Grey told me to stay up here just in case, but they all seem to know I’m here, and it doesn’t look like anything’s going to happen tonight. I think I’ll head down.

  My hands were shaking too much to capture anything in real-time, so I’ll have to give you the recap. Something came howling through the church, casting aside stone and concrete like they were nothing. I’d just cleared the staircase when the monster exploded through the wall. The sound it made was like all the shrieks in the world had been bundled together into one horrible, deafening sound.

  When it burst outside, it stepped on what was left of the fire, shooting flames into the air. The strangely rejuvenated fire tossed an orange glow upon the trees outlining the boundaries of the courtyard. All the Wolves save one were blown backwards by the explosive debris. The big guy with the huge left arm stood his ground, batting aside a huge chunk of stone as easily as the monster had knocked it free. The two collided with each other, and I swear I felt a shockwave rattle my bones. The monster crashed a wicked fist down upon Lefty, who to his credit, didn’t break into fucking pieces. Lefty just cranked back that gigantic arm of his and threw a terrific haymaker into the creature’s jaw. He practically spun the thing in a complete circle. Despite the ungodly wallop it took, the creature was undeterred, hammer-fisting Lefty to his knees.

  As the two grappled, the monster was suddenly dragged backwards by its shadow. It was the golden goblin, reaching out from the darkness. The masked shadow flung the creature through a huge stone column of the church, but no sooner had the creature been buried in stone than it exploded free.

  If I understood the game plan, beyond simply joining forces, the Wolves were combining their Red Dreams—what Mr. Grey refer to as Blood Holidays. These dreams were some sort of suspension of the laws of nature that granted them exceptional abilities when they were near one another. With four of them joined together, surely they outmatched the monster.

  Next came my captor, slicing through the darkness, blade outstretched. He caught the monster in the chest, plunging the blade of his cane-sword deep into the beast’s heart. Yet the creature seemed unfazed, and with a fierce backhand, it nearly took Mr. Grey’s head off.

  Before the creature had fully recovered from my master’s attack, the woman with spiderwebs for hair appeared behind the beast, burying her overlong fingers into the meat of the thing’s back, tugging at its spine. The creature howled in pain, thrashing wildly at its tormentor. The strange woman did not relent, only reaching deeper into the demon’s back as if trying to climb inside its body.

  Lefty was back up. He cranked the monster across the face, blasting its teeth all over the courtyard, several embedding themselves like bullets into a nearby stone wall. I have no shame in saying I had to check my shorts.

  Mr. Grey also returned, busying himself at the task of slicing through the tendons of the monster’s legs, causing it to slowly collapse to its knees. I could see the golden goblin’s shadow holding tightly the beast’s flailing arms, allowing the other killers to pile onto their adversary without significant resistance.

  All was going well, and the beast seemed
near defeat when I noticed the trees around the courtyard turning white and dead. For a fleeting moment, I thought I caught sight of a giant shadow, bloated and female, stooping behind the tree line. Then, the lightning fell like rain, and four screams chased the thunder.

  The hole in the sky continued to pour out a sea of lightning, surging and splashing across the battlefield, reducing much of the surrounding forest to a smoking landscape of blackened matchsticks. The thunder was unbearable—a standing ovation of gods bringing together mountainous hands. My head was ready to crack open and spill out its brains for want of silence, when the world went dead and dark. My first thought was that I’d gone deaf and blind, but I could make out the sound of wind scavenging the soot as hungrily as a pack of jackals, and I could see blurred figures scattered about the smoking ground. Mr. Grey was among the blackened forms.

  If anything justified the rumors of their superhuman fortitude, it was that the four Noctu-psychotics still drew breath, albeit with difficulty. Not surprisingly, Lefty was the first to his feet, gritting sizzling teeth and exhaling smoke. I thought of a doomed bull refusing to fall to the matador’s bloody blade.

  My eyes were still adjusting to the renewed darkness when Lefty seemed to take a shot from a cannon, throwing him from the blackened earth. Their giant, rampaging adversary was up and swinging, apparently untouched by the lightning. It sent Lefty flying, his body slapping against the side of the stone church like a wet side of beef. The bull finally fell, seemingly disinclined to rise again.

  The Goblin rose from the smoldering ground, drifting upwards and vanishing in the same breath. Smart guy, that one.

  Spiderlocks and Mr. Grey were side by side, a united front as the monster lunged. The two killers parted, allowing the creature to pass between them. They turned in tandem, laying blades and sharpened bone into the passing behemoth, teasing out another shriek from the killer of killers. Unfortunately, the creature’s speed belied its size, as it quickly pivoted, punting Mr. Grey into a smoldering pine tree. My master coughed blood, collapsing in a heap.

  Spiderlocks was back atop the creature, her clawed hands yet again chasing the thing’s spine. In an instant, the monster barreled toward the remaining walls of the church. Just prior to impact, it spun, forcing the Spider to take the brunt of the impact. She splattered, a dragonfly on a highway windshield.

  I noticed Mr. Grey struggling to his feet again. I was two-minded about his efforts. I certainly wanted to reclaim my freedom—to be all alone to write my shitty, shitty books—but I was also eager to see my captor win his contest, if only to witness the results.

  At some point, I became aware of a strange bit of whispering wind, scraping dead leaves across the concrete floor of the church. It came from the opposite direction as the scavenger breeze I’d first detected, post-lightning. It bore the distinct scent of autumn and seemed possessed of a relaxing lightness, a playfulness that mocked the death spilling out around me. Someone whispered into my ear, “To be all triangles and crooked smiles, candle-wax betwixt your ears, little lamps of fire that hop and skip . . . fake faces over masks over veils . . . how many masks deep are your clicking cogs, little Peeping Tom?” I froze. The whisperer was crouched beside me. I could smell Halloween on his breath—candy, cold rain, dead leaves. I knew precisely who was whispering to me.

  Jack Lantern continued, purring, “It’s almost time for us to bury all the machines, little Tommy Peeper. And now, out of the blue, comes one who would break all our shovels. Can’t have that, can we? But don’t you worry, I’ll have him smiling through rows of rectangles in no time.” Then he was gone—vanished from my side, brown leaves spinning in his stead.

  In the next moment, Jack was standing among a collection of smoking sprigs, staring up at the lumbering monster. He wore a crude jack-o’-lantern mask, and a ripped-up black scarf wrapped around his neck, flapping in the stolen September breeze. The Autumn City Madman was unusually tall, thin, and cheerful, giggling under that ridiculous mask. As he whipped out two huge carving knives, I knew he was going straight to work.

  The guy moved so fast it was hard to keep track of all his slashing, cleaving, and leaping. Honestly, he was just a marvel to watch. I found my mouth agape more than a few times. The monster swung and kicked and roared, but never once connected.

  The once killer of killers was clearly getting killed by Jack, weakening second by second, slash by stab. Yet just as before, when the monster began to lose, the strange dead trees began to sway. Something fat and monstrous moved behind them, the sky turned green, and I knew it was about to rain lightning again. Or was it? Just when the sky looked like it might crack open, the fall breeze cranked up to a maelstrom, roaring out of the north like a goddamned hurricane. It was as if the opposing elemental powers were joining the fray alongside their favorite killers, trying to tilt the scales.

  Neither combatant seemed particularly affected by the warring elements exploding around them, however, as Jack continued to teach the monster more lessons than it cared to learn. Somewhere within that howling storm, the church began to come down around me. I barely managed to get out the back, as the sky fell bright and blazing and the wind became a living, killing thing. I ran and ran, never looking back.

  After a few days of hiding out, I returned to my home. It was just as I left it—dull and empty. I waited weeks for Mr. Grey to show, but he never did.

  After about six months, I decided to travel into the country—to a very specific and fascinating attic—to see if Mr. Grey had removed his journals. He hadn’t. I never saw him again, but I did read of a severed head that turned up on a random porch, carved to look like a jack-o’-lantern—triangles for eyes and a scooped-out skull filled with candy, adorned with a very particular stovepipe hat. Jack Lantern had claimed another victim. No one knew who the head belonged to. I’m sure no one ever will—except me.

  My books are selling like hotcakes now. Winning awards, even. There’s no doubt about it—The Tales of Ebenezer The Immortal are a hit. I’ll never have to worry about running out of ideas, either. I’ve got over a hundred years of material to draw from.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Happy Halloween, Family Man! Now, I’m sure I could find your real name somewhere in this journal of yours, but rooting through your belongings would be the height of bad manners. I’m not a rude person, despite what you may have heard. By the way, you gave me quite a shot back there, right in the ol’ breadbasket, you did. Ouch! Those big scary claws of yours are quite sharp—sharp and cold as the wind that blows across the clockwork stars, all wound up and glowing. You ever look at the stars when you’re asleep? I do. I see little strings of glittering silk connecting them all together, making a web. And I see a big funny monster grinning out from the deepest part of that web. But like all those damn things, I can see the winding key on its back, turning and turning and turning. Just another machine in need of skin, I guess.

  Anyway, seems I’ve let myself ramble on. I like it when I ramble, though. It’s genuine, unconscious—organic. Or maybe, just maybe, that’s when the machines take over. When you just stop thinking and act. Ha! Still I ramble.

  While I’d love for the two of us to sit around like two monsters spinning bloody yarns, we really should discuss a few things, don’t you think? We should chat about this little game we’ve been forced to play. I’m pretty sure I’m starting to get the gist of things. But unlike me, you’ve chosen to pretend you don’t know what the game’s all about. You do know though, and I’m afraid I’ve dawned upon the reason why you’ve chosen to ignore it. Yet it can’t happen that way, it ought not. This one can’t fit into your hand. You saw the Wolves, just like I did.

  It brought us all together. It means to turn us all into lovely little stepping-stones, to ascend and strut out of its old, dusty darkness—but only one of us will be the door. There’s only a handful of Wolves left, now. Just you and me and a few others, that’s it. No more stygian art and no
more happy Halloweens. Is that what you really want? Or do you really, really want to be an artist from another world?

  Sure, this world is just a dull face, but you and I are masks. Masks are so much more fun than faces, and Halloween is the biggest, funnest mask of all. I mean to fit it over the empty-eyed face of the whole wide world before I’m done. You can’t honestly want me to stop, can you? The real world has to be masked—it’s more bearable that way. Everyone will have so much more fun, you’ll see. And yes, our art is death, but it’s not FOR death—it’s just for us. Just for fun. Masks are no good without faces. What will happen when you run out of faces? Then all you’ll be is another empty-eyed face, and what fun is that?

  There are no living dreams, my friend. Dreams are simply the hopelessly scared pictures in our heads, and all we can do is hold them up in front of this ugly world, blocking it out, stuffing our mind with wishful thinking. You see, we’re all caged little children, used and then discarded. Or worse, we think the machines are family. But in truth, we’re just the victims of horribly mean things.

  Speaking of mean things, that fine and wondrous force that’s been driving us to kill each other is just some long-forgotten, horrible engineer of our mechanical world. That’s all it could be. No doubt, while it was busy raising this cold mechanical playground, it must have accidentally gotten itself buried under the gears and guts of its own garden. If you free it, it will only adjust the settings. It won’t really change anything. The only way for us all to be happy is to cover up the whole heartless world. I have to hide it behind the endless Halloween, that way all we will ever see is masks, masks all the way down to the mindless turning cogs.

  As I write this, I can’t help but be wary of those family members of yours, lying only a few feet beneath me in the churning waters of this stream. They must be awfully upset about your newest incarnation, which would appear to have—by necessity, I’m sure—excluded them from your company. And that axe, oh my! Its anger seems to have leaked out into the world, roiling the water white and boiling hot. I wish I had a family like yours, all loyal and lusting to disturb the world on my behalf. That’s not to say I don’t have friends who look out for me, because I’ve a few here and there. You’ll meet them when the time comes, I’m sure.

 

‹ Prev