The Fall: The Rift Book I

by Robert J. Duperre

  “Hello?” he yelled. The hollow reverberation of his echo answered back, but nothing else. With an annoyed grunt he turned back to the Jeep. Perhaps yanking on his tool and gazing at Miss August’s concha again would help ease his pain a bit.

  The support cable fastened to the tow hitch suddenly pulled taught and kicked up dirt as it twitched back and forth. Raul, sensing the end of his tedium, grabbed the line. He could barely get it off the ground, which meant—he supposed—that someone was now climbing it.

  “Don’t worry, mister, I got you!” he yelled. “Aguante, I pull you up!”

  Raul sprinted to the Jeep and yanked the lever on the winch. The small motor sputtered and creaked, its spindle rotating in reverse, winding the cable. The lead scraped against the trench’s rocky lip, sliding back and forth against the ground, knocking dirt, rubble, and large chunks of stone into the pit. He could hear the larger pieces when they struck the floor below: a hollow thwack that sounded like wet palms smacked together. He worried that one of them might strike his fare, causing who knew what kind of damage. Should that happen, he’d surely be held to blame and lose out on the four thousand Lempira he’d been promised—money he and his family certainly needed. He impatiently tapped on the Jeep’s hood and did, for once, something his mother had taught him.

  He prayed.

  The prayer was answered. Several long minutes after the old winch began its slow and at times nerve-wracking job of coiling the line a hand emerged, grasping blindly for something to hold on to. Raul turned the hoist off with a careless whack of its handle, rushed over, and snatched the flailing arm with both hands. He pulled as hard as he could, and squeezed his eyes shut as his back strained. It felt like the muscles in his shoulder blades were separating from the bone. For a moment the man slipped from his grasp, so he wrapped his hands around the forearm all the more tightly, dug his heels into the rock-strewn earth, and offered a final, desperate heave.

  His client emerged from the excavation and slumped in the dirt. The man’s whole body seemed to expand and contract with each breath he took. Raul stood over him and asked, “Hey, you, you okay?” followed by, “You got me worried, mister.”

  Something wasn’t right. Raul noticed raised red splotches with white heads covering all of his exposed flesh. There were so many, in fact, that he couldn’t see a single unaffected area on the man’s skin, save for the hand that had reached out from the dark depths. If he had known better, which he didn’t, Raul would have guessed he’d been burned.

  Raul bent at the waist and, with a spot of revulsion, touched the back of the man’s neck. The inflamed and bulging skin felt hot and soft, like mud on the banks of the Amazon during a summer day. One of the boils popped and leaked yellowish pus. Raul pulled away with a high-pitched yelp.

  In response to Raul’s surprised vocal acrobatics, the sick man’s unblemished hand shot out and snatched him by the wrist. The grip was inhumanly tight, containing enough pressure to splinter the bones beneath his thin membrane of flesh, and it forced Raul to his knees.

  The thing that only somewhat resembled the English doctor he’d brought to this godforsaken place got to its feet and gazed down at him. Its mouth hung slack-jawed, black lips peeled back in a sneer. The teeth inside the mouth looked like stone daggers. Loose flesh drooped off its face, creating a pair of jowls that flopped this way and that with each tilt of the head. Veins bulged, green and red, over the exposed tissue inside its cheek.

  Raul screamed. As if to answer this, the creature drew Raul’s arm to its mouth and clamped down on his bicep. It shook its neck like a rabid dog, pulled back, and ripped free a dripping hunk of skin and muscle. Again Raul screamed—this time loud enough to disturb the birds, which fluttered from the treetops—and then, in a feat of strength only adrenaline could provide, he struck the monstrosity on the side of the head with his free hand, forcing it to let go. Raul spun on his heels and took off into the jungle.

  He ran until the sun began dipping down behind the mountains, until his feet couldn’t carry him, until his body and mind, dizzy from lack of hydration and loss of blood, stumbled, tumbled, and froze in place. He tried to tell himself it was all a dream, that things such as these don’t happen in the real world. This denial might have worked, too, if not for the gaping wound that still pumped blood onto the leafy rainforest floor. That wound, that pain, couldn’t have been more real.

  Cold and feverish, his surroundings a haze to his blurred vision, Raul closed his eyes. For the second time that day he prayed, for forgiveness, for mercy, for life. His lips moved, sticky with dried saliva, but his words were hoarse, inaudible. He gathered enough strength to inch his way against a tree, onto which he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and thought of home.

  He didn’t see the creature that had once been Ken Trudeau, of Oxford and the MNH, creep out of the foliage before him. He offered no hint that he heard the snapping of branches beneath its booted feet. By the time it was upon him, tearing into his neck with those dagger-teeth, Raul was far away.

  His end came quickly. By all accounts, Raul Javier Desoto was one of the lucky ones.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE RECREANT

  MOST OF DOVER’S RESIDENTS SLEPT. If they had been awake they would have seen the newly fallen leaves, illuminated by the moon, casting washes of dull yellows, browns, and reds across the empty streets, sidewalks, and front lawns of the town. The temperature, a brisk twenty-eight degrees, was unusual for the last day of September, even in New Hampshire. The townsfolk—those who cared enough to speculate on the subject—thought this rapid decline of summer to be the reason the trees began shedding their leaves so early, and while that assumption filled them with dread, the knowledge that winter’s ominous, freezing, white presence lingered just around the corner was even worse. It made their bodies shiver, even behind the safety of their heated four walls. Because of this, many cursed the coward autumn, thinking it much too eager to give in.

  Not the entire town was asleep—at least, not in the purest sense of the word. The Pit, one of Dover’s many watering holes, was half-full, as would be most others around town. It was closing in on midnight on a Tuesday evening, and those inside thought mindlessly—because that was their preferred state—Wednesday morning be damned.

  Dim light infused the place with all the charm of a medieval dungeon. Lynyrd Skynyrd blasted from the decayed speakers of an ancient jukebox. Sawdust covered the floor. Three pool tables stood in the open area to the rear of the lounge area, of which only one was in use. Joshua Benoit stood facing away from that table, holding a cue stick in one hand and a pint of beer in the other, watching everything that went on around him like a bored referee. Three men circled a thirty-something female, whose expression seemed to say ‘here we go again’ and ‘oh, isn’t this exciting’ at the same time. The woman appeared not to notice (or perhaps ignored) the fact these men bore down on her like a pack of wild dogs. The two older ladies sitting across from the pack were diving into their fourth round of Merlot, staring straight ahead and ignoring each other as if the brown stain on the wall behind them would make for better company.

  Despite the dreariness of these events, they were, to Joshua, the more interesting sights to be seen, even though the ragged collection of mullets, flattops, tattoos, leather, and dirty tank tops created an atmosphere that those not in the know would find either disheartening or threatening.

  Joshua was in the know. He knew everyone in there quite well, as a matter of fact, though he didn’t want to. Their names rolled off his tongue like sewage: Kenny, Walter, Esther, Dot, Larry, Quentin, and Mary, among others. He took the fact that he was on a first-name basis with these people as another sign that his life had gone nowhere.

  He was twenty-five and had lived in Dover his whole life. He felt stuck, fearful of becoming one of the townies he and his friends used to poke fun at in his younger days. There’s no one to blame but yourself, someone important had told him once. No statement ever rang truer.
r />   His life flashed before him. He’d never been an eager student and his high school grades reflected as much. However, with an intelligent (if not sensible) head on his shoulders, he fudged his way through. He also tested well, which allowed him a great many opportunities that others in this dumpy little town didn’t have. He was accepted at all the universities he applied to but one—Dartmouth, the place he dreamed of attending and by far the toughest school he applied to—and had parents willing to pay his way. He chose Syracuse University in upstate New York, but cowardice crept up on him the summer before he was set to leave, making him fearful of the responsibilities which would be thrust upon him if he were to move so far away from home. As a result of that fear, he chose to matriculate to the University of New Hampshire, only a few short miles away in the town of Durham, and partied his education away. By the end of his second semester he’d flunked out.

  Townie to the core, his subconscious had chided ever since.

  Josh suffered from the same misconception that infected many bright boys of that age: the idea that their talents would carry them to greatness without having to exert any time or energy. He never worked too hard, never loved too long, and often tumbled into deep depressions when events inevitably didn’t fall his way. His relationship history followed this same pattern. Two months represented a lengthy attachment for him, the point when he became either uninterested or irritated by how much of his free time was spent kneading the emotions and desires of someone else rather than his own.

  When this consideration flitted into his head he dropped his shoulders, almost spilling his beer in the process. A twisting ache of sadness sluiced over him as one name, the same important person who told him those fateful words that now filled his remaining wits with a litany of guilt and regret, came to mind, and he said the name out loud, as he was apt to do whenever he felt the anchor of compunction tie him down.

  “Marcy.”

  “Hey, dickhead, it’s your shot!” a voice shouted from behind him, breaking his doldrums. He turned to see Colin, his oldest friend and polar opposite, standing there, stick in hand, grinning.

  Josh and Colin had known each other since grammar school, when Colin would visit his house every day after class. In those days they would share comic books and action figures. Josh loved reading X-Men and playing with G.I. Joes while Colin preferred The Flash and Transformers. This was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to their differences. Short and slender whereas Josh had grown tall and a bit on the heavy side, Colin wore an expression of constant joy, as if a silent voice whispered jokes into his brain every minute of every day. Josh envied him for that, for he felt he didn’t possess his friend’s enjoyment—his passion—for everyday life.

  Josh turned. “Hold on, I’m coming,” he said as he slunk to the table and bent to take his shot. He breathed in deep, his eyes narrowing in concentration. His arm swung the butt of the stick back. All went well until he urged the cue forward. Something whacked into his forearm, knocking him off-center. The white ball flew over the table and plummeted to the sawdust-colored carpet like a dove made of stone. The tip of his stick forged a streak of blue across the filthy, matted felt.

  “You missed,” another voice said, followed by a throaty, phlegm-filled laugh.

  “You’re an ass, Bobby,” said Josh. He turned and frowned at his other old friend. He wanted to be mad, but the sight of Bobby’s ungainly crew cut, lanky posture, and tattered flannel disarmed him. Bobby might have been a giant of a man with a large, bombastic personality, but anyone who looked into those pale blue eyes could see that the rough outer shell hid a nature gentle enough to cry during a viewing of A River Runs Through It. So instead of frowning, Josh smiled.

  “My turn,” said Colin with a grin. He hopped up to the table and, in a few short strokes, finished the game. That was another big difference between the two of them. Pool was a struggle to Josh. It seemed that the more he focused, the more apt he was to fuck up. Not that it really matters; it’s only a game, he thought with a shrug, and finished the second half of his beer in two massive gulps.

  “Well, time for another,” he said.

  His friends nodded and began another game without him.

  With legs unsteady, he sauntered to the bar and placed his glass on the counter. The bartender, a woman in her forties with fiery red hair, leaned across the bar opposite him, elbows propped on the counter with her chin in her hands. She was speaking with a man he knew only as Doc. Her tight jeans clung to her hips and butt, and Josh quickly turned his eyes away, not wanting to linger on her for long. He tapped gently on the counter and started whistling.

  “I’ll be right back,” he heard the bartender say.

  She stepped up to him—he could see her hips swaying in his peripheral—and spoke. Her voice was low and a bit raspy. It was seductive.

  “You want another, sweetie?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Same as usual?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He kept his eyes away from her, even as she took his glass, placed it in the wash station, replaced it with another, and filled it at the spigot. When she handed him the newly filled glass, he said thanks—kindly, but still without so much as a glance in her direction—and headed back to his small gathering of friends.

  “Idiot,” he whispered under his breath.

  An old drunk named Carl, sitting alone at a table, stopped him as he passed by. “Would you look at that, kid,” he said, pointing at the wide-screen television positioned against the back wall, where images of the Red Sox, finishing off their season at home in below-freezing temperatures, were re-broadcasted as big as life.

  “Look at what?”

  The drunk slapped the tabletop without taking his eyes off the screen. “Damn bum,” he said. “Can’t hit a fucking curveball to save his life. Whole team’s like that now. They better get their shit together for the playoffs.”

  Josh shrugged. “Couldn’t care less, really.”

  “Why’s that?” the old man asked, his eyebrows rising.

  “Well,” said Josh, the jittery feeling of mischief rising in his gut matching the sarcastic smile on his face, “For one, they’ve already won a couple of World Series. And secondly, I’m a Yankees fan.”

  Old Carl swiped Josh’s hand off the table. “Get outta here, you traitor,” he snarled.

  Josh spun on his heels and strutted away.

  “Any time, partner. Any time.”

  Josh and Colin said their goodbyes to Bobby at two o’clock, when the lights came on and the bouncer proclaimed, “Everybody out!” The ride home was depressing. Josh sat and stewed in his juices while Colin quietly hummed, probably in his godforsaken “happy place”. Josh assumed he was dreaming about either the girl who’d given him her phone number an hour ago or whatever exciting happenings he was sure to experience the next morning in the realm of telephone marketing. How can you love life so much? he thought with a hint of resentment. Josh sure didn’t.

  The Counting Crows—Colin’s favorite band—wailed from the CD player. The singer crooned about life’s uncertainty and his quest for self discovery. Josh felt close to tears as questions rattled off in his mind. Where was his sorry excuse of an existence going? Would he ever be happy? Could this be his destiny, to exist somewhere between completely pathetic and a view of moderate success he would have scoffed at not even a decade ago? He sniffed in a wad of snot and swallowed it. Questions for another day. I can’t deal right now.

  The car pulled into the driveway of the duplex he and Colin shared. They walked to the door in silence and went their separate ways. Colin patted him on the back when they separated. Josh said nothing.

  He descended the steps to his basement bedroom and collapsed on his mattress, which rested on the thinly carpeted plywood floor instead of a bed frame. Feeling a little drunk and a lot dejected, he closed his eyes and curled into a ball, trying not to think of his life any longer, and prayed for sleep.

  * * *<
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  A crescent moon bathed the road in faint blue light. There was no breeze and the leaves scattered on the pavement sat idle, waiting to be crunched under meandering feet. The trees lining the road became midnight monsters, changing shape, growing larger and more menacing in the dark places beyond the guardrails. Josh walked onward, eyes set straight ahead as to not be drawn into the phantoms’ roadside traps. A watery feeling of uncertainty struck him, and he tried to tell his subconscious that this was only a nightmare, but the sound of his sneakers scraping against the blacktop and the way his breath formed perfect clouds of mist in the air before him said this was something much more than that.

  Something scarier.

  The road curved, and there he found a large, unremarkable SUV—things Colin laughingly dubbed Shitty Undressed Vulvas, though the moniker made absolutely no sense—sitting idle by the side of the road. The interior light clicked on, and from a distance he swore he could see two people locked in a struggle. His heart rate picked up and he began to run. His sneakers sank into the road. The strain of pulling them out while he ran caused his leg muscles to burn.

  By the time he reached the vehicle he was out of breath. He gathered himself, bending at the waist and grabbing the ends of his flannel shirt for support, until he felt well enough to glance through the driver’s side window. The overhead light shone, allowing him to see the charred interior. The upholstery fluttered like black flakes of confetti. He moved toward the rear. There he found a slender girl, dressed in a dirty white negligee, occupying the back seat. She shook violently, like an epileptic. The short brown hair falling just above her shoulders shielded her face from him. She coddled something in her arms that quaked along with her. Josh slammed his fist against the window, bracing for the likelihood of it shattering, but it didn’t. He tried to scream but nothing came out.