Colony of the Lost

by Derik Cavignano

  I killed him, he thought. I killed Steve.

  And in his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Steve thrown back by the force of the bullet, his blood spattering the wall in a crimson arc. How could he break it to Gloria? How could he even begin to explain what’d happened?

  He’d known Steve since before they could walk. Growing up, they practically lived at each other’s houses. He still remembered that Wednesday night was meatloaf night at the Callahan residence. Who would have guessed that Steve’s mom cooked all those extra meals for the boy who would one day kill her only son?

  Steve was gone. Just like that. All it took was a tiny movement of Jay’s index finger.

  Christ, why did it have to be Steve?

  Because Trell likes to play games, likes to watch you suffer.

  He recalled the bottle of Jack that Trell had placed on the TV. He imagined the amber liquid sloshing around inside the glass, clambering up the sides, begging to be set free.

  You wanted that drink, didn’t you, boy? You wanted to grab hold of that bottle and never let go. Well, it ain’t too late. Liquor stores’ll be opening up in a couple hours. These guys will never know you were gone.

  I don’t want it.

  The voice of his father laughed—a hard, raspy sound like the rustling of dead leaves. Sure you do. You want it so bad you’re drooling. You can’t lie to your old man. You want it ... and you always will.

  I won’t end up like you.

  Only ‘cause Trell’s gonna kill you first.

  He glanced over to where Crystal lay on the bed, one hand curled beneath her cheek, a serene expression on her face. “I love you,” he whispered. “I know I screwed things up, but I love you. I always have.” He closed his eyes and thought back to the moment they shared alone after check-in this morning. He’d gone into the bathroom to get Sarah a glass of water, and Crystal had followed him.

  “Hey,” she’d said. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded without turning, not wanting her to see him cry.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Jay. You did what you had to do. No one blames you for that.”

  “I blame me.” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked worn and haggard, his face covered with stubble. “I could have stopped this days ago. Frank called me right before he died to explain how to kill Trell. But I didn’t answer the phone. You know why? Because I was drunk. Passed out on the couch, drinking myself into oblivion while people were dying.” His chest hitched with sobs.

  Crystal pulled the door shut. “Shh.” She held his head against her chest. “It’s all right. You made a mistake. But you’re fixing it now. I know it’s hard for you not to have a drink, probably harder than I could ever imagine. And I know I didn’t say it before, but I’m proud of you for trying.”

  He forced a smile. “I love you.”

  “I know,” she said, softly. “Maybe in time ...” She shook her head. “Let’s not talk about this now. We should get some sleep.” She kissed his cheek. “You need a shave. And a shower. Make you look a little less like a fugitive.”

  He drew back the shower curtain. “Plenty of room in there. We could help each other get those hard to reach places.”

  “Nice try.” She picked up the glass that he’d filled for Sarah. “Don’t drown in there.”

  “There’s safety in numbers.”

  “Good night, Jay.”

  He smiled now at the memory, his eyes still focused on Crystal.

  I better get some sleep.

  But he wasn’t having an easy go of it. And the way things looked now, there was a very real possibility that he might never sleep again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  In the blackened night of the new moon, the storm raged. It came in gusts and swells, the wind whooping and hollering like a warrior in the throes of battle. Thunder rumbled in the sky as a curtain of rain beat down upon the earth.

  Chief Skatchawa sat in the quiet gloom of his study and sketched by the glow of a gooseneck lamp, a charcoal pencil clutched between his leathery fingers. It had been a long time since he created a new piece. His days of drifting across the land and moving from town to town on the money scraped together from the sale of his art were long behind him. These days he only sketched when his mind was troubled, only sketched on those nights when he was haunted by demons past or demons present.

  He glanced down at the paper and watched his sketch begin to take shape. It was the way he always worked. He simply placed pencil against paper, and his hand would move of its own accord, as if guided by an unseen force, tracing out lines and curves until a recognizable picture emerged.

  The pad on his lap displayed a portrait of an aging warrior scarred from battles past and wizened by the passing of the ages. He could only be seen from the shoulders up, his strong jaw and chiseled features centered on the page.

  As the Chief listened to the wind-swept rain drum against the windows, a gradual uneasiness stole over him. Voices whispered in his mind, cries of men long dead, restless spirits that haunted his thoughts. He tried to drown it all in his sketching, tried to purge the demons through his art, but it wasn’t working.

  He saw the face of the teacher’s friend, his eyes crazed and desperate as he spoke of death and destruction ... and of a creature called Trell.

  The legend doesn’t refer to a name.

  The lie echoed in his ears.

  How many people dead? How many—

  A crash emanated from outside. The Chief jerked upright in his chair. The pencil dropped from his fingers and rolled onto the hardwood floor.

  His eyes shifted to the window and strained to see through glass painted black by night. But he could make out nothing. Even the stand of birch at the outer fringe of forest was invisible to him, a distance of twenty paces veiled in darkness.

  Probably just the barrels toppled by the wind.

  But his pulse quickened nevertheless. He glanced at the pencil coming to a rest between his feet. He dared not pick it up, dared not move for fear of masking a sound of danger. He sat still and listened to the sounds of the night, the voice of the storm.

  How can he know? How is it possible?

  The legend was not well known, not even among the members of the dwindling tribe. Only a handful of elders knew the story, and even fewer knew of its name.

  How then?

  Because it’s true. It’s back. Somehow… it lives.

  No. It was impossible. He scanned the room, his eyes sweeping the shadows. The urge to rush out of his chair, draw the blinds, and switch on all the lights was maddening. But he fought to keep the temptation at bay. He would not lose himself to irrational fear, would not succumb to demons of his own making.

  The back door rattled in its frame, a persistent banging inconsistent with the rhythm of the wind. The Chief stared through the shadowy hallway, his eyes narrowed to slits. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled in response to what stood behind the flimsy shield of aging pine. He drew a deep breath. Sweat pooled beneath his arms. His heart pounded faster than it had in years, beating in his chest like a war drum.

  The demon. Returned from the spirit world.

  The Chief slipped out of the chair and crept across the room. A dagger hung on the wall, mounted between an oil painting of the Berkshires at dusk and a sketch of an eagle in flight. He drew the knife from the worn leather sheath, the buffalo bone hilt smooth and reassuring in his hand. The blade gleamed in the light, and he thought suddenly of the days of his youth when he had hiked through the forest with this very knife, searching for adventure and dreaming of the battles his grandfather’s blade had witnessed.

  And then the door crashed open, the wood splintering into a throng of jagged projectiles. Rain swirled in through the gap. The wind swept it into the walls, shrieking and moaning like a thing alive. Lightning flashed in the sky, lashing out like a serpent’s tongue. The momentary brilliance revealed a form hulking in the doorway, a dark silhouette of a creature
crouched on all fours.

  Chief Skatchawa trembled at the sight of it, but somehow held his ground.

  The demon growled, a heavy clicking that emanated from the back of its throat. It approached slowly, and when it lifted its head from the shadows its red eyes burned like fire. Water dripped from its body, its black scales reflecting the light of the gooseneck lamp. Spiked plates lined the arch of its back, a low ridge that bristled when it moved.

  When it stepped fully into the light, Chief Skatchawa felt his bowels loosen. He stood paralyzed, his jaw hanging open. It was a creature unlike any he had ever imagined, a ghastly fusion of claws, scales, and teeth—a creature built solely for death.

  It halted five paces away from him, its lips parting to reveal row upon row of jagged yellow fangs. A squealing sound escaped its chest, and before the Chief could react, a jet of liquid shot from its throat and struck him in the eyes.

  Chief Skatchawa stumbled into the kitchen table, but managed to catch himself before falling … avoiding what would’ve been a very costly mistake. He cleared his eyes of the burning goo and stared directly at the beast through a murky haze. “How did you find me?”

  The creature’s voice boomed within his mind, vibrating his skull from the inside out. “I am the Hunter and the Hunted, and all things in between. But you should know that, shouldn’t you, Skatchawa?” It stepped toward him. “Your people were so proud, so certain they could destroy me. But where are they now? Who amongst you remains?”

  “There are some,” the Chief said. “There are those who still remember ... those like me who know the name Trell.”

  “Impressive, Skatchawa. I was sure you would have forgotten. So much of your way of life perished in the war with the white man. They destroyed your land. They did everything your people feared and worse. They killed more of you than even I. But all that is in the past. My strength has grown considerably since then. Your spirits and potions cannot stop me now.” Its jaws twisted into a grin. “But you don’t remember the magic of your ancestors, do you Skatchawa? You are as helpless against me as that drunkard, Gallagher.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you really so ignorant? For over three centuries, I lived a waking death, struggling against the poison your ancestors unleashed upon me, struggling to build up strength enough to rise from the waters once more, to break free of the spirits that chained me.” Its eyes narrowed to slits. “Revenge is what I seek. Revenge for my torment, my pain.”

  The Chief drew a deep breath and thought about Gallagher. I should have believed you. I should have told you what I know. He bit his lip. May the spirits guide you. It is too late now for me.

  And then Chief Skatchawa raised the blade of his grandfather. Uttering the war cry he’d learned as a youth, he charged the demon and lunged for the glistening scales between its eyes. But its scales were like armor. The knife barely left a scratch before Trell’s jaws clamped around his arm and crushed his bones into splinters.

  But the Chief would not scream, would not give the beast what it so desired.

  It roared and flipped him into the air, hurling him to the floor like a rag doll. It slashed his face with the swipe of a paw and stomped on his chest until his body snapped and crunched and spewed blood.

  But still he would not cry out, would not beg for mercy. And as his body was kicked for the last time, he caught a final glimpse of the sketch that he would never finish.

  My greatest work, he thought, and closed his eyes. And in the ensuing darkness, he could still see it—a sketch of an aging warrior, his wizened face proud and defiant until the very end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sarah crept along a wooded path, picking her way through a dense gathering of trees. A canopy of intertwining branches blocked out the sky, making it impossible to tell whether it was day or night. She saw no signs of life in this place. No birds or squirrels. No bugs of any kind.

  And she heard nothing—not chirping, not scurrying, not buzzing. It was quiet. Dead quiet.

  But even so, she sensed that she was not alone.

  Sarah …

  A voice drifted to her from somewhere far away, and she followed the sound of it, letting it guide her through the tangle of underbrush. Time passed, but she couldn’t tell how much. She traveled miles, yet never grew tired.

  Am I dreaming?

  Before she could answer her own question, she spotted the owner of the voice near a giant oak.

  Samuel.

  That same blue light shone around him, fading in and out like the rhythm of a beating heart. A man stood beside him, and as she drew closer she saw that it was Jay.

  Are we sharing the same dream?

  “The pool,” Samuel said to him. “It is a place of great power, the source from which the beast derives its strength—this creature born of the Land of Demons. It must be destroyed.”

  “But how? We don’t even know where it is or what Frank’s message means.”

  “You must destroy the gateway. You must cut off the source of its power.”

  “I don’t understand. Please—I need you to explain.”

  Samuel gestured to the woods around them. “This world … it is but one of many. And yet there is a single point where all such worlds meet.”

  “Are you saying that Trell’s pool lies at the nexus of these worlds?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the runes, the obelisk … Arrow wol—what do they mean?”

  Samuel’s lips pressed into a tight purple line. “All that I know, I have told you. There are secrets that the beast guards dearly, secrets that are yet to be revealed. But there is a price. There is always a price.” He glanced into the forest. A ground fog had crept in and swirled about their feet. “Take heed, for there are forces drawing me from the world of the living, forces I cannot resist much longer. I must go now.”

  “Wait! You haven’t told me anything. Tell me how to kill it!”

  “You must find a way. If your people are to survive, you must find a way.”

  Jay’s body began to lose its definition—first blurring, then becoming transparent, until finally he vanished into the mist.

  Samuel glanced at Sarah. “Come. Our time grows short.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “There are things I must show you, things you must remember at all costs. You must open a space in your mind. Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Follow me. We must walk the path of the wolf.”

  Mist rose from the ground and formed into a thick gray wall that blocked the way forward. Samuel drifted toward it, his aura coloring it blue. For a moment, Sarah just stood there watching. Then she drew a deep breath and hurried after him.

  The mist wrapped around her like a cool, wet blanket, so dense she could barely see. She soon lost sight of Samuel and wandered ahead blindly, a claustrophobic panic stealing over her.

  What if she never found her way out?

  But then the mist vanished as quickly as it came and she found herself standing waist-deep in a thicket of thorny vines. She spotted Samuel moving ahead of her, his body passing through the brambles as easily as if he were made of the mist.

  She followed him, hurrying now, not wanting to lose sight of him again. Thorns bit into her ankles and snared her feet, sinking into her flesh like teeth, but the pain seemed somewhere far away. When at last she caught up to Samuel, he stood before a large boulder. Vines covered the jagged rock in twisted ropes of green.

  “Here,” Samuel said, sweeping aside the vines.

  Sarah craned her neck and saw that it was actually two boulders leaning against each other. A cave, she thought, and followed Samuel through the dark opening.

  The glow from his body lit up a small section of the narrow passageway, and Sarah could see their shadows creeping along the walls and floor—large and misshapen like the monster that lived here. She could hear the slow drip of water from somewhere up ahead and felt a cold wind blowing into her face. Her heart thumped
in her chest. She wanted to turn back, but knew that she couldn’t. Mom was depending on her … and so were the others.

  The floor of the passageway sloped downward, and as she followed Samuel further into the cave, the light from the entrance disappeared behind them, leaving only the strange pulsing of Samuel’s aura. Up ahead, dark patches lined the walls on either side, and as they drew closer she realized they were tunnels. She counted five on the left before Samuel steered her into the third one.

  Darkness pressed in all around them, and even the light cast by Samuel’s aura wasn’t enough to chase it away. They continued through a maze of twisting black corridors and intersecting tunnels until they came to a huge cavern lit by a glow similar to Samuel’s.

  “Here,” Samuel whispered. “The lair of the beast. My prison for centuries. Remember the way, Sarah. Remember it well.”

  ***

  Jay awoke slowly, fighting his way back to consciousness, fearing that he might never wake from this dream. Bright sunshine lanced in through a gap in the curtains. He shielded his eyes and glanced around the room. Tim, Crystal, and Sarah sat on the sofa bed, their eyes glued to the TV.

  “Turn it up,” Tim said.

  Crystal adjusted the volume and glanced at Jay. “It’s about you.”

  Jay scurried to the foot of the bed. The TV showed an attractive newswoman standing on the tangle of Jay’s front lawn. She motioned to his house with a sweep of her hand. “Police announced early this morning that they are looking for this man.”

  A picture of Jay appeared in the upper right hand corner of the screen, a picture taken last year for the faculty section of the yearbook. In it, he had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “While police would not comment as to whether Jay Gallagher is a suspect in the recent disappearances that have stunned this historically quiet town, one source confirmed that he is wanted for questioning. When police arrived at the scene last night to question Gallagher, they were shocked to discover that a crime was already in progress.