Demogorgon

by Brian Lumley

  He stared at Trace with unsmiling, piggy eyes, turned to Amira. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I think so,’ she coldly answered.

  ‘Can he hear and does he understand what’s said to him?’

  ‘Yes. Take his hand. One squeeze for yes, two for no.’

  Decker took Trace’s hand in his fat, sweaty paw. ‘Anybody in there?’ he said.

  Trace squeezed once – wished he could squeeze harder - would have enjoyed squeezing the slimy bastard’s windpipe.

  ‘OK, so listen,’ Decker wheezed. ‘In a couple hours, as the drug wears off, you’ll be able to move a bit more. Enough to swallow food at least. That’s when you get a little chow – slop, anyway. Soup, you know? And you better eat up, Charlie boy, ’cos that’s the last for a couple of days. You follow?’

  Trace squeezed.

  ‘After that, this evening, you’ll just about be able to stand. That’s when we go poo-poos. And that’s nice ’cos then you won’t have to keep pissing yourself! But just so’s you don’t get too mobile, then you take a couple of little white pills, to top up on that shit we shot you. You follow?’

  Again Trace squeezed.

  Decker straightened up, grinned down at his helpless captive, gave his face three deceptively gentle slaps with the flat of his open hand. Trace barely felt them, but they somehow managed to sting him.

  ‘My day’s coming, you fat slug!’ he silently promised. ‘But by God you’ll feel it – you’ll feel all of it – just as soon as I’m able …’

  Chapter Two

  But for now Trace was not able, not even if he’d been offered his own weight in gold; and the rest of the day and evening went exactly as Decker had forecast.

  Before ‘poo-poos’, however (for some obscure reason the one event Trace had really dreaded, despite the fact that the none-too-distant future promised to hold terrors beyond imagining, let alone the toilet door), Amira had managed to sneak back to him and take his hand again. This had been while the fat man was in the other half of the villa, but there was no guarantee that he would stay there. Upstairs in the sleeping area there was a small, curtained connecting door between the two apartments. When Trace and Amira had spent the night together, he’d tried the door but it had been locked. Since when he’d forgotten it. A serious omission. That was where Decker had come from to take him by surprise. It was where he could come from again, at any moment. And so:

  Very quickly, in a breathless whisper, Amira had said: ‘Charlie, however unpleasant things get, just bide your time and don’t give up hope. There’s more going on than I can tell you. Just believe me, things aren’t as desperate as they seem. Not yet, anyway. Do you believe me?’

  His squeeze had been a lot stronger by then, and he’d felt that if he tried he might actually manage a nod. Yes, he believed her. He had to believe her. She was all he had.

  But then she’d left him and Decker had returned, and an hour after that it had been poo-poos – not quite as dreadful as Trace had thought it would be, and at least as bad for Decker – following which Trace had been almost glad to swallow the ‘little white pills’. And then, once again, nothing …

  After that time became meaningless. For Trace it consisted solely of the often brief moments when he was ‘awake’ – or more properly when he was conscious. And even then everything was so strange that he could never be sure he wasn’t simply dreaming. The first time this happened to him was aboard the Skyvan, which told him that he was somewhere between Karpathos and Rhodes, heading for Rhodes.

  He’d forced eyelids that felt weighted down with lead to open, had seen the single narrow aisle of the airplane stretching out before him, weirdly distorted, almost as if to infinity. The passengers had been mainly local island Greeks, but there was also a middle-aged couple immediately in front of Trace and to his right, who were obviously well-to-do English tourists. He had thought at first that they had speech impediments, for as they loudly chatted their deep, horsey voices seemed slowed down to only half the speed of normal conversation, like the dull , booming of a gramophone record played one speed too slow. And then, of course, he’d realized that this was simply the effect of the drug again, working in him as before.

  With the very greatest of effort he had managed to turn his head a little to the left, at the same time squeezing the hand he barely felt holding his own. And there had been Amira sitting beside him, but on a level an inch or two below his – at which Trace had guessed that he was seated in a high wheelchair, which would also explain his position in the centre of the aisle.

  Then the English couple had looked back toward him (had he inarticulately mouthed something or other?), noticed he had his eyes open, nodded to him and to themselves in slow motion, and boomed away at Amira; in answer to which she’d smiled nervously, put a languid finger to her lips, told them:

  ‘S-h-h-h! N-o-o-o e-x-c-i-t-e-m-e-n-t-t-t!’

  And Trace had noted, half a mile away in the front of the tiny plane, the broad red neck of Decker falling in a fold over his shirt collar, where he sat sweating right behind the slightly elevated pilot. The fat man had been otherwise engaged, however, and had noticed nothing; he’d seemed intent on peering ahead, out of the forward windows, probably studying the outline of Rhodes as it expanded into view.

  Then Amira had leaned toward Trace (frighteningly, for the weird alteration in his vision seemed to make her face suddenly swell up inordinately large, like an approaching airship, as it closed with his) to whisper: ‘Ch-ar-lie! Y-o-u m-u-s-t h-a-v-e a h-i-g-h r-e-s-i-s-t-a-n-c-e. A-n e-x-c-e-p-t-i-o-n-a-l t-o-l-e-r-a-n-c-e. T-h-a-t-’s g-o-o-d! A-r-e y-o-u O-K?’

  He’d squeezed a ‘yes,’ – immediately followed by a ‘no.’ It was all like a very bad LSD trip. He felt terrible, sick to his guts. He could feel bile inching its way up his throat, made infinitely worse through his slowed-down perceptions.

  Amira must have seen his Adam’s apple bobbing, recognized the sudden parchment colouring of his skin, the beads of cold sweat fast gathering on his brow; anyway, she’d quickly produced a brown paper bag lined with film from somewhere or other. And then Trace had gone through the sheer nightmare of low-metabolism retching and vomiting.

  When it was finally over he’d closed his eyes and let his head fall back; and then, light as thistledown, he’d felt Amira tidying up his mouth, dabbing away the tears which ran in slow motion down his barely cognisant cheeks. Natural tears produced by his stomach’s unnatural violence, the yawning gape of his jaws. But Amira had not known that they were more than that. Only Trace himself had known that.

  For they had also been tears of frustration, and of a rapidly mushrooming hatred and loathing. Afterwards, too weak to resist, Trace had once more fallen asleep –

  – But this time, as he let the darkness close in on him, he was desperately trying to remember that sequence of alien words he had heard in the old Greek monastery – those words read out aloud by Saul Gokowski – the exorcism from the second Chorazin tablet.

  Whatever else happened, and whether or not Amira had been right when she’d said that things weren’t as desperate as they seemed, Trace had determined that from now on he’d be ready for any eventuality. And he wasn’t going to go out without a fight …

  Then there was Rhodes: the evening when Trace woke up (how long after the episode on the Skyvan? The same day, maybe – or a week later?) in a garden under a grapevine looking out over a sea of gold as the sun went down and the stars came out. And then for an hour, apparently on his own, he’d fought his paralysis and tried to move his arms, his legs – only to succeed in the end when he accidentally kicked his wheelchair’s brake loose. Facing slightly downhill, he’d begun to roll forward, unable to cry out but merely issue a series of high-pitched gurgles or croaks, until his left-hand wheels hit a curb and he was tilted head-first into a patch of lush mint under a lemon tree.

  He landed soft but the wheelchair clattered on to its side and skidded squealingly on the inevitable cobbles, and a moment later lights went on
in a white-walled bungalow at the top end of the garden. Then Amira had come running, crying out to him, and Trace might have sobbed his relief if he’d been able. As it was he could only let her check him over for injury, then breathlessly lever and angle him up again into his chair, finally wheel him to the house and round to its front. And:

  ‘Rhodes,’ she’d told him then, where they gazed down on the city’s million lights. ‘The last time we were here I thought you were … someone else. I knew you were going to die and I didn’t care much. And now I can’t let you die no matter what. Do you think we have a chance, Charlie?’

  He’d squeezed once, ‘Yes,’ God, I hope so!

  ‘I was, sitting here watching the lights come on and must have fallen asleep,’ she continued. ‘Then I heard your chair go over and I suppose that woke me up. Thank God you’re all right! But what a crazy thing to do!’ She was angry. ‘Was that an accident, Charlie? You better tell me it was an accident. You could so easily have hurt yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ he squeezed once, an accident.

  ‘Well, never mind that now,’ she’d told him, not really believing him. And more eagerly: ‘In fact I’m glad you’re awake. There are things I have to tell you – if for no other reason than that they might give you a little peace of mind, a little hope. Because I know how you must be feeling.’

  Do you? Trace thought at her. Jesus, Amira, but you don’t. I feel rough, hungry, ill, unwashed, itchy – and until you’ve suffered a slow itch that you can’t scratch, you can’t possibly know how I feel! And: ‘U-urch-ch!’ he’d managed, which should have come out as, ‘Oh, Christ!’

  ‘What?’ She was astonished. ‘Charlie, you shouldn’t be able to move a fraction, shouldn’t even be able to think straight. And here you are upsetting your wheelchair, even trying to speak! Do you know how many doses of those tablets he’s given you? Three. The last lot, just a few hours ago, should have kept you under till morning. You’re developing an amazing tolerance! But let me tell you about tomorrow:

  ‘At noon you eat again, just enough to keep you ticking over. But if you like, tonight when the place is quiet, I can bring you a little meat? Or soup, maybe? I can do you some soup now, if you think you’d get it down? No? Anyway, after that we’re booked on the 2:00 P.M. flight for Israel, getting into Tel-Aviv a little after 3:30. Tomorrow night at this time we’ll be in Jenin, half-way between Tel-Aviv and Galilee, and then for the first time you’ll meet Khumeni – also the two men he thinks are your brothers, by different women.’ She had paused, asked:

  ‘Are you taking this in?’

  He had given her a squeeze, said: ‘Urk.’

  ‘God, you’re a trier, Charlie Trace!’ she’d given him a spontaneous hug. ‘But let me get on. Tonight I convinced Decker he should relax, go into town and have a drink. The fact is I can’t stand him around me. Well, that’s OK but he’s unpredictable. I don’t know when he’ll be back, or what mood he’ll be in by then …’

  Trace had continued to listen, had known Amira was going full-steam; but doped to the gills as he was, her words had been hitting him like so much treacle. He could easily get bogged down in them. So far he was taking it in, but it was hard work. And there were so many of his own questions that he wanted answered, if only he had the power to ask them. Chiefly he would like to know what she’d meant back in the Villa Ulysses when she’d told him things weren’t desperate. How desperate could things get? What exactly was going on? And apart from the more immediate relevance of these questions, certain others seemed to have surfaced or solidified during Trace’s unconscious periods. For instance:

  If Khumeni and Saul Gokowski had stalemated each other, how come Khumeni had suddenly tried to have the other killed back there on Karpathos? Didn’t it worry him any longer that Gokowski had his measure and could alert people in high places in respect of Khumeni’s purpose and intentions? Or was it simply that the ‘next regeneration’ was so close now that Khumeni could afford to take chances; because by the time anyone moved against him – if anyone was sufficiently impressed to move against him it would all be over and he would be someone else? Or rather, three other someone elses would be him …

  But Amira was off again and Trace had been left behind. And so he’d abandoned his inwardly directed questions for the moment and returned his attention to what she was saying, trying to pick up the thread:

  ‘ … one of Khumeni’s men for a long time,’ she’d been saying. ‘Well, you’ve met him. He’s fat and ugly and despicable. And he’s a dupe, too: he has no idea what Khumeni really is and I haven’t tried to enlighten him. He doesn’t care, just so long as Khumeni pays him good money. And Khumeni pays all his people good money! Decker is also his English connection on the drugs front He divides his time between England, Amsterdam and the USA, and I suspect Khumeni pulled him in for this job purely as a matter of availability: Decker just happened to be in England at the right time. Not that Decker’s incapable or anything: he’s very capable! I’ve only known him this last week, since a few days before we left England – but I know he’s hateful. Murder and drugs are only two of the things he does. I believe he’s big in prostitution in London, too! And of course Khumeni – well, he’s into all vice – or as much as he can handle, world-wide …’

  Amira paused for a moment, looked toward dark alleys where they descended steeply into Rhodes town, listened intently. She heard only cicadas and the throb of the city’s heart, began to breathe again. And finally she continued:

  ‘The man you … the one who died at the monastery, Phillip Klein, he was on hire to Khumeni from the Mafia. He uses a lot of their people, hires them like we’d hire interior decorators!’

  But Trace was growing weary now. And there was something Amira still hadn’t told him, which he’d hoped desperately to hear. Namely, if she really was on his side, if she wasn’t just a clever whore using her wiles and her body in the interests of the beast Khumeni – then why the hell didn’t she just up and push him in his wheelchair out of here right now? She could take him to the local law, couldn’t she? Tell them her story – or at least enough of it that they would want to check it out.

  She had been looking straight into his eyes as he thought these things, and perhaps she’d seen something of the doubts written there. And again Trace had thought, telepathy, as she half-turned her face away, lowered her eyes and bit her lip. But he’d willed her to look at him, and at last she had, saying:

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Charlie, but I can’t. We can’t walk away from it. In order to get my father on his hook, Khumeni threatened him with my life; and to get me he threatened my father’s life. That’s how he works. But it isn’t only my father’s life that would be in jeopardy if I fouled this up, it’s … well, a lot more than that. You see, Charlie, Khumeni wants to bring his three sons together in Galilee. Why? Well, you’d know more about that than I do. But the way I understand it, it’s the only thing that will get Khumeni himself into Galilee. Which is where we want him. So, since he believes you are one of his sons – ’

  It had all made sense, but the effort of listening had finally taxed Trace beyond his endurance. So he was the lure, was he? The bait in the trap. Part of it, anyway. And what next, after they’d got Khumeni back into Israel? Did they really know and understand what they were dealing with here? Kastrouni had known, probably better than any man, and where was Kastrouni now?

  And again Trace had drifted into sleep with Saul Gokowski’s rite of exorcism burning in his mind. And whether it was the drug, his fatigue, a combination of both or something else entirely, he couldn’t say – but it seemed to him that those alien words were far more familiar to him now, as if repetition was sharpening their definition.

  His last memory, however, as the darkness closed in, had been of Amira’s voice superimposed over his own imagined chanting, asking: “Charlie? Are you OK? Are you going to sleep again, Charlie?’ Then she’d hugged him again, maybe a little desperately, and he’d heard something that could hav
e been a sob; and finally, as from a long, long way away, ‘Forgive me, Charlie. Please forgive me …’

  That night (Trace had reckoned it could only be the same night, for it was the same bungalow, on a hill in Rhodes) when the city slept and the stars were diamond bright in an unbelievably clear sky, she had crept to him and woke him up. He had come awake uneasily to find his chair tilted back at forty-five degrees, panicking just a little as memories flooded in to remind him who he was, and where, and what was happening to him. Then he’d recognized her perfume and felt her kiss on his brow, and he had known it was Amira.

  She had lighted a tiny oil lamp, wound his chair upright beside an open window that let in the warm night air And: ‘Soup,’ she’d told him in a whisper, producing a bowl of thick, tender meaty chunks in a rich gravy. ‘The idea is that you be kept weak, but I’m going to see that you’re strong. And if you can somehow manage it, try to avoid taking all of the pills he’ll want to give you tomorrow. You can always pretend you’re still asleep or dopy or something, and put the pills to the side of your mouth to get rid of later. But whatever you do and however well you may feel, don’t try to tackle him! You must promise me that, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes,’ he’d squeezed, gulping soup as she fed him with a spoon. Oh, yes, he promised he wouldn’t tackle Decker. Actually, that was a laugh. Right now he wouldn’t be able to tackle a new-born runt puppy! But for all that, still things weren’t as bad as they’d been. Not by a long shot. Still slow, still vague and fudgy, but his five senses were at least fighting the drug now, and fighting with a will.

  ‘What about some exercise? Do you think you could talk?’

  Two squeezes. She must be joking! But on the other hand … another squeeze, ‘Maybe’. Exercise wasn’t a bad idea.