Luis went back up the stairs, wiping blood dribbling from his mouth. His chin pulsed, but he’d taken harder hits in his Golden Gloves days.
He opened the office door, shielded his eyes. The same light from the white truck bled from the secret room at the far end, but here there was a smell, like the tar used by a road crew he’d once worked on, with something rotten thrown in.
The truck at his back began to shake. The pod was vibrating, as if trying to tear itself from the top of the cab. The cargo panel box shivered.
"Ponch," Luis screamed. He didn’t want to think about guys like the men in the white truck coming after him because of Ponch getting hurt, or killed, on his watch. His stomach clenched at the thought of his Mom paying with more than a broken heart for her son’s involvement with his father’s family.
His mother had warned him. Hell, his father had done the same by running away.
He headed for the back of the office, staying to the art gallery wall in case another building quake trapped him in falling book racks. Looking down and shielding his eyes, he picked his way through a litter of books. Movement tugged at his peripheral vision. He glanced at the posters. Something odd and angular drew him in, a Picasso, a woman’s head, fractured and sliced, unreal, the kind of thing he hated about art classes and museums, like poetry missing the rhythm and flow of street life, the world outside of offices and classrooms. It was a dead thing, the mummified remains of a once-sacred life, ripped from its roots, its meaning and dignity stolen, lost on a wall in a far away land.
The woman’s mouth opened. Her tongue split, folded, divided and became one at the same time.
Luis grunted as if he’d taken a body blow. He closed his eyes, pushed ahead before he hallucinated the painting talking to him.
He reached the open cabinet, squeezed through an opening narrower than he remembered.
Ponch and Mike were fighting in the chamber beyond, the old man holding his own, ducking, blocking, sliding in the confined space while the taller, younger man cursed as he launched wild swings and tried to grab a hold of his target. Cynthia hadn’t moved from the cabinet. Her hands were filled with what seemed like oily segments of rope, thickly twined like the kind used on ships. They were moving, like newborn puppies, blind, wriggling. He didn’t trust the belief that he could hear them mewling.
Like the painting, the segments were also breaking up, spreading and shrinking at the same time, doubling and transforming shapes his vision, as with the colors blazing from the white truck, couldn’t contain.
Cynthia looked up, met his gaze. She grinned, squeezed her hands. The rope segments dropped to the floor, except for the two her fingers closed on.
As Hector and Idoya swooped down to pick up the fallen pieces, Cynthia walked toward Luis.
Luis slipped past her, tackled Mike. They fell to the back of the chamber, where an opening had appeared, like a porthole looking out on a dead black sea and sky.
He punched Mike, picking his shots--jaw, temple, cheek, nose, eye, temple again--as his opponent rolled under him. His hands tore against bone and teeth, his blood mingled with Mike’s. A couple of shots to the throat had the boy curled up and choking, but Luis kept on, unwinding a long spool of frustration that gave way to rage and terror. He pried Mike open to hit ribs, sternum, belly and groin. And when the work to keep him open proved too much, he settled on kidneys before standing up and kicking and stomping the boy until he stopped moving.
Breathing hard, Luis leaned against the back wall, his hand above the porthole opening.
Idoya appeared beside him, kissed his hands. "Thank you," she said, through bloody lips.
Behind her, the mummies from the shelves that were still intact slipped down to dance behind her, losing bits and pieces as they stepped and jumped to a music only they could hear.
Luis rubbed his eyes, tried to blink away the blood.
Ponch put a hand on his shoulder, whispered in his ear, "Thanks, sobrino."
His breath filled Luis lungs and stung.
Ponch looked to Idoya, grinning.
Hector, still holding on to the knapsack, put his hand on Idoya’s neck.
Something cold and damp pressed against his chest. Cynthia stood before him, pushing one of the segments against his shirt as if she wanted to replace his heart with it.
Luis tried to deflect her arm, but she was surprisingly strong. Or, he was spent.
He let his head hang down, barely feeling the relief from knowing Ponch was okay and there’d be no repercussions for his mother. He had a notion that there might be more money coming to him than just what had been promised for the night’s work. But money seemed like a remote problem at the moment.
What stayed with him was the nausea that was all that was left of his rage. His knuckles were ripped open, the pain just beginning to seep through a fading adrenaline rush. He tried to think of where it had all come from--maybe his father, or that whole side of the family. Perhaps his anger, and fear, had come from the place that was no place in him, the emptiness between the worlds of North and South Americas, between curiosity and survival, knowledge and action.
Pain and nausea, and a quiet dread of something more to come, were the only answers he found.
A breeze blew against his face, an Antarctic breath that made him look up, look into the hole through which it had come. And when he saw the wall of darkness he’d already seen in the white truck, he fell, through a world split, divided, turned on itself and inside out. Shattered, reassembled into new forms that rolled back the world, widened the chamber in which he stood, until it became larger than the building, the block, until it became an expanding space filled with alien light his eyes could not filter or integrate into a meaningful vision. The space contained both perfect dark and a flurry of events that eluded his perceptions, leaving only an impression of movement and stillness, a watchful presence, and an absence of physical laws, the passage of time, and both creation and death.
Through a world his senses didn’t understand, Luis continued to drop, filled with a dread of never landing, in terror of no longer falling.
Until Cynthia’s arms caught him. She put her arms around him, pressing the segments she still held in her fists into his back. She whispered to him, haltingly, in the language he’d heard Ponch, Idoya, and the two men speak. Her rhythm was halting, her pronunciations clumsy. But she smelled human, and she was warm with her breasts crushed against him.
Dizzy, spitting up stomach acid that burned his throat and mouth, Luis grabbed hold of her. Hung on. And thought he felt like he was still going down through a well, through the memories of a world in which he’d once lived, through a darkness filled with an invisible light, toward a source that would swallow him whole, he knew Cynthia was still there.
They kissed. Stripped. Groped one another, in the cold. In the chopped up reality around them, Luis recognize a heap of flesh as Ponch, with Hector and Idoya.
She licked the blood on him. She was not the only one. What she held in her hands drank him in. What had been in the cabinet, all the pieces of flesh, crawled over the mass Luis understood was Mike.
It wasn’t the blood that drew them, but the heat of the liquid. Perhaps, elements in the blood, chemicals, memories. Maybe the blood was a unique sensation, a stimulant, rich with strange and frightening immediacy. Or, as in days long gone, the transgression of spilled blood signified an opening of the way between states and realities. He couldn’t say how he knew, only that once the thoughts formed, he wanted to believe them. All of them.
What was worse was to have had no ideas, at all.
The door to the office, far away past the other end of the chamber and the outside room’s length, flew open. The cold breeze blowing out of the white truck blasted into the office, sending books flying off the shelves, overturning chairs. A low, deep vibration like a running engine, or an enormous animal growling, insinuated itself in Luis chest.
The heartbeat, he thought, of a serpent, winding through realities, s
wallowing lives and eating its own tail.
The image comforted him, reminded him of Quetzalcoatl, though that myth had never interested him before. Better than nothing.
Hanging on to fragments of the familiar--the driving rhythms of sex, an eye, the curve of the hip, Ponch’s white hair, associations between the inexplicable and memory--Luis rode a wave of sensation back through darkness and light, up the well, to a place where Cynthia looked down on him, breasts hanging and swinging as she rode him, while strange energies ran along circuits passing through him.
He woke, not remembering being threatened by sleep or loss of consciousness. The wind was gone, the hole closed. The contents of the cabinet lay all over the floor, still, but pregnant with possibilities that made Luis head hurt. Mummies, bones, petrified body parts and much of the rest of the material stored in the room had spilled to the floor.
Cynthia lay next to Mike, who was the only one in the room still wearing clothes. Hector and Idayo were curled into a fleshy ball. Ponch sat with his back to the wall, an empty bottle of tequila as his feet, another in his hand, watching Luis on his belly, legs and arms extended, cold.
"Blood comforts blood in the old way," Ponch said.
Luis pulled himself together. Slowly, he stood, picked through the scattered clothing until he had enough on to walk without trouble on the streets. "That had nothing to do with anybody’s old ways," Luis said.
"Blood opens ways closed to the heart and mind."
"You don’t have to find every door, and you sure as shit don’t have to open them all."
"Welcome," Ponch said, offering him the bottle, "back to our family."
Luis headed for the chamber’s exit. "I told you, I don’t want any of this." He stopped, stared over his shoulder at Ponch. "How can you do it?" he asked.
"How can you start a bottle, and not finish it?"
Ponch said nothing. He found Ponch’s pants, pulled out a wad of cash. He showed it to Ponch and pocketed the entire amount. He checked Hector’s pockets as well, removed what he found, and picked up the backpack Cynthia carried. He left the secret chamber.
"What was given will be returned into the fold," Ponch shouted after him.
"Go to hell," Luis said.
The white truck was gone, the downstairs locked. Merchandise had moved around, fallen off shelves, tipped over. He emerged into the late morning of the next day, headed for the nearest subway stop.
Luis gave the money he’d taken to his mother. Then he said goodbye, while his mother wept with the joy of finding a son she thought had died, and pressed her lips together with the sorrow of knowing she’d never see her boy, again.
Luis left the city, stayed in sunny places, and spent all of his time trying not to be lonely while, at the same time, making sure he never brought more of his blood into the world for his family to use feeding and raising their stock. He remembered to hang back, bring up the rear.
And every day he thanked his lost father, who, he now knew, had done all he could to protect his son.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE EQUINE
Kenneth W. Cain
Ken and I have almost met twice. He showed up the day after I did at Pittsburgh ComiCon in 2011, then ended up not being able to appear at Horror Realms that same year (where I introduced Jack Ketchum to my publisher; Ken, a devout Ketchum fan, wasn't pleased). One of these days we'll meet, but until then, you and I have his novels (published by Post Mortem) These Trespasses and Grave Revelations, and his website, kennethwcain.com.
When I first heard the man’s ramblings of the sordid details of human nature, I intended to ignore them, having other notions on my mind. My son and I were making camp on an island known for its tourism, but beyond this it was better realized for the wild horses occasionally gracing the hillside across a small channel. Upon a slight incline at the foot of the opposite island rested a detailed statue, depicting a stallion in full stride. If we were not to see a single living equine this statue alone would suffice as a vivid memory.
The ranting man stood on the cement path that ran in a circle around the island. He was old, his face riddled with the scars of someone who once committed the crimes he now spoke so passionately against. These facts showed on his face no less than the pinch of skin wrinkling between his eyebrows, showing much of his anger at the sins perpetrated against his God.
As I looked about, I saw a dozen or so sites scattered across the small island campground, lined along the canal, facing the equine habitat. Some were close, and others farther away, but all wanted the same thing. Perhaps a few dozen people made up the entire population for the night, all hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the wild horses. None anticipated the sermon they now endured.
His testimony amused my son, Parker, and before I knew it I was alone by the campfire. I regret letting him go now, but then, I didn't see the harm; he was only twenty feet away, well in sight. It wasn’t until the fight broke out I realized something had gone wrong, had been wrong--with the man, with what he said, with the entire situation--but I'd been too...oblivious?...to note it.
Nothing will ever dispel my guilt at that.
The first words I heard were from a younger man, one who did not take to the preacher’s feverish attempt at judging mankind. This man yelled, and then not reaching the satisfaction he wanted from the other, attacked and drove the preacher back.
Arms wailing, the crowd caught the old man, helping him back to his feet. While outmatched by the younger man, it did not keep him from lifting a condemning finger to the skies to recall the sins this young man was engaging in.
I searched among the small crowd of campers for my son. My eyes were wide with panic, my heart throbbing within my chest as if someone were strangling the life from the muscle. Relief washed over me as my son came into view, closer to the old man than I would have liked.
The younger man leapt forward, knocking the elder man down by the channel, and the crowd encroached upon the scuffle, severing my vision from my son once more. All I was able to see was my son’s ball cap billowing into the air, and then drifting into the crowd of people as the fight grew in intensity.
Several minutes later the tussle broke up without a single shout or threat. Nor was there any spectator having stepped in. It ended for different reasons I had not initially identified, as I was much more concerned with my son.
Parker sat in the sand, his hat snug on his head. He stared at the old man, seeing the thing I should have noticed right away. Parker did not gasp or scream, as others had. This might be the reason I was not so perceptive. When I saw what they had seen, the feeling of being empty inside returned, only this time it had an atrocious fury like that of a brush fire.
The elder man’s pallid face reflected the terror struck on Parker’s. The man’s eyes were dark, and yet it was difficult to see, as dusk was already approaching. All eyes would soon be darkened, and I might not have noticed this man’s eyes without the help of the last hint of sunlight. They looked sunken and empty, dark pools of still water, much like the back canals under the light of the brightest moon.
What caused such a variety of emotions was the thing on the old man’s head. At first, I thought it was a cap, perhaps even a religious token. Upon closer inspection I saw the dangling tentacles, wavering in front of his face, and realized it was some sort of sea creature.
It was small like a starfish, or even a tiny octopus, but neither of those depictions was accurate. It did not appear to have any trouble breathing or existing out of water. Not only this, but where I once thought it a separate entity clinging to the elder man’s skull, I could see it had somehow attached itself to the man. Had I been able to pull myself away from this astounding visual, I might have noticed the younger man undergoing the same fate as this preacher.
I burst through the crowd, shaking away my shock and dismay to attempt to help the man. I took him into my arms and tried to ease him to the sand. We did not reach the ground. Instead, he stiffened like a board and stood defiantly before us.
To my utter surprise, he spoke.
"Now you see the failings of mankind has forced God’s hand! He recruits me to do his bidding."
His voice sounded deeper, more convincing. The creature upon his head opened its eyes and I saw something chilling. Its precarious little eyes glowed a dull-red, and they searched the people in the crowd.
"Listen to the brother." The younger man said, now standing by his side, lifting his arms in praise of the elder man. "I have seen the error of my ways. Be with us. Join us under God’s protection."
The elder man opened his arms to the hesitant crowd, and I found myself backing away, towards Parker, wanting more and more to get away from these people. My hand brushed against him, stopping him from joining the others, his face dull in an almost trance-like state.
I grabbed my boy, wrapping my arms around him, and held him back. He appeared not only dazed by the scuffle, but by this creature and how it had been presented.
I watched as the first of the elder man’s people, who were the apparent majority of the campers this night, joined him by the canal water.
"I am with you, Abraham." This woman bowed before the old man, and he pushed her down to her knees.
Abraham bent to the water, taking in a large cup of the liquid. The dark pool was alive in his hands. I was able to see the creature writhing and twisting in his palms, anxious to find a home upon the woman’s skull. With great care, he placed the creature upon her head, and within seconds it attached itself to her.
She showed only a brief sign of pain, no more than a twinge. As she stood, this new creature opened its eyes, letting its glow peer upon the crowd. They closed, as if in deep thought, and she took her side by Abraham. She too professed of this religious experience.
"I feel his kindness. He is upon me, part of me. Do not be afraid."
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