Within Stranger Aeons

by Fisher, Michael

  “Shit!” she gripped the wheel but another jolt from the Cadillac sent her careening towards the bushes at the side of the road. She pressed down on the footbrake, hard, and the tires screamed beneath her as her car came to an unruly halt a few yards from the forest. The sudden stop jarred her neck, painfully, and more angry than shaken, Cassey said, “You motherfuckers!” Taking no chances, she leaned forward and opened her glove compartment, retrieving her Colt Defender from within.

  “Damn I should have expected this,” she said with a snarl, and undoing her seatbelt, went to open her door. It was wedged shut from the attack, a few annoyed attempts at opening it proved that. She looked through the window and saw the Cadillac had stopped on the road. “You bastards have come for the book? Well over my dead…” She left the sentence unfinished and scooted over to the passengers side door. This one opened, with difficulty, as she had to push it through the thick foliage her car had stopped within. Then Cassey was out of the car and crunching through creeping flora and clinging brambles towards the road, prepared to aim her gun and scare off her attackers. The driver and passenger, a man and a woman, were leaving the Cadillac, heading slowly, leisurely towards her, which infuriated Cassey even more.

  The pair paused at the edge of the road. The male, to the right, was dressed in a faded grey suit of a style that appeared old fashioned. He had slicked-back grey hair and an expressionless face. Combined with the woman’s baggy grey dress, and black floppy hat drooping around her straw-like blonde hair, the two put Cassey in mind of people from the 1920s, or earlier.

  Cassey stopped two arm lengths away and breached part of the gap by raising her gun.

  “Listen, you fuckers. I don’t know who the hell you are, but back off, just back off.”

  The pair turned to each other, the male saying, “Projectile weapon, chemical reaction. Quite dangerous.” His voice was wrong, off kilter, as if it issued from a badly tuned radio. It reminded her of the mysterious call she had received last night.

  “Crude but effective,” the woman replied, her voice sounding as eerie as his.

  The pair turned to her as one. They didn’t appear afraid, and this made Cassey step forward to press the gun against the man’s head.

  “Go, I mean it!” she said through gritted teeth, and the man replied, “We need the book. We need to return.”

  “What?” Cassey frowned at his words.

  “A splitting of Einsteinien space time invoked a dimensional breach. Trapped us for decades. A compactification of the Euclidean time dimension is required for return.”

  Cassey looked to the woman while keeping the gun trained on her companion. She had sensed something untoward about them from the moment she stepped into their presence. It was a feeling she had experienced before.

  “High chance she will discharge the weapon. Contingency required,” the woman said, and raising her hand, revealed a black stone disc with chunks of crystal embedded in its surface.

  The fillings in Cassey’s teeth, the metal ring in her labia, all began to vibrate painfully as the cartilage in her joints seized up. Her whole body wracked in agony, she fell backwards, frozen in position. The bushes cushioned her fall, and unable to move, Cassey found herself staring up at the sky. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but lie there helpless. The woman’s silhouette leaned over her, followed by the man’s.

  “Take the firearm,” he said, “Discharge the projectile into her head. It will dispose of her quickly.”

  As helpless as she felt, Cassey realized she still had a tight grip on her gun, a finger on the trigger. She focused everything she had on pressing her finger just a few millimetres down, and a second later, the gun leapt in her hand, the ‘crack’ of the shot ringing loudly in her ears.

  The rest of her body unfroze, and sitting up, she stared towards the pair. The man stood motionless, turned towards his companion. She wavered where she stood, her chin touching her chest as she stared down at the hole the bullet had made in her left breast.

  There was no blood there, just a blackness between scorched fabric.

  “Oh dear,” the man said, and the woman’s expression transformed. Her lips drew back, revealing clenched white teeth that snapped open to issue a terrifying yell, so jarring that it sent Cassey shuffling back through the bushes. The woman’s head shook, the hat, and her hair, falling to the ground. Then, impossibly, her head twisted around to reveal a duplicate screaming face, the screams becoming a chorus as her head elevated from her body, attached to a second mass of faces, then another.

  Cassey felt like screaming herself, but swallowed it back as she watched the snaking mass of eyes and shrieking mouths continue to rise.

  She fired three shots at the woman’s chest, the impact sending her staggering backwards. Then the woman’s whole body collapsed, the bulbous snake-like ‘head’ flopping out to wriggle upon the road.

  Cassey stood, backed off through the bushes, and continued firing shots towards the writhing horror.

  Throughout this, the man stood unmoving, staring at his companion.

  Her gun fired empty just as she bumped into her car. Beyond the foliage, the thing was changing, pulsing and growing into a round shape while its cries grew deeper, less human.

  Having seen more than enough, Cassey tucked her gun into the back of her waistband and rushed back into her car, slamming the passenger door closed and climbing over to the driver’s seat. She felt for the ignition key and turned it.

  The engine screeched, stalled, and refused to start.

  “Car don’t fail me now!” she said, and tried the key again. To her relief, the car roared to life. She fastened her belt, performed a quick turn while reversing, and a moment later was staring at her attackers beyond the windscreen.

  Cassey gasped involuntarily. The thing had blossomed into something more horrible, a jet-black creature of wavering tentacles attached to a circular trunk stood upon a tripod of large, hoofed feet. It was covered in eyes and mouths, the latter issuing a chorus of angry roars. One long tentacle held the male companion suspended by his throat. He flailed his arms and kicked about in panic, but was trapped mid-air.

  “You fuckers,” she said, revved the engine, and speeding forward, rammed them.

  ***

  “It’s very good to see you Miss Bane,” Combs said with a smile. For a change, she wasn’t wearing her sunglasses: her brown eyes appeared tired, with no makeup to hide the dark rings below.

  Combs, sat legs-crossed on the opposite side of Cassey’s desk, again smelled strongly of vanilla. Today she was dressed in a short sleeved, dark green dress. Cassey didn’t recognize the brand. Short, it stopped a half dozen inches past her knees. Combs’s pale, skinny arms and legs didn’t suit the look at all. The calfskin Balenciaga lace up ankle boots on her feet were the same black as her gloves and crocodile purse.

  Cassey stared back, unsmiling, waiting to see if she could make Combs sweat.

  Combs sat forward, gripped a skinny knee, and said, “Ahem, well…”

  “Just don’t,” Cassey interrupted. “Just don’t give me any of that friendly bullshit when you knew you were sending me into the thick of things with that blasted book.”

  Combs’s face dropped momentarily, she frowned, smiled, then said, “But nothing you couldn’t handle I take it?”

  That God awful leering smile. Cassey felt her anger grow again. She kept it in check and reached down to the right hand desk drawer. Opening it, she looked at her gun, sat atop the still wrapped Book of Nonterraqueous. She moved the weapon aside, removed the package, and knocking the drawer shut, lay it between her and Combs.

  Combs reached for the book greedily, but Cassey quickly slapped her hand down on it. Combs sprang back as if she’s been electrocuted.

  “My money,” Cassey said, “And there’s also going to be a bill for the repairs to my car.”

  “Of course.” Combs said, and without taking her eyes off the book, opened her purse and removed a brown envelope. “Send the b
ill to my PO Box.”

  Seeing Combs so flustered was priceless. Cassey accepted the envelope and watched Combs lift the book tentatively, clutching it to her chest.

  Since returning from New Rochelle the day before, Cassey had been in two minds about destroying the book. Now, seeing it in Combs’s arms, she again hoped the woman would read it and end up destroying herself.

  “Enjoy it,” Cassey said, and tucked the envelope into her jacket pocket.

  Glynn Owen Barrass lives in the North East of England and has been writing since late 2006. He has written over a hundred and thirty short stories, most of which have been published in the UK, USA, France, and Japan. He has also edited anthologies for Chaosium’s Call of Cthulhu fiction line, and writes material for their flagship roleplaying game. To date he has edited the collections Eldritch Chrome, Steampunk Cthulhu and Atomic Age Cthulhu, for Chaosium, In the Court of the Yellow King, for Celaeno Press, and World War Cthulhu for Dark Regions Press.

  FROM THE MURKY DEPTHS

  MICHAEL FISHER

  “What the fuck are they doing out here with a hurricane rolling in?”

  The windshield wipers on his department-issued green and white Dodge Charger were sweeping rapidly across his vision, as BSO Deputy Raphael Acosta slid the cruiser into the parking lot at the west end of Commercial Boulevard. The lot was normally used to store semi trucks in between deliveries, but on this dark and damp afternoon, it was all but empty; the trucks had been sent north to avoid the storm.

  Dispatch had received a report from the driver of one of these departing trucks about a suspicious white panel truck in the lot, where it didn’t belong. Deputy Lockhart, the officer that normally had this area, had said he’d take care of it, but when he was sent to assist in making certain the huge shopping mall nearby was emptied and secured from potential looters, Acosta stepped in.

  Flipping the switch, the window-mounted spotlight cut through the pouring rain to illuminate the battered truck at the far end of the lot, near the entry to the power substation. The boxy vehicle was backed up to the fence, parked on the grass next to the rusty tubular steel gate blocking the access road that ran to both the substation, as well as the Everglades. While it did not appear to be locked, the bar was still closed.

  There had been no attempt at properly parking in a spot in the lot, almost as if the driver was in a hurry. Acosta swung the beam of light across the immediate area but the only things moving were the sheets of falling rain, and the tree branches and palm fronds whipping in the increasing winds. He picked up the CB handset to check in with dispatch.

  “Dispatch, this is unit 3742. I have arrived at the storage lot. The reported truck is here. I am heading over to check it out, unless you want me to wait for backup. Over.”

  “3742, proceed with caution. All units are otherwise disposed with Melanie. The NWS predicts landfall within the hour. Get that wrapped up quickly and get to shelter. She’s gonna be a big one,” the dispatch officer advised.

  “Roger that,” Acosta replied, hanging the mic back on its cradle, as he double-checked the radio earpiece tucked into his left ear. The spiral wire curled over his ear and clipped onto his tactical vest. In addition to the body armor all police officers are required to wear, the Broward Sheriff’s Office issued forest green tactical vests to many of the patrols. It held the varied tools officers carried including mace, zip-tie cuffs, a flashlight, a folding knife and each officer’s radio unit. On top of their issued sidearm, a 9MM Glock 17, deputies carried a Taser on their opposite hip. After tugging the green poncho down over his gear, Acosta double-checked the rain cover on his hat and stepped from the vehicle into the squall.

  Deputy Acosta looked back at the wall of heavy black clouds forming off in the distance, sweeping in from the ocean east of Ft. Lauderdale, thunder booming. The few cars still passing by on the Sawgrass Expressway seemed silent, the thunder drowning out most of the sounds not already taken away by the punishing winds.

  The National Weather Service currently had Hurricane Melanie, a Category Four storm, predicted to pass directly over the Ft. Lauderdale area. There hadn’t been a storm of that ferocity to make landfall in South Florida since Hurricane Wilma in 2005, which had closely followed the now-infamous Katrina. Katrina had been a relatively mild hurricane when it hit Florida, strengthening after it passed. Wilma had shut down the entire area for a full week and a half. Acosta prayed his landlord had secured his apartment building as he had promised.

  After one final glance at the roiling clouds, Acosta pulled the Mag-Lite from the holster on his vest, clicking it on. Its LED joined the spotlight’s beam in illuminating the truck. The once-white truck was more a dingy grey, in the spots where the paint hadn’t chipped and flaked off. It looked to be one of the many second-, third-, or even, eighth-hand trucks in the area, long repurposed from its original use, often for lawn care work crews.

  Acosta carefully approached, his right hand resting on the butt of the Glock, and shined the harsh light into the cabin. Through the filthy glass, he could clearly see the compartment was empty of life. He reached up to click the switch on his radio, while continuing to scan the cab.

  “Dispatch, Unit 3742. The truck appears to be unoccupied and abandon…wait a sec,” Acosta left off, as he spotted something. He checked the door and, finding it unlocked, swung it slowly open. In the passenger’s floorboard was a purse, the gold Coach tags hung from the sapphire leather handle. This was obviously not something commonly found in run-down trucks. Bentleys, or even Mercedes, perhaps, but not a service vehicle.

  “Dispatch, I think I have something. Let me check a bit more.”

  “3742, copy. Please be advised to proceed with caution. I repeat, proceed with caution.”

  “Copy, Dispatch,” Acosta said, pulling a pen from his vest and gingerly opened the top of the handbag. Spotting the matching wallet inside, the deputy slipped it out. A quick flip of the wrist opened the wallet to show the owner’s driver’s license, across from her Black card and the membership card at a local gym. The photo showed a blonde woman in a low cut top, obviously to emphasize her augmented breasts; they were likely up there with the credit card and fitness center card for most used assets. Lena Baker, as the card read, was forty-five years old, although the photo looked a good ten years younger, possibly from additional surgical alteration. Her address was in Parkland, an upper-class community to the north, which fit quite well with the glitzy purse. Even more so, it did not fit with this truck at all, which set off Acosta’s internal alarms.

  “Dispatch, 3742, run a check on a Lena Baker, birthdate oh-eight, oh-four, sixty-nine. Address listed as Holmberg Road. See if there is any thefts or missing person’s reports in the system. Her bag is in the truck,” Acosta said, having to raise his voice to make certain the operator could hear him over the howling winds, winds which were tugging at the poncho, causing it to crack like a whip about the deputy.

  “3742, return to your vehicle and await backup. Once again, wait for backup,” the dispatch officer called out over the ether.

  As Acosta received his orders, a loud bang made him jump. He panned the light down the truck, toward the source of the loud noise; one of the rear doors to the vehicle had swung wide in the wind, bouncing off the aluminum paneled side. It had begun its return swing when the light caught a flash of crimson near the edge of the door. Focusing the beam on the spot, the deputy’s blood chilled. It appeared to be a bloody handprint.

  “Shit,” Acosta gasped, as the cool wind blew his hat off his head, the cold rain spattering his buzz cut head. The rain sluiced down the back of the poncho, soaking his uniform and undershirt in an instant.

  “Repeat 3742, I didn’t make out what you said,” came the woman’s voice over the earpiece, the signal breaking up into fluttering static, its signal obviously disrupted by the storm, not to mention the noise that Mother Nature was adding to the equation.

  “Dispatch, I cannot wait for backup. Get them here ASAFP,” Acosta shouted. “I
have reason to believe Ms. Baker is in danger, if not dead. Send additional units. Lockhart should be over near Sawgrass Mills Mall. Get him here now. Over.” Acosta was helping Officer Lockhart out, covering part of his zone during the hurricane preparations.

  “3742, Unit 2651 will be dispatched to your location, copy?”

  “Get him here now!” Acosta shouted over the increasing wind. Drawing his Glock with his right hand, he braced his left under the barrel of the pistol, flashlight beam shining ahead. He slowly advanced to the rear of the vehicle, his eyes repeatedly drawn back to the bloody handprint. He was certain what that print, smaller than his own, meant. The woman was likely dead, and her body was being disposed of in the Everglades.

  Reaching out with his left hand, Deputy Acosta awkwardly tugged the heavy door all the way open, straining to pull the door without dropping his flashlight. Nothing jumped out of the darkened interior of the truck. He quickly scanned the area again. Finding nothing other than power transformers and palm trees, he shone the light inside.

  The dull colors of the afternoon, muddied by the dim light filtered by the clouds descending upon South Florida, were washed away. The blinding beam turned the dark interior into a vivid scarlet room. It was if the interior of the compartment had been painted red, but Acosta knew in a heartbeat that it was not the case. A few bare patches of dingy paint showed where the blood had not sprayed.

  Acosta looked for just another moment before the sheer animal instinct to run washed over him. The deputy whipped around, scanning the muddy road and sodden grass for a clue as to the destination of the perpetrator of these horrors. It appeared as if the downpour had washed away all traces of the crime. The only possible sign was a section of the chain link fence, to the left of the rusted steel gate, which had been crushed to the ground. Acosta doubted the suspect did it. More than likely, it had been downed by motocross riders, looking to race on the back roads, away from traffic.