Within Stranger Aeons

by Fisher, Michael

  “Then there’s that smell, like the ocean gone wrong.”

  ***

  The next time Martin saw Lyle was at the hospital a couple of months later. He almost walked past him.

  “Hey Buddy, ain’t you even gonna say hello?”

  Martin stared in shock at the shrunken man standing in the weak October sunlight.

  “Lyle! What are you doing here? I’ve been meaning to drop by; I’ve done some research on your angels…”

  “No need, no need. I’ve decided to give them the final test. Maybe tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have cancer. Bone marrow cancer. Terminal. I let them play with me here for a while. Chemo, all that. I’ve had enough, so why not. Why not go into the cage with one of my angels and see what happens? See if they take me to heaven or just suck my blood—see if they even want my cancerous blood.” Lyle threw back his head and laughed. Most of his teeth were gone. Martin shuddered.

  “Let me bring my research over and show you first. Don’t do anything until we talk, okay?”

  “Sure, but you better come tonight. I don’t have a lot of patience or a lot of time.”

  “I’ll be there tonight. You can count on me.”

  “Sure, sure.” Lyle nodded. He didn’t believe Martin. And he was right. Martin didn’t have any research.

  But what the hell, Martin helped Lyle into the cage, and he watched, thinking after whatever happened he would burn the god-forsaken house to the ground—but he would bring one of the creatures home, just one.

  Lyle stepped into the cage and stretched his knobby fingers toward the creature. At Lyle’s touch, the creature turned from violet to ash grey. The monster melted, fleshy tubes drooped from where its face had been. The body became a gelatinous blob that enveloped Lyle like quicksand. Then the whine began. Unearthly, unholy. Martin felt a chill run up his back and tears ran down his cheeks. He saw Lyle buried deep in the ground, digging at the earth, screaming to get out and an overwhelming sadness crushed him.

  The monsters wanted out. Martin was reaching for the locks when he stopped himself.

  That night he burned Lyle’s house down.

  ***

  “Daddy, why are the angels in cages?”

  “Get her out of here!” Martin bellowed.

  His ex-wife, Mary, stood at the door, mouth open, eyes unblinking. She grabbed her daughter’s arm and yanked her out the door. Martin followed, locking the door behind him.

  “What the hell do you have in there? God, Martin, that horrible smell.”

  “They’re wild creatures Lyle captured in the woods before he died.”

  Mary cocked her head to the side, “You were able to save those slimy creatures, and their cages, from the house fire, but not your old buddy Lyle?”

  Martin looked at Mary for several silent seconds, “Slimy? They weren’t in the house. We’d already moved them here before the fire.”

  “Yeah? Smells a little smoky in there to me.”

  “Okay, fine, I didn’t want you to know, I’m smoking my pipe again,” Martin lied, “I won’t smoke around Shari. I promise.”

  “You better not.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back for her Sunday afternoon. You keep her away from those things.”

  But he couldn’t. She was fascinated. She read to them. She slid her toys into the cages. They absorbed the toys but they never touched Shari.

  ***

  On Saturday evening, Martin called Shari when dinner was ready. She didn’t answer. He thought maybe she had wandered into the woods; he ran through the brush like a madman.

  He couldn’t call Mary, she’d want to call the police. They’d search the house and find the creatures in the cages. He had to find Shari himself—or get rid of the creatures—then call the police.

  He went into the cage room and dressed himself in the training gear; he fastened the Velcro carefully. The creatures grew excited. He loaded two cages onto the cart and opened the garage doors. Two by two, he took the cages into the edge of the forest and unloaded them.

  “My little girl is missing. I think she’s in the forest. If you are angels, if any part of you is from God—rescue my child.”

  Two by two, he unlocked the cages. Leaving the doors pushed to, he turned and ran into the house.

  Martin watched from his window as the beautiful but now faded creatures pushed the doors open, crawled out and stretched. One cried. One howled and charged toward the house. The others grabbed the errant monster and pulled him into their circle. A fight broke out. One threw another onto the ground, pierced his chest with talons, and pulled out his heart. They passed the heart around for all to consume. The remaining five stood facing Martin’s window for a moment then they ran into the forest.

  Martin poured himself a whiskey. He had to believe the one charging the house wanted to take vengeance on Martin for holding them prisoners, wanted to kill Martin, wanted his blood for strength. And the others? Surely the others were angels and they wanted to find his daughter. Or they simply wanted to be free.

  Another quick whiskey then Martin went down to fold up the cages. He drove to the river, to the waterfall where the water was deep, where the heavy metal cages would surely sink quickly to the bottom.

  In the moonlight, he saw Shari crossing the river, balancing on a fallen log. Balancing for now. The log was mossy. She could slip and fall if he startled her.

  The creatures swooped down from the trees and surrounded him. One gently pierced his neck.

  “Are we angels or vampires, Martin?” the unspoken words entered his consciousness through the piercing on his neck. “What have your tests shown, all your studying? What do you believe?”

  “If we are vampires, I understand that we cannot cross the water to rescue your daughter,” she turned to offer an aside to the others, “We should never have let Stoker go.”

  “She’s about to fall in. Then they will come and they will see your tire tracks. You can’t throw the cages in now, they will drag the river. They will find the cages. They will search the garage. You have been an idiot.”

  “Are we angels or vampires—or both?” though silent, the words seemed to shake the forest.

  “We have a surprise for you, Martin. We are both and we are neither. Angels have never been man’s friend, his guardian, nor his servant. Man made up all those legends because he could not comprehend us. Why have you always thought you were so special? You are less than a hole in the universe, Martin. The cages you thought you held us in actually held you tightly right outside their bars. While you watched and studied the forms we adopted, we considered you again and found you just as insignificant as we’d always believed.” Again, the words were only in Martin’s head.

  “Let’s not leave this one, I weary of their inane tales, blathering nightmares of the Old Ones passed down through their spawn like a cancer. Spare me this ones pending insanity.”

  The beings covered Martin with their wings and quickly turned his blood to powder. No, Martin would not rise again. Martin would not become a vampire. Men do not turn into angels, ghosts, or spirits. There is no heaven or hell. Men are among the lowest lifeforms in the universe. This was the very end of Martin. A funny little name for a tiny speck that breathed for less than an instant compared to the lives and the grandeur of the beings he thought he held in cages.

  This is the only warning you will receive.

  Dona Fox has published stories and poems in Eldritch Tales, Haunts, Thin Ice, Cemetery Dance (Issue #1), Beyond, and New Blood magazines, and James Ward Kirk and J Ellington Ashton Press publications. An odd childhood and a misspent youth left her fairly well-read and marginally able to shoot pool. Now she is a horror, sci-fi and bent fantasy author looking for dark, quiet corners where she can write. Dark Tales from the Den was released in 2015 and Darker Tales will be available in 2016.

  ADJUDICATION

  CHARIE D. LA MARR

  Robert Zelenka sat at his desk
, tapping his fingers and staring intensely at the computer screen before him. On it, an Asian man sat in front of a chessboard, studying his next move. He pushed a pawn forward. Smiling to himself, Robert stopped the chess clock on the desk beside him and duplicated the move on his chessboard. He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind the coal black hair that fell across his forehead.

  “Jaresseoyo,” he said in Korean, as he bowed his head slightly. “Well done.” His dark eyes scanned the board carefully for his next move.

  The door opened and a well-dressed man entered the room. Robert looked up and nodded to him before going back to his game. The man put his hands in his pants pockets and walked over to the desk—standing behind Robert and watching the board. He looked at the screen and bowed. “Anyoung hashimmnikka, Keong ahjussi.”

  A hand slammed down on the desk. “Damn it, Jonathan! We’re playing here! And you’re a disruption!” He looked back at the board, slid a knight into place and slammed his hand on the time clock.

  Jonathan London looked down at the board and sighed. He looked up at the computer screen in time to see Mr. Keong slide a bishop from deep inside Robert’s end of the board down three spaces to the right.

  “Checkmate, Zelenka ahjussi. Gomapseumnida. Thank you for a very pleasant match.” The screen went blank.

  The man shook his head in disgust. “That was always your problem, Robert. Defending your rear flanks. He had you three moves ago, but you weren’t watching what he was doing! You were focused on your own agenda. How many times did I tell you when you were a young boy that you had to focus harder on your opponent’s moves than on your own? An opponent picks up quickly where your focus lies and they’re able to hide their strategy and their moves from you in plain sight! I told you the same thing about the stock market, didn’t I? If you’re focusing on what you’re doing, someone is going to swing around your rear flank and beat you every time. Think, Robert, think!”

  “Goddamnit!” Robert screamed, sweeping his hand across the board, scattering the Jaques Staunton chessmen, circa 1865, across his desk.

  Jonathan picked up the white queen and warmed the wood in his hands before setting it back on the board. “Don’t blame the chessman, Robert, it was the chess player who was at fault. A set like this is worth a fortune. Show it the respect it deserves. Besides, it was only a game. After the business move you pulled off last week, you should be rejoicing.” He walked over to the bar, took a snifter and poured himself a brandy. He held it up. “Can I fix you one, my boy?”

  Robert sneered at him.

  “Perhaps not,” Jonathan said, offhandedly. “But I won’t let that stop me from enjoying one. And perhaps a cigar.” He sat down on the black leather sofa, beneath an original Jasper Johns and sipped his brandy before setting it down and cutting the end off a cigar from the box on the table.

  “Why are you here anyway?” Robert asked. “Wouldn’t a phone call have done just as well if you had something to discuss with me?”

  “Not this time, my boy. I come bearing deep congratulations from the Cult on your latest move. Brilliant, truly brilliant.”

  Robert walked to the window and pushed back the blinds. “Brilliant? That’s not what they think,” he said, staring at the crowd of protestors. “They call me the most hated man in America. They put me in the same league as Dick Cheney. I live here now, I can’t go out. People spit on me. They scream in my face that I’m a killer. Singlehandedly, I’m killing their sons, their lovers, their fathers. I didn’t give them that fucking disease, man. I didn’t tell them to crawl into their lovers’ beds and take their dicks up their ass! I didn’t make them smoke their cigarettes and get cancer. Darzaprine belongs to me! I bought it. And I can charge whatever I want for it. Fuck them—fuck all of them!”

  He let go of the blinds and let them clatter against the window. “Did you see that? They saw me. They know I’m up here! I can’t even eat anymore because when I order food to be delivered to Universal Pharmaceuticals, God knows what they do to it. Spit on it? Piss in it? Poison it?”

  “Calm down, Robert. When our Lord returns from R’lyeh, he’ll turn them into jelly for us to eat on our tea and toast. Who cares what they think?”

  “I do, don’t you get it?” Robert screamed, frantically turning to his friend and brushing his hair off his face. “I’m not the only company that’s raised the prices of pharmaceuticals significantly. I’m just the one whose picture goes out over the media every day. Have they poisoned the water on this floor of the building yet? Is it safe to drink? I ran out of bottled water yesterday. I’m going to die up here, Jonathan!”

  “Our Lord and Master will never let that happen, Robert. You’re serving him well—as are the others. It won’t be long before deaths from AIDS will be back to the levels it was in the 80s and 90s. Advances on cancer cures will be reversed. The same will happen with other diseases. It will diminish the population and allow for an easier transition when he returns. Of those left behind, they’ll be given the choice. To serve Lord Cthulhu or to die.”

  Robert picked the black queen up off the floor and stared at it. “You make it all sound so simple Jonathan.”

  “Lord Cthulhu’s goals are to bring death and chaos to the world. The chaos will begin with you and the others in the pharmaceutical business. People won’t be able to afford the drugs they need to survive. Hell, they won’t even be able to afford copays. It won’t be long before they take to the streets—brother against brother—fighting for survival. They’ll steal from each other to pay for their drugs. They’ll kill each other. And Lord Cthulhu will know of it in his dreams.

  “Before long, insurance companies will remove these drugs from their coverage. Then they’ll remove people who have these diseases. Many insurance companies will go bankrupt. That will mark the end of government-mandated health care. Hospitals will close. Doctors and nurses will be on the unemployment lines with everyone else. And Cthulhu will learn of this, too. His dreams will be sweet ones. The welfare system will collapse—followed by Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid. The country will be in turmoil and other countries will follow. Synthetic drugs bought on the black market will be impure and in many cases deadly. It won’t be long before the dead will line our sidewalks and blood flows in the streets.”

  “Now there’s a pleasant thought,” Robert said. “And people will blame me. They’ll storm this building. I’ll be killed.”

  “Do you think the Cult won’t protect you, Robert? Yours will be a position of honor. Cultists will lay down their lives for you if it comes to that.”

  “They demand I roll back the price. This is an election year. Politicians are using me as an example of what’s wrong with this country.”

  “And you won’t do it. You’ll tell them we still live in a capitalist society and a man can make as much money as he possibly can with his abilities and assets. You’ll pay your taxes as required. You’ll remind the people what happened in Russia and China when they turned to Socialism. Can Communism be far behind? You’re an American citizen and a businessman. You have reasons for the price. Cost of materials. Cost of liability insurance. Increased salaries to workers. Benefits for them. You’ll show that you’re a reputable employer and your employees receive more than fair salaries and benefits—from the profits you make. Is that not the American way? Isn’t that what workers want?”

  “Other companies are already trying to produce the drug for a lower price. They’re working on making small changes in the formula—hoping it will be enough to get them past the patent laws. They’ll lower the price and put me out of business,” Robert said.

  Jonathan laughed. “It will take years to develop variations that work. And your lawyers can keep them in court challenging them endlessly. You can afford that. If they do get through the patent laws, they’ll have to go through more years of animal testing. Then human trials. We won’t need that many years. By then, you and the other companies will have created the chaos that Lord Cthulhu needs. He’ll a
waken. Your loyalties will be rewarded. They’ll be far greater than the insignificant discomforts you face now. Think of it, Robert! Lord Cthulhu back on the earth—awake and ruling! It will be the greatest of times for those of us who have stayed loyal to him during his long sleep.”

  “Discomforts?” Robert shouted. “Discomforts? What do you know of discomforts? I remember your home from when I was a boy. Lower members of the Cult serve you loyally. Everything you need is brought to you. You play the market and the hedge funds with a skill that no human has. Your wealth is endless. And yet you lead a sheltered life—away from the public and the media. No one outside of the Cult even knows you exist! Your life is an endless stream of chess games, brandy and cigars. If you want women, you have them. Nothing is denied to you.”

  Jonathan got up and walked over to the window, peeking through the blinds. “Yes, Robert. There are some benefits to having been with Lord Cthulhu for a very long time. I’ve walked this earth for centuries, my friend. I was here when the Lord walked the earth—before he was imprisoned in R’lyeh.”

  Robert looked at him incredulously.

  “Yes, Robert, I was there—although not in this form. I fought valiantly beside our Lord. At the last possible second, he turned some of us closest to him into human form and left us to live on the earth and wait for his return. Some have written of him, and the Cult has grown—especially in recent years. They wait, but their patience grows thin. Some have started to disbelieve—to say that our Lord is merely a mythical creature written about in books and that he will never return. If his return isn’t soon, I fear many more will turn away from us. But you can believe me on this, Robert. Our Lord is real. I have seen him. And I despise what was done to him. I have lived a long life and I grow tired. I fear for me too, if his return isn’t soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive.”