“I thought you’d like it.”
I dragged him outside and gulped in some fresh air.
“Get rid of it—burn it now. You don’t know what kind of contagion might be coming off that…that…thing.”
“Nonsense,” Muir replied. “I’ve been working over it all night, and I’m none the worse for it. But did you see? It’s not just the external appearance of the thing that has changed—the whole internal structure has been modified. Yet it still lives! Is that not the most wondrous thing you have seen?”
“Wondrous is not a word I would use in this situation.”
Muir had stopped paying attention to me. His gaze was at a point over my shoulder, back in the shed. The sunlight fell full on the thing on the slate, and it was burning up beneath it, bubbling and foaming, oily, almost soapy, bubbles forming, swelling and popping. The air above the shelf filled with dancing, swirling hues of blue and red, green and orange, rising up in a thick cloud before being torn and shriven by the breeze until all that was left was a blackened, tarry mass on the slate.
“I need more samples,” Muir said.
* * *
“What you need is some rest, man. Tell me you haven’t been at it all night?”
He smiled.
“Don’t try to mother me, Duncan. I’m a big boy now. And don’t fret—I raided the inn’s pantry twice during the night, and I’m swimming in enough coffee to sink a boat. And talking of which—come on. We need to go back out. I need to find the cause of the transformation we’ve just seen.”
He was not to be argued with, and I wasn’t about to let him go back to the wreck on his own. I did, however, insist on having breakfast, which turned out to be a light one, for the sight of what had become of that poor fish had quite put me off my grub for the time being.
We went back out in the creel boat—just the two of us again, but we felt much more comfortable handling the vessel than we had the day before. Muir had managed to purloin several dozen empty shrimp and lobster cages and had stacked them perilously high on the deck. Yesterday’s calm was replaced with a stiff breeze and a swell that was getting heavier by the minute. The boat seemed to be handling it well enough though, and besides, I had other things to worry about.
It seemed that Muir had developed a new obsession. His last one had led, on a direct, clearly defined path that could be traced afterwards, to the disaster that night in the bay.
Where in hell will this one lead us?
“So tell me, Muir,” I said, lighting up a smoke as we passed the lighthouse and left Trinity Bay behind. “What do you hope to find?”
“An answer, Duncan. Maybe the only important answer—something has managed to bend matter at the most elementary level. I mean to find out what that thing is—and to uncover its secrets.”
He wasn’t in the mood to stop and explain further. We cruised past Indian Head Rock at full throttle, and reached the spot over the wreck again in midmorning. He wasted no time in stripping for action, and went over the side, taking two of the lobster cages with him.
Once again I was left alone with the sea and the gulls for company. I lit another smoke and tried for calm, but now I was thinking about dancing colors, and oily sheen. I was thinking about contagion.
If Muir had any qualms, he did not show them. He dived and came up again half a dozen times, on each occasion bringing up his samples. There were deformed fish, something that looked like a mating of crab and octopus, and something else that looked like a sponge but gave off more of the iridescent vapor as the sun hit it. What with those, and a great many shells that might once have been mussels but were now soft, stretched and deformed into grotesque parodies of themselves, we had a full boat as we started off back to Trinity.
Muir is down there, hard at it again, in the shed. He has asked me to join him, but I believe I shall stay here and reacquaint myself with the Scotch bottle this evening.
It seems like the safest course of action by far.
* * *
From the journal of Duncan Campbell, 20th July 1955
Despite my protestations and refusal to give him any help whatsoever, Muir has been back and forth to the wreck three times now, and each time he returns more excited than the last. I fear he may have bitten off more than he can chew. I must put a stop to this, and soon.
But how do I go about it? That is the question that is vexing me now.
That blasted shed has become the focus of all Muir’s activities—his laboratory, if you will. Apart from two hours’ sleep or fewer each night, and the trips to and from the wreck, he has been bent over his samples this whole time, scarcely speaking a word to anyone, let alone me.
The locals are also getting restless. Although the true story of what happened that night out on the bay last year has never been disseminated, and was clamped down on by the powers that be, there have obviously been rumors spread in the town. These tales have been wild and strange in many cases, yet some are far closer to the truth than the tellers might imagine. Muir’s activities in the shed are only serving to fuel those rumors, and it is only a matter of time before someone pulls him up on it. This can only end badly.
As I have said, Muir is oblivious to anything but his work on the samples. He allowed me access for several minutes this afternoon—a brief respite that I insisted on, having fetched him a pot of coffee and some pipe tobacco.
At first he would not permit me entry—he came out into the sunlight and sat on the seat in the garden as we shared the coffee and lit up a pipe each. He looked tired, near exhaustion, but there was a gleam in his eye, as if he was onto something big.
“How goes it, old man?” I asked.
“It’s all rather fascinating,” he said. “I’ve found something that will shake the foundations of the world, Duncan—I have opened a doorway to the wellspring of creation itself.”
I put that down to hyperbole and tiredness at the time, but now I have to wonder—especially after he allowed me a glimpse into the shed. He had one of the things he’d brought up in a long glass tank—the thing that may once have been a crab—or an octopus—but was now a grotesque amalgam of both. It scuttled, clacked, squirmed and roiled against the glass, leaving behind an oily rainbow residue that hung in the air for a second before subsiding to the floor of the tank. Muir had been most careful to put it in a shaded spot and it was all I could do to stop myself from dragging it out of the shed and letting the sun get at it.
Muir pushed past me and went back into the shed. As he closed the door, the sun came out from behind a wispy cloud. I hope to God I imagined it, but I fear I did not. Just as he closed the door, I saw rainbow iridescence rise in a haze from his bare forehead.
9
Present day
I got to my feet gingerly, all too aware that I had come close—too close—to going down into the icy water with the rig. I peered over the edge, having to cup my hands over my eyes to avoid them being filled with stinging snow. The plow lay mostly submerged in eight feet of freezing water, waves lapping over the clearly visible crack in the side-door window. The headlights sputtered and went out, and the rig rolled slightly, settling another two feet deeper. Access to the spot was going to be impossible without a heavy crane and a boat or two—there was no way the plow was moving from this spot until spring at least. At that moment, I couldn’t say that I was particularly bothered—I was too busy counting myself lucky to be alive.
I turned my back to the wind and checked my pockets—I had smokes and an old lighter—but no cell phone—it too was down there in the water, beyond retrieval.
I checked my arms and legs—in this cold it would be all too easy to miss a bad cut or even a break, but it seemed I had landed softly enough to avoid any injury. I pulled the hood of my jacket up, over my face and forward over my brow. Turning my back to the wind and bending my head forward gave me a hollow where I could get a smoke lit—it took three attempts to fight the trembling in my hands. I stood there for nearly a minute, buffeted by wind and snow an
d not caring as I sucked the smoke down deep and tried not to think about how close I’d just come to being frozen solid until spring.
I couldn’t hang around feeling sorry for myself. The other guys would be checking in about now, and panicking when they couldn’t reach me. If I knew Jimmy the way I thought I did, he’d be on his way in this direction pretty damn soon. I had to stop him making the same stupid mistake that I just had. I started back up the hill, following the track the plow had made on the way down. It was already starting to drift up, little trace left of my headlong rush toward oblivion only minutes earlier. At least the wind was at my back, hurrying me along as I climbed.
I couldn’t hear anything but wind whistling in my ears, couldn’t see anything but snow whirling like dervishes around me and spattering against the back of my coat like rapid gunfire. Cold bit at my feet and ankles, which felt heavy and tired already. I tried to up my pace, aware of the very imminent danger of exposure and death.
Then I remembered that the fog was also out here somewhere.
I was almost running by the time I went over the top of the hill—too eagerly, for my feet went from under me and I slid a good ten yards down the other side, arms and legs akimbo, before coming to a stop in a fresh drift.
At least I was slightly sheltered in the hollow where I’d landed, but I couldn’t afford to delay. When I tried to push myself upright, pain flared in my left shoulder—something was busted in there—I had to roll onto my side and use my right arm to get myself up—taking three attempts before getting to my knees. The wind seemed to laugh at me as I staggered down toward Rick’s Bar.
By this time my only thought was to get inside as soon as possible. I tried to peer through the storm, looking over the town to see if Jimmy’s plow might be on the way to my rescue, but there was nothing in my view but more snow.
Rick’s Bar it is then.
The bar lay in darkness, and the door was closed, but I was in no mood for niceties. I put my good shoulder to it, hard, twice, and it gave way beneath my weight. I slammed the door shut against the wind and leaned back against it, waiting for heat to find me and for my heart to stop thudding in my chest and ears.
* * *
The bar’s landline got me through to the depot on the first try, but I got no answer. There was no answer from the church hall either—although there I got a continuous busy tone that gave me hope that somebody was actually on the case and doing something about the situation.
I breathed deeply, tried to relax, and started to assess my situation. At least I didn’t seem to be in imminent danger, although the storm seemed to be strengthening if anything. The whole structure of the bar creaked and rocked in the wind, and even after I switched on the main lights, there was a sense that any feeling of security might only be temporary, as they flickered alarmingly, in danger of giving up on me at any moment.
There’s something about an empty bar that gives me the creeps. When the place is busy—or even just when the lights are low—there’s a feeling of intimacy, good company, and happy memories. But go there alone, under the full glare, and you’ll see the faded carpets, ripped seats, nicotine stains and the faint smell of piss and stale beer. It reminded me too much of years that I’d never get back again.
And woolgathering wasn’t going to help any.
I helped myself to a glass of rum—a large one, thankful for the heat in my belly—and tried every number I knew, and some that were written on the wall beside the phone. I got no answer anywhere, and that’s when I really started to worry. They hadn’t had time to get everybody to the church hall—not yet, in this weather. Somebody, somewhere should be answering. The fact that they weren’t had me thinking again, of the glowing fog, tendrils like grasping tentacles, and Maggie Brodie reaching for me as she slipped into the dim depths.
I really wanted to just lie down on one of the pool tables and go to sleep. The bar was warm, protected, and safe, for now. But my town was in trouble. I might not be in the best shape to so something about it—but it looked like somebody had to. I downed the last slug of rum and put the bottle back in its place behind the bar. It called to me, but not strong enough to take hold. I knew that, if I made it through the storm, there would be other calls in my future that I wouldn’t be able to resist so easily—but for now folks needed me.
I wrapped myself up as tight as I could manage—I found two hooded sweatshirts on a hook near the door that were too big for me but gave me some much-needed extra padding under my fleece coat. I pulled the hoods as far forward over my head as I could, closing them with the drawstrings so that I only had a small opening to look out of.
As soon as I opened the door, I was almost blown back into the bar. I bent over, put my good shoulder into the wind, and headed back out into the howling storm.
* * *
The wind had veered, coming more from the east—all that meant was that it was colder still, picking up chill air—and speed—as it howled across the Atlantic, first stop Newfoundland. I shuffled, scuttling almost crab-like and tacking against the gale, heading down the slope toward the old part of town, taking care with my footing—my shoulder ached bad enough without having me land on it again.
I started to make out streetlights. The first house I came to was Alistair and Janine Connors’ place, tucked in the hollow at the turn at the foot of the hill. There was a light on in the front window, just visible through blowing snow, and I couldn’t in all conscience walk on by without checking on them.
With the wind at my back, it meant I was almost running as I went up their driveway. It was immediately obvious something was wrong. The front door lay open, snow piling up in the hallway, so deep I had to climb over it to get inside.
“Alistair. Are you here?”
At first I hoped they had merely left in a hurry, perhaps having been taken to the church hall. But the television was on in the front room. A weather report told me that we should expect a storm as I went through the back and into the kitchen. I stopped for a second in the doorway, struggling to comprehend what I was looking at.
The Connors had obviously been at supper when they got a visitor—the rear wall of their kitchen showed the same partially melted then hardened look I was coming to recognize. What had once been a granite worktop was now a ball of stone in the corner; the range had melted and fused into the exterior wall, and the glass of the window was buckled and bulging, throwing distorted fun-house reflections back at me. I crossed the room to check on another melted pile that looked to be the remains of a table, chairs and a cabinet, now all fused and melded into a grotesque pile of junk. There was no sign of Alistair and Janine among the wreckage, and I was starting to hope that they might indeed have made their escape. That was before I opened the door and looked out onto the back porch.
They’d tried to make it out—that much was obvious. But it’s hard to run when you’re embedded in the decking from the waist down. It was as if the wooden boards had opened up and then closed again, hard and fast. Alistair’s waist looked too tight, too pinched. Blood and gore ran from his mouth down over his chest, half-frozen, glistening in the light that came from the kitchen behind me. He’d been squeezed to death—and he’d fought it, I could see that by the blood and the strips of flesh he’d flayed from his fingertips. I could only imagine how long it had taken him to die there, in the cold, snow blowing in his face, impossibly caught on his own back deck.
Janine had gone easier, as if that was any consolation—there was no blood, no sign of struggle. When the wood took her, she’d slumped forward, head first.
Her face was completely embedded in the hard decking.
* * *
My next conscious thought came to me as I stood outside the depot, banging as hard on the door as I could manage, so cold I couldn’t feel my hands, so tired that I fell into old Pat’s arms when he opened up to see what the commotion was about. I let him half drag, half carry me to a chair by the stove.
I began to feel more myself when he poured co
ffee into me—it tasted more of rum than anything else, but I wasn’t complaining. When he offered more, I took it gratefully. I pushed myself as close to the stove as I dared and got a smoke lit with hands that took twice as long as normal to obey my orders. The taste of the tobacco reminded me that I was alive—it was only then that I thought to ask after the others.
“Has anybody called in?” I asked.
Pat nodded.
“There’s a confab going on at the church hall—George headed over to see what’s what. Jimmy’s still out on the plow—he went a-looking for you down at the harbor about five minutes ago—he should call in any second now.”
“And Dick?”
Pat shook his head and spat on the stove, the spittle dancing and hissing as it vaporized.
“Not a peep,” he said. “George tried to get down that way not long after you all left, but it’s drifted up bad at the campsite. If Dick’s down there, he’s staying there.”
“Then I need to get to the church hall,” I said, and tried to stand, but my legs were having none of it and I sat back down hard in the chair before I fell over.
“You’re going nowhere for a while, lad,” Pat said. “I’ve seen men who have died of exposure—and they all looked like you did when you got here. You’re lucky to be alive—just stay there and get warm. What will be, will be.”
My brain was still trying to catch up with me. Memory was coming back—of a headlong flight with the wind at my back, running and falling in almost equal measure, pain in my shoulder, cold in my feet and hands, and nothing in my head but that single image—Janine, face melted into the wood of her porch deck.
The Dunfield Terror Page 7
