by Brian Keene
“Tony fucking Genova.” I kept my tone light. “What the hell are you doing in San Francisco?”
I sat back down and gestured at the empty seat on the other side of the booth. He slid into it, still grinning. The jukebox switched from Guns n’ Roses to Soundgarden.
“Believe it or not, I’m out here on vacation.”
“Vacation? Get the fuck out of here.”
He held up his right hand, palm out. “Swear to Christ, Mikey. All the times Vince and I come out here on business, I never got to really see the place, unless you count warehouses and strip joints” he glanced around the interior of The Shantyman “and this fucking dump.”
“Hey, watch it now. I like this dump. It’s got tons of history.”
He shrugged, still smirking. “Mea culpa, buddy.”
“How is Vince, anyway? He come with you?”
It wasn’t until then that Tony’s smile vanished. When he spoke, I had to lean forward to hear him.
“Vince passed about six months ago.”
“Oh, Tony . . . I’m sorry to hear it. Was he . . . ?”
I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. He knew what I was implying.
“No, it was fried potato skins. Remember how he used to love those fucking things?”
I did. I’d watched Vince eat them right here in this booth, plate after plate of baked potato skins piled high with sour cream and bacon and chives.
“Heart attack?”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Facedown in a plate of potato skins at this club in Baltimore.”
“Jesus . . . ”
I didn’t know what else to say. And the irony wasn’t lost on me, either. There I was, running my ass off, actively engaged in attempting to give myself a heart attack, and that fat fucking Vince had one without even trying.
That time of day, The Shantyman had a skeleton crew. Milos behind the bar and Anna floating between the tables. She saved my ass that day, Anna—came sidling up to the table while that uncomfortable silence hung there in the air between me and Tony, and asked him if he wanted anything. He ordered a Basil Hayden’s on the rocks. I looked at my nearly empty IPA and decided to do the same.
“Make that two, hon,” I asked. “And see if Milos can make us an order of potato skins?”
Anna snapped her gum. “You got it, Mike.”
Tony watched her ass as she walked away. Then he turned back to me. His smirk had returned.
“Fucking potato skins? Really, Mikey?
I grinned. “We’ll toast the fucker.”
Tony leaned back in the booth and laughed.
Over on the jukebox, Soundgarden gave way to Johnny Cash, singing—pleading—for somebody to save him from a darkness.
***
I called my wife and told her I’d be home late. She didn’t ask where I was. All these years together, she just assumes it’s “business”—and not the writing kind.
Tony and I got shitfaced. We talked about old times, and he told me about the things he wanted to see while he was in town. All the touristy shit that us who live here just take for granted. Eventually, he asked how I was doing. Commented that I’d lost weight. But his tone was one of concern—not the kind of voice you use when you’re congratulating somebody. I didn’t tell him about the cancer, because I still didn’t know if he really was out here on vacation, or if there was some ulterior motive. If somebody somewhere had designs on our crew, then I didn’t need word getting out that I was sick. That could start all kinds of trouble, and the people I worked for didn’t need that shit, and I certainly didn’t either.
But Tony’s always been good at seeing through bullshit, and I could tell he knew something was up. So, while I didn’t come out and tell him the truth, I didn’t exactly lie to him, either.
“I’ve been seeing things.”
He stared at me, his expression even. I signaled Anna, ordering us a twelfth round of bourbon. The empty plate of potato skins sat between us. The Shantyman had filled up by then. I wasn’t usually there that late, so I wasn’t used to seeing it that crowded. The evening staff had come in—bar-backs and waitresses and two more bartenders. The jukebox had been switched off and a band was setting up on the weathered stage—some young female country singer out of Nacogdoches. Seemed like a weird fit for The Shantyman, but then again, most of what passes for country these days sounds pretty much like 1970s southern rock.
“Seeing what?” Tony pointed at the collection of empty whiskey glasses between us. “Pink elephants?”
I chuckled. “In this town, you can see pink elephants all goddamned day long. No, I’m talking about something else.”
Just then, Anna hustled over with two more drinks.
“Damn,” Tony said turning his grin on her. “You always that fast, darlin’?”
She returned the smile. “My wife says I am.”
Tony waited until Anna had cleared the empty plate and glasses off the table. Then, after she’d gone, he leaned forward.
“So, what then?”
I took a deep breath, puffed my cheeks out, and then exhaled. “Ah, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” I hesitated, and took a deep drink, felt the burn slide down my sore throat, which was raw from coughing. Then I described the little black clouds I’d seen floating around some people. Tony didn’t smirk. Thank Christ for that. I like the guy, but I think I might have hit him if he had. No, he sat there and listened intently, his expression attentive but as unreadable as the best poker player in Vegas. When I was finished, he simply nodded.
“So, let’s hear it,” I groaned.
“Hear what?”
“You breaking my balls. Telling me I’m going crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Mikey.”
I frowned, waiting for him to burst into laughter. He must have sensed my skepticism.
“I don’t,” he insisted. “Maybe they’re psychopomps or something.”
“Psychopaths?”
“Psychopomps,” he corrected me. “It’s a Greek word. Means spirit guide. But they exist in just about all of the major religions.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in church. I guess last time was when Vinnie got baptized. But I don’t remember anything about psychopomps.”
“Azrael, the angel of death, is a psychopomp in Christian, Jewish, and Muslim faiths.”
“These don’t look like no angels, Tony. They’re little blurry blobs of black smoke.”
As I said it, I eyed the one floating next to him, and thought about mentioning it.
“Well, maybe they’re demons, then.”
I decided to keep my mouth shut. Instead, I said, “Demons?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“You never struck me as the kind of guy who believes in that shit.”
Tony took a sip of his drink before responding. “I’ve seen things that would give you nightmares.”
“No thanks.” I shook my head. “I have enough of those.”
“Oh, me too. Anybody lives the life we lead, they’re gonna have nightmares. I have my own, and not just about the things I’ve done or people I’ve killed. I’ve always dreamed weird shit. Giant crab monsters and getting lost in this endless maze with people I don’t know and zombie Santa Claus.”
I suppressed a chuckle, because it was clear from his expression that Tony didn’t think it was funny.
“But I ain’t talking about dreams,” he continued. “I’ve seen shit in real life that I can’t explain. Nobody can explain it. And once you see something like that, it makes you a believer. Like, take flying saucers for instance. I never believed in those. Then, about eleven years back, Vince and I saw one. We were driving this little backroad in Maryland, well after dark. Saw it clear as day, just hovering there, lighting up the whole sky. It wasn’t a fucking weather balloon or any of those other bullshit excuses. It was some kind of unidentifiable aircraft.”
“Yeah, but that’s different, Tony. Something like that, it could have been the Department of Defense testing out some top secret new weapon, like they did with the stealth bomber and Area 51. There weren’t aliens there. It was just them testing the B-2, before the public knew about it.”
“Maybe. But I’ve seen other shit, too.”
“You really believe in demons? In Hell and Heaven and . . . what did you call them?”
“Psychopomps.”
“Yeah, those.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The older I get, the more I think about it. But I don’t know. And I don’t think these preachers and priests know either.”
We were both quiet for a moment. We sipped our whiskey. Then Tony’s trademark smirk returned, slowly creeping across his face.
“I figure we’ll find out when we’re dead.”
At that moment, the band started up, and it got too loud to hear each other. It was hot in The Shantyman, but despite that, I shivered.
***
I kept running. Kept seeing those little blobs. Kept losing weight. Kept coughing up blood.
Kept living, despite my best efforts.
Kept ending my run at the Shantyman.
One day it was foggy and raining, so I cut my run short. Dying or not, I didn’t want to be out jogging in that shit. The Tenderloin gets a particular rank smell when it rains—a musky, heavy stench. The bar, by contrast, smelt like Heaven—stale beer and cheap perfume and vape smoke (because they’d outlawed smoking cigarettes in bars and restaurants years before).
Anna was on duty, and I’d just ordered a drink from her, and was staring at my phone when the tingling started in my arm. It crept up slowly, and I wondered if this was it. Like before, that day out on the sidewalk, that giant fist returned and started squeezing my heart.
This is it, I thought. Here we go . . .
I suddenly felt very hot, but also started shivering. It made me recall that night with Tony, when we’d stayed here drinking. What was it he had said?
The pain in my chest grew stronger, and I found it hard to breathe. My ears started ringing. I glanced over to the bar, but Anna was talking to Milos, and neither of them noticed.
I thought about my wife and kids. I fumbled for my phone, intent on texting them.
Then the pain stopped. It didn’t subside. It didn’t fade. It just abruptly fucking stopped.
“Son of a bitch,” I groaned. “What the hell do I have to do to make this happen?”
I glanced up again to see if anyone had heard my little outburst, but Milos and Anna were gone. So were the few scattered patrons that had been in the bar a moment before. Instead, there were three people I’d never seen before. The first one was obviously religious, given the Bible he was carrying. The second guy was some sort of Weird Al Yankovic-looking motherfucker. The third was a young guy who was dressed weird, like he’d just come from some kind of nineteenth century historical reenactment or something. The three of them were seated along the bar, huddled together over drinks. The Weird Al clone raised his glass to me and nodded. I frowned. Then I noticed that the lighting in The Shantyman was different—in that there were no lights. No jukebox playing, either.
Power went out, I thought. But where the fuck is everybody?
It occurred to me that none of the three strangers had smoke blobs floating over their shoulders.
I picked up my phone, intent on checking the news. I also still felt the urge to text my family. Granted, the heart attack seemed to have passed, but it still felt very important to me that I should reach out to them, especially if the power outage was city-wide. When I thumbed the button to unlock my phone, it didn’t work. The phone was dead, too.
“Shit.”
“They don’t work here.”
I looked up and saw the three patrons approaching my booth.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Your phone,” the Weird Al guy said. “It won’t work here.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged, and then stuck out his hand. “I’m Chester.”
“How ya doing, Chester? They call you Chester the Molester?”
Ignoring my jab, he motioned to the priest. “This is Harvey Matthews. He shot himself here in the green room. I broke my neck while on stage over there.”
I slid out of the booth and got to my feet. “And who’s the cosplayer over there?”
“That’s Matthew. He got clubbed over the head by the original owner of this place and shanghaied. You’ll have to excuse him if he doesn’t say much. While at sea, cannibals cut out his tongue.”
“Oh, I see.” I stared at each of them in turn. “You guys are fucking crazy.”
Chester smiled sadly. “I’m afraid not. We’re here to help you, Michael.”
“How the fuck do you know my name? Who sent you? Is this some kind of prank? Somebody busting my balls?”
“It’s not a joke,” Matthews replied. “We’re here to show you something.”
“I don’t want to see what you have. What, you gonna pull out your cock like you do to the altar boys?”
I shoved past them and headed for the door, doing my best to look imposing, even though I was wearing running shoes and a track suit. They didn’t try to stop me, but Chester called out as I reached the exit.
“Michael, you don’t want to go out there.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“Because you won’t be able to get back in.”
I sneered. “Listen, shitbag. I been coming here for years. I’m a regular. I can come and go any time I like.”
Then I pushed the door open and stepped outside. The sun was a muted, silver shadow of itself, and the parking lot and surrounding streets were covered in thick fog. The city was quiet—scarily so. I’d never heard it like this. There were no cars, and no people.
But there were hundreds of the smoke things. They were clustered around The Shantyman, as if waiting for me. They bobbed up and down in the air, drifting closer. I took a step back as they began to shimmer and grow larger. Then they slowly changed shape, coalescing into humanoid figures, devoid of any facial features or other characteristics. Soon, I found myself surrounded by tall, black figures.
As they reached for me, I stumbled backward, fumbling behind me for the door. When I couldn’t find it, I risked a terrified glance over my shoulder. The Shantyman was gone. I turned back, and the city had vanished, as well. It was just me, and the fog, and the shadow creatures.
They crowded around me, arms outstretched. Screaming, I did the only thing I could.
I started running again.
WE SANG IN DARKNESS
Mary SanGiovanni
“Children cried out
For lullabies
As wind and fire
Tore open the skies
The old remembered
When the world was ours
A world of electric
and metal towers
Our tongues were cut out
Ears made deaf and dead
But we sang in the darkness
‘Til our throats bled”
—“Revolution” by Apocophilia from The Masters are Calling
released March 2035, Eldritch Records
The weird cage we’d found on the stage of The Shantymannight club had obviously been constructed for the purpose of containing the thing inside it. Bluish metal poles formed the floor and framework of a rectangular object about eight feet high by five feet wide and deep, paneled with something that was not quite glass and not quite liquid, but somewhere in between. The cage hummed when any of us got too close to it and shimmered with vague rainbows, like an oil slick on water.
The thing that sat on the floor inside the cage appeared to be trapped. I half expected it to growl or scream or call for help when it saw us, but it didn’t. It didn’t pace angrily or rattle the metal bars. It just watched us with those large, obsidian eyes. I watched back. I wanted to be able to read something in them, some inkling of thoug
ht or emotion, something relatable, something of human feeling.
It wasn’t human, though, and if it carried any emotion at all, it wasn’t in the eyes.
We had also found a dead body lying outside the cage, just in front of it. Roger thought it was a government guy, a scientist, maybe. The dead man had on a white jumper that did look a bit like a hazmat suit, but it had no identifying logo on the back. He—the dead guy, not Roger—lay face-down, though from what I could see, there wasn’t much left of a face. The flesh near his temples and ear was singed. The rest looked . . . dissolved. Erased. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Roger had suggested that maybe the man had gotten too close to the water-glass stuff; that had been enough to keep the rest of us off the stage and on the far side of the room, away from the body and away from those dark, empty eyes.
I can’t say we were scared just then. We probably should have been, but like the rest of the world, we’d all been following what was going on for the last three years. News on the Internet and TV gave people cherry-picked pieces of information; we got far more accurate and complete news from the conspiracy theory podcasts. Of course, you had to pick the information out from all the crowing about the conspiracy folks being right—about experiments in sound and vibrations, about the effect of those vibrations on the electromagnetic fields of the human body, how the right tones at the right vibrations worked like a sonic key of sorts, opening up holes in the sky, in the universe, and letting other universes fall in.
Remember that first interdimensional flux, when we lost all those breeds of cattle and horses? I was a kid, then, maybe five or six but I remember my ma telling us we couldn’t go to Red Robin anymore, because the price of hamburgers had gone up so much. I was in middle school during the second flux, the one that destroyed enough of the bees to negatively impact agriculture and so many bats that the mosquito population, particularly those carrying the Red River Virus, soared. I remember all the trees at the park whose trunks took on weird bulges and twists because of alien vines. At least, they looked like vines, but they hummed and smoked a little and smelled like the inside of old trash cans. Once, I’d seen them squeeze a dog to death just because it got too close.
