by Scott Hale
He didn’t like that he was sitting here, alone (aside from the blood-sucking nuisance beside him), watching as gullible cabalists and relentless cultists crashed into one another, trading blows and bodily fluids—fucking one another into the dirt, or decimating one another into an early grave; each group giving everything they had for nothing in return; trampling the dead and the dying in their desperate dance to win the praise and attention of overlords that weren’t even watching; leaving corpses, like brambles, to twist out of the earth, to be stepped on and reduced to dust, and forgotten, until that day some sad piece of shit like Herbert North, but not Herbert North, is called to the site, to put down some unholy uprising, some spiritual succession; until that day some poor bastard has to go in and play doctor with a wound that has been festering for years; a wound like all wounds everyone everywhere carries; the same old wounds—different sizes and shapes, but from all the same sources all the same: politics, power, and the pursuit of grace; he’d been here before, a thousand times before; new flesh, old bones.
But most of all, he didn’t like that, when he was at his most needed, and so far into his element they’d have to make a spot for him on the periodic table, he was completely, one hundred percent useless. He was an old man who couldn’t fight worth a damn. He used to have all kinds of potions and powders and a few Red Death weapons at his disposal; he used to have eyes and ears in the community, keeping tabs on targets and carrying out jobs when he couldn’t make it. He’d taken out a good chunk of the Ashcroft line, and had even harbored the Dread Clock for a time. He’d gone toe-to-toe with Gemma’s master, Camazotz, and a whole clutch of succubae and their queen, Agrat. And then there was that time with Scarlet…
Herbert sighed and shook his head at himself. That’s what it came to. All tell and no show. The most he could lay claim to these days were the mind-numbing farts he let loose amongst the ranks. Crop-dusting, that’s what they used to call it. Sure, he had knowledge of the Old World, but look where it got them. It got them here, in Angheuawl, their numbers thinned and morale mere motes on the wind. And it was his fault they were here. And it would be his fault if the Skeleton did or didn’t come back with all the guns, all the bombs—all the terrible things humanity had covered with their ashes.
Gemma made a shocking sound and pinched Herbert’s side. “Buzz, buzz. What’s the matter, Grandpa?”
Herbert started to stand, but then most of his bones cracked, and he sat back down, annoyed. “What’s Hex’s next play?”
Gemma shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s still… indisposed. Most of the cultists inside the village killed each other. Some ran away. Can’t really stay in the village with it looking the way it does, but… the cultists that ran may come back. So I don’t know what to do.”
Herbert squinted as he watched a cabalist bi-sect a flesh fiend. “Just keeping killing.”
“You’re welcome, by the way, for saving all of you.” Gemma stuck her tongue out.
“I’m the one who saved you. If I hadn’t been stupid and left you with your parents, you might not be here right now, saving everyone else.”
“I guess every turd has a silver lining,” Gemma said. “Well, I better get back to making you look bad.”
“Gemma—” Herbert grabbed her collar and yanked until she crouched down, closer to his face. “How did you get ahold of the Dread Clock again? Connor and I sealed the hell out of that thing.”
“Well, I wanted it to get some sweet revenge on,” Gemma said, “but then the Trauma happened… and the Orphanage got stuck in the Nameless Forest.” She laughed and shook her head. “Only in a world as crazy as this can I say what I’m about to say and not look insane.”
Herbert looked at Gemma, the mouths in her palm, and said, “Words are the least of your worries, you little creep.”
“You smell like prune juice,” Gemma said, wrinkling her nose.
“Not sure prune juice exists anymore. You’re going to need better insults if you’re going to keep pretending you’re a kid.”
Gemma jerked out of Herbert’s grasp. Her blood-speckled face tightened into a grimace. And then, when it seemed she was done talking to him, she said, “A big ass maggot dropped the Dread Clock off at our doorstep.”
Screams, from Angheuawl; feet pattering across the empty spaces; the thud of a body going down to a chorus of clanging swords.
“A maggot?” Herbert asked.
“Yeah, a real big sucker. I’d say it was… I don’t know. Seven hundred pounds? Color of pus. It had the Dread Clock on its back.”
“And… it just left it there?”
Gemma nodded, stood. “Uh, huh, yeah.”
“Why?”
“It said not to move it, no matter what. And I wasn’t planning on moving it. But we were in the Nameless Forest a really long time, and then Edgar started sending soldiers in trying to take it out, and then the Gravedigger popped up and he actually seemed like he could take it out, and… I just wanted to leave. Seemed like my only chance to get my family away from the Forest.”
“Do you think it was hiding it from something?”
“No,” Gemma said, “I think it was trying to stop something from getting back in.”
“What… God?”
“Probably. I mean, once Bone Man took the Dread Clock out, the vermillion veins were everywhere. And the Disciples of the Deep, too. There’s a gateway to God deep in the Forest. Makes sense that somehow the Dread Clock was holding it back. It was holding everything back.”
“And… you don’t care you might be responsible for… everything?”
“We all have the same Skeleton in our futures,” Gemma said, coy as she could be.
Hebert waved her off, and then: “The hell does that even mean?”
“The Black Hour’s Keeper told me that once. I just think it sounds gangster.”
Hebert sank down in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. As Gemma levitated herself off the ground and headed for the field again, he called after her. “What happened to that maggot?”
She shrugged, shouted, “Don’t know. Went South. Said it had more work to do.”
Herbert sat there awhile longer, not thinking about much of anything. Instead, his eyes simply wandered over the scene, capturing each grotesquerie like a photograph for the vaults of his dusty mind. He wanted to remember the naked cultists face-down in the mud, the flesh fiends entwined in their balls of death, having died together like breeding cockroaches. He wanted to cherish the sight of the cabalists and vampyres marauding in and out of the village; every time they came back, a little more missing from them. He wanted to capture, in the amber of his memory, all those who had died here, all the life that could’ve been better spent somewhere else, rather than in the form of blood and semen and sweat. He wanted to immortalize the Horrors of the Womb and the Mother Horror, still dead upon the field and now host to a horde of skittering, slithering, snacking smaller horrors filling their bodies and eating their innards. He wanted it all, in crystal clear clarity, so that the next time anyone offered him any proposition other than to have a cheap beer, he’d say, “No thank you, buddy,” and be on his way.
When the blood from the field began to stream underneath his toes, Herbert got up, went past the cabalists guarding the tent, and visited Clementine and Will.
The first thing Clementine said to him as he drew back the flap was, “Please, not right now, Herbert.”
“You got rid of my dad,” Will said, his eyes following Herbert like a predator’s, “and you promised you wouldn’t.”
Herbert shook off the snow that had gathered on his shoulders. He didn’t pay them any attention. Invitations weren’t something he was accustomed to receiving, anyway. Clementine and Will’s tent was spacious but sparse; having spent so long outside of the earth, they had, apparently, given up all need for earthly belongings. To the Skeleton, this had been a warning sign that something wasn’t quite right with his wife and son. To Herbert, it just made good sense. Because what th
e hell was the point of building a life back up if a shepherd was just going to come along to knock it back down? It wasn’t just Death that had changed them, but also a distaste for bitter disappointment. All they had wanted was the husband and father who had wanted them most of all. He tried to explain this to the Skeleton on numerous occasions, but the stubborn bastard hadn’t wanted to hear it. To be fair, though, Herbert was surprised the Skeleton could hear anything these days, what with the Black Hour constantly whispering into his non-existent ears.
Clementine combed her fingers through her hair. For a moment, she looked like a spellweaver conjuring a crown of silken fire atop her head. Herbert could see why the Skeleton had sacrificed life and limb for her. She was beautiful, and she was sharp; a rare gem, not to be collected, but to be cherished. She had an effect on everything she came into contact with. And Herbert was fairly certain that, if she told the Marrow Cabal to pack it up and turn this ship around, back to Gallows, they’d do just that. It wasn’t infatuation or fear she was working with, but a genuine personality. The Skeleton had said everyone was obsessed with him and her and their relationship back in the day—small town sweethearts, if you will. Herbert could tell that, when the Skeleton told him this, he missed those days, the same way the starving may fantasize about food. It was a fleeting sustenance currently unsustainable in this vermillion hell. And that’s why, if anyone asked Herbert, he thought the Skeleton had caught himself a ride to the Dead City. To find a way to wipe the slate clean, before it was dirtied for good.
“How is it out there?” Clementine finally spoke up. “How much more killing needs to be done?”
“A bit,” Herbert said. And then, to Will: “I didn’t get rid of your dad. You know I wouldn’t do that. Your dad isn’t someone you can say no to.”
Will crossed his arms and looked cross. The Skeleton and Clementine had led storied lives, even before he lost his flesh and she, possibly, her mind. But Will wasn’t either of them in any respect. He wasn’t going to become the criminals they’d once been, or the pillars of this hodgepodge community they’d become. He was young—fourteen—but he had his future written across his face, and etched into every action he made. He was good. He was kind. And despite being gored by one of Eldrus’ soldiers, dying, and then coming back to life again, he was still those things. The Marrow Cabal was no place for him. Neither was Angheuawl. He reminded Herbert of Connor: gullible, hyperbolic; more capable than he gave himself credit for. In a different place, in a different time, Herbert might’ve tried to make something of Will. A partner in investigations, maybe, or the son he’d never have.
“I thought Mr. Haemo was coming with us, to bring him back,” Will said. “There’s enough blood here to do it, right?”
“I don’t know,” Herbert said, shrugging. “I don’t think the mosquito is giving up Gallows without a fight.”
“How’s Dad going to get back?”
“He said he had something in mind. Your dad is going to be fine, I swear.” Herbert smiled as he nodded and said, “He really will be. Nothing can stand up to him.”
“Except the heart he’s carrying around.” Will dug his heel into the dirt. “It’s making him crazy.”
“Your father just doesn’t do anything simple,” Clementine said, “but he always comes through.”
Will agreed, begrudgingly.
“He’s going to arm the Marrow Cabal with whatever’s in the Dead City, right?” Clementine asked.
“Right,” Herbert said. “If he can do that, he can stop Eldrus before they wake up the Vermillion God. This… world is so regressed. It might be good to give it some new technology. Move things forward.”
“Then it’s not going to stop,” Will said. “Dad, I mean, isn’t going to stop. He doesn’t care about any of this.”
Dull screams passed through the tent like the phantoms of the dead who’d let them out.
“He doesn’t have to listen to anybody, but he lets Hex boss him around.”
“We owe a lot to Hex,” Clementine said. “Herbert?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re here. What’s next?”
“We’re to wait.” Herbert strained his ears; someone was approaching the guard. “He should be back in the next day or two.”
Will’s face tightened. He ground his teeth together in deliberation.
“What’s wrong?” Herbert asked.
“Did he know it’d be like this here?”
“No way, no. I don’t think so. He wouldn’t send you guys into danger.” Herbert laughed uncomfortably. “What makes you say that?”
Clementine touched Will’s arm, but he shook her off and said, “The heart might be making him try to get rid of us.”
Clementine was silent. She’d been with the Skeleton at the most intimate of moments. Her silence was her unspoken agreement with her son.
“I mean, Hex tried to kill R’lyeh. She was nuts. And Dad put her back in charge, anyway. He could’ve sent us anywhere away from Eldrus or Penance.” Will closed his eyes and balled his fists. “You think R’lyeh is okay?”
Herbert didn’t need a teenager of his own to know a crush when he saw one. “Yeah, she’s a tough kid. I’m sure she’s the one keeping him out of trouble. She’s going to be fine.”
Will nodded. Was that what he was actually worried about? With his dad, he always seemed distant. And according to the Skeleton, his son was always distant. They were two planets drifting out of one another’s orbits—the need for the other no longer necessary.
“Clementine,” Hebert said, “I’m sorry if I made this worse. He pulled me from the Membrane. He didn’t want to use the Black Hour’s heart. I didn’t know he’d haul ass—”
Voices, from outside the tent.
Clementine smiled the saddest smile Herbert had ever seen. “We’ve been through worse, he and I. Have you seen any shepherds lately, Herbert?”
Shepherds? No one had, not as far as he could tell. She knew that. The only time anyone saw shepherds was when Clementine and Will claimed to have seen some themselves, to keep the Skeleton at their side.
“No, I haven’t,” he said.
“Let me know if you do,” she said, the sad smile never falling from her face. “Let us both know.”
Cocking his head, Herbert said, “Clem, I don’t…” I’m not getting into this, not in front of Will, he thought. He changed the subject. “Where the hell’s James?”
Will pointed his finger, a tear in his eye, and said, “Behind you.”
Herbert turned—“Holy shit!”—and jumped sideways as he caught James standing behind him, his body half inside the tent.
“Jesus Christ,” Herbert said, grabbing his chest. “You about broke my ticker.”
James drove his stump of a hand into Herbert’s side and said, “Hex wants to see you.”
Warren had been waiting for Herbert and James outside the tent. Like Gemma, but somehow worse, the mountainous man was covered in blood. He didn’t have a sword at the moment, just his hands, which had been fists for so long, he was having a hard time making them anything else. Of all those that held the important positions in the Marrow Cabal, Herbert knew very little about Warren. He hadn’t been around much, on account of Hex always sending him into the field. And now that he was here, had been here during the move from Gallows, the man said next to nothing. When Elizabeth came back with R’lyeh and he found out Miranda had been killed, Warren’s vocabulary had been reduced to cuss words and growls. But ever since Elizabeth ran out on the Marrow Cabal the night before they left, Warren had stopped speaking altogether.
James did most of the talking nowadays, for most everyone. A self-proclaimed gimp, he enjoyed his new job of diplomacy, and as an ex-prostitute, it seemed he couldn’t have been a more perfect fit.
Hebert, standing with James and Warren outside the tent, gave the corpse-clogged horizon a once-over and said, “Tell Hex I’m busy.”
“It’s safe,” James said.
Warren squeezed his fists unt
il blood shot out of them.
“What does she want? She pissed at me, too, for sending Bone Daddy away?”
James puffed out his cheeks and blew. “She wants you to look at her brother.”
“That thing was her—”
“She wants to see if you know any way to help him.”
“It’s still alive? How the fuck is it still alive?”
Warren, apparently having tired of the conversation, started forward, each stomp of his feet leaving holes in the snow.
There had been another Horror of Angheuawl, but unlike those of the Womb and the Mother Horror, this one’d had only one target in mind: Hex. It had come screaming out of the village on the backs of flesh fiends. A giant seed pod, completely covered in hundreds, if not thousands of vermillion veins. When the Marrow Cabal cut down the flesh fiends that’d been carrying it, the flailing tumor tightened the veins into limbs to support itself. At that point, Hex had seen it, and it had seen Hex. They took off together, towards the hills and the sun, with tens of scrambling Marrow Cabal in tow.
“Brother?” Herbert repeated, minding the dead strewn across the outskirts. “Isn’t Ichor supposed to be… missing?”
James threw up his hand and nub in confusion. “He’s not anymore, apparently.”
“I don’t think I can… bring him back to what he used to be. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“She doesn’t want you to…” James rolled his eyes. “She just wants to help him.”
“What… does that mean?”
Warren cleared his throat and said, “Help him, so she can keep hurting him,” and then went silent again.
They all did.
Herbert and the others hurried through the thickening snow to the woods that ran wide around Angheuawl. When they’d first arrived, the area had been reduced to a shallow marsh due to the nearby lakes that had flooded. Over the course of battle, the streams slowed and the waters thinned, as the dead had drifted into one another and built dams with their bodies. Now the corpses had begun to freeze; snow-covered and sparkling, it was about the only time in their lives these mercenaries and murderers could be called beautiful.
