Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  Banshee lifted his head to examine the distant opening to what was presumably hell, or at least an access tunnel to the netherworld. His flanks tensed at the sight of it, and Saavin followed his stare. “There is more to this place than meets my eye.”

  “I know. Can you feel it? I thought something was wrong. When we were flying in, the land off to the west seemed like it was twisted. And what were those white stars of sand that ran along that depression? They looked like small dormant volcanoes.”

  “Those are sand blows,” French’s voice stated as he appeared out of the dark.

  Saavin whirled slightly at the intrusion, but then smiled. Banshee’s snort of laughter rose dust and leaves as French stopped at a respectful distance from the dragon’s open mouth. Saavin regarded the man thoroughly for the first time. Before her stood a man over six feet tall, and not yet at the true noon of his life. He was burly, confident, and saturated with the natural quality of a born leader. From behind his competence, a ghostly sadness nudged at her senses. This was a man with a life prior to New Madrid.

  French took measure of Saavin in the same way. Her boldness was evident, but the green eyes that glittered at him were curious, intelligent, and tinged with humor. She was tall, nearly awkward, and looked capable of running for hours. He cocked his head at her in quizzical fascination before asking, “Now, would it be rude of me to ask what it is you saw?”

  Saavin smiled into the dim glow, and motioned for French to sit. She turned to Banshee and asked, “How far would you say that fault ran?”

  Banshee grunted once, a cavernous noise. “Thirty miles, easily. It’s not a straight line—it actually runs around New Madrid, sort of a crescent, and it ends in some kind of depression. There’s also some kind of a trench that looks like it was covered up by, I don’t know, a landslide? It’s very different from the end of the crescent fault, or whatever it is.”

  French nodded. “Describe the end of the fault, if you please?”

  Saavin spread her hands. “Oval, sort of. It’s not a hole, but there’s erosion. Water is going into the pit, and it’s not staying there. It’s at least a mile or two past the end of the last fields that you currently use, although we saw some buildings that looked abandoned at the very edge of your lands. There are lines running underneath the soil—nearly straight lines, I should add. They look somehow geometric. They terminate at that cluster of decaying structures.”

  “That’s Old Town. Or what’s left of it. About thirty buildings still stand, but most have been tilled under, or salvaged. We don’t need to go around them, yet, but if we can ever grow, I mean to expand in that direction. I don’t relish the idea of a fault underneath any of the town, but about that depression? Can you describe the color of the soil?”

  “There are broken rocks among the dark soil; they look as if water has pushed up and out of the hole, and along the way came an array of stones. Some of them are enormous,” Saavin described.

  “The size of a house,” Banshee quipped. “A human house,” he clarified, with a small snort.

  French made an inverted delta with his hands. “Would you say the feature is like this? Or are the walls steeper?” He adjusted his fingers, leaving a cone-shaped space between them. The angle would be punishing to anyone attempting to descend into the depression.

  Saavin waggled a hand. “Approximately. The walls are too rough to really assess an exact angle. Small areas have collapsed, but I couldn’t tell you if they’ve fallen out.”

  “Or in. The entire feature is unnatural,” Banshee said, then added, “Unless you’ve seen earthquake effects from the air.”

  “What you’re describing isn’t natural. It’s a subsidence brought on by something I’ve seen before, possibly, or a cause that is complexly new,” French said, standing abruptly. “Saavin, where will you sleep tonight?”

  She jerked a thumb at the dragon. “On the big guy, unless you’ve a spare? Sorry,” She added hastily, but Banshee tapped her with his muzzle.

  French grinned. “I do, and in the interest of pure science, I have something you might want to see.”

  The walk through New Madrid was brief, and broken only by occasional pools of light from the windows of low houses. The streets were crushed gravel, but French walked silently over the irregular chips. Saavin followed him to an unremarkable sod home tucked half into the dark earth.

  “This is mine.” French pushed through a bleached wooden door at the base of a three-step landing, revealing the darkness of a bachelor’s home. He quickly lit two lamps and opened a pair of wide windows to let in the fresh evening air. Scents of grass and soil drifted into the stillness of the space. Saavin paused, cognizant of the moment as she noted the tension in French’s shoulders. She knew that piercing the sanctum of a stranger was exotic and risky, yet her instincts were quiet as she entered his home.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to be here? Your family isn’t here?” she asked with a surreptitious look around. To her surprise, the room was far from Spartan; there was a busy element that bespoke an active mind and careful intellect.

  He smiled, gently. “It is. I don’t have guests, but you’re quite welcome. If you’re uncomfortable, I think you could whistle up that beast of yours, right?” He gave her a rusty wink.

  “I don’t see a couch?” she asked, turning a full circle. The home was one large space, save what appeared to be a bathroom in the corner. A small woodstove sat chill and unused, and there was a handmade farmer’s table with two chairs. Bookshelves lined one wooden wall; they supported the exterior sod as well as held the contents of a small library. “Have you read all of those?” she asked, openly curious.

  He ran a possessive hand over a nearby volume. “Some of them more times than I care to count. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get the bathroom ready for you. As you might guess, I rarely have visitors.” He smiled. “Never, actually, but this gives me a good excuse to break out a new toothbrush. I’ve a case of them just waiting to be put to work. Salvaged a dentistry school three months ago, and our teeth have never looked better.” At her appreciative laugh, he turned and vanished into the bathroom.

  Saavin stood in total discomfort while rummaging noises drifted through the thin door that separated French form the rest of his home. With a glance, her eyes were commanded to look at the black and white photograph of a beautiful young woman hanging on the wall. She was laughing with the abandon of youth, hair whipping across her face in a tangle, and was riding in a convertible car of some sort. She wore a wedding gown on a body that was enviable in both ripeness and youth, and was lit from within, vibrant, with a spirit that fairly pulsed on the glossy photo stock. So they have—had cameras in Asheville, too, Saavin mused, thinking of the handful of working cameras in Trinity. Photographs had once again become heirlooms, and Saavin decided that his bride had a face that could drive a man to crazed love, and losing her might drive him to kill. That would explain the sense of hidden violence she detected French’s modest affability.

  Nearby, the shelves groaned under the weight of books covering a dizzying array of topics, and seemed to be loosely arranged by field. One whole row of military history, interspersed with Livy, Josephus, Hobbes, and Milton. A well-worn copy of The Bluejackets’ Manual issued by the United States Navy held up a companion book of complex knots, and in turn, tomes on chemistry, leatherworking, and metallurgy. Another long section, filled with the musings of religious scholars and their detractors, and then three full shelves focused solely on the natural world. A Fossil Guide of North America. Songbirds of the American West. Weaving and Other Indigenous Skills. The list went well beyond that of a curious mind; this was the mark of an education in the art of survival. Hunting and stalking were both skills the man studied, and she found herself wondering how frequent those abilities came into play. Saavin decided that New Madrid had the right person in place to defend them against anything that hell might birth into the light. After a moribund shake of her head, her eyes fell upon a pair of leather not
ebooks, both well creased with use. With a decisive twitch, she opened the first . . . then froze. The heavy pages were filled with sketches of astonishing quality, several of the same horrific scene of a young woman screaming silently underwater, her hands pressed hard against the window of an unknown vehicle. In some of the drawings, her wedding ring, a simple band, scratched the glass from her frantic pounding as she took what were no doubt the last, aching breaths of her life. The ring left deep, panicked grooves in the glass, a unique hieroglyphic that spelled the gasping terror of a woman near death. His wife, Saavin knew, just by looking at the near photographic drawing. It was stunningly rendered by someone with such large, dangerous-looking hands, and the mist of sadness bullied into Saavin’s eyes, despite her attempt at controlling the unwanted visitation. Even a casual glance at the notebook imparted the unrelenting horror his wife must have felt, and the drawings pulsated with the corrosive blackness he must still be carrying. She closed the notebook with reverence and replaced it, stepping back from the shelves as the faint sound of rushing water spanned the length of the roof. When the bathroom door opened, French stepped out to find Saavin resting quietly on a kitchen chair, her hands kneading a discomfort only she could understand.

  “I drew a bath for you, I hope that wasn’t presumptive. I’ve got a hot solar tank and I thought that a full day on a dragon’s back might make you a bit . . .” He chose his words carefully. “Envious of your beast for swimming clean in the river.” An impudent grin followed the admission and she laughed, thankful beyond words at his foresight.

  “You can’t offend me with the suggestion of a bath. I live in the desert.” She stood as he invited her to pass him. She noticed he was freshly scrubbed. “You won’t bathe? Or, you already have? Where will I sleep?” She frowned, realizing that the last had come out as a petulant whine. Perhaps the day had been longer than Saavin realized, twisting her lips slightly at the internal admission of a desire for creature comforts.

  “There are two beds, behind you, and I washed well enough, given what we’ve planned for tomorrow. I did, however, brush my teeth. There are some things that no one should endure, one of them being a lack of personal dental grooming.” He added, “I’ll get your bed ready, take your time. There are towels and some clothes that’ll fit you.”

  As she passed him to enter the bathroom, he smiled wryly at the discomfort brought on by a visitor; particularly a beautiful woman with a dragon. The world might be at war with hell, but old habits between men and women would never die.

  Book Three: Underneath

  Underneath: Prelude

  The opening yawned ahead as Saavin felt the first chills of uncertainty. It wasn’t fear, as she was too intent on placing her feet in clear spaces to allow the enormity of the place to register. If she were to allow terror to suffocate her, it would happen early, or not at all. By the third step over broken rock and shards of odd bone, she knew the bloom of doubt would not take root inside her. With a glance at French, she gave the slightest nod, confirming his suspicions about the slender girl with the confident stare. He smiled slightly and turned back to the darkness, scarcely noting the massive opening they trod through. From wall to wall the cave was enormous, and it only got wider as the shaft dropped away into stygian depths that curled away. Though the space echoed around them, it revealed no secrets. The stillness was inviting; the darkness was not. They went on in the curious silence that whisperskin allowed. If her feet had not contacted shifting rock, they would leave no trace whatsoever. Even their breathing seemed muffled by the clinging black suits.

  “Stop and unload your pack,” French said in a low voice, dropping two coils of rope with carabiners attached, wrapped in their own whisperskin covers. They’d only gone ten steps and could still see the expanse of the Milky Way overhead, as the cave overhang was convex from years of gradual collapse due to weather. Some of the wear was due to the heavy tread of demons that struck the stones on their way to attacking New Madrid. Saavin didn’t know why, but she obeyed out of curiosity, crouching easily and looking around with interest. French placed their oblong whisperskin packs together, opening both with practiced ease in the light of a small lamp. The shadows had weight, but the flickering light made a small harbor among the gloomy expanse. Saavin found herself crowding closer in the circle of illumination. Some instincts persist regardless of valor, and gauzy violet apparitions danced behind Saavin’s closed eyelids, a vestigial response to the unknown as old as her first ancestor. She calmed herself by will alone, and regarded French evenly.

  “Look inside.” His voice held the hint of a laugh.

  “Sand?” she asked. Her momentary confusion won out over a desire to remain silent. “What are we supposed to eat? Why sand?” While she stood, hands on hips in growing anger, French dumped bags of sand from both backpacks, only stopping when a small cache of actual supplies was revealed at the bottom of each main compartment.

  “I couldn’t risk worrying Harriet. Not in her condition. Explaining the contents of these bags would’ve caused unwarranted”—he searched for a word—“complications.”

  Saavin nodded in recognition of his precaution, as well as his caring. There were layers to every gesture he made. French held a small item in his hand, turning it gently toward her as she examined the contents of both backpacks. Both caches were nearly identical, save a few differences. He held out his hand to her with an encouraging nod. The moon gleamed in her eyes, which were round with surprise.

  “A filtration straw? We can drink anywhere with this!” Saavin said. The tube was a military-grade osmotic drinking system that was simple, durable, and efficient. They were rare and virtually nonexistent outside major trading hubs; in her lifetime, Saavin had seen a handful, and those only in the control of caravan leaders or other important people of means. Suddenly, the too-small collapsible canteens they both carried made a great deal more sense.

  “We have two apiece. I’ve had them since Asheville, and they’re in perfect order, with new inserts. They’ll last for a year. Look at the next item in your kit,” French said while pointing. “You’ll find everything but a gun. We won’t use anything that loud or bright, no underneath. If I get us into a jam that only a gun would get us out of, I haven’t been paying attention. Go ahead, check out what we have; you’ll need to know what and where it is in order to be safe. Relatively safe, that is.”

  Saavin rummaged in her own pack and withdrew a coil of paracord then, at French’s urging, she continued to disassemble the tightly-organized bundle. Two knives clinked lightly under her touch, one a Swiss army hybrid with a multitool, the other a beautifully maintained tactical blade that was clearly military in origin. There were five sections of fiberglass that connected into a thin spear. She found a barbed point for that weapon, as well as a hook and a smooth bodkin end for some unknown purpose. Waterproof matches. Small sample jars. Tiny envelopes. An inexplicable pair of swim goggles was followed by a small but thorough medical kit. Each pack held collapsible bowls, cutlery, and salt packets wrapped in precious aluminum. The metal was dull and warped with frequent use and re-use. Some things were hard to come by, and in that item, Saavin saw the entirety of mankind’s existence as a band of frightened scavengers. She shook her head to clear the morose thoughts, and continued to paw lightly through the pack.

  There were pencils and, in Saavin’s case, a small notebook with yellow paper, unlined and clean. A leather bound sketch pad rested along the side of French’s pack. Several pens and pencils were bound together like kindling, the ends covered with a scrap of fabric. It was the same pad that she’d seen in his home, and she wondered what he planned to draw in it while they plumbed the depths of this channel to hell. The first touch of dread rested lightly across her shoulders as she began to understand exactly what was happening. Until that moment, there’d been an underlying gaiety to her steps, despite the danger of the inky unknown into which they walked. She felt the humor leave her in a frigid rush, then turned to French, whose eyes gleamed i
n the flickering lamplight.

  “You don’t need me to survive, Saavin. I think your status as a fighting dragonrider proves that,” he said.

  She stiffened briefly, and then digested the truth of his words. With a meaningful glance at the blackness, she smiled. Her teeth were luminously white in the starglow. “Why no guns? I’m not averse to a spear, but . . . ” She glanced at the sections of fiberglass with curiosity.

  French exhaled in a low chuckle. “Before the war, when my grandfather was a young man, he worked in a steel mill. You’ve read of them?” At her nod, he continued, “He used to laugh every night when he put his hardhat on the desk in his foyer. Said it was the single stupidest thing he’d ever done, but he repeated the motion day in and day out, because the plant said you had to wear one at all times. It was a plastic helmet—pretty tough, I guess—but those men were working around 20,000 lb. rolls of steel. As much as two small dragons. What do you think that helmet would protect if one of those hit you? Nothing. You’d be a smear on the concrete and a weekly check to your widow. But they made those men wear them anyway.” He pointed at the uninviting darkness below them. “Any weapon we could carry down there wouldn’t prevent the same from happening to us, and it might make things worse. A gun is a hardhat in the halls of the underneath. We need relative quiet. If we have to run, we will. If we can avoid, we do. If I allow us to get cornered by something we can’t handle with those spears, then I haven’t been paying attention, and I deserve to get eaten. With you, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “Yeah, but having you around won’t hurt.” She smiled again, and he felt himself warm to her presence.

  “Same to you. This activity is actually better suited to a team.” He began repacking their gear, and she placed a hand on his arm as her face registered surprise.