Upside Down

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Upside Down Page 10

by Jaym Gates


  “Harlan …” I started with caution, but the soldier shook his head, the gun not moving from where it rest, ready for action against his shoulder.

  “Come on,” Harlan said, drawing the words out. “You’re not buying this divine Golden Child horseshit, are you, Professor?”

  “Embry!” I shouted. I gripped my knife and raised it, mustering as much gravitas in my voice as I could. “Lower your weapon.”

  Ignoring me, he turned his sight back to the boy. “You two might want to look away,” he said.

  “You’re not going to shoot a child!” Darcy said, and quick as lightning raised her spear-staff to Harlan’s throat before he could even flinch.

  She looked down to the boy, whose face was still fixed with a wide grin. “Aren’t you scared with that barrel in your face?”

  The boy shook his head. “Of course not,” he said, calm. “The Divine has sent me here for a reason. I am protected.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, kid,” Harlan said, curling his finger around the trigger.

  A flash of deep eldritch green caught the corner of my eye, but when I turned, it was gone. “I don’t think this boy is what we have to worry about,” I said.

  The words were barely out of my mouth before the cavern erupted into chaos. One moment the boy was sitting at rest at the edge of the fissure, the next he was flying into the open air over it as another flash of green — a tentacle, I realized — snaked up out of the pit and pulled him away from us.

  To say the grin on his face disappeared would be an understatement. As the tentacle wrapped tighter around the boy’s midsection, his eyes went wide with horror.

  Darcy let out a shriek as several dozen other tentacles rose up from the darkness. She struck at the nearest, but I didn’t bother to wait to see the result. I needed to act, and fast. I pulled out one of the arcane tomes I had brought with me and began incanting the words, holding up the sacred knife to unleash its power.

  Harlan’s shotgun boomed out loud, followed by the sickening sound of flesh tearing, but I ignored it and continued on with my incantation.

  “Jesus Christ!” Harlan shouted with such horror in his voice as a crunching and tearing cacophony rose that I could not help but look up.

  Ragged bits hung loose from the tentacle holding the boy, a large chunk missing from the bulk of it, but that was not what horrified me most. Reading my incantation had spared me from whatever had just transpired, but my eyes still came up in time to catch two separate pieces of the boy falling into the darkness below.

  “No!” I shouted, far too late, but needing to offer up my defiance at the reality unfolding before me.

  “Why is this happening?” Darcy cried out, sounding more like a frightened child herself now while she struggled to pull her spear-staff free from a tentacle it was embedded in.

  Before I could simply tell her to run, an answer slammed into the center of my mind, an unseen force invading my own sanity.

  A great and foreign hunger filled my mind — not for food, but for blood. Human blood. Very little of what flooded my mind made sense, but it was dominated by a great hunger. Something from within the deep dark below craved sacrifice, having slumbered many years before calling forth those who could fill that hunger.

  Us.

  With what little sanity remained in my control, I pushed the foreign thoughts from my mind and snapped back to reality, only to find my two remaining companions doubled over at the pit’s edge, reeling from the mental invasion as well.

  Darcy rubbed her eyes, but Harlan stared down into the abyss below, his face full of fury.

  “We’re a goddamned grocery list?!” he shouted, his words echoing in the vastness of the fissure. He pulled his long camouflage jacket open and his hands moved to bandoliers strapped across his chest, his fingers looping into several rings of grenades hanging from them. Pulling them all at once, he then released the straps of the bandoliers, letting them fall free from his body and into the darkness of the fissure.

  A string of fiery explosions filled the darkness below, the remaining tentacles curling and falling into the fissure. The deafening sound rang out over and over, fading only as the light of the explosions did, replaced by Harlan’s laughter.

  “Take that, you goddamned sum’bitch!” he shouted after it.

  Darcy joined his laughter, slow and nervous at first, but growing louder with every second.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, more worried about the girl than Harlan, who seemed to be in the throes of full-on celebration.

  The girl nodded as she looked to me. “I fared better than that Divine kid,” she said, going with morbid humor to no doubt cope with what we had all just witnessed. “I mean, I’m only out a spear-staff. It’s a custom thing, but I know a guy who —”

  Her words stopped short.

  They had to. It was, after all, hard to talk with the aforementioned weapon suddenly sticking through her chest, a charred tentacle slithering off of it as it made its way back out to the middle of the fissure.

  Darcy looked down. “Oh,” she managed to croak out as a trickle of blood leaked out of the corner of her mouth. “Never mind. There it is.”

  She smiled as if it were the most normal thing in the world to see, then fell forward down into the darkness. There was no sound of her hitting bottom, only that of writhing tentacles rising once more.

  Harlan and I stared at each other across the fissure as more and more tentacles slithered up out of the darkness towards us.

  “I suggest we leave while we still can,” I said, slamming my arcane tome shut and shoving it into my satchel.

  Harlan laughed, but there was no smile on his face. “You think we stand a chance to make it out of this cavern, professor?”

  “But —”

  Harlan shook his head and simply adjusted the flag bandana on his head.

  “These colors don’t run,” he said, pulling the largest gun off his back. Its barrel was wide enough that it launched something large, and judging by the biohazard warning etched onto the side of it, it meant serious business. “Like I said, this is my kill. Now run!”

  Before I could say anything, Harlan threw himself into the ever growing mass of tentacles. All the while they dragged him down into the darkness, Harlan fought to keep his grip on the weapon. Even as he vanished from sight, he was still winning.

  If there was any chance of getting out of there alive, now was the time. Turning, I did not look back, instead I took care to watch my step as I ran for the stairs at the far end of the cavern leading to the old mansion above.

  Halfway to them a roar of fire and fury erupted from deep below, momentarily lighting up the whole cavern as it shook the earth all around, a wave of infernal heat passing over me.

  Stalactites fell from high above, crashing down and destroying the makeshift library. Rock crumbled on every surface, and as I fought to traverse the floor, a growing dread filled my heart. I raised my flashlight to the far end of the room.

  Although the light was faint, it was clear that the stairs leading to the surface were no longer there. Tons of rock collapsed onto their narrow pathway, a cloud of dust rolling across the room in their wake. I waited for it to clear before I made my way to where the stairs had been. A noxious burnt odor now filled the cavern. Upon further examination, my situation became clear.

  Trapped.

  This cavern would be my tomb.

  Soon the batteries of my light will fade, and it will be nothing but dark solitude here among the rubble.

  Well, not solitude exactly.

  Even now, I can feel a singular word forcing its way into my mind, snaking its way in as I write these final words.

  Hunger, it calls out.

  Already I can hear the moans and slithering of tentacles coming from far below. I pray that the last of my light fails before that sound grows far too near, for I do not know if I could will myself to turn my eyes from whatever comes for me.

  I will welcome the darkness. I pra
y for it and oblivion.

  The White Dragon

  Alyssa Wong

  We wouldn’t even have been at the White Dragon that night, except that Mim wanted to play pool, and I had trouble saying no to Mim. Rain had torn the skies open that morning, so by the time I got off work, Chinatown’s streets were a cold, ugly slurry, and it didn’t look like it was planning on letting up any time soon. I waited for Mim under the awning of Suksuk’s restaurant, my jacket over my head, watching the new electric streetlights glimmer through the haze like animals’ eyes.

  Bad night to be out, I thought. Sometimes the rain washed the air clean of the curses that hung like cobwebs from building to building, tangled in the strings of red lanterns above the bay. Sometimes, though, it only washed away the prayers for protection above our residences, leaving behind the stench of gwailo hatred and their mantra of get out, get out, get out of our country aching through my head.

  Mim appeared like a ghost beside me, ducking out of the downpour. “Cold, lang,” he said. “I shouldn’t have made you wait in the rain.”

  “It’s fine. The ceiling inside leaks anyway,” I said. “I keep telling Suksuk we need to fix it, but money’s tight this month.”

  “I could do it for you if you want. For free, I mean.”

  I glanced at him, small and dark, as he shook the water free of his curls. “I’m not going to cheat you, Mim.” Something long and silver glinted in his hair, and I reached out a hand. “Wait, hold still.”

  He grimaced. “Another one?”

  “Mmhm,” I said, tugging it free with an abrupt motion and winding it up around my hand. Mim tended to pick up curses; they snagged on him like discarded fishing line. This one was slick and sharp, envy and hatred overlaid with the scent of cheap men’s cologne. “Somebody was watching you today.”

  He sighed. “I ran into some factory workers on strike by the market. That’s probably where I picked it up.” He combed his fingers through his hair as if trying to shake out any remaining curses. All he managed to do was get water on both of us.

  It meant a lot to me that Mim didn’t make fun of me for the weird shit I did, even though he couldn’t see it the way I could. “Hey,” I said, stuffing the curse in my pocket and nudging his shoulder. “Cheer up. That pool’s not gonna play itself.”

  There were few machines out in the downpour, just a single, lonely streetcar chugging up Powell Street. The bay was a dark, glistening body, overhung with fog, and at the edge of the pier lay the White Dragon, its dirty sign streaked with salt and ocean grime. By then the boys from the local tong knew our faces, so no one gave us trouble at the entrance, even though Mim was Filipino and I couldn’t keep my eyes or hands still.

  Pool tables swam in the murky lighting, two long, green stretches of neutral ground. The cousins prowled the edges, all lean muscle and hard edges, scoping out the perfect shot. I could see the spells in their tattoos glimmering through their shirts, wishes for protection and glory buried needle-deep in their skins.

  Wen came to say hello while Mim selected a pool cue and I settled in at one of the corner tables, my fingers knotted tight to keep my hands from jittering. “FanFan! You doing your weird looky-looky shit?” He clapped a hand on the tabletop, just shy of me. The boys avoided touching me when they could. “Brothers, this girl’s got a third eye or something, sees all the nasty energy on you that you gotta get cleansed.”

  “That’s not exactly it,” I muttered. But he wasn’t listening. They never did, even when they asked me to talk. I was almost used to it by now.

  “You say that every time she shows up,” called another, Qin, over by the second table. His tattoos were the brightest to my eyes, and I was willing to bet a lover had imprinted some very personal wishes into his skin. “Stop harassing her and take your goddamn shot.”

  That was what I liked about the White Dragon. The camaraderie, the way the cousins took to Mim like he was one of them. How even though the tables and walls were dingy and all the cousins smoked, the air felt clean of hate-curses, like it was all right just to exist. I was content to watch from the sidelines and keep an eye out for any stray foreign malice the boys might have tracked in.

  As Mim took his first shot, I caught sight of Big Boss Yang leaning against a back wall, talking in a low voice to a slick-looking gwailo. That was unusual. Not my boss, Boss Yang, but boss of the area east of Grant Avenue and all the cousins here. I’d seen him in public a few times — everyone had — but never with a gwailo, and not in the back of the White Dragon, flush up against the back exit.

  The front door swung open and another gwailo walked in, shaking the rain off of his long trench coat. This one had broad shoulders and a pretty face, and as he settled in next to me, his sly, ghost-pale eyes slid over me in a way that made my skin crawl. His swoop of dark brown hair was combed back from his forehead and fell in a soft wave to the top of his cheek.

  “Are you Lo Fanlin?” he said in English. The pool hall quieted, and one of the older men, Chan, came to stand behind me.

  “No English,” I muttered.

  But he smiled, undeterred. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  “Tell him we don’t serve alcohol here,” Chan told me. “Being as we’re a lawful establishment, sir.”

  “Tell him to leave before he ends up with a cue stick through his eye,” said Wen.

  “No drinks,” I said dutifully.

  “That’s funny,” said the pretty man. “I can smell rice liquor from here.” My stomach tightened. If he didn’t back off, the cousins would get fidgety, and I didn’t want any of them going to jail for something they’d regret later. “But that’s not why I’m here. If you are Lo Fanlin — and I think you are — then you have talents I’d be interested in.”

  “She’s not for sale,” growled Wen in English. My hands were shaking, my face burning red.

  At that, Mim came over, cue stick in hand. “What’s going on, FanFan?” he asked, glancing from the pretty man to me. Big Boss Yang looked up too, right at the pretty man, and the other slick-looking gwailo disappeared, his cuff links flashing in the darkness. The back door clicked shut behind him.

  Big Boss Yang’s jaw was set in a hard, tense line, and he cut through the crowd of cousins like a tall, dark knife, stopping at the edge of our table. “Is there a problem?” Boss Yang said in English.

  The pretty man stood up smoothly. “No, I was just leaving,” he said. He leaned over and grasped my hand. Something square and sharp bit into my palm. “So you know where to find me if you change your mind,” he murmured, his breath hot and awful in my ear.

  “Get out,” ordered Boss Yang, and the pretty man rose, nodding at me, and swept back out into the night.

  “Are you all right?” Boss Yang asked me, and I realized I was still shaking. The spool of gwailo curse I’d pulled off of Mim was scorching hot in my pocket.

  “I think so,” I said. I slipped the card the pretty man had given me up my sleeve and smiled shakily at Mim, who was hovering nearby. “It’s fine. I think I want to go home, though.”

  Yang nodded to the rangy cousin with the bright tattoos. “Qin will walk you back safely. Give my regards to your uncle.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I can come back with you if you’d like,” Mim said, but I waved him away.

  “Stay and have fun. One of us should, after coming all the way out here.”

  “Be careful on your way home,” said Boss Yang, looking straight at me, and the card up my sleeve throbbed like an accusation. “It’s ugly out tonight. If the gwailo gives you trouble again, you let me know.”

  “Yes sir,” I said, staring at the floor. “Thank you.”

  We waited a few minutes for the rain to clear, and then Qin led me out, back into the bank of heavy fog along the bay.

  #

  The sky hasn’t cleared by morning, and the red lanterns hung like diu si gwai above the market, suspended in the haze. Under the thick scent of rain, I could taste the sweet-sharp scent of rip
e lychee and mango, the tang of fresh-caught, glassy-eyed fish laid on ice beneath the awning.

  Suksuk trusted me with ingredients for the restaurant for two reasons: unlike him, I enjoyed the human crush and pull of the market; and I had a good eye. Not just for ingredients, but for the spells woven deep into them, glimmering like threads.

  They weren’t always conscious ones. Most were wishes, whispered or thought, muttered under the breath of fishermen hauling their catches into the bay or farmhands crating fruit onto truck beds up north. Simple thoughts. Stay fresh, taste good. And often they worked, desire in its purest form, laid unconsciously on their subjects.

  The language of gwailo spells read differently, curses in English spat and slapped into the skin of the people like Mim and me. And they were almost always curses when it came to Chinatown, wishes meant to intimidate and keep us out. They sunk deeper and were harder to pull free, but I’d been born two decades ago and had as many years of experience of untangling myself from them.

  I was selecting bittermelon from Ling aiyi’s stall when I heard her draw in a breath. A familiar voice drawled in English, “I thought I might find you here.”

  I dropped the bittermelon and stumbled away from the pretty man from last night, who watched me with his hands in his pockets. “Why are you following me?” I demanded.

  “So you do speak English,” said the gwailo with eyes the color of treacherous clouds. “I gave you my card. Didn’t you look at it?”

  I could feel it in my pocket, digging into my leg. “No,” I said. “I threw it in the bay.”

  “Not even the least bit curious?”

  “I can’t read,” I said. It was halfway true; I couldn’t get my eyes to focus long enough to read any language very well. “And I don’t care who you are.”

  The gwailo reached into his jacket and I tensed. But instead of a gun, he pulled out a badge. “Detective James Lorraine,” he said, flashing his teeth at me. “San Francisco PD.”

 

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