No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection)

by Digital Fiction

  Lay it down, just for a little while. You don’t need it.

  The thought seemed strange in her head. It was not her own, she realized, and jerked her head from side to side as if to flick water from her face.

  You will not need it, the thought - no, the voice - persisted. It almost sounded like her own, but it was different — oily somehow, and slick. She thought if she tried to reach for it, her hands might come away black with something.

  A man stood in the gap between the trees where before there was no one. Mora had not heard him approach. He was tall, as the white said, and though he was standing directly ahead of her, his body was smothered in shadow.

  Or made from it.

  In the space of a blink, he was gone. Turning, she saw him now on her left.

  Blink, gone. Now on her right. Nothing could move that fast, especially not without making a sound.

  When he did not reappear, she carried on; her sword no longer felt quite so heavy.

  The elder’s description was apt. The village was a dead place, but the buildings looked as if they were built only yesterday. Mora passed by black openings, which to her now watched and seemed to promise something. She could not say where this idea came from, but it felt as though they were trying to draw her closer.

  The village felt cast out, as if it existed in another place; the forest acting as its border.

  Looking up, she thought the stars overhead were different, but it was hard to be sure. All of it could be in her head, but it felt too real for that.

  The tall man appeared before she came to the center of the village. Despite light from the moon, he was still in shadow, but the light revealed drifting snakes of blackness coming off his body.

  He was made of shadow.

  Mora held up her sword, but did not move. She wanted him to come to her. “I am not afraid.”

  Yes, you are.

  Blink; he vanished, only to appear at her side, close enough to touch. She turned and cut into him, but the blade passed through his body, leaving a brief trail that closed behind itself.

  You are in the place where gods hunt.

  Another blink and he was gone. When he did not reappear, Mora kept walking until she reached the center.

  The children peeled the skin from the white man. He was no longer able to scream, but writhed on the ground where he was staked out. Mora recognized his dress as that of the soldiers.

  There were three of them, two boys and a girl, and they crouched over the ruined man, treating him as her own children might treat an ant mound. They stripped another piece from his chest and looked at it curiously, as if they’d never seen anything like it before.

  It was the girl, looking up from the bloody work in front of her, who noticed Mora. “Who are you?”

  The other two turned around; all of their faces were marked. It was a kind of delicate- looking pattern, not unlike the strange symbol Mora remembered from the stone that the white had carried in his pocket.

  “Mora.”

  “Are you from our village?” the first boy asked. “Yes.”

  “Have you come to take us back?” asked the second. “I’m not sure.”

  “Some other men came a few days ago, we didn’t want to go back with them,” the girl said. “What happened to those men?”

  The girl pointed. Mora’s attention had been taken up by the children, so she’d not seen the

  totem in the middle of the village.

  It was difficult to tell where one body ended and another began. “The tall man?”

  “We helped,” the first boy said, picking yet another piece of skin from the soldier. “It was interesting,” the girl added. “You all break so easily.”

  “You speak like we’re not the same.”

  The girl looked down at the white and ran the back of her hand against his face. “Who said we were?”

  Mora’s sword felt heavy once again. Could she kill these children, if indeed they were children any longer?

  “No, you can’t,” the second boy told her. “The tall man said you wouldn’t.” “He said that wasn’t why you were here,” said the girl.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you would take us back. He said it was time.” Blink. The tall man was near the children.

  “Stay back.” Mother, help me.

  She cannot hear you. She is uncaring; I know her moods better than you.

  Blink. He was between her and the children.

  But they need a mother of their own. I can only give them so much.

  Mora swung her sword, aiming this time for his head. It might have been pointless, but it was all she had.

  You will see such things, he said before the sword struck.

  Ligmon waited at the edge of the village with the elder. Seta remained with the white, but the elder said she felt it was safe for him to wait with her.

  “Will she come back?” he asked. “Others have.”

  It wasn’t much of an answer. Dawn light was breaking over the horizon and both covered their eyes against the growing glare.

  Ligmon squinted. “There, I think I see something.”

  Mora looked down at the village, now partly bathed in morning light. Backlit as she was, she would be easily seen from where she stood.

  The three others, however, were more or less invisible. “Go and play, children.”

  They ran forward, giggling and laughing as the sun continued to rise behind her. The light changed from purple to the color of fire. She had not yet made it down the hill before the first screams reached her from the village, followed by the laughter of children at play. Her children.

  A hand took her own from behind and when she looked, she saw it was black even in the light of the sun. The face was swathed in shadow, but hungry all the same.

  My family. She smiled and walked hand in hand with the creature down to the village as more screams split the air.

  Down with the Sickness

  1916

  It was Doctor Osif who recommended me to Fort Alexander. In another time, I would’ve felt honored, but it took me away from the front where I could do the most good.

  Remember it, Maria? Just off the coast near Petrograd? I don’t know if you will ever read this, but writing it to you makes it easier.

  The fort is being used by the Institute of Experimental Medicine; a wonderfully vague name for an organization, one that tells you everything and nothing about its function. It is enough that some people call it the Plague Fort. The men I work with, Osif and Medvedev, have been here since before the war started.

  “They had us working on chemical and disease-based weapons,” Osif said. We were eating in the canteen. “But the British wouldn’t share the equipment.”

  He shrugged as if we were discussing some minor problem and not the possible death of thousands. Osif is a pure researcher; one who is more suited to theory and its application than the results of said application. Dr. Medvedev is more balanced.

  “A good thing we never got it working. That’s not why we’re here, after all,” the doctor replied.

  “Why are we here, Doctor?” It was the first time I’d had the chance to ask. I was a surgeon and medical doctor, hardly suited to a dedicated research lab.

  “Perspective, I suppose you could say.”

  “Much of our work here is theoretical,” Osif continued. “Looking for understanding on the nature of disease.” He held up one hand and counted off on his fingers, “Progression, symptoms, and possible treatment, to name some of our areas of interest.”

  You can see that I was in if not strange company, then I was certainly with men who had little interest in the outside world. It seemed as if the outside world and the war did not exist for them; I can understand why.

  Perhaps life off the island presented little in the way of interest for them. I’d seen their kind before at university — old professors who lived only in books and for the classroom. I remember it was always up to us to take what they had taught us and find
a way to apply it, but I could see little in the way of application in what they were speaking about at the fort.

  I couldn’t see how it could be used to help the men dying at the front.

  1999

  The boat ride to the island was uneventful. Sasha’s mind was elsewhere, despite the best efforts of Martin and Stefan to bring him back to the moment.

  “C’mon, man,” Martin said and passed him a beer. “It’s not everyone who gets invited to these things.”

  Sasha managed a smile. “I know, sorry.”

  Stefan, who was at the wheel, punched him lightly on the arm. “You’ve still got a few days.

  Who knows, you might catch a dose of the clap tonight.”

  Martin laughed and Sasha even brought up a rough chuckle.

  Truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Chechnya. He really, really didn’t want to go; no matter what his dad and granddad said about duty to the motherland. Both of them were khaki nuts; the army had changed them, and he’d no idea now of the men they’d been before. They seemed to forget the motherland was a supremely fucked-up place these days.

  The old fort loomed ahead of them, only partly lit by small lamps onshore.

  “Looks like we’re not the first to arrive,” Sasha said, then upended his beer and dropped the can into the water.

  “Should be busy…whoooaaa!” Martin screamed into the darkness. A moment later, he was answered by a similar call from the fort and a group of figures appeared, silhouetted against the low lights.

  “Kind of crowd is this?” Sasha asked, noticing how they almost seemed to lope forward, hands dangling at their sides.

  “Some skinheads,” said Stefan. “Mostly just punks. My cousin’s one of the organizers.”

  Made sense — Sasha couldn’t see them being invited any other way. They definitely didn’t fit with either group. Come to think of it, the two sides loved to fuck each other up more often than not, but he supposed a rave was a rave. Invitation-only probably helped smooth things out.

  The noise from the boat’s engine wound down and Stefan let them drift alongside the old quay. Up close, Sasha saw the group – men and women both – sported spikes in their hair, or else bore equally sharp-looking designs and tattoos. One girl had one arm exposed as far as the shoulder, and it was decorated with what was almost a mural.

  Usually, he found that kind of a thing a turn-off, but maybe it was going away to Grozny – fucking Grozny – and what Stefan said. In combination with the beer, it kind of all fit together in his head, and everyone said these girls were skanks — the kind who slept around.

  Sasha smiled over at her, but couldn’t tell if she saw. One of the men – Stefan’s cousin, he guessed – shook each of their hands. His smile was scrawled across his face and even in the half light, Sasha could see how tiny his pupils were.

  “It’s fuckin’ bouncin’ in ‘ere, man.” The music was a low rumble, audible now without the boat’s engine to block it. “Beer, pills, weed, and girls,” Stefan’s cousin said as he threw his arms up. “Nothin’ more we need!”

  Sasha found himself pushed along with the rest. A small packet was pressed into his hand.

  Chancing a look, he saw it was a small wrap of foil. He could guess what was inside, but pocketed it for later.

  Maybe he’d offer it to the girl, might break the ice. If nothing else, he didn’t want to end up dead in Grozny without being with a girl. He’d never had much luck there, but tonight he needed it. Part of him thought it might actually keep him alive, like a talisman.

  Sasha felt his need worrying away in the pit of stomach, so much so that he thought he might be sick before he even got to the dance floor.

  2014

  Pulling his collar up, David shouldered into the stiff breeze coming in from the water. The streets did nothing to block it, only funneled it down with greater intensity.

  After one in the morning and still sober; going home alone, for once. He’d been careful coming out of the club, though he’d always needed to be careful. Now it was more necessary. One guy had lost his eye a while ago; the police did nothing, as usual. This was Russia, but it was still his home and he accepted it for what it was.

  It didn’t stop him from jumping a little at every echoed shout or yell. Distorted by the buildings, he couldn’t tell if they were cries of fun or otherwise.

  Absently, he checked his phone. No messages; he’d texted Andrei hours ago, and still no answer. It wasn’t like him not to at least send a smiley. He was fucking born with his Nokia in hand, so he liked to say.

  Probably picked up a date. He dropped the phone back in the pocket of his coat and forgot about his friend – sometime lover, really – or tried to, at least. He’d felt the need to talk to someone

  tonight, just to loosen up and chat.

  Work was getting him down and he was starting to think maybe his boss knew something. Always more questions about when he was getting married or going to meet a girl, and all the lies were starting to wear thin in his head.

  His IT certificate kept him relatively safe, but if his boss wanted to drop him, he could probably do it after the next deadline. Until then, he was too deep in the code and programming to be kicked out.

  “Fuck him,” he muttered. The wind carried the words away, so it was almost like he never said them.

  That’s my problem…I never say what I should. Never.

  David stopped at a crossroads, dug a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his coat, and lit one. He stood there, dragging the smoke into his lungs; so much that he was sure the lining of his throat was being stripped away. When he exhaled, it was more steam than smoke, his breath clouded only by the cold air.

  Across the street, a couple staggered arm in arm, the woman giggling at something the man said. David watched them for a moment. They were so caught up in themselves that they never noticed him, or if they did, he was beneath their attention.

  Why do I do this? Put myself out there for nothing?

  He’d felt this way for a while, but still went through the motions — largely because he didn’t know what else he could or should do.

  Maybe I should just get married. Find a girl. It would be safer, and maybe I’d find some kind of comfort there.

  The smoke soured in his mouth and he ground out what was left of the cigarette against the side of a building. He did it harder than was necessary; it felt good, but he was really trying to crush something else. Something he couldn’t reach in such a tangible way.

  1916

  It has been complete drudgery here, Maria: the same experiments and the same results for months. I was beginning to think Osif and Medvedev enjoyed culling animals by the most difficult means possible, but today that changed. Something was brought to the fort.

  I know you may never read this; I am of the opinion that our own materials will be confiscated and destroyed. The work here is a state secret, of a sort, though the government seems content for rumors to fly. It serves to mask much of the reality of what goes on here.

  A launch arrived early this afternoon under heavy guard. I didn’t see them arrive in person, but was called to the central laboratory shortly after.

  Six soldiers carried a large metal strongbox between them; all were wearing protective clothing. Gas masks and heavy gloves, which I was also provided with; such things were commonplace, but this was the first time something came from outside the fort.

  If either Osif or Medvedev knew anything about it, they said nothing at the time.

  The soldiers set it down and left hurriedly, leaving the three of us and two assistants alone with the box. It was unmarked; nothing to say what was inside, and no documentation either.

  “Were you expecting this?” I asked. “Not exactly,” replied Osif.

  You see, they did know something, Maria. But I got the impression they had been told but little of what exactly to take delivery of.

  Osif gestured to one of the assistants, who proceeded to open the box, which was sealed along
almost invisible seams. The container itself was an amazing piece of engineering; constructed, no doubt, with the sole purpose of holding whatever lay inside and nothing else.

  When the last side fell away, a small fragment of rock was revealed, held in a cradle of metal fingers and calipers. It looked unremarkable, and to me, seemed some kind of strange prank. Why would they send a rock to us?

  I looked at Medvedev and saw what might have been a flash of recognition cross his face. He knew more, but said nothing at that moment. His reasons for doing so were unclear; perhaps he wasn’t sure, or could not remember, the details of where he might have seen this before.

  “I need to contact the Institute on the mainland,” Medvedev said quickly. “This has to be a mistake.”

  He did know; though we found that out later for certain, it was obvious in that moment.

  While we were used to working in isolation – we three that is – now we were isolated even more. The labs surrounding our own were cleared on orders from the Institute and that evening Osif and I joined Medvedev in the canteen. Since his call to the mainland, he’d said nothing.

  “What is it?” Osif kept his voice almost even, but couldn’t stop a note of tension and impatience slipping in. “Why would they send us a bloody rock?”

  I was new and their junior by several years, so stood a little back to let them have it out. “I spoke to the Institute,” Medvedev rubbed the bridge of his nose, pinching it white it

  seemed. “It was kept at another facility until a few days ago when there was an unforeseen complication.”

  Osif and I exchanged a glance, “What kind of complication, doctor?” I asked.

  “They were vague on the details, but there was some kind of contagion…something new it hadn’t done before.”

  “It’s a rock,” Osif almost snapped. “How could it contaminate anything?” “It’s a piece of a much larger one, recovered in the east nine years ago.” “It’s still a rock,” Osif huffed and waved his hands dismissively.