“It’s not from here.” “You just said that.”
“No, I mean it’s not from here.”
We didn’t catch his meaning, even when he repeated himself. It took a moment for it to sink in. There was silence for what felt like a very long few moments.
“Oh,” Osif deflated. “Where’s it from, then?”
1999
“How’d you get roped into going?”
Her name is Alena, and she isn’t quite what Sasha expected. She didn’t conform to what he’d assumed. This seemed to happen a lot in his life.
His dad had told him he’d find the army rewarding, instead of a bad dream he couldn’t wake
up from.
“Dad put a gun to my head, more or less,” he told her. He left out the part about his dad actually having a gun — something he’d kept from Afghanistan.
“Sucks to be you.”
She smiled, puffed out smoke from the joint she’d rolled, and handed it to him. He remembered the foil packet he still had, thought about saying something about it, but decided he’d get stoned first and see where it went from there.
The weed was strong, almost sickly smelling, and the smoke he inhaled felt thick and a little oily. Sasha swore it left a coating on the back of his throat, but the knot in his stomach started to unravel itself, so he ignored it.
They were above the dance floor, in what Alena said was a lab from the fort’s old days as some kind of weird experimental station. From here, the music was reduced to a continuous throb, muted enough by old stone so they could hear each other speak.
Swaying, he pushed himself up and went to look down. Strobe lights blazed through the crowd, freeze-framing a forest of arms and gyrating bodies through a cloud of cigarette smoke and steam rising from sweat-soaked bodies crammed together. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
“Come back, you’ve still got the joint, man,” Alena said, almost rising, but stopping when he turned and made his way to her.
Sasha leaned against the wall and slid back down beside her. His feet went out from under him and he dropped the last few centimeters, but held onto the joint, which he duly passed to Alena.
“Don’t they throw you out if you do drugs?” “I don’t think they care much.”
“Really does suck to be you.” “Please stop saying that.”
“Shit, sorry man.” She started snorting, but at least covered her mouth in an attempt to hold it in.
“Why come to this place?” He took the joint when she offered it and puffed. It felt better the second time.
“Why not? It’s kind of cool, no?” “In a fucked-up kind of way.”
“That’s the point,” Alena told him. She might been trying to explain something to a child.
Maybe it was the weed – most likely it was the weed – but Sasha started to consider how naive he might be. His thoughts unbuckled in his head, and he thought for a moment that he was; it at least explained how easily his dad had talked him into joining up.
“All my life, I did what people told me,” he said. “I never thought it was anything bad, not until it was.”
“What do you want to do, man?”
Looking at Alena through a high wasn’t the best way to see her. Sasha would’ve loved to get to know her in a different place. Not a rave, but to talk to her clear-headed and in the light of day.
You take the moments you can get.
“Something, anything; just not that.”
“Then do it,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I can’t.”
“Why not, because of your dad?”
“He’d throw me out, and it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”
Alena flicked ash from the end of the joint and leaned forward. Sasha thought maybe she was tired of his chat; she was, but just not in the way he thought.
She turned and placed her hands on the ground on either side of him. He closed his eyes, because he thought it was what you were supposed to do.
2014
David found himself almost home; it took him a moment to realize he’d unconsciously followed the familiar streets back to his door. The thought to find somewhere else to have a drink had occurred earlier, but it looked as if his heart wasn’t in it.
Fuck.
Stopping, he dug his keys out of a pocket. There was so much crap inside, he had to root around for them.
“Hey.” David turned. A younger man, maybe mid-twenties, was standing at the edge of the pavement, looking at him. “You lost, need help?”
Was he swaying or something, or did he look out of place at this time of night? “No, I’m fine, thanks.”
The man took a step forward. “You sure? You seem kinda down.”
I am, but there’s nothing you can do about it, man. “Really, I’m fine.”
“Okay. Say, do you have a cigarette?”
“Sure.” Keys in hand, David reached for his packet. Looking back, he saw the young man was closer than before, but his features were more or less hidden by the patchy street lighting. “Here.”
“Thanks, got a light?”
David took out his lighter and ignited it, cupping the flame in his hand. The gesture was automatic. The guy kept his hands low, close to his sides, but David caught sight of something round and metallic in his hand. “What’s that?”
He held up a small canister with a nozzle and face mask at the end. “This? I need it for
work.”
“You a paramedic or something?” David was about to slip another cigarette from the pack,
but never got the chance.
A hand shot around and gripped the back of his head as the black mask came over his mouth and nose.
1916
The rock has remained a rock since it arrived, and we’ve seen no sign of whatever remarkable properties it may have. I sometimes wonder at the effectiveness of our state, Maria.
Practically, it makes little sense to send something of this nature to us. Nevertheless, we followed the procedures outlined to us by the Institute. The labs adjacent ours are no longer in use, and the three of us examine the bloody thing with a couple of assistants to hand. So far, it has remained nothing but a piece of stone.
Its origin is the most interesting thing about it, though not relevant to us. For something that did not originate on this world, it is the most banal thing one could encounter. You wouldn’t look twice at it on a beach, except perhaps to notice its vitrified appearance.
It looks as if it was melted and then left to grow cold and solid again; it has an almost organic look to it, and something of a sheen under the right light. Still, I think its previous researchers attributed an unrelated event to it.
None of us can see how this thing could have possibly caused any problems. Medvedev is entirely convinced it could have. I think Osif is more or less prepared to believe, but requires some evidence first. I, however, remain skeptical.
Something bizarre happened today; I have yet to determine what it does or could mean. Despite my earlier entry, Maria, I am not above reevaluating my opinion in the face of new evidence.
We were in the lab: myself, Osif, and Medvedev. We’d dismissed the lab assistants as the work itself was nothing we were not able to do ourselves.
“Careful,” Medvedev told me.
This has been his watch word since the rock arrived. I was in the process of removing a piece of it for study under a microscope, while he loomed over my shoulder.
“We’re not geologists,” I said, gently using a rock hammer to chip away at it.
The doctor was kind enough to back away as I went to the microscope and started looking at the efforts of my work. Magnified, they were simply pieces of rock. They were dark and mottled in an interesting way, but otherwise unremarkable.
I was tired. Pulling myself away, I pinched the bridge of my nose and rubbed at my face. I regret to say, Maria, I haven’t shaved in a few days. I can imagine your disapproving look; I miss it.
When I returned
to the microscope, I caught the fragments in the final stages of movement. They were still when I left them; it was as if they knew I was coming back, but could not move fast enough before I put my eye back to the optics.
At first, I did not understand exactly what I saw. I stepped back again and waited several minutes, while Osif and Medvedev were otherwise occupied.
I saw the same when I looked again.
“Doctor,” I called. I didn’t care which one turned or answered me. They both did, and there must’ve been an odd look on my face, if the way they stared at me is anything to go by.
I explained what I had seen.
“You’re tired,” Osif said, perhaps believing it and perhaps not.
He looked first and only slowly drew his head away. We waited and Medvedev took his turn, although he kept looking for a time after the motion of the samples must have surely stopped.
We three stood in silence. What they thought, I cannot say; for myself, I can say I began to reconsider my earlier views. Any thought it may have been a result of tiredness quickly evaporated once I saw both of their reactions.
It is no longer simply a rock.
1999
They took the pills after sex, though given the high that rose up from the pit of Sasha’s stomach, he felt it might have been better to take them before. His mouth felt dry and he couldn’t stop his lips from
moving; it felt great, better than great. He talked a mile a minute as Alena led him down the empty corridors of the fort.
Letting go of her hand didn’t feel like an option; his own felt like it was melting into hers.
Things zipped forward in sharp bursts, punctuated by bright bursts from the dance floor coming through cracks in the walls. The light seemed to search them out, snaking its way through the crumbling stone, but always just missing them.
At first, he’d been jittery, the high stuttering to life before rising with an easy glow that filled him up to the top of his head. Sasha forgot what fear was — or maybe he couldn’t remember exactly how to feel it for the time being.
“I never slept with a girl before tonight,” he said to give his twitching mouth something to do.
The unrestrained openness didn’t seem strange at all.
His teeth squeaked; his jaw clenched. The more he thought about it, the more it happened, so he focused only on Alena’s hand. Snippets of the music tunneled into his ears, snatching his attention for moments; the sounds were disjointed, but alluring.
Does it all sound like that, all the time?
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever,” she replied, then pulled him into the gloom towards a vaguely rectangular opening only visible because it was darker and more defined.
“Wait,” he said. She was panting, maybe from the cold or the drugs, it was impossible to say. There was a crack, like a twig breaking, and a strip of light came on in her hand; it nearly blinded him. “Why didn’t you do that before?”
“Never thought,” she said with a laugh. The light bled through her hand. Washed out and empty, it was colder than the strobes looking for them through the old walls.
“What’s down there?” “Who knows?”
His hand melted into hers again, sinking more willingly into the grip this time because of the absence of it.
They made it maybe a dozen or so steps down before a door rose into the light to block their way. It was old and rusted as far as they could see. Alena waved her hand around and up and down.
“Big enough?”
Sasha snorted, pressing himself against her back for warmth, feeling as if he was able to take some of hers and give her some in return. He thought he could stand like that for as long as it took — for as long as it took for Grozny not to be there in his tomorrows.
Thinking about it unsettled the buoyancy of the high — not pulling him down, but dampening the feeling. Logic pooled in; a kind of rambling understanding that if he worried, he would sink somewhat and the good feeling would be soured.
He pushed his nose and mouth into the nape of her neck as she fiddled with something on the door. Alena smelled of sweat and smoke and beer, tinged with something sweet.
“Got it,” she whispered. Her lips were snakes writhing across her face and her eyes looked to be all pupil, drinking in the light from the glow stick.
Do mine look like that?
Alena stepped backwards through the door, now swinging slowly open behind her.
Sasha couldn’t let her go; the need was too strong, and he wondered how he’d managed so
long without her or this feeling. Although it was dark, he hoped they’d fuck again soon. It felt like his balls were trying to crawl up into his body an inch at a time, but the feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
2014
David drifted back to wakefulness, slowly becoming aware that something soft filled his mouth and was sealed in by what could only be tape. Brittle edges bit into his wrists and ankles, almost breaking the skin and numbing his fingers.
It took him a moment to realize his eyes were covered too.
Droning filled his head, which was pounding steadily.
The ground felt like it was moving. Still groggy, he thought it could’ve been the drug.
The drone continued, rising and falling almost in time with the movement of the ground.
Deck. The thought forced its way to the front of his mind, pushing aside the fog still clouding it. Panic crept up behind it, but he couldn’t do much more than twitch his arms and legs.
“Mmph.”
In his head, it was a scream or something like it, rather than what he breathed out through his gag and nose. The engine’s noise wound downwards and the pitching of the deck gradually stopped, until the boat puttered along to wherever it was going.
No one was going to miss David; fewer still would mourn his death, no matter how brutal it might end up being. He’d seen enough videos of what happened to gay men unlucky enough to get caught by skinheads.
Would he beg? Probably. Would it do any good? No.
Would he say he was a pedophile, no matter if it wasn’t true? Yes, he’d say anything to stop from being cut or burned — or raped with a bottle. They’d make a video and put it on the web, and most people in his own country would think it was fake. Others would laugh; a few would mourn, but no one he would know.
“That’s not why you’re here.” The voice was soft, but definitely a man’s. “Not exactly, anyway…you’ll see soon enough.”
Blindfold removed, David saw where he’d been taken. The old fort out in the water; the city’s lights flickered in the distance. His captor ripped the tape from his mouth and pulled the cloth from inside. No one would hear him out here, after all.
“Fuck, please…” This earned him a slap across the face.
His captor was about David’s age; early thirties. A scar ran down from the top of his head on the right side to the cleft of his jaw; ragged and wide, as if carved there. A small tattoo rested under his left eye, a symbol like a crooked cross inked in black. He was stronger than he looked and picked David up, bringing him to rest over his shoulder.
For a horrible moment, David felt the man sway as he stepped off the boat and onto the quay. He imagined falling into the water, slowly sinking as he twisted and turned. He imagined falling to the stone ground and breaking bones. It was hard to say which would be worse.
From his vantage, David got a more or less clear view of everything around them as they passed inside the old building. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he caught sight of twisted girders and steel frames.
He wondered if there were still bodies underneath them, unrecovered from the fire. When had it been?
His captor paused, flicked a switch, and brought some dim halogen lamps to life. The light was fitful — hazy, as if the filaments were on their last legs. They illuminated white tiles spotted with mold and moss, a floor hidden beneath a layer of disturbed dust.
David was dumped to the floor and the wind
was knocked from his lungs. He curled up into a ball, bending around himself and only straightening out when the pain subsided somewhat.
“He promises me things,” said the tattooed man. “He promises me an end to fear and loathing and all the bad things. He keeps his word, as long as I do what he says.”
“Listen, you don’t have to do this.”
“Listen, you don’t have to do this,” the man echoed. “No one ever thinks of other things to say. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like fucking parrots.”
Turning, David saw the glint of a blade in the man’s hand. He walked forward, turning the knife over and around without effort. He knelt and looked into David’s eyes.
“Maybe you’ll be different, but I doubt it.” This close, David could see the bulge in his jeans. “He likes to watch the things I do to the ones who disappoint.”
Turning the knife, he smacked the bottom of the blade into David’s face. His lip broke in a spray of blood; the blow was enough to dizzy him. David was still reeling when he hit him again from the other side, catching him just under the eye and breaking the skin.
“Just a warning, just a warning,” the tattooed man told him as he held the blade up between them, close to David’s nose.
Eyes watering, mouth filling with blood, David nodded in understanding.
“Good, they all do that too.” The man cut the straps around David’s ankles and dragged him up. “He likes to taste the blood first anyway.”
1999
The acoustics were distorted down here, and Sasha wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or if it really did sound like that. The music thrummed, warbled into something different from how it really sounded. There were feet and feet of concrete overhead, which should’ve muted all sound.
“Weird,” Alena mused. “Place must be falling apart.”
No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection) Page 13
