by Joe Hart
He ran again. His legs felt like hunks of lead, threatening to fold him to the watery ground, and several alarming bursts of light began to flash at the corners of his vision. He couldn’t fall now, not when she was so close to the river. If she disappeared beneath its surface, he’d have failed. Failed not only Barry and his family but every other human being on earth.
The roar of the water was everywhere now; the air was alive with it. Sullivan ran around the tip of the deadfall and saw the stampeding flow of the river to his left. Its banks, within inches of overflowing, curved in a scythe toward him, and then swung away to the southeast, where it dropped into the foaming jaws of white rapids. The smaller stream joined its brother from the right, forming a peninsula of land. Sullivan sprinted toward the point and slid to a stop directly in the path of the scurrying creature.
She paused in mid-step, her insect-like form shuddering and contorting with what he assumed was pain. Black liquid drooled in a steady flow out of her ruined mouth, and she swayed drunkenly on unsteady legs. She looked down at him as he stood to his full height and pointed the pistol at her face. Both eyes shone like volcanic glass and glared at him, into him, with hatred so palpable, he felt it bore into his chest. The smaller legs near her back end gripped and pulled at the ground, digging wet furrows on both sides.
Suddenly she cried out. A bellow loud enough to make his eardrums flutter like speaker skins ripped through the clearing, as the creature’s long front legs dug into the earth. A harsh tearing sound followed, along with several dry cracks, like kindling breaking.
Sullivan watched, his eyes bulging in disbelief, as the back segment of the creature tore free and fell to the ground. The four sets of legs still attached to the pregnant portion danced and pulled as they struggled to lift the considerable weight.
“What the fuck?” Sullivan said, feeling his head tilt to the side despite himself.
More black blood spewed from the separation and coated the squirming egg sac, which dragged itself toward the surging stream. Sullivan snapped from his trance and sighted down the barrel at the rear half of the creature’s body and fired.
The bullet hit dead center in the mass of flexing flesh, with a sound like a melon being struck by a baseball bat. Yellowish pus squirted from the wound in a curving fountain, and the legs holding up the weight of the sac stumbled and fell. The creature spun on shaking legs toward her lower half, studied the wound, and then turned back to Sullivan. Its antenna snapped and slashed the air in fury, and it bellowed again as it took a step toward him.
Sullivan glanced down at the gun in his hand, the slide open and locked back, the empty chamber staring at him like an uncaring eye. When he looked back up, the beast had taken another step, its weight awkward with the missing balance of the rest of its body. His hand snaked down to his pockets, searching for something, anything he could use as a weapon, while he backpedaled toward the roaring river. A small cylinder met his groping fingers, and for a moment he could only look down at what his hand had produced from his pocket.
The .45 shell he’d used to check the bullet holes in the boat gleamed dully in the gray light. Trying not to think about how wet the powder could be inside the case or the chances of a misfire, he fed the round into the waiting handgun and let the slide slam home. The creature was closer, only a few yards away, and he could smell her rotting scent. He looked up into one of the unblinking orbs and felt heat begin to sear the top of his skull. No, not the top but inside. It felt as if layers of his brain were being peeled away, inch by inch, until the very bottom of his head had the sensation of unhinging. He blinked and gritted his teeth as he raised the gun, which now felt heavier than a cinderblock at the end of his arm. An unbroken tendril snaked free of the creature’s mouth and raced toward his upturned face, as he aimed and pulled the trigger.
The beast’s left eye detonated in a shower of clear fluid. The tendril stopped its flight toward Sullivan’s face and fell limp, as the creature wobbled backward. A choked cry, much higher in pitch than its earlier calls, leaked out of its mouth. He watched the thing spin in a half circle and then back before tipping onto its rearmost legs. For a moment it looked as if it would simply sit down, but then it reared up, fighting for balance that would not come. It pitched backward and fell with a resounding crunch onto its still-bleeding egg sac. Sullivan saw the pointed black spines on its back disappearing into and through the skin of its detached body. Its long front legs scissored out in a few feeble movements, and then began to curl inward, until they were folded neatly into its body. Sullivan was reminded of a dying spider, its legs tucked close in a final act of protection. The creature gasped one last time and laid still. Life exited its remaining eye, the black color fading to a cloudy gray that mirrored the sky overhead.
All the strength left Sullivan’s legs and he fell to the ground, Barry’s pistol still clutched in one hand. The rain pattered down around him and the stream ran to meet the river, which heedlessly rushed on out of sight. He let his senses relax, and stared at the clouds above, which were iron colored but higher than he’d seen them in weeks. In a few spots he could actually see patches of sky shifting in and out of focus with the storm’s movements. The forest around him was still, with only the dipping of leaves in response to the rain’s touch. A thudding grew above the sound of the river, and he raised his eyes to the tree line.
A speck that he thought at first was a distant circling bird took shape, and soon he could make out the fanning rotors of the helicopter. For a few seconds he thought that the sun had come out, since the rain felt warmer on his face, but then he realized that tears were leaking from both of his eyes. He tried to stand and felt as though every inch of his body was covered in rusted wire. After another attempt, he made it to his feet. He stared at the stilled body, which had come from somewhere he never wished to see again, a place he hoped would wither and die beneath the light of an alien star. Some things were meant to fade away.
Without another look back, he turned and pushed his way through the branches that met him and strained his ears for the sweet sound of the helicopter landing somewhere to the west.
Chapter 13
Sullivan woke with a start, his eyes scanning the darkened living room around him. His living room, his house. He listened, his breath hitching in his chest for over thirty seconds before he allowed himself to relax. He licked his lips and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. Barry’s gun sat on his right thigh, held loosely in his hand. To his left a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels rested on a nearby table. The wind outside gusted and made the house around him creak and groan in protest of the approaching storm.
He’d watched The Weather Channel and seen the growing nest of greens and reds that clustered and inched across the screen toward his residence. He watched The Weather Channel a lot. He had quite a bit of free time on his hands now that he wasn’t working anymore. Debilitating posttraumatic stress disorder. The psychiatrist only saw him three times and then wrote a dismissal letter on his behalf. He’d handed the letter, along with his ID, to a solemn Hacking, who’d taken the items without looking him fully in the face. There had been no gun to turn in since he hadn’t retrieved it from the room where he dropped it at Singleton.
After a few days he’d realized there would be no corroboration for his story. He’d seen a few of the faces of the men who’d come back from the fork in the river. He knew that they’d seen what lay on its banks, but they said nothing. It had been swept beneath a rug so thick and piled with lies, there would never be a way to get the truth from anyone who saw anything that day. New Haven had dropped the charges of assault, breaking and entering, and endangering a patient after he’d gotten his diagnosis. Several weeks of tests and procedures to detect radiation followed. Miraculously, he was free of any toxins and was cleared to go home, to sit and think … and remember.
He reached out and grasped the whiskey by the throat before taking a long pull from the bottle. The liquor burned and helped dull the memories that w
ere always there waiting to pull him into the depths of his mind, where they’d smother him for hours.
But he remembered anyway.
He remembered what it had felt like watching Everett and Barry die in his arms, their lives flowing out of them like water through a sieve. He remembered the things that spewed from the mouths of so many, poisoned by something not of this world, or perhaps even this dimension. He remembered staring into the creature’s bottomless black eyes that had peered into him that morning near the river. He drank another swallow of the amber liquid before letting his mind return to why he sat in his living room, his easy chair facing the front door, a gun held in sweating fingers.
Unwilling to truly accept why he was doing it, he’d driven to Minneapolis the week before, letting the car take him without purposely steering it to a destination. Regardless of how his mind tried to hide from it, he ended up there anyway.
The sprawling grounds of LakewoodCemetery were quiet and motionless the day he’d walked across the parking lot and onto the soft grass. The city hadn’t suffered the storms the north had endured, and there were no puddles or standing water—a small blessing. He’d wound his way over two hills, and then followed a paved path that led deep into the cemetery, beneath a towering oak that shaded a spot he knew so well. How many times had he stood there under its unwavering watch? How many tears had he cried as he looked at the stone that bore his last name? He’d hesitated before stepping off the path onto the too-green grass, and when he came into full sight of the grave, it was like a giant tumbler falling into place, locking tight all rational explanations and thoughts that pounded on the wall that now separated him from a reality he could never fully return to.
The house snapped and popped again at the storm’s insistence, and he flinched, bringing the gun up from his leg, only to let it rest there again after a minute of listening. This was his life now. A trip to the mailbox to collect his check that paid for the mortgage, a few groceries, and the glowing stack of bottles he never let fall below five in his pantry.
And waiting in his chair at night for something to come to his door.
Although he’d tried to put everything that he’d witnessed at Singleton behind him, the moment by the river wouldn’t let him rest except in the full light of day. Because he remembered. He remembered the heat of the thing’s mind pressing down upon his, how she’d cut through his defenses and penetrated him. How until the last second he hadn’t believed Andrews, hadn’t believed an old man hollowed by disease and a sadness so deep that he’d held on to hope, no matter how vile the price would have been.
But he believed now.
He’d felt her inside his head, prying and pulling until he’d been able to fire the shot that extinguished her life. He’d felt her intelligence withdraw from his own; an intelligence so vast and brimming with power, it dwarfed every other experience he’d ever known. But not before she spoke one word to him, a word that echoed to the depths of his soul—still echoed. The word that would exact a revenge so cruel that sanity itself would crumble before it. The word that compelled him to drive to the cemetery where his wife was buried. To see the earth disturbed there, as if something had recently crawled out from below.
He heard the word in his mind, as if whispered by the storm outside, and hefted the gun again.
Rachel.
The End
Author’s Note
Where the hell did this one come from, you ask? I’ll tell you.
I was looking for a new project while Lineage was being edited, and couldn’t really decide on something solid. I had three or four ideas that were all decent, but none jumped up and grabbed me by the throat, which is how I know I’ve found my next story. On Tuesday, June 19, 2012, a rain began to fall in the northern part of my home state of Minnesota. The torrential downpour flooded streets, washed away the ground, and saturated people’s basements in our area. It was, quite literally, the worst rainstorm I’d ever seen. But the damage caused in our area was nothing compared to Duluth, Minnesota. In Duluth, streets were overrun with water and cars were washed into sinkholes, and afterward, it was declared the worst flood in almost forty years. In the aftermath of the flood, businesses were closed, along with schools, and homeowners were forced to abandon their properties due to the damage.
The idea for Singularity spawned from this disaster sometime after I heard that the town of MooseLake was almost completely surrounded by the runoff of floodwater. Immediately my mind asked, What if it wasn’t a town cut off by water, but instead a prison?
The rest came easily.
I really hope that you enjoyed the book, and as always, I would appreciate any reviews or feedback you have to offer. Thanks so much for reading!
Other Books by Joe Hart
Midnight Paths: A Collection of Dark Horror
Lineage
Outpost: A Short Horror Story
The Edge of Life: A Short Horror Story
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Special Thanks
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Author’s Note
Other Books by Joe Hart
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Special Thanks
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Author’s Note
Other Books by Joe Hart
