Harbinger Island

by Dorian Dawes

  "Anyway, looks like all this went down in the mid-sixties, and the government was pretty quick to try and keep press about it to a minimum. I guess before the internet it was easier to keep people in the dark about this stuff. They did have people 'volunteer' to come by specific testing centers who were later taken to a facility in Nevada."

  "If I hadn't seen some of the weirdest shit in my life this week I might have a harder time swallowing this," Justin said. "Nevada? Like Area 51 Nevada?"

  "Please!" Dayabir hissed throwing his hands up. His breathing was heavy. Poor kid looked terrified out of his mind. "Let me finish."

  "Sorry," Justin said. "Please go on."

  "One of those people was from here - or not here exactly, but Oakridge. This kid named Eric Winter. He's referred to from then on in the report as Codename: Winterchild. Weird, right? Some of the stuff after that is pretty boring. There's financial issues in regards to testing and heat coming down on them from corporate investors. For whatever reason, Syracuse is referenced heavily and I can't tell if it's a city or a codename for a person or whatever."

  "They're a conglomerate," Justin said. "My mom worked at one of their buildings in Maine, filling out test surveys. They do things like manufacture technology, government R&D contracts, and hell, they even own television stations and pharmaceutical companies."

  Dayabir made an 'O' with his mouth. "Okay, that's terrifying. So now that part makes a lot more sense. After that, things get weirder. Winterchild starts going off in gibberish one day until the scientists figure out that it's a language. He's speaking in languages not known to humankind. Meanwhile, he's oozing copious amounts of this black liquid from every orifice and his vital signs are dropping. Then people around him start dying. There's a whole list of redacted names of all the casualties caused by people who get near this black stuff, but that's not the part that freaks me out. Before they go they all start speaking in that same gibberish language, and there's only one word on their lips right before the lights go out. Avaroth."

  Justin felt like there was ice lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow. "I know that name. That's the name the Maleficarum were chanting when they tried to murder my friends."

  Dayabir sat stunned on the bed next to him. Justin leaned over and held his hand tight. Dayabir laid his head on his shoulder. Their hearts beat together, united in that harried breadth of unease and anxiety. The room was thick with it.

  "I'm afraid," Dayabir whispered.

  "Me too," Justin said. "Who sent you this?"

  "I don't know his name," Dayabir said. "He just calls himself Warden."

  Justin didn't say anything. He squeezed Dayabir's hand a little harder though, desperate to hold on to something. They cuddled for the remainder of the evening. Dayabir slept, spooning Justin tightly in his arms. Justin fought sleep as long and as hard as he could. He knew that when he closed his eyes, the nightmares would come and in the deep dark dreaming, he would see two golden eyes staring at him, burning with malice.

  The Man with the Yellow Tie

  It had been three days since Veronika was attacked by the spirit of the familiar. The creature had destroyed her car. She had barely enough money in her bank account to purchase a new one. That shortened her timetable. If she didn't find a lead soon, she'd have to pack up and travel back to Wakefield more lost and confused than ever. The only difference would be the oppressive air of defeat she'd carry with her. Failure was the worst feeling.

  Veronika refused to give up. For the last three days, she'd walked as far as she could around Kerryville, talked to anyone who was willing about Eileen Kiernan. They either knew little or refused to speak at all. It was a small and dying community; she estimated no more than a hundred people lived here, and most were probably so far out of town she wouldn't make it without a vehicle.

  Time that she felt should have gone to researching Eileen's history, or the Cult of Ein Sof, was now spent trying to find the cheapest hunk of wheels she could in this sorry community. There was a used car lot a short walking distance away. The only thing more distasteful to her than the corroded scrap-heap was the yellow fly-tape that had to be at least a decade old hanging from the salesman's office.

  He had that smarmy air about him too, like if Steve Buscemi were to play a Ferengi in some Star Trek spin-off. He stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders and whistled at her from the RV that doubled as the office building.

  She'd worn a simple black dress and granny boots, and wore her thick, natural hair pulled back, in little mood to mess with it. The most effort she'd put into her appearance today was the amount it took to keep the scowl off her face when he referred to her as a "chocolate sweetie."

  "Nice," she said, then made a failed attempt at a smile. Performative politeness for the sake of white men only ran so far with her. It came out as more of a grimace. She pulled her silky black shawl tighter around herself and approached the shambling RV.

  He appeared to ignore her displeasure at his 'compliment' and adjusted his baseball cap. He approached her with both hands on his hips and a hungry look in his eye. "So, what can I do for ya, darlin'?"

  Veronika wrinkled her nose. Did this man's religion have something against deodorant? She shifted her position in a subtle manner so as to stand slightly downwind.

  "I need a car, something durable," she said, coughing.

  He tipped his hat and crooked his finger for her to follow. "Well, I think I got something that might suit your particular persuasion, Miss Thang. Eh heh."

  "Veronika. Please."

  "Clint Hurley. Now check out this fine set of wheels. Only two thousand. We take cash only, by the way. Is that all right?"

  She looked at the car. It was bright purple, or had been once. The color had faded to an ugly pastel. Most garish of all was the zebra-pattern print on the seats. They'd been chewed or shot up so the stuffing and springs were exposed. The blood-stained fuzzy dice hanging from the dashboard mirror added a cozy touch.

  "Oh dear," she said, mouth hanging open. "That certainly is something. Why is there blood?"

  Clint shrugged and said, "I don't ask questions about the cars I'm sent. I just sell 'em."

  "Well, I'd like something with a bit less personality. 'Kay?"

  She gave him as friendly a smile as she could muster. If Clint had at all detected the annoyed tone radiating from her, he gave no indication. Either he was that dense or was pretending otherwise to keep things from getting awkward. She was a slight micro-aggression away from making things plenty awkward.

  Clint led her to another car. It was a faded yellow bug, not the greatest thing in the world but far from the eyesore she'd previously witnessed. He looked nervous when she popped the hood. She restrained a victory smile. Everything seemed to be in working order, but rattling his cage might get him to lower the prices to something resembling a reasonable deal.

  "I like this one. How much for it?"

  He patted the top and said, "Oh. I couldn't part with her for less than two thousand up front, sister."

  "Sister?" Veronika snarled. "That does it."

  Her hand shot out and gripped him by the throat. Before he even had a second to react she'd snarled some strange words under her breath and he felt his feet lift off the ground. He struggled within her grasp, hands attempting to pry her fingers from around his neck.

  "Bet you're not used to angry black women, Mr. Hurley," she said in a calmer tone. "Now, I've had about all I can take of your backwoods bullshit. I'd like to buy this car from you. I'd like you to tell me exactly what it's worth and maybe we can make a deal. Sound good?"

  He nodded. His brow was soaked with sweat. Later, as she was driving away she'd note the look of horror, confusion, and rage on his face. It was important to savor life's simple pleasures.

  * * *

  "Satisfied, flesh-thing?" the translucent yellow snake familiar asked while lounging lazily around her neck. It stared at her through unblinking red eyes. Sometimes they were black. Veronika often wondered if they
changed based on the spirit's mood. She thought it impolite to ask.

  "Satisfaction is fleeting, so I take it where I can," she said, keeping her attention fixed on the road and one hand on the wheel. With the other hand, she reached behind her to stroke the side of the spirit's head with a finger. It closed its eyes, appearing content with this.

  Yiggie burrowed its nose underneath her shawl and she felt its coils relax. "Are you often unsatisfied, flesh-thing?" it asked. "We might suggest finding someone to scritch your nose and pet the top of your head. It is most comforting."

  Veronika smiled at that. "Thought I connected with someone like that already, but decided against it. They'd only hate me eventually."

  "Adversity sharpens you, and you thrive on it."

  "I don't need to be another roadblock in this girl's life. Don't think she'd be happy with how I killed my mom, anyway. I get pissed, I lash out. Even when I was a kid, Momma said I had a temper. Think a nice girl like Kara could love someone like that?"

  "Would you rather be loved for something you're not?"

  "Not sure if I can love someone who'd be okay with loving me. That's the fucked-up part about it." She closed her eyes and exhaled.

  Yiggie said nothing in reply. It knew better than to pry any further.

  "This is the worst town to drive through," Veronika said, looking briefly out of the side window. "All crumbling buildings, deserted streets and cracked pavement. It's a town with history and a story to tell, but it's the dullest story ever told. A stagnating community feeding off itself as the youth feel forced out by the unchanging ways of their elders. No opportunity but to sink and die with the rest of them. How long do you think before this place becomes a ghost town?"

  "One would be surprised at the longevity of ghosts, flesh-thing."

  As she drove into the dingy hotel parking lot, she was surprised to see there were not one but two cars parked. One was sleek and black, and looked expensive as hell. The other was uncomfortably familiar. Veronika couldn't place where she'd seen the truck before. She furrowed her brow. Yiggie flattened its body against her arm and shifted its form, disguising itself once more as a tattoo.

  She parked her new rust-bucket and sat staring off into eternity. A million thoughts raced through her head, none of them pleasant. That bitch, was the first thought. She curled her lip and groaned. Veronika found herself simultaneously pissed and horrified.

  "What is it?"

  "She's. Here," Veronika said through tightly-grit teeth.

  She stomped out of the car, slamming the door angrily behind her. Dramatic, fuming gestures are fun and all, but a poor choice when one is wearing long scarves and billowy sleeves. She'd only stormed but a step forwards before her scarf pulled taut, then slipped off her shoulders into a dirty puddle below. It'd gotten caught in the door during her dramatic exit. Veronika stared. Her eyebrow twitched.

  "Fucking fantastic," she whispered, throwing the car door open again and snatching the now muddied scarf. She held it in her hands in front her face and pouted before wringing it out. A moment later, she found herself regretting ever touching it as she unthinkingly wiped her hands on her shirt. She stared in horror at the mud-stains trailing down from her chest to her stomach.

  "Yiggie, I fucked up. This is uh, well, this is awesome."

  In an ideal world, any time we cross paths with someone who's pissed us off, we would look our greatest. Especially if this person were a lover, or some otherwise attractive figure you'd like to smugly greet before discarding them as you brush past. How fitting would it be for Veronika to enter that hotel lobby, scarf billowing behind her, eyeliner winged out to a deadly tip, and a black-lipsticked smile waiting to greet dear Kara.

  Instead, she found herself staring awkwardly from the doorway, make up barely present, looking exhausted, and covered in mud. She wasn't sure if Kara had ever seen her like this, so dowdy and frazzled. Everything about her appearance was normally so tightly controlled.

  Kara was standing in front the hotel desk, about to ask Rosie the hotel manager something when the bell ringing over the door caught her attention. She turned momentarily and stopped mid-sentence. She and Veronika stared at each other for a solid minute.

  For weeks, Veronika had imagined what she might say to Kara when she saw her in person again. Any words had all been replaced by her showing up in Kerryville like this, especially after asking her not to. She thought she might have some angry thing to express, some perfect sentence to properly put her in her place.

  Instead, they stared. All the things Veronika had to hide from scrutiny had been stripped from her. Kara could now see everything. Part of her flinched at feeling so vulnerable. Another welcomed it.

  "Hey …" Veronika said in a weak voice, hating to be the one to break the silence.

  "Hi," Kara said. Kara looked great, because of course she did. The universe must have dictated it somehow. She was wearing this black sundress and her Doc Martens, looking cute and ready to kick ass. That was always Kara - big, beautiful Kara.

  "I told you not to come," Veronika said in a soft voice.

  "Would you like me to leave?"

  Veronika shook her head.

  "Not really."

  Kara did smile at that. She thanked Rosie for her time. The morose manager nodded wordlessly and returned to her office. Veronika watched the quiet shuffling of the older woman until she vanished from the room. Daytime Rosie's cheerful disposition had vanished in recent days.

  "She is one who has been touched by loss," Yiggie whispered into Veronika's mind.

  Kara turned awkwardly away from the desk to Veronika.

  "Is … is she all right?"

  Veronika shrugged. "Come to my room, I gotta get changed. I'll try to fill you in."

  Kara followed Veronika out of the lobby and towards her room. Their first interaction had been more pleasant than she'd been expecting; that put her off. Admittedly, there was much she didn't know about this girl. They hadn't had time before Veronika had rushed off to Kerryville to investigate the cult that had abused them both as children. Kara had already made the judgment that Veronika was the type to push feelings aside until they slowly boiled to the surface. She'd be bracing herself for the explosion later.

  Veronika watched a man climb out the black, shiny car. Had he been sitting there the entire time? He wore a pinstriped black suit and round sunglasses. Most striking and odd to her was the garish yellow tie he wore around his neck. He slammed his cane into the ground with each step he took. TAP-TAP-TAP.

  Shiny black shoes came closer to them. Yiggie reflexively tightened its coils. She could feel her familiar's warnings of danger. Whoever this man was, he presented a real threat to them. Veronika's fingers twitched to make the signs ready for a defensive spell.

  TAP-TAP-TAP.

  Kara's eyes narrowed. She wondered for a brief moment if Veronika knew this creep. Her shoulders tightened. There was something unwholesome about him. He had the sort of gait and malevolent smile that promised only a desire to hurt.

  TAP-TAP-TAP.

  He stopped directly in front of them, long fingers curled about the top of the cane. He tipped his bowler hat politely to them even as his smile broadened. Veronika couldn't help but notice the ghastly pale nature of his skin - no, it was more than pale. It appeared stretched and loose in all the wrong places - like he'd taken someone else's skin, only to find it an ill-fitting match.

  "Ladies …" he said in an oily voice. "Would you be kind enough to hear a proposition?"

  Kara curled a hand into a fist. Veronika calmly and gently pushed her fist to the side. She shook her head frantically, while giving her a pleading expression. Kara grunted and let her, though the fighting look in her eye remained.

  "Very wise," the man said, noting the exchange. "I'd hate to have to snuff out such promising talent."

  "All right, fine. What do you want?" Kara barked.

  He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "It's not what I want, it's what you want. You're bot
h looking into the life and death of one particular woman, Eileen Kiernan. Isn't that right? Turns out she's a previous associate of mine. Oh, don't give me that look - we didn't part on the most agreeable of terms. A small-minded nincompoop with more ambition than talent, I'm afraid.

  "It's come to my attention that perhaps it was a lapse of judgment on our part that allowed her to continue on with her … experiments. We'd like to make amends. At the moment, we're in the middle of putting our house in order, making preparations to ensure a more solid foundation. To do that, previous sins must be addressed."

  Veronika's eyes narrowed. "Who's 'we'?"

  He gave them both a smile, then said, "You'll find that out on your own in time, you're very bright. Now, I hate to be pushy, but time is pressing and my superiors will want word soon that we've made contact. Will you allow my assistance?"

  Kara sneered. "And the catch?"

  He blinked rapidly, looking somewhat confused by the statement. He then laughed. It was a low hollow sound, as if laughter itself was foreign to his body.

  "I suppose even information might be seen as currency in this world …" he remarked. "Very well then, you'll owe me a favor. Even better, that favor will be you accompanying me to the last site I ever spoke with Ms. Kiernan. I know that to you this seems like a risk, but honestly … I'm your only lead."

  Veronika stiffened. She and Kara exchanged looks. Kara only shrugged in response. Veronika sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "I'm gonna fucking regret this, I know it," she said. "Fine. Where are we going, anyway?"

  He retrieved a brochure from his jacket pocket, twirling it with a flourish before handing it to her. The cover image was that of a peaceful suburban community with all the happy trappings of a photoshopped sun shining down on a crystal clear lake in the background, and a pleasant photo of a bunch of white people holding hands and smiling. The insincerity alone was enough to make Veronika hurl. In gold cursive font were the words Yellow Coasts.