She circled the house, peering through gaps in the curtains. The house was dark apart from a single light shining in the bathroom, and all she could make out through the frosted glass was the gleam of halogens on porcelain.
The light was... odd. Pink. There was nothing pink in the bathroom that she remembered. It was a pantheon to white sterility. Modernist, she'd supposed - better than the earth-tone atrocity she'd endured back in New York.
It was only a splash of colour, but it set Kimberly's stomach churning. She rapped on the glass. "Peter?"
Nothing moved inside. She splashed across the muddy lawn and clambered over the rear gate, falling to her knees in the grass. The back door was unlocked, and she stepped into the darkness of one-one-eight Rosewater Avenue.
She smelled it as soon as the door closed behind her. The unmistakable stink of shit. She'd learned to endure it in the weeks she'd spent hiding in the upstairs bedroom, Curtis's rancid diapers fading into a background miasma that she could ignore if she closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth. Now it was thick in the air, the stench of human waste so strong that she gagged.
She crossed the laundry, every hesitant step echoing off the tiles. The smell only grew stronger as she crossed the hall, and pulling her shirt up over her nose didn't help. She flicked light switches as she went, but being able to see the emptiness in every room made her more and more uneasy.
When the lights were out, she could still pretend Peter might be waiting in a shadowed corner, scowling, a lecture prepared detailing all the ways in which she'd disappointed both himself and Curtis. She could handle that. With the lights on, one-one-eight Rosewater was mausoleum-still.
An overturned glass lay on the coffee table, the water-stain spreading slow fingers across the laminate. Peter's shoes were set neatly beside the front door. The sideboard phone was on the hook. Such small things, but they scared the shit out of her. Everything was almost normal. Everything except for that unholy smell coming out of the bathroom.
The house wasn't her house, but somehow that odour offended her. It wasn't right, not for a place with a baby. Typical - the moment she left Peter alone, basic hygiene fell apart-
The stink hit her the moment she opened the bathroom door. It was thick, a slap across the face, worse than any dirty diaper. Not just shit but vomit as well, bile and everything else nasty that came out after a big night of drinking.
Of course. Peter had hit the bottle and thrown up in the bathroom, forgotten to flush and staggered away with Curtis to recuperate at a friend's place. How obvious. He hadn't taken the car because he was barely able to stand. He'd left his shoes because... well, because drunk men made bad decisions.
But as the pink light hit her, that ghoulish red reflecting from the porcelain tub, she knew it was something worse.
She held her breath as she inched across to the bath. It was a combination shower/tub, the sort where you could lose your footing and shatter your skull on the edge. Fifty old ladies died every year in New York taking baths, she'd heard. The silent, slippery killer, waiting to strike.
A panicked giggle rose up and died on her lips. The shower curtain crinkled in her hand. Her heart punched so hard she could almost hear the echo off the tiles.
She yanked the curtain back.
For a moment the tableau made no sense - just a smear of red and grey, tangled and leaking. Then Kimberly blinked, understood, and staggered back against the door, one hand over her mouth to keep the scream inside. The pink glow. The stench. She understood. God, there was so much. How had all that slid out of one human body?
The wood was cold against her shoulder blades. Her left leg jittered and she grabbed for the door handle to keep from falling to the floor. Her breath came in panicked gasps. Of course, she thought. The coppery taste on the back of her tongue. It was blood in the air.
She couldn't bear to look into the tub again, but when she turned away she found herself facing the mirror. The whole scene was reflected: coils upon coils of viscera, the purple deflated football-sack that might have been a liver or bladder or something in between, two spongy masses that had to be kidneys blocking the drain and the whole damn mess coated in a thin membrane like mucus. Blood crusted on the porcelain. A tide-mark of bile and fluids ringing the tub.
A human being turned inside out and emptied like a vacuum-cleaner bag.
Kimberly couldn't keep from being sick any longer. She ran for the kitchen and retched into the sink, sobbing and heaving until there was nothing left in her to throw up.
Jesus, those ropes of intestines. They'd been swelling...
Curtis.
The boy wasn't her baby, wasn't anything to her but a squealing pink parasite, but she still sprinted up the stairs and into the nursery. Curtis's bassinet was empty, sheets neatly folded. No blood. No puddle of guts on the floor. Not even the impression of a footprint in the thick shag carpet.
The house was silent. The front door still locked. The air tasted musty, like the windows hadn't been opened in days.
That was Peter in there. Peter slit open, reduced to... meat.
She almost threw up again but managed to choke it back. No good in sobbing her guts out. She needed to move, move fast. Peter had never hurt anyone, not even her, not even when she'd stolen his car and denied his name. Hell, when the clicker-thing came to their door he hadn't even seen it. It'd washed over him like a mirage.
Whoever had come to their house... his house, Kimberly reminded herself, Peter's house, her prison... had been there for her.
And, more than likely, they'd be back.
No time for a change of clothes. She needed money. Peter's swear-jar was atop the dining-room cabinet, swollen with pennies and quarters and the occasional dollar bill. She emptied it across the floor and snatched anything green. The horrible light was still reflecting from the bathroom, that sickly pink glow, and she didn't want to walk past it on the way out. Somehow she knew it'd seep into her skin, stain her...
The phone rang.
Such an ordinary sound, the clatter of a tiny bell, but it sent ice clawing down Kimberly's spine. She didn't want to answer, didn't want to go near the thing, but the bell was a drill burrowing into her ear. She ran to the hall, stomach clenched as she passed the open bathroom door, and stared at the phone, expecting the receiver to jump off the side-table and into her hand. The phone rang eight times, each bell-clatter leaving her shivering, then fell still.
No way was it a coincidence. Kimberly yanked the phone cord from the wall hard enough to snap the cable. Better. All she needed was food, a couple bottles of water, and she'd be gone. Fitch wouldn't follow her, Goodwell wouldn't have a clue, she could leave the whole fucking mess behind-
The phone rang again.
Kimberly froze in place. She thought she'd vomited out everything in her stomach but she could still taste it, pressing at the back of her throat. The wallpaper was cool against the nape of her neck as she retreated from the receiver.
It rang, and rang, and stopped.
And rang again.
"Fuck you!" She snatched the receiver from the cradle and threw it against the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. It bounced, rolled across the carpet, and came to rest against the toe of her shoe.
A tinny voice said, "Hello?"
Kimberly could only stare. The voice was unfamiliar, not Peter or Goodwell but definitely male. She whispered, "Who are you?"
"Pick up the phone, Mrs Archer. I'm trying to help."
She wanted to run but she had to know, she had to know even if it killed her. She plucked the phone from the carpet with trembling fingers. "Who is this?"
"I'm sorry about the mess in your bathroom, Mrs Archer."
The man on the other end had a politician's voice, honeyed and smooth. The sort you'd trust to shake your hand and kiss your baby on the cheek, but Kimberly wasn't in the mood to be seduced with smooth lines. "Who the fuck are you? Where's Peter?"
"You misunderstand me, Mrs Archer. I didn't kill him. We h
ave a mutual friend. Maybe Fitch mentioned me? I'm Mister Gull, and I solve problems."
Specks of spit flew from Kimberly's lips and spattered the receiver. "Listen, you shit. If you're trying to scare me or send a message or... or anything, you're wasting your time."
"Far from it. I'm trying to help you, Mrs Archer. They took your husband and your child-"
"He's not my husband!"
"Play along, Mrs Archer. In this town we all wear the masks they hand us. I'm Mister Gull, and you're happily married. That is, until your recent breakdown and run-in with that poor nurse... but I'm getting off track. Your husband and child are the real issue."
"Are..." Her lips were so dry she could barely form the words. "Are they dead?"
"I don't know. I can't see that far. I doubt they're of any value, except as a lure. They want you, Kimberly. They want you bent and broken."
"Why?"
"If I knew why," Mister Gull said, "I would've done it myself. You're of great value to the things running this town, and damned if I can put my finger on the reason. Either way, that makes you worth protecting."
Kimberly closed her eyes. The stink still coiled in her nostrils, swelling in her throat. She had nothing left to throw up but the nausea hadn't gone away. God, for some noseplugs and a bottle of mouthwash. "If you think I'm coming with you, you're crazy."
"Isn't that what you said to Fitch? Be sensible, Mrs Archer. You can't make it through this storm alone. Fitch has been leading you around like a bull with a ring through its nose, but I don't mean to treat you that way. I'm just here to show you how things might be done. How you can get that man and your baby back. How you can live quietly. Maybe you're never gonna find a road to New York, but you can live without fear. I'll help you get there."
"I don't need your help."
"Maybe not. But that mess in the bathroom is going to get ripe after a couple days, and then your neighbours will come knocking at the door, and after that your little police-friend won't be so friendly. Oh yes, I know about him. Looks like he's your buddy, but if you get up real close you can smell the lies on him. He's treating this like a game, Mrs Archer. You can either be the pawn or the queen. Which would you prefer?"
The true Queen lives. What had Rosenfeld said? Calls herself the true queen but she's a pretender. True queen would never make filth like me. "From what I hear, this town already has too many queens."
"Very perceptive. I intend on fixing that. So you ask yourself, who're you going to serve? Or would you rather be your own master?"
"You're not telling me anything Fitch hasn't told me already."
"Fitch is his own man, true. Difference is, Fitch wants to destroy. I can show you something better. All you have to do is step out the door."
Kimberly twitched the curtain aside. A car had pulled up across the road, a grey sedan with tinted windows. "Is that you?"
"It certainly is." The driver's door opened and a man stepped out into the rain. Slim, well kept, hair parted neatly, beard clipped straight, his suit immaculate. He reminded Kimberly of a middle-aged public defendant, weary but always smiling, ready with a quiet joke and a pat on the back. The sort you could spill all your secrets to.
So why did that make her so uneasy?
The man across the street met her eyes and tipped the brim of an invisible hat. His mouth moved and his voice sprang from the receiver. "Hello, Mrs Archer. As I was saying, I'm Mister Gull. Now, if you'd please join me?"
She couldn't resist. She didn't want to, any more.
Slowly, gently, she set the receiver back on the cradle and stepped out into the rain.
THE END
OF RUST: TWO
RUST: THREE ARRIVES LATE 2015
Thank you for reading book two of Rust!
This second arc has been a long time coming. It's cliché to say that life got in the way, but it did. Returning to university to complete my teaching qualifications has taken a huge chunk out of my time, and the story of Rust has grown in the telling. Supporting characters have become major parts of the ongoing saga, and what I used to think of as the "Kimberly and Fitch show" has become an ensemble.
None of this is bad. It means that books of Rust will arrive further apart, but each will be meatier, more complex, more packed with content.
If you'd like to keep up to date with my work, including Rust, my fantasy series Century of Sand, and my Olesia Anderson thriller series, join my mailing list!
You can also help hurry the next book along by telling people about Rust. Leave a review on Goodreads. Talk about Rust on Facebook and Twitter. Make your friends read episode one, at gunpoint if necessary. Got a blog? Write a quick article about Rust. Don't like writing for your blog? Drop me a line and I'll whip up some content for you.
Talk about it in book clubs. Gift book one to a stranger on Reddit. Print a copy of the prologue and slip it into someone's newspaper. There are hundreds of ways to spread the word about Rust, and a hundred ways to support an author without buying a book.
TELL ME YOUR SECRETS! WHAT IS THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS CHARACTER/THIS PLACE/THE CHITTERING THING?
If you've got questions, email me through [email protected]. If I can answer without spoiling the plot, I will! If I can't answer, then I'll still take note of what plot points you're most concerned about, and will make sure to give them twice the attention when the time comes.
Thanks again, and take care. I couldn't keep writing these stories if not for your support.
A very special thanks goes out to all those who donated to my 2014 GoFundMe campaign, which is largely responsible for me having the security to write at all.
So to Rebecca, Steve, Nilmini, Matt, Simon, Will, Mike, Karen, Charlie, Kevin, Sarah, Kit, Rory, Tom, Ernie, Paul, Sten, David, Chris, and all those who preferred to stay anonymous... thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You made this book happen. You're the reason I write before dawn and long after dusk.
Take care, everyone. Watch for dark corners.
Sincerely,
Christopher Ruz
Other Titles by Christopher Ruz
Cezar didn't come to the prison colony known as the Pike for rehabilitation. He came for revenge.
Ten years ago, Cezar witnessed mutiny and murder aboard a colony starship. He survived, and with the aid of the enigmatic Doctor Milan he's worked his way into the Pike to kill the man who led the rebellion: the warden himself. But before he can get his hands around the warden's neck, he has to deal with the prison gang known as the Song, a Buddhist preacher with a suspicious interest in Cezar's past, and the creature lurking in the mines at the heart of the Pike... a monster that devours men whole and that may, in a way, be instrumental to Cezar's plans...
Cezar has his fists and a head filled with Milan's combat circuitry. The warden has a platoon of armed guards. The only way out of the Pike is death.
The time has come for karma and blood.
The Eighteen Revenges of Doctor Milan is a psychedelic science fiction novella in the tradition of Michael Moorcock and Alfred Bester.
Richard and Ana are on the run.
As a young soldier, Richard led a rebellion that installed the King's sociopathic Magician as the new regent. Now, after forty years of tyranny, Richard has fled the kingdom with his mute daughter in tow, escaping into the desert wastes where magic still boils in the clouds and demons walk the dunes inside the bodies of men.
The Magician isn't far behind, and he's brought a pet: the Culling, an undead tracking dog with a taste for blood. But Richard has his own weapon, stolen from the Magician himself: the calcified heart of a demon, which he hopes to trade back to its original owner in exchange for sanctuary. What he doesn't know is that his daughter, Ana, is far more valuable than the stone. She was the last piece in the Magician's grand weapon, and he'll tear the desert in half to get her back...
Century of Sand is available through all major ebook retailers.
Lonely AIs, Peruvian parasites, graffiti activists and far-fu
ture memory swapping meet in Future Tides: The Collected Works of Christopher Ruz. Future Tides collects of all Christopher Ruz's short works from 2007 to 2011. Cyberpunk and space opera sit side by side with award-winning tales of heroin addiction and swords-and-sorcery fantasy in this 18 story, 60,000 word compilation. Future Tides includes three previous collections - PAST THE BORDERS, THE KING & OTHER STORIES, and NOTHING TOO DANGEROUS - as well as an exclusive scifi short: FRONT PAGE CAPTION.
Don't want to miss a single Christopher Ruz or D. D. Marks release? Make sure to sign up for my mailing list. No blog spam, no irritations, just news about upcoming titles and giveaways. No muss, no fuss!
Christopher Ruz - Author and Designer
Christopher Ruz on Facebook
Christopher Ruz on Twitter
Rust: Two Page 21
