Mr. Shivers
Page 26
He stepped to the side of the entryway and looked in, leading with the gun. He saw nothing. The tunnel turned away below.
“It’s leaving me,” said the voice. “Can you feel it? It’s abandoning me. In a way I am glad but I weep at the same time. Because what will come after me? What will be next? I do not know. And I fear it.”
Connelly began walking down the passageway. It curved in a long spiral and he could not fathom how deep below the earth they were. Miles, if anything. But he felt somehow that this place was not a part of the earth in any way he knew. He had never been in a place older than this. It was so old it was below everything, below all things. Below time. Below knowledge.
“Death will not die,” warned the voice. “It will not. You must know that.”
Connelly did not answer. He kept the torch ahead of him, wiped sweat from his brow, tried to ignore the sting of smoke in his eyes and his nostrils. The torch was fading fast and he was not sure how far away the scarred man was. Two more turns? One? Three?
“It will not die,” said the voice, and this time it sounded stronger, stranger. “It will come back. Stronger. Wilder. Harder.”
Connelly cocked the gun. The voice was very near now. He could hear it whimpering nearby. Light dappled the far stone wall, coming from some source around the next bend. He studied it and took a breath.
He turned the corner and saw the scarred man sitting on the floor of the cave before another large passageway, his head bowed in his lap and his shoulders shaking. Before him was an old lantern, the flame dancing slowly in the waxy glass. The silver knife was still clutched in his fingers. Bones littered the floor around him, eye sockets flickering with the torchlight, rib cages arced and poised like hands ready to pray. Among them were weapons but weapons like nothing Connelly had ever seen before. A long musket with a wooden stock and a flint hammer. A thin rapier with a silver hilt. A broadsword easily three feet long. Even stone weapons, chiseled blades crudely lashed to sticks, spears carved from wood, pieces of stone hacked to resemble maces.
Connelly’s eye moved to the figure on the stone floor. The scarred man, sitting in the center of it all, weeping silently.
Connelly raised the gun. The gray man lifted his head to look at him, scars burning white, eyes dead and hollow. Shark eyes. Eyes that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, and did not care.
The man’s face twisted in fury. Gray needle-teeth flashed in the firelight. “No!” he screamed. “I will not let you do this! I will not let you do this!”
He leapt to his feet and Connelly fired, but it was too late. The shot went wide and punched through the scarred man’s coat. Clay and bones burst behind him as the bullet struck the cave floor. The silver knife surged forward in the man’s hand and Connelly lifted his arm to block it but it dipped up and in, biting into his side and raking his ribs. He screamed and the scarred man reached under to try to push it up and into his chest, but Connelly pulled the scarred man in and butted him in the face. A dozen tiny stars of pain came to life on his scalp where his forehead met the man’s jagged maw. Then he shoved the scarred man back, hand held to the wound at his side, knuckles already dripping.
The scarred man melted away to dart back in again and drag the knife over Connelly’s shoulder and across his neck and cheek. He seemed to be made of nothing but cloak and teeth and knives. Connelly felt lines of pain light up in his wrist and in his knee. He stumbled back and saw the icy point of the dagger glide by him once more, hissing through the air. He fired again without thinking, gunflash casting shadows on the cave wall, and the scarred man gasped and clutched his leg. Then he growled and feinted to the side and pounced forward again and Connelly felt bright blinding pain in his leg. He fell to a kneel as the leg died underneath him and he struggled to stay upright, left arm held close and winglike, a thousand wounds blossoming on his body. The scarred man seemed shaken by the last shot but he gathered his strength and leapt upon Connelly, snarling like a beast. As Connelly’s back met the stone floor he pushed the nose of the gun barrel up and fired.
Then silence. He waited for the knife to come home, to worm its way into his rib cage and ravage his heart until it lay cold. But it did not come. There was nothing but the scent of burning powder in the air and the pain in his legs and side. The gun lay on his belly, hot and heavy. Somewhere in the room someone exhaled slowly.
Connelly opened his eyes and saw the scarred man sitting on the floor again, the silver knife now on the ground. The man clutched his belly, breathing gently, then drew his hand away and looked at the smooth stain on his palm.
Dark red. Red enough to be black.
“Got you,” said Connelly softly. “Got you, finally.”
The scarred man shook his head. His mouth worked open and shut like a fish dying on a mudbank, suffocated by the air. “Fool,” he said softly. “Useless. Useless fool.” Then he started to try to stand up. He failed once and kicked the lantern over and the muddy glass bled fire onto the earthen floor. Then he fought to his feet and staggered back uncertainly until he leaned against the brick wall, hand still clutched to his stomach.
“You goddamn fool,” he gasped.
“I got you, you bastard,” Connelly said.
“You wouldn’t listen,” he said. “You just wouldn’t.”
The pool of fire spread. As it did the light in the chamber changed. Then for one instant Connelly thought he saw the young blond man standing in the cave with him in place of Shivers. The young blond man from his dreams. Then the light changed once more and he was Shivers again, and yet somewhere beneath all the years of scars and fury Connelly could still make out that sad young face, that brow anointed with red…
“Did you… Did you really think you were first?” said the scarred man. Breath whistled from down in his chest. He coughed and his teeth gleamed redly. “Or I? Look… look around you. Look at them. Did you… How could you…” Then he coughed again and rolled sideways. He stumbled into the chamber beyond and was swallowed by the darkness.
“No!” said Connelly. “No!”
Connelly gathered his ragged body together and stood and stepped forward over the pool of fire. He looked at the ancient corpses that lay around the cavern’s entrance and stared into the entry ahead. He could see nothing but he knew something waited there. Something was watching. He dropped the gun and walked into the cave.
Endless dark. No walls, no ceiling. If he ran on stone his feet did not feel it and he was not even sure if he breathed air.
“Where are you?” he asked. He walked farther ahead, one hand out in front, stumbling like he was blind.
“Where are you? Where are you!” he screamed.
His scream echoed on, yet as it faded he became aware of a second sound. A faint trickle, the muted laugh of a stream or brook somewhere in the cavern. Connelly stumbled toward it until his fingers met slick rocks and the cool caress of water. He huddled by the waters, clinging to the only concrete thing in this darkness, and then he realized the tiny stream was faintly luminescent. Some spectral blue light, seeping up from within the brook. He let his eyes adjust to its light. Focused until he saw it trickling out of the small aperture in the rock wall, then weaving away until it made a staggered arc on the cavern floor.
Something coughed in the darkness. He squinted and saw the form of a man, lying on the riverbank on the far side of the cavern. Connelly wrestled himself to his feet one last time and stumbled over, wiping the sweat and filth from his eyes.
The scarred man lay with his arms and part of his head submerged in the waters of the river. The stream gently curled and foamed around his elbow and his scalp and the black stones around him. Connelly stood over him and the scarred man tried to look at him with one staring eye, unable to lift his head, panicking like a felled deer. His mouth still opened and closed uselessly. Ghostly streamers of red ran from his chest and down the riverwater.
Connelly looked down at him for a minute or more. Then he stooped and picked up one of the black stone
s. As he did he heard the scarred man say, “No. Don’t.”
“Shut up.”
“No…”
“You shut the hell up.”
“Look,” the man whispered. “Look.” He moved one hand and tried to point into the waters.
Connelly knelt at the bank. Then he looked into the brook and saw something. Flickering images, trapped within the waters like rays of light within a prism. Then they swelled and grew until he could not look away.
Screaming. A great fire, a city burning. The sky rained daggers and knives and up in the clouds he heard the roar of engines and the bellow of explosions. He watched as some twisted black wreck swam smoking to the earth and erupted as it touched the ground. Great, hulking machines toiled across miles of mud, pausing only to spout fire that arced across the country. The seas boiled with vast iron ships that spat long spears to rove through the waves and bury themselves in the sides of crafts the size of islands.
Someone wept. He was in a forest of barbed wire and he saw a crowd of people shuddering beneath blankets thin as paper, their arms like twigs and their faces like skulls. Rivers of blood rolled through the gutters and he heard the barking of dogs and the howl of commands and somewhere there was gunfire and gasping. Then the horizon lit up as though it had been kissed by the sun and he watched as the sky boiled and the atmosphere evaporated. A wave of fire so hot it was invisible swept across a city that crumbled into dust.
The world went dark. Died. Then lit up.
Cold illumination, blue and bland. He saw cities grow cement tendrils and heave themselves up from red earth, glass towers growing from their centers to touch the very clouds. Chrome and red stars swarmed through the cities and lights flickered on and before his eyes the buildings rose and fell, each time outdoing the last until all was dwarfed by their construction. The glass obelisks glared down upon him and he felt tiny and meaningless at their feet. The cities belched poison into the rivers and seas and immense chimneys arose far in the distance and from their crowns came pillars of smoke thicker than any mountain. Then the bases of the towers filled with fumes and fire and he watched as several rose up into the sky like fireworks and disappeared behind the penumbra of moisture that made the roof of the world.
A millions voices droned. A billion. More. Metal stars wheeled above, whispering along. Everything speaking all at once. A crowded world delivered in tremendous violence, a world that sipped war’s offering and was fueled by its captures and casualties to ascend to heights that Connelly had never guessed existed.
A dawn. A rebirth. Bought with terrible sacrifice, a great suffering to drown out all others. But one that would give birth to a new age.
And for that age, a new Death. Something that had been forged in desperation and beaten hard until it was inured to all pleas and did not know the meaning of mercy. Something that would bring this suffering without hesitation and so usher in the future.
Connelly looked up. Something stood across the river from them. Something familiar. It gestured to him, calling him.
“Don’t,” whispered the scarred man at his feet. “Don’t do it.”
Connelly looked back down at the thing on the riverbank. He lifted the stone in his hands and took a breath.
“It’ll be worse,” the scarred man said softly. “So much… So much worse.”
“Bastard,” said Connelly.
“Just die. Just die and leave it. Don’t go across to it. Let it be.”
“Fucking bastard,” said Connelly. He lifted the stone higher.
“No,” said Shivers. Blood sputtered from his mouth and lips. Connelly saw a wild fear in his eyes, the same fear he had seen a lifetime ago in Memphis when Death had seen him and perhaps had seen the future as well. “No,” Shivers said again. “No, don’t. Don’t!”
Connelly brought the stone down. It struck the scarred man on the eyebrow and his head snapped back and his eyes went sightless. Then Connelly lifted the stone again and brought it down again and again. And again and again.
All other things fell away. The sound of the stone on blood and flesh echoed into the chamber and the mindless action seemed simple and crude and glorious. Connelly thought there was a song in it, wild and primal. And somewhere in it was the rhythm of the world.
Savage and perfect. Hungry. Endless.
He kept hitting him long after he was dead. He could never be dead enough. Not ever.
Finally he stopped. The stone clattered to the ground beside his feet. He wiped his brow and held his hands before his eyes and watched them tremble with joy and exhaustion. Then he looked back at the thing across the river.
It beckoned to him again, calmly waiting. Patient enough to wait out ages. Connelly looked into its black eyes and over its scars. Looked at its thick beard and long black hair. Then he imagined he saw something under all of it. Under all of the scars there was a face he knew. A face like his.
A predecessor slain, a mantle won. A torch and sword to bear among the coming billions, passed down as it had been before.
The figure extended its hand to him.
Connelly nodded. “All right,” he said softly. “All right.”
And he waded across the river.
EPILOGUE
Dawn falls across the country.
The sun’s warming fingers reach down into the plains. What little growth there is stretches to its touch but goes ignored by the shifting thread of people that wanders by it, heads bowed. They have traveled far but will travel farther, maundering the edges of these cracked lands as they search for a place that can sustain them for a little while longer.
The people are many and know countless countries and many creeds. They know no nation and no course, no government and no law. They navigate by hunger alone and in doing so survive another day. They are pilgrims and nomads, drifters and wanderers, bound to nothing more than whatever fruits the earth is willing to offer. From the Great Lakes to the Pacific. From where the Rocky Mountains form their long wall to where the Atlantic swirls its muddy waters. They have walked there and called these places home and made their names and then moved on.
They have seen much and they will see more. They have been here before. Have always been here. Will always be here until the world fails and only then will they be truly homeless and pass on.
From somewhere among them comes word. Rumors of the scarred man who still moves among their ranks, bringing with him his coat of night and his grim smile. We have seen him, some say. We have seen him treading the very ground we tread now. He’s come back. Come again.
The whispers grow as the dawn rolls across the land. He comes from the west, they say. Comes striding from the west, eyes forever fixed on the east. A great, tall man with wild hair and a thick black beard, scarred from head to toe. But he is different now. Not half so wicked, not half so savage. He has grown to be a huge thing, blank and dour, his face expressionless yet grim. He is a new man who walks in a different way and so leaves something different in his wake.
From a cabbie comes word that with each step he takes one can hear the footfalls of thousands falling in line, an army marching somewhere in the shadows behind him. When he sets up camp and starts his fire the smoke forms shapes in the air that suggest a crowd of people huddling with him, millions of them, gray and cold and hopeless. The gypsy-folk whisper that when he slumbers in the fields his chest makes sounds of screaming steel and from his nose and mouth comes a thick black smoke, like burning oil. And a street-preacher claims that when the scarred man passed through St. Louis the entire city was struck with nightmares, envisioning a great fire, and that fire spread and consumed the blind eye that made the world.
They say that in his pockets he does not hold the fates of single men but the fates of cities, of countries, of the world. To him we are as ants, scuttling around the face of our hill. With a wave of his hand he scorches the sky and merely by closing his eyes a whole city may perish. He brings the new way. He brings the new world. He brings tomorrow, and so we grieve.
Things are changing, they say. Time is moving on and leaving us behind.
They quiet and for the first time they stop walking. They stop shifting all at once and stand where they are and lift their heads. The people in the cities and the people in the farms, those at work and those at rest, men and women, young and old, they all stop and turn to the horizon, to the east and to the west, toward what is brewing there and what hides behind the next second or month or year.
Something is close, they whisper as the clouds darken above them. Something is near.
Listen. Listen. Do you hear it? Listen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A thousand and one thanks to Carrie, Carla, Ashlee, Jameson, Josh the ever-ready cameraman, my astoundingly patient family, Cameron and DongWon for taking a gamble and giving me a shot, and anyone else who tolerated me, even when I was pretty much intolerable.
FB2 document info
Document ID: f2de3bc7-ff8f-43fe-9928-b66c0604c5e1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 24.10.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.23, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Robert Jackson Bennett
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