Curse: The end has only just begun

by Rich Hayden

  There was a woman dressed in a lovely evening gown, her light hair fixed into curls, and her nails painted the same delicate green as her eyes. She sat upon the stone bench of a fountain that flowed with the cool, sparkling water of life. She twirled a stem of ivy between her fingers, as it grew in abundance around the spring. She hooked one ankle over the other as she sat in an easy calm. The water below her seat was as blue as the Pacific Ocean, and the sky above was flush with sunlight.

  Amil couldn’t remove his eyes from Aphelianna. She looked so beautiful and innocent, so far removed from the beast she had become. Life and nature surrounded her. Now only death and decay were her company. As he looked upon her as she used to be, he actually felt sympathy. What had she done to be charged with the torment that she endures? For what ignoble reason had she been condemned to shepherd the dead? As he looked into a time that passed away eons ago, Amil’s mind swelled with a myriad of questions. But he couldn’t ignore the most noticeable difference between Aphelianna’s recreation and that of the others.

  The candle at the base of her portrait had been snuffed out. The wick was cold, and the outer skin of the wax was flaked and cracked. Of the dozens of paintings that he had passed, Amil was sure that every last one of them had held a lit candle. All save for Aphelianna’s. He knew not the significance of this, and it was a mystery unlikely to unravel, but still it troubled him. This absence of light spoke of her damnation, and, in a way, Amil took it as a warning and as a promise, for he had made a deal with the goddess of all things black. He shuddered at the implications of the key that hung from his neck, and, with a deep sigh, he moved along and left the portrait of Aphelianna to the darkness behind him.

  As he walked further away from his earthly life and deeper into the abyss of death, Amil was again handed an image whose enigmatic nature he was unable to discern. The hall in which he trod opened up and widened into a large ballroom. A thick carpet the color of dried blood washed out over the floor, and a large stage that spanned the breadth of the room sat at the far edge of the red tide. A massive dining table, which could have sat perhaps fifty guests, split the center of the room like a smoothly planed island. It cowered in fear under the watch of a mighty chandelier that hung ominously from the blackness above.

  Amil slowly approached the naked table. Like the many chairs that sat tucked underneath it, this furnishing was crafted out of wood and stained a deep crimson. Gems dotted the border, and metal accents streaked the legs. Nearly the entire surface of the tabletop was recessed, and a polished slab of dark stone had been laid within its grasp. Amil stared back at his reflection, and from the look of the eyes that he studied, he knew the true meaning of regret.

  He continued to cross the ocean of carpet, toward the stage. There wasn’t much to be found. No piano or other musical instruments. No bar or podium, either. There were no curtains, candles, or lanterns. Only one object permitted the stage to skirt the emptiness of the barren fields outside: an ornate chair sat at the direct center. It was a throne really, with a back taller than the most massive of giants, and it held enough gold adornment to purchase the allegiance of whole nations. A material that resembled the plush carpet formed the cushion. The legs bowed out in an exaggerated sweep, as they were sentenced to bear the weight of this monstrous creation. The legs themselves were fixed upon globes at the bottom, and as Amil studied the detailed spheres, he imagined that whoever sat in this chair freely dictated their will to a swath of worlds.

  He ascended the steps of the stage to further gaze at the chair and the layers of royal dust that sat upon it. As he stood within inches of the bestial throne, a heavy breath left his lungs and blew a powdery cloud of dust into the air. As the particles took flight, a mysterious flicker of light surged through the crystalline body of the chandelier. Its brilliance colored the room in light. This pale ambiance gave Amil a peek at the arched ceiling above, and the stained glass windows that surrounded the heavy support beams.

  Though the upper portions of the room were awesome in their scope and construction, it was the statues that had previously lain hidden that captivated his mind. They lined the walls, and rose from the floor like porcelain stalagmites. Each was easily three hundred feet in height, and, as he craned his neck to observe them, Amil was unable to see the finer definition of their faces. Though their expressions were lost to him, all of the sculptures were draped in some form of prayer garment, and stood with their arms outstretched as though in praise of a divinity forgotten. He swept his eyes down the white stone robes of the figures, and, once the long descent was at last accomplished, the next step in this nightmarish task was made obvious.

  Along the walls, between the statues, were doors. They looked no bigger than peepholes, as they sat beside the enormous parishioners and the silent hosannas they offered. But for as minuscule as they seemed, the doors were there. As real as the fear in Amil’s heart. He plotted a course across the scarlet mire. Standing before one of the plain doors, which looked no different than any of the others, he stared at it as though waiting for a reply to an impossible question. His hand shook as he reached out for the knob, and, with a mild jostle, he knew the door was locked. He closed his eyes, and, with a lump in his throat, his grip was released.

  He walked down to the next door and tried it. This one was unlocked. He allowed this door to remain closed as well, as he was not yet ready to choose a path. Amil looked around and frantically tried to glean any clue from his surroundings. He counted the chairs around the table and the statues that stood around him. He tried to count the crystals of the chandelier, and racked his brain for answers, as he hoped to recall some fact about the paintings he passed that might hint at what to do next, but nothing was made clear.

  As he walked along this row of the porcelain faithful, Amil looked across the room and at the set of doors across the way. They beckoned like a riddle, and tormented him with their variant opportunities. Perhaps something was written on the wall behind him that he could only uncover from a great distance away. But before another thought could be formed, the light that shimmered inside the fixture above began to peter out, much the same as visible gas escapes from a tube. Darkness started to crawl over the room as each crystal grew cold, and this retreat of light served to quicken Amil’s heart. However, what came on the heels of the swelling black would force him into a decision.

  As the light dissipated, a menacing cacophony nestled inside his ears. It began as a scuttle, a scraping, but soon this discord swelled into a din that extinguished all other sound. It emanated from the hall, and, as Amil stared into the darkening artery, a vision that matched the sound soon emerged. A flood of Wastes poured in, all enraged and determined to aggressively enlist another soul into their damned ranks. Some charged like Olympic sprinters, others lumbered forward on all fours. Howling like feral beasts, the broken sluggishly dragged the failed remains of their decaying bodies, while more still were trampled down under the weight of their fellow cursed.

  As this wave of death washed toward him, he tried the knob of the door that stood before his rigid body. It was locked. He was wholly unprepared to waste a turn of his finite key, but there were no more options. As the Wastes drew closer the mouth of all hells seemed to have opened, and its teeth dripped with the desire to consume absolutely. With a robotic rigidity, and a wide eye fixed on the onslaught of savagery that raged his way, he slid the metal weight into the keyhole, turned the knob, and cracked the door open.

  Part 2. The Ancient Forest

  Only darkness greeted Amil. Not the way a room looks when all of the lights have been turned out, but rather, a true nothingness welcomed him. He stepped into this utter lack of existence and pulled the door shut behind him. In an instant, all the wails of his pursuers were muted into extinction, and a new setting revealed itself.

  In total amazement, he found himself not among brick or stone, or in the confinement of four walls, but outside in the open air. The land around him was yellow and sun-scorched. It was a great pla
in, fitted with only the swirl of dusty winds and the oppressive glare of sunlight as it seared through the stale air. A dirt road snaked out in front of him, and, off in the bright distance, piles of assorted wreckage spotted the path like the carcasses of dead mechanical titans.

  Amil looked over his shoulder and to the door. It was again locked, and its base carved out an imprint in the dry soil, but it connected to absolutely nothing. He could see around it, and he even walked in circles around the mysterious barrier. Each side held a keyhole and a knob, and a set of heavily tarnished brass hinges. He pressed his ear to the wood, but heard not a sound. He wasn’t simply one room removed from the terrible Wastes. He had ventured somewhere else entirely. It taunted and perplexed him. He contemplated whether or not to spend another turn of his key and head back the way he came. With a thought to the Wastes and all their screams, Amil started on down the road.

  He was shocked at the familiarity he found. The road appeared to have been plucked from the desert lanes of the American West. He noticed burnt shrubbery, and when the wind settled long enough to free his eyes of the swirling dust, the sporadic placement of cacti was made visible in the distance. A single sun hung above, and its cruel, accusatory stare forced sweat out of his pores, while the cry of hungry buzzards cut through the air. As he neared the heaps of sandblasted scrap that rose from the ground, the images became clear, and Amil was able to uncover their nature. As he pressed forth, it became clear that he was walking into the heart of a forsaken town.

  Abandoned skeletons of cars flanked him as he advanced closer to the village, and, as Amil passed his sight over their rusty skins, he was again stung by the resemblance that he felt to the life he once knew. He was able to uncover the make of most of the automobiles. There was a Chevy that had apparently died just off the side of the road, and so there it remained. It had been repainted by dirt, and sunk into the dry ground. The wheels had shed their former chrome and surrendered to the fate of unprotected steel. The seats inside were torn open and stained stuffing bled through the wounds like gelled blood on the surface of a cadaver.

  Amil set his vision on a concentration of Hondas. They seemed to have been systematically broken down, torn to pieces in an industrial gulag long gone. There was a burnt-out old Lincoln that looked as though it had comically exhausted itself while making love to a crumpled Mazda. As he walked past the cars, and on into the heart of the forgotten town, he thought of black holes and the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe this was where the truly lost found themselves.

  Most of the buildings had fallen down, and the ones that still stood looked to be pieced together with matchsticks. An old barn leaned over, and a rotted silo lay sprawled out across the body of the main road. Most of the side streets had been washed over by dirt as it blew in from the arid landscape, and nearly every window in this theater of dilapidation was missing. The panes housed only the wind, and hung open like dried-up wounds unable to heal. There were a few lampposts that stood in arthritic poses, although most lay crumpled on the ground. Dead soldiers left at the site of battles lost. The touch of paint was as forgotten a memory as the rust was dominating, leaving the old village devoid of color.

  Amil glanced over at a playground. The metal amusements were frozen in their places, as each had felt the theft of time. Seats were missing from the swings, and the bars that built the structures were rotted away and jagged. It looked more like an obstacle course for the souls of wicked children. A death trap of loose chains, decomposed iron, and exposed nails.

  A splintered wooden fence encircled the playground like a discarded snake skin, and, as Amil passed by, his eyes were drawn to a row of shops. They were pressed tightly together, and although impudent sunlight and dirtied wind had become their only customers, the nature of most of the establishments could be discerned. Most were practical. A ramshackle hardware store, a grocer’s market, and a butcher shop. A row of knives hung from the wall and gleamed ominously in the sunlight. He peered into a clothing store, and studied the blank faces and incomplete bodies of mannequins. He was given a start, as some of the cotton articles were made to dance suddenly by a rush of wind. To view the displays, they looked to be the ghosts of those gone away, and as he hurried by, the complete erasure of a town abandoned was his alone to absorb.

  Or so it did seem. But there are always those who lurk in the dark, behind wreckage, under curtains of filth, and enwrapped in blankets of places despaired. From a space unseen, a gunshot pierced the air, and Amil instinctively darted behind the corpse of an old pickup truck. He saw his pale reflection in the cracked side mirror of the truck as his heart beat wildly. Without purpose, but from habit alone, it thundered, and sweat slicked his hair to his face as the threat of being turned into a Waste was felt.

  “Come out, boy! I won’t kill you, at least I don’t think so,” a gruff voice commanded, as it carried out from a place Amil was unable to detect.

  Frightened, but relieved to hear another human voice, he lifted up his arms and slowly emerged from behind the rotted truck. Out from between the bones of a two-story shack, whose lead-based outer skin peeled under the affliction of a nasty psoriasis, a gray-bearded man with a shotgun, and a 2 x 4 for a leg, hobbled out. He stared at Amil through a mighty squint and kept a bead drawn on the shaken traveler.

  “Well, who are you? Did you bring them with you?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Amil, totally confused. “Who?”

  “Who? What the fuck you mean, who? The Wastes, did they tail ya?”

  “I don’t think so. What the hell is this place?”

  “Hell? That would assuredly be a mighty nice set of environs in comparison to this. This is just a lookout. We take turns picking off Wastes. We make sure they don’t follow us home.”

  “Home?” asked Amil.

  “Follow the road a ways and go through the pine. We’ve set up a small village there. It’s a temporary settlement of sorts, until we can find The Eternal City.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying,” admitted Amil from across the barren street, completely overwhelmed, with his arms still raised to the sky.

  “So, you’re new. Come over here boy, and Uncle Cal will tell you a story.”

  “Uncle Cal?” Amil muttered aloud.

  “As in caliber, boy. Bullets!” he shouted, with a southern drawl.

  “Okay, okay, just relax that thing, please,” Amil begged as he stepped toward the dilapidated porch that supported Cal and his crude excuse for a leg.

  “All you had to do was ask,” said Cal though a wide smile of decaying teeth, as he laid the gun down.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? As in the meanings of things? The hows and whys? The aether and the nether? Hell no, boy. I died, and now here I am, shooting at zombies in a burnt-out ghost town while minds greater than mine search for The Eternal City.”

  “What is that, The Eternal City?” asked Amil.

  “It’s a vast city, located somewhere in this goddamn mansion, and make no mistake about it, you’re still in that bitch’s house. Anyway, it’s a safe place for the dead. No Wastes there. There’s order, and marketplaces, and theaters. It’s a place to have a life again,” Cal offered, between purges of chew spit.

  “How do you know?”

  “There are those that have left. They live in town, and are trying to guide more of us back. Although no dice yet. My shift’s over soon, you should hurry on back with me and Letta.”

  “Letta?”

  “She’s a shy little German thing. Hiding in the house back there. I’ve been teaching her how to shoot.”

  “Why won’t she come out?” asked Amil.

  “Do you speak German?”

  “No.”

  “Well she don’t speak no English, so I guess you don’t have much to say to her. Besides, I need someone to have a gun on your head while I decide if you’re alright.”

  Again Amil shivered. He was one pull o
f an adolescent’s finger away from becoming a Waste, and in order to survive, he had to work himself into whatever definition of alright most satisfied old Cal.

  “How did you die?” he asked Cal, quietly, hoping to form some sort of bond with the old man.

  “Combine,” Cal said, with a laugh.

  “A combine?”

  “Yes, boy, a harvester. I may not be a Ghost, as they say, but I sure as hell remember that. Took my leg off, and left me to bleed out and die among the crop. Quaint little tale, ain’t it? What about you? You look healthy as can be.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No, it ain’t. You died, just like everyone else here. Hey, I ain’t in the business of judging people, boy.”

  “I committed suicide, shot myself,” he admitted, with a deep shame, but also with an odd indifference in his tone.

  “In the head?” asked Cal, alarmed.

  “Yeah. Through here,” offered Amil, as he pointed solemnly toward his open mouth.

  “Well your face looks pretty fucking good to me, what happened?” Cal demanded.

  Amil pulled his key out from under his shirt and showed it to Cal.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Cal ordered sternly with a vicious twang.

  “Please, can you just...”

  “I say the word, and little Letta takes your head off for the second time. I don’t associate with those who have made deals with death. You got five seconds before I find my better senses and give that adorable little Fraulein back there the go-ahead. Now, get the fuck out of here.”

  Bereft of options and understanding, Amil again raised his hands in surrender, and backed away from Cal and the splintered wood of the porch. Once the dirt of the dehydrated road was felt under his feet, he turned away and rigidly walked down the forgotten boulevard. As he cautiously stepped past weathered wreckage and crumbling shacks, he was forced to reconcile with the undeniable truth of his situation: the dead were all around him.