Furnace

by Joseph Williams

  The others were quick on the uptake. Almost like they understood what was about to happen before I’d even made contact with the trio, which told me something beyond blind hunger and an overall bad attitude was spurring them on.

  But they can’t be intelligent, can they?

  It didn’t seem possible, yet they’d filed toward the altar with some semblance of order, and then had organized themselves well enough to prevent escape.

  A fresh surge of pain exploded through my leg. Then my shoulder. Then my left forearm.

  “FUCK!” I screamed.

  They’d started biting.

  What the hell are these things? I wondered again. Zombies?

  I roared and threw myself backward as hard as I could, dislodging the biters and clearing a few feet of breathing room as I rolled against the wall. I started firing the SX into the crowd again before I landed. There was no point in conserving ammunition if the fuckers were going to eat me. I’d been clinging to the faint hope that as former humans (or something like it), they’d listen to reason given enough time. Or at least, you know, not fucking eat me. Half of them didn’t even have chests or stomachs or throats to process whatever chunks they tore away from my body, so I didn’t see the point.

  Every shot found a home, but not every shot brought one of the bastards down. They were undead, remember, and nothing but true headshots seemed capable of neutralizing them. I can’t even verify that the ones I hit in the head did die a second time. The crowd was so thick that, for all I know, they may have resurrected at some point and rejoined the effort to tear me limb from limb.

  I dropped two more of them.

  Three.

  Four.

  But they kept right on coming.

  “I’m on your side!” I shouted stupidly. I couldn’t believe how everything had turned so suddenly.

  Another one of them crawled over and bit my foot, shattering a handful of its own teeth but causing little damage to my boots or armor plating. It clamped on hard, though, and wouldn’t let go until I put a bullet through the back of its head. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman, and I guess that’s probably for the best.

  After all the shit I went through out there, fucking humans are going to kill me?

  I wanted to be outraged, but as my clip finally ran out and there were still a dozen or more of them within ten feet, cutting off all exits, I was only stupefied. It was paralyzing. I couldn’t get over the goddamned injustice of it. I was a human, just like them! I could help them if they let me! Yet here they were, intent on ripping my head off and feeding on my entrails because some goddamned clown with horns and bad makeup told them to. I was more than outraged. I was personally affronted by the idea.

  “Fuck all of you,” I spat. “You belong here.”

  As soon as the condemnation left my tongue, I regretted it. Not because I thought it would make a difference one way or another, but because I realized the only reason they acted that way was they’d lived on Furnace too long. It’s the sort of place that changes you fundamentally, no matter how hard you struggle against it. I learned that the hard way in about a day. It changed me. It warped the core of my being. In a day. Give me a thousand years? I don’t think I would have held up half as well as they did.

  I frantically searched the cathedral for an alternate escape, but just like when I’d narrowly avoided a similar fate along the roofs, there was nowhere to go.

  Might as well make a run for it, I thought.

  I braced against the wall and prepared to sprint head-on into the group of human corpses. I figured I’d take as many of them down as I could with the element of surprise and then book it to the door as if (and because) my life depended on it.

  Before I had a chance to test my genius plan, however, my attackers suddenly stopped rushing me and stiffened up. Some even fell face-first into the altar as their muscles locked. They didn’t attempt to brace themselves.

  The cathedral fell utterly silent, but I didn’t trust the quiet. It just meant something more heinous was on its way. Something capable of shutting down the dead in the throes of a killing frenzy.

  Slowly, I scooted down the wall until the clown sculpture shielded me from a direct assault. I kept my eyes trained on the corpses just in case they suddenly broke their paralysis and mounted another charge. Their collective inhaled sharply when I passed the clown’s throne, but otherwise, they remained frozen. Their vacant eyes tracked my movements, but they didn’t prevent me from limping away.

  I passed just far enough into the shadow to be certain they couldn’t see me, then squatted down and attempted to squeeze between the throne and the wall. As long as I could fit through the opening wearing my space suit, I thought I’d be able to slip past them in the darkness. With their necks locked in place, they would be none the wiser.

  I managed to get about a quarter of the way through before reaching the rounded pedestal beneath the throne, and then realized I couldn’t go any further. I wouldn’t fit. And if I wanted to pass on the inside of the statue, I’d have to climb over it. I didn’t like the idea of exposing myself to the sculpture’s grip at all, even if it was an inanimate object that had lost its head. Maybe because of it.

  Suck it up, I told myself, carefully guiding my ribs back to safety behind the sculpture.

  Once I’d maneuvered my upper body away from the wall, I stood to my full height again and glanced at the frozen corpses, just to be sure they hadn’t moved since I’d ducked out of sight. They were still locked in place, and now I was beyond the scope of their vision because they couldn’t turn.

  Why, though? I wondered.

  I’d expected something bizarre to happen when they locked up, but so far, the stopping itself was the only thing which could be construed as bizarre. At least, relative to the situation. Relative to the location.

  I knew I wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. Not by a long shot. Not even in terms of the cathedral. The spooks around the altar could reanimate any moment. Worse, I still felt the presence of the clown king lurking in the shadows.

  Where?

  I searched the second floor balconies overlooking the marble floors, trying to spot an imposing darkness amid the velvet drapery. There were all sorts of indecipherable statues and paintings leading up to the convoluted mural on the ceiling, but nothing that moved. It still felt like a thousand eyes watched me from perches all along the walls and back near the instruments where the choir would have sat during services (if such a thing as a choir or services existed on Furnace).

  And I felt him nearby.

  Wherever you go, I will find you, his voice echoed in my head.

  I made my way out among the spooks, no longer frightened that they would reach out and throttle me. I didn’t even look at them as I shouldered my way toward the pews. My eyes were locked on the upper balconies, certain I would catch his movement eventually. A sign that he was watching me. Waiting for me. Maybe a symbol I could decipher into every answer I needed to leave.

  He’s my only way home, I thought.

  The insanity of the notion made me laugh involuntarily. A short, barking sound that made my raw throat burn anew. How could that bastard be my only way home? To even joke about it was ridiculous. He was the reason I’d gone through all the shit on Furnace in the first place! If Teemo and I hadn’t spotted him approaching us down the city street, we wouldn’t have shot the flare that drew the rest of the squad to our location and got them killed. I don’t know the specifics of the initial melee aside from what other surviving crewmembers have filed in their reports, but I know we wouldn’t have sent the flare up right away if we hadn’t seen the clown demon. And if that son-of-a-bitch hadn’t bit through my helmet and dragged me off to his city hideaway, then I wouldn’t have had to cross the wastelands, lava lakes, mountains, corpse fields, or the city itself just to get back to where I’d started.

  So for my rambling brain to even suggest that the clown demon could be anything but a mortal enemy was beyond absurd.
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  And yet, blame it on the dehydration (or I will for you), but there seemed to be truth to the idea. Why else would he have allowed me to live for so long? Why else would he have lured me into the cathedral and frozen the undead spooks when they were about to gut me (by then, I was sure it was him and not just some blessed coincidence)?

  Because it’s more fun for him this way. He enjoys watching you suffer. As soon as you die, the game’s over and he has to return to his miserable existence on this miserable planet with nothing but corpses and man-eating monsters for company.

  That also had a ring of truth to it, probably more so than the idea that this undoubtedly malevolent creature had somehow turned benevolent simply by kidnapping me and then watching me escape. Like a case of reverse Stockholm Syndrome.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  My voice was much calmer this time. Steady and patient. If I didn’t hear an answer by the time I reached the door, I decided, I would leave the cathedral altogether and see if I could find answers elsewhere in the city. Or maybe I’d just book it to the far gate as fast as I could and pray I didn’t cross paths with any other demons along the way. I probably wouldn’t get far, but far crazier stunts have worked on the battlefield through the ages. Miracles and tragedies occur every single day.

  “Did you bring us here?” I pressed. “Is there a reason we were pulled here or was it just bad luck?”

  No answer.

  I was halfway to the large wooden doors, spinning in circles to scan each empty balcony. There was still no sign of movement.

  Fuck it, then. You’re chasing shadows.

  I wanted to believe it, but I still felt the clown’s eyes on me. They were heavy.

  It’s all in your head. Of course you feel like something’s watching you. Something’s been watching you since you stepped out the airlock.

  The head of the sculpture was pointed in my direction. Its empty gaze seemed somehow meaningful. I frowned and fought (unsuccessfully) to suppress a shudder, remembering the first time I’d encountered something extraordinary on Furnace aside from the crash itself. The memory filled me with dread.

  My mother’s severed head. Rolling across the dusty ground like a tumbleweed. Her mouth stretched back in pain.

  I clenched my fists and jaw.

  “Was that you?” I shouted. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, and I was already heated. At the rate I was going, I’d snap any moment unless an aneurysm dropped me first.

  The spooks in front of the altar still hadn’t moved. I didn’t see anything on the balconies, either.

  “Screw it,” I said. To punctuate my disdain, I spat precious saliva on the marble floor. “You’re nothing.”

  The moment I turned my back to the altar, though, the whole congregation roared to deafening life again.

  “Jesus!” I exclaimed.

  The sound of every corpse screaming at once made me duck reflexively, like the sonic boom was actually a Tikhonov mine.

  I probably should have headed straight for the doors then. I scrambled for cover behind the pews instead.

  This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it? I thought bitterly.

  The spooks turned toward me but started dismantling the décor around the altar—ropes, string, nails, and banners—and separating the materials one by one rather than engaging me. They unwound the fabric in tandem, each completely focused on the task at hand. Like they didn’t notice me at all.

  I stood and rapped my swollen knuckles on the back of the pew, just to see if I’d draw their attention again, but they kept on sorting. One of them even turned toward the sound, but not to look at me. Instead, he scooped up the head of the clown king and placed it back atop the sculpture’s neck.

  Crowning the king, I thought.

  When I was certain their attention was otherwise occupied, I wandered back down the aisle toward the altar, careful to keep the pews nearby in case I needed a quick blockade.

  The resurrected humans finished sorting the décor and started dragging the piles over to the sculpture in unison. They didn’t speak, yet somehow operated in perfect synchronization anyway.

  “Here…here…here…” they chanted.

  Not this bullshit, I thought.

  “Tscharia…Tscharia…Tscharia…”

  They laid the fabric over the sculpture’s shoulders and draped bits of string over his face, making the detached head wobble to the point that it seemed like it would drop and shatter against the floor with any additional weight. For my part, I didn’t think that would necessarily be the worst end to the bizarre ritual, but somehow the head stayed put. Just to spite me.

  When they finished dressing the sculpture, each damned soul returned at once to reclaim their stations. Those who’d been tangled at the front of the altar when I’d entered crawled back together, contorting their bodies enough so others could fit in the macabre puzzle they formed with their rotting limbs. Those who’d been pinned to the walls staggered over to a simple wooden table behind the altar and retrieved large stakes along with a blunt steel instrument. A group of them worked together to toss the knotted end of a rope onto the balconies and somehow managed to make it stick on the first try. They pulled themselves up the wall with the rope, then pinned themselves in tiny, wooden slats between stones with the stakes they’d brought from the altar.

  “What the fuck…” I muttered under my breath for probably the hundredth time since I’d arrived on Furnace.

  I watched with numb fascination as one by one they climbed to willingly impale themselves against the cold stone.

  By my estimates, the process took the better part of five minutes. When it was over, the last corpse holding the rope walked it over to the altar, swung the slack over a dim chandelier I hadn’t noticed until that moment, and methodically hung himself above the corpses. There was a loud crack as he leapt and the drop caught him, nearly ripping his head from his body in the process. He started a pendulum swing in front of the clown king statue, which looked every bit like the Lincoln Memorial in its somber, slouched appraisal.

  Before the hanged corpse stopped swinging—before, in fact, I could even process my surroundings well enough to realize I should get the fuck out of there as fast as possible—shadow enveloped the altar and consumed the tangle of bodies.

  I sensed movement in the cloud. I also sensed that the others were gone and only two eyes watched me, but they were powerful eyes. Eyes that made my legs tremble. A stare that slithered into the core of my being. Violating. Every injury I’d sustained in the prior twenty-four hours stood out in maddening clarity.

  I’d gotten my wish, I realized, and he’d kept his side of the bargain.

  The clown had come to parley.

  There was no escape now that I’d lingered long enough for the sculpture to become possessed, so I stayed where I was and prepared the best I could for an audience with the Devil himself. Unlike during the wild shootouts I’d had with lesser demons on the planet’s surface, I figured I’d get a good opportunity for distracting banter before the creature decided what to do with me.

  Wherever you go, I will find you, his voice called out. Not through the air, though. Fired directly to my brain. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was memory. I still don’t know.

  A moment later, his ghastly form emerged from the billowing cloud of shadow. Nothing of the sculpture remained, although bits of string still hung over his diseased face and a jagged line circled his neck where his head had been knocked off.

  His presence was even worse in the flesh than I remembered. Bigger. Stronger. Uglier. His eyes were more menacing than the rest of the demons combined, even the Watchmen from the corpse fields. It was the feeling of cruel knowledge in his stare. The cold, calm assessment. The raw power. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care at all.

  If I hadn’t already known it, the sight of him emerging from shadow in full regale would have been enough to convince me he was the monarch of Tscharia. The king, chief, em
peror. Whatever you want to call it, that’s what he was on Furnace. It was clear not just in the way he carried himself, but in how the whole room seemed poisoned by his presence. The cathedral itself shrank to avoid his gaze, yet I was locked in place by wonder and indecision.

  How could I have ever thought that he was on my side, I wondered? Did I really want to stay and see what horrible fate he had in store for me?

  Ever since I crossed the corpse fields, I’d been trying to convince myself that he wasn’t as bad as the others simply because he hadn’t killed me right away. He’d carried me off and toyed with me, which, truth be told, suggested whole new levels of psychotic tendencies but was still preferable to immediate torture and mutilation for the delight of Furnace’s demons. I guess if they’d taken me before the clown king had, though, I would have been dead already or at least suffered my first death. It was still unclear how many lives each soul had to lose on Furnace, or if life was truly unending and each victim was sentenced to eternal torment in the interstellar version of Earth’s Hell. Like a holo-game. Re-spawn after re-spawn, forever and ever. But the point is, if I’d avoided the clown king altogether, I would only have been an anonymous corpse suffering the same fate as thousands (perhaps hundreds of thousands or even millions) of other innocent souls.

  But I was marked. That was the trouble.

  I didn’t fully understand it until I watched the clown king beckon me forward from the darkness with one long, gnarled finger, but it began to come together in my head. He had a plan. He’d set me aside for a greater purpose.

  The shit was hitting the fan.

  All along, I’d taken solace in the fact that he hadn’t torn me apart when he bit through my helmet or when he had me locked away unconscious. But as much as I’d hoped for a loophole to salvation, I suddenly decided it wasn’t in the cards. I couldn’t appeal to the abandoned sense of goodness in him or some crude, psychotic desire to make my life a game solely for the chance to survive.

  The truth was much more heinous than my contrived, naïve hopes. He didn’t just want my soul, he wanted me to be his personal gateway to the suffering of entire worlds. I hadn’t been spared because he thought I was an all right guy. He needed me.