Monarchs

by Rainey, Stephen

  Jan's voice rang out in an indecipherable cry, only to be stifled a second later, and something wet — Courtney prayed it was mud — rained down on her back. A deafening, metallic smashing sound followed, then another and another. A male voice rose in a shrill scream, only to die with a thick, wet gurgle. She buried herself in the mud, covering her head with her arms, wishing herself invisible, praying the Monarch would not see her and pluck her from her hiding place.

  But the thing had her scent.

  She shuddered at the memory of Martha's words, knowing full well that if the thing wanted to take her, there was no place in the world she could hide.

  Several seconds crept by before she realized that the thing was walking again, the thudding footsteps receding rapidly in the distance. Muddy water dribbled maddeningly into her ears and eyes, tempting her to lift her head and wipe it away, but she could still feel the vibrations in the ground, and she didn't dare; not while the thing was still close enough for any movement to attract its attention.

  Eventually, when all was quiet again, she rose up, propped herself on her elbows, and dared to wipe the mud from her eyes, mostly just smearing it around because her hands were slick with the vile stuff. Once she could almost see, she found the darkness unbroken except for a the glimmering stars overhead. A dim gleam a few yards away might have been the grille of the old truck. Not a sound drifted out of the night; not a breath of wind, not the nervous call of a single bird or insect.

  Her hand reached out, seeking solid earth, and her fingers fell on hot metal — the barrel of the shotgun. She pulled it toward her, only to find the barrel bent and the stock splintered into fragments.

  "Oh, God," she whispered. Jan had been firing the weapon even as the thing fell upon her.

  Something splashed not far away.

  She froze and listened, holding her breath, trying to catch any sound beyond the pounding of her heart. Something that might have been a soft, human moan came from the direction of the truck.

  Taking a bracing breath, she dug her fingers into the earth and dragged herself from the pit of mud, until she lay fully exposed beneath the stars. She had lost her ruined skirt, and now she tore off the shredded remains of her hose. She grabbed the mangled shotgun and heaved herself to her feet, thinking that the barrel might at least make a suitable club. She scanned every shadow for a sign of her friend, even though she knew it was futile. The Monarch had taken her, and she couldn't bear to think about whether Jan might be alive or dead — not after having seen that horrible, talon-like hand pluck Dwayne Surber from the truck like a doll to tear him limb from limb.

  She nearly leaped into the air when, as if God had thrown a switch, the night exploded with sound: chirping, cawing, trilling, from near and far, nervous and raw.

  She fought down her shock and crept toward the truck, pausing after every aching step, wary of finding broken glass or hunks of metal with her bare feet, until she could get a clearer view of the damage. The sight of it sent a fluttering through her groin. The hood was completely smashed in, as if a boulder had fallen on it. Only a few jagged fragments remained of the windshield, and both doors hung open, one dangling by a single hinge. The chassis looked as if a giant had attempted to twist it into the shape of a corkscrew, the bed and rear axle bent so that one rear tire hung three feet above the ground.

  Someone was still inside, in the passenger seat.

  She glanced around either side of the wreckage, searching for any sign that the other men might be hiding nearby. Nothing. She thought at least one of Jan's shots had been true, so one or more of the men probably lay dead or dying in the mud and reeds. Satisfied that no one would leap out of the darkness and grab her, she made her way to the passenger window and peered inside, keeping a firm grip on the shotgun barrel in case she needed to fend off an attack.

  It was George Tillery, his legs pinned by the crushed dashboard. Both his arms hung immobile at his sides, and blood pooled in the folds of his shirt at his waist. His anguished eyes turned to meet hers, and she saw tears rolling down one cheek.

  "I can't move," he said in a thin, wavering voice. "I think my back's broke."

  For any human being in such condition, she would ordinarily feel only compassion; yet this man had yearned to see her tortured and probably killed. He had specifically wanted her. Remembering that, and seeing him here this way, she expected that old, familiar rage to come rushing back and take her over. It did not.

  "I can't help you," she said in flat voice.

  "Please. Get me out of here."

  "I won't."

  "Look, I'm sorry for what I done. Okay? I'm sorry."

  "Yeah."

  "I mean it."

  "Who came here with you? The same three as before?"

  He tried to nod, but could only grimace in pain. "She shot Johnny. I think he's dead."

  "Good."

  She started to turn away, but he called to her. "Hey, wait. What was that thing? What the hell was that?"

  She stared into his terror-bright eyes. "What do you think it was?"

  "I dunno. I never saw it. Just something big."

  "Then that's what it was," she said, turning away from him. "Something big."

  "Hey, wait. You gotta get help for me. Please, get help for me."

  She ignored his pleas and went around to the driver's side, her eyes scanning the mud and foliage for Johnny Spencer's body. She saw it a moment later, amid a cluster of tangled reeds. Just a leg and booted foot, protruding like a bent branch from the thick, black soup. The body lay face down, obviously lifeless.

  At least two of the four were out of commission.

  She leaned back to the open door. "Where are the others?"

  Tillery could only shift his eyes in her direction. "How would I know? I don't know."

  "Is there another gun in there?"

  "No."

  She tried to find something other than contempt for the trapped, wretched creature, but there was nothing. "How far is it back to the main road?"

  "I dunno, maybe a mile. You're gonna get help for me, right?"

  "Doubt it. Good-bye."

  "Wait," he called, his voice turning shrill. "I said I was sorry. All right? All right?"

  She walked around the truck, minding where she stepped. After twenty feet, when she looked back, the truck was just a silhouette in the darkness, its edges barely limned by the sinking sliver of moon. If Tillery was right, she still had a long way to go just to reach to a paved road, and then who knew how far back to the Blackburn house. Already, her feet felt as if they were encased in ice and yet on fire. She might not even be aware of stepping on anything sharp.

  The Monarch was gone, at least for the time being, but if Ray and Ben Surber were still alive, they could be anywhere. They might have fled in the other direction, or they might be trying to return to the main road, just as she was. Her one advantage was that they would not know whether she was still alive, and whichever way they had gone, they would probably be moving faster then she could.

  "Just let me get back," she whispered to the night. "Just let me get back home."

  She had walked for a full minute before she realized that she had no home, and that the refuge she sought was the very haven of the witch who had unleashed the impossible horror.

  To the left, she could make out the pitch-black tree line, perhaps a hundred yards away; to the right, the nearby reeds disappeared into a gulf as empty as outer space. The road stretched on ahead, narrow but straight, leading toward what appeared to be another extensive stand of trees. Surely, she thought, this must be the last before she reached pavement.

  She walked slowly, hugging the side of the road, the fire in her legs spreading to her hips and back. Pavement would hurt even worse, but at least her feet wouldn't sink into mud that tried to pull her backward with every step. She knew she must look like a black ghost lurching through the darkness, her clothes gone except for her mud-covered blouse and underwear. The mud she had smeared over her body had co
oled and was hardening in places, making walking all the more uncomfortable. But it was either keep going or fall down to die. So she kept going.

  Trees closed over her again, and though it was nearly pitch black, she felt less exposed. The road became firmer beneath her feet, and now and again, she stepped on rocks that felt like nails piercing her soles and driving into the bone. After this, she thought, she might not be able to walk for days. But that was a small price to pay if she could get out of this with her life.

  The road curved in the darkness, and she left it several times, stumbling amid rocks and tangled foliage. Once, she fell and dropped the bent shotgun, and when she tried to find it again, she couldn't. But now she saw something gray and shimmering ahead — a paved road, surely! — and she knew the woods were ending. With a sigh of exultation, which was all she could coax from her lungs, she pulled herself up and finally stepped onto asphalt, which to her feet felt like jagged glass and a soft swatch of heaven, all at the same time.

  The dying moon peeked over the trees in the west, and a few thin clouds rolled past a blazing starfield, their shadows undulating like vast worms along the road. Here, the trees soared into the sky like towering parapets, and a cacophonous insect song pealed shrilly from the dark hollows beneath them. Still, like a refreshing wave, the realization that her destination might actually be attainable came washing over her, and she picked up her pace, casting out all pain by force of will alone. At the same time, however, fear, like an old, unwelcome acquaintance, reemerged from its hiding place and began to creep just as boldly forward.

  She hadn't walked a hundred yards when a coarse voice called out of the darkness, "Well, well. At least one of them made it out of there. Evenin', sweetheart."

  Chapter 18

  She froze, trying to determine from which direction Ray Surber's voice had come, even as she realized that it didn't matter. Two seconds later, she heard rapid footfalls behind her, and for an instant, she ached for the bent hunk of metal she had carried so far and then lost. But as she turned to watch Ray and Ben Surber bearing down on her from out of the trees, she realized that, even if she still had the weapon, she didn't have the strength to wield it. Her muscles were near-useless sheaves of tissue, her bones spent kindling. As the men strode up to her, their eyes shining dangerously, she simply sat down on the pavement, ready to accept whatever variety of death they had come to deliver.

  The pair paused in front of her, regarding her warily, perhaps uncertain whether she had any surprises for them remaining. Then they began circle like cagey dogs, occasionally glancing back into the trees.

  They were as afraid as she was.

  Ray stopped in front of her and glanced over his shoulder again before kneeling down and glaring at her, trying to wrest her gaze from the ground. Finally, he said, "Okay, what was it?"

  She lifted her head and met his stare. "What was what?"

  The back of one rough hand landed a blow to her cheek. She heard Ben coming up behind her. "The thing that hit us," Ray said. "What the fuck was that?"

  Did she dare?

  "The same thing that killed your brother."

  Ray stiffened, and he raised his arms before him, resembling a grotesque preying mantis. Behind her, Ben released an explosive breath, and in a flash, he appeared next to his uncle, his face contorted with hatred.

  "What are you saying about my dad?"

  "I said he's dead," she said, without inflection. "The thing killed him."

  Like the mantis reaching for its prey, Ray's hand shot forth and clutched her throat. He slowly rose to his feet, pulling her with him, sealing her breath inside her lungs.

  "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything about my brother."

  "This is bullshit," Ben said, his voice a shrill whine. "Let's just finish her."

  "No," Ray said, pressing his face close to hers. "I want to know what she thinks she knows. Or if she's trying to pull something smart."

  His fingers opened and she collapsed onto her backside, her legs no longer able to support her weight. After managing to draw a couple of deep breaths, she said, "I'm not trying to pull anything. Your brother Dwayne is back at the cabin — hanging from a tree. You can go check it out. I'm sure he's still there."

  Ray could not stop Ben from shoving past him and pushing Courtney onto her back. "You're a liar." His breath came out hot sulfur. "My dad wouldn't have come back here. He didn't have no reason to."

  "He found out what you were doing. He aimed to stop you."

  "Bitch." He slapped her cheek, already numb from Ray's blow. "He wouldn't have had no way of knowing where we were. None of us told him."

  "Someone did," she said weakly.

  "This is bullshit, Ray. She's trying to throw us off. Let's just finish her."

  The older man shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. "No," he said, his voice low and pensive. "No, I think she does know something."

  "Like I said, go check it out."

  "She wants us to go back in those woods," Ben said. "That thing must still be back in there. She wants us to go back in there."

  "Not gonna happen." Ray folded his hands in front of his. "Okay, little girl. Where's your friend?"

  "I don't know. That thing took her."

  "Dead? Alive?"

  "I don't know."

  "Okay, sweetheart. If Dwayne really did come out here, who called him?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know."

  "How do you even know someone called him out here?"

  "He told me."

  "Oh, yeah? And why would he do that?"

  "He said you'd gone too far. All of you. So he let us go."

  Ray looked around to glare at his nephew. "You didn't say anything to him, did you?"

  "Shit, no," Ben said with an explosive snort. "Neither did Johnny or George. That would've blown everything. You know that."

  Ray turned back to her. "What about the other two? The ones who were with us."

  She looked him straight in the eye. "Dead."

  "Shit." He huffed in frustration. "I've lived here all my life, and I never seen or heard of anything like that out here."

  "You're wrong," she said, barely able to draw a breath now. "It's been here a long, long time. Your father was Clayton Surber, right? It killed him too."

  Ray's eyes turned to red coals, and he leaned forward to clutch her throat again. "Okay. You seem to know just enough to get yourself in trouble, don't you?" He looked back at Ben. "I guess we're gonna have to cut the answers out of her."

  Ben produced a long hunting knife — the same one he had threatened her with in the parking lot of Woodard's — and now his face began to beam with pleasure.

  Ray tore open her mud-coated blouse and held up an open hand, like a cruel surgeon, into which Ben slapped the haft of his knife. Then Ben knelt, grasped her wrists, and effortlessly pulled her arms above her head, pinioning them with his strong hands. She heard a dull popping sound in her left shoulder and pain flared through her upper body.

  Ray now put his mouth close to her ear and said, "You think you can play games with us? Whatever you know, you're going tell me. Because I'm going to start asking you questions, and every time you give me a wrong answer, I'm going to slice off a little piece of you." He ran the flat edge of the knife blade over her stomach. Its cool touch, the anticipation of what was to come, brought terror bursting from its hidden compartment. He pressed the pointed tip hard into the flesh of her solar plexus, until a tiny bead of blood appeared.

  "Don't," she whispered, trying to keep her voice from pleading. "Let's just talk. All right? We'll just talk."

  "Yeah, that's it," Ray said, giving her a little smile. "We'll just talk. Now. I want you to tell me. Where's my brother?"

  She gazed at him for a time, not wanting to answer, but the pressure of the blade against her flesh ensured that she could not remain silent. So she spoke the truth. "In the woods. Dead."

  Fire blazed in her abdomen, and she rea
lized the knife had laid open her flesh, just below her breastbone. Her body tried to jerk forward, but Ben's grip on her wrists kept her prone. She glimpsed a thin, red line running horizontally across her abdomen, six inches across. Just deep enough to be excruciating.

  "I'm not lying," she said, gasping in pain and shock. "I told you what happened."

  "What was it that attacked us?"

  "Something…something called the Monarch."

  Vague recognition flashed in his eyes, and he glanced at Ben, who shrugged and shook his head. "And what is the Monarch?"

  "I don't know exactly," she said, her voice barely audible. "Something Martha Blackburn called up. Something horrible."

  "Something Martha Blackburn called up?"

  She nodded.

  Icy fire shot through her abdomen again as Ray drew the knife vertically down her stomach, crossing the first cut. This time, she couldn't hold back a cry of pain.

  "What do you mean something she called up? She talk to it on the telephone?" Ben spat a harsh laugh.

  She shook her head. "I don't know how she did it."

  Ray stared at her for a time, and Ben gave him a quizzical look. "Something rang a bell there. You heard of this Monarch before?"

  He scratched his chin. "Seems like Dad talked about a Monarch, back when we were kids. A crazy story about a thing that lived in the swamp." He leaned toward her again. "By the way, Miz Edmiston, your friends, the Blackburns, they claimed my dad died in an accident. Now, I've always known it wasn't any accident. Are you trying to tell me that this Monarch thing, that's what killed him?"

  She hesitated to answer, afraid of the blade's bite. But he brought the knife up toward her face and let it hover before her eyes, and she nodded. "That's what I think. I saw the newspaper story."

  "Up in Elizabeth City, right? You were there looking for information about my family?"

  "Not your family. The Blackburns. I just happened on the article."