Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales

by Simon Strantzas

  When Randal arrived at the lab the following morning, he had not expected the scene that greeted him. The room was in shambles—trays of agar spilled over the ground, glass beakers shattered, shelves of books emptied into piles. All the students’ lab experiments were destroyed, the colonies scattered across the table and walls like white spots of paste. The room had been ransacked, and Randal’s heart turned cold. He dropped the notes he’d been carrying for the day’s lecture and darted to the back room where Markowitz’s crate had been hidden. He found it open, and stared, desperate to believe he misunderstood what lay in front of him. How could everything be gone? Who had known about the crate, about Markowitz’s findings? Randal hadn’t uttered a word, yet everything was gone. All his hopes, his whole future, vanished into nothing. Sweat pasted his clothes against his body. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs so fast he tasted blood. His head pounded, his vision dimmed, and he felt his legs buckle. Randal sat down hard on a bench stool and held his head in his hands. Everything was over.

  He didn’t see Olivia enter. She just appeared in the room as though she’d always been there and he simply hadn’t noticed. She looked more tired than ever, her face puffy and wet, the whites of her eyes pink. In the short time since they’d last seen each other her condition had degenerated, and it was playing havoc with her complexion. Blotches covered her face, her hands, and she had developed what looked like a festering cold sore on her bottom lip. When she spoke, Randal’s heart jumped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The samples. Everything Markowitz and—everything Dr. Markowitz sent back. It’s all gone. Someone came in and took it.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked genuinely perplexed. Randal was dumbstruck.

  “Look,” he said finally. “The crate is empty. The lab is in ruins. Everything is gone.”

  She turned her head and looked at the room as though for the first time. She studied it for a few minutes, then lazily turned back and shrugged.

  “I have it all.”

  Randal was confused. “Have what?”

  “Everything,” she said. “I have everything.”

  “You have everything?”

  “I have everything.”

  It was too much. Randal barely contained himself.

  “You took everything . . . ?”

  She absently scratched at one of the sores on her face. It split open and turned wet and red. Her fingernail dragged a streak across her face. Then she shrugged. She no longer seemed like the girl with whom he had worked side-by-side while waiting for Dr. Markowitz and Linden to return. Had it really been only a few weeks earlier? It seemed forever.

  “Where did you take it all?”

  She looked at him as though she’d already forgotten he was there.

  “Oh, you mean the samples?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The samples.”

  “I have them at home.”

  “You have them at—” He could barely speak. “But what about the mess? Everything is upended. It’s a disaster in here.”

  She shrugged again. “I needed some books to help me study the samples. I had trouble finding them.”

  “That makes . . . absolutely no sense! You destroyed the lab just for the paper?”

  “Yes, yes. For the . . .” She trailed off, looking down, scouring the floor. Randal looked, too, but he didn’t see anything but a mess. There was something seriously wrong with Olivia, and he worried it was a delayed reaction to the death of Linden, to her exposure to the work he had been doing. She hadn’t read Markowitz’s journal. For all she knew, Linden had done nothing suspicious. Randal felt his anger wither, slip backward as concern snuck into its place.

  “Olivia, are you all right? This isn’t like you. Is it because of what happened in my—in Markowitz’s office?”

  She shook her head once, then again. For a moment, he could see her eyes clear. “What? Sorry, Randal. I’m just really tired. I was up late again.” She shook her head a third time, harder. Then she looked at around the room. “This place is a mess. Listen, I’m going to go home, take a nap. I’ll be back in plenty of time to clean up before this afternoon’s lab.”

  Randal looked at her face, wondering where the woman he’d spent so much time thinking about had gone. And wondering if she had some plan for Markowitz’s material she wasn’t telling him about. There was something going on, something that wasn’t adding up.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “But bring back the samples. I’d feel safer if they were here under lock and key.”

  “Sure,” she said, nodding. Despite her deteriorating appearance, he could still smell strawberries.

  But he could not stop thinking about her, and could not stop worrying. It occurred to him that there was some overlap between what he’d read in Markowitz’s journal about Linden and Olivia’s slow descent, but Randal didn’t see how the communication of such a thing was possible. Leaving aside the fantastic liberties the senile Markowitz was likely taking with the account, nothing about it matched up. Olivia was nowhere near Linden when he fell ill, and nothing could have been transported back that would have survived the journey in preservatives. Even the bacterial samples that needed to be cultured were pre-screened for any dangerous pathogen. It was impossible for anything to have slipped into the lab. What Olivia had was something else, and even if it wasn’t, the journal contained no information at all that would be of help.

  Olivia had changed too much, too quickly, as though whatever illness she’d contracted was scrambling her thoughts. It was also making her difficult to read, which was perhaps most worrying of all. Markowitz had sent them a magic ticket in the contents of the grey wooden crate, and though Randal was certain that the Olivia he’d known before then wouldn’t have done anything with it, the new ill and grief-stricken Olivia might. Everything Randal was working toward was on the line, and he didn’t like the feeling of being under someone’s thumb, even if it was unintentional. He had a taste of serendipitous freedom with his new position and the promise of what Markowitz’s findings could lead to, and was loath to go back to the anonymity he had suffered once before.

  He thought he might check on Olivia during the students’ scheduled lab time to ensure she’d returned Markowitz’s material. He did so because he had no choice—until then, he had done his best to avoid the lab while the students were there. He did not enjoy their judging eyes while in lecture, and he could hardly imagine how much worse it would be in an enclosed space. But without those samples, he would have nothing, and he couldn’t afford to give Olivia the benefit of the doubt any longer. He had to be sure.

  Randal’s nerve remained steeled until he set foot in the lab and all the chattering voices halted. Dozens of eyes narrowed as the realization of who he was settled like black rain upon everyone. Part of him wanted to flee, turn around and get as far away from those unwelcoming stares as possible, but he would not let himself. The time had finally come to make the students understand who was in charge. His head held higher with each step, he strode across the lab toward Olivia, the only one who did not react when he entered.

  “Ms. Marshall,” he said with as much authority as he could muster. “I need to speak with you.”

  When she turned it was only his desire not to show weakness in front of the students that kept him from taking a horrified step backward. He composed himself as quickly as possible in the face of how she looked.

  “Olivia, I—” he started, but his students did not want him to finish.

  “Can’t you see she’s sick?” one asked, though in the babbling who it was proved impossible to discern.

  “Yeah, leave her alone.”

  “I just—”

  “What’s your problem anyway?”

  Randal felt his spine curl. Within that circle of hate directed at him, he felt his power draining away. He had to struggle, fight back, or else they would win.

  “Enough! The next one of you who speaks gets an automatic fail.” The room quieted immediatel
y after that. He fought the urge to smirk while his spine straightened itself out. How easy it was. “Get back to your assignments. Ms. Marshall and I have to have a discussion. Come with me.”

  For a second, he didn’t think she was going to move, and he wasn’t sure if it was because she wouldn’t or couldn’t. Her eyes fluttered, her blotched skin red with eruptions. Her face was swollen and jaundiced, and looked as though it were about to fall free of her skull. But it was her eyes that troubled him the most. They were cloudy white, and even when he thought she was looking at him he didn’t know if she truly saw him. She stood, eventually, her dry twisted hands on the desk, propping herself up. She breathed heavily, and Randal kept his distance.

  “Olivia, did you bring the material back?”

  It was clear she didn’t understand him.

  “The material?” He looked around, looked at the faces of those who were desperate to pretend they weren’t listening. “Did you bring it?”

  Her eyes continued to stare, then with a flutter of her lids they were looking at the locked back room. But by the time he realized it those eyes were closed and she was swaying.

  “Olivia!”

  Her eyes snapped open. Were they cloudier than a moment before?

  “Olivia, you should go home.”

  “I can’t.” She stumbled over her tongue. “Can’t go.”

  “Mr. Souris?”

  He knew the voice, but was so angry that someone had spoken there was no time to think, only react. His entire being powering up for the reprimand he was going to give the lot of them. Now that he finally had the upper hand.

  “That’s it, you’ve failed this class. I want you out of this lab now.” Randal was panting, the anger still swirling within him. But what he saw when the red clouds parted wasn’t any of the students standing there accusing him, but Dean Coxwell, his sweater vest incongruous with the look on his face.

  “Mr. Souris, a word?”

  Randal was certain he could see a triumphant laugh on one of the students’ faces. He stormed after the dean until they were outside the laboratory. Students were walking across campus, completely ignorant of everything he and Olivia were trying to do.

  “What is it?” he said, harsher than he intended. “Is about Olivia? Because I—”

  “Olivia who? Listen to me. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He could not look Randal in the eye. Instead, he continued to stare at his feet, clearly wanting to be anywhere else in the world.

  “Just say it, dean. It’s easier for us both that way.”

  “It’s Markowitz and Linden,” he said. “They found them both.”

  Randal went cold.

  “Where?”

  “A fisherman found them washed up on the coast of southern California. Their bodies must have been in the water for weeks, because the police say they were nearly unidentifiable. They were mangled, fish having eaten out their eyes and shredded their flesh. Even their guts had been ripped open and eaten away. The police said it was a miracle they found them at all, considering how unpredictable the tides have been down there lately.”

  Randal nodded, his whole body numb.

  “Naturally, you’ll keep teaching his class until a replacement can be found.” He put his hand on Randal’s shoulder. “I’m sorry again, son. But I thought you would want to know.”

  “Thank you, Dean Coxwell.”

  The dean nodded his head once, then sniffled and retreated down the hallway with his penguin walk. He did not turn around to see the look on Randal’s face.

  5

  Randal put the news he’d heard from Dean Coxwell from his mind and did his best to focus on the work at hand. His dissertation sat long neglected in a pile on the edge of his desk, and he wondered if it was better to finish it or discard it altogether. He had such bigger things to focus on all of a sudden.

  Dean Coxwell’s news was like a balm for his mind. Throughout the day the complaints he heard from his students were less troubling, his concern over Olivia’s far-fetched plans fading away. There was nothing in her head but desire to feel better, to be cured of whatever ailed her. After all, if she was planning to steal the crate’s contents for herself, surely she would have been more discreet about it. She would return everything soon, once she was able to study the discovery properly. And then, once she was well enough, the two of them would compare notes. Those images she’d shown him of the fossilized creatures—they seemed ripe with potential, far beyond anything Markowitz imagined. He had been looking for something that would help with the exploration of deep space, but instead may have found something that had originated in deep space. Randal wondered what that would have been like to witness—a blinding light hurtling through the sky like a falling god. It would have been fantastic if only he could have seen it for himself. The mere idea filled him with giddiness.

  Dean Coxwell, without even trying, had liberated him. Randal felt like dancing.

  He remained locked in his office after all classes had finished for the day. There was something about the studious quiet of the post-class evening that he loved, when the mediocre, uncaring students fled the campus and left only the most contemplative and busy in its halls, or curled in the deep leather chairs of the library. The buzz of life was felt, not heard, in the dusk of the school day, and Randal found himself whistling as he went through the drawers of his desk, removing anything that belonged to Markowitz and depositing it in a dented cardboard box. Perhaps he could send it all to Markowitz’s family. Did he have any family? Randal had no idea. It was funny—he had spent so long with the man, worshipping all he’d done, and yet Randal knew next to nothing about him. Even his journal was of no use. Randal reached over and picked up his saddle bag. The journal had almost nothing in it that was personal, and Markowitz knew that—

  He paused. Checked the bag again. Started removing books and papers wondering where it was. Where was the journal? He kept checking the bag, then the floor around the bag, and behind the desk, in the drawers, on the floor. Where did the journal go? Where?

  He asked, but he already knew the answer.

  Sprinting to the door, he tried to work the stubborn lock with jittering hands.

  It was a fight to get his coat on, sleeves folded inside out and collar half-raised. His car sputtered to life and carried him down Gordon Street, then right on Woolwich. He had not been inside Olivia’s student apartment before, but he knew where it was, having dropped her off in the evenings after work at the lab. The stairs to the third floor were utilitarian, made of solid concrete with steel railings. Randal’s shoes made the sound of a shovel into earth with each step he took upward, and it wasn’t long until, out of breath, he reached the fifth floor and stormed down its hallway.

  He hammered Olivia’s door with his fist and waited. There were muted whispers from within. He pounded twice further, but no one answered.

  “Olivia!” His voice was as stern as he could make it. “Olivia, it’s Randal. I need to speak to you. Immediately.”

  There was an interminable pause, yet nothing happened.

  “Olivia, I know you still have those samples, that you stole Markowitz’s journal from my bag. You weren’t ready yet to see what happened to the two of them, so I wanted to spare you that. But, Olivia, there is so much we can do with what they brought back. Let me show you what they found. You just need to open this door so I can—so we can bring everything back to the lab. We have to run tests, compare notes. We have to see what we’ve discovered. We could help change the world.”

  Randal was panting, his fists throbbing from being clenched so long. Still nothing. Frustrated, he tried the door handle. It twisted easily, and the door swung open.

  “Olivia? Are you here?”

  He entered the apartment and immediately regretted it.

  The last time Randal saw her, Olivia was in a horrible condition. Her apartment, though, was worse. It had the funk of not having been cleaned in weeks, and impossibly looked as though it might have been longer. Clothe
s were strewn across the floor, food rotted on unwashed dishes piled in the sink. Flies were everywhere, buzzing around his head. Every surface seemed covered in loose sheets of paper, most handwritten or torn from a multitude of different books. They covered the floor in some bizarre pattern. Randal held his breath and carefully stepped between them, doing his best to avoid touching anything. When he reached the other end of the living room, he forced opened a window so he could breathe, and through it noises from neighbors on the street carried in. It did nothing to alleviate the odor of sweat.

  He was distracted by a long drawn-out moan, as though the walls were weakening around him. He turned, unsure if the sound was one of the voices coming in through the window, and waited. There was nothing for a long while, then the faintest huff of an exhale whispered across the room. Randal crept across the apartment toward the small bedroom. The distance seemed longer than he remembered, as though it were trying to inch away from him.

  “Olivia?” he called out as he checked the apartment. The roll of blankets on the couch was just that, despite its human shape and unnatural warmth. The bathroom was empty of everything but filth, and Randal’s attempt to flush the rusty water resulted in a clog that rose precariously close to the edge before the sickly gulps of suction brought the water level down.

  The bedroom door was not only closed, but locked. Randal rapped on it vigorously.

  “Are you in there?” He tried the handle, but it didn’t budge. “Olivia, open the door.”

  He heard the squeak of springs, a low moan. He knocked harder.

  “Are you okay in there? Olivia!”

  He knocked harder still. Tried the handle again. Her moans were louder.

  “Olivia!”

  He imagined her behind the locked door, moaning as she lay dying, and became worried. He couldn’t have that on his conscience. He knocked once more, then started ramming his shoulder into the wood. The frame bent, but did not give—not until Randal started kicking the door near the knob, trying to knock it loose. As he did, the moaning intensified.