Necessary Monsters

by Richard A. Kirk

  "There's a pig under the coals. Some guys grabbed it from a farm in the afternoon." The teenager wore a blanket like a cape. "They're pulling it out in few minutes. Drink?" Moss shook his head at the offered bottle, which judging from the man's dilated eyes held more than wine. "Suit yourself." He took a long drink.

  "What's going on here?" said Moss.

  "Going on?"

  "All of this. All these people?"

  The man yelled at someone across the fire. "This guy wants to know what's going on." There was scattered laughter but no answer as the group on the other side of the fire struggled with someone who had decided to try to walk on the coals. Moss's acquaintance shook his head and threw the empty bottle through the flames. Moss grimaced as someone cried out. "Finch." Moss took the man's hand. It was sticky.

  "Woods."

  "Woods, seriously, you don't know? This is the Purge protest. Happens every year, man. We're all heading for the town of Sea Pines where there is a big festival going on. A lot of these people here, they are the actual ancestors."

  "You mean descendants?" said Moss.

  "Whatever, man. It was their people that got booted off Nightjar Island. You heard about that, right? Totally fucked up, man."

  "How far is the town from here?"

  "About another day of walking. My feet are killing me already." The skirmish on the other side of the fire took on a more serious tone, as the unmistakable thump of fists connecting with flesh became audible over loud shouts. Finch yelled encouragements and kicked the fire, sending a shower of sparks toward the combatants. His face glowed orange in the firelight. Not liking the turn towards violence, Moss swept his arm down and snagged a handful of kebabs, reasoning they would hardly be missed. He tried to melt back into the darkness, only to discover that more people had crowded toward the fire, impeding his exit. A rough hand grabbed his coat. It was Finch. "Where are you going? The party is just getting going." The man's eyes darted down at the sticks of still-smoking meat.

  "I have friends I have to get back to." He pushed the man's hand away.

  "Calm down, man. You're acting strange. Like all intense. Are you a cop, or what?" Finch's breath stank of wine and sinispore. Moss turned away.

  "Nothing like that. I'm just a researcher. We're—I'm heading north and got stuck in the traffic." He was over-explaining and he knew it. A gap opened in the crowd and Moss stepped out of the firelight. Finch yelled something obscene after him, but Moss ignored it and moved in the direction of the truck. A few minutes later he was in an open field and the fire was a distant flicker. There was nothing to suggest that he was being followed. He bit a hunk of meat from the end of a stick.

  He stood motionless, chewing. Excited voices carried over the surf and the wind. The sea was on his right and the truck somewhere to his left, invisible behind a dark cluster of trees. The land in front of him inclined toward a point where the road jogged left, away from the sea cliff. He was about to set off when something caught his attention. Silhouetted against the sky, a large carriage was being drawn along the road by a lumbering form. Moss instinctively dropped to a crouch. There was no doubt it was Echo.

  The creature was hiding in plain sight, where it would be taken for just another carnival attraction. A dog, with the unmistakable shape of a rider on its back, zigzagged in and out of sight. Moss held his breath as it stopped. He had the sense that somehow it could see him in the dark. He was weighing whether or not to run when the dog and its rider turned away and disappeared from sight. Moss waited. They reappeared in front of the carriage and continued along the road.

  Moss headed toward the truck. Stepping onto a slight rise, he looked back, but saw only firelight. A few strides more and something hard hit him in the back of the head. The kebabs flew out of his hands as he dropped onto his knees in an irrigation ditch. A bottle rolled along the ground a few feet away and clinked against a rock. Moss gripped the back of his head with one hand as he looked for his assailant. He was too close to the ground to see properly. His hand came away from his head warm and tacky. Watching his footing, he ran up the opposite side of the ditch where he collided with a stack of wooden boxes. The buzz from within and the vibration of wings against his exposed skin told him he had struck a beehive. Several other hives were arranged in rows. He chose one near the middle and crouched behind it. Disoriented bees crawled over his clothing and even across his beard, but Moss remained motionless.

  Several men wandered into view carrying sticks. They pushed and shoved each other loudly, between drunken swats at the grass. Finch's voice rose above the rest. Moss kept his head low and listened to them moving between the hives. He had no doubt that they were searching for him. They knocked the boxes over as they blundered forward, but veered away before they reached his hiding spot. The shouts faded but Moss waited for several minutes before standing. Even in the dark he could see that the hives were devastated. He did what he could to right them, sustaining several stings to the back of his hand for his troubles. Leaving them to their fate, he returned to the truck by a circuitous route to avoid Finch's gang. The back of his head throbbed and he could feel blood inside his collar.

  Approaching the truck from sunken ground behind the beech, Moss saw a pinprick of light in the dark. Unsure if it was real, or an optical artifact—the result of being hit in the head with a bottle—he chose his steps deliberately. Moving closer to the base of the tree, Moss could see a crouched man watching the truck. The man's hand was on a rifle that leaned against the tree. Reaching into his pocket, Moss pulled out the awl. He crept up behind the man. At that moment, the stranger realized he was being stalked and turned his head. Moss leaped forward and seized the man's hair, slamming him into the tree trunk. He brought the awl up under his left ear. Moss could feel the man's carotid pulse beneath the base of his thumb.

  "Stop," hissed the man. "It's me: Gale."

  Moss kicked the rifle away and stepped back. Gale lay sprawled in a litter of dried leaves and beechnuts, panting heavily.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" asked Moss, pointing the awl at Gale.

  "Shush, there's time for that later. I'm on your side. The young lady is in trouble. Listen."

  Moss could hear voices on the other side of the truck. "Get up," he said to Gale. As Gale scrambled to his feet, pulling vegetation out of his beard, Moss snatched the rifle out of the grass. It was a heavy, big game rifle that he had no idea how to use. Taking a chance, he thrust it into Gale's chest. They heard Imogene call Moss's name. Moss held the awl up to Gale's face.

  "Wait a couple minutes and then follow me," he said. Gale nodded vigorously, clutching the rifle with both hands. With that, Moss left the concealment of the massive tree and rounded the front of the truck.

  Imogene was lying face down on the ground with a large man on top of her. He was bleeding from a gash across his forehead. Finch and another man were kicking the fire out.

  "Make sure it's all out," Finch yelled at his companion. "We don't need any witnesses." Another man, older and unshaven, kneeled on the ground near Imogene. He rubbed his cheek as if considering his options. Imogene stopped struggling. The man pulled a battery-powered torch from his sagging pants and aimed the beam in her face.

  "Get off her, now," said Moss, walking into view.

  "That's him," said Finch. "He's a cop. A fucking thieving cop, no less." The man with the torch turned his attention to Moss.

  "Is he right?" the man asked.

  "My name is Woods. That is my friend you have there. Tell that idiot to get off her," said Moss. Finch looked at Imogene salaciously. Moss lunged forward and thrust the awl into his thigh. Finch fell, screaming. The man with the torch remained where he was, impassive. Moss heard Imogene laboring to breathe under her attacker's weight. Moss strode toward her, leaving Finch writhing on the ground. He calculated that he could probably do enough damage to the older man to provoke his heavier companion off of Imogene.

  "Move," he yelled. The older man laughed and raised his torch
as if in surrender. Before Moss could react, the man tried to strike Imogene in the face. She twisted, anticipating the attack. The torch struck the fat man's knee with enough force to smash the light off the handle and send the bulb and reflector spinning off into the grass. Swearing, the injured man rolled off Imogene. She rolled, striking his jaw with a fist-sized rock. The shattering of bone was audible. Moss jumped at the older man hoping to knock him off balance and gain an advantage. The awl opened the man's face like a filet. He howled and met Moss with a fist in the chest. Moss stumbled away. The awl slipped from his grip and rolled into the grass. Finch had regained his feet and hooted like a hysterical chimpanzee as blood ran through his fingers. A gunshot sounded. At first Moss thought that one of the attackers had drawn a weapon. The fat man was swearing now, and running away from the truck into the darkness clutching a bloodied upper arm, his jaw gaping.

  "Well, that's about enough of that, I think," said Gale. With the ornate rifle raised to his shoulder, he advanced on the man who clutched the handle of the ruined flashlight with one hand and pressed the loose skin of his cheek to his face with the other. "I'm capable of murdering you where you stand. I suggest you take your friends and leave before I am tempted." The man dropped the flashlight and ran. Finch followed, dragging his leg and crying openly. The other had already fled.

  Gale lowered the rifle. Moss ran to Imogene and helped her to a sitting position. He put his arms around her. She spoke into his shoulder. Behind them, Gale lit a cigar.

  "What has she got to say for herself? Is she all right?" Gale asked, issuing thick smoke. Moss inclined his head toward Imogene.

  "She said thank you," said Moss.

  "Happy to be of—"

  "Gale, why are you here?"

  "I thought you might be more grateful," said Gale.

  "Give me that rifle."

  With mock affront, Gale stepped back and lifted the rifle as if to present it. The stock and barrel were encrusted in golden curlicues. The trigger guard reminded Moss of the hilt on a ceremonial sword.

  "Handle it with care. I'll have you know this is worth a fortune. It belongs in a bloody museum," said Gale, with a vulpine grin.

  "He followed us," whispered Imogene.

  A PROPOSAL

  "We need to talk, Gale," said Moss.

  "Yes, Moss."

  With first sign of morning light they had returned to the road and discovered that it was passable. Most of the travelers had meandered into the surrounding fields to sleep, most likely due to the frigid wind coming off the sea. They continued their northward journey. Gale, citing a car breakdown, had made a request to travel as far as Sea Pines. Despite a poisonous look from Imogene, Moss had agreed. He was confounded by the enigma of Gale and wanted an explanation of why the man had followed them from the City of Steps.

  "Oh yes, I know your real name." The two men sat in the back of the truck. The canvas awning shivered loudly around them. Gale sat on a crate resting his empty rifle across his knees. A hunting coat, cargo pants, and new boots that smelled of mink oil constituted a getup more suited to shooting rabbits than chasing off thugs. Moss rested on a rolled sleeping bag with his back against a metal tube that provided ribbed support for the awning. Imogene, bruised and silent, was behind the wheel, having earlier made it clear she was in no mood for conversation.

  "I got shot in the leg because of you," said Moss. "I'd be dead now if that cop had any kind of aim."

  "It wasn't my doing; I assure you of that. It was Seaforth's employee, Mr. Morel, who set things in motion. Habich told me that Morel had grave suspicions about your conduct for weeks. His curiosity was particularly aroused when someone brought you home, semi-conscious, and covered in blood."

  "He saw that? Morel is a trouble-maker," said Moss.

  "I agree. I am sorry about your leg. The detective overreacted."

  "Is that what you would call it. The man was a homicidal maniac."

  "From what I saw of his face after the fact, you gave a good account of yourself. You broke his nose and probably fractured his cheekbone. I'd avoid going back to the city if I were you. All that aside, I wasn't pleased that you were trying to bargain with Oliver behind my back. It was very bad form. I have a collector's instinct, eyes in the back of my head, Moss. Did you think I'd be disinterested in knowing that I was being cheated? I take my collecting seriously."

  "I never intended to give Oliver the book. I was trying to bargain for something else."

  "More of those interesting drawings, I would hazard to guess. I've been preoccupied by your drawing, Moss. It is how I am. When I see something that interests me I feel driven to seek it out. It's like a stone in my shoe. I become agitated at the thought of it falling into the hands of someone who might not appreciate its true value. Naturally, once I had seen the drawing I could not let it slip out of my hands. Nor the others. There are others, aren't there?" Gale took on a lofty tone. "A man of my sensibilities has an imperative to pursue the rare and unusual. How would I live with myself if I let an opportunity slip through my fingers? Unfortunately, I do not have the virtue of patience." The two men sat looking at each other as the truck shuddered. "Perhaps, if you can try to see me in a more favorable light, we might salvage something from this situation."

  Moss averted his eyes. "And what would that be?"

  "Before he died," said Gale, "Oliver Taxali told me an interesting story. He was convinced that he'd had a run-in with the supernatural." Gale laughed heartily. "A witch. I thought he was pulling my leg until I happened to encounter that boy, Andrew, outside the old Blackrat Bakery. It took some time to get him talking and then I couldn't get him to stop. It was quite a story. He told me of events in the Cloth Hall, that you had murdered Lamb, all of it. He seemed particularly excited about a demon, and a witch that rides a black dog."

  "Andrew is alive," said Moss with relief.

  "He is quite well. The witch and her companion, they have been causing you problems?"

  "Make your point."

  "I know they are real. I've seen them for myself on the road. The creature is pulling a large black carriage with no windows, very ominous. Now, I come to my proposal."

  "So soon?" said Moss.

  "There is no need for sarcasm. Simply put, I will help you dispense with these unsavory characters. I am capable. I've hunted my share of big game in the past." He patted the rifle.

  "What would you expect to get out of it?" Moss fought the impulse to look at the crate Gale was sitting on, which housed the bookcase.

  "The rest of the drawings."

  Moss laughed.

  "What is so funny?"

  "Okay, for the sake of argument, how would you go about it?"

  "I intend to exterminate them," said Gale, stroking the gun. "This is no time for half measures. By all accounts these are not entities to be trifled with. They are against the natural order, and I will dispatch them as such."

  "Gale—"

  "A phantasm, nothing more," said Gale. "It is only practical that I should come along. Whether you realize it or not, you are running out of time."

  "Why?"

  "We are heading north. I infer that we are following them to Nightjar Island. Confronting them there will be infinitely more complicated than dealing with them sooner. If you even get to the island, the terrain is difficult and there are many other kinds of dangers like unexploded mines, wild animals and reclusive holdouts from the Purge." Gale leaned forward. "Let me help you deal with them, Moss. Let's reach an agreement. I can see it in your eyes that you want to accept."

  The man had the gleam of obsession. Moss knew that Gale had slim chance of fulfilling his proposition. He had felt the power of Elizabeth's invisible touch. Gale would turn to jelly before he could squeeze a single shell from his ridiculous rifle. Listening to Gale, Moss realized that here was a golden opportunity to rid himself of the meddler for good. With Gale poking the hornet's nest, Moss and Imogene could use the distraction to vanish into the island, to search for Memoria.<
br />
  "They will be heading for the old ferry quay," said Gale. "It is the only stretch of water around the island that is even plausibly navigable."

  "I've never heard of it," said Moss.

  "There is nothing much left now, seawalls and old pilings. It was the point of departure for the Nightjar ferry, the closest point between the mainland and the island. The water is treacherous, full of rocks and debris from the war, unstable mines, to say nothing of the terrible currents. It would be reckless to attempt a crossing. But, there was also a tunnel there. Equally dangerous, if in fact it has not collapsed. I'd bet that the tunnel is their true destination. You cannot let them get to the island by either route. Once they are there they will vanish. You will have lost the advantage of the bottleneck. There is only one road between here and the ferry quay. We must catch them on that road."

  At that moment, the truck came to an abrupt stop, sending Gale onto a pile of tarpaulins. Imogene appeared at the back of the truck. "We're here," she shouted above the roar of the idling engine.

  THE INN

  "Well, I don't like it," said Imogene. "I don't care if he helped to scare off those idiots last night. I don't trust him. All that phony pipe and liquor bullshit. He was stalking us. Doesn't that suggest to you that he has resources? He has to be associated with the Red Lamprey." She dropped a heavy bag of clothing on the table. The room in the inn they had chosen was small for two people and smelled of the vinegar used to clean the windows. Between the few bags that they had carried in from the truck, and the traveling bookcase, there was barely room to maneuver. Moss would have slept in the truck but Imogene wanted a bath and a real bed after the assault the previous night.

  "I don't trust him either, but now that he's here isn't it better to have him in plain sight?" Moss sat at a table fidgeting with a pen.

  "I can't believe that you would want to have anything to do with Gale. I've met guys like Gale many times over the years. They are far more dangerous agents than the obvious gangsters. He's a threat. It's written all over his face. He'll screw us the second it's to his advantage."