Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  ***

  He shook off the dream. Their point having been made, his ex-girl’s thugs faded back in the darkness where she’d probably found them. Then, later, he finally did get a plumber in to run a snake through the drain in the basement. He couldn’t afford it, but, with the heatwave the city was under, it stank so much down there after the few rains that otherwise just added to the humidity, he didn’t know what else to do about it.

  “Ought to hold you for now,” the plumber said when he was finished. “I ran the cutter, twice in fact, just in case some tree roots or something were blocking the pipe. But this summer, I don’t know. I got you clear to the city sewer, but those pipes are so old, God knows how long it’s been since anyone cleaned them.”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh. I guess I know what you mean. Outside, sometimes, evenings when there isn’t any wind, sometimes, especially around the manhole covers in the street, it smells like something’s maybe died down there.”

  The plumber laughed. “Happens all the time. Things dying, I mean. This is an old city, built underneath on a gravity system so things are supposed to just flush themselves out into the river. But crud builds up down there, just like in your own pipes. Leaks into the ground sometimes.”

  He nodded again and paid the plumber. And things were better, at least for a time. He still heard gurgling sounds sometimes after he’d used the bathroom, but that was his own pipes, just water going down like it was supposed to. And if it stank outside, well, dogs pissed on trees too—and not just dogs all the time—bypassing the sewers altogether, except when it rained, of course, and everything washed down into the storm sewer under the sidewalk.

  But pipes were pipes, and if they were old in his part of the city and cracked and root-blocked, well, pipes leaked to other pipes, mixing rainwater and sewage together—new pipes and old pipes, and even below that—garbage from alleys, dog piss and who knew what else?

  Tampons, maybe.

  And used prophylactics.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  The heatwave continued. The newspapers headlined it: WORST SUMMER EVER! The days were bone-dry now and yet, a month later, even the neighbors, the winos, and the dope pushers were out complaining. Even the winos. The stench was oppressive.

  And not just the storm sewers. Down in his basement he heard a gurgling and, turning the light on to check it out, he saw, in the corner, a puddle of brown liquid bubbling up where the floor drain lay open.

  That tore it, he thought. The following morning, after he’d dreamed once more, for the first time since the night of his beating, of ancient cities that underlay this one—of rot, and dust, and shadowy things that once hulked through stone-lined streets, long since forgotten—he checked it again. He found that the liquid had gone down again, but, angrier, still, this time than even that morning he’d kicked his girlfriend out, even the night he first had the dream that had just repeated itself, he called the city.

  “Hello?” he said. “Utilities Department?”

  “Yeah,” the phone answered.

  “We got a sewer here. Backed up or something. Out in the street. The stink’s something awful.”

  “Yeah?” the voice said again. “What’s your location?”

  He tried to give the voice his address, but halfway through he heard someone start laughing. And then they hung up on him. He figured, yeah. His neighborhood, yeah. Like someone at city hall really cared—like with the garbage out in the alleys. How long had it been since the last time they picked that up, even when even the winos complained now?

  And in the silence that followed after he’d slammed his own phone down, down in the basement he heard something gurgling.

  ***

  But it was the lightning most likely that finished it. When, eight days later, eight fitful nights filled with dreams of what he had come to think of as his city—of sewers and tunnels and crumbled aqueducts, long dead and dust-dry but once serving ill-shaped hulks not even human, consumed perhaps by some ancient science that had turned against them and yet, as with the sewers that lay above, their being leaking out through cracks and fissures, oozing up through the rock—festering, waiting—the heatwave finally broke. When the skies opened—the first rain they’d had in weeks!—when the storm crashed down, three-and-a-half inches in just the first half hour, turning the streets into muck-filled torrents. At half past midnight the power went out when lightning struck the box in the alley, then arced to the wet pavement. But, even in the dark, no one could get to sleep.

  Not with the thunder.

  As lightning struck again, out on the street this time, right in its center, causing a blue flash that sizzled in tendrils out to both gutters. Again. Again. It glowed through his windows, even through the filth. In the backyard this time.

  Charging the air—he could feel the hairs on the backs of his wrists rise.

  And, down in the basement, between the crashings, he heard the gurgling sound. The sound as if of some would-be living thing, seeking the force of life. But this time, louder.

  And now upstairs, too, in the bathroom he heard it, a kind of groaning shriek, echoed at first by the bowl of the toilet, but then more a mushing sound as if a large bulk were oozing out on the floor. And the stench, God, it was overpowering!

  Then it occurred to him, even as he heard in the darkness the sound of wood splintering. The bathroom—the basement door. Crack! and crack! as both in succession were wrenched off their hinges. The comment he’d made when the plumber had been there, about something dying. And what the plumber had said: “Happens all the time.”

  About things dying. But stuff building up, too, down in the sewers. Accumulating, the shit and God knew what else from the forgotten dregs of the city. Festering, cooking there. That hadn’t been cleaned out in how many centuries?

  And under the sewers? He thought of his dreams, of other things lurking, of substances melding together. Combining.

  A thing once intelligent.

  Waiting for just that spark.

  And now, shrieking, he felt its burgeoning mass absorb his body, feet first as he tried to run out from the house to the flooded street beyond, with its own stench rising up to greet him.

  And then a calmness.

  He thought of dregs. The dregs of the city, and cities more ancient that underlay this one, primeval cities of things that could not even have been called human, that rotted, forgotten—but wasn’t that what he was? He and those like him, all but nonexistent as far as this city of the present knew.

  Accumulating.

  And downtown, the towers, glistening in the rain, homes and workplaces of those more fortunate, those this city did recognize as its own. Sparkling clean. Cared for. Distant and fat and rich.

  Until he felt himself—itself—turn slowly, sensing their light somehow. It and the others, tentacled hulks rising up in the darkness, in other neighborhoods now as well. Older neighborhoods. In other cities as well as this one. Growing in hatred as he/they lurched forward.

  ***

  In hatred and hunger.

  About the author: James Dorr’s collections STRANGE MISTRESSES: TALES OF WONDER AND ROMANCE and DARKER LOVES: TALES OF MYSTERY AND REGRET are published by Dark Regions Press, while other work has appeared in ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE, NEW MYSTERY, ABORIGINAL SF, FANTASTIC, DARK WISDOM, GOTHIC.NET, CHI-ZINE, ENIGMATIC TALES (UK), FAERIES (France), and numerous anthologies.

  The Rose Garden

  James Ward Kirk

  Adam Glacies sat in his green plastic chair under the fading sun staring at his dead wife’s dead rose garden. Even though this Indiana May, already too hot, promised a healthy garden for Angela’s flowers, they weren’t taking. The remnants left over from the hellish winter stood crookedly, faded yellows and reds and her prize whites. Scratching at his graying whiskers with his left hand, Adam picked up the .38 resting on his lap, his ex-service revolver, and pointed the muzzle at his temple.

  But he couldn’t do it. He knew he should pull the trigge
r, even things out, reconfirm his loyalty to Angela, but he also understood cowardice and disloyalty.

  Standing, he stuffed his piece into the belt holding his jeans up and walked to his house. The grass needs cutting. The goddamn dandelions are taking over.

  In the kitchen, Adam set the table. He loaded his plate with three pork chops, a heaping mound of mashed potatoes, and golden corn. Across the table from him stood a large framed photograph of Angela wearing a white dress with matching sunbonnet, long blond hair framing a perfect face. Her blue eyes and bright smile projected the most pain for Adam. She was still innocent.

  Tearing into his meal, barely bothering to chew, never taking his eyes from Angela’s, he finished, then hurried to the sink and vomited everything back up.

  His pants fell to the floor. Suffering serious weight loss.

  Pulling them back up, he turned on the tap water and rinsed the sink, then turned on the garbage disposal. He listened hungrily to his guilt being chewed up.

  After turning off the tap and the garbage disposal, he walked to the living room, sat down in his recliner, laid his pistol on the table beside his chair, then pulled the drawer open next to him. Removing the half empty bottle of bourbon, he finished the nut-brown liquid in three long pulls, falling asleep in his black leather recliner.

  ***

  Adam awoke to a low buzzing sound. The room was dark, as was his mood. Becoming a bit more alert, he picked up his gun and walked shakily to the front porch.

  Forcing himself to focus, he saw small furry creatures with big eyes—Adam was reminded of chipmunks and apple-head Chihuahuas with antennae—eating the dandelions in his yard. A whippoorwill sounded in the distance.

  Adam pointed his .38 at one of them.

  No! We come in peace and love.

  Whatever. Lowering his gun, he walked back into the house, to his bedroom, and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of blue eyes and the lost chirping of crickets in a moonlit night.

  ***

  Eve: the exact opposite of Angela, raven-haired, eyes so dark and large like a starless midnight sky, tall and long-legged; and corrupt. Eve: meth-thin, opposite of Angela’s full-bodied figure, small breasted but a plump ass: Angela’s golem.

  A courier, Eve drove a new black Caddy and lived in Gwynneville. Adam drove an unmarked blue Impala and lived in Shelbyville. He waited outside her supplier’s house in Rushville and followed her along State Road 52 with the windows down, enjoying the scent of fresh cut hay, until they reached her home. Eve never saw him coming. But she was ready.

  Waiting until she almost reached the green front door of her white house, her large silver Cathy purse hanging from her shoulder, wearing a short blue-jean skirt and a pearl high-cut t-shirt, he made his move.

  Just as Eve pushed the door open, Adam hit her with his left shoulder. She went tumbling, dropping her purse, and two kilos of bagged crystal meth spilled onto the floor.

  Eve, cuffed in a matter of seconds, rolled over unto her back. Adam looked down at her.

  She spread her legs just enough to show her promise of an ebony happy trail. “Don’t do this. I’ll suck you dry. I’ll fuck you dry. I know things.”

  Her voice, melodic, her mouth filled with promise, seemed a reward to Adam. He worked hard and played hard, more so than anyone he knew.

  He couldn’t deny his erection and didn’t want to anyway. This beautiful woman, impossible to resist, sang a siren’s song. Adam dropped his jeans and straddled her.

  “Wait,” she sang, “bring it up here first.” She opened her wonderful mouth.

  Eve was not a gift; rather, an addiction.

  ***

  Adam crawled out of bed, making it to the toilet just in time to empty his stomach. Not bothering to brush his teeth, he walked to the kitchen and started some coffee, standing in front of the machine, motionless, breathing shallowly, watching the coffee brew. After finishing, he poured some into a cup and walked to the front porch.

  On his third sip he noticed the absence of dandelions. Remembering a vague dream about small furry creatures eating them, and speaking to him, he shrugged his shoulders. I need to cut the grass. He noticed his neighbors’ yards still overrun by dandelions.

  He finished his coffee and walked around the side of his house toward the garage where his green lawnmower awaited him. Filling the gas tank, he checked the oil and then pulled it behind him to the smallish backyard. I should probably cut those roses down. But his stomach heaved at the thought. Hesitantly, he glanced at the rose garden.

  What?

  The roses, standing tall, leered back at him in perfect health. Angela’s rose garden could easily grace any glossy magazine cover. They’re unspoiled.

  As he approached, their perfume overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees. I’m going insane. Finally.

  Standing, he finished his journey to the rose garden, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright hues. Their scent and color made his eyes water. And the morning sun, burning mercilessly, was unable to affect the tears streaming down his face, as now he cried—no, sobbed.

  Birds chirped; a dove cooed. In the distance a woodpecker worked mightily.

  I don’t deserve this. Adam stood and walked to the edge of the garden. He longed to experience joy over the miracle before him, but he suffered only emptiness.

  Angela should be here.

  Reaching out to touch one of the white roses, he hesitated. The bed of the garden glowed violet, the deep color a king might wear. I smell... I’m reminded of... manure... but not like any I know... there’s no chemical smell... Adam took three steps backward and tripped over the lawnmower, falling to the ground.

  Shit!

  Regaining his footing, he looked all around, and decided to cut the grass. Starting the mower, he began his routine of cutting: familiar squares, rectangles, circles around the two maples. He withdrew into his thoughts.

  Nine in the morning on a beautiful Saturday, the breeze perfectly warm, Angela so lovely in her jeans and white t-shirt, hair pulled back, a smile dancing on the edges of her mouth.

  “I’m proud of you for donating your time at the Seniors Village.”

  “Thank you, Adam. Those people are so fun. I love listening to their stories.”

  “I’ll pick you up at four.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Watching Angela walking, wondering why Eve’s hold on him is so powerful when Angela is so beautiful. Sex is wonderful with her, and the love I feel when I’m inside her is real.

  Driving away, growing hard, not for the moment, but for the moments to come. Naked Eve meeting him at her back door, gone Brazilian, holding coffee laced with bourbon; screwing, drinking, screwing, napping, drinking, screwing...

  “Adam! Wake up! You’re late!”

  Adam trembled.

  Waking up with my face buried deep in her lap, unable to finish what I started, drunk, feeling Eve’s hands push me and I fall to the floor naked and the bottle of bourbon falls and empties onto my head, rushing to dress, leaving Eve still drunk and already back to sleep...

  Angela sitting on the steps, smiling at me even though I’m late, God bless her.

  Angela getting in and I pull away still drunk, so drunk. I pick up speed and she leans over to kiss me and oh my God she smells Eve on my mouth and my Angela shrinks.

  Leaving Rushville on SR52, cornfields, tree lines to fight erosion, and I hear her start to cry and this angers me so I smack her.

  Picking up speed, turning on my lights, passing slowing cars, and Angela plants a right fist directly onto my right temple and I briefly lose it...

  Waking up... my cop friends telling me my car rolled six times and I’m okay but Angela... no seatbelt, thrown from the car. I find her in three pieces: a crimson mess, one leg bled out hanging pale from a tree branch, her trunk all yellow in the flashing lights.

  Adam shuddered.

  His BAC never checked.

  Buried in three days... her white sunbonnet
... Angela gone forever to a blue place where roses grew as big as oaks, a haven he knew he’d never reach.

  His first Saturday without Eve...

  The second Saturday, nighttime, peeping through her window, Eve strung out on meth and whiskey, already another naked man by her side, he slunk away; murder thrumming in-between beats of his heart, never to be.

  Adam quivered, released from memory, the tank of the mower empty, the expected spring breeze still, twilight beginning to twinkle in the sky.

  How long have I been standing here? He looked around the neighborhood, lights flashing on in homes, cars parked neatly in driveways, dandelions everywhere.

  He walked into his home, tugged long and hard on a fresh bottle of bourbon, and fell asleep, feeling death like a kiss on his cheek, and he vibrated.

  Awakened by a buzzing in his head, now a familiar sound, a loved one calling out, and he walked out to his front porch.

  All of the dandelions gone; no freshly cut grass in his neighbors’ yards, just the absence of dandelions and the loss of night sounds. No chirping of birds, no crickets, no buzzing of flying insects—only the silence of the night exploding in his mind.

  Adam left the porch and walked around the side of the house to the backyard.

  Gazing upon Angela’s rose garden, understanding now the completed artistry; his memory of this morning’s rose garden incomplete, experienced like the morning before the final brush strokes on the Sistine Chapel, which Angela once told him about.

  She should know.

  Angela’s roses towered above him, at least 15 feet tall, and colored like the most beautiful works of art in the world. Adam fell to his knees.