by Tim Waggoner
Flavor to the Feast.
The house that Kevin had been assigned to check out was located at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two stories, salmon-colored brick, black roof, off-white shutters. It had no doubt been quite a handsome place once, but its best years were long behind it. The brick was crumbling, the roof was missing large patches of shingles, and several of the shutters looked like they were in imminent danger of falling off. The concrete driveway was cracked and broken, and the yard lamp was tilted as if it had been knocked off kilter and never righted. The light hadn’t been turned on, or more likely, had burned out long ago and never been replaced. The grass hadn’t been cut in several weeks, and the oak trees in the yard were badly in need of trimming. Branches stretched too close to the house, and in some cases rubbed up against it.
“That’s the place,” Barry said in his ear.
No shit, Kevin thought. But mindful of the Analysts, he only said “Roger.”
His gut gurgled, and he removed a roll of antacids from his pants pocket, popped a couple in his mouth and then, after considering, popped a third. He replaced the roll in his pocket as he began chewing.
“Do you really have to do that in my ear?” Barry asked.
“Sorry,” Kevin mumbled. He chewed hurriedly and swallowed.
Barry sighed, but otherwise didn’t reply.
There were no lights on in the house, at least none he could detect from outside. The neighbors on either side—who were likely less than elated to be living next to this run-down near-hovel—had their porch lights on, but they were dim and did little to illuminate the old man’s yard, almost as if his property resisted any light encroaching on it. Good. That would work to Kevin’s advantage. No need to circle around the neighborhood and approach the house from the rear. He could take the direct approach. When he reached the driveway, he stepped onto it and headed toward the house.
The driveway appeared to be made of concrete, but it felt rubbery under his feet and gave slightly beneath his weight. It was a most unsettling sensation, kind of like trying to walk in an inflatable bouncy house. When he drew near the garage door—off-white paint peeling away from the wooden surface in tiny curls—he veered to the right and stepped into the yard. The grass rose up to his calves, and the blades snagged the fabric of his pants, as if they were covered with tiny thorns. He imagined they were attempting to grab hold of him and retard his progress, and who’s to say they weren’t?
As he moved around to the side of the old man’s house, he felt a familiar thrill of adrenaline surge at the base of his sternum. He wasn’t a voyeur—far from it. Sometimes he wished he had never accepted promotion to Surveyor. But he’d been lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he experienced a certain rush when conducting direct surveillance. It was dancing right up to the edge of danger, but hopefully without encountering any. He much preferred leaving the dangerous stuff for an Intervention Team to handle. Still, sometimes things happened in the field, and he was forced to act, whether he liked it or not. So part of his adrenaline rush was excitement, but a larger part of it was plain old-fashioned fear. This was the reason he ate antacids like they were candy. Maintenance did vital work, the most important work of all, really, and he was proud to be part of it.
Even so, he wished he could trade places with Barry right now.
As he walked around the side of the house, he sensed movement on his left. He froze, sudden beads of sweat dotting his skin. He listened, but he heard nothing. He slowly turned his head to look at the house and found himself facing a side window. He expected to see the old man’s face glaring at him from the other side of the glass, but he saw only a swath of black, which might have been drawn curtains or thick shadows inside the darkened house. Either way, he hadn’t been seen, and that was all that mattered.
“Everything okay?”
Kevin jumped at the sound of Barry’s voice in his ear. He knew Barry could tell he’d been startled by the sudden lurch in the video image he was receiving in the van.
“So far, so good,” Kevin whispered, trying to keep the irritation he felt at himself out of his voice.
“Roger that.” A pause. “You know, if you ever decide to retire, you should think about running track. You’d be great at the high jump.”
Kevin raised his hand in front of his glasses and extended his middle finger.
Barry laughed. “I can’t wait to hear what the Analysts say about that!”
Smiling, Kevin lowered his hand and continued making his way toward the backyard. As he walked, he mentally reviewed what he knew about the old man.
Daniel Harris, eighty-three, retiree, widower, no children. He’d lived in the house for only a couple years. Strange place to retire to, Kevin thought. Usually folks moved to smaller homes in their golden years. Less work to do. None of Harris’s neighbors had seen him for a few weeks, but none had been worried enough about him to stop by and see how he was or call the police and ask them to do a wellness check. According to reports, Harris could be a real prick when the mood struck him, and Kevin doubted any of the old man’s neighbors would miss him if he was lying dead somewhere in his house. But Kevin doubted that was the case. During a routine sweep of the neighborhood, Kevin and Barry had recorded some interesting readings, and after a couple days of surveillance, they had identified Harris’s house as the source of the readings. Research had dug up what they could on the owner, and tonight Kevin and Barry had received the go-ahead to take their surveillance to the next level.
Right now, Kevin’s main goal was to conduct an initial recon of the house, recording video and audio for the Analysts to examine. He’d also write a report detailing his observations and impressions. He would place several outside sensors in the yard, and—provided he saw an opportunity to enter the house without being detected—he carried several miniature ones that he could place inside to allow them to obtain more precise energy readings.
The backyard was even more unkempt than the front. The grass was higher and there were numerous weeds interspersed throughout. The trees here were stunted, twisted things with sparse, sickly leaves. It was as if a token effort had been made to keep the front of the property looking semi-respectable, but the rear had been left to run to ruin. Even if they hadn’t picked up suspicious readings from Harris’s house, Kevin would’ve recognized it as a place of interest. The run-down look of the property was a strong indication, but just because Harris had let his house and yard go didn’t mean much. Lots of people, especially old folks, lived in shitholes created by their own neglect. But there were other unmistakable signs—the air was stale and flat, and breathing it in took an effort. Sound was deadened, especially here in the back, as if the air was too thin and weak to properly conduct it. But for Kevin, the giveaway was the smell, a combination of rotting flowers and sour milk, with a sulfurlike chemical tang hovering around the edges. You learned to recognize the scent of corruption quickly when you worked for Maintenance, and Harris’s property reeked of it.
He was about to inform Barry of the smell when he noticed Harris’s back door was standing wide open. That was unexpected. Had the old man forgotten to close it? Outward corruption was often a sign of inner, and judging by the state of his house and yard, Harris didn’t have too many marbles left. But then again, the old man might retain a certain amount of animal cunning, in which case the open door could be a trap. If during an initial recon a Surveyor noticed something odd or out of the ordinary—ordinary being a relative term given their line of work—they were duty-bound to investigate. On the other hand, they were also supposed to use their discretion. If investigation appeared too risky, Surveyors were directed to withdraw and call for an Intervention Team to deal with the situation.
Kevin stared at the open door. Decisions, decisions…
In the end, Kevin made his choice the same way he usually did when working. What would the Analysts expect him to do? More important, what would they say in their report to Deanna?
He started toward the door.
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The dead-flower-sour-milk-and-sulfur smell grew stronger the closer he came to the open doorway, but that was to be expected. There was no light inside, which—unfortunately—was also expected. Darkness was like food and drink to creatures such as Harris had become.
“I’m going in for a quick look-see,” he breathed. “Be ready to call in a team.”
“Roger that,” Barry said. “Be careful.”
When Kevin came within three feet of the doorway, he stopped and popped a couple more antacid tablets into his mouth. Chewing, he entered the house.
The night-vision function of his glasses was limited, and while it worked well enough for him to operate outside the house, it was of little use inside. The darkness within was thick and deep, an almost solid thing that he had to push his way through, as if the structure was filled to the ceiling with inky-black gel. The smell was ten times worse in here than it had been outside, and despite the antacids he’d downed, the stench caused his stomach to roil with nausea. Breathing through his mouth helped, a little.
He stopped in the middle of what he assumed was the kitchen, if the tile under his feet was any indication. He held his breath and listened, trying to ignore the thrumming of his pulse in his ears. He heard nothing, but the air inside the house was even more lifeless than that in the yard. Someone could blow an air horn right next to him, and it was possible he might not hear it.
Time to shed some light on the subject.
He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a penlight. He gripped it in his fist, thumbed the switch to activate it, then held it up. The beam wasn’t especially strong, and it only penetrated a few feet into the darkness, but it was better than nothing. He made a slow sweep of the room, which as he’d surmised, was indeed a kitchen. Cabinet doors sagged on hinges and their paint was cracked and peeling. The floor tile was yellowed and warped, and the sink and faucet displayed signs of corrosion. He’d expected to find piles of filth-encrusted dishes, cups, pots, and pans in the sink, with an army of cockroaches climbing over them. But the sink was empty, the metal bone-dry, as if it hadn’t been used in ages. The counters were covered in a layer of dust, but otherwise they were empty.
He placed a couple sensors in places where they wouldn’t be found, unless someone knew how to conduct an extremely thorough search. He then moved deeper into the house, leaving the kitchen and heading down a short, narrow hallway. The carpet was worn, and the floorboards creaked softly, but the sound was swallowed up as soon as it was made, so he was fairly confident no one inside the house could hear it. Not unless they were close by, that is.
“You getting all this?” he whispered, more to hear Barry’s voice reply than because he felt any real need to check the comm link.
“Yep. Not that there’s been much to see so far.”
Kevin exited the hallway and entered a larger space. A family or living room, he guessed. The darkness was just as thick in here as it had been in the kitchen and hallway, and his penlight wasn’t any more effective. But the shaft of light illuminated a white object at eye level. It was so close that he nearly ran into it, and the sudden sight of it, coupled with the near-collision, caused him to gasp.
“What is that?” Barry asked.
Kevin didn’t reply. The object—at least the part he could see—was rodlike, its surface polished to a fine sheen. It remained steady until he reached out and gently nudged it with his index finger. It swayed then, and he heard a clacking sound.
A chill rippled up his spine, and he stepped back from the object. He searched until he found a wall and then continued to search until he located a light switch. If Harris wasn’t already aware of his presence, he knew he risked alerting the old man by turning on the light. But he had a suspicion of what the object was, and if he was right, the Analysts would want a clear look at it.
He flipped the switch.
Light didn’t flood the room and immediately illuminate it. Instead, the darkness slowly ebbed, as if he were turning a dimmer switch. It took nearly thirty seconds for the light to clear away the last shadowy traces of the dark, but long before that, Kevin was able to get a good look at the object he’d almost walked into, and it was even worse than he’d imagined. He’d guessed the rodlike object was a polished length of bone—a femur, to be precise—and the light revealed he’d been correct. It also revealed that the femur was far from the only bone present. The room was empty of any furnishings, photos, or artwork, but hanging from the ceiling were dozens of other bones. A mixture of large and small, human and animal, connected by a network of wires that held them suspended in space. He thought he recognized a pattern in that arrangement. One of the Oblivion Configurations, maybe, or perhaps the Sigil of Debasement. The Analysts would know for certain.
“You recognize the shape?” he asked Barry.
Silence.
“Barry?”
He reached up and tapped his earpiece. It was possible that the bone sculpture was giving off negative energy that was interfering with his connection to Barry, but he doubted it. Tech Division was careful to shield their toys from such energies. Telling himself there was no reason to worry, he flipped off the light and headed back the way he’d come, using the penlight’s feeble beam to guide him. He intended to return to the yard and see if he could get a clear signal to Barry, but as he stepped into the kitchen, he heard Barry’s voice in his ear.
“Is that you, Kevin? I thought you were still in the—”
His words gave way to an agonizing scream, and Kevin nearly pissed himself. He dropped his penlight and ran out the back door, nearly tripping over his own feet. He ran around the side of the house and into the front yard, lungs heaving, heart pounding. He wasn’t especially fit—too much fast food, too little exercise—but adrenaline flooded his body, and he moved faster than he had in years. The van was parked a couple streets over, and Kevin cut through yards, not caring how much noise he made or if he woke up anyone inside the houses he passed. Barry hadn’t made a sound since that scream, and no matter how many times he shouted Barry’s name, there was no reply.
By the time he reached the van, he was drenched with sweat and his lungs felt like they were on fire. He gulped air, but no matter how much he took in, it didn’t seem to help. He felt dizzy and gray nibbled at the edges of his vision. It would be just his luck to die of a heart attack before he could do anything to help Barry. The Analysts would probably piss themselves laughing over that.
There were no streetlights here either, and the unmarked white van was little more than a shadowy lump next to the curb. But Kevin could make it out well enough with his glasses, and when he went around to the passenger side, he saw that the van’s side door was open. Inside was a cramped work space—a narrow counter upon which several laptop computers sat open. Normally an office chair was positioned in front of the computers, but the chair had been overturned. Barry, who was also dressed in a nondescript Maintenance uniform, lay on the floor of the van, an emaciated naked man straddling his chest. The man, who looked to be in his eighties, had a scraggly white beard and his chest, hands, and arms were covered with blood. Barry’s white shirt was soaked with crimson, and his face…well, he no longer had one. The front of Barry’s head was a wet mask of exposed muscle, his wide staring eyes two startling orbs of white surrounded by red. Kevin was fairly sure that the blood-slick scrap of discarded flesh lying on the floor next to the old man’s bony knees had once served as Barry’s face. Barry still had his scalp, although Harris was busy sawing away at it with a blade that looked to have been fashioned from bone. Runes were carved into the side of the blade, most of which Kevin didn’t recognize.
Harris became aware of Kevin’s presence then and turned to regard him. His hands didn’t pause in their grisly work, though. They continued filleting Barry’s scalp, conducting the procedure with sure, deft motions, as if possessed of their own sensory apparatus.
Harris grinned, displaying a mouth devoid of teeth, gums raw and bleeding. Kevin saw that the man’s pe
nis—a twisted thing that resembled a boar’s corkscrew cock—was erect, the tip glistening with preejaculate.
“You’re the man I saw through the window, aren’t you?”
The old man’s voice was thick and raspy, as if his vocal cords were covered with tumorous growths. His breath stank like an overflowing Dumpster in August heat.
“You two thought you were so clever watching me. But I knew what you were up to.” He lowered his voice, as if imparting a secret. “The bones told me all about you.”
His hands finished their work, and one drew the bone blade away from Barry’s head, while the other gripped the front of his scalp and pulled. Flesh parted from bone with a wet sucking sound. Harris let the scalp fall from his hand and then ran his bloody fingers over the top of Barry’s skull in a sickening caress. He turned away from Kevin and gazed down at what his hands had revealed.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? For the longest time I’ve been looking for the right skull to complete my Formation. I’ve tried over a dozen, but none were suitable. When I saw you going around the side of my house, I thought yours might do, but then I reconsidered. I decided I’d check out your partner’s first, and I’m so glad I did. It’s absolutely perfect!” He frowned. “Of course, I won’t know for certain until I take the head back home and boil it clean, but I have a good feeling about it, I really do.”
He stared at Kevin then, cocking his head to the side as if intrigued, confused, or both.
“The Big Dark’s coming for you, boy. Coming soon.” He inhaled deeply. “I can smell it on you. I’d join you if I could, but I have my little art project to finish. Give my regards to the Vast.”
