Lucy sipped her wine.
"Everybody disappeared at once," Kate said. "First it was those two, then you, then Pitr. We all suspected—" She dropped her voice and lifted her eyebrows. "—foul play."
Martin swallowed his wine the wrong way and coughed. Pitr was Czech, from some small town with a castle south of Brno; he came over through the same agency that hired the other foreign workers. "Pitr?" he rasped. "He go over to the mainland too?"
"Probably." Kate leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glittering. "Say, did he ever come out to your place to fill that hole of yours?"
Lucy pressed her leg against Martin's. "He wasn't interested in doing any yardwork."
"Who's talking about yardwork?" Kate laughed. "Pitr's not interested in any work, but he's still good for business. God, he's gorgeous! Every woman who came in here wanted him."
Lucy put a hand against her throat. "He has such a lovely, full mouth," she said, just above a whisper.
"Uh-huh," added Kate, who overheard. "And what was his mouth full of? I bet Marty knows." She glanced down at his crotch and winked at him.
"If I did," Martin said, "I certainly wouldn't tell you."
"Oh, pooh! You two are no fun tonight."
Martin dipped his finger in his wine and pressed it against Lucy's forehead. The droplets sizzled. "We're just tired," he said. "And Lucy's not quite as well as we thought."
They left the winery, sitting at the island's only traffic light just outside the parking lot. A tiny beetle of some sort, attracted to Lucy, buzzed around the inside of the dark car.
"Oh, that was so awful," she said, trying to chase it away.
Martin reached up and flicked the overhead light on. The beetle flew to it, rested a second, then buzzed back at Lucy. "We've got a little money left. Enough to get away somewhere."
"No, we can't."
"Let's go over to the mainland then. See if we can find a doctor—"
"No! I'll get better."
Martin could see the light getting ready to change, but he waited while a couple trucks full of quarry workers sped through the intersection and parked across the street in front of the Ice Cellar, a rougher bar where locals hung out.
"I suppose it has to get better," he said, turning onto the road that led to the other side of the island and their house.
Lucy swatted at the beetle. "It can't get worse."
The next morning she was too weak from the fever to rise from bed. Martin sat in the easy chair by the bed and popped the tape into the VCR. He turned the sound off so he wouldn't disturb her, and hit the play button.
Despite what Kate thought, Martin only liked to watch. He had been hiding in the closet under the stairs the day Lucy invited Pitr over to do the yardwork.
The peephole made the picture hazy around the edges. Lucy stepped into the room—the "special" guest bedroom, next to the closet stairs—shook off her robe, and turned around right in front of the camera. Performing for it. Underneath she wore only a black corset, black stockings, high heels. She had rings on her thumbs and fingers, bracelets on her arms.
She looked as gorgeous as Martin had ever seen her, ten years younger than her actual age, timelessly beautiful.
The second figure stepped into view from the left. Pitr. Prettier than Kate's description. Scrumptious. "To die for," Lucy had said. And Martin had agreed. Dark skin, all muscle, pale blond hair, and lips so full they looked as though they would burst like bubbles if you touched them.
Lucy touched Pitr's lips. First with her fingernails. Then with her mouth, as her hands began to undress him. Still performing.
Martin hit pause on the tape. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear their sounds come through the walls. He could still smell the candles that Lucy had burned.
Blankets rustled, a foot bumped against the wall. Lucy tossed, mumbling in her delirium. He stroked her leg once.
Scooting forward to the edge of his seat, he hit the forward button. On the tape, Lucy straddled Pitr, her favorite position, but he grabbed her arms and flipped her over, forcing himself on top of her, roaring as he bulled away between her legs. Neither she nor Martin minded the roughness. Martin had parted his bathrobe and taken his cock in hand by then, watching everything on the little camcorder screen—it was an old camera, one they had used for years.
Lucy, still performing, bit into Pitr's dark, hairless chest.
Martin liked to see her hurt the other men. But this time something went beyond the normal rough play. Grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head, Pitr slammed into her so hard that she clamped her teeth down, twisting her head as if possessed, until the skin tore. Martin, so intent on his own desire, realized it only when he saw the blood trickling from her mouth.
He had sat there, then, in the closet, still holding himself loosely, frozen with the thought of viruses; they'd been exposed before and escaped okay—
Pitr pounded away until he groaned and pulled away. Lucy rolled over on her side, spitting out the blood, scrubbing her mouth with the sheets. Pitr stepped back from the bed, out of view of the camera, and spoke to her in some language that didn't sound like Czech to Martin, but something far older, harsher. He slammed the closet door.
Martin snatched up the remote and hit pause.
A full-length mirror hung on the closet door. When Pitr stepped in front of it, there was no sign of his bare flesh, only a vague, indefinite mist.
Rewind, play, pause. Again. Martin watched it over and over, frame by frame, but there was never anything there but the mist. Finally he clicked forward.
Pitr stepped away from the mirror. Lucy leaned back, bare-breasted chest heaving like a B-movie diva. Pitr grew to the height of the room, cackling at her, wiping blood from the wound on his chest with clawed fingers and anointing her like a priest at a baptism. She screamed.
Blankets rustled. "What are you doing?" Lucy asked in a weak, sleepy voice.
"Nothing," Martin said. He hit the eject button. Yanking the tape out of the cassette, he piled it at his feet until the reels were empty. Then he carried it downstairs and burned it all in the fireplace.
Martin stood at the kitchen counter, making soup for Lucy when he saw the rat outside on the rocks. It crawled all around the pumphouse, trying to scale the sides. Martin went out to the screened-in porch to watch it.
Finally the rat fell exhausted, lethargic.
Martin went out and picked up a large, flat rock from the herb garden beside the foundation. He crept slowly out to the pumphouse, expecting the rat to bolt away at any minute. But it crouched there, on the concrete base, facing the blank wall. Martin slammed down the rock.
There was a wet crunch as it connected with the concrete pad; blood squirted out one side.
A ferocious tapping, faint but unmistakable, came from inside the pumphouse. Martin cupped his hands to the stone.
"Shut up, Pitr!" he shouted.
Then he went back inside.
It was late afternoon before Martin gathered the courage to find a pair of gloves and a shovel. He went back to the pumphouse, and tossed the bloody stone among the other boulders piled up where the waves licked the shore. Then he buried the rat. He covered the bloodstain on the concrete with dirt, and scuffed it in as well as he could with his deck shoes.
When he was done, he cupped his hands to the stone. "How do I make her well again, Pitr?" He leaned his ear to the concrete to hear the answer.
"Let me to come out and I will tell you," the voice croaked, so faint Martin could barely make it out. "She is burning, with the fire. Only I can help her."
"Fuck you, Pitr."
"I am come out and you can do that do." Laughter. Or choking. Martin rather hoped it was choking. "You want young again, Martin?" the voice cracked through the stone. "I can give you the young again."
"Yeah, you and Viagra. Go to hell, Pitr."
Something hard pounded on the inside wall. "You cannot keep me here. You cannot run far enough. When I—"
Marti
n lifted his ear from the concrete and heard nothing except the sound of the waves and the cries of a few gulls.
The sky was the color of faded jeans. Jet contrails seamed the blue, taking other people to some point far away. Martin walked wearily back to the house.
Lucy sat up in bed. The blankets were shoved against the footboard, but she was wrapped in a kimono. The glow inside her lit it up like a Japanese lantern.
"You upset him," she said, her voice cold.
He grabbed his wallet from the dresser, and started changing his clothes. "You know, he was already pissed. Something about being hit on the head while you were su—"
"No, I mean it." Her cold voice shattered with panic like ice in the sun. "He's going to hurt me, Martin. You promised you wouldn't let him hurt me."
"He's not going to hurt you." He pulled on clean pants.
"Where are you going?"
"Into town for a drink."
She grabbed the lamp on the bedside table and shoved it onto the floor. The base cracked. "Are you going to go see Kate? Are you going to go fuck Kate? Is that it, Martin?"
"I don't even like Kate," he said softly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then pushed her gently onto the bed. "If it makes you any happier, I'll go to the IceHouse. Won't even see her."
"I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean that. It's just—"
"I know." Rising, he took their bank deposit bag from its hiding place and emptied the cash into his pocket. Then he took the rest of their bills and did the same.
She clutched at his sleeve. "You're running away! Omigod, Martin. You're going to catch the ferry and leave me. You can't do that."
"I just need time to think," he said.
He pried her fingers loose and left the house before he lost his nerve.
It was after midnight before he returned, driving down the long dirt driveway through the woods to their house. He was drunk. Two other trucks followed his.
Lucy waited for him on the porch, in the papa-san chair, sitting directly under the one bright light.
The trucks pulled up and parked beside him. Martin lifted the case of beer off the front seat and carried it over to the picnic table. "I'm going to go get some ice to keep this cold, guys," he shouted over his shoulder, staggering to the porch.
Doors slammed in the dark. "Ain't gonna last that long," a harsh voice said. A can popped open. The others laughed.
Lucy rose and pressed herself against the screen. Insects pinged against it, trying to reach her. Bats screeched through the air, feasting.
"Is that really you, Martin? Who are those men?"
"Just some guys who work, from the quarry," he said, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I ran into down at the Ice Cellar. They're good guys. We had a few, a few beers."
"What are they doing, Martin?"
"Shhh." His forefinger smashed his lips. "They're doing us a l'il favor."
Her nostrils flared. Her mouth flattened out in a ruby O against the screen as she strained to see what they were doing. She took a step toward the door and sank to her knees, too weak to go any further.
A stocky, bearded man walked stiffly over to the porch. "Howdy, Missus Van Wyk," he said, sounding a little more sober than Martin. "Your husband told us 'bout the problem with the water stagnating in the pumphouse, making you sick and all'a that. Well, this ought to take care of it."
"Can' tell you how much I 'preciate this," Martin said.
He grinned and patted a wad of bills in his shirt pocket. "You already did. Just remember, it wasn't us who did it."
As he turned and walked away, Lucy whispered, "What are—"
"It's self the fence," Martin slurred.
The bats veered suddenly from their random feeding and began to swoop and shriek at the quarry men. Martin stepped over, blocked Lucy's view. The bats flew with less purpose. The men finished their work and ran back towards their trucks a hundred and fifty feet away. One of them grabbed the beer.
Lucy scraped at the screen, making it sing, her face a mixture of anguish and hope. "He said we couldn't kill him. He said he could turn into—"
One man shouted something as she spoke, then a second, then the explosion, a sharp blast that was mostly dark, not at all like the movies, followed by the pebbled drum of debris pattering on the lake.
Someone whistled, a note of appreciation.
"That ought about do it," someone said, and the others laughed. They climbed back into their trucks and drove off into the night with their headlights off.
Martin and Lucy leaned against each other, not touching, the screen between them.
Nursing a hangover, having hardly slept at all, Martin walked up and down the shore at the first hint of dawn, searching for bones or other pieces of Pitr. He thought the gulls might come for them, the way they sometimes came for dead fish. But the gulls stayed way offshore and he found nothing.
Bill came over at sunrise. The island's sheriff and his only deputy arrived shortly after. Martin, prepared to confess everything, instead heard himself repeating the story about some guest injuring himself, with Bill corroborating. Telling them how they bricked in the pumphouse to be safe. Speculating that maybe there was some kind of gas build-up or something.
The sheriff and his deputy seemed pretty skeptical about that last part. They climbed all over the rocks, examining the pieces. The deputy waded down into the water's edge. The flat rock from the garden stood out among all the water-smoothed boulders. The deputy grabbed it, flipped it over. The rat's blood made a dark stain on the bottom.
Martin's heart stuck in his throat.
"Say, is Lucy feeling any better yet?" Bill asked.
"Her fever broke last night, after almost a week," Martin answered, his voice squeaking.
The deputy let go of the rock. It splashed into the water. "What's that? Mrs. Van Wyk's been sick?"
Martin explained how sick she'd been, what a strain it had been on him, with no guests, not able to get out of the house. The sheriff and the deputy both liked Mrs. Van Wyk, appreciated the volunteer work she did for the island's Chamber of Commerce.
The sheriff's radio squawked. Some tourist had woken up on his yacht this morning missing his wallet and wanted to report it stolen. The two men left their regards for Lucy and headed back into town.
The deputy's eyes stared at Martin from the rearview mirror as the car pulled away.
Lucy stood by the window, wearing a long dress, a sweater on top of that, with a blanket around her shoulders. A slight breeze ruffled the lace curtains, slowly twisting them. Martin pressed his hand to her forehead. Her temperature felt normal; the glow had dissipated.
"I destroyed the camera," he told her. "And all the other tapes. I patched up the hole beneath the stairs."
"I'll never be warm again, Martin."
"I'll keep you warm." He wrapped his arms around her.
She turned her back against his touch. "I'll never be beautiful again," she whispered.
"You're lovely." He fastened his lips on the rim of her ear. "You're perfect."
She jerked her head away from his mouth. Outside, a remnant of oily mist layered the surface of the lake, tiny wisps that coalesced, refusing to burn away in the morning sun.
The Wide, Carnivorous Sky
by John Langan
John Langan is the author of the novel House of Windows and several stories, including "Episode Seven: Last Stand Against the Pack in the Kingdom of the Purple Flowers," which appeared in my anthology Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse, and "How the Day Runs Down," which appeared in The Living Dead. Both of those stories also appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, as has most of his other fiction. A collection of most of Langan's work to date, Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters, appeared in late 2008 and was named a finalist for this year's Stoker Award.
This story, which is original to this anthology, is the tale of a quartet of Iraq war veterans who were the only survivors of an encounter with a monstrous, blood-drinking creature dur
ing the 2004 Battle of Fallujah. "The story began with its title," Langan said. "A couple of months later, I was watching an interview with an Iraq war veteran who was discussing having been in a Hummer that had been struck by an IED. He described being pinned by the Hummer's flipping over so that he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. That told me what the story was going to be."
By Blood We Live Page 68
