The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  Gabriel realized his hand was clenching the handle of the knife with such force that his fingers were growing cold. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears, ears that burned and tingled, the sensation running down the back of his scalp. Just as he told himself he could do this, he could stab her, kill her, do it just like he'd been thinking about, it occurred to him he didn't really know how that worked. He'd seen people stabbed on a few TV shows and not die. And he remembered one novel where a young woman was stabbed with an ice pick and lived. The doctor told the detective that the would-be killer, who turned out to be her brother wanting to be the sole heir to their parents' estate, didn't realize how hard it was to kill someone.

  He glanced down at the knife, thinking about that. Did he know how hard it was? The doctor in that book had said something about vital arteries or organs. But Gabriel wasn't sure how to get to those. There was the heart, that much he knew, but where exactly was it? In the chest somewhere, but could he stab her in the back and reach it?

  Maybe stabbing wasn't the right way. He'd seen people get their throats cut on TV, too. But that seemed difficult. He'd have to climb down, get behind her, drag the blade across her neck. Again, he wondered if he really knew how to do that. How hard did he have to press? The more he thought about it, the more they always seemed to use something that didn't look at all like the knife he had. Something much thinner, that folded in half.

  The woman straightened up, still facing the sink. She started to unbutton her coat, one slow button at a time. Watching her, Gabriel had another thought. If cutting someone's throat would work, and stabbing an artery would work, wouldn't stabbing someone in the neck work? The more he thought about it, the more it seemed he'd seen someone also do that in a movie, a late night movie he watched on that tiny little screen. Yes. That made perfect sense. He could stab her in the neck.

  The knife felt heavy, wobbly in his hand as he lifted it. He steadied it with his other hand, and slowly, slowly, slowly moved to his knees. The woman finished unbuttoning her coat, and started to open it, the collar spreading away. He realized she'd be moving any second, moving to put her coat somewhere. Then she might see him, might see the knife. He had to do it now.

  She was only a couple of feet away, the tiny camper only offering a short, narrow area to stand. As the coat dropped away, Gabriel honed in on the side of her neck and, after a lengthy instant that felt like he was frozen in place, unable to move at all, he was suddenly in the air, knife raised in both hands. He plunged from the bunk, bringing the knife down, driving it toward the spot. For one brief flash he noticed something, something that wasn't right, something that didn't make sense, but his mind didn't have time to process it. The knife gashed the side of the woman's throat, cutting through the front but missing the meat of the side. He maintained his white-knuckled grip on it as he tumbled, bouncing off her back, and then he felt himself thud against the floor, landing on the coat, practically tangled between her bare feet.

  He looked up at her, his own feet scrabbling against the floor to get up, still holding the knife, and she turned around. She was holding her throat with her hand. Blood was oozing through her fingers. But it was her body that grabbed his attention. She was naked. Droopy rings of sagging, clay-like skin, breasts like a pair of hanging tongues. Creases of flesh that gathered near her pelvis. A colorless clump of hair at her groin.

  Gabriel held up the knife, pushing himself as far away as he could. She stared down at him with eyes that flashed with something he couldn't understand. Anger? Confusion? But those eyes remained unchanged when she nodded her head, then dropped to her knees. She steadied herself with one hand, the other still pressed against her throat, and gradually set herself down in the narrow space. She rolled onto her back and coughed. A spray of blood came out.

  Watching her, Gabriel moved closer, holding the knife ready. She looked at him, nodded again, then closed her eyes. She coughed once more, and more blood came out.

  He felt a sudden urge to hug her. To drop the knife and tell her he was sorry. To fix her wound and take it all back and ask her if they could just start all over. Then he saw his mother laying there. Not on the floor of the camper, but in his home, in his mind. Years ago, she had died, probably like this. The uncertainty gave rise to a thought about the two boys, the family who'd been camping. Killed with this same knife.

  She pulled her hand away from the wound and opened her eyes. Blood was leaking steadily now. He saw there were two wounds, one was a gash that did not seem that deep, the other was more of a slice. He stared at that one trying to figure it out. Then he understood. He had dragged the knife back across her throat as he fell, after the first stab mostly missed.

  She raised her bloody hand and touched his. He thought he saw something like a smile on her lips. Her hand rested across his knuckles, knuckles that bulged from his grip on the knife. He yanked his hand away, tossing hers aside, and brought the knife down into her chest, again and again and again. He kept stabbing stabbing stabbing, hammering it down with both hands until he couldn't lift his arms anymore. He dropped back onto his bottom and sat, trying to catch his breath. The woman's eyes stared at the ceiling of the camper now. Her torso was a mass of blood and jagged flaps of skin. Near the center of her abdomen there didn't appear to be any skin at all, just a stewy puddle of red and purple and yellow. A putrid odor reached his nostrils and he gagged.

  He wasn't certain how long he sat there before he saw that his own arms were covered in blood. He looked down at his shirt – filthy to begin with – and saw it was soaked, a splotch of dark red covering the front. He forced himself to his feet. He was wearing the only shoes he had, a pair of canvas tennis shoes with a hole frayed at the big toe of each. They were untied, because they were too small on him to fit the tongue down where it was supposed to be and the laces wouldn't reach.

  His legs were wobbly. He felt weak, exhausted to the point of trembling. But his thoughts turned to escape and he felt another surge of anxious energy. He moved to the door, and stopped.

  Light. There was a brightness visible through the grimy, crusty window. How long had that been there? Did it mean the Darkness had lifted? He moved closer, tried to see through the window, but it was too scummy. The streaks and smears made everything seem like a large, blurry glare.

  He did not know if Mr Norman would come to the camper soon, and did not want to wait to find out. If Gabriel saw him, he would try to run away, and if Mr Norman caught him, he would use the knife to stab him. If he didn't see him, he would just run. He didn't care about the Darkness, or about the wilderness. He would run until he couldn't run anymore, then rest, and run some more. Eventually he would find people. He had no experience in the world, but he had seen how it worked on TV, read about things in books. There were always more good people than bad.

  He switched the knife from one hand to the other and reached for the door latch. His heart jumped as he did, expecting it to be padlocked, even though he knew Mrs Norman had come in through it, which made that unlikely. But the latch worked and the door pushed open.

  The excitement was almost too much, but it instantly gave way to confusion. There were people, a lot of them. They were holding candles and standing in a large circle that terminated at one side of the camper door and resumed on the other. Men and women, all staring at him. Their eyes seemed to bulge with anticipation, sparkling yellow in the candle light. Gabriel did not have much experience with people, but he thought they looked happy.

  One of them, a man, dipped his candle toward him. Then he turned to the others and said, “First blood!”

  “First blood!” they all repeated.

  Gabriel did not know what to do, so he just stood there. He found himself standing on the ground, not certain how he had gotten there. The knife was still in his hand, hanging at his side. But he did not think about it. There were at least a dozen people there, all adults. He could not stab them all.

 
A man stepped into the circle from the far side, the candle he held reversing the shadows on his face. Only when he reached the center did Gabriel recognize him as Mr Norman.

  “Blood begets blood,” he said.

  Gabriel blinked. Seconds passed before it occurred to him the words were even directed at him. He said nothing.

  “Blood begets blood,” the man repeated.

  Something shifted in Gabriel's mind. For no reason he could tell, he suddenly understood. Those shadows on the faces weren't from the candlelight. They were cast by the Darkness. These people wore death on them, their own deaths. They could not see it, but he could. He wasn't certain how he knew that but he did.

  Just as he knew what the words meant.

  Almost involuntarily, he scanned the circle of faces until he settled on one. A woman. She was young, maybe thirty, though he was horrible at telling age. Much younger than Mrs Norman had been, that much was certain. She had short dark hair and wore a tight blue shirt and tan slacks.

  It was her mask. Unlike the others, hers was complete. The Darkness had chosen her.

  As if he'd read Gabriel's mind, the man named Norman gestured to the woman. Her eyes spread, but then she grinned as if she'd won a contest. She walked into the circle, looked at Norman, then looked at Gabriel.

  “I who shall not be judged,” she said, taking a breath. “Choose the fire of my own free will.”

  “Do what thou wilt,” Norman said.

  The circle responded in unison, “Do what thou wilt.”

  “I who shall not be judged choose fire,” the woman replied.

  She hoisted her candle high over her head and closed her eyes. Norman reached behind his back and produced a small, flat can and he pointed it at her. It spat a stream of liquid that splashed onto her clothing as he zigged and zagged it, circling her, dousing her.

  When he was finished, he said, “Do you repent your sins?”

  “No,” she said. “I shall not be judged.”

  She lowered the candle in front of her and opened her eyes. She looked at Gabriel again, then pressed the flame to her chest.

  The fire lapped up and around her shirt, crept down her legs. Within a few seconds, she was completely aflame. At first, her head was the only thing not on fire, but then her hair caught and she was not just on fire, she was the fire.

  Gabriel could no longer tell where she stopped and the fire began.

  She screamed, a horrible sound but not one completely born of pain. Gabriel watched, not understanding any of it, but somehow understanding enough.

  He let the knife drop to the ground. The people wearing death masks they could not see began chanting. The woman on fire dropped to her knees, then all the way to the ground. The sky above was starless and vast.

  The Darkness was complete.

  Chapter 31

  They pulled into the lot of the motel where Amy had stayed. The drive from the airport had taken a little over an hour. They stopped twice, once for food, taking it on the go. Hatcher insisted. He thought the carbs might come in handy. The other stop was for a change of clothes. They grabbed some at a Target.

  “It's gone,” Amy said.

  Hatcher nodded, scanning the lot. He knew she was talking about the Humvee, having mentioned it to him moments earlier.

  “Recognize any cars?”

  “No,” she said. “But that doesn't mean much. Still, I don't think any of them would be here.”

  “After what you told me about, I'd think not.”

  Amy twisted in the seat, leaning back against the door. “So, how do we do this?”

  “Well, we could get a room, and you could wait here...”

  “You do realize I'm armed.”

  Hatcher took in a breath, considering options. “You sure that vent access is propped open?”

  “I'm sure I propped it,” she said. She hitched her shoulder. “As for somebody unpropping it?”

  “You said there were cameras.”

  “Yes. I'm not sure how many. Motion sensors, too.”

  Hatcher stared out the window of the car. Dusk was spreading across the sky like a bruise. “There has to be a lot of wildlife out there. Coyotes, deer. Jackrabbits. Those sensors probably go off a lot.”

  “That's what Lonnie said. But do you think they'll ignore them if they think we're coming?”

  “I think if they have cameras, they'll look. But if it's dark, they may check to see if it’s a car. We may be able to park, walk to the exterior, then dash through.”

  “I'm glad I'm wearing Keds this time. What do we do when we're inside?”

  “We find Bartlett, try to avoid getting killed in the process, and I get him to tell us what the hell is going on.”

  “Hatcher, what if he's part of it?”

  He put the car in gear and backed up in a curve, turning the wheel toward the highway. “Then we're screwed,” he said.

  * * *

  The sky above was a sprawling tapestry, flashing pinpricks of light in a purple-black backdrop. Hatcher pulled the car off the road just past the turnoff that Amy indicated was the unpaved drive leading to the silo. He let the car idle and tore open the packaging to a Maglite, also courtesy of Target. He checked the batteries and tested the beam. Various prickly plants and bushes revealed themselves as he fanned it, frozen in the white brightness, looking like they were surprised in the act of doing something wrong.

  They got out and stretched. At Amy's suggestion, they walked in a pattern similar to a reverse question mark, heading first parallel to the drive then curving away from it in a large semi-circle based on her recollection of where the vent access was located. The walk was rough. Thorny paddles seemed to jump out to bite their ankles, thick spikes pierced their shoes. A few stabs and pokes and punctures, and they settled into a tight formation, carefully stepping only where the flashlight had cleared the way.

  “How far out do you think the sensors would reach?” Amy asked.

  “I'm not sure. But I can't imagine them being effective over a large area.”

  A faint light from a surface structure silo was visible, too far away to appear as anything but a glimmer of yellow. Hatcher used it as a radius point to circle around. He tightened the arc a bit as they made it beyond perpendicular, heading toward the rear of the facility. Or what he could see of the facility.

  “Hatcher...”

  His eyes were fixed on the ground, stepping over a plant with leaves that folded over into long pointed ends. “Yeah?”

  “Look.”

  Her voice sounded a bit farther back, no longer right behind him. He turned to see her, raised the light just enough to see her face. She'd stopped and was looking to her left, away from the direction of the silo. She glanced at him, then jutted her chin. He followed her gaze and scanned the distance.

  The reddish moon was high enough to create silhouettes. Among them, maybe a hundred yards off, a bit too far for the flashlight, was an odd-shaped one, glinting ever so faintly in the moonlight. Hatcher let his eyes adjust, unfocused. Eventually, the shape became more distinctive. It was a pick-up truck, with a camper shell.

  “I don't suppose you brought those NVD binoculars?” he said.

  “I sure did. You're welcome to pull my suitcase out of the trunk and find them.”

  Hatcher nodded, mumbling something and staring into the distance.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Should we?”

  Hatcher thought about it for a moment, then pointed the flashlight and headed that way.

  The truck and the camper were dark. But as they drew nearer Hatcher noticed a small glow on the ground near the rear. From about twenty yards away he could tell it was a flame.

  From a few feet away he recognized the stench. Seared steak and barbecued pork, the fumey odor of an accelerant, mixed with hints of Sulphur, whiffs of something copp
ery, and a suggestion of burnt liver. The unmistakable scent of a human being, burned alive.

  “You may not want to see this,” Hatcher said, approaching the body a few feet ahead of Amy. To his surprise, she stopped before she reached it and did not object.

  The wick of a candle on the ground was still burning, the wax mostly a puddle. Hatcher could still see tendrils of smoke rising from the corpse-like charmed serpents, the body on its side with the knees pulled up, skin charred black. A few traces of clothing left, ready to flake into ash.

  When Hatcher looked back at Amy, she had her weapon drawn and was scanning the perimeter. It occurred to him she hadn't taken his advice out of squeamishness, but out of pragmatism. She had his back.

  “Man or woman?” she asked.

  “Woman. Maybe even more of a girl. Hard to say, but too small to be a man.”

  “Hatcher, that smell—”

  “I know,” he said. He looked at the body one more time, running the light over it. This did not happen very long ago. Maybe an hour. Maybe half. He turned back to Amy.

  “Camper?” she said.

  He went to the door, light flashing off the knob and an open hasp above it. An open padlock hung from its shackle, hooked over the eye loop. He glanced at Amy, who adjusted her grip on the pistol and readied it. He turned the knob and pulled, shining the light inside.

  This time the smell hit him after he saw the body. There was blood everywhere. The putrid stink that wafted over him was one he also knew. Perforated bowels. He shut the door. Amy turned away, lowering her face into the crook of her arm.

  “Whoever did this,” he said, clearing his nostrils. He leveled his gaze in the direction of the silo, making out the shape of the surface access structures. “Hasn't gone far.”

  “I guess this means—” she paused to cough, “this was always the place. Deborah was pointing us in the right direction all along.”