Tales from the Canyons of the Damned: Omnibus

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  That’s when he saw the vendor, or what was left of him. The man’s brown skin was shredded, as if someone had taken a razor to him, started slashing, and didn’t stop. The flesh below the man’s torn blood-soaked t-shirt was absolutely minced, and his stomach, Tank realized, had been obliterated, no longer existed, his innards, his intestines were strewn around him. The man was hollowed out, gutted.

  Tank shifted his eyes up to the man’s face, and that was when he lost it. There was no face left. The flesh had been peeled away, leaving the skull near clean.

  Tank wretched hard and tasted the sweet gush of berry Vitamin Water rush back out of his mouth.

  He grabbed the top of the cart and pulled himself to his feet. He took his bat and the bottle of Vitamin Water and made his way around to the other side.

  Drank, swished, spit, drank some more.

  He grabbed a bag of potato chips from a top rack and ripped it open. The smell of fresh chips was relieving, and after the taste of the first, he shoveled the others in.

  Tank couldn’t process what he’d seen. Hearing the screams, that was one thing, seeing the cause was another.

  He grabbed another bag of chips and ripped it open, shoved a handful into his mouth, and then opened the beverage cooler again, this time to fish out a beer.

  Chips and beer, that was good. He quaffed another large drink and let out a loud burp. He was going to march out of the park, get the hell home, and pound a six-pack… or maybe two.

  That’s when, from the direction he’d been walking, he heard the close shriek of a woman.

  She emerged from the fog in a run, a svelte young woman with long blonde hair matted to her face and shoulders, running, wailing, and wearing nothing above her waist. Her upper body was soiled with mud. Tank had no time to reach for his bat, hadn’t thought of it. She came out of nowhere and he thought she’d run right past.

  But the woman saw Tank, and grabbed him.

  “Run!” she screamed hysterically. “They’re everywhere!”

  Tank looked into her eyes, they were dilated, frantic, darting. She was young and beautiful, but now he could see that her naked body was blotched in both mud and blood, multiple cuts and splotches, as if she’d run through the Ramble. He decided that’s what happened, that’s how she’d lost her shirt.

  “Did somebody hurt you?”

  The young woman’s eyes met his for an instant but, unable to focus, he felt she was looking through him.

  “Not somebody,” she said, “not someone, them, them.”

  And then, as quickly as the blonde woman had grabbed him, she pushed him away and launched herself back into the direction she’d been running, back into the mist.

  Tank continued to eat his chips. He stared into the fog where the girl had run. He chewed slowly, turning his head to the direction from where she’d come, the direction he’d been walking.

  Tank lifted the chip bag, emptied the remnants of any broken crumbs into his mouth, and then washed them down with what was left of the beer. Then he picked up his bat and continued on his path. A few minutes later, he felt the ground below him harden, change texture. Tank knelt and saw the cobblestones. He was near the band shell. He had been walking north. Terrace Drive would be another thirty, forty feet up. On a good day he would walk across Terrace Drive onto Bethesda Terrace, stroll down to the fountain, and then circle around to the Boathouse for a drink. Today wasn’t a good day.

  It was right then that he heard the strange squeal, followed by another, and then a series of others. These weren’t the sounds he’d heard in the blackness and the morning fog, and they were getting closer. Tank sought out the squeals, the eeks, above and around him in the high mists wheeling around, searching for their source, and then the mist around him began to fill with black dots, dots that became ribbons, flashing, flying, slicing through the air. The first one to dive missed him, or meant to, yet he saw the hideous creature plainly, three feet long and not so much a snake as a bright blue flying eel, with a high yellow dorsal fin that stretched the length of its body, and its face, its bright yellow face had two protruding yellow nostrils, a good three inches long, and a wide open jaw lined with razors. It let out a high-pitched squeal that teased the swarm on to him to attack by two, by three, en masse.

  Tank swung his bat full-on, swatting a swath of eels at once, hurling them into the misty void. Still others swooped into his sides, near his kidneys, his shoulder blades. He swung again, again tagging several of the heinous writhing monsters.

  There were too many, and the fear of being engulfed, overcome, lit through him.

  Tank broke into a run. Not down Terrace Drive, where they could overtake him in a few yards, but across the street to Bethesda Terrace. He dove down the concrete steps, curling himself into a ball to absorb the shock, and when he hit the landing below he sprinted into the arched tunnel. Though he could hear their squeals above, the swarm of ribbon eels, the creatures that should not exist, didn’t appear to follow him down.

  Tank didn’t stop.

  He continued through the tunnel out into the courtyard, collapsing near the fountain of Bethesda.

  Tank threw his arm up onto the side of the fountain—still trickling, sedate, unaware of what he’d went through. As lifted himself up he saw a few red marks on the side of his jersey, where the eels met their target. He lifted his shirt and saw they were only scrapes. Tank instantly understood what had happened to the woman he had met on the path moments before. He was lucky. He cupped his hands into the pool of the fountain and splashed his face, and then his wounds. He chuckled. He’d seen a play that talked about the healing waters of the pool of Bethesda. A smile came across his face and he looked up to see the cherubs, and above them, the angel, her wings spread wide, her hand reaching out, the healing angel, Bethesda.

  Yet something was terribly wrong.

  The head. The head of Bethesda the angel was torn away.

  ~*~

  MAGENTA

  Bob Williams

  ~*~

  I

  Magenta awoke from a fitful sleep much earlier than usual. A quick, half-awake glance out the window showed it was still dark. She took a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness, trying to collect her thoughts.

  Had she been dreaming? She felt tense. She felt warm. She used the sleeve from her night shirt to wipe away several beads of sweat from her brow. She tried again to wrestle images from her dream, but she couldn’t.

  She resisted the urge to turn on her bedside lamp, knowing the slightest disturbance could rouse Chris from his slumber. For close to a full hour she refused to get out of bed. Sleep had never been a struggle for Magenta. Chris always complained about how much more time they might have spent together if she’d only been awake.

  She carefully dropped her legs over the side of the bed and slid her feet into her slippers. She strode to the bathroom in the dark like she had a hundred times before, closed the door and turned on the light. In the mirror, she noticed—and, of course, felt—that she was flushed in the cheeks.

  She was never one to scare easily. Is that what she was feeling? Fear? This feeling, whatever it was, was escalating quickly. Mostly due to the fact that Magenta, in her 41 years, had never had a feeling quite like this. I guess fear is relative, she thinks. There was that time when she and Chris were in Belize and did that crazy zip line over the huge and expansive cavern. That scared her to death. But she knew it would. This is different. So fear of the unknown, then.

  She turned on the faucet, let it run for a few moments, and placed her cupped hands into the stream of cold water. She allowed them to fill then quickly splashed the cold water onto her face before running her wet hands through her hair and down her neck. That was strange. She never did that.

  Magenta grabbed her bathrobe from the hook and shrugged it on. She loved this particular robe. Chris had bought it for her when they were vacationing in China. It was made of the smoothest silk and every time she put it on she transported to the wond
erful little market and the sweet old woman who handcrafted the robes for a living. Looking in the mirror, she could see the woman’s sincere and beautiful smile.

  She flicked off the light, crossed the room entered the hallway. Most houses have the main hallway walls littered with pictures of family or vacations. Magenta always rejected the notion that pictures were necessary. There were a few from more recent trips, but Magenta actually preferred the many adventures that weren’t captured on film.

  In the kitchen, she turned lights on and made her way to the coffee station. She was still trying to understand her current state of being. She prepared twelve cups because she, of course, remembered that Chris always made twelve cups. He’d say, “Don’t worry about it, Mags, I’ll drink whatever you don’t.” She smiled in spite of her current unease. He will always be the only one who calls me Mags.

  Magenta pressed the “brew” button on the coffee maker and turned to the cupboard holding the coffee mugs. She retrieved two and set them on the counter. She noticed in the last few minutes a headache had started creeping into the picture. She’d have to go grab something from the bathroom medicine chest if it got worse.

  One of the mugs was one Chris had brought from their honeymoon in Paris. She remembered Chris pitching France as a potential honeymoon destination. In a terrible French accent he said, “We are lovers! Paris is for lovers.” That was all she needed. Away they went. It was the most glorious week of her life.

  Chris, the love of her life. She couldn’t possibly imagine the last ten years without him. Such a beautiful man, my Christopher. Swept me right off my feet. Where was that? Oh, yes! How could I forget? Seattle. I was visiting my sister Elena. I was at the Elliot Bay... right. I had just picked up a copy of Michael Koryta’s “Cypress House,” and Chris from behind said “You can’t go wrong with that one. Really, anything by Koryta is a home run.”

  After a few moments of somewhat awkward chatter, Chris had invited her to lunch. Magenta had plans to meet Elena but quickly texted to cancel. She’d understand. They had eaten a reasonable lunch at a small cafe, exchanged numbers and agreed to meet later that night. Chris knew a good martini bar in downtown Seattle he wanted to take her to.

  The coffee maker beeped and pulled her from her reverie. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so nostalgic. Why now? She wondered if this trip down memory lane was her response to waking from a nightmare. Is it a nightmare if you can’t recall what woke you? Who says “reasonable lunch,” anyway? Oh, this whole morning was getting more and more strange.

  She poured a cup of black coffee and retrieved the creamer from the refrigerator. She poured the Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Creamer, which was her favorite, of course, into her mug and returned it to the second shelf next to the milk. Where it always goes. Huh? Her headache was amping up a notch.

  She turned to the drawer next to the dishwasher, where the utensils were, and pulled it out. Right before she was about to release the drawer pull when a glint from the overhead light reflected on the knives and Magenta closed her eyes from the brightness. What she saw lying in wait behind her eyelids would put in motion the final day of her life as she knew it.

  II

  Christopher Martin never meant any harm. He had made a decision and, at the time, he felt he’d considered all of the ramifications. He clearly had not. He hadn’t taken into account the pain he would cause his wife. Pain which she would experience physically at first, becoming psychologically debilitating afterwards. Honestly, the only person he considered at all was himself. In the end, he had made this horribly selfish decision based on loneliness and money.

  Chris had all the wealth he could imagine for a man of 44 years. He had made his first million at 29 and his wealth steadily grew. At age 44, his net worth rested comfortably in the 55 million range. Chris had always had a fear of commitment. He knew this about himself. It was one of his characteristics he let slide in the beginning, as the rotation of women through his sheets grew as quickly as his net worth.

  However, after several years of socializing, Chris began to realize that, quite often when the lights were turned off, he was alone. It was even worse when he thought he’d made a connection and it turned out it was his money they loved and not him. This was a devastating realization to a man who thought he had it all. By Chris Martin’s 42 second birthday, he was practically a recluse. One of the city’s most prominent playboys had simply vanished.

  Continuing his operations from his private estate, Chris worked tirelessly, searching for new companies to invest in or outright purchase. It was especially late one evening when Chris picked up a stack of reports. His eyes were straining to remain open and his glass of Zin had lost its bite. He scanned through the first 12 pages before his eyes registered on a particular company. He removed his reading glasses and wiped his eyes. He absently allowed the other 22 pages after page 13 to fall to the floor. His heart began to race and his imagination took hold. Could this truly be possible?

  III

  Magenta dropped to her knees as a sharp pain sprung from behind her eyes and screamed in silence through the nerves that encompassed her brain. It was a table! Like an… like an operating table. She briefly opened her eyes but the light was still too bright to face. With her eyes closed tight, she concentrated on the frightening image she had seen just moments before.

  It was gone. No matter the strength she used to force the image back into her mind, it would not return. She slowly rose from the floor and, without looking, grabbed a spoon from the drawer and walked back to her coffee. What was happening to her? Oh, and her head was killing her. Maybe the caffeine would help.

  She left the kitchen and crossed the hall to the living room. She loved the view from this room, especially the morning sunrise. She’d been coming to this window for years to watch the sun rise. It provided her inspiration for the coming day’s agenda. She would never forget the first time she had visited Christopher’s home. He took her into this room and showed off the view. She had never seen a window essentially act as a wall. She thought to herself at the time, “I could love a man who loves this view.”

  “What the heck,” she now said aloud, “does that have to do with anything?”

  As her anxiety began to rise she decided it might be time to talk with Chris. As she turned to walk the hall back to the bedroom she felt what she could only describe as a schism in her head. Like a low-level current heard on one of those old radios. She applied her thumbs and forefingers to her temples and simultaneously pushed....

  IV

  What Chris Martin saw that night was a report on the steady growth of a company called “ReaniMate” The numbers were legit. In only three years of operation, ReaniMate was earning a meteoric profit of 43%. Chris loved the money angle for sure but that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was the service they provided.

  Chris was accustomed to receiving exemplary customer service when he rang on any potential investment. However, most of the time he called during regular business hours. It was approximately 2:13 a.m. when he dialed Doctor James Burch, founder and CEO of ReaniMate.

  “Hello,” said a barely awake Dr. Burch

  “Dr. Burch. This is Christopher Martin. Do you know who I am? I’m calling you with an urgent request for a more a more in-depth report on what you do there at ReaniMate. I know it’s late, but a person of my stature should be afforded every accommodation regardless of the hour.”

  “Please excuse me, sir,” said a now very awake Dr. Burch “This is highly irregular. We are doing just fine here, thank you. If you have any more questions you may feel free to contact our spokesperson during our hours of operation! Good day, sir!” spat Dr. Burch.

  “Doctor, please. My sincerest apologies. I understand, from all the information I’ve been able to gather, that you are of course doing quite well for yourself, and your investors. If you’d be willing to talk with me through the duration of my questions, I’d be interested in cutting you a rather large check for you to continue your
research and, shall we say, fine-tune your best practices.”

  After what seemed an eternity, Doctor Burch muttered, “Very well, Mr. Martin, please proceed.”

  V

  Her body lay unmoving on the living room floor as if she had fainted and fallen. She realized almost immediately that she couldn’t move, but she could see. God, was she scared. She scanned her surroundings in as wide an arc as she could manage. She did not recognize anything. Already scared by her hopefully temporary paralysis, she was now fucking scared shitless because she didn’t have the first idea where she was.

  Okay… Okay… what the fuck is going on here? She did her very best under the circumstances to regain her center. Without thinking, she started to run her fingers through her hair, a practice that always helped on the path to calming down. First off, how did I get here? Fuck! I don’t know. What am I gonna do? Oh, My God!! Am I going to die here? HELP! HELP ME!

  She heard a noise from over her shoulder. What was that? Footsteps? Before she could answer her own question a man rushed to her side. He was frantically speaking, yelling something. She was frightened by what she could only call hysteria from the man. It took only a few moments to realize he didn’t mean her any harm. He was genuinely concerned for her. She thought, I probably should know him.

  He looked into her eyes and slowly mouthed one word over and over. Mister! Mister! Help me! I can’t move! I’m not hurt. At least, I don’t think I am, but I can’t move. The man took both his hands and placed them on her head. Again she couldn’t feel anything. He must be checking to see if I’m hurt. God, I hope he knows what he’s doing.