The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

Innumerable rents in the sky continuously hurled bolts of black lightning at the smoking tower, which appeared battered and somehow less substantial than before. The new, globe-like thing must be the equivalent of the Lumera’s onyx structure, he thought, seeking to anchor itself in the waking world until it formed a permanent bridge to the realm of its nightmarish origin. Each occupied its own opposing corner of the sky, and the dark music had given way to peals of low thunder, which rumbled across the landscape like the threatening voices of monstrous, inhuman adversaries, either of which could crush the life from any mere human with the audacity to challenge them.

  Copeland peered intently at the Barrow house and soon spied Amos in his upstairs window, listless and despondent, silently watching the clash of astral forces, neither of which involved him any longer. Totally self-absorbed, he probably still did not realize what had happened inside his own house—that his remaining family had been wiped out by the very things he had called down. No sympathy from this quarter, Copeland thought; the old man had had every opportunity to choose differently.

  “I’ve got to get across that field,” he said softly, fearing that something alien might detect his voice even above the distant thunder. “And there’s only one way to do it.”

  “Yeah. On foot.”

  “All right. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on me. If I make it as far as the house, then you come. We can’t afford for both of us to get caught in the open.”

  She looked as if she were going to protest, but then thought better of it. “All right. At least that rock of Dad’s protected him from the Lumeras. No reason it shouldn’t protect you, too.”

  “No telling what else there is to worry about now.” He threw a glance at the vast, black, planet-like shape that dominated the southern sky. “I wonder what your dad learned about that.”

  “When this is all over, hopefully we can ask him.”

  He shrugged noncommittally. Then, taking a deep, preparatory breath, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the cold, slick gemstone, radiating pale green, shifting and curdling like a phosphorescent liquid. As he held the object up before him, its inner light coalesced into a small, brilliant orb, like a luminous cat’s eye, which peered curiously back at him, as if committing his features to memory. The force within it—or rather, behind and beyond it—was apparently in contact with Debra’s father, many miles away. What if Martin should wake up and sever the connection? Or, God forbid, he should die? Would Copeland suddenly be rendered vulnerable, his mission useless?

  No; the thing had shielded Martin from the Lumera’s attack even when he was awake.

  Such speculation was pointless, he reminded himself. He either succeeded or he failed; there was no in-between, and close didn’t count.

  “Well,” he said, offering her a look of as much reassurance as he could muster, “I guess I’m off. If I make it all the way, then you come running. Fast as you can.”

  She nodded her agreement. “I don’t guess saying ‘be careful’ means much. But be careful.”

  “If something happens to me…” He swallowed hard. “Just remember.”

  Her voice went weak. “I will.”

  He turned toward the house. Took a deep breath. And then his legs were pumping fast and hard, the broad field opening up before him, passing beneath his feet, becoming a gray-green blur, the chorus of dark voices roiling around him. As he ran, he again felt as if gravity had released him, leaving him light as a feather, the ground offering little resistance, reducing his traction. It was no illusion; with every step, he sprang higher into the air, yet his forward momentum steadily diminished. Halfway across the field, the ramshackle house seemed just as far away as when he broke from the trees, and he found himself virtually floating above the earth, working his arms against the air as if he were swimming. Conversely, the gemstone had begun to grow heavier, dragging his right hand earthward, interfering with the rhythm of his stride. The contradictory forces threatened to destabilize him—more mentally than physically, he thought, for the sensation was too alien, too suggestive of the unearthly forces he was springing headlong to meet. It was his mind, not his limbs, resisting acclimation.

  Just as Martin had intimated, despite the lightness of his body, it felt like pushing against a powerful, opposing magnetic force.

  He tried to divert his mind from his objective, to focus on anything other than the doom that awaited him within the next few minutes. He thought back to his childhood, remembering his mom and dad, how deeply they had loved Lynette and him, how proud Dad had been of his academic achievements at Byston Hill, his ambitions to succeed at a life far away from rural West Virginia. If his folks were around today, what would they think of what he was doing now?

  No…turn the mind another way. Not back here.

  God, it was hard to focus on anything for more than a moment or two. He realized that the gem, which he now had to support with both hands, had become a fiery green star, blazing so brightly that it could not fail to capture any eye that might glance his way.

  Debra was still watching him, sending all her hopes with him. Not just for the two of them, but for her father, and the world they had once known.

  What an incredible woman, one he wished he had met long ago, instead of crazy Megan, who would surely be in stitches over his current predicament. Rushing to a cliff just to pitch himself over the edge, all the while hoping he could fly; that’s what she’d be thinking. That he was on a fool’s errand, which could end in nothing less than a fool’s death. How could he even think he might deserve the affection—the love—of a woman like Debra Harrington? Or even the respect and trust of her father?

  Jesus, how could the wounds from his old breakup still be so raw? Was this just one of the things his mind needed to hash out before he met his final destiny? Could it be that, deep down, he still believed Megan might have been at least partially right? That, in spite of whatever success he had achieved, he was still an insecure, immature, West Virginia redneck who had, because of his parents’ wherewithal, rather than his own, enjoyed better fortune than the rest of his peers—two of whom had met their end, only a few hours earlier?

  STOP IT!

  Gravity had increased its hold. Still, the house seemed infinitely distant, miles and miles away, but in the upper window, he glimpsed Amos Barrow—who had no doubt noticed the advancing green flame, which to him could herald nothing less than the approach of death itself. He could not yet make out the old man’s features; just a pale, bloated-looking face highlighted by a dim, electric blue glow.

  Yes. He still held the Zuso Xhan Mat.

  Suddenly, Copeland’s next step did not send him springing almost helplessly into the air but barely propelled him at all. At the edge of his hearing, something seemed to be mumbling words, almost but not quite intelligible. Not a human voice, but articulate thunder. Weight returned with a vengeance, and now the gem was a boulder, pulling him into the depths of a vast, unearthly drowning pool. Slowly, he became aware of a hot gaze bearing down on him from above. No mistaking its power, the dark intelligence behind it, even if his own eyes had yet to meet it. It bore deliberately down upon him, a scorching sun on the exposed back of desert wanderer, sapping his strength, his resolve. It tried to draw his eyes upward, but he somehow resisted, fearing that meeting so potent a gaze would vaporize him on the spot, ending his mission before he got far enough for Debra to finish it. Instead, he focused solely on the house, on the figure of Amos Barrow, whose features he could now see, peering back at him with a curious expression, as if he were no more significant than a raccoon or a deer that had wandered out of the woods.

  Even now, that idiot didn’t realize how precarious his hold on life had become.

  Something powerful and fiery, like an arc of electricity, seized his body, gripping his neck and tugging his head back, so that his face could not help but lift to the sky. He clenched his eyes shut, felt the incredible power burning his forehead, his cheeks, burrowing into the knife wounds, which began t
o throb anew. Then hot, invisible fingers moved to pry open his eyes, and no amount of willpower could fend them off. With a hoarse curse, he stumbled forward, tried to throw himself to the ground, anything to prevent viewing the thing that had singled him out and taken hold of his muscles.

  The cat’s eye in the stone had begun to pulse rapidly and brilliantly, and now that dark, ethereal chorus of inhuman voices roared down from the sky, swept over him, and drove into his head through his ears, building to a swirling crescendo that shook his whole body, threatened to scatter it to atoms. He dragged himself a few more steps, his neck on the verge of breaking as invisible puppet strings wrenched his head inexorably upward.

  Jesus, God.

  The vast black globe, no longer supported by spidery legs but floating free, like a marauding, onyx planet, had expanded in the violet sky, dominating its entire southern half, seemingly drifting nearer—on a collision course with the earth. Dizzy and nauseated, he dropped to his knees and remained there, paralyzed, his eyes throbbing as a hideous force threatened to tear them from their sockets. The pressure of the music mounted in his skull, and a pale green halo began to form around the black moon, gradually revealing strange features upon its distant, onyx surface.

  No, not upon but behind its surface. The thing seemed to be slowly turning transparent, and now he saw within the globe a wavering, disembodied face, like a jade-colored death mask suspended inside a liquid-filled crystal ball. It was not human face; maybe not a face at all. Just a flat, two-dimensional lozenge shape with wide, circular openings he took to be eyes, completely empty, yet radiating awareness…and recognition.

  This was what Major Martin had called down to destroy the Lumeras?

  My God, compared to this nightmare, the Lumeras were angels.

  The alien tower, tall and spindly, still pierced the northern sky, but it appeared fragile and innocuous compared to this new horror. Overhead, the vast globe slowly began to distort, the lower end elongating, the other swelling, becoming an inverted pear shape—a head outside its depthless, leering face. The empty eyes continued to study him, their hot gaze flaying the skin from his bones, revealing everything inside him down to his heart and soul.

  It wondered what he was doing—and why.

  Jesus. If the thing determined his true intention, surely it could—and would—obliterate him instantly.

  Just don’t let it know. Don’t let it know.

  He managed to tear his eyes away long enough to glance at the Barrow house, now tantalizingly close, its back door still gaping wide. If he could escape the searching gaze of the thing in the sky, maybe the pressure would subside, allow him to proceed to the bitter end, all thought of which he desperately blocked from his mind—both for his sanity’s sake and for fear that the extra-dimensional intelligence might somehow pluck his thoughts directly from his brain.

  Amos’s mild curiosity turned to concern as Copeland’s steps brought him slowly but inevitably nearer to the house. Perhaps the old man’s gemstone had begun to react as the second one came within its range, alerting him to the possibility of danger. Still, he made no move to leave his post, and after a few more steps, Copeland found himself in the backyard, no longer in view of Amos’s window. He felt so heavy now he could barely move, and every muscle howled in protest as he lifted one foot and then the other, his only goal to escape the gaze of the monstrous dream entity above.

  If he succeeded, anything afterward was gravy.

  Another plodding step. Then another. And then he felt a slight cooling of the superheated air, a dimming of the glare from above. His brain vaguely registered that he had stepped under the eaves of the Barrow’s back porch, which obscured the face of the horror in the sky. He knew it remained aware of him, that his sense of relief was largely illusory; regardless, he took a few moments to catch his breath and give his aching muscles a respite. He turned to look back at the stand of trees where Debra waited to witness the outcome of his efforts.

  An electric jolt nearly tore his legs out from under him.

  Instead of a broad field of grass, a jungle of thorny, metallic-looking creepers protruded from the earth, twisted and tangled, some swaying slowly as if stroked by a gentle breeze. Even as he watched, more of them sprouted from the earth and wove their way skyward, some rising twenty feet or more above his head. They rustled and rattled as they moved, and a few of the nearer ones began to creep tentatively toward him.

  These things belonged to the Lumera’s world. If Amos still had any control over his gemstone, maybe they were his doing. Or perhaps some natural defense, triggered by Copeland’s proximity to the Zuso Xhan Mat. Whatever the case, the living barrier had completely separated him from Debra.

  How could he not have foreseen such a possibility?

  No time to indulge in regrets or self-reproach. The task now fell to him alone, and if he failed, there was no one to back him up.

  “God help me,” he murmured and stepped into the gloom of the Barrow’s kitchen. The house’s interior wore a surreal violet mask, the shadows all deep purple, the windows admitting weirdly refracted beams of magenta, maroon, and pink. The air here was dank and cool, yet far from refreshing after his torturous trek beneath the alien’s hot gaze. In here, however, silence replaced the peals of thunder and the eerie chorale. Not a creak or whisper came from any corner of the house.

  Dead silence.

  No sign of the Lumera that had killed Levi and Malachi. Probably still in the cellar or upstairs with Amos.

  He took a single step into the hallway that led to the living room. Boards groaned beneath his feet, setting his teeth on edge; but Amos already knew he was coming, so there was little point in stealth. Carefully holding the gleaming gem in one hand, he reached for the gun Martin had given him with the other, drew it, and tried to hold it steady. The stone still felt like a piece of lead, so he tucked it tight against his stomach in his right hand, the pistol in his left, and at an excruciatingly slow pace made his way toward the front of the house. At last reaching the stairwell, he halted and peered upward, only to find an impenetrable wall of purple shadow waiting for him, concealing God knew what.

  He regarded the thick veil almost with disinterest. “Well, the hell with you,” he said. Drawing a deep, bracing breath, he placed his foot on the first step, anticipating a deep, weary groan and a possible attack.

  Something rustled and clattered metallically in the darkness above.

  The thorny tendrils, which seemed to serve as a living barrier against intruders, he thought. No telling how many of the things up there. Would the green gemstone protect him—perhaps respond automatically to this product of another dream realm? He braved another step, and the rattling noises increased their fervor.

  The shadows had become a shifting, dancing mass of half-seen shapes, and as if in response, the gem in his hand throbbed even more rapidly and brilliantly. Another step up, leading with his gun, though he knew it was useless against anything other than Amos. The scuttling, writhing things upstairs began to scrape and clatter against the wall, and with a tiny thrill of hope—the first he had known since he set out on this mission—Copeland realized they were not moving to intercept him but retreating.

  Still, each step he took required more effort than the last, and finally, with only a couple of steps to go, his knees buckled, his legs too rubbery to support his weight. Then he glimpsed, above the stairs, quick flash of silvery, reflected light, and something slashed the air so close to his head he could feel the rush of wind.

  Not all had retreated….

  A burst of adrenaline sent him moving again, this time on his elbows and knees. To his relief, the thing overhead did not strike at him again.

  At last, he found himself facing the violet-shaded, upstairs hallway, which extended away from him like a limitless tunnel, a pale blue glow illuminating Amos’s open bedroom door, some impossible distance away. Here, he found not a single trace of the Lumeras’ defensive tendrils, or other hint of movement.

&
nbsp; Once again having to gather his energy and his nerve, he pulled himself to his feet and began walking what he prayed would be the final distance before the end.

  The gun shook so violently he could barely hold onto it, much less aim it, so he let it drop heavily to the floor and used both hands to grip his terrible treasure—which shifted like a snake struggling to escape his clutches. Its surface, which had been so cold and slippery, began to heat up, its pulsing, internal light intensifying as if to signal alarm.

  The thing in the sky…had it finally deduced his intention?

  Jarring currents began to pass through his hands, up his arms, to his shoulders. Like holding onto a livewire, he thought. God, he wanted this to end—now! The strain on his body and nerves was too much; he wasn’t even sure whether he was sane any longer, for time stood still, then raced past as he struggled onward. The end of the hallway, infinitely distant, suddenly rushed to meet him, Amos’s door gaping wide as if to swallow him. His head reeled as the floor and ceiling switched places, but he was beyond fear, beyond reason.

  With no thought of the consequences, he lifted his foot to take the final step into the room.

  Electric blue light exploded in his eyes, ravaged his body, burning like the rays of a sapphire sun. Faint voices began to scream, maybe human, maybe not, hellish, horrifying shrieks that first crept out of the distance and then encircled him, becoming shriller and more potent, drilling relentlessly into his mind.

  Through the pain, he felt a small thrill of satisfaction, for these screams belonged to his adversaries.

  Something mumbled its way through the unearthly cacophonies, a low, barely discernible noise that he thought came from something human.

  “Mmmisterrr Copelannnd…”

  Far, far away, he saw a bulky silhouette limned with sapphire blue—except for the eyes. They blazed in the featureless head like xenon headlights, their beams sweeping over him, transmitting loathing and terror. The last of the Barrow clan stood before his window, through which Copeland could see black shadows racing through a violet sky and clusters of barb-covered, metallic stalks curling and writhing like snakes in mortal agony. The two gemstones flared simultaneously, like dual suns, one blue, one green; Copeland’s arms absorbed a sudden shock, and a wave of pressure forced him several steps backward. His entire body went numb, and this time, when he dropped to his knees, there was nothing left inside to draw upon. He sagged to one side, falling against the wall, his shoulder keeping him from toppling to the floor.