The Fates

by Thomas Tessier

  The cloud stopped and hovered, as if to make up its mind, at the street corner up ahead. Sturdevent stopped too. He put his right hand on his hip, waiting patiently for something to happen, and felt the rounded sides of the bullets in the police holster around his waist. He hadn’t worn a gun in years but he had taken his revolver out of the locker last week. Things were getting hairy in Millville and it might be necessary to have a gun at hand. Now he took the revolver out and hefted it, twice only, in his hand. A .357 magnum, regulation police issue. In twenty-three years as a policeman he had never had occasion to use the gun. In a small town like this you might go through your entire life without having to unstrap it, let alone fire a shot. In a small town like this. Like this was.

  Sturdevent clicked off the safety and raised the revolver. Should use two hands, he thought, but his left hand was still in a cast from being broken at Mason’s Mill. He levelled the barrel of the revolver, fixing its sight at the centre fire-cloud. He squeezed the trigger and the noise was much louder than he had anticipated. His wrist hurt from the powerful recoil. It would have been nice if the monster had collapsed in a gassy heap on the street, or even disappeared in a puff, but Sturdevent knew that bullets were of no use against the thing. Plenty of people around town had been taking pot-shots at the cloud for the last two weeks now. That’s why Sturdevent had dusted off his own pistol — for protection against the locals. Now he had fired the gun just to see what it was like after so long. Not bad. A symbolic protest.

  He raised the heavy weapon and fired. Again. Again. Again. Even as the reports echoed in his ears he could make out the distant sound of breaking glass. But the cloud hadn’t moved. Sturdevent stepped over to the side of the street, and then further, against a building, until he could see around the edge of the fire-cloud. Yes, there it was — a broken window in a building on the far side of the T-intersection. His shots had gone right through the cloud. He realised he could have hit, even killed someone standing in the room behind that window, but the thought didn’t especially worry him. Anybody standing there would be half crazy anyhow. Like most of the people in Millville.

  After a brief interval the cloud began to move again, turning right at the corner. It brushed against the building at the turn, the offices of a local insurance agency. Sturdevent held back as the glass doors and windows exploded in millions of tiny, deadly bits of flying shrapnel. Slimy bastards, he grinned, serves you right Knock it all down. He had insurance and he hated it. House, car, theft, fire, and of course life. Conning people into betting on their own deaths. Venetian blinds flew through the air like surreal accordions tangled, twisted, and broken. Sturdevent followed the cloud around the corner, wondering if Ribault & McGrath had insured themselves. What would you call this? An act of God? Vandalism? Could you take out a policy against the unknown?

  Sturdevent had to stand back again, as the fire-cloud proceeded along a row of storefronts, filling the immediate vicinity with a spray of debris. He used the time to reload his revolver.

  A man ran into the street from one of the partially wrecked shops the fire-cloud had just passed. He looked at the monster and then began to run. He immediately saw Sturdevent and yelled, ‘Police!’

  Bright guy, Sturdevent thought. ‘Get the hell out of here, mister,’ he roared, resenting the man’s intrusive presence. He wanted to be alone out here in what had been his town. Alone with the thing.

  The man kept running, right on by Sturdevent and around the corner, out of sight.

  No cars on the road. The last stranger gone. To Chief Sturdevent it looked like a stage set, no — a Hollywood film set. He had seen the streets of Millville deserted before on many occasions, early in the morning, late at night or even at supper-time. It was that kind of town. Had been. Now he could see for the first time that it tried too hard, like a film set or children’s toys, and ended up being less than real The whole place had a thrown-together look about it. Cheap dumpy little shops, tired brick buildings, ugly gas stations. Plastic. Glass. Junk. Why had he never noticed that hollowness before? What’s happening to me?

  The fire-cloud swung back into the street again and Sturdevent quickened his pace to restore the smaller gap between them. As he walked he emptied the revolver into the heart of the beast again. The gun was hot in his hand and his fingers ached to let go of the heavy weapon. He paused, awkwardly, to reload. Bullets didn’t hurt the thing but maybe he was actually prodding it along, making it move just a little bit quicker. See more of the sights of Millville. He had to admit he was almost fond of the monster now. It had ruined his life, sure, and the lives of many other people as well. But he could come through it a changed man and maybe that wasn’t altogether a bad thing. He wasn’t too old to move, to change. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t look at cute and cosy towns through the same rose-coloured glasses anymore. He had learned to look at everything in a different way now. A lot more realistically.

  He slammed the chambers of the gun shut against his thigh, lifted it and fired again. A second shot. Take it easy. Reloading is a clumsy business with only one good hand. How many bullets did they put on one of these belts? — a lot, he saw, in case you happened across a small regional war.

  Sturdevent angled from one side of the street to the other, peering beyond the nebulous fringe of the cloud. Then he took two quick steps forward, set himself, aimed carefully and fired through the centre of the pale thing. He was again rewarded with the sound of shattering glass — a car parked about a hundred feet beyond. The gaping hole in the windscreen was on the passenger side but that didn’t bother Sturdevent. A hit was what counted.

  The cloud swung into another corner and tore down a large part of the building situated there, this time a two-storey brick structure containing offices. The front rooms collapsed in a heap of rubble, furniture and billowing dust. No work for you folks tomorrow, Sturdevent smirked, following the fire-cloud.

  From the corner, standing among the crumbled bricks and broken chairs, with the dust still swirling thickly, he got off two good angle shots through the cloud, demolishing the neon sign in the distance that had said Mel’s Radio & TV.

  On they went, maintaining the same distance between them, moving at the same sluggish pace, up one street and down another, slowly circling in towards the centre of town.

  Sturdevent wondered if they were going to meet up with the other cloud they had heard about. That would be a new development.

  He had four bullets left in his belt when the cloud abruptly faded and then vanished completely. He was hot and tired and his body felt sore all over. He sat on the edge of the sidewalk and placed the hot revolver on the ground to cool off. A thought entered his mind. I wasn’t prodding it, not at all. On the contrary, it was leading me, leading me through my own town. As if to say, See.

  What was my town.

  What was left of it.

  What had been my town.

  Leading me.

  Saying: here you are.

  Here I am.

  Any other town seemed very far away.

  Here you are.

  Nearly an hour later Ned Hanley, cruising the streets, came across a figure he recognised. He stopped his car and got out. Christ, he must have walked here from the plaza.

  Sturdevent was slumped over on the curb. Has he shot himself, Hanley suddenly wondered? No, Sturdevent isn’t that brave. He’s finished, that’s for sure. He just doesn’t know it yet. One of the walking dead. Hanley felt nothing but contempt.

  He bent over and lifted up Sturdevent’s head. Glassy eyes, looking dopey. What a useless wreck. There were grimy smear marks on the Chiefs face, as if he had been sweating a great deal, or crying.

  *

  ‘Martin. How nice to see you. Come in.’ Marge Calder smiled warmly and held the aluminium screen door open for him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lasker said, entering the house. I hope I didn’t pick a bad time to stop by.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m glad you did.’

  They walked into the l
iving room.

  ‘You’re looking great,’ he told her. ‘How do you feel now? All better?’

  ‘All right, thanks, but I’m still taped up in places.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Lemonade?’

  ‘I have some, yes, but would you like something a little stronger?’

  ‘No, lemonade would be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Okay. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.’

  Lasker watched her walk into the adjoining kitchen. Her brightly-coloured caftan didn’t entirely hide the layers of bandages wrapped around her torso underneath and her movements were stiff. At Mason’s Mill she too had been caught in the crush of the panicking crowd. In addition to numerous cuts and bruises, including a gruesome black eye that had now completely disappeared, she had suffered two cracked ribs and a concussion.

  ‘When did you get out of the hospital?’ Lasker asked, standing in the archway between the two rooms.

  ‘I was only in for a couple of days.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, handing him a tall glass of iced lemonade. ‘But I’ve been stuck here ever since. Doctor’s orders not to go out until the bones are fully mended.’

  They sat down in the living room.

  ‘That makes sense,’ Lasker said.

  ‘Yes, but I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner in my own home. I can’t wait to get out. It’s good of you to stop in and visit. I was almost ready to start talking to myself.’

  ‘You make good lemonade.’ Lasker smiled.

  ‘It comes from a can.’ She smiled back.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told me.’

  ‘What’s been happening with you? I haven’t been keeping up on the news but you must be very busy with everything that’s going on.’

  ‘Well, yes and no. At the moment, I’m unemployed,’ he admitted.

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes widened slightly. ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s not like it sounds. The other night one of the monsters appeared on the scene and wrecked the presses. So the paper is out of action, and so am I, at least for the time being. They haven’t made up their minds what they’re going to do.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Was anyone hurt? I didn’t hear about it on the radio, but then I’ve almost given up listening now. It’s all bad news.’

  ‘Right. Nobody was seriously injured. It was very late and most of the staff had gone home already. The despatchers were able to get away without much trouble.’

  ‘That’s something.’

  ‘They may have the paper printed in Waterbury until they can repair the damage and get new machines in, so I might be back at work in a few days. But they have problems — whether or not all that costly equipment is covered by insurance, and so on. Nobody knows what’s going to happen.’

  ‘I heard about the National Guard and the Army.’

  ‘Yeah, better late than never, I guess.’

  ‘Will they be able to do anything?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Lasker gulped the lemonade, draining the glass. ‘Help evacuate people is the main thing.’

  ‘Want some more?’

  ‘Uh-okay.’

  She returned in a few seconds with the pitcher of lemonade.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lasker said.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  ‘It’ll just keep getting worse, as far as I can see. It’s bad enough now with people being killed every day, the enormous property damage being done. Ordinary life has ground to a halt. Either this plague will go away or the entire town will be steadily wiped out.’

  ‘Do you fed afraid?’

  ‘Strangely enough, I don’t, although I guess I should. They seem to be all over the place now.’ Lasker wanted to get away from this subject. The real reason he felt no fear about the monsters was the death of his friend, Dave Lutz. That tragic event had aged Lasker in some deep but unfathomable way. He felt no anger or bitterness and he could not fear the thing. He knew only the desolation of a void in his heart. He felt nothing. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘I don’t feel afraid either.’ Marge’s eyes were bright and lively. ‘I did at first, in the hospital when I was reacting to the injuries and the sight of the thing close up at the Mill. I was afraid then. Stu wanted us to leave, go stay with his parents in Pennsylvania until this thing was over, but then I decided I wanted to stay. The fear went, I don’t know why, and I wanted to stay here. This is my house.’

  Lasker nodded. He was beginning to think this visit wasn’t such a great idea. All conversations in Millville were now gloomy and morbid.

  ‘At least your husband knows now you weren’t seeing neon lights.’ He tried to raise a smile.

  ‘Yes, but I feel bad about that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I should have made more noise at the time. Alerted people to what was out there, instead of worrying about how silly I might look and waiting until things really got bad.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Lasker said firmly. ‘You had no way of knowing what those things would turn out to be. Nobody did. Besides, no one would have paid any attention to you. And you did tell me about it and I didn’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She was willing to be convinced.

  ‘People are like that. They have to see for themselves before they believe, especially something as fantastic as this.’ He poured his third glass of lemonade. ‘If anyone should feel responsible it’s me. On two counts.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m a news reporter, at least I’m supposed to be, and I could have done something. I’ve gone through this whole disaster like a blind person, never seeing exactly what was happening and what it was leading up to, missing every connection from that damn cow onwards. I couldn’t get a hold of it and come to terms with it.’ Lasker sighed unhappily. ‘The other thing is, I shouldn’t have suggested you go out to Mason’s Mill that day. That was just stupid of me and it nearly got you killed.’

  ‘I was the one who behaved stupidly,’ she said quickly, touched by his remark. ‘Not you. I went of my own free will. Don’t blame yourself. I had these dizzy, dreamy notions — God, I feel so foolish now, I was like a child. I thought I was going to see something… I don’t know.’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention flying saucers again.

  ‘Anyhow, if s all rolling under its own steam now,’ Lasker said. ‘Millville is big news now. Midsummer madness.’

  ‘Has anyone found out what those things are, or come up with an idea? I mean an idea that might be right. I’ve heard about some of the others.’

  Lasker shrugged dispiritedly. ‘Waterbury is full of weathermen at the moment. The idea they’re working on is that it all has something to do with meteorological disturbances in connection with sunspot activity, or something like that.’

  ‘Well, they won’t be able to do much about that if it turns out to be the case. Will they?’

  ‘No, they won’t. But the idea is a very popular one. There’s a story going around that it prompted Mayor Sherwin to ask the state congressman from our district, a fellow named Bronson, to ask the Governor to ask Washington to look into the possibility that the Russians may be trying out some new kind of weather-control weapon on us.’

  ‘Oh,’ Marge replied, not responding to Lasker’s thin sarcasm.

  ‘But they’re all wrong. Very wrong.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Lasker said with quiet certainty. ‘I’ve been slow in coming to it, as I said before, but I think I’ve finally put it all together.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Marge said, leaning back in her chair.

  ‘Very simply, it’s this. We’ve been violating the natural order of life in countless ways and what has been happening here is a kind of retaliation. And a warning to us. A demonstration by Nature or God or whatever you want to call it. The ancient Greeks called them the Fates, the daughters of Night. There is a natural order to things and man has been violati
ng it. Millville has been made an example, by the Fates if you like, to show us that we have to restore and maintain that natural order.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you,’ Marge said with a sympathetic but confused look.

  ‘Bondarevsky was the first. He’s been selling his land so people can stick up ugly apartment blocks and offices. The car that was destroyed. Church Street — a neighbourhood that has been dying slowly for years. Mason’s Mill is due to become part of the new airport complex. The gathering of the people there — for what, if not to teach them a lesson? Can you see what ties it all together?’

  ‘The environment?’

  ‘Yes, Nature.’

  ‘But there isn’t much real pollution in Millville, except out by the Gunntown factory.’

  ‘Which was levelled yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m telling you. I know I’m right.’

  ‘I see,’ Marge said, still sounding unimpressed. ‘Are you going to write all that up in the newspaper — when it gets going again — listing the incidents and all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lasker replied. He hoped that Phipps would run such a story but he was not at all certain the editor would. He might consign it to the bulging file of crank theories. Lasker also caught the irony of Marge’s question. When he first met her he was the one who listened with polite scepticism to her story. Now the situation had been reversed.

  He roused himself and sat forward in the large, soft chair, making a show of looking at his watch. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Oh, why don’t you stay for lunch?’ Marge suggested. ‘You said you’re not working and I enjoy company.’

  ‘Well… I am still following up various things, but…’ He left the sentence unfinished. He would have to eat at some point, but on the other hand he didn’t feel very conversational. He sat poised and silent in a state of indecision.

  ‘Come on,’ Marge prodded. ‘I’ll make you a delicious fat submarine sandwich.’

  Is that a Freudian slip, Lasker wondered hopefully? ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  ‘Good.’

  She went into the kitchen. Lasker slumped back in the chair and watched her moving about. Why hadn’t he made a pass at her before? Now he could entertain the idea as much as he liked but he couldn’t do anything about it until she had recovered from her injuries. Still… you never knew. The other time — he should have tried it the other time he had been here. He liked her because she didn’t pretend to be someone she wasn’t — the way she had reacted to his Greek mythology, for instance. And she was an attractive young woman. As she stood in the kitchen he pictured her as she had been that other day, in white shorts and a clinging top. A missed opportunity, or was he just kidding himself? Lasker the hesitant lover.