A groan forced itself past the man’s lips, and he grabbed his leg with both hands. The kid’s outline stiffened.
There was a gentle tinkling outside.
Sweat broke on the man’s brow. He squirmed, vision blurring. His shirt was soaked within minutes. He grabbed the shotgun and spoke through gritted teeth.
“I need water. I need a new dressing. I’ve gotta go up.”
The kid started to stand and the man hissed, “No. Just me. You’re gonna stay down here and keep quiet, you hear me?” He used the barrel to push himself up the wall until he was doing something resembling standing. Then he pulled himself to the stairs.
“I’ll see if I can find us something to eat.”
His voice was ragged. Fire had erupted in his leg and was crawling up his back. Those stairs were gonna eat him alive.
“Stay here,” he said again. “Quiet.” And he began climbing up. It must have been a sorry sight for the kid’s morale, the man making his way up the stairs in a slow-motion fumbling of knees and elbows, bad leg hanging stiffly off the side like he was a crippled spider. His teeth gnashed every time his weight came down. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He pulled the bolt on the trapdoor and braced the shotgun against it. He listened for the tinkling of the monster’s knives. Nothing. He didn’t know if that was good or bad. He pictured it crouched right on the other side, a slack-jawed gargoyle, slivers of glass for fingers, staring wanly into space while it waited for its next meal.
He knew he had two shells. He’d give them both to the bastard. And if there was another one behind it, well, he wouldn’t be hacking it anymore. But the kid would live, down below.
The kid spoke, softly, and for the first time sounded like a little boy.
“Don’t let the cutter get you. I’ll be alone.”
You’ll get used to it. No matter how many of us you meet, you’ll always end up alone.
“Just be quiet. And lock it behind me,” he told the kid. He nudged the trapdoor upward, just half an inch, and ignored the pain of standing erect as he pressed his head against the door and peered out.
A cockroach skittered past the lip of the hole. Jesus! The man bit down on his lips and squeezed his eyes shut. His heart hurled itself against his ribcage.
He didn’t scream. A tiny murmur escaped through his throat, but nothing more.
He pushed the door up, up, bringing the barrel of the shotgun out of the hole and panning it across the kitchen. All clear. He eyed the floor for any smudges or scrapes that would indicate their big flat feet. What had the kid called them, cutters? He supposed they were just that. He and the kid were survivors, and they were cutters. Limping as slowly as one could limp across the room, he wondered if there was any real malice within the things. So they’d passed mankind on the way up the food chain. Did that mean they were as screwed up as people were? Did they waste time pondering this shit too?
Tinkling from the front hall.
He leaned against the doorway to the hall. He listened for the slightest movement. Just that occasional tinkle. Maybe it was resting. If he played his cards right it’d only take one shell. Edging forward, millimeter by millimeter, trying to block out the nauseating pain and the sickening feeling of old sweat clogging his pores and the taste of a foul slick on his tongue, he leaned his head into the hall.
Empty. The front door, however, was open. What he could see of the porch was clear. He moved toward it.
Tink-tink.
He pushed himself along the wall. He couldn’t see a damn thing out on the porch. It had to be right beside the door then—or perhaps outside the porch, crouching in the sun. He held the trembling barrel out before him and sucked in three quick breaths. On the third he lunged through the entryway.
Staggering on his bad leg, swinging his arms out to balance himself, feeling the gun slip from sweaty fingers, he let out a sharp cry. Nothing around him registered, only the panic of losing his footing and his firearm, then his shoulder crashing against the porch frame and the shotgun clapping on the floorboards. The man threw his head about wildly, arms sweeping the air in anticipation of flurrying knives.
He fell on his butt with a sharp stab and stared at an empty porch. The gun lay right beside him, and it was almost ridiculous the way he was able to take it up again. A pratfall at the end of the world. Stupid. It felt stupid. He felt stupid, and with that old familiar feeling came a sense of comfort he hadn’t known in a long time.
Tink-tink.
He looked straight up, only to see a small wooden disc hanging from the ceiling. To it were attached ceramic chimes on strings, and as they gently touched one another, he welcomed that second wave of goddamn-you’re-stupid. Hadn’t even noticed the chimes when he’d first entered the house. The yard was clear too. Not a sign of life along the entire street.
Turning back to the house, he saw the thing dart out from the room opposite the kitchen. Then it was gone, and he heard the trapdoor crash, and the kid scream, all of it before the gun even went off in his hands.
And he felt goddamn stupid. Too embarrassed to run in and see, to waste another shell, to look in its eyes. He felt like the last dumbest man on the face of the earth, so he just sat, slack-jawed, and waited.
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Interview with David Dunwoody
Why did you choose to include “Cutter” in the Sampler?
Although “Cutter” serves well as a promotional vehicle for my most recent novel, it isn’t the most explicitly Lovecraftian story I’ve written. So I did give it some thought before deciding that the story’s accessibility made it a good choice, in addition to the fact that it sets up the extremely Lovecraftian The Harvest Cycle.
What does “Lovecraftian” mean to you?
It doesn’t necessarily mean a Mythos tale, although The Harvest Cycle certainly is one. For example, the horrors in “Cutter” are not so cosmic in nature—though they are alien—and the element of fear comes from the very visceral and immediate threat they present. Lovecraft’s philosophy surrounding fear of the unknown or the unknowable is what the story retains. In a world swamped by monsters, where humans are constantly on the run, there’s little time to analyze the situation. You just have to keep running and accept that nightmares are now real.
How does The Harvest Cycle differ from “Cutter?”
In the novel, many years have passed and humans have an understanding of where the Harvesters come from. Some humans have made contact with the entity known as the Magnum Innominandum, which uses the Harvesters to “reap” human brains. There are also robots who once served Man and have been fooled into believing that it is best for them to kill humans before the Outer God claims their minds. It’s a blending of sci-fi and straight horror that draws heavily on the Mythos.
Is it common for you to connect short stories with your novels?
It is, but only if both works can function as stand-alones. There are certain characters for whom I have a great affinity and I like dropping them into various situations. Harvest has tie-in stories appearing in the anthology Robots Beyond (Permuted Press), my collection Dark Entities (Dark Regions Press) and, more tangentially, in the upcoming Chaosium anthology Eldritch Chrome. All of these stories take place prior to the novel.
What are your favorite Lovecraft works?
Most of my faves are considered to be part of the Dream Cycle: “Nyarlathotep” and anything related to him, including “The Dreams in the Witch-House,” The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath and the fragment “Azathoth.” To those I’d add “The Haunter of the Dark” and “The Crawling Chaos” (though the latter isn’t really a Nyarlathotep tale). On the harder sci-fi side, I think “In the Walls of Eryx” with Sterling is a brilliantly bleak and scary yarn.
When did you begin reading Lovecraft?
Probably my early twenties. Late start, I know, but I devoured his body of work in no time and then moved on to Mythos tales by other greats. It’s wonderful that this shared universe is available to pretty much anyone. Havin
g so many others’ takes and tweaks on the Mythos formulae can only make Lovecraft’s work more enduring and popular. When I got serious about my writing at about 23, I began peppering my stories with bits of Lovecraftian influence. Even my zombie stories draw from the Mythos. HPL’s legacy is boundless and immortal.
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About David Dunwoody
David Dunwoody is best known for his subversive apocalyptic fiction, including the Empire zombie series (Permuted Press/Gallery Books) and short stories appearing in two collections and over fifty other publications. The Utah-based author has written since 2004, being published by award-winning companies such as Dark Regions, Chaosium and Simon & Schuster.
Also by David on Kindle
Empire: A Zombie Novel
Dark Entities
The Harvest Cycle
Connect with David Online
Website: http://daviddunwoody.com/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/daviddunwoody
Facebook: http://facebook.com/ddunwoody
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5370775.David_Dunwoody
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/daviddunwoody
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Graveyard Orbit
Shane Jiraiya Cummings
This story first appeared in Midnight Echo #6
System: HD 209458 (designation: Osiris).
Distance from Earth: 150.4 light years (Pegasus Constellation).
“What in hell is that?” Walker pointed to the brown-yellow smudge on the central viewscreen.
Lost to his interface with the ship, Peng took a few moments to answer, “What?”
“You mean, ‘what, Captain’,” Walker said with distraction. He’d spent the entire three month journey reminding his subordinates of his position, and correcting them had become an automatic response.
“Uh, yeah, what, Captain?” Peng said, although he remained interfaced with the ship and didn’t bother to turn to address him.
Peng’s crewmate—and the Wellington’s first officer—Huang was also interfaced, but he appeared to quiver slightly. Although his back was to Walker, he was sure Huang was suppressing laughter.
“Enough, you two,” Walker chided. “I want a full spectrum analysis on that planet. Thermal, radiation, gravity density mapping, atmospheric composition, the works.”
“Sure, Captain.” Huang swivelled in his chair to face Walker. “Although if you just interface ... oh, very sorry, I forgot, you’re not enhanced.” The wireless pods embedded in Huang’s temples pulsed with lights. The magnetically insulated strips that ran up the sides of his neck and disappeared into his hairline strobed in a lightning-fast sequence of flashes.
Walker grimaced. The instant information Huang was accessing from the Wellington’s telemetry arrays was more of a slap in the face than his words—and Huang knew it. It wasn’t the first time his subordinates had mocked him for his humanity. Mundanes such as Walker were fast becoming obsolete. If he hadn’t owned the Wellington, he’d be unable to pick up work in interstellar exploration.
“Just show me what you have, Huang.” Walker sighed. “Main screen.”
The image was still grainy. Walker rubbed his eyes. The advanced telemetry of the Wellington’s equipment should have been able to display the visual with crystal clarity. Even with Huang’s tweaking, the image refused to resolve itself.
“Serious ionisation,” Peng muttered.
“Speak up, Peng,” Walker said.
Peng muttered something inaudible, lost as he was to the interface with the ship. Huang, too, was silent as he absorbed the data.
Walker thumped the arm of his chair. “Come on, guys! Don’t drift on me. I need answers!”
Peng straightened in his chair but took a few seconds to disengage from the data stream. “Osiris II has an atmosphere of approximately six hundred klicks. Apart from the ionisation, I’m getting no readings at all.”
“Something wrong with the equipment?” Walker asked.
“No,” Huang answered after a pause. “I ran a diagnostic and the arrays are in working order.”
Walker glanced at the planet on the main screen again. “Strange. It looks like pollution haze. Reminds me of home.”
Although his vision was unenhanced, Walker pressed his face to the nearest viewport. Until today, Osiris II had been an unclassifiable planet, identified only as a gravity distortion by telescopes in far orbit in the Sol System. Walker’s best guess was that it was akin to Venus, a rocky planet covered in a thick layer of gasses, but he needed a closer look.
“Move us into low orbit.” Walker commanded as he returned to his chair. “I want to pierce the veil.”
Within moments, the ship lurched to the right, and Walker’s stomach with it. The planet loomed in the viewport larger by the second.
As their approach vector changed, Walker spotted something.
“Stop the ship!” he called to the crew. Within seconds, the ship slowed and stopped. Walker’s stomach lurched a second time from the deceleration. He was forced to grip his chair tight to avoid being dumped on the floor.
“See that debris? What is that?” Walker asked.
Huang and Peng fell silent. After thirty seconds, Peng spoke up. “There’s nothing on the sensors.”
“What did you see ... captain?” Huang added.
“Use your damn eyes! Look out the viewport.”
Walker moved to the largest viewport to get a better look. Huang and Peng crowded behind him and glanced over Walker’s shoulders.
“I don’t understand,” Huang said. “There was nothing on the sensors. Nothing at all.”
“How close are we to the planet?” Walker asked Peng.
The junior crewman’s eyeballs flashed with lines of data. Cybernetic projectors within Peng’s eye fed him the information from the datastream in his brain. Walker had heard it took months to acclimate to the constant assault of data. Even with gen 3 tech, four per cent of the population couldn’t handle the speed of the data, resulting in nausea, and in extreme cases, catatonia. Young guys like Peng were raised on gen 3 implants, and they’d been interfacing long before they could even walk.
Walker grimaced at the thought of being enslaved to the interface. Already, Peng was drifting again. “Peng,” Walker prodded. “The distance?”
“Sorry,” Peng said after a few seconds. “We’re 312,663 klicks from the planet, captain.”
Walker squinted against the void to understand what he was seeing. Huang pressed in closer. Uncharacteristically, the data flashing across his eyeballs was minimal.
“Looks like an accretion disk,” Walker said. “But why isn’t it showing up on any of our sensors?”
A vast ring of debris orbited the planet. It was thin, maybe no more than a few metres, but from the Wellington’s position several klicks above the plane of the ring, the vastness of it was staggering. Unlike Saturn’s rings, the debris field was unbroken by the passage of a moon or other celestial objects. It was a single expansive plane that closed in all the way to the edge of the planet’s haze.
“You said we’re about 300,000 klicks from the planet, right?” Walker asked Peng. “That’s about the same distance as the Moon from Earth ... and about twice the size of Saturn’s main rings?”
“Correct,” Huang said.
“Unbelievable. And the planet’s only ... what, four times the mass of the Earth?”
Light flashed across Huang’s and Peng’s eyes simultaneously.
“It’s impossible to be exact—”, Huang started.
“Still no readings from the planet. There’s something about the atmosphere that’s blocking our equipment,” Peng interjected. His face slackened within seconds as he drifted back into the interface.
Huang glared at Peng, “But extrapolating from the gravitational pull on the ship, I’d estimate the planet is 5.6 times the mass of Earth.”
From this distance, Osiris II dominated the horizon. It was an impenetrable ball of mustard yellow haze. Th
e debris ring around the planet filled the viewport.
“Peng, take us within 100 metres of that debris. We might be able to extract some minerals,” Walker ordered.
Peng returned to his flight chair while Walker and Huang braced themselves on either side of the window. The Wellington’s turn was a little too sharp and Walker had to hang on to avoid losing his footing.
“Take it easy, kid!” Walker chided.
Huang was transfixed on the debris as it loomed closer; his eyes barely registered any data at all. As the ship slowed to within 100 metres, Huang’s eyes once again buzzed with information.
“Oh, god, are those ...” Walker stood on his toes to get a better angle. “... people?”
Peng snapped around to face Walker. “Did you say ‘people’?” He rushed over to the viewport next to Walker’s and peered at the debris.
The data burst in Huang’s eyes subsided. “Captain Walker, I’ve detected a radio wave source close by.”
“Hang on a sec ...” Walker waved Huang away. He struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.
This close to the vast ring of debris, the individual components had resolved into recognisable shapes. Grey-green blobs floated next to insectoid shapes that sported several arms and legs, next to geometries that impossible for the eye to adequately define.
Walker broke out in a cold sweat when he recognised humanoid shapes floating in the mass: men and women, their skin icy from the relentless chill of space, their faces dark smears where eyes had been, where mouths had frozen into rictuses. Those that wore recognisable clothes were from many eras: a woman in a scorched vacuum suit punctured by decades of micrometeorite impacts floated near a man wearing a near-perfectly preserved Victorian suit. Still others were nude or wore clothes Walker recognised from the archives as the tatters of jeans and a t-shirt from the early 21st Century, a late Renaissance dress ... the incongruence was staggering.
Cthulhu Mythos Writers Sampler 2013 Page 25
