“Sir.”
My admonishment hid my real concern that maybe this time Fisk was right. We all knew the Fallen to be dangerous, but I had not shared his paranoid loathing of them. Now I had to acknowledge that perhaps it was warranted. On the other hand, I wasn’t prepared to let this become a repeat of our last encounter with Fallen.
***
We had been searching a hab-block, following a mission brief not too different from our current one, except that we were alerted to the presence of Fallen in advance, and had encountered a family on the third floor. They were a little too quiet, just sat there twitching nervously when we entered, and they refused to speak.
“You are to vacate these premises immediately,” I had ordered. “We are investigating a matter of Realm security, and your presence is detrimental to our mission. If you remain, we cannot guarantee your safety.”
They had all just looked at each other, quizzically—young, old, strong, weak, female, male. A vacant, dribbling old man had sat in the far corner. In front of us was a two year old boy in a dirty nappy.
Andreas had turned his head towards me. I didn’t need to see his face to know that he was thinking the same thing I was, that the nature of the predicament had dawned on us both.
“You fucking deaf or summin?” Fisk yelled, waving his gun. The other members of the unit stood their ground with weapons raised, not yet sure how to react.
“Hold your fire, Obdurate . . .” Andreas began.
“They’re ignoring direct orders, Sir!” Then, to the frightened and confused occupants, he said, “Get clear! Out! Now! Comprehend?”
Andreas reached out to take him by the arm, but slowly, so as not to set him off. “No, I don’t think . . .”
He never completed his statement. One of the old men had flickered, like a page turned quickly, or a leaf caught in a web in a strong gale, rapidly flitting back and forth.
And Fisk had yelled. “Fallen! It’s the Fallen!”
And someone had fired the first shot—I believe it was Gibbs, eager to impress, but it happened too fast to be sure.
And Moriah, Billy and the others had followed his lead, afraid of the preternaturally fast being that would tear their throats out if they didn’t act swiftly.
And the family had all rushed to shield the man with their own bodies.
And then they had started to drop, marionettes with their strings cut.
***
I cut down the gory meat-puppet that hung from the ceiling with a slice of my combat knife and watched it drop to the floor.
The tragedy was that, unofficially, that kind of overzealousness was more in line with what our superiors wanted than Andreas’ merciful approach was. It allowed them to get the dirty jobs done, keep the populace afraid, without ever officially sanctioning the murder of innocents. I didn’t stop to question it often—there was no way to change it, and dwelling on it was enough to drive a man insane.
“Sir?” The enquiry came from Troughton, who had walked up alongside me and was studying the ‘puppet’ I had cut down.
“Yes?”
“I don’t feel quite right, Sir. Something about this place . . .”
“You’ll be okay.”
That scampering again, much louder and heavier this time. A high-speed pounding, stamping even, growing even louder as it went on. At first it was as if the Fallen was scuttling amongst us, invisible, then it was like a road drill, a relentless pounding. The men started to cover their ears.
“Forward, everyone. We press on. First room on the left.”
I went first, kicking the door in and entering with gun raised. Moriah backed me up.
“Empty. Sort of.”
I caught his meaning before my eyes adjusted. The smell of corpses was unmistakable, and nauseating.
There were . . . three in one corner, two in the middle of the floor? No. Two and a half.
The walls had been whitewashed before what had taken place in the room, and then daubed with the markings. The symbols.
Frank pushed past us, hurriedly. “This is, these are . . . oh no . . .”
He knelt to study the bodies.
“There’s markings on them too, carved in. This was done by Ruiner worshippers.”
The room was a gallery of horror. Few parts were connected, or at least not connected where they were supposed to be. An arm was the canvas for a complicated tableau of maze-like, tightly-twisting lines, like a map into madness. A palm bore the image of a demonic face, not simplistically drawn with knife cuts, but created by carving and sculpting the flesh. It had been propped upright to look upon the work of its acolytes and had grinned at each scream, each spasm of pain, each degradation and death rattle. What nightmares had infected the mind of the man who had formed that grotesque grin? What nightmares had it inspired, to be brought to life with blade and flesh and ill-intent?
Frank was still on his knees, making his head level with my chest, moaning. “I can’t fight such things, I haven’t the strength. Not right now. Exalted grant me strength . . .”
Moriah dragged him to his feet. “Get up, you big lug.” He pulled himself together almost instantly, but I knew him well. He was compassionate and devout. The sickness of this room would burrow deeper than any surface behaviour could show.
I ushered Moriah and Frank out and shut the door. There was nothing to gain from examining the room. None of us knew the works and writings of the Ruiner and none of us should.
“We find whatever we’re supposed to recover from here,” I said, “and then we burn the place.”
*
We pressed on, investigated every room. None displayed evidence of the same calculated sadistic rituals. Somehow, the upstairs seemed much larger than the downstairs, despite there being no difference in layout visible from outside. Perhaps there were just a larger number of smaller rooms.
“Something wrong with Dezkarians, I swear,” Gibbs quipped, trying to score points with Fisk. “I mean, who messes with dead bodies like that?”
Comments like that could damage morale. I should have admonished him, but I didn’t. Underneath his bravado I knew Gibbs was more scared than any of us. It was just that he was mostly afraid of looking weak.
“No evidence that this was Dezkarians,” I prompted. “Focus.”
“Yeah, but you gotta admit,” Fisk said, “we haven’t encountered a Fallen in months, and now this, no more than a fortnight after the refugee crisis.” As infuriating as Fisk’s sermonising on this subject could be, it was strange how he could be articulate and persuasive on this one subject, when most of what came out of his mouth was grunts. I tried not to let Fisk’s paranoia distract me and bit my tongue and tasted the blood. I reminded myself that Fallen could come from anywhere, get into Realm territory in many ways, and this one could have been in Caldair for years without encountering us.
We approached the end of the corridor. A notably ornate door, deep red, stood at the termination point. The walls leading up to it had been papered a long time ago, in what may once have been a similar deep red but was now patchy, faded, fly-specked brown on peeling paper skin over disintegrating timber flesh. Fisk kept peeking into the holes in the boards, as if convinced Fallen were crammed behind them, waiting to ambush us.
The door had a patterned, golden handle and bore a grinning face, the same as the demonic face in the hand.
“I don’t wanna go in there,” Frank admitted.
“You don’t have to,” I told him, pushing him away from the room. “Fisk and I will . . .”
“I’ll go in,” Gibbs said. “What are you all afraid of? More bodies? Big deal, nothing we haven’t seen before. If it’s some kind of Ruiner hoojoo, doesn’t bother me, I don’t believe in that crap.”
“Thomas!”
“Well, I don’t. Does believing in the Exalted really mean I have to believe in all that boogeyman Ruiner side of it? Letters in blood can’t hurt us. If the Fallen is in there, you guys have my back, right?”
“What if it
’s something worse?” Moriah asked.
“What like some evil, nasty demon? I already told you, I don’t believe in that crap. There’s nothing supernatural going on, just a particularly twisted psycho Fallen.”
Before I could stop him, he turned to the door and twisted the handle.
Inside, all was in light, as bright as day. Thomas Gibbs dawdled in, tentatively, not believing what he was seeing. The planks of wood that the room was assembled from were newly chopped and planed pine, straight and smooth and clean. They still smelled of forest and sap. The room was empty. Dust floated thinly in the air, dancing in the beams of sunlight that stole through the gaps between each plank of wood. They pierced the room from all angles, even through the ceiling and floor.
Sawdust and glue and evening air fought for my attention, and that cloying smell again, like the lavender in the hay field, taking me back to a day when I’d been out playing, chasing my brother through the sunbeams, both of us laughing.
Gibbs reached the middle of the room and removed his mask to gaze around in wonder. The room emitted such terrible tranquillity. Compared to the gloom and squalor exuded by the rest of the house, the contrast was shocking. The floorboards creaked slightly as Gibbs shifted weight.
The sunbeams were coming up through the floor.
“Gibbs,” I said, “let’s get out of here, right now.”
There had been no difference in layout between the first floor and ground floor, I was sure of that. I had circled the building before we had entered. It was a uniform shape and size on both levels. Even if we had been in there all night, long enough for the sun to rise (and I was certain we hadn’t) there was no way that much light would be coming up from an internal space. This room was unnatural.
Gibbs started to turn back towards me, sluggish sleepwalker movements. “It can’t be real, Turcotte, can it? It isn’t possible.” His voice was cracking. As he turned side-on to me, I could see that he was crying.
“No, it isn’t. That’s why we have to leave, Thomas.” I kept my voice gentle, reached out to him.
He was facing me now, grinning dreamily. “But I don’t want to go. Why would I? Look at it. It’s lovely.” He swayed.
“It’s not,” I said, more firmly. “It’s evil, it’s rancid.”
He was laughing and crying all at once, torn in two by the contradictions of the place.
“Oh World, oh World, what’s happening? Where the fuck am I?”
“Best not to think about it, is my notion.”
“I can’t help thinking about it. I’m here, aren’t I? Aren’t I? Like, some things you just can’t help thinking about, because this isn’t real but it’s here, and, and those people were real, but they’re not here. Not anymore.”
I knew that had been eating at him. He hadn’t said anything, but I knew him well enough. If he had been the one to initiate the killing of those civilians he wouldn’t be able to forget. Instead, he had treated it as if it hadn’t been real. Now he was faced with the stark contrast between real and unreal, and it was up to me to help him make sense of it.
“Just take a step toward me.” Still reaching out to him, inching closer, instincts telling me not to make any sudden moves.
He was sweating now, and breathing heavy, terror creeping in. Perhaps I should have told him not to look down, because one glance at the dazzling rays of daylight slicing up through the floor sent him spiralling towards abject panic.
“What wh-what? Fucking . . .”
“I know, I know.” Moving closer. My earlier instincts proved correct as he flinched away angrily when I went to grasp for him.
“There’s grass down there, Colonel. I can see it between the boards. How can there be grass?”
Colonel. He thought I was Andreas. His grip on the present had slipped. I saw his hand inch towards his holster. I put my palms up, in a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t know. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Come with me and let’s get to the bottom of it.” I spared a glance at the doorway behind me. It was thick with inky blackness and the wall surrounding it was obscured by a haze of dust motes and defused light. It looked like something viewed from miles distant. The other members of the unit were invisible.
I looked back. Gibbs had taken out his pistol.
“There’s no explanation for this! Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Anger and desperation were warring over him now, tears and sweat bathing his reddening face. “I said there was nothing supernatural going on.” He laughed hysterically. “Oh no, of course not. How fucking stupid do I look now?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. They’ll all think I’m a fool.” He grimaced, in genuine dread of losing the unit’s respect, and started to sob.
“Thomas . . .” I had run out of words. I braced myself to lunge for the weapon and drag him out of the room.
He sniffed and brought himself up to his full height, trying to hold back the tears. “It doesn’t matter, Andreas.” He shrugged resignedly, spluttering as he did so. “It isn’t real. Maybe nothing’s real.”
He put the gun to his temple.
“NO!” I screamed.
The room turned red.
*
I closed the door firmly behind me.
The men crowded, muttering questions.
“The room killed him,” I muttered. Rarely had I felt so fragile. Was this the burden Andreas had to carry?
“What kinda explanation is that?” Fisk yelled.
“It is Truth,” Starsmore pronounced.
“How do you know that, Frank?” Moriah asked, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t see through the doorway.”
“I saw not with my eyes. The Exalted granted me a vision of Thomas’s torment. The same as he has sent me these doubts about my life with Tanya, to prepare me. I will pray for guidance.” He got down on his knees, obstructing the whole corridor.
“Big lug is praying at a time like this . . .” Troughton muttered.
Fisk whacked him across the back of his head. “P’raps you oughta show some devotion yerself, ‘stead of criticising. Leave him be.”
Once Frank had finished, we made our way back along the corridor, towards the central stairwell, to explore the other side of the stairs (which way had we turned? Left or right?). We couldn’t leave the red door behind quickly enough.
What wouldn’t leave my mind, worse than the sight of Gibbs’ head exploding across the wall, was the look in his eyes right before he pulled the trigger. The almost serene wistfulness, tinged with just that edge of fear that had taken over, screwing the eyes tight shut, as his finger squeezed.
Should I have noticed that look in his eyes sooner? Perhaps months sooner?
Fisk, Moriah and Troughton were carrying on their usual banter, as though things were normal. And why shouldn’t they? Yes, we had lost two of our own, but fatalities were a hazard of our work, and humour was part of how the men coped. Only Frank and myself knew the terrible truth of how Gibbs had died.
We came back to the location of the grisly ornaments, but they were gone. Again we heard the high speed scurrying, back at a normal volume now. Instead of being all around it was impossibly distant, as though bleeding through from another world.
“This place wears sin like a medal. It must be purged,” Frank intoned.
“It will be, friend, it will be.” Moriah patted his back, then loosened his collar and the fastener for his mask. His rash must have been causing discomfort.
“You have permission to remove your mask,” I said. “Just be sure to put it back on before we engage the Exalted’s enemies.”
Fisk muttered something and Starsmore emitted a rumble of disapproval.
“It’s not a problem,” Moriah said, but I could see his fingertips inching under his mask, scratching the sensitive spots along his chin. There were sores down his neck.
“Don’t know why you got the fucking lurgy in the first place,” Fisk bit. “You catch crotch rot? You ain’t started gobbling knob have you?�
��
Nobody else noticed Troughton’s hands clench, or heard his sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth. He was clearly offended. I was finding Fisk infuriating, and Moriah didn’t seem amused either, but given Troughton’s reaction I wondered if his objection was personal. Officially, I would be required to report any such violations of Exaltist doctrine, but I would not do so. Troughton was a good soldier, and loving people of the same sex was a capital crime. Again I found myself at odds with the accepted words of the Exalted, and wondering what that meant.
We reached the landing above the stairs, and a blur of twisted malice shot up them, out of the murk, across the broken steps like fluid, flitting this way and that, rippling distorted limbs here and then there. The face of a demon, one moment shrouded in the shadows of its evil home, then flashing into the corner of your vision, then right in front of your face, bearing down, then disappearing into the distance. A muddled haze of contorting limbs and malevolent features vanished down the corridor, into the unexplored region of the upper level, the nightmares yet to be found.
Fisk pulled out his spare pistol and held one in each hand, brandishing them at the awaiting dark. “I’m so gonna kill that thing.”
“We all will play a part in its death,” Frank boomed from out of the shadows behind me. “I especially am important to its destruction. The Exalted has willed it. He has shown me my weakness. Before I can be true to my wife, I must be true to Him.”
“Sending you telegrams now, is he?” Troughton retorted.
“He speaks.” Frank practically bellowed. “Can you not hear?”
I couldn’t. And although it was unthinkable for any Purifier, or any Realm citizen at all, to question the existence of the Exalted, and even though Frank was the most gentle, unthreatening man I knew, something about having a black-clad, masked behemoth looming over me in the dark, shouting about hearing the voice of god, was undeniably unsettling.
“Cool down, big guy,” I said, placing a calming hand on what was supposed to be his shoulder, but ended up being his elbow. “We’ll catch this thing, then we’ll deal with it in the proper fashion.” He nodded, and it was like a mountain bending its summit.
I was too prepared to overlook his troubling behaviour, in light of the night’s events. In the moment, it almost seemed appropriate—at least he was responding to what had happened. Gibbs’ final moments replayed in front of my eyes, over and over. It wasn’t supposed to end like that, not for a Purifier, not for anyone. He had seemed so alive.
Facade of Evil and Other Tales from 'Heathen with Teeth' Page 2
