Old Broken Road

by Alexander, K. M.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Samantha absently.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, he shouldn’t be in such good condition. The body is preserved, mummified. This valley isn’t as dry as the plains or the central plateau. It’d have to be carefully prepared to get like this. Based on the condition of his skin, the coloring of the bones, it looks like he’s been dead for hundreds… maybe thousands of years.”

  “Maybe it happened because of the lack of air in the trunk,” I suggested.

  “Or something else could be at work,” said Wensem.

  I looked up at him from across the open trunk. Wensem’s cool presence always made it easy to forget how deeply religious he was. He followed the direction of his warren’s lama and attended services regularly when we were back in the city. Perhaps he held to a more deep-seated faith than I realized.

  “Boden, er…” Samantha looked down at the mummified corpse again. “…the thing masquerading as Boden, Curwen, did originally hail from Kemet.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Mummification was common there. According to the tales, they removed internal organs and stored bodies in huge underground tombs chiseled out of cliff faces. The dry desert air assisted in the preservation of the corpse.”

  “So you think this Boden-monster did all that, without anyone noticing here in this room?” It sounded implausible.

  “Wal, we’re dealing with something…” Samantha paused and let her voice drift off. “…preternatural. Something that operates outside of our environment. It changes shape, taking on any form it desires. It can give us dreams and force us all to fall asleep. It’s not much of a stretch to believe it has the ability to mummify.”

  “So Curwen has been playing the role of Enoch Boden for who-knows-how-long,” said Taft.

  “At least a year,” said Samantha.

  “Right, at least a year. This explains why no one noticed his sudden appearance,” I added.

  “Since the killings Enoch rarely came out of his room,” said Councilwoman Eustis from the bed. “We haven’t held regular council meetings for months. At least not until you folk showed up. When they were held, half of us never attended.”

  “Maybe the sheriff helped,” said Wensem. “It’d explain why he hightailed it when you and Taft followed Boden the other night.”

  “I told you,” the mayor stated, his eyes still on the corpse. “Joul has always done this. He disappears. Calls them his sojourns. He’ll go away for a day, maybe two. Says they help him clear his head.”

  Wensem’s lips turned down into a frown and his gaze met my own.

  “You have mentioned as much, but we need to know more,” I said. “We need to know all of it. Why is the sheriff able to go on these sojourns and is never taken? Why did he disappear the same night we caught Boden?”

  “It’s not my business to share more.”

  “The sheriff is missing and the thing that masqueraded as one of your council members for a year is the root cause of these problems. Whether you like it or not this has now become our business.”

  The mayor huffed and stared into the trunk for a while, his glassy eyes seeming to focus for a moment before he pushed away and paced the small space between the bed and the trunk. It was obvious that clear, direct questioning made him uncomfortable and this whole ordeal bothered him.

  “Mister Mayor,” said Samantha, her tone softer than my own. “It would really help us.”

  The mayor stopped and turned, smiling a sad smile that looked sadder below his bleak colorless eyes. “This isn’t my story to tell. This is Joul’s story. His loss.”

  “What do you mean his loss?” asked Samantha. “What did he lose?”

  The mayor shook his head sadly. “Two of the first to go were Joul’s wife and child. Lovely woman. They hadn’t been married long. Few years. Sarah, his wife, was the first woman to be taken and impaled. His daughter, Larissa, wasn’t more than a year old. She was the first of the children to be taken.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Samantha.

  I could see Wensem swallow. His son—Waldo dal Wensem—was just over a year old. I knew he was thinking of him in that moment.

  “Joul never forgave himself for that. It was his idea to take down the bodies the first time. His idea to bury them and defy the tormentor.”

  Sobs were now coming from Councilwoman Eustis but she said nothing.

  Mayor Feeney continued, his old wavery voice cracking. “Joul never acted after that. He always made excuses. Always tried to calm down the protests. He blamed himself for the deaths. Always has. He wanted to die, but couldn't do it himself. So he wanders. Tries to goad the tormenter into taking him. When Sarah showed up dead he was heartbroken, but when Larissa…”

  The mayor left the sentence unfinished and stared at his old boots. He stopped pacing. The dull growls from the oil lanterns filled the silence.

  What do you say after something like that?

  The sheriff had been acting out of his own loss. He was worried more would die. Had probably seen many die. When you are placed in a position of protection and you fail there isn’t anything more heartbreaking. I knew. No wonder he always tried to stop us. In his mind that was the right thing to do.

  “He would disappear,” said the mayor, his voice sounding loud and imposing as it broke the silence. “He’d wander the hills.”

  “I wonder why Boden, er… Curwen never took him.”

  “The experiment,” offered Taft. “Maybe Curwen was trying to break him. Watch him go mad. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been taken, perhaps he’s close to the edge. Ready to kill.”

  “He’s big enough, if he wanted he could have hurt a lot of people,” said Wensem. “He’d be the perfect candidate.”

  I tried not to think of an armed and crazed maero running around in the hills. I had faced off with one before and I didn’t want to revisit the experience.

  “Joul never liked Enoch,” said Eustis between sobs. “They never got along. Even before Methow became… what it is today.”

  “You think he’ll be back?”

  The mayor shrugged.

  “It’s been almost two days. We might want to operate under the assumption that Curwen changed its mind and the sheriff might be a victim,” said Samantha.

  “If the sheriff was taken, then we’re also assuming this Curwen is still active despite our action against him,” said Taft. She settled on the bed and was cradling the sobbing Eustis against her chest.

  “We didn’t kill him,” I said. “At most we scared him away. Probably temporarily.”

  We told the mayor and the councilwoman our story shortly after returning with Hannah and Range, so it wasn’t surprising when Mayor Feeney asked, “Any more information from the scout?”

  Taft ignored him. “During the night he would drag her and Maggie Shaler out of an old cellar under the chapel. Bring them up into the building where he would go to work on them,” she visibly shuddered. “He put them back into the cellar before dawn broke.”

  The mayor frowned. “That mine is cursed. Always has been. Many men were killed in its depths before the tormenter arrived. Fires, explosions, and then the earth-slide. It is a dangerous place.”

  “Dangerous, yes, but it’s our best bet to find Curwen,” I said. I wasn’t relishing the idea of going back into tunnels, but it seemed the only way.

  Feeney shook his head sadly. “I would advise you not to go to the Kadath. Methow has been abandoned by God. He has given that mine to the devils.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ORANGE SPARKS LIFTED SKYWARD carrying the remnants of the fear that had bound us so tightly in the beginning of our journey. Smoke clung to our clothing and filled the air between us: the Shaler boys, Taft, Samantha, and Wensem. Six of our seven. Only Hannah didn’t sit around the laager’s central fire. Instead she slept in a bed we made up in Shaler’s prairiewain. She still wasn’t herself. She was talking, but the fire was missing from my scou
t. A creeping despair seemed to fill the shell that remained.

  There is something about having looked at the enemy clear in the face. It becomes known. Lesser than it was. The frightening thing becomes measurable. Curwen had become measurable.

  We had finished a meal of biscuits and the last of our dried beef earlier that evening, and were now taking advantage of the silence in the lull before watch. The sun had just dipped below the western mountains and turned the clouds the color of iron.

  I worked the soft wool cloth in my hand, cleaning the chambers, the rod, and barrel of the Judge. Peering through the cylinders, looking for a stray bit of dust I might have missed. I did it mindlessly, my hands accustomed to the process as I prepared the gun.

  This night, like the nights before, brought with it no sounds. No nightmares. Only silence. The deep silence of the vast wilds. I wondered what that monster, the creature called Curwen, was thinking. Was he expecting me to come after him or did he expect me to pack up after our last encounter? Did he think I would leave the valley of Methow to him?

  “He seems to have an aversion to light,” I said, remembering how he recoiled from the fire, the light from the lamp. How he had lurked in the shadows of the Big House. “He dug a pretty extensive tunnel under the Big House. I followed it and it emerged in the forest up the hillside. If he played his cards right even on a sunny day he could get around fine.”

  “Can we use that somehow?” asked Range. The boy was livid when he'd woken up, bumping along on Taft’s shoulder. When she set him down and explained the situation to him he was stunned, but grateful. That shock changed over the last few days, hardened into a seething hatred. He’d seen what Curwen did to Shaler. Realized how close he had come to a similar fate.

  “We’ll try. Odds are, he’s set up in one of the old mine tunnels. It’d be dark there and reasonably safe from detection. When he fled the chapel he was moving in that direction.”

  A memory of his slopping movements flashed in my mind and I shuddered.

  “That would provide him with a clear view of the valley. If so, he’s protected by nearly impassable terrain.”

  “If it’s nearly impassable how’re we going to get to him?” asked Range. Chase nodded in agreement with his brother. I noted how closely they sat together. Chance was what—sixteen? These kids have lost a lot, I thought. And early.

  “Good question,” Taft said, looking at me from across the fire.

  “I want to check that cellar, see if there aren’t any clues there. If we find nothing, we'll climb that landslide.”

  “Making this up as you go along?” asked Samantha.

  I shrugged and admitted, “It’s what I do.”

  Samantha’s expression was stony, her eyes glinting in the fire light. My wry comment didn’t draw the smile I’d hoped for, at least not from her. Nervous but warm chuckles echoed from the others. It was good to see the company in better spirits.

  “One more thing,” I said, looking in the direction of the Big House. “The sheriff is still missing. The mayor said he disappears often but it’s been two days. He’s never gone that long.”

  “Think Curwen has him?” asked Chance.

  “Maybe.”

  “Where?” asked Range. “It was just me and Hannah at the chapel, right?”

  “At the time, yes… who knows now.”

  “There’s still the potential that he’s working with Boden,” added Wensem.

  “You think?” I asked. “Even after the story of his wife and kid?”

  “If he’s a believer, if he knows who Curwen is… who knows?” said Samantha. “Faith makes people do crazy things. If he’s working with Curwen he might try and stop us.”

  I didn’t relish the idea of facing down the big maero, but Samantha was right. Besides, I still wasn’t sure how much I could trust the mayor’s story.

  “So… we’re raiding the Kadath,” said Taft with a wicked smirk.

  “So we are,” I agreed, flipping the chamber of the Judge back into place with a metallic clunk. The gun felt heavy in my hand, and threatened to weigh me down with memories I wished to forget. History felt like it was repeating itself. Another... thing. Another tunnel.

  A voice rang out from outside of our ring. Hannah appeared at the edge, her stump held to her chest. Lit from below she looked a rough sight. Her bruises had darkened, the bandages that covered her cuts, gashes, scrapes, and scratches were showing hints of red. A long rifle was slung over her shoulder and she wore a full bandolier.

  Six sets of eyes turned to look at her.

  “If you’re going after him, I’m coming with you.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  WHEN BELL CARAVANS ARRIVED AT THE SITE OF THE OLD CHAPEL we discovered the fire had eaten its fill and the building was burned to its foundation. The tables and utensils that once lined the interior were blackened, twisted abominations of their former selves, fitting reflections of the monster that once wielded them.

  Of the seven of us, no one remained behind at laager. We all marched from the small town and moved north together, towards that bleak mine tower that poked up from its ragged cavity in the mountain.

  Though the sun was breaking over the eastern plains we carried torches, not sure what to expect once we stepped underground. The flames snapped and popped in a freezing wind that threatened to extinguish our lights. It blew down from the north dragging with it dark clouds that promised cold autumn rains or maybe an early snow before the day ended.

  We stood below the trees, their bark bearing scorch marks from the chapel fire. We examined the ruins before us. I was struck with a sense of déjà vu as my stomach gurgled in hunger, an appeal that felt as familiar as it was absurd.

  “Well, you didn’t leave much in your wake,” said Samantha as she edged closer to the old church. I wished she had been able to see the scrawls Curwen left on the chapel’s interior. They might have revealed more clues.

  “We were a little busy,” said Taft.

  Wensem grunted but said nothing and followed Samantha, his rifle held at his waist. He was coiled like a spring: shoulders tight, back straight.

  I signaled to the Shaler boys to circle the clearing, make sure there wasn’t anyone lurking on the edge of the forest. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of an ambush.

  Hannah said nothing. She just stood, arms holding her coat tight around her as it whipped in the wind. Her face looked gaunt in the dim light under the tree canopy and her auburn hair whisked about her face. Her green eyes, circled with bruises, were as cold as the northern air that encircled us. She stared at the chapel ruins.

  Edging closer, I spoke just loud enough to be heard over the rustling of branches. “You all right?”

  “Haven't got much of a choice, do I?” she said.

  “You can go back, it’d be okay.”

  She paused. Then turned and looked at me for a long moment. “I really can’t.”

  She shifted the rifle on her shoulder and trudged away from me, following Samantha and Wensem.

  Taft gave a low whistle, and stepped up next to me. “She’s tougher than I’d ever imagined.”

  “There’s a reason I hired her. No other scout I’d trust more.”

  “Think she’ll pull out of this?”

  “That’s up to her,” I said, appraising Hannah as she talked with Wensem and Samantha by the edge of the chapel. “Come on, let’s go find that cellar.”

  The entry to the cellar was partially covered by the landslide. A huge stone boulder had lodged itself over one of the double swinging doors that opened on a set of rough stairs leading down into a chamber below. It didn’t leave much of an opening. I squatted on my haunches and held out the torch trying to peer down into the darkness.

  “I’m really sick of tunnels,” I said slowly, absently. The light of my torch didn’t penetrate far into the gloom, and it was difficult to make out what lurked beneath.

  “That’s a tight squeeze,” Taft said gauging the entrance.

  I knew w
hat she meant and she was right. She wouldn't fit. We'd miss her skill with her shotgun but there wasn’t much to be done about it. “You mind standing guard? Make sure nobody comes in behind us.”

  Taft looked around, snorted, and shrugged in agreement. She leaned against the boulder and drew a tin of sardines and a small packet of crackers from a jacket pocket. “You all be safe. You all come back. You hear me?”

  Everyone nodded and mumbled agreement.

  “Well,” I said, summoning my courage. The cellar’s maw lay open before us. “I guess we better get to it.”

  Gingerly I stepped down into the gloom and pulled my sidearm. I held the Judge in one hand while I thrust the torch out with the other trying to light the path. Waving the flame before me, I attempted to get a better sense of the underground space but the descent was steep and narrow. We were well underground before we emerged into any semblance of a chamber.

  Packed earth surrounded me both below and above and I stooped slightly to avoid smacking my head on the roof. Wensem appeared behind me, nearly doubled over. Together, the pool of light cast by our torches was meager.

  “Carter’s cross, it’s dark,” he grunted.

  “Yeah, stick close. I’m having a hard enough time seeing down here with both our torches.”

  In a few moments six of the seven members of Bell Caravans were huddled near the exit of the cellar. Combined, our lights were enough to make out one side of the chamber, the rest dissolving into a shadowy murk.

  The cellar was larger than you'd expect. Larger than the chapel. The ceiling was low and partly lined with rough wooden beams walling off small sections of the space into what appeared to be tiny cells. Chains ran everywhere—attached to poles, embedded in the packed earth walls, running between the wooden bars, and fastened to a large stone in the far corner.

  Hannah was visibly shaking. I wondered what was playing through her mind at that moment. This was where she had been kept during the day. Had to be. Deep enough underground so that no light could get in and no sound could get out. Even now with our torches and the cellar door thrown wide open very little daylight penetrated the darkness.