The Golem Part 20

It weren't no man that killed my family, men! Conner had grimly explained this morning. Nor Jake Howeth's! I seen it with my own eyes!It, Bullis had thought.

And the devilish thing were f.u.c.kin' my Bonnie when she was dead. Then I run ta Howeth's and there was another one. Two'a these things Lowen and his Jews called up. Demons, they was. MONSTERS...

Monsters, Bullis thought now. Indeed, a night or two before several other men claimed to have seen a clearing, with a fire inside. And the flame was blue...

Bullis remained consciously unaware of this fact: as he and Mears approached the clearing, fragments of prayers sifted through his mind.

"And Conner ain't tolt us this plan of his, so's now I'm beginnin' to wonder-"

"If'n he's got a plan at all," Mears finished.

"Ain't no way we kin kill all'a Lowen's Jews, and that's just what we'd have to do to end this'n stake our claim to the land."

"Looks like this's the place," Mears said when the scrub broke into a wide circle. Mears raised the flickering lantern, then peered. "The h.e.l.l'n tarnations..."

There been a fire, all right. Bullis' boots crunched over char.

"Looks like somethin' in the middle, burnt black like it was in a oven," Mears observed, then both men stooped. Mears lowered the light- -then they both gagged.

Maggots squirmed in and out of clumps of what at first appeared to be burnt meat. Chunks and strips. Blackened belt buckles showed in the cindery ma.s.s and one Bullis recognized, crossed metal cannon barrels with a "4" in the middle. "Lem Yerby was in the fourth Pennsylvania Artillery," he muttered. "And I'll bet the rest is Nicker-son..."

Mears's face twisted when he looked closer at the charred and spoiling mess. He poked through the chunks with his knife; neither men needed to be told what had happened.

The Jews stripped 'em'n cut all the flesh off their bones...Why?

"Let's hightail out'a this devil-blasted place," came Bullis's parched suggestion.

"I'm right behind ya, but, s.h.i.+t, wait-"

"What fer?" Bullis almost yelled.

"I gotta hang a p.i.s.s." Mears stepped away to relieve himself.

Mears had the lantern, leaving Bullis to stand at the path entrance in darkness. Was his heart missing beats? He didn't have a gun but he sure as h.e.l.l had a buck-skinner knife, and he'd skinned more than bucks with it during the War. He waited a minute, then another, then turned in the dark and frowned.

"Hurry up, man! Did ya drink the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n river?"

Mears was still relieving himself, loudly, the lantern light swaying. "In a place like this...I wouldn't be usin' G.o.d's name in vain."

Bullis considered the point, but then a single thrash resounded and- "Mears!"

-the lantern went out.

Bullis's instinct was to run away, but a few feet into the path, he gritted his teeth, stopped, then shucked his knife. Cain't leave him... His boots took him much more slowly back to where Mears had been p.i.s.sing.

"Mears! What's wrong?"

The only reply was a fast, wet gargling sound, and then a grisly pop!

Bullis's eyes peeled when a cloud pa.s.sed the moon and brightened the clearing. He could see Mears lying there, unmoving, and he could also see- What in the...

Mears lay plainly visible...and plainly dismembered, one leg and one arm gone. Black blood s.h.i.+ned. However, there was no sign of the a.s.sailant. Knife in hand, Bullis knelt at the dead man. Mears's head looked...wrong, and when Bullis touched it, he found the top wet. It took a moment to realize his friend had been scalped.

Indians? Naw, they all been cleared out years ago. But next, he noticed a clump of some sort at Mears's dead mouth, and remembered the gargling sound. The oil lamp lay on its side. Bullis quickly relit the wick...and looked, and knew at once what had become of Mears' scalp: it had been forced into his throat until he'd strangled.

Conner's previous words whispered around his head. Demons, they was. Monsters...

Bullis turned and raised the lamp...and came face-to-face with something worse than any demon or monster he could ever imagine.

II.

The Present Seth's heart raced with the flux of the dream. Leaping to avoid deadly viral sacs, he dropped to one knee and fired a remote-controlled Stent into the ma.s.s of arterial plaque that blocked this final leg of Cardiac Cove. Wet crinkling resounded as the Stent expanded and opened a way, but then Seth's eyes bulged when he saw what waited on the other side: a gaggle of Corpusculars, two iridescent Nerve Men, and swarms of Peptidal Mites. First Seth unloaded Aspirator Pellets, but barely had time to watch the weapon siphon plasmotic effluents from the Corpusculars' nuclei, then-BAM!-his Calcium Carbonate Grenade neutralized the Mites. FWWWAMP! He discharged his last two Ultrasound charges at the Nerve Men. These latter enemies convulsed in a macabre dance of death as the sonic impacts short-circuited their synaptic ganglia. Seth spun, noticed the trio of Vomitors coming up from behind, then cut loose three Metastatic Lances. The Vomitors raged, then quickly died when the fast-acting cancers spread throughout the appalling forms and reduced them to s.h.i.+vering tumors. Seth charged through the Stentway just in time. I made it, he thought, ducking into an ossuary fissure. He dumped his last Platelets and Hemo vials to up his Health points, then strengthened his armor with more T-Cells and Macrophage Boosters. Bone Saw at the ready, he cut the Sutures of the hidden gash, pushed through, and was at last at the threshold of the House of Flesh itself, the domain of the nefarious Red Watcher.

Blood and lymphatic fluid cascaded down the stairwell of skin-covered bones. His surgical scrub boots squished as he ascended, and atop the organic stairs stood a single ominous Eyeball Switch. When Seth hit the Enter key, the eyeball opened, showing red where only white should be. He revved his saw, then proceeded through the throbbing, wet corridor. Flaps of meat hung like cobwebs; trails of blood vessels beat in the walls. At the end of the egress he could see a bright red light, and a moment after that a figure stepped into it. Seth could make out no details of the sharply backlit figure, save for the voluptuous curves that told him it was female.

He faltered in the dream, thinking, Wait a minute. I invented this game. There's no female enemy on the last level...

Ah, but then, it was a dream, wasn't it?

He toggled back to his Surgical Stapler, took a breath, then stepped forward.

What ever it is, I've got to kill it; otherwise I'll never get to the Red Watcher.

The curvaceous figure made no hostile moves-it just stood there, as if waiting for him. Had his dream placed Judy in its midst? Don't let it trick you, he warned himself. Perhaps one of the game's enemies had mutated itself. When he took a few more steps, the figure sighed in a sound that seemed wanton, then held out its arms as if awaiting an embrace.

"Come to me, please," the sultry voice fluttered. "I've waited so long..." And then it quickly stepped into the egress and began to run toward Seth.

Don't let it trick you! he yelled at himself again, then ripst.i.tched a salvo of staples. The figure shrieked, twitched, then collapsed to the spongy floor. Seth flicked on the lamp strapped to his forehead- -and wilted.

"Seth," the figure sputtered, drooling blood. "How could you do this to me?"

All he could do was stare down at the nude figure. No, it wasn't Judy at all. It was Helene.

"You've killed me again," she croaked, shuddered one more time, then died.

Oh my G.o.d... But his nemesis's ruse worked. Seth was so distracted by the appearance of Helene that he'd let his guard down. Meat Men dropped down from dilated pores overhead, pummeled Seth to the floor, and mauled him outright. He could see their evil, swollen faces like masks of molded fat. They were grinning at him. Then one grabbed Seth's Surgical Stapler and- rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

-emptied it right into Seth's face. His Health points plummeted to zero, then his vision turned scarlet. player destroyed, flashed the screen.

Seth woke with a jolt, like someone falling asleep at the wheel and waking just in time to see the grill of a dump truck in the winds.h.i.+eld. He felt part sickened and part enraged at the cruel trick his own subconscious had played on him. The clock read just past nine a.m.

What a s.h.i.+tty dream...

The other half of the wide bed was empty. He was about to call out for Judy but then heard the shower crank off. She came, drying off with a towel. She looked right at Seth and sighed in some undefined frustration. "Hi."

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You look-"

"I'm sure I look like I feel-in other words, like s.h.i.+t." She sat at the bed's edge, in the block of sunlight pouring in through the window. She seemed fl.u.s.tered as she toweled her hair. "I had an awful nightmare..."

"You're kidding me. So did I," Seth said and sat up next to her. He began to rub her back but could tell at once she wasn't in the mood. "I dreamed I was in the House of Flesh. I was kicking a.s.s all the way up to the last level, but then I encountered an enemy that's not part of the game-Helene." Seth frowned at the recollection. "It really p.i.s.sed me off."

"Mine did, too. I dreamed..." But then the rest never formed. "Forget it. It was disgusting."

"I guess we're both a little shaken up," he reasoned. "Yeah, it's hard to rest easy knowing someone broke in the bas.e.m.e.nt yesterday when we were out."

"It's my fault for not putting a lock on those doors, but that's first on my list today," he said, then checked his emails on the upstairs computer. Why on earth would somebody steal four barrels of old clay? they'd both asked each other a dozen times. At least the rest of the house is alarmed. "I'll call the local cops today and report the theft."

"Whoever stole the barrels," Judy suggested, "probably read about the buried boat in the paper, then took a bunch of random barrels thinking there must be valuable relics in some of them."

"The joke's on them," Seth chuckled.

Judy was still perturbed by her nightmare, what ever it had entailed. Her nude body glowed in the sunlight when she walked to the closet and put on shorts, sandals, and a tank top. "I have a splitting headache. Let's go for a long walk. Fresh air and suns.h.i.+ne'll do me some good."

"d.a.m.n it, I can't," Seth said, immediately catching the urgent email. "Stuey, my three-D tech, just found a big glitch in one of the bit-map streams. We've got four new enemies in the sequel; all the streams are running in reverse. Plus I've got to lock those bas.e.m.e.nt doors and call the cops."

"Okay, I'll stick around to help."

"No," he insisted. "Go take that walk, you'll feel better. I'll call you on your cell later and join you."

"Thanks," she said and kissed him. "Sorry I'm so out of it today."

"You'll be fine," he a.s.sured. "Enjoy your walk."

She smiled meekly and left. Her mood disconcerted him as he dressed and went downstairs. She's definitely not herself today. After pouring coffee, he dug around in some storage boxes, then found some chains and a padlock. His own nightmare had spoiled his mood, too, but when he went outside, the gorgeous, hot day revived him. He hoped it would have the same effect on Judy. When he checked the bas.e.m.e.nt, he counted exactly six barrels, four less than when the workmen had put them down here, but the same number they'd counted last night. At least no one stole any more during the night, he thought, but then jokingly wished they'd stolen them all because they were all probably valueless. He double-checked the hidden door to make sure it remained fully closed and unnoticeable. Then he went back up and chained and locked the bas.e.m.e.nt doors.

That should do it, he thought.

III.

Judy felt punctured as she embarked on her walk. The burglary bothered her, yes, but it was the harrowing nightmare that troubled her most. After all this time, all this success...what an awful thing to dream...

She'd decided to meander down the ser viceway that cut into the switchgra.s.s fields, remembering the peculiar clearings she'd spied from the bedroom window. The sun warmed her face and s.h.i.+ned in her hair, but with each breath of the fresh, gra.s.sy air, she only felt more haunted-haunted by her past, the traumas of which she'd believed were far behind her. Not far enough, evidently. The nightmare had stunk, and it had even left a taste in her mouth as disgusting as its details. She'd dreamed of the final week of her downward spiral, when she'd already abandoned powdered cocaine for the black bliss of crack. By then she'd lost her job, her car, and her bank account, and had already been served a foreclosure notice by the bank that gave her the loan for her condo. Everything up in smoke.

She'd prost.i.tuted herself exactly six times for crack money, looking for johns in some of Tampa's sleaziest bars. Most of the tricks had been turned in the cars of the denizens she'd cleverly solicited. After her rehab she'd gratefully forgotten the most morbid details, but last night's dream had rammed them all back into her head like a blow from a baseball bat: the sights and the smells, the nauseating sounds and revolting tastes. Worst of all was the nightmare's viewpoint, which replayed all her deeds like a film she couldn't close her eyes to. Judy had woken up as if shocked by a light socket, then had run to the bathroom to be sick.

The lowest of the low, she thought now. That was me. College professor to crackwh.o.r.e, all in less than a year. Thank G.o.d for Seth. I never would've made it through rehab without him.

She continued down the wide cutaway, the walls of gra.s.s on either side over six feet high. A strange rustling hush followed her, like a camouflaged voyeur. On that last night, she'd never felt less than human: a ninety-pound stick figure dead behind the eyes, with a brilliant brain that had once craved knowledge but now only craved a diabolical narcotic. Her sixth customer hadn't really been a john, it had been a Tampa undercover cop. The Tribune had been thorough enough to publish not only the shocking story of the crash her life had taken but also her sunken-eyed mugshot. Her family had never spoken to her again.

Why now? Why is this all coming back now? Her aimless footsteps took her deeper into the field; when she turned around, she couldn't see where she'd entered. Snap out of this! It's all in the past! I have everything in the world to be happy about now!

Just a bad day, perhaps, and now that she thought of it she hadn't really had one since she'd met Seth. You f.u.c.ked up, so now get over it and thank G.o.d you got your life back!

Judy stopped when she noticed a perpendicular path-much more narrow than this serviceway-cutting east. One of those clearings? she wondered when she squinted down. Finally her curiosity sidetracked her morose mood; she turned and entered the path.

Watch for snakes, she recalled the remarks of the man from the state. This new path was barely shoulder width. Did ticks live in switchgra.s.s? No, she didn't think so. Fifty yards later, the path discharged her into a circular clearing of mostly bare, rocky earth, little more than ten yards wide. What is this place? she wondered. Mr. Hovis had mentioned irrigation valves but there was no sign of that here. He also mentioned graveyards, but no tombstones could be seen. Just- Something odd, she noticed now. Within the clearing's circular boundary she noticed another smaller circle that seemed to be roughly outlined by still more circles, only these circles were formed by small bare rounded stones. Ten circles, she counted, then added an eleventh circle in the center. A quick chill traced up her back. Perhaps it was a graveyard, an Indian graveyard, but then she recalled that most of the tribes that had once lived here, particularly the Conoyes, buried their dead in mounded cairns. The sudden notion struck her that she was the first person to set foot in this s.p.a.ce in years, or decades, but then she laughed to herself when noticing several crushed beer cans. So much for alien crop circles. Then she noticed another path, narrow as the one she'd used to get here.

It ran in another straight line, farther east. Her doldrums were gone now as she immersed herself in the exploration. Fifty more yards of walking took her to another clearing, this one larger, and square rather than circular.

Found it, she thought.

A graveyard, a very old one, perimetered by an iron fence so decimated by rust it looked ready to crumble. Something smelled foul whenever the breeze s.h.i.+fted, but she knew it couldn't be from any of these age-old graves. Then: Tabby mortar, Judy knew at once of the gravemarkers scattered about. The headstones of the poor. Crude pourings of the makes.h.i.+ft cement in which some mourner would scribe the decedent's name with a stick or finger. ELSBETHCONNER, MAR. 1860aJULY 1880, one of them read. WALTER CAUDIL, MAY 1844aJULY 1880. Many other names pocked the solitary clearing. norris, fitch, polten, read several other markers, and that's when Judy noticed the oddity. The dates of death.

Almost all of these people died in July 1880, she realized. CRACK!

Judy shrieked as one foot sunk over a foot into the ground. Her eyes widened as she looked down. Shallow grave. Her foot had broken right through a coffin lid that couldn't have been more than three or four inches beneath the dirt. She slowly pulled her foot upward, surprised the sudden plunge hadn't sprained her ankle. Oh my G.o.d, my foot's inside somebody's coffin! Some rotten board came up with her foot, and when she'd gotten it all the way out, she could see she'd made quite a hole. Judy gulped.

The hole was big enough that she could see the old coffin's confines.

A natural but morbid curiosity lowered her to one knee to look in, and that's when she gulped again.

She plainly made out ribs, collarbones, and shoulder bones but- No skull. No...head.

She pulled up more boards and earth. No, there was no skull in the coffin, and the bones of one arm and one leg were absent. The inscription read ALAN GOLDSBUROUGH, who'd died in July 1880.

"And I thought I had a bad day," she muttered to herself, stepped back, and- CRACK! "d.a.m.n it!"

She'd just collapsed another buried coffin lid, this one belonging to someone named William Howeth. oct. 1864a july 1880. Only sixteen years old, Judy grimly figured when she withdrew her foot. But then her stomach knotted when she pulled up a few rotten lid-boards to discern that young William Howeth's skeleton was intact, save for legs. They sure didn't bury their dead very deep, she thought.

Two people who died in July 1880, and both missing limbs...

What had happened back then? Hadn't Seth and Asher Lowen mentioned something about a scourge of Jewish settlers? But most of these grave markers had crosses inscribed in them.

Then the most morbid question of all occurred to her: Is it possible that all these people died by some means of dismemberment?

The idea made her s.h.i.+ver. She even thought of stamping a few more in to see, but then frowned at herself. I think I've trashed this graveyard enough. "Alan, William, sorry if I disturbed your repose," she halfheartedly apologized to the markers, then turned to leave.

There was no time to scream when the large hand snapped out from the switchgra.s.s and cracked her hard across the temple. She staggered dizzily as thras.h.i.+ng and chuckles surrounded her-and movement. Before she could see straight again, two figures in stocking masks-one thin and wiry, and one brawny-began to molest her.

"Stop it! Just stop it!" she finally yelled.

Another smack across the head dizzied her worse, as the thin one dragged her tank top right over her arms.

"How's that for some chest-fruit, huh?" "Shee-it..."

"I've got-I've got money!" She tried to compose herself. "Just take it and go."

Chortling. "Oh, we want your money, honey, but not the way ya think," the brawny one said.

This is the real thing, she knew. She'd be crazy to think she could escape, and fighting back seemed just as senseless. They wouldn't be wearing masks if they planned to kill me...

She squealed, next, when the brawny one grabbed a handful of her hair to lift her up and force her to her knees. "You know the drill, t.i.ts," he said, stepped right up, and opened his jeans.

Oh, my G.o.d. "And if you even think about bitin'-"

He didn't need to finish the sentence, for his partner put a small pistol to her head and c.o.c.ked it.

"And none of this spittin'-out s.h.i.+t."