The Umbral Wake Page 2

  Mildred looked down at the mask on the ground. It stared back at her with vacant eyeholes. “I want to see Buck,” she said.

  “You’re looking at him,” said the Reverend. “A good soldier, that man. Couldn’t live with the guilt though. You kill a few too many babies and the gravity of your actions tends to take its toll.”

  She glared at the man. “Buck would never kill babies. He isn’t a murderer.”

  Lyle made a face. “Mildred, what exactly do you think it is soldiers do in times of war? Do you think they march in with their guns and just point them at people until the other side surrenders?” He took another drag. “Now that isn’t to say that all he did was kill babies. But he certainly remembered those the most. I know I would.”

  “What happened to… what happened to him?” She choked back the words. This couldn’t be heaven. People didn’t cry in heaven.

  “Buck and I struck a deal, you might say.”

  “A deal?”

  “I… absolved him of his guilt. I gave him a chance to be free of that all consuming weight.”

  As if inflating with air, the mask rose from the ground and a body expanded from beneath it, filling out from the torso, and into the arms and legs until Buck stood before her. The head inflated last, flopping around like a man falling asleep. Lyle moved his hand from the cube and Buck spoke.

  “Hi Millie. Been waiting to see you again.”

  With a shriek, she turned away, facing the glass. But it was distant now, drifting off into the horizon. She could barely make out the street sweeper spraying down the empty sidewalk.

  Mildred turned again to face the Reverend, and gasped. How could he have moved? He was close now, the glass of his aquarium nearly pressing up against her bosom. He blew smoke and it spread out along the clear wall of his box. Buck stood beside him, swaying like a drunk.

  “I can do the same for you, Millie,” he said. “I can take away that guilt.”

  She felt herself blush and jutted out her chin. “What guilt?”

  Lyle smiled. “Oh, it’s there, trust me, Millie. Everyone has it here, those demons that haunt you for your misdeeds. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it crawling along your back.”

  The man was right. Tiny hooks ran along her spine as he spoke. Something was trying to claw its way out of her. She shivered.

  “What did you do to Buck?” she yelled.

  “Buck’s right here.”

  “The real Buck.”

  Lyle tilted his head. “Now Mildred, I told you. What lies inside is unpleasant. The man was consumed by his demons long before I showed up. I simply gave him a new contract. Isn’t that right Buck?”

  Buck nodded—a limp balloon on a stick.

  “I want to see Buck! The real Buck!” She could feel her fists balling up. Savior or not, she was ready to strangle the man.

  “You can’t reach me,” he said to her. “None of you can. And your demons can’t reach me either. I will consume them like a hungry lion. I don’t answer to you, or any of your ilk.” He sneered. “Sinners. Look at you.”

  The tickling returned as Mildred rolled her shoulders, turning to look. Behind her was only empty air and gray wastes. When she turned back to the Reverend, he grinned.

  “I see your demons, Millie. I see those men, those fornicators, those lascivious men with their rough hands and foul breath. I see you with them. It’s all there behind you. You’ve been an unfaithful whore. All while poor Buck waited patiently here for you.”

  No longer a tickle, the hooks began to dig, and she cried out, her eyes huge as she stared at the Reverend. It hurt too much to even speak.

  “Now I’ll say it again. You can give yourself to me and I can make it all go away. Or you can wind up less than even old Buck here. He’ll move on without you, Millie. And you’ll continue to become the very thing eating away at your soul.” He leaned in to her and flashed a smile. “It will burrow into you and consume until you are more it, than you.”

  Cold pain exploded from her spine and ribs as she hugged herself, searching for the hooks and claws, searching with fingers for her tormentors and feeling nothing but air.

  “How?” she asked. “How do you do it?”

  Lyle shrugged, taking one last drag. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on the butt. “Not sure. But you’re a part of my dream, Millie. And unless you want that dream to become your nightmare, you’ll do what’s best for your soul.” He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to go. There’s a young girl with a razor blade who needs my attention. Poor thing gave up her baby and now it seems her demons are consuming her as well.”

  “No!” She reached for him and the glass box slid away out of her reach. “No! Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t take Buck.”

  Lyle raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I’ll do it. Please.” She could feel herself crumbling from the inside, her ribs cracking and imploding like dried bread sticks. Her voice felt hollow. “What do I do?”

  “That’s the easy part,” said Lyle. “All you have to do is say the words.”

  From beneath the glass box a shadow began to spread like black ink. Behind him, shapes began to form—figures, their silhouettes a random landscape on the horizon. They stared at her patiently.

  “What words?” she whispered. It felt as though part of her throat were gone now. “What words?”

  “Say you give yourself to me.”

  “I give myself to you.”

  “Forever.”

  “Forever,” she said.

  “And say you want me to take your demons from you.”

  “Take my demons from me,” she repeated.

  “Oh, Lord, take these demons,” he said. Lyle turned his head skyward, his voice the wavering cry of his revival youth. “Take these demons and cast them into the fiery abyss!”

  She repeated after him, line for line, watching as the great black inkwell opened around her. Hooks latched onto hooks, mouths devoured mouths, claws grasped claws. There was a terrible, wet, chewing sound. It made her think of a fat man in an eating competition. Inside the box, the Reverend held his hands up, his face turned to heaven.

  “Oh, Lord, deliver this woman so she may serve me! It is her only wish!”

  Behind him the distant figures raised skeletal hands to the sky, the phantom congregation moving their lips along with the preacher. Empty eye sockets closed as tears ran down the surface of burlap skin.

  Something broke inside her but she felt no pain, only release. She swam inside the great beast now, moving from within. She looked out from many eyes to see her body standing there. She was thin again, beautiful again. Her hair flowed in brown waves, falling over her ample bosom. She was no longer in control, but no longer in pain either. She belonged to the Lord, to the Reverend.

  Her heart filled with relief, Mildred threw her head back and laughed with more than one mouth.

  Chapter 2

  Rhinewall

  TYRELL GAVE THE rat trap one last glance before he closed up his bakery for the night. The contraption stretched over a foot long, with jagged teeth and a steel brace that had nearly dislocated his arm as he set it. Sitting there now, dark and deadly on the floor, it looked like something better suited for catching a bear. Whatever was stealing food from his shop had to be big, maybe not a rat at all. No rat ate that much food.

  A possum maybe, he thought. But then weren’t possums just big rats anyway? Whatever it was, Tyrell did not want to be there when it appeared.

  He had given the bakery a vigorous inspection, sealing cracks in the walls with boards, mortar, and some strange salvaged gel from the destroyed laboratory. His wife had suggested that he fumigate, but he wasn’t about to contaminate his entire store for a week. Instead he had changed the locks (twice!), nailed the windows shut, varnished every corner and moveable hinge, posted signs, hired a street urchin to watch the front door from outside—he had even lined the floor with glue-paper at one point. Nothing worked.

  Maybe I’ll get luc
ky and the varnish fumes will kill the vermin.

  Latching the door and double-checking the lock, Tyrell turned and headed off into the street. As he faded into the fog, and night fell over the streets, the shop filled quietly with shadows as thick as voids.

  Footfalls filled the empty bakery, fading from nowhere.

  Then a boot appeared, and soon a girl stood at the center of the room, an aviator helmet on her head, now weathered and tearing at the seams. As Skyla pulled the goggles up, they clicked on their brass hinge revealing a girl in her mid teens, her dark hazel eyes lined with premature age, sunken and hungry. Skyla looked at the center of the floor and let out a low whistle.

  “Now, that’s a hell of a trap,” she muttered. She wanted to laugh, but the trap meant a warning. The shopkeeper was onto her—or onto the rats he was imagining at least. She would soon have to look for a different bakery to pilfer for a while. It was a shame. This store had the best lighting—or lack thereof.

  Skyla stepped lightly through the bakery, wary of the windows. It would do her no good to be seen, even if the baker was to believe he had the worst rat infestation in all of Rhinewall.

  She pulled a freshly baked loaf from inside the cupboards. It would probably be thrown out in the morning. Sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, she began to tear a chunk from the loaf of bread, stuffing it into her mouth. She chewed, rolling her eyes with relief.

  This is my life now, she thought as she chewed. One step from living on the streets, one week from starving, one shadow away from going insane like my mother.

  Outside the store window, people strolled by, unaware of the new breed of pest infesting the bakery. She watched their shadows as they passed, wincing at the images she saw. Most were forgettable, but the ones that caught her attention told terrible stories.

  That man there, secretly hates his wife, cheats on her every chance he can. He prefers the prostitutes in the east quarter, the young ones with the tattoos…

  That woman killed her husband shortly after the Cataclysm. Poisoned his soup and hid the body. It was easy since the police and the city were in complete chaos. Nobody had time to investigate the death of a poor mason…

  That man steals money from his employer. He spends it on his nephew, but doesn’t tell anyone for fear of being arrested…

  That boy does unspeakably cruel things to his cat, presses sewing pins into its skin when his parents aren’t looking. Sometimes he locks it in a cupboard for hours before letting it out…

  That man once let a boy drown in the ocean because he was afraid of water. Now he beats his own back with a belt at night…

  That old woman is glad her husband is dead…

  That girl likes to lie about everything…

  That woman wishes she could kill herself but she hasn’t the nerve. Instead she eats and eats and eats…

  That man hits his wife repeatedly until her face is unrecognizable. He then tells his tavern buddies that she fell…

  That couple walking secretly despises one another. They remain married because of the boy walking between them. They hate him too for making them stay together, but not one of them talks about it…

  This girl here is beaten by her father… just like Dona…

  That boy likes to cut his arms with sharp glass when people aren’t looking…

  That girl likes to torture puppies… just like Vicky…

  Just like Vicky…

  just like Vicky…

  just like Vicky…

  Skyla looked away with a jerk, and down at her bread. This was no time to think of old schoolyard bullies, no time to revisit the ghosts of her past. It was the shadows’ fault, was always the shadows’ fault.

  The bread went into her leather rucksack, and she grabbed a few more muffins for Gil. They would be stale by the time she returned, but it didn’t matter. She had suddenly lost her appetite anyway. When she traveled through shadows, things both living and dead grew older, cracking and bending under the weight of time spent in-between. But it was the only way to keep them both fed.

  And Connor, the raven… but he could fend for himself… they all could.

  She looked up again, wincing. More people had come out this evening than she had prepared for, their shadows slithering along the walls in the flickering lamplight. Ever since the main power source of the city had been destroyed, much of the infrastructure had become a hackneyed mishmash of gas lamps and torches. Electricity was common, but unreliable. As the city recovered, so had the Confessors, their shadows growing back in strange, wild patterns. Those were the hardest to look at.

  A man wearing ragged clothes shuffled past, his eyes shifting from face to face as he shouted at the sky, at people, at the cops arresting him. They carted him away, but not before Skyla could see the odd, ragged pattern of his soul.

  It was staring back at her, hungry like her, its face caved in and backwards.

  Others took his place on the street, their confused shadows naked against the wall, searching for meaning, for context, searching for the truth. They wailed and screamed, tore at themselves.

  That one likes to eat metal... screws, nails, wire… He doesn’t know why. He just does. His teeth are worn to nubs… And he likes to stare at barrels, but doesn’t know why… maybe something is in there…

  Maybe something important… something he can’t remember… a girl named Sally…

  That one thinks he can walk through walls like I do, but he has only managed to break his nose over and over and over…

  That woman still thinks she has a baby. She holds a sack of sugar to her breast speaking to it… Hush… hush… don’t cry… But she’s the one crying…

  That man doesn’t even remember the name of the city he is in. It doesn’t stick either. He asks people and then forgets… Where am I? What city? Wait, what city again?

  That man drinks a lot. He drinks and drinks and drinks. Doesn’t matter what it is, he tells himself it’s all water because that’s the only word he knows… turpentine… acid… bleach… oil… sewage…

  My name is Philip. They tell me my name is Philip. It’s Philip… my name is Sandy… my name is Sarah… my name is Liz… my name is… my name is…

  But it’s not… my name is Mud…

  It’s mud…

  I am mud…

  Who am I? Where am I? Mud… Vicky and puppies… Mud and puppies…

  She slapped at her head, trying to break the trance, but it was difficult. It had grown more and more difficult with each passing month. When she had escaped the laboratory, pulling Father Thomas through the matter of the world with her, Skyla thought the visions had been as strong as they would ever get.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  As it turned out, they simply never went away. It was impossible to un-see what had been seen, and now it was becoming almost all she could see.

  He drinks and drinks and drinks and drinks… blood… milk… gutter water…

  “It doesn’t get any easier,” said a voice from the shadowed corner of the room.

  Skyla pulled down the goggles and peered through layers and layers of rooms, hallways, meadows, and castles. She felt a moment of relief with the goggles down. These days it was easier to see the world with the goggles on than off.

  “That’s comforting,” Skyla said. “Maybe I should move into a sanitarium while I am at it.”

  Her aunt peered out of the shadows at her. “I wouldn’t recommend that,” said Rhia. “The ones I’ve been in were poor on room service and the dining was terrible.”

  “How did you cope?” she asked her aunt.

  “I didn’t. I died.”

  “Should I ask my mother then?”

  “I think you know how she coped… or didn’t cope. And you’re welcome to talk to her if you think it will do any good.”

  “You aren’t being very sympathetic,” Skyla said.

  “If it’s sympathy you want, go talk to that priest you saved. I’m sure he has it in boatloads, assuming he hasn’t go
ne mad as well. Or you could just wear those goggles forever.”

  Skyla frowned. But the goggles helped her focus. They helped keep her from being distracted by the shadows. Her aunt was clearly in a wretched mood tonight, something Skyla had little patience for now.

  She looked up at the clock and felt her heart sink. Hours had passed. The shop would be opening in no time.

  “How long have I been sitting here?” she muttered.

  “That depends,” said Rhia. “How many shadows have you been reading?”

  She pulled the goggles up, ignoring her aunt for now. Already the world outside was beginning to go from black to gray as morning crept in.

  Crap.

  As she stood, a jingle outside startled her and Skyla ducked back down.

  It was the baker.

  He hummed to himself, pausing to frown at the bear trap in the center of the floor. The humming resumed, followed by the sounds of a coat being hung and a hat being hooked.

  She began to crawl along the floor, and almost let out a squeak as the metal jaws clamped shut. She peeked around the corner and saw Tyrell holding the end of a broomstick, the other end securely locked in the metal jaws of the giant bear trap.

  “Well maybe next time,” he said to himself. He dragged the trap to the back of the store to be put away in the pantry.

  Skyla listened, waiting for his noises to recede before finally launching herself at the front exit. Feet slid along slick tile as she dashed, her heart racing as something snagged her shirt, and she almost fell.

  No. Not her shirt. Someone was holding her by the collar, nearly suspending her in midair.

  “You’re a lot bigger than any rat I’ve ever seen,” said the baker from over her shoulder. She twisted around in his grasp as he leaned in, regarding her with the sort of revulsion people often had for thieves and urchins.

  “What you got to say for yourself?” he asked.

  “Thank you for the bread?”

  He yanked her hard, making her neck whip. “You know it’s hard enough trying to make a living in this city without having to fight off thieving urchins like you. He pulled her and her feet slid across the floor. “You’ll be sorry when the constable is done with you.”