Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror (29 page)

Grimes's migraine was intensifying. He felt a sudden vibration beneath his feet and it jarred his brain.

He felt the Chaplain's eyes on him. "I know," the Chaplain said. "The pain is very great, but that is only because you haven't given yourselves fully to Its love." He looked at the following townspeople. "We all have accepted and we all, as one, no longer feel pain, only joy.

"It Who Carries Us controls this planet's electro-magnetic field," the Chaplain went on, his eyes full of the glowing pit. "It is Its way of contacting Its believers. We felt it when the miners broke through to Its level." He shook his awful head. "The agony. But I heard first. The message
beneath
the pain. Here--" He tapped the top of his skull. "I heard Its whisper, and I responded. It gifted me for my willingness--" He held up his gnarled hands. "--and I was able to give the others what they wanted: to hear Its message
without
the pain."

Grimes looked at Stephens, striding on the Chaplain's other side. His narrowed bloodshot eyes were impossible to read. Did Stephens, a Psi, hear Its "message"?

Grimes didn't want to know. If this was hell for him and Newby, what must Stephens be feeling?

"It could contact us, but not free Itself," the Chaplain went on. "It was too weak. It needed to
feed
and we knew what had to be done. It needed flesh to gain strength." He grinned at Grimes. "
Sacrifice
makes it stronger.
Sacrifice
leads to freedom."

Grimes thought of the Deltas and shuddered.

"When it told me it would crash your ship," the Chaplain said, "bring you to us--the depth of Its thinking! It nears freedom, but It must have the
faithful
to finish.
That
was the final stroke."

The Chaplain trailed off as the group approached the crater. A strong wind came from below. A high-pitched electric distortion drilled into Grimes's ears, growing with each awkward step across the quaking ground.

"Step forward," the Chaplain said. Grimes could barely hear him. "Witness the majesty you're giving yourself to."

His feet kept moving. Newby followed Grimes, looking like someone beholding his bogeyman. Blood burst from Stephens's nose.

Grimes looked down as they approached the crumbled edge and picked out details through that blasting yellow light--the rough funnel-like sides of the crater, the constant tumble of dirt. The bottom of the crater was a rough oval opening, ragged like the teeth of a diamond-saw, dropping into the bowels of Tartan-6, where the impossible wind came from.

Bulging from the hole was a writhing, segmented coil of
something
that pulsed with yellow light. Grimes couldn't begin to determine its length or size. Its constant writhing--the source of the vibrations--expanded the hole, pushed it slowly out onto the surface. He thought he caught sight of a massive jagged tooth, but it was gone before he could fully see it and he couldn't shake the sudden disappointment that filled him.

It's
not
a god,
he thought desperately.
It's not. It's a species the surveyors missed when they reconned the planet and these lunatics just
think
it needs sacrifices and worship. It's
not
a god.

But he didn't stop walking, his left foot stepping onto a boulder that rattled like a loose tooth, as if his
mind
might refuse to believe, but the body was a willing acolyte. He leaned towards the yellow light and a part of him thought,
Will I see Its face?

And then a cold burning
roar
filled his head, a shotgun blast of icicles: Stephens's voice.

(--OH DEAR JESUS IT'S CALLING ME CALLING ME IN CALLING OH MY GAAAWWWD--)

Grimes jerked like a man startled awake just as the boulder tumbled over. He spun and saw Stephens fall to his knees. Blood flowed freely from his nose, ears, and eyes. His hands moved from his temples to the zipper of his Suit.

The vibration grew in strength, knocking Grimes and Newby down. The wind became a shrieking gale and the yellow light
blasted
from the bottom. Grimes's migraine jumped in agony and he felt blood trickle out his nose. The high-pitched distortion filled his world.

Against the pain, Grimes groped for his zipper and saw Newby doing the same.

Another shotgun-blast of cold punched through Grimes's mind--

(--STOP IT CAN'T STOP IT CAN'T-CAN'T-CAN'T--)

The mental scream cut off. Stephens shrieked silently, blood spraying. He collapsed, his glazed, bleeding eyes goggling at nothing.

Panic galvanized Grimes and he tore his zipper down. He yanked his bolter free and turned towards the townspeople. The Chaplain's mouth worked, his bloodshot eyes blazing.

Grimes fired as Newby drew his own weapon. A hole, no wider than the bore of a straw, appeared in the Chaplain's wrinkled neck. A freshet of blood poured through. He dropped face-first into the dust.

Grimes's migraine was a bludgeon in his head. He focused all his energies on holding the bolter and firing. The closest guard spun like a top, blood squirting from his shoulder.

Newby fired four times, hitting two out of three guards. Grimes struggled to his feet as the remaining six leveled their rifles.

The ground shuddered beneath them, so powerfully it pushed everyone forward. Lightning cracks shot across the ground.

It's coming out,
Grimes thought, and couldn't shake the undertone of awe within. Another part of him argued,
It doesn't
need
sacrifices, dammit. It's
not
a god.

The distortion rose to a scream, digging into his head.

He stumbled into the crowd, firing at their blank, exultant faces. He caught a woman through her yawning mouth, a man in the temple.

Behind him he heard the faint crack of a rifle and Newby's distant howl. Grimes turned and saw Newby facedown and still. Grimes fired twice at the killing guard. Both shots took him in the stomach.

He sprinted away, his brain feeling like a tortured plaything. The ground beneath him tilted crazily this way and that, and Grimes had to focus on keeping upright. From both sides came the snap of plastic, the squeal of twisting metal, the musical jangle of breaking glass.
The wind shoved from all sides, throwing grit into his eyes. He reached the edge of town and kept going. 

A bellow from the crater filled the world, drowning out the destruction of the town. A triumphant shriek followed, made tiny and hollow,
"Behold! Behold the GLORY of It Who Carries Us!"

His left foot came down and the ground was now six-inches lower as the earth became a disintegrating trampoline. He fell, the bolter cartwheeling from his hands and plunging into a crack. Pulsing yellow light blasted from behind him, throwing his shadow far out ahead, twisted and strange.

He clawed and kicked and pulled and crawled over sudden rock outcroppings and dizzyingly deep holes. The Entrance Chamber was the mirage in the desert, the light at the end.
Just get out
, he thought.
Get out and hide.
He didn't know if he'd be safe outside the dome, but he clung to the idea like a drowning man to a life preserver.

It Who Carries Us's bellow cracked the sky and seemed not just an exercise of Its incomprehensible vocal cords, but a command. At the same time, the electronic distortion in his ears changed, shifting from a blanket of torture into something specific and focused.

Grimes slowed, then stopped, even as a good portion of his mind shrieked to keep going.

His body was a willing acolyte.

He turned toward that awful throbbing yellow glow.

In the center of the light was a vast black tower, ridged and writhing and magnificent in that brilliance. In its core, Its Eye, a massive three-pupilled structure, rolled towards him,
seeing
him.

Grimes's mind shattered like a piece of thin glass as he heard Its simple, horrible message in the center of his head, reverberating through his nerves:

The throbbing yellow light consumed him.

*****

The A-shaped rescue-ship tore through the thin cloud cover like the arrival of a pagan god, with a roar of throbbing engines and a scream of directionless wind. 

Grimes sat in the outer hatch of his crushed ship and watched it come, his lank white hair whipping around his head.

It circled the wreckage and then the engine-sounds changed pitch and it began to descend as if lowered by a cable.

Something stirred in the center of his chest, something light and expanding and long-thought dead: anticipation.

"They came," he muttered as they approached. "They finally came." He felt pain twist in the center of his mind, a bright flare of migraine, and then gone. Grimes shivered.

He'd visited his old ship everyday for months, waiting. It'd become his ritual and people deferred to it; even Dugan, that simpering little worm. They didn't understand why, which was fine with him, and they didn't ask, which was even better. It maintained a distance between him and them.

He'd never bothered to tell them about the beacon. He owed
them
nothing.

The rescue ship landed with a ground-trembling thud and the engines screamed as they powered down. Immediately, the ship's side-hatch opened and five Alphas in combat gear--he recognized them by their shoulder insignia--leapt out, rifles raised.

Grimes stood, sliding his hands into his pockets.

The Alpha on-point stopped two yards away, his opaque helmet reflecting sunlight. "Identify yourself," he yelled over the roar of the engine, his rifle aimed at Grimes's face

Grimes felt no fear. "UPF Representative Owen Grimes."

The point Alpha didn't move or relax. The Alpha closest to the ship pulled a handheld and tapped the screen with a finger. Finally, he looked up and said, "He's one of em. He's..." The Alpha trailed off, looked down at his screen, looked back, then studied his handheld some more. He touched the screen, then touched it again.

Only Grimes noticed.

"Any other survivors?" the Alpha on-point asked.

Grimes shook his head. "They died in the crash."

The Alphas lowered their weapons. The point man offered his hand. "Glad someone made it, then. Our sincerest apologies for not arriving sooner."

Grimes pulled his gnarled, throbbing hand from his pocket and gripped the Alpha's. Staring at his own bloodshot, warped reflection in the Alpha's helmet, he said, "I knew you'd come. I had faith."

Another twist of pain--agonizing yet oh-so pleasurable--ripped through the center of his head as the Alpha turned to confer with his colleagues. This was a small group, but there'd be more.

My gift to you,
he told It.

Robert Essig

Robert Essig began writing as a result of his fasci
nation with everything horror,
books, magazines, movies, etc. His work has been published in over 40 magazines and anthologies
.
His novella "Cemetery Tour" was published in
The Road to Hell
(Post Mortem Press). His  novel
People of the Ethereal Realm
will be released in 2013 by Post Mortem Press.
Robert lives in southern California with his family.

It was a daunting task loading the heavy, awkward caske
t
into the cargo hold.

"I still can't believe our ancestors used to box up their dead," said Wayne, a moderate twenty-four year old who elected to shave his head bald rather than sport the friar-cut nature screwed him into at such a young age.

It was his first trip to Earth.

"You've got a lot to learn, son," said Moe, boss-man and intergalactic delivery service entrepreneur. "Be happy we don't have to dig 'em up."

The men crossed lush foliage, nearly tripping over a gnarled mass of vine, and walked back into the crypt for the second casket of the four Moe was hired to deliver to an eccentric billionaire who lived on his own planet in the Saltshaker galaxy.

Moe used a flashlight to illuminate the inscriptions on the caskets. "Wouldn't do us any good to deliver the wrong corpses, would it?"

"No sir. What do they look like?"

"You don't want to know."

With a grunt, Moe hefted the casket from its dusty domain. Wayne grabbed the corroded metal bar at the rear end of the oblong box and helped haul it into an evening that was still and too quiet, even for someone used to the silence of deep space.

Casket placed in the cargo hold next to the previous one, the duo returned to the crypt, Moe whistling as he worked, something he did to alleviate the monotony. He'd been to Earth more than anyone since the great fall of civilization. Most people weren't greedy or bold enough to come back, but there was good money to be made, and Moe would be damned if he was going to let someone else get it.

Just as they hit the entrance to the mausoleum, Wayne asked, "Did you hear that?"

Moe stopped mid-whistle and perked his ears. "Nope. But remember what I said. You watch my back and I'll watch yours, and don't you slack off about it. This is a dangerous place."

Wayne swallowed hard. Moe had warned him about the nasty beings of Earth that were once human. The years of radiation, incest and cannibalism turned them into savage mutants.

The duo entered the crypt for the third time, retrieved another casket, and placed it in the cargo hold, all done in silence. Both men were now on alert, Wayne in something close to paralyzed fear, while Moe ran on survival instinct.

"One more and we're off," said Moe. "Not bad for two months' worth of pay with fuel and food expenses to boot. That's why I'm one of the only guys who'll take these Earth runs. High on the danger, but a damn good payoff."

"If you say so," said Wayne.

Moe chuckled. "Hard to get good help, but I don't let that deter me. I'd have picked up these caskets myself if I had to."

Just as they walked into the crypt for the final time, Moe swore he heard something. He scanned the scenery for movement. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He proceeded into the dark, musty tomb hoping not to startle his apprentice.

The final casket was an old one. They were all from the same family, but this one must have been the great grandfather. The quality was far cheaper than the others, which assisted in accelerating the level of decay.

"Saved the best for last," said Moe, trying to lighten the mood.

"No shit. Does Mr. Preston want the caskets intact?"

"Not sure. Said he was recreating a family crypt on that private little planet of his. We'll try to get the whole thing out of here as best we can. If not, we'll wrap the corpse up real nice."

They carefully pulled the casket from its slot on the mausoleum wall. It creaked and cracked, ages-dry wood splitting.

"I think we got this," said Moe through clenched teeth. "Keep it steady and take it slow. We'll have the ship on auto back to Planet Preston and eating instant soup in no time."

They exited the crypt, Moe walking backwards. Just as soon as they were both in the final rays of the setting sun, Wayne's jaw dropped, and before Moe could turn to see what had caused such a reaction, Wayne dropped his half of the casket. Unable to manage the falling rot box, Moe let go of his half. The thing hit the ground and all but exploded into splintered wood, dust and bones.

Moe yelled an expletive, glared at his apprentice, and then realized that there was a reason for his crude reaction. He turned, and that's when he saw the things in the clearing, staring at them and salivating.

"Oh shit," said Moe.

"That's them, isn't it?"

"That's them. And nasty ones. Hungry."

Three mutants were grouped together like something that walked out of fresh sewage and tar. Their odor of rotten fish, ammonia, and sulfur drifted through the air. It was enough to incite a fit of vomiting from Wayne, which was a dinner bell to the abominable three.

Moe was on the ground, sifting through the dry, rotted timber. "Grab the legs," he said as he cradled the dirty skull.

"What?" Wayne's voice was brimming with terror.

"Grab the fucking legs! We have a job to do."

A glance toward the mutants assured Moe that they were far off enough for them to retrieve the body and lock themselves in ole Molly (a name Moe gave to his space cruiser many years ago in the vein of the water bound vessels of yore).

"Quick!" yelled Moe.

Moe ended up with a skull; Wayne with a hand full of tibia and fibula bones. Moe mentally slapped himself at the idiotic idea of grabbing and transporting a skeleton in one piece. He looked at the approaching mutants, then to Wayne and yelled, "Run!"

They hightailed it toward Molly. Savage screeches came from the gangly mutants. Moe had experienced close calls before, but this was getting scary. He had no idea how strong they were, and he didn't want to find out.

Wayne hit the stairs first, climbing them two at a time into the safety of the cargo hold. Moe was on his heels.

"Close the hatch!" yelled Moe as he watched the monstrosities approach the ship. He was still holding onto the skull, which, at this point, was ridiculous.

"How?"

Moe raised the skull and threw it at the closest mutant, hitting it in the shoulder. He leapt across the storage hold to a red panic button he'd installed several years ago for this very reason.

Hydraulics began lifting the stairs into a compartment as the door sealed shut, blocking the look of hunger and rage in the mutant's eyes.

Moe took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment of silent rejuvenation. They may beat on the exterior of his ship, but they weren't getting in.
             

Moe eyed Wayne as he walked by the young protégé who'd devolved into a state of paralytic shock. Moe could have scolded him for not hitting the panic button, but he thought better of it and proceeded into the control room where he promptly began setting the controls for Planet Preston.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Moe retrieved two beers from the refrigerator. He had a bone to pick with Wayne, but he was a compassionate, understanding man who knew the power of a couple of beers. They would break important bread and Moe would become certain whether Wayne was worth his mentoring.

Moe hollered, "Wayne, where are you?" but there was no answer. The ship was sizable, half of it consisting of the massive cargo hold.

A few years ago Moe installed a surveillance system. He'd been on one of the planets at the far reaches of the Charcoal galaxy collecting a load of jade-green granite with purple streaks and swirls that were to be used for custom countertops. Half way back to his customer's territory he discovered a creature that had managed to stowaway on his ship. It freaked him out.

Half the time the cameras were off. It was an overreaction, getting them installed. He flicked the switches and watched the array of screens come to life.

Wayne was in the cargo hold.

"Aw shit, I forgot to lock the hold." Then Moe looked closer. "What the fuck is that kid doing in there?"

Wayne stood before the caskets. His hand would reach out as if wanting to touch the mottled wood, and then he would pull back, sometimes even taking a step back.

"The fuck?"

Moe directed his attention toward the cameras that were placed on the exterior where he saw a half a dozen ugly cretins pounding and scratching on the ship.

"Oh hell no," said Moe as he jumped out of his seat and to the controls. Yelling over his shoulder, he said, "Wayne, get the fuck out of the cargo hold, we're blasting out of here
right now
!"

As Moe accelerated the commands that his autopilot was set to, his eyes glanced toward the bank of monitors. Wayne didn't heed his call.

"Goddammit!" Moe stood and turned toward the cargo hold. "Wayne! Get out of there. The hold is going on lockdown in thirty seconds." He walked toward the hold, which was directly across from the heart of the ship where his control banks were. "Do you want to be stuck in there with those coffins until we hit light-speed?"

No response.

Moe, face glistening with sweat, stopped his useless walk. Wayne stood there before the caskets like a somnambulist just as the doors clanked together and locked, the metallic sound of their security ringing in the empty cabin like the clinging of prison bars.

Moe closed his eyes tight.

*****

Wayne thought the job was going to be different, easier. He'd replied to an ad in the Chocolate galaxy e-paper. Wayne mistakenly thought they would be moving furniture or pianos, large items that were difficult to transport.

Of all things, his first week on the job and they not only picked up three dead bodies (the thought of which chilled Wayne to his marrow, he having been born into a world where the dead were cremated), but took them from a land that, until now, seemed like some kind of fable.

They were safe now. They had their haul minus one body that was strewn just outside the rocket. Wayne realized he was holding one of the bones in his hand. He dropped it suddenly as if it would harm him. He'd seen bones in his text e-books, but never seen the real thing. The bone clanked on the steel floor and came to a rest as the rockets cranked up.

Moe hollered, but Wayne was absorbed in the bone on the ground. He stared at it until his mind swirled into some kind of hypnotic spell. He couldn't be bothered. The doors to the cargo hold slid closed. It should have startled him, those doors closing him off from his superior, but he heard something in the boxes.

At first Wayne had irrational thoughts that the bone was whispering to him, but the whispering was coming from within the caskets, soft and muffled, tired and ancient in tiny struggled bursts. Wayne squinted, tuning his ears to the sound, but he couldn't make out any words. He had to imagine that the corpses inside the boxes looked similar to the skeleton from the broken box, so why would they be speaking?

When Wayne's grandmother died two years ago she was whisked away from their housing development with hardly enough time for the family to say their goodbyes. Total government control in his native galaxy dictated that the dead were promptly cremated. His mother told him that after her body was cleansed with fire, her soul would be released to the solar system where she would grace the sky as one of the billions of stars.

But were they supposed to speak after death?

That was the question that burned in his mind.

He was sure that skeletal thing they'd attempted to carry from the tomb was far beyond the ability to speak.

The whispers carried on, soft and low. Wayne dropped to his knees before the musty wooden boxes. They had odors he'd never been in contact with before in his sanitary solar life--musk, dust, earth, rot--all foreign and somehow exhilarating as he inhaled and began to understand what the whispers were saying.

Let us out.

*****

The ship had successfully exited Earth's atmosphere and was on a course to meet the magnanimous Mr. Preston. Moe had done his research, as he always did to ensure that he was at least not breaking too many laws or assisting criminals, but there wasn't a lot to be said about Mr. Preston and the means by which he'd acquired his massive wealth. A man in his early thirties, Moe assumed Mr. Preston an inheritance case.

Ship stabilized on autopilot, Moe opened the doors to the cargo hold. He figured he'd better get to Wayne before he lost his marbles. There was nothing like being trapped in deep space with a man insane. And it happened from time to time.

Figuring a beer would put the mellow on Wayne, Moe retrieved a cold one from the refrigerator. The wonderful and terrible thing about deep space was that there were no laws. Drinking and piloting wasn't punishable, and Planet Preston was in its own private corner of the Saltshaker Galaxy, so there would be no risk of being picked up if they happened to be tracked by a police shuttle.