The aberration, p.1
The Aberration, page 1
The Aberration
Bard Constantine
Copyright © 2012 Bard Constantine
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1470173913
ISBN-13: 978-1470173913
How strange to have failed as a social creature -- even criminals do not fail that way -- they are the law's ''Loyal Opposition,'' so to speak. But the insane are always mere guests on earth, eternal strangers carrying around broken decalogues that they cannot read.
-Anonymous
1
Discordia
The first word that came to mind was chaos.
Fire trucks, police cars and ambulances swamped the entire vicinity. Dark, angry smoke billowed, artificial clouds that blackened what was supposed to be a glorious sunrise. Emergency crews scurried back and forth, faces streaked with soot and sweat.
Searching for survivors.
The entire mill was devastated, torn apart as though by precise military bombardment. Fire hoses soaked the remains, trying to contain the roaring flames that sprang from the building’s gaping wounds.
Police captain James Forrester stepped onto the grounds, immediately soiling his shoes in the sucking mud. His eyes took in the scene without blinking.
“Jesus Christ…”
One of the officers approached. His face still bore the bleary-eyed look of trying to catch up to being roused from dreams to harsh reality. The captain looked down at him, then back to the disaster site.
“Officer Graham.”
“Captain.”
“What in God’s name happened?”
“Hard to tell, sir. For the moment they’re saying it was a mill explosion.”
Forrester frowned. “I’ve seen a damaged mill before. This… looks like a war zone.” He rubbed between his eyes. “Any witnesses? Hell, any survivors?”
“None so far. The plant supervisor was working late last night. He never made it home. The explosion took place right before third shift was set to arrive at 11 o’clock. All second shift employees are unaccounted for.”
Forrester suppressed a groan. “How many were on that shift?”
“Six employees, counting the supervisor.”
“Only six? In a mill this big?”
“Well, the mill is mostly self-regulated. The majority of employees are on first shift. Second and third shifts load trucks, keep an eye on things, and change wheat blends when necessary. Computer stuff.”
“I heard units were called to this location earlier yesterday.”
“That’s right. They had a jumper. Suicide.”
“Suicide. And now this.” Forrester frowned. “I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking maybe the jumper might not have jumped after all.”
“You think he might have discovered someone setting up this explosion and got killed for it?”
“Yeah, but what I think doesn’t amount to nothing if we can’t find any evidence.” He took in the disaster area. “And that won’t be easy in all of this.”
He noticed a small crowd of people gathered anxiously behind a police curtail.
“Family?”
Graham nodded. “Yeah. Families and friends of five of the six missing employees. They haven’t been too much trouble. Just want some answers. Want to know what happened.”
Forrester sighed. “Yeah. Don’t we all.”
They turned as a trio of black SUVs pulled up and parked alongside the police units.
Graham looked up at Forrester. “What are the Feds doing here?”
Forrester’s jaw clenched as he eyed the agents who exited from the vehicles. “Standard procedure for an explosion of this magnitude. Always possible that terrorists might be involved.”
A pair of agents noticed Forrester and strode toward them. He took another look around at the damage. “Hell, they can have it. I don’t like this. Not one bit.”
“Say what, Captain?”
Captain Forrester’s gesture took in the whole disaster area. “Something like this. It’s rotten, mark my words. A case like this never ends. No answers. Just more questions…”
He stared beyond the wreckage at the surrounding thicket. A raven fluttered from the branches, cawing loudly. The woods were tangled, smothered in smoke and distorted shadows…
2
Somnambulism
Everything was indistinct. Even the light was discolored; pale and grainy. Guy staggered through the twisted thicket, looking around frantically. Hot blood streamed down his face from… something. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he had to keep going. Keep moving…
His clothing consisted of patched together furs and scraggly leather, torn and spattered in black ichor. The onyx blood coated the intricately carved bladed spear he carried as well. He stumbled through thick mud, boots squelching with every step. His nostrils flared, plugged with the rank odor of mildew and decay so strong that his eyes watered.
The shadows around him had eyes, pale lights that trailed him, encircled him. Garbled voices whispered, promised threats of blood and torment while bony, gnarled hands grasped from the darkness. Jagged claws sprang from their fingertips; yearning, longing for just a scratch, just a taste of his blood…
He struck viciously with the spear. The twisted limbs recoiled from the blade, vanishing in the heavy gloom. The voices grew quiet, quelled as though in anticipation.
Mist ghosted from Guy’s lips even as sweat and blood dripped from his brow. He limped forward until he reached a clearing. The thicket opened to a view of a silhouetted mountain, darker than black and looking out of place somehow. It was as if it had been hurled there from somewhere else, somewhere where mountains spoke with the voices of angry gods. The sky was lost to thick roiling clouds that circled the peak at impossible speeds. Lightning flickered unceasingly, scarring the air in electric flashes while thunder struck like heavy blows to the chest.
Guy could only stare with his mouth agape. A voice whispered in his ear, carried on the howling winds that whirled around him.
“The Aberration is here.”
The Aberration is here…
~*~
Guy Mann opened his eyes.
Every blind was closed but the sun invaded through the cracks anyway, casting pale light into the barely furnished room. Guy blinked uncertainly. The dream was always insubstantial, a sidewalk chalk drawing washed away by awakening. Yet hazy as it was, it always felt more real than the world on the other side of his eyelids.
He gazed at the newspaper and magazine clippings that wallpapered his room. There was a pattern there, something he needed to see. They featured massive sinkholes, strange lights in the sky, abandoned villages and towns among other bizarre events. Mysterious beast sightings, unexplained abductions, inexplicable weather…
He rose and walked down the hallway, stepping over haphazardly stacked boxes overflowing with binders and tattered papers. Books and magazines were scattered across the counters and tables, all featuring articles on mythology, religion, and paranormal phenomenon. Collections of ancient medallions and religious artifacts were collected and carefully labeled in various cabinets.
He entered the bathroom. For a long time he stared at his face in the mirror. A normal face. The face of an everyman. Somewhere behind the bruise-colored shadows beneath his eyes and the empty mask on his face, a normal man once existed. A normal man.
A man he couldn’t remember…
The clock ticked.
Bare-chested and in sweatpants, he engaged in his routine workout. Push-ups, crunches, chin-ups, mixed martial arts. Repetition was his ally to disregard the muted shadow of isolation. He sculpted his body like Michelangelo might a statuette, losing himself in the fire of muscle stress and tendon strain.
The clock ticked.
He tended to his sanctuary with fanatical dedication: vacuuming, dusting, restacking his endless paperwork and organizing his books and magazines.
The television uttered garbled idioms; hypnotic suggestions that died futilely within his unheeding ears as the pictures flickered and distorted, as ghostly figures shouted and gestured wildly. False prophets with smiling voices warned of a doom that had long since transpired, while carefully calculated avatars whispered lies that amused him because of their blatancy, their opaque facade of craftiness meant for the lemmings that leaped off cliffs of credibility daily at their request.
Guy labored on.
The antique clock tolled while he was engrossed in scrubbing his kitchen tiles with a toothbrush. A leering jester popped out, laughing manically.
It was 2:00 p.m.
Guy’s smile died. He stood up and approached nearby table.
Weapons were laid across it.
Rifles, pistols, daggers, and other deadly instruments waited for his selection. Specially modified personally for his…tasks.
A scarred, rusted vintage key hung from the leather cord that he picked up. He slipped the medallion over his neck before hefting an antique dagger. The haft was black and carved with ravens.
He stared at it with unfocused eyes. The tick of the clock echoed. The jester continued its hysterical laughter.
~*~
The large duffel bag landed in the passenger seat with a metallic sound. Guy dumped himself in the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition. The engine growled to life as though angry at being rudely awakened, and his ’66 Mustang shot forward out of his driveway.
His haven faded in the rear view mirror as he joined the wildly careening ranks of vehicles on the city streets. The sun fled, on its way to the other side of the world where the air would be fresher, perhaps.
Guy sighed and rolled down the window.
The city and traffic noise immediately invaded, but he kept the window down anyway. It was better that way. It was better to feel it, to taste it first.
That way he knew what was coming.
3
Effulgence
Michael McDonald blinked in the photo flash brilliance of sudden sunlight. He groaned, trying to burrow into the white mounds of therapeutic pillows in a vain attempt to recapture the fading ghosts of dreams that trickled like mist through fingers.
“It can’t be time already…”
“You’re going to be late.” Cynthia stood in all her unclad glory, a Bond-girl silhouette against the glare of intruding light from the blinds she had just opened. The sun kissed her skin and cast glimmers in her reddish gold hair as she tumbled beside him.
He smiled as he skated over the smooth curve of her hip lightly with his fingertips. She returned the smile almost shyly, a contradiction to her flaunted nakedness, one that never ceased to thrill him. He could fill it spread, the warm ripple of wanting that flowed and pulsed until it gathered to that particular location and extended…
He looked down to the obvious evidence of his arousal. “Aw, look at what you’ve done. Don’t want to waste good wood, do we?”
“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Her hand strayed that direction as she kissed him, her mouth open for his tongue despite its newly woken flavor. After a few precious moments she pulled back with an apologetic smile. “Baby… you know…”
“I know,” he said. “Daddy’s got to go make a living.” He sat up and stretched, taking in her slender back, the way her hair swung as she rose off the bed. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he got so lucky. Cynthia was the kind of girl that guys like him only talked about in wistful tones, like million dollar mansions or sailing around the world. But she had responded to his every stumbling effort like an angel of goodwill, had supported him through times when even he hated himself.
He smiled and shook his head. “I’m a lucky man, you know that?”
She gave him a coy glance over her shoulder. “You better believe it.”
Morning had long since departed, and the afternoon followed its example. He was almost late, but if he drove like a madman he would barely squeak in on time. Cynthia had pulled one of his shirts on and quickly put a lunch/dinner in his tote so he wouldn’t have to make of meal of the candy bars and sodas the break room offered. She claimed that stuff made him fat. She was probably right –his metabolism hardly put up a fight these days. He was mildly disturbed at the protrusion in his profile, the rounded forewarning of the gut to come. Maybe he would start working out again. Cynthia liked it when his muscles had definition.
He’d do it for her.
One more lingering kiss, then he hopped in his Honda Accord and took off. He remembered the time when going to work was like dental surgery, before he met Cynthia. Now his perspective had completely flipped. They had a pair of cars, and had just moved into their first house. A family was next; they’d spent a lot of time talking about it. He smiled.
Traffic was a breeze for once, and he sailed across with the windows down and the radio on. He hoped things would go well at work, but if they didn’t… that was all right too. It was eight hours either way, then he’d come back to Cynthia. Maybe they would work on making that baby again tonight.
4
Inelegant Rapture
Frumpy.
That was Fran's word for the day. It was the perfect word, really… a singular expression that summed up the whole of her entirety. It was certainly how she felt, as she gathered calories sitting in front of the computer while her brain dissolved from mind-numbing data entry. It described her bland sweater and slightly wrinkled pants, a combination that fit no style she could think of except… frumpy.
Her hair was certainly frumpy… dirty blonde and scattered on her head so badly that her hairdresser looked disgusted every time she came in. Her mother had always said her looks hadn't passed on to her daughter. Fran sighed. Even in her coffin her mother looked like an aging Hollywood star, while Fran just looked… frumpy.
The pile of paperwork hadn't shrunk in the last hour, and the sample cans needed shelving, and the test tubes needed washing… but all that could be done in the morning.
Admit it, you're just waiting for Michael to show up.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose as she observed the girl in the reflection of the glare off the computer screen; the pudgy face spattered with a buckshot blast of freckles, the stupid lovesick grin that perfectly displayed the slightly crooked front tooth.
The grin quickly faded.
Michael McDonald. The bright light at the end of her workday tunnel. She sometimes felt ashamed of how she looked forward to seeing him. She always found a reason to stay over a couple of hours until he came in with the first sample. He would smile and ask how she was doing. He'd make her laugh at something silly, something only made funny because he was so charming…
Of course she knew he was only being polite, only being himself… why would he ever look at a frumpy girl like her when he had that model-looking chick to go home to every night? He'd shown her the picture. She had died inside when she saw how his face lit up for the girl in the photo, the glow that would never be for her.
It was strange how his devotion to his lady made him even more attractive, stirred her imagination of him gazing at her with those crystal blue eyes while pouring out his love and affection.
It almost made her sick when the fantasy exploded as it always did. The train wreck of reality rumbled through with the annoying sound of the phone ringing. She picked up; made appropriate noises in reply to queries she couldn't care less about. Outside her narrow window the sky darkened as monstrously thick clouds gathered almost impossibly fast.
Figures it would start pouring down right before I take off.
It was unfair. Unfair that her mother selfishly refused to give up her genes. Fran was left with her father's thin hair, pinched nose, and protruding belly. It was unfair that the same woman would torment her about those looks until Fran wanted her to hurry up and die just so she could get some relief.
It was unfair that Michael McDonald was the perfect specimen of a man.
But life was like that. Unfair. She looked at the clock. Almost time. In just a few minutes Michael would walk in. He would smile, and ask how she was doing. He'd make her laugh at something silly, something only made funny because he was so charming…
5
Immolation
The flourmill squatted in the middle of nowhere, a wilderness sparsely broken by sprawled, battered homes; ramshackle remnants of a forgotten time. It was a crude, leering stack of hastily poured concrete, a testament to the lack of imagination that infected contractors whose only aim was to squeeze in under a heavily slashed budget without a major disaster. Towers housing raw wheat loomed twelve stories high, a roosting place for pigeons to defecate and molt their filthy feathers.
Guy exited the confines of his Mustang, frowning. The sensation of being watched caused his shoulders to clench uncomfortably. He kept his face casual as he yawned and stretched, scanning the surrounding area.
Ghost fingers tickled the back of his head. He turned around slowly. Nothing was visible save for a solitary raven, perched on the railing of the truck ramp.
The bird cocked its head; its obsidian eyes gleamed with arcane answers missing only the question to liberate them. There were others –ravens on the lawn, the wires leading to the building, the tops of the freight trucks. They scarcely moved, scarcely seemed alive as they peppered the landscape. They were… expectant. The air almost crackled with their anticipation.
They waited.
He slowly looked around, scanning the nearby woods and then the sky. Dark thunderclouds massed in the far distance. Quickly. The wind picked up, carrying unintelligible whispers.
Guy’s brow darkened. He hesitated for only a moment before slowly opening his car door again. He removed the duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, taking another wary look around. The ravens had not moved. They stared his direction as if petrified, onyx statues placed around the building to ward it from evil spirits.
