DARKNESS BEYOND: Charlie and the Caladesh
Having finished “Darkness Within” and sending it to Tor, where it now sits on a slush-pile for at least another 2-4 months before someone gets around to reading it. I offer you an installment from the creation of myself and Stephen Clothier; “Darkness Beyond”. Here is a sample of that work.
Charlie Edmonson pulled the black Durango into the long drive of the parking lot of Goodall’s Physical, Occupational, and Speech Therapy. The facility was surrounded by woods, which gave the modern structure of the Goodall Hospital division a rustic appearance; an aura of simpler times seemed to surround it. Charlie was bringing his mother of seventy-two years to the center at the referral of Dr. Bennet after having been diagnosed with spinal stenosis in the lower lumbar region, and bones spurs in the upper cervical region of Martha’s back; surgery was looking to be a necessity to avoid the possibility of paralysis, however, even this was not guaranteed. As a student of massage studying at Seacoast Career Schools, Charlie set his sights on working with the health-care team to encourage ROM—range-of-motion, before things became too serious. He had seen the X-rays and MRI provided to him by Dr. Bennet, after the good doctor learned of Charlie’s status. And Charlie had already determined his own course of action based on his assessment of his mother, and he was looking forward to speaking with the physical therapist to find out how close he was in proper assessment. It would turn out that Charlie was right on target, although he wouldn’t get the chance to have that confirmed today.
His mother had suffered from a ruptured disc in the lower thoracic region almost twenty years prior—she had been bending over to give the dogs food when the incident occurred, and Martha had never known such excruciating pain in her life. Ten years following this and neuropathy was visited upon her, followed almost immediately by a diagnosis of diabetes. For Martha it wasn’t the age, but most assuredly it was the mileage; when Martha came into the world she had a compromised sacrum that the doctors were unaware of, and as a youngster and young woman, Martha had led an active lifestyle; one that included but was not limited to, being thrown from horses and motorcycles. And following the neuropathy, Martha had the misfortune of falling down a flight of stairs more than a half-dozen times, as she often times couldn’t feel her feet. She had been very lucky that she hadn’t broken her back, luckier still that she didn’t break her neck.
And now the arthritis in her back was pressing against the nerves that traveled through the sacrum, causing extreme and debilitating pain at times. Something had to be done and very soon. Dr. Bennet had already prescribed her Vicodan, which she took when her pain tolerance was at a 7 on a scale of 1-10. Martha didn’t believe in taking medication unless it was absolutely necessary. And because she had lived with back pain most of her life, it was sometimes difficult to discern when the need for medication was in fact a necessity.
Because life can sometimes be so ironic, Charlie just happened to be friends with Vincent Stallon, and they each found that they had more in common with one another than what might otherwise be preferred. Or—maybe it was their mothers that had more in common with one another; that is Vincent’s mother-in-law, versus Charlie’s mother.
Both men were writers and artists. Well, that wasn’t altogether true; Charlie was still struggling toward publication, while Vincent—with the promotional assistance of his publisher, Unity Publishing—had sold more than $1000.00 in books…in five years time! Hardly worth the seven years of blood, sweat, tears, and soul, which Vincent had poured into his psychological science-fiction/adventure novel, The Outsider. Vincent had plans to throw a party when his seven year contract was up with Unity. And he made sure to let other aspiring writer’s know to stay away from the publishing house and not make the same mistake that he made. Now he and Charlie were working on a Fantasy Horror novel entitled The Darkness Within, and hoped to be recognized by Epic for their achievement. Charlie was a little put off by Vincent’s attitude of publication; sure he hadn’t produced a best-seller, or at least not one that would be recognized enough by Unity to promote it as such—just put it out there on the web and see what happens. But the bottom line was that he was in fact a published author. So many people never had the privilege of seeing such opportunity bear fruition. There were old men with no teeth eating Ramen Noodles that were still struggling to be published. True, Vincent was ten years older than Charlie, and maybe that had something to do with his bitterness and resentment toward other authors who had in fact gotten lucky; oh—they had to be decent enough to stay “lucky”, but the truth be told, publication was all about luck—it had nothing to do with how good you were at crafting your work, and Vincent was a hell of a writer. Maybe a lot of his resentment stemmed from the fact that he didn’t want to be a massage therapist, but rather have a residual income with writing. And Charlie supposed that there was nothing wrong with that, in spite of how good a massage therapist he was—that is, student of massage therapy. According to Amarie he was the salt of the Earth, and that was a hell of a compliment to be given by such an attractive, vibrant, and…professional woman as Amarie projected herself to be. And just where had she been the past week, now that he thought about it.
He sipped at his Latte’ with six sugars in it, and his thoughts returned back to his mother, whom he loved dearly. Something else that was a contrast with Vincent; because although the women shared similar symptoms and disorders, Vincent didn’t get along with his mother-in-law, well…at all. He didn’t come right out and call her a bitch—he would never do that; however the things that were said about her definitely didn’t place her in the category for the possibility of winning the Mother of the Year Award. Mildred, who was a retired nurse had her own perception of how she expected things to be; while Vincent busted his ass juggling candles that were burning at both ends, and never quite achieving what it was that he set out to do. His grades were above average at Seacoast, and he might have been an A-Student or the Seacoast Star for that matter. But that would mean being on Dave Taylor’s A-Team, and after hearing about the affair that School Director had compromised with one of the instructors, Vincent had no interest in being on Dave’s A-Team. And as far as the Seacoast Star went, Vincent liked where he parked, he didn’t care to have the Star’s parking place, just to show others that he was an achiever.
And Vincent was an achiever, a hell of an achiever. Like Charlie, Vincent suffered from bipolar disorder; unlike Charlie, Vincent also suffered from schizoaffective tendencies; which meant that he heard voices during his times of depression—voices that discouraged and condemned Vincent, and otherwise had him walking through his own personal hell that no one saw, unless they looked close enough to try to. He never made excuses concerning his disorder, although there were times when the medication wouldn’t absorb properly in his system, and Vincent would have to excuse himself from class, lest he fall asleep during the course. Most people saw this as a weakness, they had no conception of how incredibly strong Vincent was.
Charlie pulled into a parking space in front of the building. “I’m going to finish my coffee and smoke a cigarette,” he told his mother. I will see you inside. Give you enough time to fill out the forms that they have for you before I see the physical therapist.”
“Alright.” Martha moved stiffly. Pulled the seatbelt aside. Charlie got out on his side, came around the back of the truck to the passenger side, let his mother out. “Thank you,”
“I’ll see you inside.”
Martha trundled toward the double entrance—two sliding glass doors before reaching the reception area.
Charlie retrieved his coffee, then took out a cigarette.
As he smoked and drank his coffee, he heard the sounds of dirt-bikes somewhere in the woods; they made a cackling rumble that always reminded Edmonson of a deranged bird, or some mechanical insect. There must have been a trail nearby in the woods.
After awhile a white Grand Marquis pulled into a parking space across the lot.
That’s when Charlie heard the long winding whine of one of the motorcycles going full-throttle, and then sputtering.
This was followed by a long winded scream, as if one of the bikers lost control.
And then another scream cut through the air, which gave Charlie the impression of two bikers colliding with one another. Their dirt-bikes idled for a moment, then fell silent. This was almost immediately followed by a howl of something sounding much like a wolf, only larger and more powerful.
The howl rose and rose and…then there was the high-pitched wailing of screams cutting through and echoing throughout the woods. Charlie was taken aback, and suddenly he had this image of the bikers being attacked by some kind of monster, something akin to a lycanthrope. And he wasn’t far from his mental conception at all, as he soon realized, when the beast suddenly made an abrupt appearance in the parking lot—or maybe there was more than one of them…
The beast leapt up atop a Suburban, which was right next to the white Grand Marquis. The woman apparently hadn’t heard the screams in the woods, as she was busying herself with retrieving something from the car. She became quite familiar with her own screams, as the monster sprang from the roof of the Suburban to the driver’s-side of the Marquis.
Charlie saw blood spray, the creature attacking in an upward swipe, in much the same manner as a cat. The woman fell back, her head bent in a position that would otherwise be considered uncompromising. The impact of her skull hitting the driver’s window was sufficient enough to shatter the glass. And all Charlie could do was watch, his stomach tightening in cold knots. And then he suddenly felt as if too much time had passed. Too much time. To allow him to be rooted to the pavement, with a hot latte’ frozen in his grip, a cigarette pinched between two fingers of his other hand, while unbridled carnage unfolded before him, less than a hundred yards away.
Terror and horror gripped him in a manner that he never dreamed possible.
Thoughts unmitigated and normally inconceivable raced through Charlie’s mind. What was happening was too unbelievable for his cognitive rationale to initially grasp. It was impossible. Monsters didn’t attack like this—so suddenly and in broad daylight. And this was for good reason that they didn’t behave thusly; because monsters didn’t exist in the first place, not in the really real world. Then what the hell is that thing making hamburger out of the woman?
Some kind of mutation?
Then something went off in Charlie’s head like a gunshot. And suddenly he was running toward the front entrance of Goodall’s Physical, Occupational, and Speech Therapy, having no memory of dropping his coffee and his cigarette, as he weaved his way through a parked Jeep and Taurus SE, before reaching the small stretch of concrete that led to the entrance of the facility.
He almost slammed into the second set of automatic doors, but pulled up short as he recalled something that he had learned while working for Professional Security. He stopped just inside the first set of doors, reached up and above them and clicked the lock in place. Then he went through the next set of automatic doors and did the same.
“Excuse me,” one of the receptionists behind the desk inside acknowledged Charlie in a strained voice. “But you can’t do that.”
“Under the circumstances I think that my actions are wholly justified.” Charlie replied, looking for things in the receptionist area to block the doors with. “You don’t believe me, ask the woman in the parking lot. Oh—wait, you can’t; she’s dead.”
“Whaaaat!?”
The other receptionists looked at each other. While those waiting in the receptionist area exhibited all manners of expressions.
Charlie spotted the snack and soda vending machines up against a wall just inside the door. “I don’t stutter,” Charlie said evenly, as he moved to get behind the snack machine. It was a tight fit. “And my English is more than adequate.” With this Charlie added, “Call the police! We may need some high-powered weaponry on that thing in the lot.”
“What are you talking about? Did you say a woman is dead?”
“Or “deadish”. I’m sure that after that thing—whatever the hell it is— is through with her, it will insure that she won’t be having supper tonight. And if it gets in here, we’re going to have a shit-storm.”
Charlie gauged his weight against that of the vending machine, as he wedged himself between the wall and the vendor. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it weighed 500 pounds. But then again he didn’t need to carry the damn thing. He just needed to tip it over. It would not be easy. He wasn’t a heavy-set man—perhaps a little heavier than average; which was good, because it allowed him to get behind the vending machine. If he weighed thirty pounds more, he wouldn’t have been able to fit behind it. On the other hand he could have used an extra thirty or forty more pounds to his advantage to challenge the weight of the snack machine. He began pushing against the vendor as he faced the wall, using the strength in his legs, his quads, his glutes, and finally his back.
“What are you doing?!” the receptionist bellowed.
Those in the facility that were unaware of Charlie’s actions soon heard the crashing sound of the vendor hitting the floor, it sounded like the whole place was coming down. The receptionist that first witnessed Charlie, did the only thing she seemed capable of; she screamed at him.
Pines Bergendoff was in the left wing working with a female client of fifty that suffered from scoliosis. “What the hell?”
The other therapists responded in similar fashion. Each told their clients to wait while they looked to see what was going on.
The vendor blocked the door, if only by about two feet from the floor. Still, Charlie surmised that if the creature outside came through the glass, it would have an awkward time of it.
Charlie was feeling weak, and stars danced in front of his eyes. Dropping the vendor took more out of him than he anticipated. He was vaguely aware of the other two receptionists that appeared to be in a race to see who could reach the police first. That was fine with Charlie. Let them come. They needed to come. Guns were strongly warranted against the monster outside.
Speaking of which, Charlie looked through the double set of doors and saw the creature going through the motions of tearing the woman outside to pieces, as if for the sheer joy of it.
Trent Adams was a few years younger than Charlie and was waiting in the receptionist’s area for his grandmother. He was among a handful of others that waited in kind—including a little girl who was now clinging to her mother, Trent rose from his seat to address Charlie. “Hey man, you’re scaring a lot of people. I don’t know what your—“
“They don’t know the meaning of scared.” Charlie said plainly. “But if that thing gets in here, they will know. They will know what it means to truly be scared.”
“What thing? What are you talking about?”
As if on cue a red Eclipse pulled into the parking lot outside.
No.
Sorry Charlie.
There was nothing that Charlie could do. And he could feel a part inside of him slowly dying. He had gone to school to learn how to help people, and yet here he was, suddenly feeling the ice cold reality of futility. Whoever got out of the car would soon be attacked. And there was nothing that Charlie could do about it.
He saw the car park. Saw the two people get out. A man in his forties, a woman possibly in her thirties. The woman walked with a limp.
It didn’t take long for the two of them to reach the doors, only to find them locked. They looked at each other in question, then tried to peer beyond the glass to see if they could establish a clue as to why the doors weren’t opening.
Charlie looked at them. Trent looked at them. And then the beast was pushing both of them through the glass of the first set of automatic doors. The impact was thunderous, and Charlie was sure that bones had snapped just as easily as the glass had shattered. Blood flew up against the second set of automatic doors. And then the creature proceeded to tear the couple apart.
Trent stared, stunned, unable to move. His eyes refused to believe what he was seeing.
“Help me!” Charlie yelled at him. “I need you to help me push over the soda machine—block the door!”
Someone—a woman screamed, and Charlie wasn’t sure if she had seen the creature, or merely responded from the cacophony of the shattering glass.
Trent moved to help Charlie with the soda machine.
Pines came around the corner. He probably out-weighed Charlie by about forty or fifty pounds, and he looked to be a sculpture of muscle. “What is going on out here?!”
Trent yelled, “Help us, man!”
“What?” Then Pines saw the creature outside. “Geez-zus!” He moved to assist the other men with tipping the soda machine over. A moment later and it crashed down atop the snack machine.
Pines stared in horror at the savagery of the beast, less than fifteen feet from him, separated by only three inches of shatter-proof glass. Shatter-proof glass that exploded with the weight of the creature impacting with the hapless couple. Rene and Dugan Myers. He knew them both. Had been seeing Rene for almost eight months off and on. Now they had been reduced to nearly unrecognizable cadavers. The thing was like the monster from an _American Werewolf in London_—only leaner, like a sleek panther, and somehow this physiognomy seemed to give the creature a more ferocious personification. “Good lord,” he gasped. “What is that thing?”
By now, others—including the receptionist and staff members, gathered wordlessly toward the doors, to see what it was that the men were trying to keep out. Not just a few onlookers regretted their decision to look—seeing blood and gore splattering the glass and the walls on the other side. What they saw filled them with terror, and the sounds that came from the beast during its proceedings were like that of a great cat in a frenzy, chilling their blood with its keening.
Two women—staff members—screamed.
“Be quiet, hush!” Charlie warned. “It may not know we’re here.”
The woman stifled their cries of hysteria.
But it was too little too late. The beast looked up from its feeding, and looked toward the blocked doors. Eyes of glowing embers peered toward the screaming that had been hushed.
And now the little girl that clung to her mother began to cry.
This is getting out of hand. Charlie thought to himself. Aloud he said, “Are there any other ways in here?”
“Not without a key-card.” Pines replied.
“We’ve got to get everyone to a place of safety, in the event that that thing makes it through the door.”
“There’s the rec-room.” Pines suggested. “The doors are reinforced with steel-plating—“
“Start moving everyone to the rec-room.” Charlie told Pines.
“The police are on their way,” one of the receptionists told the therapist.
But…
“But I didn’t know—“
The other receptionist interrupted. “We thought the man was—“
“Crazy.” Charlie finished for them. “I only wish that I were.” He turned back to Pines. “They will probably be sending a couple of units. Or—knowing Sanford’s Finest—they will send three or four units. At any rate they have to be warned of what they are walking into.”
“I will call them on my cell when we get everyone to the rec-room.” Pines said.
Too late.
Sanford’s Finest showed in a timely fashion, and Charlie saw two units pull up out front.
“Shit,” Charlie cursed. “We don’t have the luxury of seeing how this turns out.” He said. “We can only hope for the best.”
“They are going to be killed!” The first receptionist declared.
“Get everyone to the rec-room, now!” Charlie ordered.
Almost twenty minutes later and everyone in the facility took up space in the large rec-room, with its assortment of equipment for various exercises. Two minutes later there was the sound of gunshots and someone screaming. Then there was the sound of shattering glass, and a cacophony of noises; like compromised metal impacting and broken and scattering hard plastics, the soft explosions soda bottles make when they rupture, the breaking of wood; the sound of a phone being thrown against the wall. Scratches. The sound of many feet running down the hall outside And then a thunderous pounding on the rec-room door, followed by further scratching that put everyone’s teeth on edge. Along with these sounds there surfaced a growling and a keening. The beast had obviously not been stopped by the police, and had breached the barrier set before it. And it was in fact right outside the door to the rec-room. People did their best not to scream. People did their best not to panic, hoping against hope that the door would keep the monster out.
It stood to reason that if the creature had not been stopped by the police, it was because it couldn’t be. And that would mean that the monster had killed the cops outside.
However, there soon followed the sound of more gunshots. Subsequently followed by roars and growls and more keening. And then there was the abrupt sound of something moving around on the roof. More gunshots. Followed almost immediately by high-pitched screaming.
There was more than one.
There had to be.
At least two. Maybe more.
What those in the facility could not see, the police could. For as long as they remained alive.
There fell the sound of more breaking glass outside. One of the creatures must have broken a window somewhere. Then there was a commotion of something crashing heavily to the floor—a filing cabinet perhaps. And that would mean that there were in fact more than two of the beasts.
The police had the unwanted privilege of seeing dozens of the Caladesh. Fiends that sprang from nightmares. The harbingers of the Dark Maiden’s demons. And they soon breached every available obstacle that they could to enter the facility. Those that didn’t, attacked the police. Seemingly oblivious to the sounds of gunshots, or the shells that manufactured them.
Soon no member of the units that responded to the initial call was left standing. And they died horribly under tooth and claw, expiring in pools of their own blood. Eventually more units would arrive, responding when the others failed to report back. While those in the rec-room waited haplessly, wondering, in debilitating fright and terror, who would save them?
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