The Stone Scry Read online

  “What happened?” Emelia asked, mesmerized, picturing them scattering about in the woods chased by fanged coyotes.

  Tom patted his SAW. “We euthanized them and collected samples.”

  “Ugh,” she sighed.

  Tom slammed his fist and asked, “Are you kidding me?” He dropped from his post and verbally drilled her while holding the center railing. “Come on, your dad told me himself James escorted you on your tribal decimations.”

  Emelia leaned her head back, letting the wind flutter her short hair. “I never saw it.”

  “What!” Tom yelled and then bit his lip to stave an imprecation.

  She returned to her machine gun and clung to its post. The fog burned away, allowing ripples in the water to tickle sunrays. The heat warmed her clothing, under her body armor, and into her joints. Watching an old, dilapidated home pass by, Emelia said, “I never saw it. One of the soldiers, usually Suki or Chase, would escort me back to the craft while the rest carried out my father’s orders.”

  Tom looked at her in disgust. “Well, typical.”

  “My father didn’t want me involved. What father wouldn’t?”

  Tom said to James, “It’s how the Stones are, Sargent Laramie. Watch your ass when one is near.”

  “I’m not like that,” Emelia stressed, hand quaking on the SAW.

  Tom was known to bend under the will of her grandfather, but in recent years, things began to change. Emelia could not pinpoint what event initiated the change, but their meeting with her father four days ago made her realize, with spring water clarity, how far Tom had fallen from her family’s graces. What he said next surprised her as if sucker-punched by a miniature Mike Tyson.

  “I know you’re not like that,” said Tom tapping on the railing.

  Dazed, she cracked a smile and asked, “Why?”

  “I think that before you, the Stones were in their halcyon years.” He stepped over sacks of gear and knelt next to her. “When I awoke on the examination table in your grandfather’s house, Eva was there. She was staring into a mirror fingering this large needle full of narcotics. You know what she said to me?”

  “I can only imagine,” Emelia replied. Eva Stone was a pernicious aunt with a toroid mind wrapped in on itself to give no afterthought to others. Emelia spent countless hours struggling to shove memories of Auntie Eva from her head.

  “She said, ‘Emelia tried freeing you last night while everyone was asleep. She heard you screaming and came to help. I whipped her with styrene tubing and threw her out.’

  “She keeps staring into this mirror, right, while I struggle in these straps. I start seeing in infrared for the first time. She looks like this big outline of arteries, two giant red blotches on her head and heart. I start freaking out and get in my mind that if I call for you and Lou, one of you will come to rescue me. Did not think to try Lisa. The green pill must have thatched our brains together. Could only think of you two.”

  Emelia relaxed against the gun post as Tom continued, “So, I start hollering for Lou, and I start hollering your name. Your aunt swings around and freezes me solid on the table. Her eyes are shooting invisible leather straps all over me: my mouth, legs, chest, and forehead. I am stuck. Cannot move my jaw, cannot turn my head. Completely stuck. She turns back around and looks in the mirror. The glass is like”—he waved his hands—“like…rippling. You know what she says?”

  Emelia shook her head.

  “She says to me, ‘Emelia will be the downfall of this family. I can see her through distant shadows.’ She tells me this while fixated on that creepy mirror, ‘I can see her ending my legacy.’”

  A chill crawled up Emelia’s arms to the nape of her neck.

  “Yeah! And you know what? This…wave”—he rolled his fingers—“a wave of hope rolls right through me. I mean, we were terrified, driving up old highway one through Topanga to Arnold’s house. Tied down and your aunt’s crazy shit, I knew it was over. Then, she sees in that mirror the end of her family. I start thinking, you know what? I am going to make it. Because I knew if you were going to end her legacy—end Arnold’s legacy—I would be right there with you.”

  Emelia rubbed Tom’s shoulder, wanting to transfer the relief flowing through her into him. “My grandfather believed you needed the enhancement. He acted, right or wrong, for the betterment of humanity. Must have known you would need some help making the world a better place.”

  Tom rubbed the back of his head. “He tried, in his own way. Look, about your grandfather—”

  James interrupted, “We’re coming up on the Fayetteville Factory.”

  “Better get ready,” Emelia uttered, stood up and gripped the SAW.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Tom returned to his post and scouted the tree line. Excessive rainwater accumulated, expanded, and settled over the last ten years, blurring older timber borders. Tall pines and colorful deciduous trees choked in flooded, anaerobic soil. New timber borders created by the Wash corralled living along trees along with the white, boney skeletons of their asphyxiated ancestors.

  Twisted conveyor belts on rusted towers rose out of the water abutted by silos poking out their dented heads. The Fayetteville Factory was a monument to life before the Wash, but also a favorite haunt for nesting snipers and hiding tribal marauders. Desperate beings hoping to usurp resources, getting them through next winter’s arctic blast alive.

  Buzzing objects whizzed by overhead.

  Small flashes bursting from the apex of a conveyor drew Tom’s attention. He flexed his lids and rolled his eyes to display a landscape of red, black, and purple. The sniper’s heat radiated brightly as the North Star in the evening sunset. Squeezing the trigger, he unleashed the SAW’s fury. A few bursts and the blotched, red object slid down the belt and rolled into the muddy water.

  More bullets hissed by, ricocheting off the craft’s armor and drilling into the water.

  Stagnant spray hit James in the face. “Hit the tree line!” He ordered, “All sides, all sides! Suppressing fire!”

  Lou laid into the fan controls propelling the Mud Hopper forward and yelled, “Get us to the river!” He guided James pointing his hand. “Cape Fear River!”

  A bullet nicked James’ body armor, causing him to stoop and shriek, “Shit!” Contorting his body, he steered the craft clear of cypress roots and half-dead oaks sagging in anaerobic soil.

  Emelia stopped firing and closed her eyes.

  James pleaded to her, “Keep firing!”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Emelia visualized a dozen tribal members waist-deep in the swamp firing old hunting rifles and dirty pistols at them. Focusing on one of the assailants, her thoughts merged into his muscles.

  His memories flashed across her mental screen: pulling his wife from a river rushing down their street, securing her on the rooftop; peer-pressured into joining a new tribe; hiding outside Hope Mills; eating stewed swamp rat, mindful of every sound beyond campfire’s light.

  Wiping the recollections away, she fixated on his motor system and repositioned her toy doll’s joints to fire on the others. One fell, then another. Her toy dropped five friends into the drink.

  Then she felt a flick on the side of her head. The connection cut off.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Emelia slanted against the SAW, head slowly bobbing up and down in rhythm with the HP109 Mud Hopper skipping across knee-high water. Tom read her body language of drained emotion. “Mel?”

  A weak thumb lifted upward.

  “You are ok?”

  The thumb lifted higher, and the absent sound of bullets provided a fresh injection of hope into Tom as the craft blasted 40 mph towards the Cape Fear River. He cried out across the Mud Hopper, “I think we are clear!”

  Lou gave him a reassuring nod. “Clear, Doc. No more heat signatures. Not human ones, anyway.”

  Tom dived across to Emelia and supported her waning figure. “You still with me?”

  She slumped. “I’m ok.” Wiping perspiration from her brow, she
said, “I’ve never done that before.”

  “What, kill someone?” asked Tom. “You drove them back—you saved us.”

  “I used one of them. Used one man to remove the others.”

  Tom helped wipe her forehead. “Used him? You controlled him, like last night with James?”

  “Took out five before they shot him in the head. I…I felt the bullet go in.”

  “You will be ok, Mel, please rest.”

  Tom’s fears drenched over his mind. She is a good kid; Jonathon Stone’s daughter; one of the greatest minds ever encountered; a malevolent entity requests her presence under threat of death; her eyes shine in the darkness; her essential skills keep him alive. On and on and on.

  James patted Tom on the back and said, “She’ll be all right. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, Dr. Mason.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  They reached Smithfield at midday. Walkways built over shop roofs stretched from an upper-level structure to raised shacks and wooden guard towers. Beyond rose a flat strip of land, fortified by a retention wall. A run-down barbican rested on its top.

  Tar Heel, held by the Tar Heels tribe.

  “I’ll move us in close to the stronghold,” James said. Guiding the craft in, he remarked, “Where are they?” The massive wooden fortress built to hold a thousand faithful migrants rested atop the knoll as an empty shell on the beach.

  Tom tucked his concern under his belt and strained concentration to search for stray Tar Heel thoughts. He only found the smell of rotting wood and stagnant soil. “Mel, do you detect anything?”

  “No,” Emelia responded, one hand holding her head up.

  “Lou?”

  “I’m catching something. A couple of creatures in there, not human, and not normal. Usually, there is an aura the animal gives off. They’re either searching, listening, or resting their metabolism, but these two are muted. It’s strange, almost like something is filtering the signals.”

  James killed the engine and glided the Mud Hopper up the revetment. “We’ve been here before, guys. Tight formation on exit. When in doubt, snuff it out.”

  Rifles unslung, the team crept around embattlements to the main gate. Torn outward, it clung to solid iron hinges. Applying ginger footsteps, Tom moved in keeping close to anything thick and intact. He strayed into the bailey and gawked at the ground.

  The sight inside stopped him cold. Scattered across the yard lay dozens of rotting bodies.

  In their living days, the Tar Heels wore weathered sweatshirts and torn jeans. They tattooed personal symbols down their arms in sky blue ink.

  The team found them face up in the red clay soil, dead.

  Tom marveled at markings similar their arms circling their faces. Caucasian versions of the Maori. Rolling the nearest body over, a young woman once blond and fair, he inspected her flesh in detail. Mottled, green blisters lifted Carolina blue tattoos upward from her skin.

  “Even stranger,” Tom muttered and shooed away circling gnats.

  Lou stepped forward to meet him. “What do you think, Doc?”

  “No smell.”

  “You’re right,” Lou said and jerked his head towards the closest shanty.

  “What’s wrong, Lou?”

  “One of the two things I detected is in there.”

  Tom gestured for James to move in and covered his left flank to the door. Each positioned for a clear shot. Pulling the door outward, James and Tom stormed into a wrecked living room. Rotting food and torn clothes were stomped into the floor, and black mold crept up the walls.

  Tom pulled a specialized balaclava over his head, a filter woven in to remove macroparticle contaminants. The others followed his idea and donned theirs. In single file, they dripped into the shanty on careful steps.

  James prodded loose junk with his rifle barrel and shuffled crushed boxes aside with his boot. Lines of tiny red mites soldiered across the counters and highways of ants sped along the floor. Finding no signs of blood or body parts, he signaled the all-clear.

  Lou lowered his MP5 rifle and strolled to a dilapidated couch. On it, grooming itself, sat a black cat. He scooped it up and scratched its cheeks, egging it on to play.

  Tom asked, “How come you could not tell it was a cat from the Mud Hopper?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. She’s not giving off thought patterns. Usually, I can sense them, whether it’s a mouse or a gator.” He held her up and inspected her face and fur. “This little girl isn’t talking to me, is she? No signs of parasites.” He buried his face into her belly, cooing, “Why aren’t you saying anything, little one?” The cat generated a sawing purr, pawing at his face with coffee-bean pads and claws sheathed. Tucking her into the crook of his arm, he said, “She seems harmless enough. The other presence is across the yard.” He stroked her plush, black fur, and returned to the doorway next to Tom.

  More deceased Tar Heels stacked ten-feet high lay on the opposite side of the bailey. Tom lowered his eyes and shook his head and did a double-take. Air bent and wrinkled at the stacked bodies’ peak. He clung to the doorframe and squinted. The air was dank and musty, not hot and dry. There was no impetus to cast a desert’s mirage on this typically humid North Carolina day.

  Two eyes, glowing red, looked at Tom. Gnats floating across the corpses centered underneath the ruby orbs and formed a skinny, fly-like snout. Airy wrinkles shifted to form arms and legs. The small orifice of the dipteran muzzle opened, letting out a shrill scream that stabbed into Tom’s eardrums.

  Hands cupped over his ears, Tom noticed the little black cat looking at him from under Lou’s arms; it appeared to be smiling.

  Then it spoke to Lou, “You can put me down now, Lou Frasier.”

  Startled, Lou dropped the cat. “What in God’s name, Cuddles?”

  The cat stretched out its arms, raking talon-shaped kitty claws on the festering wood. “I hoped this fiend would be gone before you arrived, but the leach feeds off the Earth still.”

  “Is the cat talking?” James stumbled backward raising his palm at the little feline. “The cat’s talking, you guys heard that, right?”

  Emelia emerged from one of the shanty’s rooms holding a flower vase. Once baked in brightly colored pastel paints, its mouth was uneven and bent. “I found this beautiful vase in a child’s room. Is there something wrong with your pet, Lou?”

  “Hello, Emelia Stone,” said the cat.

  The vase shattered on the floor, slipping through Emelia’s weakened fingers.

  Cuddles rubbed against Tom’s trembling leg and hopped down into the diseased turfgrass. “You are holding your end of the bargain, Tom Mason. Now, I must start holding mine.”

  People died forming the bargain. Tom said, stuttering, “What…what does—”

  The little cat darted off full speed towards the evil dipteran presence. Closing distance, Cuddles grew larger, and larger. And lunged. Talons, not kitty claws, sunk deep into the entity. The curved, keratin scythes tore away sheets of gnats and haze in chunks. Teeth, not made for nipping, drilled into the evil fog. Cuddles had morphed into a lioness, coated in ink-black fur. A lioness the size of a grizzly bear.

  Tom recognized those teeth, seeing them before sunken in a black, sticky fog.

  Elongated, monstrous hypodermic fangs pierced the red-eyed entity. Claws and teeth tore sheets of ghoulish skin off the red-eyed thing.

  Upon their first encounter in the swamp, Tom had sensed anger, no—rage. His feeling coming from the other entity was something else. Evil. Unwavering, intense wickedness. He realized Cuddles acted not out of wanton malice, but as a shark seeking prey. In blunt contrast, the other entity hungered nothing less than the soul of joy. To abolish it from existence.

  A pestilence of flies and mosquitos collected from surrounding swamplands and knocked the great black lioness against the bailey wall. The demonic dipteran thing then waved an arm sending crooked shadows over-bloated Tar Heel bodies oozing green goop.

  They stirred, and they rose.

  Cuddl
es arched its back, fur standing on end. Roaring, it slammed into the insect-like entity. Pinning evil against the ground, the great cat’s eyes flashed erupting withered grey arms from the soil. Their sulfuric, reeking claws snatched the walking dead. They yanked Tar Heel bodies apart or crushed the walking dead at their knees. Green slime spewed from opening contusions, spilling across the yard and splattering Tom as he stood in the doorway.

  Familiar clacking teeth chattered back to Tom, “You had better leave, Tom Mason. Can’t hold them all down, I think that. This will take some time.”

  Part 4: Halcyon Days Gone

  Dear Suzy,

  You should find this letter hidden under your oak dresser. Because we cherish the facet of our relationship to speak openly, I write to you in strict confidence hoping you continue our shared bond of trust. If you find this letter after I am dead, my wish is for you to give it directly to Elder Buttonwood as a demonstration against his profound ability to lead backward.

  When assigned master hunter, I considered moving back to Raleigh. While the Divers are family to me, I fear things are worsening to a point Fort Dix may not be safe. Some unknown force continues to assure the jacker’s success. Should this force gain enough strength, I have no reason to question the ferocity pent up in West Virginia will burst. At the very least, their numbers would cripple defenses in Raleigh at the expense of half its population. If my dad and the swamp stompers work together, he will often be traveling, leaving my mother home alone in the Raleigh suburb of Cary. She is a strong woman; however, probability shows neither mercy for weakness nor favor for strength. I cannot continue protecting our tribe under this cancerous uncertainty.

  If one day I do not return from perimeter patrol, I know you will slip into one of your cleaning frenzies and find this letter. Although the possibility of my demise is ever-present, please take comfort knowing my absence is due to the decision to return home. Others amongst my inner circle have similar intentions—should they not return, assume their fate is the same as mine. You will always be welcome in my house regardless of where it stands. I love you as a close friend and confidant.