Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (19 page)

Crazier
, he laughs, and notices his newfound friends seem to
be writhing in happiness along with him, perhaps reading his mind and
sharing the pleasure of his innocent little joke.

It’s several nights later; or possibly several days—it’s impossible to
tell time down here in the dark—and
the friends of the forgotten man are back for another visit. They’ve
developed quite a strong relationship—he and their multitude—bonded with each other figuratively as well as literally. The
leeches love him, and he in return, loves them back.

It comes as no surprise then, the man has been confiding in his new
friends, telling the leeches all about the nasty things he’d
like to do to the rotten cocksucker who locked him down in this dark
hole. He whispers to the myriad creatures that slither past his mouth
every visit, the leeches pausing to hear his dreams of revenge as
they ever so briefly attach their bloated bodies to his bruised and
bloodied lips.

His friends have recently started talking back, which pleases the man
and lifts his sagging spirits tremendously. They take turns forcing
their slime-covered bodies deep inside the forgotten man’s ear
canals, telling him all sorts of wonderful secrets. Things like how
they understand his anguish, and that it wasn’t his fault the
man’s wife was killed. They also whisper about how maybe he
doesn’t have to remain locked up in this stinking hole forever,
and how maybe, just maybe, they might be in a position to help him
out—help him get the revenge he so desperately craves.

The man lying covered in a living blanket of leeches listens
carefully to everything his friends tell him. He likes what he is
hearing—likes it a lot.

Time has passed, but the man trapped in the dark cannot judge how
much. Not that it matters. The only important thing is that his hated
jailer will be coming soon. He hasn’t been around to drop food
in the hole for a long time, and the skeletal-thin man knows he’s
the prisoner of someone far too cruel to ever let him starve to death
peacefully. No, the sick bastard will make an appearance here soon—guaranteed.
The forgotten man plans to be ready for him.

He works his fingers almost to the bone, trying and eventually
succeeding in prying one of the ceramic tiles off of the concrete
wall. Striking it repeatedly against the equally hard floor, he
smashes the tile into several small ceramic shards—all of
which seem more than jagged enough to accomplish what he has in mind.
Selecting the biggest and sharpest piece, the man lays it on the
ground right beside the service drain.

Somehow he finds the strength to place his hands on either side of
the drain, kick his legs up into the air, and hold his bodyweight
suspended for the few seconds it takes to jam his right foot up out
of the small opening at the top of his cell. His foot barely fits
through, and he winces in pain as he cocks his ankle around to lock
himself into position. Dangling from his one leg, he searches in the
dark for the ceramic shard below his head, finds it, and without
hesitation viciously jabs it up into the tender flesh of his neck.

With more luck than skill, he severs the carotid artery, and his
fingers spasm, dropping the crude weapon to the ground as the blood
begins to flow. Hanging the way he is, the blood already rushing to
his head via gravity, the forgotten man’s life juices will soon
completely drain from his abused body. It will pour from the mortal
wound in his neck, straight down into the service drain directly
below him, and from there, into the pipe where he knows his friends
will be ready and waiting. They promised him.

With his final coherent thoughts, he sends a last urgent plea down to
the leeches below.
Remember me, my friends. Remember me …

Deep down in the old rusty pipe, the leeches are in ecstasy, drenched
in the warm sticky blood of the man who’s just committed
suicide. Thousands of creatures ingest as much of the warm juice as
they can handle, their small black bodies quickly turning red as they
squirm together in wanton bloodlust. The crimson feast goes on for
hours, until the last few drops of blood trickle from the inverted
man’s ruined throat.

Once the last drop falls, as if by some predetermined design, the
glutted leeches begin to separate and make their way farther into the
network of underground pipes. One by one, they steadfastly crawl
inside their pitch-black tunnels, moving across great lengths of pipe
until they finally start slanting upward, heading toward the freedom
of the surface world.

The first rays of sunlight are slowly creeping west, a growing hint
of orange fire chasing the night sky away and illuminating the
graffiti-painted outer walls of the boarded up factory. Ninety feet
away from the main building, a small, dilapidated shack leans against
the chain link fence surrounding the property. Years ago, this shack
functioned as the pump house for the thriving factory, but now stands
empty, the hydraulic machinery, hoses, pressure gauges, and control
panel long since removed. This is where the leeches long journey has
taken them, emerging into the early dawn light one sticky-red body
after another, piling in a thick mound in the middle of the dusty
floor.

They slither and crawl over one another, as always, but something
about their behavior has obviously changed. There’s a certain
logic behind their movements now—a method behind their
tiny-brained madness—and it isn’t long before their
random mass of heaped bodies has started to flatten, branch out, and
begin taking on a more familiar shape. A recognizable shape, eerily
similar to that of a naked man lying flat out on his belly.

Outside, a large gate swings open in the chain link fence, and the
sound of gravel crunching beneath the weight of four car tires can be
heard all over the factory grounds. A rust-speckled, blue Ford Tempo
pulls up to the nearby loading dock and the driver revs the engine a
few times before finally shutting it off. The driver is tall and
husky, a bald-headed man with a gray-streaked beard. He casts a quick
nervous look around, then apparently satisfied with what he sees,
grabs a plastic bag from the trunk and hurries inside the building.

In the pump house the leeches continue to move around, shifting and
sliding, twisting and turning, until every one of them has found
their proper position. They’ve spent hundreds of hours crawling
over the man trapped in the underground cistern. Weeks learning every
curve, angle, and unique nuance of the man’s features. The
blood that fed their bloated bodies—the blood inside of them
right now—is the same blood that pumped through the
imprisoned man’s veins. By absorbing his blood, they have made
themselves a part of him, and he, a part of them. Blood brothers.
Soul mates. Friends.

And friends always keep their promises.

The body on the floor begins to stir, pressing firmly down with its
newly formed hands until it gains a kneeling position, then uses its
collective strength to make it all the way to its feet. It sways a
little, its fledgling legs threatening to collapse at first, but the
longer it stands its ground, the stronger it starts to feel. Within a
few minutes, the man-shaped creature is feeling more and more like
its old self.

With sweet thoughts of revenge in its black heart, and a smile etched
on its bloodied face, the forgotten man walks out of the pump house
and immediately heads for the passenger seat of the rusty blue car.
Sitting comfortably inside, his collective minds are remembering all
those nasty things his jailer promised him he’d never be able
to do again. With a sweet sense of vindication, he reaches over and
starts honking the horn.

At this depth, the ocean was cold enough to kill her in seconds.

Susan leaned closer to the toughened glass, splayed fingers creating
mist coronas around the tips. The darkness was absolute but she knew
it
was still out there. Her nose bumped against the glass at
the same time she saw its movements. The shadow was gargantuan—yet the bioluminescent light
flickering at its edges was still not
enough to discern its shape or size.

Thrumming resonated through the bathyscaphe. It was angry now.

The Altus bathyscaphe sat on the deck like a squat toad, the weighted
balance pods on each side curled like legs around the frame. The
bloated body was made of a metal sphere capable of withstanding the
immense pressure seven miles down at the bottom of the deepest part
of the ocean. Two super toughened plastic windows bulged like eyes
from the sphere, adding to the amphibian look. A technician buzzed
around the outside, fussing over the preparations.

Susan rubbed her nose, trying to stave off the threat of a headache
behind her eyes. “Are all the emergency procedures understood
and in place?”

“Yes, doctor.” Her assistant tapped his clipboard. “We’re
ready for anything. The emergency recall button can bring the sub
back even if there’s been a hull breach or if you’re, uh,
unconscious.”

“Thanks, Ed. With that, I’d say the pre-launch checklist
is complete. I’ll go suit up. Let’s be ready in five.”

“Doctor.” Ed shuffled his feet, clutching the clipboard
to his chest like a shield. “Don’t forget about those
anomalies we’ve seen on the scope. The instruments can’t
be working right, the size and speed of the blips—”

“Indicate a small malfunction on
this
vessel. Nothing to
worry about on the Altus. And who knows, maybe it’ll turn out
to be something new. That
is
why I’m going down there
after all.” Susan swapped the heated deck for the cool darkness
of her cabin, a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck.

Squeezing past a pile of her husband’s financial journals, she
pulled her diving suit from the closet. Designed to conserve her body
heat in the freezing ocean depths, it hugged her skin tightly,
exposing her aging body shape.

“Darling,” Richard hovered in the doorway, ducking his
head to enter. “Ed’s told me he’s worried about
some strange anomalies on the sonar … ” Richard’s
voice trailed off as he fiddled with a row of her awards screwed down
on the shelf, his short nails beating out a frustrated tattoo.

“It’s
because
of the anomalies I have to dive
today. I investigate this kind of thing, it’s what I do.”
She pulled at his arm, guiding him away from the shelf while her
other hand brushed imaginary marks off the well-polished trophies.

“It’s what you
did
,” Richard argued, his
face sullen. “Past tense. When we were both kids, flush with
the need for column inches and awards, we took risks, and then we’d
court the papers. But this rig is barely tested, and you’ve not
done a solo dive in over eight years. Why risk it, darling?”

Susan shivered, her gaze flicking to the row of plaques in front of
her.

The dates made her wince. Twenty years was a long time in her field.

She turned to face her husband, jaw set. “Because
we
,
and I use the world lightly since it’s all your family’s
money, sponsored the development of this bathyscaphe. Why wouldn’t
I want the chance to see things no one’s ever seen? Go deeper
into the ocean than anyone else ever has?”

“But tell me, is it about the research or is it the fame you
really
miss?” Richard asked.

Susan touched the gray at her temples. Why could he never understand
what she
needed
? Why did he always imply it was just vanity?
Pushing past him, she strode away, scarcely noticing him duck out of
the hatchway to follow her.

“Susan, darling, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

She stopped, hands clenched at her sides as she took deep breaths
“No, it is a good question. I don’t think I know which
one I want, either.”

She swung around and buried her face in his chest, breathing in great
whooping sighs; that familiar husband smell of cinnamon, cloves and
mint. His warmth flooded through her body, making her feel colder
still.

“We don’t need fame and excitement anymore. We’ve
got each other. What’s wrong with letting our old bones relax
in front of a fire now and then, eh, love?”

“Doctor Mason?” A male voice interrupted. “The
Altus is ready.”

Susan took one last deep breath of spices before letting go and
stepping back. “Coming, Ed.”

Bussing Richard’s cheek, Susan followed her assistant through
the ships clanging metal corridor out to the lower deck.

“Sir, will you do the honors?” Ed handed Richard the RED
video camera, handling it as he might a newborn.

Richard smiled at her, the strain only showing in his eyes. He held
the camera to his eye. “Whenever you’re ready, darling.”

Susan strode over to the Altus and paused, before sucking in her
stomach and turning towards Richard’s camera with a
professional smile.

“The last person to dive to these depths was Jacques Piccard in
1960. He got to a depth of almost eleven thousand meters; that’s
almost seven miles. It’s been over fifty years, and now we’re
ready to go a little deeper for much, much longer. To the deepest
part of the world’s oceans, the Marianas Trench. Today, I’m
going to see things no one has ever seen before. I’m going to
places no other human has ever been. And ... ” She tapped the
camera mounted on the sub behind her. “I’m taking you
with me.”

Her smile faded and she took a step forward. “Got that, dear?

Richard lowered the camera and kissed the top of her head. “Got
it. You looked fabulous.”