Blood Fugue Read online

  As the fire burned down to red embers she fetched the old tin wash tub she’d hidden under a dustsheet. The metal of the tub had been scrubbed clean and all the rust removed. It shone with a dull gleam when she positioned it in front of the fire. She placed two wooden chairs, one on either side of the tub, facing towards it.

  She woke Danny with difficulty.

  ‘Come on. Up you get.’ she said

  ‘I can’t do it anymore,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, just sit in this chair.’

  ‘No. I’m tired.’

  ‘Get up, Danny.’

  Finding himself impelled by something in her voice, Danny sat up with his head hanging towards his chest.

  ‘Go sit in the chair.’

  Reeling and stumbling, he did as she’d asked him. She roused Alfie in a similar way. The boys sat facing one another in their chairs with the tub between them. Danny lost consciousness and began to slump to one side.

  ‘Up straight!’

  As if hoisted, he sat up, his head still lolling.

  Gina retrieved her chopsticks and approached the inebriated pair. She touched each of their foreheads and spoke a word in a snarled unrecognisable tongue. They became rigid and immobile. Leaning over Danny she licked the skin a couple of inches below his sternum numbing it with the secretions from her tongue. She placed the thicker end of one of the chopsticks against him. Though it would have looked solid to a casual observer, it was hollow; a tapering steel tube painted black. Its tip was cut at an angle like a quill or a hypodermic needle but it was broad; the width of an index finger at the end that touched him, slimming to the width of a straw at the other.

  Using her thumbnail as a scalpel, she incised a tiny opening in Danny’s skin and through this she pressed the tube deeply into him. Once past the superficial tissues, the nerves were less reactive. She knew Danny wouldn’t feel much. She pushed until she felt a firm resistance with a strong pulse. The broad end of the tube was now touching Danny’s aorta. She put a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle and then performed the same operation on Alfie. She stood back, hands on hips, impressed with her work.

  ‘You can wake up now, guys.’

  Their eyes snapped open, but they were bloodshot and glazed from the booze and pot, ringed and tired from their exertions.

  ‘What is this thing?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Fuck, man. Is this . . . ?’ Alfie struggled to make sense of what he was looking at. ‘Is this thing inside me?’

  ‘Hey, Alfie, I can’t move, man. I’m stuck.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, Gina?’

  They saw themselves naked and immobile in their chairs. They saw each other. They saw a steel tube protruding from their stomachs, pointing down towards the tin washtub. They saw the tubes bouncing in time with their pulses like thin steel erections.

  ‘You’ve had your fun. Now I’m going to have mine.’ Still naked but for her boots, Gina sat down in the tub between the boys. ‘I’ll give you some advice. The louder you scream and the more frightened you become, the higher your blood pressure will rise and the quicker you’ll bleed. So, seeing as you are both going to die, freaking the fuck out is probably the best policy.’

  She placed a palm against each tube. Alfie and Danny were already screaming but neither of them was able to move anything but their mouths.

  ‘I feel dirty, guys,’ said Gina Priestly. ‘It must be time for my bath.’

  With a swift punching action, she rammed her palms outward and drove the tubes simultaneously through the walls of their aortas, provoking a half-screamed ‘hunh’ from both boys.

  Taking her palms away from the ends of the tubes, her bath began to fill immediately, though much of the blood that jetted from the tubes splashed over her shoulders and hair first. She opened her mouth, catching some and swallowing it. The warmth of it washed down over her and began to collect in the base of the tub. She slithered her behind in its slick stickiness and was once again aroused. With wet red fingers she rubbed her swollen sex and laughed.

  For such young, fit men, Alfie and Danny had very high blood pressure.

  Chapter 12

  The backpack slipped and slapped against him as Kerrigan jogged away from the cabin. He adjusted the straps and glanced constantly to his left and right, tense and skittish.

  The crisp morning air chilled his face but he knew he’d soon be sweating. An undernourished pre-dawn light illuminated the dirt road between the trees, making every object monochrome grey. The usual tinges of twilight purple were nowhere to be seen. He relaxed a little.

  Still, it was dark enough that a careless step could topple him or cause him a nasty sprain. He focused a few feet ahead of himself, watching for uneven patches in the trail. Running became the only sensation. His body rubbing against the material of his clothes, the backpack moving against his spine, the sound of his breathing and the crunching thump, thump, thump of his footfalls on the rough ground. Somewhere in that percussion, he found a rhythm and stuck to it.

  At the Clearing he turned right onto the Eastern Path where the trail was closer on both sides but still wide. The trees enveloped him and for a while it became almost dark again. An ache began in his legs. He ran through a stitch and rasping lungs. Once those discomforts had passed, Kerrigan felt like he’d never done anything in his life except run and he knew that he could run all day. His nostrils filled with the waxy scent of pine needles. His body loosened, the day brightened, his strength grew.

  He picked up the pace.

  An hour after leaving the cabin Kerrigan reached the fork that gave him the choice between Trapper’s Trail and the continuation of the Eastern Path. On any other day, he’d have taken Trapper’s Trail, broken through the tree line and headed for the steep paths and open skies of Bear Mountain. That would remain a luxury for another day.

  He broke to the right and the forest closed in on him.

  Branches had grown across the trail causing him to sidestep and dodge as he ran. From time to time dead pines leaned into his path making him duck. Twice he came across trunks that had fallen across the trail like gates. He jumped the first near its root without testing his leg muscles but the second was an impasse. It spanned the trail like a wall and at its lowest point the branches reached ten feet into the air. Some kind of madness made Kerrigan keep running when he saw it.

  Part of him balked, refusing, but another part, suddenly much stronger than all his fears, willed his body onward. As he approached, the tree loomed vast in front of him. He accelerated to a speed that seemed impossible. At the last moment, he leapt and soared high over the huge fallen pine. His boots didn’t even scrape the branches. It was like flying. He whooped a call of triumph into the woods and landed without breaking his stride.

  The sun was overhead by then and Kerrigan smiled as he ran. Ecstasy overtook him as he sprinted onwards, dodging or vaulting every obstacle.

  Kerrigan felt the imprints of the Jimenez family, each of them, on the ground and in the air long before he saw any signs of them. They were alive — at least, they’d been alive at this point in their journey. Kerrigan could feel their fear too, especially that of Carla.

  Why? What has she seen?

  A couple of miles beyond where he first sensed the family’s passing, he found a break in the trees to his right. Beyond was a tunnel through low branches, ferns and thorny undergrowth. He could see they’d used a machete to gain access to the choked trail. No more than a few paces within, cocooned by thick plant life, the path was almost totally dark.

  Kerrigan placed his backpack on the ground outside the newly broken trail and removed a bottle of water and a sandwich. He was immediately ravenous. As he unwrapped the sandwich, he remembered the envelope and pulled it out of his pack. Once more, he removed the folded sheets and found it was the first page — Burt’s letter — that was impossible to decipher.

  All the other pages were now clear to him.

  He sat down; his heart still hammeri
ng from exertion, his breathing laboured, and began to read while the sensation of intensity still electrified his body. The words he saw written there were enough to make him forget his hunger. He had a strong sense of the man who had written those words; he felt an intimacy in them that he didn’t feel for anyone, not even Burt and Kath.

  Little one, you do not even have a name and I have left you to the whims of the forest. If you survive you will read this, perhaps in anger. Please believe that I had no choices left.

  I have sent strong images to the minds of the childless in Hobson’s Valley in the hope that they will come walking this way and find you before the animals or the frost end your tender new life.

  But, if you are found and adopted I know you will return to this valley and take up your rightful place as its protector. It is not a happy task nor is it an easy one. It is, however, in your blood and, above all else, it is your duty.

  I am an old man now. I have guarded the people of this valley for many decades though they do not know it and, most of the time, neither do I. There is a disease here that has existed for generations immemorial. It is called Fugue and it causes its hosts to hunger for the liquids, and particularly the blood, of living creatures. You and I are infected with a similar disease, Lethe, a counterpart illness that equips us with the means to destroy or heal Fugues.

  Fugue is a sickness. This is true of your uniqueness too, child. I introduced Lethe to your blood and you must learn to live with it and manage it. Fugues will not do this. You must do it for them.

  A Fugue hunter should pass his responsibilities on, before he becomes vulnerable, and allow his successor to release him. I was proud and I waited too long. Now I face not death as my end but something far darker. The very Fugue I have been destroying all my life now infects my blood and, though I can save others from such contamination, I can do nothing to prevent myself from developing the disease.

  I have therefore used my knowledge to pass the Lethe into your blood so that there is someone to succeed me. It is a bad decision to choose you this way; ordinarily, each Fugue Hunter takes a pupil and trains them. But the Lethe will show itself in your blood, nonetheless, and you will heed its call. You are nature’s ally, the living antidote to a parasite that threatens all life. This power you carry comes at a cost. It will make an outsider of you and you will live much of your life in fear — of the dark, of things you are unable to name. And you will forget your gift when it is not awake in your blood.

  The pattern is similar for Fugues. No one knows they feed on living fluids, least of all themselves. Many of them only feed once in several weeks or months, but they must drink eventually and the longer they leave it the fiercer their ultimate attack will be. When threatened or unfed for too long, Fugues develop a higher phase of illness known as Rage. Rage feeders will be your greatest challenge.

  Your own mother was killed, drained white by a Raging Fugue, before I could prevent it. I brought you to the forest and passed my power to you before leaving you here to be discovered. By now you will have powers and abilities that most men would sell their souls for. Lethe is entwined with your blood, with your soul. You can but answer its call. Like Fugue it is too powerful to resist.

  Through instinct alone, you will use ritual and diet to keep yourself purified for battle. You will understand how to craft fetishes to stun Fugues into unconsciousness so that you can release them from the disease. These fetishes are called binders and are similar to the dream catchers made by the people who lived here long before we came. They were the first to fight Fugue and we have inherited that duty from them. In difficult situations you will have the use of more powerful weapons; a staff for controlling and subduing Fugues and a tomahawk for when your only alternative is to destroy them. The understanding of all of this exists within you already. When your life is threatened or the odds against you are great, you will enter your own higher phase of Lethe. It is called Fury.

  As Kerrigan read he noticed a change in the light of the day and looked up but it was only a cloud passing across the sun. A few seconds later it was gone, the brightness returning. The words of the language in front of him made sense. Total sense. He began to make connections between the letter and almost every inexplicable or difficult aspect of his life.

  Fugue is particular to this valley. You must keep it that way. If a carrier ever escapes Hobson’s Valley you will be responsible for the spread of the disease to other places. Were that to happen, Fugue would become uncontrollable. Life everywhere would be threatened.

  When I turn, as I inevitably will, you will be the one to come and deal with me. I only pray that I can control my sickness until you are old enough to do the job. I will be here waiting in the forest and I will not welcome you. The longer I prevent myself from feeding the worse my hunger will become and the greater my desire to kill and spread Fugue.

  Each time a Fugue feeds they become more powerful and versatile. Each time you cleanse or destroy a Fugue you too will become more powerful but ultimately you will become old and frail like any human being and the Lethe will change; it will become Fugue. Before this happens you must do what I did not; you must take a pupil, a willing one if possible, and you must introduce Lethe into their body so that they can take your place. As long as there is Fugue, there must be a Fugue Hunter

  Your duty is to release me, destroy me if you must. But, I beg you, end the sickness that already threatens to steal my mind and my desires.

  End it well, child.

  Kerrigan’s heart rate slowed and the endorphin rush from running abated. Fatigue and weakness settled over him and the words on the page became indistinct.

  As the skill of understanding disappeared so did his memory of what he’d known only moments before. All Kerrigan could remember was leaving the cabin in the darkness before dawn and being full of fear.

  PART II: INFECTION

  ‘There is no disease for which God did not also provide a cure.’

  10th century Persian proverb.

  Chapter 13

  Stale cigarette smoke and the taint of spilled beer choked the air conditioning. Hard rock, soft rock and the occasional fifties tune sprang like genies from the jukebox. The barman was lecherous, the drinks cheap and familiar, but there were compensations. Mulligan’s was the only bar in Hobson’s Valley dedicated to hardnosed drinking and that was what Amy Cantrell was in the mood for.

  Sure, she could get a drink at Segar’s cabin but she didn’t want to sit alone in there and get approached by the same old losers or partially available men. She didn’t want to see Jimmy Kerrigan either. Although it was rare, he did sometimes eat in Segar’s on his own and they’d made a couple of trips there in their time together.

  During the course of our relationship.

  That wasn’t accurate enough. Association was better, but she preferred to think of the connection as having existed over a period of time.

  Eighteen months.

  Not that it was an eighteen-month relationship. If she added up the time they’d actually spent together, she figured it was about four weeks.

  She laughed out loud.

  ‘Want to share the gag?’

  The barman smiled as he wiped a glass clean and replaced it next to a hundred others. Amy watched him for a moment and picked up everything she needed to know. He was a man who took advantage of drunks and lonely women, ready to say a supportive word or two if it spread someone’s legs or opened their wallet one more time.

  ‘I would if I thought there was anyone in here that might get it,’ she said. ‘I’ll take another draft instead.’

  Neon signs for Miller and Bud lit the bar and behind it glass-fronted coolers presented ranks of icy bottles. Above them liquor brands gleamed their pale and golden colours and the TV mounted over the countertop flashed silent images into the smoky room.

  Amy liked the song and she swayed to it on her barstool. Brash, powerful drums and grinding guitars vibrated in her chest. She drank. Closing her eyes she absorbed the grav
elly voice of the singer. The buzz from the beer took hold and she felt lighter, more alive than she had since she’d finished it with Jimmy. The passion of the song grew and she gave in to it a little more.

  God, Jimmy, why did you have to be so weird with me, honey?

  It had been hard to let him go. Jimmy didn’t love her and she knew she only wanted to love him, but there’d been something between them. Was it the sex? Maybe that really was all it added up to. But good sex added up to a lot. Jimmy had made her feel things she’d never felt with any other man. He’d made her do things she’d never done before too, and it was all good. But he couldn’t handle the day after in any meaningful kind of way. She’d given him so many chances.

  ‘God damn.’

  The barman glanced her way and left it at that when he saw the look on her face. She was remembering how he’d pissed himself. Like a little boy.

  She looked around and sighed. Sitting alone in a bar going backwards wasn’t going to help. She drained the glass and reached down for the purse at her feet.

  ‘You’re not leaving now, are you?’

  A girl with untamed dark hair and moon pale skin stood beside her at the bar. Amy was drawn to the girl’s eyes; irises of forest green fractured by shards of sunlight orange. The girl was young but her eyes were ancient. All Amy could do was stare.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to come over for a while, but I was too afraid,’ said the girl.

  ‘Afraid?’ Amy frowned. ‘Of what?’