Strange Eons (24 page)

“Then you really don’t know anything about your background?”

“Nary a hint. The last name—Dixon—was Moybridge’s mother’s maiden name. He made it mine, legally, when he took me into custody. He had the old place on Los Feliz then and Mrs. Grimes, his housekeeper, looked after me. Those were the years when he was building up his law practice, but he always found time for me. Like I said, I was lucky.

“I remember how pleased he was when I took up journalism at UCLA. He had an in with somebody downtown and helped me get on the paper after I graduated. Then he bought the new house and I moved into my own apartment. But there were no hard feelings; he encouraged me to be on my own. We kept in touch, and whenever I had a problem he was ready to help. Until this thing about the Black Brotherhood—”

Laurel frowned. “I’ve never read his book, but from what you’ve told me he must have done a lot of work on it.”

“That’s right. He started researching while I was still in school. It took him years to finish the thing.”

“I see.” Laurel looked thoughtful. “But what got him into it in the first place? Did he have friends who were interested, someone who suggested he write it?”

“Not that I know of. But while he was working on it, he scarcely talked of anything else. By the time he did the final draft he hardly even bothered with his practice—junior partners at the office took over. Then, after the book was published, he seemed to lose interest. He got back to business, bought this new place, and settled in. I don’t think either of us ever mentioned Lovecraft again until tonight.” Mark twirled the empty glass between his fingers. “Now, suddenly, this outburst. Threats. Warnings. Why?”

“Did you stop to think it’s only natural for him to be concerned with your welfare?” Laurel said. “Up to now you haven’t had anything to do with this Black Brotherhood business. Now you’re involved and he’s worried.”

“Then why does he deny that the Black Brotherhood even exists? Why is he lying about what’s happening? Does he know something we don’t?”

Laurel shrugged. “Everyone’s edgy these days. It’s not just the terrorist thing, either. Look at all those items about continental shifting, or whatever it is. I was reading something in a news magazine just the other day about nuclear waste polluting the atmosphere and changing the climate—what they call the ‘greenhouse effect.’ They say we may be due for another series of earthquakes like the ones twenty-five years ago or even worse.” She smiled. “Of course, I don’t believe all those predictions about the end of the world.”

“Neither do I.” Mark rose. “But perhaps Moybridge does. Maybe he knows a secret.”

“You mustn’t let it get to you, darling.” Laurel stood up. “Look, it’s really quite late—”

Mark put his glass down on the coffee table, then moved to Laurel and took her in his arms. Her lips had the faint flavor of cleansing cream, but that in no way decreased the sudden, surprising surge of pressure in his loins as he held her slight form close. His hands were already fumbling with the buttons of her robe.

“Mark—stop—anyone in the street can see us—”

“Not in the bedroom.”

He led her there, and this time the robe came off.

The exotic face, mirroring the mix inherited from an Irish father and Japanese mother, stared up at him with a hint of teasing mockery.

“I thought you had a headache.”

“Yes. But I’m counting on you to cure it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Laurel murmured.

Pulling him down upon the bed, she kept her promise.

Darkness. First solid, then spreading to surround him—a cascade of cold, an icy wave combing a frozen sea to crest and crash upon the shore of night, blotting out sight and sound and sensation—

“Mark—wake up!”

He opened his eyes to stare at the swaying shadows on the bedroom ceiling as Laurel shook him into awareness.

No, it wasn’t Laurel. The room itself was shaking. And from all around the rumbling echoed in a rising roar.

“Earthquake!”

He rose swiftly, pulling the girl to her feet as the floorboards throbbed and groaned.

“Outside—hurry!”

Laurel scooped up a robe and slippers from the chair beside the bed as he grabbed his own shoes and crumpled clothing. Then they stumbled down the hall into the living room; from the bedroom behind came the sound of shattering glass. As they ran toward the door, a lamp toppled and pictures spun from swaying walls to smash against the floor.

Now the entire house was shaking as though in the grip of a gigantic hand as Mark tugged against the front door, straining to force it ajar. The barrier gave way; he thrust Laurel through the opening and followed her into the fog-filled night beyond.

Behind them the invisible hand tightened and squeezed; there was a burst of implosion as a portion of the roof gave way.

They ran together across the heaving lawn, seeking the safety of the street.

“Look out!” Laurel screamed.

Glancing up, Mark saw the globe of the streetlight spiraling down amidst a shower of sparks, which vanished in the thick fog.

“Get to the car!” Mark shouted.

But his car was no longer at the curb. Peering to his right, he saw it lodged sideways against the concrete embankment at the deadend, its hood buckled beneath a fallen telephone pole. A nimbus of light flickered around it, turning the fog green as the thrashing power lines whipped crackling tentacles about the trapped vehicle.

Suddenly a warning hiss sounded against the background of distant rumbling and then the greenish glimmer turned red as the car exploded into flame.

Something hurtled overhead and Mark pushed Laurel down as they stared into the crimson mist. Trickles of gasoline had spread across lawn and pavement and they too were turning red as fire flared forth to consume them. Soon it would reach the house beyond, and then—

Mark rose, turning left toward the street entrance. Here a tree had fallen with power-line wires tangled in its branches. Now it too was beginning to burn, blazing up to bar their way.

The only avenue of escape lay straight ahead across the street, where the wall of Parkland Cemetery rose behind the thick veil of mingled fog and darkness.

Without a word Mark started forward, gripping Laurel’s hand in his own. At least they’d be safe there in the open, if he could manage to scale the stone wall surrounding the graveyard.

Moving to the far side of the street through the swirl of fog he saw that the problem had vanished, together with a portion of the wall itself. A wide breach yawned at their right where one section had collapsed and given way.

He nodded at the girl. “Come on—before the fire spreads—”

They clambered over the rubble beneath the opening, then stood, spent and silent, at the edge of the fogbound tract beyond.

“I think it’s over,” Laurel murmured. “Listen—”

Mark nodded. The rumbling noise was fading in the distance and the vibration beneath their feet had halted.

He took a deep breath, watching Laurel button her robe and tighten the sash around her waist. Suddenly he was conscious of the chill enveloping his own body, and of the bundled clothing clutched in his left hand. He dressed hastily, slipping his shoes over bare, bruised feet. Behind them sounded the telltale crackle of rising flame, but he didn’t look back. Escape lay ahead, through the fog-filled trees. And now that the quake had died—

Died.

Laurel sensed it too, because her hand was shaking as she touched his shoulder.

“I don’t like graveyards,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Can’t risk the street now,” he said. “Not with those power lines down. We’ll just cut straight across here to the main gate on the boulevard side.”

“Do we have to? I’m frightened—”

“Be thankful we got away in time,” he told her. “At least we’re safe here. Come on, take my hand.”

Her trembling fingers closed about his own as they started forward, moving between the trees and down a fog-wreathed gravel path, which wound its way between mounded graves and tilted headstones. The fog was thicker here; it hung over the silent cemetery in an all-encompassing shroud.

Suddenly Laurel gasped and tugged at Mark’s wrist, pulling him back.

He glanced down quickly, staring into the open pit directly before him.

The invisible hand had been at work here too—uprooting markers and headstones, clawing at the graves beneath them. Great fissures slashed in all directions through the sandy soil, ripping deep into the earth.

Gazing down into the grave ahead, Mark saw the splintered casket, its oaken lid torn free. He stared at what lay within—and through the swirl of fog a grinning skull stared back, its empty eye-sockets phosphorescent in the night.

Laurel made a sound in her throat, then turned away, pulling at his hand. Swerving to avoid the opening, they started forward.

Now, as they quickened their pace, the furrows were all around them. Shards of shattered urns lay scattered amidst the toppled tombstones; they slowed again to circle other disemboweled graves, but neither paused to peer at what lay within.

They were off the gravel pathway now, moving through a maze of fog and pitfall. Mark peered at crushed cenotaphs and cracked monuments, then almost stumbled over the statue of an angel with broken wings.

They were reaching the heart of the cemetery, the century-old section where marble mausoleums rose and granite tombs still stood. But these were not entirely intact; in many instances the quake had wrenched the ornate wrought-iron grilles and gates from their doorways. And radiating from them, in all directions, were the deep furrows in the earth.

The yawning grave.
For the first time Mark knew the meaning of the phrase; the meaning and the menace. Laurel panted beside him as they leaped to span the crevasses, moving past the openings that led to the domains of death. It was a shambles, and now he noted the acrid reek of decay arising from the furrows to mingle with the clammy fog.

But worst of all was the silence, the deadly silence of mounting, muting mist, of night and nightmare, broken only by Mark’s labored gasps and those of his companion.

And by the
other
sound.

A dog was barking in the distance. Its bay rose faintly from somewhere behind them in the darkness. And then came the padding, scraping noise, echoing through the night as the barking deepened.

Mark halted, glancing back through the fog. He saw nothing, but the sound was louder now. Laurel heard it too and her cold hand tightened on his wrist.

“Something’s coming!” she cried. And then, as she turned to stare into the mist behind, “Oh my God—”

Mark saw it then, or thought he did.

A dim shape rising out of the heaped-up earth at the edge of a furrow; a hint of head and shoulders silhouetted against the fog, twisting sideways so that the canine muzzle came clearly into view. A gigantic dog loomed up from the fissure to peer—then disappear.

Or was it?

Dogs bark, but their bay does not dissolve into laughter.

And now the cackling rose, and something slithered forward along the fog-filled furrow.

Laurel screamed and suddenly her hand pulled free. Before Mark realized her intention she was running, racing blindly into the fog beyond.

“Stop!” Mark shouted. But the running figure vanished in the darkness, moving toward a cluster of tombs rising on a mound above the furrows radiating from it.

Not
furrows. These were
burrows.

The realization came with icy clarity. A quake might rend the earth, but it could not fashion what lay hidden below—the regular pattern of tunnels crisscrossing the cemetery six feet beneath its surface; hundreds of tunnels clawed through the clay in a century of effort, by things that moved from grave to grave in search of—

Sustenance.

Mark plunged forward through the fog, shouting. “Laurel—wait—come back!”

There was no response, and no way of glimpsing the girl through the mist-filled darkness swirling around the tomb mouths ahead.

But now again he heard the cackling; it came from somewhere ahead, from the mound where the open fissures converged on the tombs. And for a single instant he caught a glimpse of the canine snout rising out of the earth, followed by a body that loped and bounded upright on two splayed legs, with grotesquely elongated arms or forepaws avidly extended.

Then it was gone, swallowed by the dark, just as Laurel had been.

“Laurel!” he called, and as he did so, glanced down just in time to avoid dropping into one of the tunnel openings. Then he was racing up the mound where the tombs loomed in the fog-chilled night.

“Laurel—where are you?”

The answer came in a scream, rising from the mouth of a mausoleum to the left.

As he started toward it the scream halted abruptly, but now the cackling echo rose, followed by an indescribable sound: a mingled snarling and gurgling.

Mark ran across the slanting slope, eyes glued on the open doorway ahead so that he did not see the toppled headstone in his path.

He tripped and fell forward, striking his forehead against the granite with a force that stunned him. For a long moment sight and sound faded as he fought to retain consciousness. Then he lay gasping as his vision cleared again and he felt the sudden throbbing in his temples, the piercing pain in neck and shoulders. But he wasn’t bleeding and he could see and hear clearly once more. He staggered to his feet, staring at the doorway of the tomb, forcing himself to focus attention on whatever sound might echo from within.

But all was silent now. Mark moved closer, then halted at the entrance as he strained to sense what lay beyond.

Silence and darkness.

Somehow he knew that whatever had found its way here had departed, vanishing while he had lain unseen on the slope where he had fallen.

“Laurel?” Softly he called her name, but there was no reply.

Mark took a deep breath.

Then, cautiously, step by step, he passed through that dark doorway, into the noisome blackness. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone floor of the mausoleum. Pressing his right hand against the cold marble of the wall to guide his way, he moved forward into an unseen realm of reeking stench and icy chill. Once again he whispered Laurel’s name.