Cabal. Clive Barker
He was running, as prey had always run when the hungry were on their heels, but it was a race he couldn’t win.
He stopped. He turned.
Peloquin was five or six yards behind him, his body still human, naked and vulnerable, but the head entirely bestial, the mouth wide and ringed with teeth like thorns. He too stopped running, perhaps expecting Boone to draw a weapon. When none was forthcoming, he raised his arms towards his victim. Behind him, Jackie stumbled into view, and Boone had his first glimpse of the man. Or was it men? There were two faces on his lumpen head, the features of both utterly distorted; eyes dislodged so they looked everywhere but ahead, mouths collided into a single gash, noses slits without bones. It was the face of a freak show foetus.
Jackie tried one last appeal, but Peloquin’s outstretched arms were already transforming from fingertip to elbow, their delicacy giving way to formidable power.
Before the muscle was fixed he came at Boone, leaping to bring his victim down. Boone fell before him. It was too late now to regret his passivity. He felt the claws tear at his jacket to bare the good flesh of his chest. Peloquin raised his head and grinned, an expression this mouth was not made for; then he bit. The teeth were not long, but many. They hurt less than Boone had expected until Peloquin pulled back, tearing away a mouthful of muscle, taking skin and nipple with it.
The pain shocked Boone from resignation; he began to thrash beneath Peloquin’s weight. But the beast spat the morsel from its maw and came back for better, exhaling the smell of blood in its prey’s face. There was reason for the exhalation; on its next breath it would suck Boone’s heart and lungs from his chest. He cried out for help, and it came. Before the fatal breath could be drawn Jackie seized hold of Peloquin and dragged him from his sustenance. Boone felt the weight of the creature lifted, and through the blur of agony saw his champion wrestling with Peloquin, their thrashing limbs intertwined. He didn’t wait to cheer the victor. Pressing his palm to the wound on his chest, he got to his feet.
There was no safety for him here; Peloquin was surely not the only occupant with a taste for human meat. He could feel others watching him as he staggered through the necropolis, waiting for him to falter and fall so they could take him with impunity.
Yet his system, traumatized as it was, didn’t fail. There was a vigour in his muscles he’d not felt since he’d done violence to himself, a thought that repulsed him now as it had never before. Even the wound, throbbing beneath his hand, had its life, and was celebrating it. The pain had gone, replaced not by numbness but by a sensitivity that was almost erotic, tempting Boone to reach into his chest and stroke his heart. Entertained by such nonsenses he let instinct guide his feet and it brought him to the double gates. The latch defeated his blood-slicked hands so he climbed, scaling the gates with an ease that brought laughter to his throat. Then he was off up towards Midian, running not for fear of pursuit but for the pleasure his limbs took in usage, and his senses in speed.
The town was indeed empty, as he’d known it must be. Though the houses had seemed in good shape at half a mile’s distance, closer scrutiny showed them to be much the worse for being left unoccupied for the cycle of seasons. Though the feeling of well being still suffused him, he feared that loss of blood would undo him in time. He needed something to bind his wound, however primitive. In search of a length of curtaining, or a piece of forsaken bedlinen, he opened the door of one of the houses and plunged into the darkness within.
He hadn’t been aware, until he was inside, how strangely attenuated his senses had become. His eyes pierced the gloom readily, discovering the pitiful debris the sometime tenants had left behind, all dusted by the dry earth years of prairie had borne in through broken window and the ill-fitting door. There was cloth to be found; a length of damp stained linen that he tore between teeth and right hand into strips while keeping his left upon the wound.
He was in that process when he heard the creak of boards on the stoop. He let the bandaging drop from his teeth. The door stood open. On the threshold a silhouetted man, whose name Boone knew though the face was all darkness. It was Decker’s cologne he smelt; Decker’s heartbeat he heard; Decker’s sweat he tasted on the air between them.
‘So,’ said the doctor. ‘Here you are.’
There were forces mustering in the starlit street. With ears preternaturally sharp Boone caught the sound of nervous whispers, and of wind passed by churning bowels, and of weapons cocked ready to bring the lunatic down should he try to slip them.
‘How did you find me?’ he said.
‘Narcisse, was it?’ Decker said. ‘Your friend at the hospital?’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I’m afraid so. He died fighting.’
Decker took a step into the house.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said. ‘What did you do to yourself?’
Something prevented Boone from replying. Was it that the mysteries of Midian were so bizarre he’d not be believed? Or that their nature was not Decker’s business? Not the latter surely. Decker’s commitment to comprehending the monstrous could not be in doubt. Who better then to share the revelation with? Yet he hesitated.
‘Tell me,’ Decker said again. ‘How did you get the wound?’
‘Later,’ said Boone.
‘There’ll be no later. I think you know that.’
‘I’ll survive,’ Boone said. ‘This isn’t as bad as it looks. At least it doesn’t feel bad.’
‘I don’t mean the wound. I mean the police. They’re waiting for you.’
‘I know.’
‘And you’re not going to come quietly, are you?’
Boone was no longer sure. Decker’s voice reminded him so much of being safe, he almost believed it would be possible again, if the doctor wanted to make it so.
But there was no talk of safety from Decker now. Only of death.
‘You’re a multiple murderer, Boone. Desperate. Dangerous. It was tough persuading them to let me near you.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘I’m glad too,’ Decker replied. ‘I wanted a chance to say goodbye.’
‘Why does it have to be this way?’
‘You know why.’
He didn’t; not really. What he did know, more and more certainly, was that Peloquin had told the truth.
You’re not Nightbreed, he’d said.
Nor was he; he was innocent.
‘I killed nobody,’ he murmured.
‘I know that,’ Decker replied.
‘That’s why I couldn’t remember any of the rooms. I was never there.’
‘But you remember now,’ Decker said.
‘Only because – ’ Boone stopped, and stared at the man in the charcoal suit. ‘ – because you showed me.’
‘Taught you,’ Decker corrected him.
Boone kept staring, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t the one in his head. It couldn’t be Decker. Decker was Reason, Decker was Calm.
‘There are two children dead in Westlock tonight,’ the doctor was saying. ‘They’re blaming you.’
‘I’ve never been to Westlock,’ Boone protested.
‘But I have,’ Decker replied. ‘I made sure they saw the pictures; the men out there. Child murderers are the worst. It’d be better you died here