Bottled Abyss Read online

  In the frantic moment, he didn’t even know the oar’s shattered end had become so lethal; the Ferryman had lifted it reflexively as the big man fell on him.

  Please don’t be completely dead, he thought in a panic. Please.

  He took a fistful of the big man’s thick black hair and pulled his head back. The red crater where the big man’s eye had once been gave the Ferryman another pang of regret.

  The gray waters of the Styx poured from the bottle, so little left, yet still so vital…it filled the bloody puncture wound and flowed over the man’s face.

  The Ferryman waited for the eyes to open, for the chest to rise and fall, for the coin to come up from the throat.

  But a scarred voice broke through his feverish hope.

  “You know it’s too late, Charon. He crossed over without pay. That is the way now. He is gone.”

  The Fury stood in the darkness, its shark’s head hovering there, a scene from a maritime nightmare.

  “You leave me alone, traitor!”

  “Traitor?”

  “To us, to yourself,” the Ferryman spat. “We could have had worth again.”

  “Regardless, the man is dead. He cannot help your schemes any longer.”

  “Bah!”

  The Ferryman would not admit that, but it was now that he understood his own true intentions. The Fury had been correct. He wouldn’t have settled for another coin. He wanted more than that. The big man was going to be his conduit to the outside world.

  Now time was just about out.

  He looked at the man’s hulky frame. Not all his blood was dead yet. There was a chance he could take him outside to the same area the dog had bled—there was a hatchet. Some of the blood could be freed to hopefully find that last drop of Styx. Not a foolproof plan, but the only one available at this point.

  Glancing into the darkness, he found that the Fury had vanished. Good. Didn’t need him around to distract.

  He’d have to get the big man outside somehow.

  The Ferryman took the man by his thick wrists and tested his weight. It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t move the body. Besides a rope and an oar, the Ferryman had never lifted much of anything.

  Something stung in his arm as he tried to pull the big man again. The gash from the hatchet had almost completely closed now but there was still the lingering brackish scent of river water and fish. The Ferryman had never been damaged in such a way, so it was somewhat fascinating to study the innards, which also bore a reminder that he was indeed alive in this world, for however long that would be. The outer cavern already appeared to have closed-in on itself, the wide fan of sunlight on the stone floor now pale and rod shaped.

  He reevaluated the body again and snapped his rough fingers as it suddenly came to him. Hope renewed, he was happily off into the darkness to find his bedroll.

  From a distant corner the Fury’s black orbed shark eyes watched his every move. The thing hadn’t vanished after all.

  Don’t get distracted. You have to do this.

  The Ferryman hurried. With less light from the entrance, the rear cave had become more devoid of detail. Luckily, he had only to trace along the walls to find his bedroll. He returned, kicking aside and shattering clay coffers underfoot, pausing for nothing. At the corpse, he spread the bedroll just beneath its back. With a hard shove, the body rolled off its side onto it.

  He turned to laugh at the Fury, but it had vanished once more.

  Good, good, fine.

  The Ferryman took a deep breath. Gripping the straw-shot sides of the bedroll, he tugged. With a greater ease than he’d hoped for, the body slid across the smooth rock floor. He quickened his steps and pulled harder. An occasional stubborn pebble lodged underneath the bedroll kept the journey from being perfect, but really the Ferryman could have transported dead bodies all day in this fashion.

  Outside the cave proved more difficult. The shifting sands, weeds, and desert debris did not provide a surface conducive for transport. In no time at all, he was unintentionally ripping handfuls of straw out of the bedroll.

  The cave unexpectedly tugged at him. He’d left the bottle inside, but he could imagine the waters had thinned to less than an inch now. Once it was all evaporated, everything would cease again…

  He took a heartier grip of the bedroll and heaved the body on. Fortunately, the makeshift sleigh bent over some tall weeds and this provided a bridge. He glanced over his shoulder to the spot he’d marked yesterday with a circle of pebbles. The dog had bled there, so the drop of Styx had to be close. Somewhere.

  The one-eyed face stared up in quiet distress.

  “Almost there,” he whispered.

  In what was about ten feet, he managed to bring the body to the spot in little under half an hour. The sun ascended the sky, making for a bright and warm winter morning. He pulled out the bedroll and sighed gratefully for his minor victory.

  The Ferryman turned back for the cave, stumbled over a rock and guided his disoriented course through the weeds. A few sticks crackled and he shot a look behind him.

  Three coyotes surrounded the dead body.

  He immediately flew at them, flailing his arms. “You get! You get!”

  The coyotes broke apart in a nervous division of grays and browns. Their separation from the relatively fresh meal was tenuous though and they didn’t go much more than a few feet back. The Ferryman ran at them again and they did the same.

  “Stay away, bastards,” he hollered.

  The hungry need in their eyes reminded the Ferryman of his own need at the moment.

  The hand axe.

  He sprinted for the cave. There, he squirmed through the now narrow entrance, blinking through the darkness. He could hear a disruption of growls, snaps and gurgles coming from the coyotes.

  “Damn it to the Gods!” The sound of desperation vaulted through the cave.

  Where did the hand axe drop?

  He tried to retrace his encounter. He stood over the place he wagered had been the spot the man had fallen. The axe had dropped to the ground at this point. It should have been right here…

  The Ferryman got down on his knees and patted the invisible floor. More growls, squeals and fighting came from outside. He didn’t imagine he’d be lucky enough for the coyotes to bleed the body quick enough to soak the area. No, those blasted things would probably pull it somewhere else completely, if they didn’t just take choice pieces off to their dens.

  Light was rapidly failing. He swept his hands across the floor and felt his fingers brush the handle. He took the hand axe, pushed up and staggered for the entrance.

  The cavern had come together in a formation of stony fingers, some having merged together and others still inching outward. The space between those formations had narrowed less than a foot wide. He tried to go sideways through one opening but even his thin body couldn’t make it.

  There was no getting outside now.

  From the crevices he could see the coyotes’ wild feast, but had no say in the matter. The Ferryman struck the axe’s blade against the rock. Again and again. Sparks flew. Vibrations went through his arm down to his riverwood bones. This was the end for him.

  The end, all over again.

  The Fury swam up on its great serpent belly. It considered the last thrusts of sunlight coming into the cave. The creature couldn’t smile, but its voice hinted as much. “Did you enjoy the mortal world?”

  The Ferryman screamed.

  The bottle had gone empty and his fate was sealed. This cavern was a throat and it was slowly swallowing him now. Rocks would crush his body and send him back to the world of nothing-sleep.

  With a sob, he tossed the useless axe into the dark and crossed the cave, arriving to where he’d left his bottle, his first and last treasure in this universe.

  Emotionally: he was unhinged. Physically: he was agonizing. Mentally: he was grasping at all and nothing. Spiritually: he was not ready.

  For hours the Ferryman had watched his rock prison become le
ss and less. He’d squeezed into the last chamber left for him, just near the entrance. A ragged hole the size of a grapefruit was the only vista afforded to him now. He could see the hazy sky and the side of a nearby range of foothills. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. That, and his beloved bottle.

  The River is not deep, is not shallow,

  An Abyss is never bound,

  Not by up and down.

  He moaned and rested his head on his outstretched arm. With all his hateful thoughts of the Fury, he wished the monster would return to keep him company, to give him, he supposed, some meaning to still be.

  A scattering of rocks outside made him start and bump his head on the low ceiling. Next came the crackling of weeds and sticks. The Ferryman shifted his body as much as the cave would allow and poised the bottle before him.

  “Please,” he yelled. “I need help! I’m stuck in here.”

  He had to spill the waters on the person. Once that happened, they would renew, because another coin would be in existence…

  He tried to uncork the bottle with one hand with little success. The other hand had been long pinned at his side. He took the malodorous cork in between his teeth and yanked it off. All it would take was one sprinkle—then it would start all over again. Surely the Fury would not accuse him of stealing a life, not from such an accident like this.

  The sunlight fluxed outside.

  “Here, here!” he cried, giddy, but focused.

  The bottle possibly had only a drop left in it, but that was enough to exchange a death.

  He waited.

  “Hello?” he called.

  The bottle grew heavier, began to fill. His nostrils twisted at the scent. These waters were different… it wasn’t from the Styx.

  What’s happening?

  The Ferryman gasped and looked around. The cave also wasn’t retreating. How could this be?

  Nyx? Have you risen again? What is this new game you play, mother?

  Outside the hole, darkness loomed. Someone stood out there.

  “Help me, friend,” said the Ferryman, pushing the bottle out of the hole. He wagged it violently and the fresh waters sloshed inside.

  Fangs drove down into his hand and ripped it from side to side. He dropped the bottle and reflexively brought his hand back inside.

  One of those accursed coyotes…why should they want the bottle?

  The walls edged in. He could feel the ceiling pressing down on his skull.

  “Fury! Fury, please come back. Come back and say goodbye. Fury, I’m not mad anymore. This was great fun, wasn’t it?”

  A great stress built in the Ferryman’s head, such that he imagined a dam about to burst apart. Threads of river water and mutilated fish blood squeezed out from his wounds, flooding into his mouth, choking him. He could hear the squishing and cracking and realized it was his body making these sounds. One of his eyes went oblong from the pressure. The quivering orb finally burst and jetted across his arm in a warm slime. It was the last thing the Ferryman felt before a searing hot curtain of dark fell on everything.

  6

  Janet had her head pressed into the leather headrest and felt forever stuck there. Two days in the hospital and this house was alien. Looking at the façade was like bearing witness to one of those human zoo exhibits in a Twilight Zone episode. Here is where they live, folks. They’re shy right now, but keep watching and perhaps they may come out to get the mail, or better, we can peer through a window and see them inside, eating, shitting, fucking, drinking themselves to death. Such a noble animal, the human beast is.

  A strain of Lester’s rapid fire barking came from the backyard. Janet missed her dog. She needed to go be with him, cuddle up and go to sleep. Just sleep.

  Faye was on the phone with Evan. They’d been talking for a few minutes now but Janet hadn’t processed any of the conversation. She guessed they were still concerned about Herman. As long as they’d known him, they still didn’t know her husband the way she did. He was a good guy. He tried to be a good guy, for all his faults. However, when things got difficult, he left her alone. He ran. Even before Melody died, Herman became ghostlike when a burden weighed on those big shoulders of his.

  “The truck is still here, like you said. How much longer do we need to wait before we call the police?” Faye asked, the phone pressed hard to her dainty pink ear.

  Janet had heard enough. She popped the door open and put her hand out for the house keys. Evan had them earlier when he came to check on house again. Now Faye had them but she wouldn’t hand them over. Instead, she got out of the car herself, still talking to Evan.

  It’s my friggin’ house, thought Janet. She pushed the passenger door closed and its metal frame shocked her. “Ouch.”

  Faye froze, eyes widening as they appraised her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, the door.”

  Faye’s brow furrowed and she continued with Evan, “We’re going inside now…she’s okay. Sure, like we said, it all goes. I’m going to throw everything away, just like—yes, okay, when will you be here? Sure. Love you.” She put her phone into her sweatshirt pocket and gave three compulsive shakes of her key ring. “We’re going to get you cleaned up, get you back into fighting shape, babe.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Janet.

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Addressing the crisis boldly, that was the new Faye. Janet supposed she was partly to blame. Faye had been sort of a lost soul through much of her young adult years and had taken direction from Janet ever since meeting her in college. Now she was looking at a copy of the woman Faye thought Janet used to be, when by all accounts Faye had more nervous energy than Janet ever had. Everything was a mission that had to be carefully tasked out and pragmatically resolved. It was a silent competition that none but Faye could ever possibly enjoy the fruits of victory, if she even did.

  Despite loving and appreciating her friend dearly, Janet just wanted her gone. Faye was part of a world removed from the primary players in her life. Herman and Melody, even Evan all perched like protective gargoyles on the gothic skyscraper of her life. Little Faye, she was merely a pigeon that, while determined to keep busy and left its mark everywhere, could never have permanent residence with the other stone fixtures.

  Janet felt like a bitch for thinking this way, but she just wanted to curl up and be left alone. Hopefully Herman would return and she could wake up and…

  Thinking that mattered was a ruse. Janet didn’t know where to go from here. There had been a way out before but right now the thought of alcohol made her burp something up that tasted like the bottom of a barbecue pit. She would be lying to herself, after so many tries before, if she didn’t yearn for the sickness all over again.

  She didn’t know the rewards back when she was younger. A good drink could send you to a hazy place, make you forget how cold it was by warming you down to your soul, and in the aftermath of a binge, the suffering made moral sense. It was payment, wasn’t it? You can’t have something so joyous for nothing. Janet even began to look forward to throwing up and breaking out in cold sweats and even the hammering headaches. It made her feel terrible, which was what she deserved to feel every day until her miserable body quit.

  Here it was, a year after the murder, and she couldn’t resolve any of the guilt for insisting on taking Melody to that “award winning” daycare.

  Guilt was easy though. The anecdote to the pain was fast at hand.

  That is, until Faye started roaming around the kitchen with a trash bag, stuffing bottles of whiskey and vodka into its great black hole of a mouth.

  Janet rubbed the raw feeling in her forehead. It hurt to talk after having tubes down her throat but this was worth it. “What are you doing, Faye?”

  “Cold turkey, babe.” Faye stooped near an open cupboard. She pulled out a bottle of cooking sherry, looked at it for a moment, then stashed it. “You made it out of the hospital and you’re never going back. Evan and I, and Herman, we’re all going to help you get better
. I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner. I wanted to give you time, you know,” a sampler of Jim Beam struck the other bottles inside the bag, making Janet flinch, “and I think that was a big mistake. I should have been a better friend.”

  “It was an accident. I forgot how much I drank earlier that night. I thought I could handle it. I won’t drink like that ever again. I’m not a drunk. You know that.”

  Faye stood and the bag made her sway from its weight. “Any hiding places?”

  Janet rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and search this house if you like. I’m going to feed Lester and then I’m going to damn sleep.”

  “Great idea.” Faye marched off on her mission, trash bag wagging on the carpet behind her.

  “Fuck,” Janet breathed, heading for the laundry room. As if I even need hiding places with Herman always gone.

  She grabbed a can of dog food from the cupboard over the washing machine. As she pulled off the lid, the metallic rasp, followed by the rich odor gave her a nauseating chill and another charcoal burp surfaced in the back of her throat. She smacked her dry lips together. Water would be a nice, but it could make her throw up again too.

  Janet opened the back door and was surprised Lester didn’t nearly knock her down as usual. Across the yard, she saw the Border Collie in the threshold of his doghouse, but though his ears were at attention and his eyes were bright and keen, he didn’t move.

  “Les, come and get it.” She shook out the gravy laden meat chunks into the crusty dish. It needed to be cleaned, like everything else in this house, but she didn’t have the energy, and Herman wasn’t home.

  He still wasn’t.

  His wife could be as cold as a popsicle in the morgue and he wouldn’t have even known. Then again, after all she’d put him through, could she really blame him?

  “Lester.” She suddenly reconnected to the moment. “Lester, get your butt over here and eat!”