Year's Best Weird Fiction, Volume 5 Read online

  I give him back my memory of that moment—why did he never look?—and then I let him feel my anguish watching over him, a shadow, since that day.

  Kanku reaches for me then, and sudden as a crashing wave we are one person, whole, together as the day we were conceived. The feel of home and aftertaste of family dinners sitting around the foufou bowl and pondue bowl and plate of fish wisps slowly through my mind. And when we realize it, we startle, shocked as one: the feeling doesn’t come from us—it comes from somewhere else.

  Mama.

  The pull is there, sudden, deep: Mama’s waiting, family’s waiting there for us, elsewhere—the afterlife she spoke of?—and this elsewhere place is good.

  Izzy passes through us, phone in hand. She’s checking Baba’s pulse, face wet. She doesn’t feel us, and my presence in this place begins to fade as I reach toward this elsewhere. But when I let myself drift up toward Mama, I’m alone.

  I stop.

  Kanku, aren’t you coming?

  His hesitance is back, the bitter cast of fear upon him. I see memories of other bodies taken, used with glee. I don’t condone his actions, and I let him feel my disappointment, but I’ve loved him all my life and death, and he is family, he is mine.

  I’m not going without you, not again.

  Kanku says, It’s okay. You go on, Mbuyi. I’ll follow soon.

  But he’s lying. I feel it deep: this first, heartbreaking lie, his hope I’ll believe one last time, forget him, let him waste away in penance here. I turn from Mama, curl around him like a suit of armor. I’ll wait, I say. We’ll go together. I bare my resolve.

  You would wait for me? And once again he’s seven, trying to grasp why I’m not outside playing football like I want to be; why I’ve stayed in with him.

  I’ve waited for you since I left Kinshasa—both times. You will always be my brother, and my best friend. I won’t lose you again.

  Mama’s warmth is up there, in a place that’s bright, familiar, feels like home, like her love as she wrapped us in her arms and told us stories. I know she waits for us and loves us both. And for the rest of our dead family, I’ll hold tight to Kanku. They won’t leave me; they’ll have to take us both.

  DANIEL CARPENTER

  Flotsam

  THE ARRIVAL

  No one could recall the storm though it is true to say that a storm had passed. The evidence was there, carried in a calm wind and the smudged grey sky like a poorly erased mistake in pencil. A curious amount of detritus had blown through the town also: a single bloodied shoe, a small doll with too many limbs to be human, a rusted bayonet (perhaps not rust, but rather ancient blood instead). Amongst the artefacts was discovered an iron helmet cleaved in two, its jagged edges cauterized and blackened.

  The creature had arrived during the storm. It had erupted from the depths of the ocean, fatally wounded and had hauled itself on to the pebbled beach where it had gasped a final, inhuman breath and died, leaving behind a trail of its blood, thicker than oil, which traced its path from the ocean and spooled around in a whirlpool from where it had originated.

  WHAT THE CREATURE LOOKED LIKE

  There was never a consensus in the town on precisely what the creature looked like. The things that most agreed on—thick black tentacles, no eyes, a ridge of spine-like hair across its back—were refuted by others who saw bright colours, scales and too many eyes. The children in the village were not scared of it, not like some of us adults. They would freely walk close by and play around it. Sometimes building it a home out of sand, or redirecting the route of the tide to create a protective moat around the thing. What did they see when they looked at it? Something friendly, or perhaps something so monstrous it could not be processed by childlike minds.

  For some of us, just looking at the creature brought upon terrible headaches almost instantly. So painful that they caused bright colours to dance across your eyes. At night, those who had seen the creature dreamt dreadful things, waking up in a cold sweat, practically feverish. It would pass quickly, and after that you learned to look away.

  There were a select few though, whom the creature did not appear to affect. Mrs Bradley was the most prominent, though she was always like that at any event in the village. Mrs Bradley made the best cakes for the school fundraiser, she won village garden of the year, and she grew the biggest cauliflowers around. Everyone knew Mrs Bradley, or rather, everyone had to know Mrs Bradley, and it was as though that piece of village lore had passed on subconsciously to the creature itself. When she approached it on that first day, whilst the rest of us staggered back from the pain in our heads, she was unaffected. She touched it. Stroked it. I saw an oily black residue coat her hand, dripping onto the pebbles below.

  She said, “It has been brought here for a reason, and we must devour it.” The way she muttered it to herself, like an affirmation.

  MRS BRADLEY ARGUES HER CASE

  There was some debate at first. Most of the village gathered in the Scout hut by the creek, squashed in to the space. It felt clandestine. As though we were hiding from this dead thing on the beach. The local councillor, Mr. Peabody, was angry that this meeting even had to be called in the first place. Why should we, on Mrs. Bradley’s sayso, eat the creature that had washed up from some unknown place? There were stories, Brian Hargreaves, the butcher said, about fish who were caught, cooked and eaten, who contained within them immense poisons. Did Mrs Bradley wish to kill us all?

  The thing should rot, claimed several people. It should be left there to rot and die. Maybe then the headaches and dreams would end. It should be forgotten about. We should not speak of it again. Cast it into history. But Mrs. Bradley was adamant. “It has come here for a reason. You all fear it and look how it treats you. I don’t fear it. I admire it.”

  Then, someone suggested, if Mrs Bradley is so keen to eat the creature, would she be willing to be the first to consume it?

  She would do it gladly. She would be so proud to be the first.

  WHAT DID PEOPLE DREAM WHEN THEY SAW THE CREATURE?

  The cosmos, spiralling out and out and out, ad infinitum. Sparks of life exploding in interstellar clusters. A feeling of dread, of sinking into nothing. Facts and knowledge that you cannot understand and so they sit at the edge of your mind, on the tip of your tongue, waiting just out of reach for you. And then, the inhuman screams of something vast, echoing across the universe, touching signals from asteroids and moons like radar. It is a scream without emotion, but it instils a kind of fear within you which you have never felt before in your life. Louder than anything you have ever heard. How small you feel. How insignificant. How utterly pointless.

  HOW MANY COULD TOUCH THE CREATURE?

  At first just three: Mrs. Bradley, Ms. Hobson the baker, and Mr Stoakley the farmer. Just three to begin with, although over time, there were more.

  MRS. BRADLEY EATS THE FIRST PIECE

  She didn’t cook it. She ate the thing raw.

  After it was agreed that she would be the first to eat the creature, she retrieved a carving knife from her kitchen and made her way to the beach. Some of the villagers followed her, despite the onslaught of pain from the creature. They watched as she took the knife to the creature, slicing a small piece of one tentacle. It came away gently, slipping from the rest of the body and splattering into the bucket Mrs Bradley had prepared for it. A little oily black blood dribbled from the wound.

  Do any of the people who were present recall the creature shifting and twitching when she cut into it? No.

  Mrs. Bradley took the bucket and sat on the edge of the seafront, looking out across the horizon. The trail of blood still floated on top of the water like a scar. She plunged her hand into the bucket and took out the piece of the creature. Almost immediately she tore into it with her teeth, ripping its flesh apart. The oily black substance staining her mouth and chin, dripping down onto her clothes. She smiled when she ate it. She smiled like she had never smiled before.

  WHEN DID MRS. BRADLEY DIE?

&
nbsp; At 142. She lived the longest.

  ANOTHER MEETING CALLED

  No ill effects were observed of Mrs Bradley, who continued her day to day life in the usual manner. Her vegetables grew large and impressive and she tended to her garden obsessively. However, there did appear to be a marked change in how she moved, how she carried herself. It was as if she floated, or knew some piece of impossible information. Everyone saw that change in her. Everyone wanted a part of it. It was the creature that did it. Eating a piece of it had given her a kind of revelation and why should the rest of the village not be privy to the same thing?

  Mr. Peabody brought the meeting to order, but almost immediately Mr Stoakley interrupted him. Mrs Bradley had been permitted to eat the creature. Mrs Bradley had seen something. Why shouldn’t the rest of us get the chance?

  Not all of us felt the pull of the creature. Not at this time. But after Mrs Bradley ate the tentacle there were more who could look upon it without experiencing terrible pain. Fewer dreamers, screaming in the night.

  It was decided that each man and woman would make their own choice. If they wished to eat the creature then they may do so, providing they took only a slice. If they wished to leave it be, then so be it.

  THE QUESTIONS NOBODY ASKED

  Where did the creature come from?

  What kind of storm leaves a trace, but cannot be recalled?

  What kind of creature wants to be consumed?

  A QUEUE FORMS

  They brought their knives from home, scythes from the wheat fields, Stanley knives shining red in the sun from the pockets of their Scout leader uniforms. They didn’t surround the creature and tear it apart. No, they formed a queue, winding its way up the beach, straggling the wall at the back, and flowing up the steps to the promenade. It snaked past the fish and chip shop on the corner, passing the B&B and up towards the high street. Mrs Bradley paraded up and down, shaking everyone’s hands. She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. It was all in her eyes. Welcome, her eyes said. The first day of the mass consumption of the creature was a glorious day.

  THE HOLDOUTS NOTICE A CHANGE

  It was not immediately apparent. Life continued as normal. There were a few hundred or so who chose to abstain from eating the creature. Walking down the promenade, their heads throbbed and they couldn’t help but turn to look at the corpse lying on the beach, slices of flesh missing, so that it resembled something even more alien that it had previously. It was not just in its fractured body that they saw a difference. There was an emptiness to the town.

  In their nightmares they saw the villagers who took part in the eating. The oily blood from the creature cascading from their mouths. Not just that thick black, viscous liquid but the pieces of the creature itself, slipping from their mouths, regurgitating itself. The pieces came together in the middle of a supernova of light.

  When spoken to, the villagers who ate the creature were cordial. They took part in small talk and asked questions about family members: How is Uncle John? Did little Sally get her silver in swimming? Is the kitchen going to be finished by Easter? But to the holdouts there was something missing. It felt like a performance.

  It drove them away, one by one.

  WHAT OF THE DETRITUS?

  After the storm, the bayonet, shoe, doll and helmet were all taken to the library immediately to be photographed and retained for historical record. They remained there during the consumption. No photographs were ever taken and as with all things, no record was made. Instead, they were locked away. The relationship between these objects was never discussed or considered, and the whereabouts of the other shoe in the pair (a right) was not pondered.

  THEY TOUCH THE CREATURE

  They stood around it one morning, all of those who had eaten a part of the creature. The remaining villagers who hadn’t tasted the innards of the thing on the beach caught sight of it on their way to work, or on the school run. Hundreds of them surrounding the corpse, hand in hand. Mrs Bradley right there and though the circle did not have a start or end point it seemed as though she was at the head of it. The day was quiet, no cars rumbling along the high street, no clinking of empty milk bottles being picked up. All that could be heard was the calm slosh of the tide, and the odd hollowness of pebbles shifting beneath feet.

  Somewhere in the distance, across the horizon and far from the eyes of the villagers, a ship’s horn rumbled in the air. Those watching the group encircling the creature turned to look for the source of the sound. Those with their hands clasped did not move.

  It was as though they moved closer towards the creature, closing in on it. But they did not move so that couldn’t be true. It was just as likely to suggest that the creature, dead as it was, expanded to fit the space created by the circle of hands. That it fattened itself. What remained of its skin rippled around it, following the ring of consumers. The people surrounding it shuddered momentarily as though being caught off guard whilst standing on a moving train, then righted themselves and offered no further movement. All save Mrs Bradley. Her face, an assiduous look of concentration, but for the glimmer of a smile, for just a moment.

  The creature expanded to touch each of the people, pushing itself against them, bulging out through the gaps between their hands, the spaces below and above their arms. One lone tentacle escaped between someone’s legs, then whipped itself back into the fray just as quickly.

  Those who had not consumed a part of the creature fought the vicious headaches they experienced, some practically blinded by the pain. They fought so they can watch. They felt a need to witness this that had nothing to do with its strangeness. This appeared strange to no one. No, this felt wholly expected.

  WHAT DID MRS. BRADLEY DIE OF?

  Unknown causes. She was cold to the touch, and stiff as a bone. No blood was discovered either outside her body nor within it. Though a tiny patch of oil close to her body was noted in the coroner’s report.

  INSIDE THE CIRCLE

  It breathed its first in an age, taking in one or two primitive minds and expelling the scraps back out into their bodies. There they were: pieces of it, inside them all. Digested and absorbed into skin and fat and blood. There was a piece of it careening around, hidden in some minuscule vein. Another breath. The sweet taste of a soul. Memories flooded through it. Unknowable things. A party by a river, the wind picking up a tablecloth. A sudden rush indoors at the first sparks of rain. It searched within for something more filling. There: a horrible thought, an anxious woman pacing in the corridor of a hospital. The news will be bad. She knows it will. That would do. It released what it hadn’t devoured, broken and piecemeal though it was. All the while it grew, found strength that it forgot it had.

  THE LIBRARY IS OPENED

  Mr. Peabody ran from the events on the beach. He knew each and every one of the people in that circle and he watched briefly as they shuddered and lost themselves to the creature. There were shards of glass in his head, scratching at his mind. A pain like no other he had ever felt in his life. Turning tail he abandoned them to the thing that had washed up. What had happened to his town? He thought back to the day after the storm that he could not recall, when the creature appeared. His head splintered as though a bullet had pierced it. A pain that stopped him dead in his tracks.

  But he recalled the detritus that washed up in the town the same night. Recalled where it was being stored.

  Mr. Peabody ran.

  The streets were empty. Everyone was at the beach. Those who didn’t eat, watching, those who ate participating. Mr Peabody raced down the high street, passing open stores with no workers, dogs tied to lampposts, barking for owners who are far from them. From inside The Railway Arms he caught the sound of a football game being watched by no one, and heard the trickling of a tap still running. But he did not stop. He felt a burning racing across his chest, tightening his veins. Like whatever kept him running was seeping from him, being devoured piece by piece. The library could not be far.

  Glass scattered on the floor when
he broke the window. He found himself surprised by it. Not the act of destruction so much as the evidence left behind. Did I do that? he found himself asking as he clambered through the gap into the library.

  THE CROWD ATTEMPTS TO WATCH

  The pebbles all around the circle shifted, as though being trodden on. Pain cascaded through all of the non-eaters though they could not look away. The thing that had washed up on their shores roared in their minds. All of them. A terrible indecipherable speech that tore through them. Some were knocked to the floor, others staggered back. One or two stood their ground. No one dared get close to the events taking place at the shoreline. Those who formed the circle clutched each other’s hands, but their bodies appeared limp. All except for Mrs Bradley. Mrs. Bradley’s smile was as terrible as the creature itself. She stared right at the creature. Smiling. What was the creature saying to them? What was it saying to her? Whatever it was, to those watching, it felt like the end of all things.

  A BAYONET, A DOLL, A HELMET, AND A SHOE

  They were hers once. Torn from her as she dragged the thing into the rift. The doll she had been given by her mother, so many years ago. So long that she couldn’t even recall it not being in her life. It was apt then that in that moment she would lose it.

  ON THE BEACH

  Mr. Peabody sprinted towards the circle. The closer he got to the creature the more the pain in his head intensified. Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. As though his brain was pouring out through his ears. But it wouldn’t stop him. Brandishing the bayonet, he ran forward towards the eaters. The creature, a writhing mass, was a negative space in front of him, an absence of light. It had nearly engulfed all of the circle now, close to breaking free. Where a part of it had been eaten, it was regrown, the wounds zipped together and closed. Tentacles sneaked around the area, combing the beach, lifting pebbles. A screaming sounded in his ears and Mr Peabody understood what it was. The creature was laughing. Laughing at his attempts to do what he was trying to do. No matter. He reached the edge of the circle and, raising the bayonet above his head, he leapt forward, toward the screaming thing.