Rust: One

By Christopher Ruz

She died in New York. She woke in Rustwood.

After being pushed in front of the subway C-Line, Kimberly Archer finds herself in an impossible town with a husband she's never seen before and a life she can't remember. The rain never stops, the phones don't work and the doctors think she's delusional.

Kimberly only wants to get back to her fiance in New York. But for that, she needs the help of Fitch, a madman who believes something dark lives at the heart of Rustwood. He'll help her, so long as she joins him on his mission to burn the town to the ground.

Kimberly might be crazy. Then again, she might be the only sane person left. People are disappearing from the streets, and something black and foul is stalking her in the night. Rustwood has plans for Kimberly, and if she doesn't find a way out soon she'll be lucky to survive...

RUST is a serial small-town horror story in the style of Cronenberg, Lynch and King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Ruz
• Release date: Feb 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497727403

Book preview

Prologue

The thing in Fitch's pocket was squeaking again.

It was the smell of gasoline it didn't like; that, or the fumes rising off his home-brew jug of napalm. Shame there wasn't anywhere for the stink to go, down in the basement. Vents were all gummed up with leaves and dustbunnies. Besides, someone might notice if the smell got out. A boy walking by on his paper run would raise his nose to the air and say, hey, something funny cooking down there. And the kid would tell their folks, and the folks would tell the police, and pretty soon he'd have the beast itself knocking on his door.

He patted his pocket with one hand and stirred the mix with the other. Gonna make some fireworks tonight, he whispered. Not long now.

The thing quieted. Fitch didn't know whether it understood what he said or even the tone of his voice, but it sure wasn't stupid. It felt when he was afraid, which was most of the time. Maybe ESP. Maybe it got agitated by his heartbeat. Like a mood-ring with teeth.

He slipped one hand into the hip pocket of his coat. Suckers curled around his fingers, kneading, tasting. It reminded him of his old family cat. Hairless, slat-ribbed tabby gnawing on anything soft or stupid enough to come within range.

The thing was nicer than that. The thing didn't bite. Fitch supposed he'd need a name for it some day.

The mix was as ready as he could make it given his tools: an old steel drum and a yardstick for stirring. He scooped the home-made napalm with his dead mother's ladle and poured it through a plastic funnel, filling empty beer bottles one by one. After that came the rags and the lids. By the time his watch read midnight he had thirty molotov cocktails capped and ready to light.

Nothing left to do but raise some hell.

He carted them from the basement up to his van in wooden apple-crates, gingerly, as if the mix might ignite if bumped too hard. The thing in his pocket whined, and he gave it a finger to suck on. It was raining outside, the same slow, thick drizzle that had come down the day before, and the day before that, and every day Fitch had ever known.

His hands shook on the wheel as he reversed out of the drive. The sixth finger on his left hand had grown, he noted. Only a stubby little thing like a pea three months ago, budding out of his palm beside his pinky, but it was lengthening by degrees. Almost a full joint now.

Maybe it was the thing's fault. The finger had only started growing after the little bastard appeared in his bedroom. After he'd started feeding it. Then again, maybe it'd been drawn to him by whatever was making the finger grow. Some sickly biological radio station.

He slammed the van into gear. What's on the schedule tonight? he whispered. You want to burn down the rotten convent, or the mayor's house?

The thing in his pocket made a noise like it was blowing a raspberry. That's right, Fitch said. Both.

He was just cresting Perday Hill, the van spluttering as it struggled with the incline, when he felt the tug. Like a string in his chest had just been yanked northward, hard enough to jerk him against the wheel and sound the horn. Fitch gasped. He pulled onto the shoulder and fell from the van, scrabbling at his filthy coat, tearing open the clasps, clutching his heart. His pulse thudded out of time in a rapid jazz patter.

He blinked away tears. The town of Rustwood lay below, a patchwork of lights: Central Avenue was a blaze of amber streetlamps, forking and dimming as it became Wallace Street and Bell Road and Lincoln Boulevard, where the mayor lived in his Georgian-era triple-chimneyed mansion and Mister Gull squatted in his black-windowed condo. Beyond was the leafy suburban nightmare of Rustwood Heights. Past there, Saint Jeremiah's Hospital glowered atop the rise with hundreds of sickly yellow eyes. To the west, the derelict ferris wheel canted as it sunk into the earth. Finally, below the horizon, he could just make out the old convent, sliding into the Pentacost River year after year, and the quarry beyond the river dotted with black-mouthed mines, the darkest patch of all.

Rain spattered on his cheeks. He wiped his mouth, not daring to taste that foul water, and waited for the tug to return.

There. Fainter, but distinct. Not north but north-east, towards Rustwood Heights. Something big. A disturbance not just in the air but in the fabric of the world.

Fitch stuffed his hands in his pockets and let the thing suckle at his extra finger. Its tongue was smooth, delicate, like the skin of a newborn.

We got an arrival, he said. New face in Rustwood. Betcha a dollar.

Deep in the canvas of his pocket, the thing chittered in approval.

Chapter 1

Kimberly Archer was waiting for the nine fifteen C train, and her fiancé was being a pain in the butt. He took her hand as she tried to pull away, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Honey, don't do that.

Oh, you're one to talk. Kimberly tried to wriggle her fingers free, but Aaron was too strong. He always had been. It's not just a job, okay? It's a, a passion, you get it?

It's not even that! An internship isn't going to get us a penthouse. I just...

The C was approaching, slamming a corridor of air down the platform. Concrete vibrated beneath her heels. She was twenty eight years old and going nowhere, wearing cashmere bought on credit and carrying a leather briefcase empty apart for her lunch, the new Phil Collins tape and a stack of xeroxed résumés. There were big things coming, she knew that. She was always looking forward, always upward, and an internship at Penguin was more than indentured servitude. It was a stepping stone.

But that didn't mean anything if Aaron didn't understand. The position is open, he insisted. "Dad's holding it for you. I know that being a clerk isn't glamorous or anything, but it pays. It pays solid. Penguin is just gonna make you run papers anyway, and this time next month you walk out with nothing. I just... I don't want to see you ripped off, Kim."

She turned away, twisting the ring on her left hand. The rock was the size of a marble. They hadn't set a date yet, but that wasn't nerves. She was just too busy: no time for sleep, no time for eating, only big deals in the big city, waiting for her to sign on the dotted line. Like Penguin, who'd promised her a job with editorial. Word was that 1985 was a year of expansion, new offices opening by the harbour, and there'd be a place for her there. Not slush, not typesetting. The big leagues.

Cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers blew past her feet as the train approached, a pair of lights at the end of a long black tunnel like predatory eyes.

I don't want to kick shit around my whole life, she whispered. I've got ideas. Not just papers. Important things.

Well. Aaron squeezed her hand again, this time gently, the pad of his thumb drawing circles on her palm. His smile was thin but genuine. Guess we'll talk tonight.

She forced herself to return his grin. Guess we will.

Aaron bent to give her a quick peck on the cheek, his lips warm and dry, before walking away, hands deep in the pockets of his blazer. Kimberly clutched her briefcase to her chest, her heartbeat finally slowing. He was right, of course. He always was, and she resented and loved him for it in equal measure. Aaron always knew his shit while she stumbled in the dark.

But that was no reason not to try. If the thing with Penguin didn't work out, so what? And if it did...

The train whooped as it exited the tunnel. Overhead, a speaker warned commuters to stand back from the edge. The crowd surged.

Then a pressure settled in the curve of her lower back. A hand, fingers splayed. One quick shove, and Kimberly staggered forward, the toe of her left shoe catching on the edge of the platform.

She hit the rails on hands and knees. Her briefcase landed beside her, the lock popping, her sandwich and stapled résumés tumbling out, papers whirling about her head. A crack of pain shot up her shin as bone contacted steel, and she had time to inhale as the lights bore down.

And then, she woke.

A slow blink. Her vision was blurred by sleep. An alarm clock warbled with an unfamiliar tone. It sounded like crying. The bed was uncomfortable, although she didn't know why. Maybe the thin pillow, or the sheets slick with perspiration, or a spring out of place. She ached, her stomach clenching like she'd been punched, so tight she wanted to cry.

She groped for the SLEEP button and couldn't find the alarm clock. The wailing tone rose and rose. It wasn't a clock at all, she realised. Someone's goddamn baby was screaming.

A heavy hand wormed beneath the sheets and settled on her thigh, squeezing, moving upward, rough skin scratching against her hip. Stubble dragged over her cheek. She was about to tell Aaron to shove off but the words caught in her throat. He smelled strange, not bad or unclean but simply wrong, not the way Aaron smelled at all.

Soft lips pressed against the nape of her neck. Hey. The strange man's voice was low, rumbling, reverberating in her chest. His hand moved inward, slipping between her legs. She could feel him pressing against her, his erection jutting against the base of her spine. Let him cry. I don't have to be at work until ten. You wanna fool around?

She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her heart thudded against her ribs, so loud it filled her ears, blocked all other sound. He cupped her crotch, not rudely but tenderly, and nipped at her shoulder with sharp teeth. When the strange man moved the bedsprings creaked. She wanted to scream but nothing came out. Honey?

The wailing baby grew louder, high and warbling, needy. The strange man fell back into the sheets with a sigh. Fucking hell, he said. Just one morning. Just one, I swear-

The strength finally returned to her bones. She rolled over and saw his face: broad chin, dark skinned, two-day stubble, eyes clouded by exhaustion. A man she'd never seen before, naked and pressed against her.

She found her air and screamed.

And you say you've never seen the man before?

The police had given Kimberly a set of starched pajamas and a thin blanket for warmth, but they weren't much comfort. She'd run out of the house naked, pinballing through unfamiliar hallways until she'd tumbled into the street. It was an overcast morning, light rain tingling on her skin, and she'd staggered across a lawn she'd never seen before towards the line of passing cars, begging for help.

Now she was sitting in the interview room of the Rustwood Police Department - a town she'd never heard of before, let alone visited - a Styrofoam cup of coffee clenched in her shaking hands and Detective Jonathan Goodwell taking notes on a yellow legal pad. She tried to take a sip and hot coffee spilled down her chin. Oh, God...

It's okay. Detective Goodwell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her fingers. He was tall, dressed in a neat grey suit, hair thinning, his hands quick and deft. Better? Now, tell me again. You don't remember how you got to the house?

Kimberly took a deep breath. Her gut still ached, a stabbing pain worse than any cramps she'd ever experienced, worse than when she'd had appendicitis as a child. The stranger must've hurt her, beaten her as he dragged her into bed. The thought made her want to vomit. I was going for an interview, she said. That was yesterday... It must've been. There was a train.

Where was this?

The C train. Jay street. Detective Goodwell was staring in a way that made her shiver. New York?

Goodwell tapped on his yellow pad with the point of his pen. And nothing to explain how you got from New York to here?

No! Someone pushed me, I remember that much. There must've been chloroform or, or an injection, or-

There was a knock at the door, and Goodwell waved another officer into the room. They exchanged papers and whispers, and the officer shot sidelong glances at Kimberly that made her scowl. What?

It's nothing, Mrs Archer. We've just been looking into some matters. Goodwell flashed a smile. Tell me a little about yourself.

Excuse me?

Where do you work? What do you do with yourself? Let's get to know each other. Chit-chat.

She tried to keep her voice even. I don't work. I was applying for an internship at Penguin-

In New York.

Yes, in New York! I'm engaged. I have a cat called Frederick and I like Johnny Carson, so what else do you want from me?

Goodwell looked down at his yellow pad. Just questions, Mrs Archer. Now, the man who brought you in said you were on the lawn of one-one-eight Rosewater Avenue. Correct?

I wasn't looking at the numbers! And it's Miss, damn it. Miss Archer. I need to call Aaron-

But that is your home address, isn't it?

Her throat seized. What?

You are the registered homeowner at one-one-eight, along with your husband Peter.

I'm not married! Goodwell raised one eyebrow. I'm engaged, dammit, engaged, and I've never seen that man or that house before in my life.

You just woke up there.

That's what I said.

And he was touching you.

Yes!

Goodwell sighed. Mrs Archer-

Miss!

Miss, then. You really want us to arrest your husband for kidnapping you in your own house?

Kimberly's mouth opened and closed. It felt as if the floor had dropped away, leaving her tumbling, weightless.

You're on the council records as being married to Peter Archer, Goodwell said. You co-signed the mortgage at one-one-eight Rosewater, you had a son eight weeks ago at St Jeremiah's Hospital, and both you and your husband signed the birth certificate. He flashed a fax across the table, too quickly for Kimberly to make out the signature. You're wearing your wedding ring, for God's sake.

Kimberly looked down. The ring, she realised. She'd been turning it throughout the interview, but only now did she realise that the diamond was gone, that the delicate whorls of silver had become a plain gold band.

She clenched her hands into fists. I-

Goodwell set the papers down, squared the edges, and folded his hands into a steeple. What's this really about? Has your husband ever mistreated you, Mrs Archer? If this is an issue of domestic violence, I'll organise a safe escort back to your house to collect your belongings. I can draft papers for an apprehended violence order-

Fuck you! Kimberly jumped to her feet, worked the ring from her finger and tossed it to the floor. He's not my husband! He kidnapped me, he... I need to call my fiancé! I need a phone. What's wrong with you people?

Goodwell hadn't moved from his chair. He bent slowly and retrieved the wedding ring, setting it upon the table with a hard click. Mrs Archer.

Stop calling me that!

Let's put your husband aside for a moment. What about your son?

Her hands clenched into tight fists by her sides. Her breath came hard and sharp. The room was spinning, I don't have a-

He was delivered... He shuffled his papers. Fifty eight days ago. Do you remember that?

It's not my kid!

I remember it, Goodwell said. And I remember you, although you wouldn't remember me. I was at St Jeremiah's interviewing a stab victim, and I saw you being wheeled in. Shared a few words with the doctor. Caesarian delivery, if I remember correctly. So if you don't mind, would you show me your stomach?

Kimberly trembled. She pressed her palms flat against her belly, feeling the topography of skin and muscle through the donated pajamas, the pain twisting her guts into knots. No.

You're not helping me, Mrs Archer, and I'm becoming rapidly less and less sympathetic. In fact, I think we can end this interview right here. I'll arrange a car to take you home, and-

She tore at the pajamas. Stitches popped as she ripped the blouse open, exposing the pale curve of her stomach. The purpled ghosts of stretch marks crawled up from the elastic waistband of her grey pajama pants. Lines that hadn't been there the day before. Cutting across them, a horizontal line centred from hip-bone to hip-bone. Scar tissue, thin and pink. She traced it with trembling fingers.

Now, Mrs Archer. Detective Goodwell turned away, keeping his attention on his papers. "Would you like to start this interview again? Tell me why