Rust: Three

By Christopher Ruz

Kimberly Archer is going to war.

After narrowly escaping the inferno at the Pentacost Convent, Kimberly finds refuge with Mister Gull, a stranger who claims to possess the power of the Queens of Rustwood. Together they construct a daring plan to draw a Queen out of its nest, cage it... and kill it.

But nothing is ever so easy in the sleepy mountain town. Fitch and Detective Goodwell are being pursued by the New Queen's servants, and an emissary in a black rainslicker has been sent to destroy all who oppose her rule. Madness, murder and bad dreams have settled across Rustwood, and if Kimberly Archer doesn't move fast, she and all her companions will soon discover that death is the easy way out...

Rust is an ongoing horror series in the style of King, Lynch and Lovecraft.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Ruz
• Release date: Jan 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524206918

Book preview

Chapter 1

Detectives Goodwell and Chan staggered from the burning convent, blind and desperate. Flames cast their shadows out before them, thin and black, spiders wavering across the grass. Early morning rain kissed Goodwell’s brow. The roar of glass exploding and old stone popping in the fire behind them was a military salvo, but worse again was the hissing, the giggling. The wet, rotten footsteps.

Goodwell looked back, only once. Five figures tracked them across the marshes surrounding the Pentacost Convent. Two were tall, hooded. Heads bowed and hands folded before them, stork-like legs jutting from beneath their robes. Firelight danced across mouths like pits, eyes sewn over with burlap.

The three dead boys strutted behind them, hands in their jacket pockets, sauntering like they owned the marshes and everything in them. Their eyes were plastered over with wet leaves and their smiles crawled with worms.

When Goodwell blinked the three boys wavered like mirages, as if the wind whipping off the bog was enough to bear them away. Solid in the darkness, though. Solid enough to tear the two detectives in half.

Karen Chan - his partner of only a few days, and the woman who’d come closest to discovering what he’d done to the boys out at the Hill family farm - skidded in the mud and ended on hands and knees. Sick of this shit-

Goodwell kept his hand on the butt of his pistol. No telling whether it was a ruse, Chan preparing to break away into the bog. They’d fought before the convent ignited, pointed guns, made threats. Goodwell’s fault, not Chan’s, but she was in too deep now to simply let her run free.

Whispers echoed across the marshes. Childish laughter, high and excited. Goodwell’s stomach turned. Keep moving!

Fuck you. Just shoot me. Detective Chan struggled to stand, mud sucking at her feet, dripping from the ends of her painted nails. I’m not playing this game any more.

I don’t want you dead. I want-

Had a gun to my head an hour ago.

Times change. He knew better than to get close. Chan looked delicate from a distance, but he’d seen how fast she moved. Without the pistol, bogged down in the mud, it’d be a fair fight. Goodwell didn’t like it fair.

The light of the convent fire vanished behind them as they marched on. The dawn sun wasn’t enough to slice through the fog roiling across the marshes. They’d gotten so turned around in their escape from the convent that Goodwell had no idea whether they were headed for the main road or further into the hills. For all he knew they were walking in a great circle, back in the arms of those walking corpses...

A dark shape bloomed on the horizon. For a second Goodwell couldn’t breathe, expecting the pointed steeple of the convent to emerge from the gloom. But it was smaller, more squat, a brick shed beside a tumble-down fence, the last remains of a farm left to rot on the banks of the Pentacost River.

He motioned Chan onward. We’ll rest there, if you can make the distance.

I can walk all night, you shit. Chan laughed, low and bitter. I can walk ’til Christmas. How about you? How’s the foot?

Goodwell winced. The pain in his bare foot was getting worse. One shoe had pulled free in the mud outside the convent and now his sole was slashed through by sharp pebbles, his sock reduced to cobwebs. I did a half-marathon last year. This is nothing.

Big man, huh?

He waved the pistol towards the little shed. Come on, before the whole hill gets washed away.

The shed door squeaking closed behind them was such a relief Goodwell could’ve sobbed.

The shed was barely hanging together - a tin roof peeling up at one corner to reveal the morning sky beyond, bricks slipping where the mortar had fallen to dust - but it stopped the wind, and that was enough. Goodwell herded Chan into the furthest corner where she sat in a hollow formed by old farming equipment, shovels and pick-handles, buckets caked with the lumpy oatmeal detritus of home-mixed mortar. There was just enough space left on the concrete slab for Goodwell to stretch out. He sneezed, scattering dust. The shed smelled of fertiliser and dead mice.

He rested the pistol in his lap, watching the door. The dead kids could peer through at any moment. Martin, Taram, Dylan, chuckling through the cockroaches spilling from their lips...

Chan was pale-cheeked, dark-haired. A small woman, even smaller when she was curled up, knees to her chest, almost child-like. She whispered, What happened tonight?

Goodwell struggled not to laugh. "What didn’t happen?"

Tell me it was a trick. Just say it. A big prank. Please, tell me-

No prank. No candid camera. Goodwell leaned against the wall, biting down on a constellation of aches and pains. Parts of him he’d never known screamed for a hot bath and a massage. His bleeding foot, the places he’d fallen while wrestling with that thing outside the convent... They never handed me a booklet explaining how screwed up this town really is.

This town. Chan said it like she was ready to spit. You put a gun to my head and you want to talk about screwed up?

If I wanted you dead, I’d shoot you right now. The pistol was heavy in Goodwell’s hand. He wondered how much rain had gotten inside the barrel, whether it was choked with mud and grass. No way to tell without stripping it down, and he’d be defenceless if the New Queen sent its servants to root him out.

He didn’t know which was worse, the sewn-up monstrosities in their rotten habits or the familiar smiles of the three dead boys. Their pale, water-bloated fingers curling around the edge of the door...

When did you move to Rustwood, Chan?

Chan’s brow furrowed. What’s that got to do with-

Where’d you live before Rustwood, then? Why’d you come? You get a better offer from our hillbilly PD? Not enough cases in the big city?

Confusion knotted behind Chan’s scowl, like she was probing for a tooth with the tip of her tongue and finding only empty root. They offered me... something.

Can’t remember? That’s okay. Nobody does. Nobody thinks about it. He wriggled against the wall of the shed, rusted bolts digging into his spine. The pain was good. It’d keep him alert. This town lies to you.

That what those things were? A lie?

Other way around. They’re the truth nobody sees. The streets, the people, you and me. The bad stuff just... melts away.

So when did you get here?

Goodwell shrugged. I live here. Before that, I didn’t. Some people arrive. Other people... you get the feeling they were here all along, but you never noticed before. Like wallpaper. Like Mrs Archer. Records of marriages, births, mortgage payments. A husband and a kid. And yet, every time he’d spoken to her, he’d felt the vacuum around her. A loose thread in an otherwise orderly tapestry.

The old, true Queen had known from the start. He should never have let Archer out of his sight.

The things in the chapel, Chan whispered. Human?

Maybe once. Never looked into it too deep. Got told to stay away, so I followed orders.

Orders from who? Commissioner Snow?

It was getting harder to stay alert. He’d hoped the adrenaline would carry him through to dawn, but willpower would have to do the trick. Snow doesn’t know anything. He’s a joke.

Then who?

Goodwell’s eyelids were carved from stone. Chan slipped in and out of focus. The one at the heart of it all. She’s been running this place since before I was born.

A name, Goodwell. Give me a name.

Gotta talk to her. See if I can get you an introduction. No fighting the exhaustion now. The thudding pulse in his forehead was carrying him away. Chan. Something you gotta do for me.

She was a bare cipher in the shadows on the far side of the shed. Getting to her feet cautiously, like she was going to jump him as soon as he was asleep. Yeah?

Watch out for the dead kids. He set the pistol on the concrete slab and, with the flick of a finger, sent it skidding across to rest against Chan’s feet. I’m trusting you. Don’t let them in.

Chan picked the gun up warily, slim fingers dancing around the butt, as if expecting it to explode in her hands. Why are you doing this?

Because I like you. You’re good people.

I could shoot you.

But you won’t. The world was soupy around the edges. Easier to close his eyes. Too many questions.

In his dreams, he was at home, in bed. His limbs were heavy and his eyelids skinned back so he couldn’t look away as the bedroom door creaked open. Hannah lay beside him, silent. The three dead boys circled the bed, hands behinds their back, smiling softly. Moonlight glinted on mouthfuls of broken teeth.

They leaned in until Goodwell could see the ragged edges of bone above Dylan’s brow where the bullet had entered, the watery haemorrhages swimming in Martin Goldfarb’s eyes. Black mould spotted their cheeks and lips after days spent underwater, churning faintly at the bottom of the well.

They stared, unblinking, saying nothing. They didn’t need to.

* * *

Rain plastered the thin strings of Fitch’s hair to his forehead as he waited in the shadows across from one-one-eight Rosewater Avenue. Rosenfeld had offered him the loan of an umbrella, but the cold kept him alert, ready to run.

Mrs Archer’s house was dim. Curtains pulled, lights off. Their Volkswagen was slewed sideways across the carport like someone had pulled up in a hurry. Front door closed. The gutters were jammed, rainwater falling in sheets across a lawn more mud than grass.

Too many shadows. Could be anything hiding behind the car. Clickers coiled behind the bushes. Rotten claws waiting to thrust up through the earth and clutch his ankles, drag him into the darkness, close blunt teeth around his throat...

He shoved his left hand into his jacket pocket, let the chittering thing suck on his finger a while, steal the fear away. It didn’t work. There was something deeply wrong about the house across the road. The way the shutters hung askew. He’d lived in Rustwood long enough to know that buildings soaked up blood like sponges, stored it in their walls. Grew fat on misery and screams. You could sense that stain in a house, if you knew how to look.

One-one-eight Rosewater stank of it.

He could smell his own breath. Hadn’t washed for days. Sweat and mud caked his ragged beard. If anything was in there, it’d sniff him out before he made the front yard.

No excuses. Not if Kimberly was waiting.

His pulse drowned out the patter of rain atop his head. Watch out for monsters, he whispered to the thing in his pocket, and started across the street.

He had a blade in his pocket, a kitchen knife with a taped-up handle, but it didn’t make him feel any better as he stomped up the drive towards the Archers’ front door. The plastic bag tied at his waist swung metronomically, thudding against his leg. He tried not to think about what was in that bag. Teeth grinding into the fabric of his bluejeans, canvas eyesockets staring blankly...

Hadn’t been his choice to take the head. He’d sawed it off the monster in the black cowl, outside the Pentacost convent. Favour for Mister Gull, one whispered in his ear days before. When you’re at the convent, bring me back one of those suckers. Burn it, shoot it, decapitate it, I don’t care. I want a head of my own.

It weighed less than four pounds but it felt like a bowling ball. Didn’t know why Gull wanted it. Not his place to ask. He owed Mister Gull, and you didn’t question a man like that. Not if you didn’t want to end up in a gutter, choking on your own blood.

He’d be rid of the thing soon enough. Just had to find Mrs Archer, make sure she was safe. Poor woman had run from him, run from the Rosenfeld Mission, soon as she’d seen what old Mrs Rosenfeld truly was. The creature hidden beneath the shawls and scarfs.

Didn’t blame her. Hell of a thing, learning you’d been lied to. He’d wanted to do the same. But Rosenfeld was an old friend, servant of the beast or not. Owed her the chance at an explanation, and oh, she’d explained. Told him things he’d never wanted to hear, not from the mouth of an ally.

The welcome mat was springy beneath his boots, plump with rain. Fitch’s stomach clenched. A sick electricity danced in the air, across his knuckles, sending little angry shivers down into the tips of his fingers.

The beast had visited.

He drew the knife from his pocket and tossed it from hand to hand, duct-tape grips slippery in his palm, before knocking. Echoes carried back from silent hallways.

No answer.

He peered in the windows, hoping to see Mrs Archer lying in the darkness, sleeping on the sofa. Even a glimpse of her husband Peter would’ve been nice. He’d been furious last time they’d bumped into one another. Not his fault. Mr Archer didn’t know what was going on, whether his wife had run away with a stranger. Had to tear a man up. Not like Fitch could tell Peter the truth, not without driving him mad...

Nothing moved behind the lace curtains. Shadows of sofas, end-tables, vases with wilting flowers. No sign of his friend.

He slipped into the carport and checked the car next. The Volkswagen’s doors were locked. A baby carrier was strapped into the back and papers were scattered across the passenger seat. An envelope with a logo he recognised - St Jeremiah’s Hospital. Someone trying to drag the Archer woman back for more evaluations, he figured.

Time for the rear door.

He clambered over the fence, almost dropping the kitchen knife as he struggled with the jagged wooden slats, and crept through the Archers’ yard. It’d grown wild, the lawn almost to his knees, weeds tangling their way up the fence, clawing towards the light. Didn’t take long for Rustwood to reclaim the abandoned spaces. Grey-bark trees thrusting from the earth as soon as you turned your back, little bushes grown into hulking, thorny things just waiting to snare you...

Sometimes Fitch wondered if houses grew the same way. Whole structures expanding out of the earth, blooming like fungus beneath the moonlight, complete with trimmed hedges and cable TV and a quiet, unassuming couple and their tiny fungus-child...

Ridiculous.

He shook it off and, knife in hand, tried the back door. It was unlocked. Beyond, darkness, and the tang of laundry chemicals, bleach and detergent and mould.

Mrs Archer? he called, low and hesitant.

No reply. He slipped inside.

The stink of old meat hit the moment the back door swung closed behind him. It was overwhelming in that tight space, the air so thick Fitch almost gagged. He pulled his filthy shirt up over his nose and mouth. It didn’t help. It was already in his clothes, his skin, his lungs.

His stomach rose into his throat. Kimberly? He advanced into the dingy corridors, biting his lip to keep from vomiting at the stench. Anyone in here? The floorboards gave softly underfoot and when he brushed the wall his fingers came away slick, like the whole house was sweating. Mrs Rosenfeld, she’s not gonna hurt you. We’ve gotta straighten this out before everything goes to hell!

No reply. The floor bent beneath his weight, like the house was turning to quicksand, preparing to swallow him whole, so he moved up on his toes until he reached the bottom of the stairs. The severed head swung at his hip, plastic bag handles knotted into his belt loops. The lights on the second floor were off. Nothing moved in the blackness.

Mrs Archer! The way his voice echoed back put Fitch in mind of mausoleums. Please, it’s not safe here. We have to go! He advanced up the stairs, knife in one hand, the other held out before him, waving his way through the black.

The light switch at the top of the stairs didn’t work. The carpet was springy. He crouched low and found it soaked through. When he looked up a drop of rainwater hit him between the eyes. A circular patch of dark had formed on the ceiling. Busted roof tile, maybe.

He’d only met Peter Archer once, but the man seemed the protective sort. He wouldn’t let his house fall apart around him.

The stink was only getting worse, carried up the stairs by the humidity. Kimberly? It was a last, desperate whisper into the dark. Nothing came back. Time to go.

Below, at the base of the stairs, came the hush of boots.

Fitch spun, knife in hand, dropping to one knee on the sodden carpet. He watched the living room below through the wooden slats of the landing rail. A coffee table scattered with travel brochures. A beige leather sofa, still indented where someone had sat maybe hours before. Gaps of light and dark, unmoving.

Only his imagination. It had to be.

The knife shook as he crept down the stairs, ghost silent, watching the dark corners out of the sides of his eyes. Nobody tucked into the back of the living room. Nobody crouched behind the sofa. He peered down the hall, the straight line corridor that led from the front door to the laundry and the rear exit. Empty.

Were those the impressions of shoe-treads in the rug? Couldn’t be.

The back door and the open air beyond called to him. Still, as he crept down the hall, he couldn’t help but peer through the gap of the half-open bathroom door. That was where the stink was coming from. An overwhelming, cloying miasma of rot and shit.

Could be something hiding in there. Maybe a clicker, or one of the beast’s servants. Something waiting for Mrs Archer to return.

He got low and nudged the door open with the tip of the kitchen knife. For a moment he was tensed, unable to breathe, expecting something to leap at him from the darkness, but the bathroom was just as empty as the rest of the house. He tasted bile and pinched his nostrils shut with his free hand. Roadkill stench, that was it. Something had died in there. Christ, if that smell was Kimberly...

A wet sound carried down the corridor, like a bare foot slapping into a puddle. Fitch spun, ass hitting the bathroom doorframe, ears filled with the roar of his own heartbeat. Behind him, the corridor was a shadowed pit. It felt like the house was tipping, that he was on the verge of losing his balance and tumbling down, down, down into something black and infinite.

His grip tightened on the knife. Get it together, you dumb son of a bitch. He’d crawled through the mines beneath the Pentacost Convent, fought rotten creatures dressed in ragged habits. This was nothing. Just nerves. Too much time spent with Rosenfeld, trying to ignore what she was hiding beneath her shawl.

He thrust his hand into his coat pocket, sighing as a pseudopod lapped around his fingers, curling inside his fist. The first wave of calm trickled up his spine. We’re fine. We’re all fine. Out of here soon-

A cold finger brushed his earlobe. You shouldn’t have come, Fitch.

He couldn’t hold the scream inside. Fitch spun, knife quivering in his hand, his breath coming out in a pained whistle. Fucker! Where’d you-

The bathroom was empty.

You want to mess with me? he growled. I’m right here. Can’t scare off Fitch. I’m waiting! I’m-

Too late, he saw what was piled up in the bathtub. Coils of viscera going green with rot. Purpled slabs of meat. Blood rising so high it’d left a tide mark around the rim of the porcelain.

He clapped one hand over his mouth. Christ, he squeaked. Oh Christ, oh God, oh-

You should have stayed away. You were not invited here.

A figure stood in the doorway, a black shape so tall that its head brushed the lintel. Its face was hidden beneath the cowl of a rainslicker that fell all the way to its ankles, exposing bare, pale feet. Its toes were long and had no nails, just raw red nailbeds that shone in the dim light coming through the bathroom window.

This isn’t your house. Its voice grated like slabs of granite in a quarry. You made the Queen angry. I have orders to break you.

He couldn’t breathe. The knife trembled in his grip. The air was too heavy, squeezing down, crushing his lungs. Where is she?

Forgetting would be easier. The figure inched forward into the bathroom, shadows folding around it like eager arms. Forgetting is easier than hate.

"Where is she?"

I will crush you, Fitch. The New Queen will see you snapped in two-

Electric red flashed across the bathroom, strobing through the casement window above the bathtub. Then came the warble of sirens, tires slick on wet macadam. The thing in the rainslicker made a sound like an angry cat and backed away.

Too soon, it whispered, and before Fitch could blink, the hall was empty.

Fitch didn’t allow himself a second to breathe. Police were bad news, almost as bad as the beast’s servants. He stuffed the kitchen knife through his belt and made for the back door. The door handle was hot against his palm, like someone else had gripped it tight only moments before.

A knock on the front door echoed through the house. Police! Open the door, it’s the police!

Fitch didn’t wait. Police lights strobed across the back yard as he exited. An engine