The Society of Misfit Stories Presents... (May 2020)

By T.L. Barrett, Michael Benson, Sarah Cannavo and 4 more

Each issue of The Society of Misfit Stories Presents… is a celebration of long-form fiction. These novelettes and novellas will entertain and surprise fans of the form.

 

In this issue: stories by T.L. Barrett, Michael Benson, Sarah Cannavo, Mitch Lam, Aaron Moskalik, Jeff Sullins, and Elizabeth Wilcox

 

Includes:

 

Ekagani's Parade: A man accidentally discovers what will happen in the end of days, and is trapped in the realization that there is nothing he can do to stop it.

 

Out on Arrowhead Road: Tired of being cheated by his partner, a Kentucky bootlegger takes action to regain control of his life and the operation. But he soon discovers that getting rid of his partner isn't as easy as he first thought.

 

Elysian Grove: An unauthorized "retirement home" hides a secret that some consider dangerous to society

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393151524

Book preview

Elysian Grove

By Elizabeth Wilcox

HEAD HIGH, THE YOUNG man walks briskly through the halls, missive held before him like a mark of passage. The importance of it—of its intended recipient—serves as a badge of honor, bearing him forward and invigorating him despite the clinging threat of weariness that hangs about him. Though his dark suit is well cut, his creased slacks and rumpled shirt attest to a long day spent with no chance at rest, no reprieve from his toils. Back straight, he wears it well—this proof of dedication, of hard work, of usefulness towards a cause.

Something, however, slows his steps as he nears his destination. There is an almost palpable tension to be found in the descent into stifling silence, in the furtive motions of those few colleagues who traverse the area, in their tentative steps and frequent glances at a door that somehow looms larger than the corridor that contains it. His associates should rightly envy him in his task, he knows that. But instead seem glad to let him be the one among them who must approach that door, must go beyond it.

As he draws close enough to view the room through the slender pane of glass beside the door, what confidence he clings to diminishes further, dispersing entirely as he takes in the occupants within. His eyes sift through the crowd to focus on the notable few who have claimed central seats. A hand rises to press uselessly at the wrinkles in his attire as he takes in their crisp shirts, their fine-tailored suits of a class beyond his own, even were he at his best.

Swallowing past nerves and easing his way through a shuddering breath, he squares his shoulders. Raising the message as a shield, he reaches boldly for the door. Whatever he might face in breaking the fragile equilibrium within the room is nothing against the repercussions of a failure to promptly deliver the communication he bears.

Eyes briefly turn upon the young man as he enters, only to dismiss him and move away, back to whatever task they are pretending to be occupied with as they wait. Everyone is on-edge, perched upon the brink of something, eyes flicking quickly to check the time: the clock on the wall, the shifting digits in the corner of their display, the numbers ticking past, hands turning round. How much longer, now? A constant tabulation: a constantly adjusting answer to a question that never changes.

A moment’s hesitation upon the outskirts of the room, and then the young man swiftly crosses to a gentleman standing and speaking in a low murmur with a small group in a far corner. Here you go, sir, he says. The words, though hardly above a whisper, have the effect of a shout upon the expectant air.

Taking the missive, the man dismisses the messenger with no more than a slight wave of his hand; the young man backs away before scurrying from the room—even happier to leave, forgotten, now that his task is done than he was to embark upon it.

As the man looks over the message he has received, all eyes flick towards him, each person seeking to weigh his response, each hoping to catch some hint as to the missive’s contents. A shifting motion—winter wind through dry oak trees—passes through a line of men who have previously stood still as stone along the wall. All clean-shaven, with identically close-cropped hair, they stand with arms crossed beneath the gleaming medallions upon their chests—bright ribbons and still-brighter metal denoting conflicts past, horrors suppressed, and honors won. Even those whose deliberately casual poses would suffice to set them apart, were their status not proclaimed by their position of honor within the center of the room, show signs of giving in to nerves: the jiggle of a foot, the occasional glance to a clock: small movements betraying their veneer of calm.

Forty minutes. A stark announcement, stated in a clear monotone, rings across the room. The speaker adds nothing else, attention remaining glued upon the screen before him. A few start at the sound, and everyone’s eyes immediately roam to check the time, to confirm...yes, forty minutes...ten minutes from the last announcement; ten minutes until the next. So close, and the wait all the harder for its closeness, when it has been so long in coming.

Tapping his latest communication against his thigh, the gentleman turns away from the small cluster of aides who buzz about him. He considers the atmosphere of the room with a small frown. Passing the message to his nearest aide, he gives a nod, and, at this instruction, she scans its contents and raises her voice to relate this latest report to the room at large:

Our primary strike teams have confirmed their position; they await only our word to move in on the target. Secondary and tertiary teams report missions accomplished and their areas secure. They are on stand-by and will also be ready to move in on schedule.

Sizing up the room—all high-polish, all high-strung—the man nods again to his aide and takes over, addressing the assembly in booming tones that command the attention of all present. Now, I know that everyone’s on edge; we’ve been building up to this for a long time, some of us for our entire careers. This is our chance to finally put this to rest—to make the world that much safer for our children, to secure humanity’s future against this threat that has hung over us for so long. We’re going to end this today. The world is counting on us to finally strike out this malignancy at its core; let’s not trip up just before the finish line.

A host of blank eyes watch as, with a wry quirk of his lips, he says, You all know I’m nearing my retirement. Any hint of a smile drops away as, face drawn in hard lines, he continues, So this, here and now, is the best chance I’m going to get to see that this gets done. Let’s be sure to do this right; let’s not force anyone else to have to seek them out all over again, to have to rediscover their methods. Not when we’re so close to finally having them within our grasp.

He pauses, eyes roaming over the people filling the room, but looking past them—through them—to something beyond its walls altogether, and it is in a soft, almost hesitant, tone that he says, If we can pull this off, I’d consider it a fine retirement present. I want to be here to see this group taken down with my own eyes, as I’m sure the rest of you do as well. Voice firming—the brief glimmer of tentativeness within it quickly suppressed beneath the weight of a lifetime of conviction—he states, If today’s operation is successful, I think we’ll all finally be able to retire in peace, secure in the knowledge that we’ve achieved something truly meaningful.

Turning to the aide beside him, he asks, Our operatives?

Status: green; they are en route and our last update from them indicates that they will be arriving at their destination in— she glances down, flicks her bracelet to trigger its time display, confirms, twelve minutes, precisely, sir.

Put me through, he replies.

A breathless silence settles over the room as a line is opened and a calm, collected voice is heard responding to the call.

No time for niceties; the man stiffens his spine and dives straight to the heart of it, saying, "The strike teams are in position; they will move in at the first sign of trouble. Everything is proceeding well within the planned schedule. Don’t worry about that. Just make sure that you do your job, and the rest will be taken care of.

"Remember: they’ve chosen sides—they know where they stand—and this may be our only chance to fully eradicate the danger they pose to the world before they manage to go off the grid again. You know how slippery, how resilient these bastards are; if we don’t completely excise the problem today, if there is even one misstep, then that could mean their survival and resurgence. I don’t need to remind you that countless lives are upon your shoulders today. I know your history, your accomplishments; if I trust anyone, I trust you to handle this. Still, let’s be careful not to mess this one up."

Glancing about the room, sharing in the anxious anticipation that fills it, he finishes with one final command. Go and get them. We’re all counting on you.

The line closes with a soft electronic rustle. The same voice from the side intones, Thirty minutes... and they all settle in, once more, to wait.

SHELTERED AS IT IS within the sloping bowl of an alpine valley, surrounded on all sides by a phalanx guard of craggy snow-topped peaks, its location alone is enough to distinguish the facility, to lend it the air of the mysterious. Situated behind tall stone walls with forest rising up against its borders, approached by only a single winding road, it stands like the castle in a fairy tale; seeing it, one might be left to wonder whether its walls contain some treasure beyond measure or conceal a brooding, accursed beast. Less fanciful passers-by might mistake the sprawling complex for a resort of some kind; a retreat where those rich enough to afford the luxury might find relief from the bustling drone of the cities in the brisk, pine-scented air. This misimpression—if, indeed, it can be rightly called as much—would only be reinforced should said hypothetical passers-by witness the approach of a sleek, low-slung car, its treated black exterior polished to a mirror shine and free of the dust of the mountain roads.

With an almost inaudible purr, the car draws up and pauses at the end of the road for only a moment before the wrought-iron gate rolls aside. The hum of its engine is swallowed by the crunch of the gravel drive beneath its wheels as it proceeds to the main entrance of the central building, easing to a stop before broad stone steps that lead up to an impressive pair of doors. A uniformed figure emerges from the driver’s seat, rounds the car and opens a rear door with a slight bow.

We have arrived, sir. Though the soft-spoken utterance carries far on the clear mountain air, one would need to see the small half-smile or catch the gleam within the speaker’s eyes, to suspect the latent humor behind the formal address. The car’s remaining occupant is the sole person in a position to do so if he were of a mind to notice.

And perhaps he is, for as he steps from the car and straightens to stand, his response is tinged by a dry sarcasm. I can see that, Sheldon, he says. Thank you. Even as his words still linger between them, however, already his attention turns from his companion to focus on the structure before him and the task that brings him to it—to focus, as is his wont, entirely upon the business at hand.

Those who have met him would all agree that the man’s appearance is striking, although not for any eccentricity of feature or of fashion. Instead, it is some air about him—his demeanor carefully crafted to convey a sense of competence, of superiority, of wealth. Glossy black hair, allowed to show hints of gray, sits above striking blue eyes that carefully survey the exterior of the facility—eyes that note the mirrored windows that reflect the brilliant sun without revealing any of the building’s interior, that take in the contrast of smooth, featureless metallic doors against the rough masonry of a bygone age. With manicured fingers, he buttons the coat of a dark gray business suit—the suit itself crisp and pleated despite his journey, as though it would not dare be otherwise.

Shall I wait with the car, or... the rest of Sheldon’s question goes unspoken, interrupted by movement from the top of the stairs as the tall double doors open with a pneumatic hiss.

A short man of indeterminate age in a brilliant white lab coat hastens from the interior and down the stairs. With only a brief nod of greeting for the driver, who quietly moves back to take up his station beside the car, he turns all of his attention to the man, who is regarding him with a calculating gaze. You must be Mr. Grey, he says, I am Dr. Lin. It’s so good to finally meet you in person! Welcome to Elysian Grove. I trust your trip went smoothly?

Surprisingly so, given the remoteness of your facility. An arched brow and a slight lift in tone suffice to indicate an implicit question in the statement.

If Lin recognizes as much, however, he brushes it aside. With a shrug and an easy laugh, he simply says, Please. Facility sounds so cold. We here at Elysian Grove much prefer to call it home. Standing aside, he gestures up the stairs into the relative darkness beyond the open doors, where the luminous sheen of glossy wood-paneled walls and a polished stone floor hint at a rich interior. Do come in. We have much to discuss, and I am certain that there is much you’d like to see now that you’re finally here.

Grey does not return the doctor’s smile, but simply nods his assent to the invitation. Turning to his companion, he opens his mouth to speak but takes pause at the sound of his affable host’s voice drifting in from behind.

Your driver can feel free to pull the car around to our gatehouse. It also serves as a guesthouse of sorts, and I’m sure that he’ll be quite comfortable there while we conclude our business.

Grey gives a small shake of his head and a tight-lipped smile in response to the question in his driver’s eyes. That should be fine. Sheldon, I’ll be in touch should I need you. Turning back, face again smoothed into impassivity, he nods. Thank you, Doctor. Shall we?

Smile widening, Lin ushers his guest inside, leaving Sheldon, still standing beside the sleek black car on the gravel drive, to watch as the handle-less doors slide closed behind them.

Grey ascends the broad stairs slowly, as though suspecting that to step indoors will be to be swallowed up in darkness. If this is the case, however, he must find this expectation disappointed—burned from existence in the sun-lit brilliance of a wide foyer, cool stone floor and warm wood walls gleaming alike in the light. Though he stands quite still, his roaming eyes, the delicate flare of his nostrils, the slightest turn of his head towards a small sound from a receding hall, all serve to betray him; he is searching for something that he cannot quite seem to find. He catches an almost-astringent smell upon the air—a scent with undertones, perhaps, of decay—and like a bloodhound turns towards its source. But is that disappointment that briefly crosses his features? Another expectation unfulfilled? There is the culprit, slender branches bearing blossoms of palest ivory, just beginning to grow heavy and shed petals along with their aroma. What might he have thought to find, rather than the tall vase of lilacs that stands as though awaiting his appraisal?

I’m afraid you caught me coming from my lab. The doctor’s voice again draws Grey’s full attention. Gesturing at his coat with a smile, he asks, As I’m already suitably attired, would you care to begin your tour there?

Grey shakes his head, hands going through the absent motions of adjusting perfectly positioned cuff-links, and says, Would there perhaps be someplace better for us to talk? I have some concerns I really must discuss with you before we proceed.

Slight hesitation from the doctor, but he soon renews his smile and says, Perhaps you’d care to begin by accompanying me to my office, then?

Grey nods. That should be fine; thank you.

A wave of his hand, and the doctor is already turning to lead the way down a wide and welcoming hallway as he replies, Not at all. Of course, regardless, I do hope you’ll reserve your final judgment until you’ve received the full tour of Elysian Grove today.

Elysian Grove, Grey says the name as though sampling an exotic dish. An unusual name.

Unusual? Lin falls back a step, glancing over to meet the eyes of his guest. I suppose some might think of it that way. Then again, we here tend to prefer the unusual—the extraordinary. That’s why you’re here, is it not? To seek out those who, like you, would take the path less traveled by.

Grey nods, but any further response—assent or otherwise—is lost amidst the distraction of the sudden appearance of a figure a slight way down the hall. There, just coming in from a side doorway, is a tall woman who, with her golden hair and her billowy yellow sundress, stands out against the rich wood of the walls like a daffodil against damp-darkened earth. On her arm, she carries a large basket filled with peaches, the pale white-pink color is a near-match for the color of her sun-kissed cheeks. Removing a floppy sunhat from her head, using it to fan her cheeks, she glances over and smiles to see the doctor and his companion.

Lin, dear! Though she moves in close to the doctor, who halts to meet her, the woman’s attention is all for his companion. And who is this fine young man? she asks. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure? Her eyes, a rich and sparkling brown, roam up and down Grey’s form; an inspection which apparently more than satisfies, for it is with a broad smile and in a low tone that she adds, I’m certain I’d remember if I had. Placing her hat upon her basket, she uses a steady hand to smooth back hair left unruly from her outdoor exertions.

Cherie, this is Mr. Adrian Grey. Yes, he’s new. And, no, he isn’t considering residency. Not yet, anyway! Lin beams a smile about the group, a small enjoyment of his own small joke.

It’s strange, these days, for a woman as lovely as yourself to call me a young man. Grey stands cool and collected: ice against Cherie’s dollop of sunshine. Then again, he continues, I cannot claim to be able to quite place you... Glacier-clear eyes reveal the calculations ticking off behind them as he returns the woman’s full assessment. "How old would you say you are, to call me young?"

A blush brings further color rising to her cheeks, and the woman sends the doctor a glance weighted with wordless meaning. Ah, she demurs, only a scant moment beyond the edge of a comfortable reply, but a lady never reveals her age.

And a gentleman never asks. Or, at least, wouldn’t press the point, Lin adds with a laugh that, if it isn’t easy, is not notably forced. With a nod to her basket, he asks the woman, Stealing fruit from the orchard, are you? Planning on doing some baking today?

Always so greedy... she shakes her head with a laugh. Don’t worry; if we make something sweet, we’ll be certain to save some for you and for your friend. Turning to Grey with a smile, she adds, That is, if you’d like to join us?

With a stiff nod, Grey says, I’m certain that would be wonderful. However, I’m afraid that I’m not sure whether my schedule will allow for it. After all, Doctor Lin has arranged for me to tour the facility...

Ah, Lin says, waving a hand, "Nothing so formal as all that. I’m certain there will be plenty of opportunity for us to drop by the kitchen for something of an aperitif. Although... turning to Cherie, raising a melodramatic hand to his chest, he adds, you aren’t planning on giving him my share, are you? You will still be sure to save enough for me? After all, who could resist the ambrosia you make? Your peach confections are truly the food of the gods."

I hate to interrupt, Grey interjects, voice betraying no apology even as it fails to hide a hint of impatience, but I believe that we have some business to attend to? He turns his gaze upon the doctor, whose wide eyes could bespeak either surprise or amusement. I’m sorry to rush you, Doctor, but time really is a pressing concern.

Visibly pulling himself together, Lin gives a careful nod and a half-smile. Ah, yes; you’re right. More’s the pity. Turning to the woman, who appears somewhat bemused and simply raises a brow at his attention, he adds, Cherie, if you’ll excuse us?