Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction | July 2022 | No. 6: Dark Horses Magazine, #6

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

THE DEAD WORLD
Donald McCarthy

THE WHEEL
Sam Fletcher

RED'S PLACE
Douglas Young

NIGHT OF THE TRELLIS
Arthur Davis

THE DEVIL DRIVES A '66
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

THE SLIDE
Michael Balletti

DOORS BEST LEFT CLOSED
Bill Link

EXODUS
John Andrew Karr

A MIMICRY OF NIGHT
Jon Michael Kelly

DESCENT
Nick Young

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201662288

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CONTENTS

––––––––

THE DEAD WORLD

Donald McCarthy

THE WHEEL

Sam Fletcher

RED’S PLACE

Douglas Young

NIGHT OF THE TRELLIS

Arthur Davis

THE DEVIL DRIVES A ‘66

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

THE SLIDE

Michael Balletti

DOORS BEST LEFT CLOSED

Bill Link

EXODUS

John Andrew Karr

A MIMICRY OF NIGHT

Jon Michael Kelly

DESCENT

Nick Young

THE DEAD WORLD

Donald McCarthy

––––––––

There’s life on this dead world even though it’s a civilization’s graveyard. Just seven of us but that still counts for something, doesn’t it? We’re stationed in an observatory bunker just outside a city of corpses. The species that lived here went extinct, mercilessly removed by what humanity nicknamed the Great Disease.

Yet, here we are, looking for life anyway.

Not life on this planet, to be fair. That’s a lost cause. No, we’re here because this is the planet furthest from humanity’s center. We’re sending out a signal asking if someone else can hear us in the emptiness of space. Perhaps humanity exists in a dead universe, and nothing will respond, but hope lingers among many, whispers of strange sightings by those who’ve gone deep into space.

It’s an idea that fascinated me when the Extraterrestrial Project first broached me about it. But the reality of the dead world changes things, giving me time to second guess myself. Now, as I wait for a response with my six peers, I’m not so sure if we should want one. Maybe silence can be a blessing.

I guess I’ll find out.

––––––––

Day 6

Dr. Lucille Watkins sits in front of a hot bowl of beef soup, the steam rising in front of her face. I haven’t spoken to her yet outside of a greeting when we pass in the bunker’s halls. She works nights; I work days. I only arrived last week to start my 180-day tour with the Extraterrestrial Project, so I’m still getting to know everyone. With the cafeteria otherwise abandoned, I decide now is the time to meet Lucille; if I recall my briefing correctly, she’s been here since the beginning of the project. I head to her table and ask, This seat taken?

She shakes her head. I place my breakfast down on the table and sink into the seat. I’m still waking up. Never been good with mornings.

You’re Dr. Hugh Carter, right?

Indeed I am, I say, wondering why that’d be a question. Did she not bother to learn the names of the new arrivals? I take a sip of my coffee; it’s already growing cold.

Lucille replies, Not much is it?

The coffee? No.

She’s older than me by about ten years, probably in her mid-fifties. Her hair is silver but her face clear of wrinkles. Blue eyes shine like beacons, and I wish she’d look down. Is this your first time stationed someplace like this? she asks.

A dead world? Our voices echo a little in the cafeteria.

Yes.

I nod. Yep. Read about many of them, but this is my first-time stepping foot on one. I give a humorless laugh. Loved it in concept. Little spookier being here.

Odd to think there were once flourishing civilizations that are just gone now. Reminds us that it can happen to humanity, too. Humbling, definitely. Why’d you volunteer?

I’ve always been interested in extraterrestrial life, and the time here will allow me to work on some translations that were found on one of the other dead worlds. I almost ended up going there, but this seemed more enticing. I doubt I’ll accomplish much with the translations; whatever language the creatures on that world once wrote in may well be beyond human comprehension. It does give me something to fall into, though, when the days are too long and the world above too depressing.

Ah, so you’re interested in the idea of little green men, too? I always found the concept rather fascinating.

Same, I say. But sometimes I wonder if my curiosity is a flaw. I scratch at my light beard; I haven’t bothered to shave in a few days. You’ve been here a long time, right?

I was part of the first group here, she confirms. Stayed for the second round, and now I’m here for the third.

No fear of boredom? I ask.

Oh, there’s plenty of that. She lifts a spoonful of soup, blows on it, and slurps it down. Food is still mediocre, too.

What keeps you coming back?

I’m an archaeologist, so everyone assumes I’m only intrigued by ruins, but knowing humanity’s histories and cultures makes me curious what another species’ would look like. Not to mention how we’d get along with them.

I drag a fork through my watery eggs. I remember a brief nightmare I had on the way here. A creature stood over me, ready to kill. I could only make out its silhouette, but I knew its intentions. The dream still sticks with me, and it fuels a quiet paranoia about what waits in space’s shadows. Worried about them being violent?

She leans back, crossing her arms. She gives me a condescending smile, and I try to stifle the defensiveness it raises in me. People always worry about that, she says. No one considers the opposite.

That they’d be peaceful? I reply, only just hiding my annoyance. I’m sure everyone hopes for that, but there’s no harm in preparing for the worst. Sometimes I wonder if we’re poking a sleeping bear by sending out a signal.

She barks a laugh. That’s not what I meant at all. You’re still human-centric. I wasn’t talking about them being peaceful. I was wondering if humanity would be.

Why would we be violent towards them? I ask. I tire of her attitude, of the feeling she views me as a child.

She replies with a raised eyebrow. World War One. Two. The Exodus Wars. The Fourteen Days War. What happened on Wellhole. I could go on if you need.

I don’t, I say.

I don’t think you’re wrong to worry about the signal we send out, Lucille says. If she notices I’m fed up with her tone she does not show it. It’s just that I think we shouldn’t be sending out a greeting but a warning. ‘Stay away: we’re still a work in progress.’ She chuckles. But I have my doubts about us improving.

My appetite has vanished. I stand, taking my tray with me. You’re an archaeologist. You’ve seen human cultures that are peaceful. Cynicism isn’t always wisdom. I dump my breakfast’s remains into the trash, which eats it with a quiet drone.

Oh, I’ve studied a number of peaceful civilizations. She chuckles again, and it’s a sound I hate. And that’s the problem: I only study dead cultures, dear. You get my point?

Uh huh.

I might just be grumpy today, she adds. You hear our benefactors are sending an overseer?

I turn to face her. She’s still smiling. An overseer?

Tyrius Incorporated’s money doesn’t come without restrictions, she says. Next week one of their corporate freaks is coming. Hear we’re supposed to go out and greet him.

One thing you must do as a scientist is forget where the money comes from. A visit from Tyrius Incorporated won’t help that. You’re a bastion of good news, I tell her.

Just sharing God’s truth.

––––––––

Day 8

Saleem prays half a mile from our bunker. He has his mat on the rocky gray surface that covers this barren world; he kneels, leaning forwards while thanking his God. I stand behind him, hands pocketed due to a cold wind. I didn’t mean to stumble upon him; I just needed a walk. Now, I’m frozen by indecision: if I walk away, I seem rude, but if I stay, I seem invasive.

Saleem rises, wrapping up his mat. Behind him, I see the dead city, its skyscrapers, all made of stone, reaching up to the dull yellow sky. The skyscrapers are vacant, but sometimes the buildings scream when the wind howls through their open windows. At one time, they may have been beautiful; now, the stones are dull, moss inching up the sides.

Out for a stroll? Saleem asks. He’s a big man, large chest and huge arms. I’d put good money on him being an athlete before he became a biochemist. His hair is short on the top and buzzed on the sides. The opposite of the mess on my head, long and curly.

Yeah, I say. Didn’t mean to disturb you, though.

Not at all, he replies. Happy to keep you company if you’re heading back to the bunker.

I don’t have any destination in mind, so I say, Sounds good. He walks by my side, the bunker not yet visible in the distance. Behind me, I feel the city staring. Can I ask you what’s undoubtedly a stupid question?

I’m excited for it, Saleem says.

How do you know which direction to pray in?

He laughs. I don’t! I can tell which direction Earth is, but it’s a hell of a calculation for me to figure out which times of the day I’d be facing Mecca. He scratches at his face, shrugging. And it’s an odd thought, too, but I wonder what’s even there anymore. So much was destroyed during the Exodus, so who knows what the planet is like now.

I think back to some of the pictures I’ve seen of Earth, how it looked at its height and how it looked when humanity, most of humanity, fled.

So, I just figure it’s in the spirit of the act, he continues. Makes me feel a little better about being out here. Gives me a little, I don’t know, energy. He shrugs. Call it what you want.

It’s important to keep sane here, I say. The nightmare I had on the way here still clings to me. I did not sleep well last night. I wonder what I was thinking wanting to be the first to meet extraterrestrial life. I’m no soldier, no fighter at all. What would I do if they came angry?

No kidding, Saleem says. You ever been out this deep into space?

I see the bunker now. A black box in an otherwise desolate horizon. Most of our base is beneath the ground to avoid the heavy tornadoes that plunder through from time to time. This area of the planet was made breathable due to terraforming, but the weather remains unpredictable. Only so much is within our control. Never, I say. It shouldn’t be any different from being on one of the uncolonized worlds closer to home, but it feels different. I know we’re all people of science but...

Uh huh, he agrees. Feels wrong out here, doesn’t it? Not all the time, but sometimes.

I nod. It does. Feel like it makes me paranoid. I wonder if the first people to live off Earth felt the same way. Maybe humanity wasn’t made for another planet.

Saleem snorts. Maybe. But just think about how it all ended there. We weren’t really made for Earth, either.

Wanting to switch topics, I ask, You hear they’re sending an overseer?

Yeah. Never good when a corporate hack shows up.

Not sure why they’d bother coming to a place like this, I say. Christ, I’m not sure why I did.

You’re telling me.

Another cold wind blasts through, and behind us, the skyscrapers start howling.

––––––––

Day 17

The dead world stays bleak, the clouds gray tinted with brown. The empty city watches us in the distance as we stand outside the bunker, waiting for the arrival of Tyrius’ overseer. Saleem stands next to me, playing with his hands. You okay? I ask him.

He nods, but I can tell he’s not. I don’t ask more. His business. The others out here remain quiet. Lucille looks bored while Dr. Denise Logan and Dr. Michael Madigan keep looking to the sky, no doubt watching for the overseer’s craft.

Instead, he appears on the horizon.

There’s no trace of where he came from. It’s as if the empty city birthed him. He wears a black suit with a blue tie. He carries a briefcase at his side. His pace is slow but steady across the rocky ground. When he is within speaking distance, he raises a hand and gives a slight wave.

All of us, except Lucille, wave in reply.

This all of you? he asks. He has the voice of a quiet serpent.

No, I reply. I’m not sure why it’s fallen to me to speak, why I’m the assumed company man. Two others are on duty.

The overseer laughs. Ah, yes. Listening. He’s pale and thin, cheekbones too sharp. Judging by your faces, you must assume I’m here to be a bother. I’m not. He drops his briefcase to the ground. It lands on its bottom, a little dust rising around it. The overseer raises both his hands. I promise! Just here to observe. The briefcase opens, and a small sphere shoots out, flying over our heads and into the sky. Just getting some footage, too.

Footage of what? Dr. Logan asks. She sounds both suspicious and nervous.

The overseer shrugs. Of everything.

Where did you land? I ask.

He gestures behind him. I had them drop me off on the other side of the city. I wanted to walk through it. Get a sense of the place.

I wonder if I’ve misheard him. That’s a twelve-mile walk, I say.

The overseer tugs at his jacket. Don’t let the suit fool you: I’m an athlete at heart. Have you all been to the city? It’s quite a sight.

Dr. Madigan clears his throat. Only I’ve been. He’s older than the rest of us, and in that moment, he looks impossibly aged, almost a corpse. I went to the temple, or what we assume was their temple, and I saw the, uh, the skeletons.

I didn’t see a single skeleton, the overseer says, sounding disappointed.

Most of them fled the city and died further out, Madigan clarifies. There are remains on the east side, though. A lot. They litter the streets. I guess they were all fleeing in that direction. Some got further than others. But it didn’t matter. The Great Disease still killed them.

I’ll have to look! exclaims the overseer. Perhaps when I leave. Be a hell of a thing to tell others you’ve seen, eh? And what’s the purpose of life if not to brag? He spreads his arms. So, where do I go to see if aliens are calling?

––––––––

Day 20

On my way to duty, I spot Lucille carrying a crowbar. She walks a few feet ahead of me down the silver hallway, which is sleek and austere. Our footfalls are loud and echo. I don’t mind it: makes it feel like there are more of us here. Technology problems? I ask her.

She turns around and smiles. It’s the same one from our shared breakfast. Panel outside the observation room is on the fritz, she says. Won’t open.

What does that panel even do? I ask.

Temperature control. The overseer is in the observation room, though. Maybe I’ll freeze him out if I get it open. She laughs, and it carries down the hall.

"I’m