Tim Akers - Dead of Veridon

"Why do you think Crane would leave this contraption behind?" I asked. Wilson's voice, when he replied, smelled like insect wings and dust.

"Because it's heavy, idiot." His lips hardly moved when he spoke, though his teeth were bared. I was reminded of just how many teeth he had. Wasn't usually this close to them. Their bright white enamel was veined in black that seemed to pulse with each word. "You don't just lug equipment like this around every time you get spooked."

"Which means he might come back for it? Or that he planned to be here for a while?"

Wilson shrugged. The noise in the room was picking up. He squinted at me nervously.

"Or that he doesn't mind it being found. Like the mask. He wants someone to find this." He looked around at the pipes and their tangled feet. "I can't for the life of me tell what it's meant to do, though."

"Can we get back to the dead guy at…" I stopped, because something tapped against my foot. I looked down to see a ball of twine, sticky with spittle and blood. I looked over at the body. It was looking at me, running a dry tongue over its lips. Gray's lifeless, bloodless lips.

"You have forgotten so much about us, Veridon," it said. "What we are. What we do." The body struggled to one elbow, it head lolling across its chest. "How we do it. I am disappointed."

The pipes behind me jangled as I backed into them, my hand clenched around Wilson's shoulder. He shrugged me off and shuffled around the perimeter of the room. The body followed him with one lazy eye, then turned back to me.

"Although I hadn't expected to see you again, Jacob Burn. I really thought the river would take you. Appropriate, I suppose. Unexpected." It coughed, and dryness filled the air, like a tomb unfolding. "Your friend can stop that."

I looked up at Wilson. He was fiddling with the pipes, though he didn't seem to have much direction. Just pulling on tubes, rattling brass. He shot me an angry look and kept at it.

When I looked back at the body, something had changed. The face was bulking up, the skin blossoming in a frost that spread until the skin was pale and bright. The skull lengthened and became narrow. I was reminded of The Summer Girl, the child becoming the woman becoming the singer. The body locked eyes with me and smiled.

"He doesn't have to. It was just advice." The voice expanded, filled the room, the words resonating through the air and into my bones like lightning, close and dangerous. "Something to keep him from hurting himself."

Wilson stumbled back, falling over, his head coming to rest against the body. That heavy voice rolled with laughter, and the legs began to twitch. Wilson jumped up and circled back to me. He gave a meaningful look at my hand. Of course. The revolver. What was I thinking?

I raised my iron and sighted. The body watched me do this, calmly, appraising each action. As I cocked, it nodded once, the smile unwavering. The report shook the room, flash and bang washing out the spiritual whirlwind of the pipes. When I lowered my hand, part of the body's face was missing. I watched as it grew back, like water closing over a blade. The edges of the wound skittered as they sealed shut.

"Just so, Jacob. Just so." He pushed himself into a sitting position, all his weight on one thin arm. He looked at us like a drunk, fallen in the street and propped up, his legs numb on the ground. "So much has been forgotten. Cut out from the history books. Much like the Burns, yes? Much like the many fallen families."

"I know you," I said, recognizing the long face, the narrow mouth. "Ezekiel Crane. I know who you are."

"You do and you don't," the body answered. The voice seemed to vibrate out of the pipes around us, music from an organ, and descend upon the body. I felt like I was hearing the voice in my bones a half breath before the dead man's mouth formed the words. "Your father may know me, but again. Not really."

I fired again, because I'm an optimist. Bullets sometimes work the second time. This one passed through his arm and dented a pipe beyond. The voice warbled for a second, then came back, louder than ever.

"I meant for the river to have you, Jacob. But it might be better this way. More honest." Struggling to his feet, the body hunched forward as he addressed me. "This way, maybe you can be more than just a joke I tell myself." Straightened up and looked me in the eye. "Maybe this time around, you'll be the one wearing the mask."

Wilson jumped forward and put his knife once, twice, three times, fast, into the chest. The body laughed, staggered, and then swatted the thin anansi aside. His knife clattered between the pipes, out of reach.

"I'm not going to kill you. Tried that, and it didn't work. So maybe you're some kind of cosmic gift, Jacob. Jacob and his annoying bug friend. Maybe, in time, you'll understand what I'm doing. Why I'm doing it. You're not the one I expected to come here, although I'm sure they're on their way." The body rested his hands on his hips and looked toward the door. "We can wait, if you want. Not what I would do if I were you. But it's your call."

"We'll wait," I said. "Whoever it is, at least they don't hide in dead bodies and try to kill me."

The body smiled and cocked his head at me.

"Don't they? Isn't that exactly what they do, Jacob? Isn't that exactly what they've done?"

I fired again, this shot hitting his throat. The eyes bulged for a second as the soft column of flesh reformed. I swear I saw the briefest vision of wings, fluttering across the gaping wound.

"You've got to stop doing that, Jacob. I'm patient, but it won't last forever. Maybe I reset this encounter. Kill you and your friend, and let the proper people find the mask. I try to not question the universe, but you're proving to be a little difficult."

"Summer Girl," I said, realization washing over me as I lowered my revolver until it was pointing at the glass plug in his chest. "But I've heard that song."

Three fast shots, then the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The lead buried itself into the glass. It was the second shot before Crane realized what I was doing, dead hands jerking over his chest. Too late. Just a bit too late. The pipe burst, and his life came fluttering out on dry paper wings.

The room filled with a cloud of insects, pouring from the body's newly reopened wound. Smooth, black and shiny, like jeweled honey, buzzing angrily out of his chest. The body flailed and jerked, but the face was supremely calm. Almost pleased. He gave me one last look, utter satisfaction, and then the illusion fell away in sticky slabs of false meat. The facade collapsed, pulled away from the animated flesh, and the body tumbled once more to the floor. The cloud of insects swarmed across the pipes, sucking the last whispering madness from their echoes, then fell to the ground. Dead.

"Maker beetles," Wilson said, running his toe through the dry husks. "Huh."

"So he's some kind of cogwork carrier?" I asked, kneeling down by the body. A few stragglers crawled up out of his mouth. The wounds Wilson and I gave him were back, ragged flesh torn open by bullet and blade. "Some kind of artificer trick?"

"Not like any trick I've ever seen," Wilson answered. He pried open the mouth with curious fingers, then felt around the bloody plug in his chest. The brass tube came free with a sucking pop. Nothing special about it, just a glass vial sheathed in metal. Only thing of note was that it had been driven violently into my friend's chest. "Nothing but what you'd usually find inside a dead man. No cogwork, no foetal metal. Nothing to run… whatever that was."

He tossed the vial to the ground and watched it roll away.

"What are we doing, Wilson?" I asked. "What the hell is happening here?"

"From the sound of it, someone is coming to find this mask." He fished his knife out from the machinery, gave the body one last look, and then headed to the door. "And I'd like to be well gone before they get here."