Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

From deep inside the core of the sac, something gurgled, then screamed.

Martin moved backward, toward the entrance, pulling, pulling, trying to keep his balance on the blood-slicked floor as the screaming from inside the sac grew louder, ragged, and more intense, damn near deafening him, but then the other end of the vein came loose with a wet, stubborn rip and fell limply to the floor.

Damn thing was strong . Chalk one up for the janitor. He turned to run out— —but Gash was having none of that. And that’s when Martin made his only mistake. He didn’t look away when the thing stepped into the path of his escape.

Gash walked on tree-thick legs that crawled with living sinew on the surface. Where his groin should have been was a bloated, black, seeping cluster of tumors. His skin—if it could be called that—had the jagged, ferromagnesian texture of andesine, though not quite as dark. His arms were held in place like prostheses by moldy leather straps that formed an Xacross his chest. A curved section of copper tubing snaked from the tumors of his groin to a glass container strapped to his hip. With each heavy, tormented step he took, the tube discharged into the container a thick, reddish-brown liquid full of wriggling ebony chunks.

Gash sucked these excretions into his mouth through a long copper straw.

He looked at Martin and smiled, his pulverized lips squirming over rotted needle-teeth caked with loose bits of flesh and still-fresh strands of wet muscle. He spoke in a voice clogged with phlegm, putrescence, and piss.

“I think you have something that belongs to me.”

Close your eyes and just run, just run, he can’t move that fast, he’s too fucking enormous, too heavy, too clumsy .

But Martin couldn’t do it.

Gash leaned down, the shadows cast by his soldier’s helmet spreading away from his bloodshot, bulging eyes, neither of which was where it was supposed to be. “No?” he said. “Then maybe a trade?” Martin at last found his voice. “You don’t have a goddamn thing I want.” Gash’s smiled grew even more hideous. “I think I do.”

He reached down with both arms and thrust his talon-like hands deep into the center of clustered tumors, digging around inside, making a sound like a child working to create a stack of mud pies. Finding what he’d been looking for, he pulled out his hands in a slop of pus and excrement, raising the treasures up into light, then licking the pink-and-white cancerous afterbirth from each figure before spreading wide his arms so Martin could clearly see. In his right hand, Gash held Martin’s father. In his left, Martin’s mother. “I’ll give them back,” said Gash, his diseased voice sounding as bright and honest as something so corrupt could sound. Then he shook them a little; enough to make each of them shriek in agony.

“It hurts so much , Martin,” said his father. “Oh, God, why didn’t I just do what you and Mom wanted and let them take the bastard out of me?” Martin began shaking, from head to heel he was shaking, losing his hold on both the vein and As-Was. “So . . . what do you say?” hissed Gash, thin strings of pinkish slobber dribbling from his lower lip. Martin said nothing.

“So you’re gonna let us down again?” said his father, his voice taking on that same cold anger that had been so present in his speech the last few weeks of his life. “I thought you’d at least make us proud this one time, this one goddamn lousy time.”

“Please, honey,” Mom pleaded. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you were always such a good boy. Please do this one thing for us, Marty. Please?”

And just like that , the brief moment of uncertainty that had nearly cracked his resolve became a cold ball of anger.

“Nice try,” he said to Gash. “But she never once called me ‘Marty.’ Her nickname for me was ‘Zeke.’

“You’re not only ugly, you’re obvious and sloppy.”

And with that, Martin made three quick movements that were so fast they might as well have been a single motion: he let go of the vein, spun around and downward to grab the crowbar, and threw it toward Gash; it shot straight out, a steel arrow, and buried three-quarters of its length in the center of the tumor cluster.

Gash threw back his head and screamed, dropping the lifeless and now-featureless figures, his hands fumbling down to find and remove the crowbar, and that was all the opening Martin needed; grabbing the end of the vein again and tightening his hold on As-Was, he ran straight out, right underneath Gash’s parted legs, reaching the hole a full ten seconds before Gash yanked out the crowbar and turned, still slobbering in pain, and started toward him, half-stomping, half-limping.

Martin threw the end of the vein upward with all the force he could muster; the shepherd caught it on the first try, and within seconds most of the people from the painting had lined up above, each grabbing a section. Below, Martin tightened the other end around his wrist and arm, gripping the slack with his fist. “Pull!” They did, and it worked, but it was slow going; they slipped once, almost dropping him back down, but caught it in time. Meanwhile, Gash was rallying, gaining strength and speed, closing the distance.

Martin shouted: “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! ”

Gash saw that Martin was almost to the surface, let out a massive roar—

—and unfurled his hideous wings, taking flight, demolishing the walls, the bookshelves, and most of the displays as he soared forward, talon-hands thrust out, barreling toward Martin and making a final push—

—as the people from the painting gave one last, massive, powerful yank, pulling Martin through the hole and to the surface.

“Thank you,” he said, and that was all the time he was going to have, because now the first of Gash’s hands shot up through the hole, talons impaling the shepherd through his chest and face.

Martin ran.

Just ahead, dim and ruined and depressing, he saw the room where his six-year-old self still held open the doorway, and damn if that decrepit room wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Behind him, the people screamed. Something ripped. Something else was pulled apart with moist, shredding sounds.

And then Gash’s scream filled the air.

Doubling his speed, Martin chanced one look behind him and saw something that would haunt his dreams off and on for the rest of his life: Gash’s torso, arms, and wings were free of the hole, and he was slaughtering everyone within reach.

Oh, God, please forgive me, all of you, please forgive me . . .

. . . and just before he reached the doorway, Golden Dress appeared from behind a tree and had just enough time to shout “This is not your doing!” before Martin released a scream of his own and leapt into the air, passing through the doorway, tossing As-Was forward, and slamming to the floor beyond—but remembering to tuck-and-roll, which is probably the only thing that prevented him from snapping his neck.

He saw Gash rise high in the background of the painting.

Martin looked around for something with which to destroy As-Was, found nothing, but then the little boy who’d once been him shouted, “Here!” and tossed the flashlight to him, the wonderful, big, long, heavy flashlight, and Martin raised it above his head, readying to swing down—

—except As-Was had changed; no longer a ghostly white deformed monstrosity, but a soft, pink-skinned, chubby newborn with perfect hands, feet, face, head . . . and the loveliest blue eyes. It looked up at Martin and gave a gurgling giggle. “What the . . . ?” The baby squealed with delight, shaking its arms and kicking its legs, its smile wide, toothless, radiant. Martin looked from the baby to the painting. Gash was free of the hole, crouching down, unfurling his wings once again, readying to take flight. Below Martin, the baby’s face changed into an expression of perfect newborn love.