They walked slowly, each eyeing the other for any sudden move. The porch sagged underneath their combined weight. “Don’t worry, son,” John said. “It’s okay.”
The door was unlocked as most were in Perdition. The need for safety long past. The living room floor was dusty, red mud caked across the threadbare rug.
Holding the door open, John watched the boy enter. He stiffened and waited for the oncoming attack. A knife was shoved against his neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood.
“Gimme the keys and your money, faggot,” the boy hissed into his ear.
And so it begins, John thought and slammed his fist into the unprotected groin. The knife fell to the floor as the boy collapsed, clutching his injured privates. A vicious chop to the back of the head spelled the end of any threat from him.
John looked down at the unconscious form lying in the dust. The excitement he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by the weight of time and responsibility. He stared out a grimy window at the eternal rain, then proceeded to undress the boy.
Heat soaked into his skin as the boy slowly slipped to awareness. His eyes watered and he blinked to clear the stinging tears. The ground was hot under his buttocks and his hand scraped against a rock as he twisted around.
A red glow filled the room. No, he thought. I’m no longer in the house. He rolled to his side and nearly fell over the edge of a large break-off. His stomach lurched as he saw the river of molten lava flowing below. Flames licked along the surface, casting crimson shadows across the walls.
Crawling away, he scrambled to his knees and tried to stand. Flashes of light pierced his skull, causing him to stagger forward. A pair of strong hands helped him regain his balance, then lingered about his waist.
The boy jerked to one side, freeing himself from the clinging hands. John stood by him, the warm eyes locking with his. The old man was naked also, his withered sex hanging limply between his legs. A black strap encircled his right thigh and sheathed a large knife.
“They said we brought it upon ourselves,” John said. “Digging the coal from the ground. Setting the explosives. Leaving the earth a hollow shell.
“But they were wrong. The flames were always with us. Since the beginning of lime. Waiting for the proper sacrifice.”
“You’re ape shit, old man,” the boy whispered. The knife called to him, promising freedom.
John smiled. “You’re probably right. But what does sanity matter? What value does it hold? The flesh, the spirit. Only they have merit. The years come and go, but the soul lives on. Eternal. If you’re willing to pay the price.”
He paused and stretched out a hand to caress the boy’s cheek. “What is your name? I’ve told you mine.”
The boy swallowed hard and maintained a steady gaze. “Frog. My friends call me Frog.”
He smiled at the old man and then, in one quick movement, lunged at the knife. Arching his wrist upward, the metal sank into the soft belly, making a sucking sound as the blade tore in the shrunken cavity.
Frog looked up at John, expecting to see the final throes of death written on his face. Instead, Frog received a startling revelation.
A joyous expression enveloped John’s features, hinting of a rapture beyond human comprehension. Frog watched as a hand slid down to the knife and toyed with the hilt. A flicker of fear uncoiled in his chest as John removed the hilt to reveal another razor sharp blade.
Before the boy could react, John shoved him close and impaled him on the double edged knife. “Die with me,” he whispered and kissed the boy softly. “Die and be born again.”
Betraying his abnormal strength, John embraced the boy and together, they leaped into the river of flames. Frog’s screams shattered the silence, echoing through the empty cavern until a subtle change evolved.
Two bodies submerged in the molten lava, yet only one surfaced. Flesh melted, mingled with the flames and then reformed to a different shape.
The man pulled himself from the river and rested upon the bank. A thin coating of ash covered the taut, firm skin. Although the experience was nothing new, he couldn’t help but admire the beautiful interplay of muscle and tissue flexing beneath the babyish skin.
How many times had he endured the purging? Ensnared a soul and claimed it as his own before the flames cleansed him?
John lifted his eyes to the river and watched. How long? 150? 200 years since he and his brother had fallen into the earth and discovered the secrets of the river of flames?
The knowledge was a curse. One he abhorred, yet desired above all else. Still, he wondered. Why had he been spared? Why hadn’t his brother been the chosen one? He beat his fists against his head, impotent rage clouding his mind. His emotions warred with themselves until John dropped his hands to his lap, drained and weary.
His eyes glittered. Lost, all lost. How many lives had been destroyed in his quest to cheat death? How many innocents had he led to the slaughter?
At his feet, the river flowed onward, bubbles rolling to the surface and leaking the strong sulfur odor. He longed for the courage to step into the river alone, without the required sacrifice. Would an end to his miserable existence be granted? Or would a new torment await him?
Gathering his strength, John stood and stared into the boiling depths. The flames danced higher, taunting him with their power. He leaned forward, his heart in his mouth, muscles tense and ready. His head ached from the fire burning inside.
A tortured cry ripped from his lungs and he sank to his knees. It was no use. He couldn’t. The fine particles of ask slowly fell from his body and floated to the ground. To John, it was as if his life faded with them. Loss swept through his soul. Loss and shame. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he wept for the boy.
And himself.
THE BONE GARDEN
by Conrad Williams
Conrad Williams is yet another newcomer to The Year’s Best Horror Stories. Williams states that he is 24 years old and was born in Warrington, Cheshire, where he currently resides. He graduated from Bristol Polytechnic in 1992 and is now studying for an MA at Lancaster University. He has sold some thirty-five stories to small press and professional magazines such as Dark Dreams, Chills, Peeping Tom, Dementia 13, Exuberance, Mystique, BBR, Works, and Panurge, in addition to appearances in various anthologies: Sugar Sleep, Darklands 2, Northern Stories 4, The Third Alternative, The Science of Sadness, and Narrow Houses 3.
Williams relates: “A novel of mine, called Sipping Midnight is currently doing the rounds and I’m at work on a new book called Head Injuries.”
At the end of this book you will be quizzed regarding all these novels stirring about.
Much of that final day was taken up with placating my family, a surprisingly difficult task which left me more drained than the hot work of transferring furniture to my new house. Grandma cried most. Not that mum and dad or Pol, my sister, weren’t getting maudlin, it’s just that none of us had ever seen Gran cry before and her tears made everyone else feel worse. I suppose it was because I was moving to the house she’d shared with Granddad for so long before coming to live with us when the loneliness and strain became too much for her. At one point I had to take myself down to the concrete football pitch to escape the clotted feeling that I was making a mistake. I wasn’t, of course, and I had only to focus on my reasons for this move to guarantee its execution: all of them somehow wheeling back to the old woman who occupied the attic room above my own.