The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

CHORUS Bonus Story by Robert J. Duperre

The howling began at sundown.

Abigail Browning sat up in bed and drew her legs to her chest. Her entire body ached from the day’s hard labor, muscles and joints groaning each time she moved. She cocked her head and listened as a tingling sensation crept from feet to knees to chest to head. These noises weren’t exactly unexpected—Mort Hollis, the gruff old man who’d sold her the farm earlier that day for thirty gold coins, had warned her about the ramshackle town of Westworth’s savage nightly visitors and told her to make sure her doors were locked tight—but there was no way she could have anticipated the alarming rawness of the sound.

It started as a rumbling, drawn-out mewl that drifted through the cabin like the hum of a distant motor. Soon higher-pitched screeches joined in, echoing in the audible space above and below the originator. The sound wavered in tone, scaling up and down, creating an abstract, primal melody. The window shutters rattled with each variation in timbre. It almost seemed as if they were shaking in fear. Abigail felt the same way.

She glanced to the door, expecting it to swing open any second and a frightened toddler to sprint into the room. He would dive under her covers and wrap his quivering arms around her while she in turn wrapped her arms around him, the way she did any time the coyotes back east began their nightly song. She would then whisper into his ear that all would be fine, nothing could hurt him, she would always be there to protect him.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Nathan was gone. The Incident saw to that. Tears streamed down Abigail’s cheek as she saw his once-beautiful face swollen and bruised. She remembered touching his forehead and felt the coldness of his flesh once more. She hadn’t cried as she held him then, covered in blood, cradling him in her arms and singing his favorite lullaby, pretending nothing had happened. She more than made up for that now. Her body quaked with guilt from the memory, from the guilt of not having been there to protect him from the bastard until it was too late, and she choked on her sobs. It felt like her sorrow would never end.

And still the howling continued. Even as she wiped her cheeks with the dirty towel from her nightstand it persisted, filling the air, becoming thicker, more resilient. Abigail swallowed the last of her sorrow and swung her feet off the bed. The slatted wood floor was cold, the air even colder, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she stood up and wandered to the window.

Pulling back the shutters, Abigail gazed through the open portal, across the expanse of dust and dirt. She saw her cattle out there under the fading red sky, still as death, as if they too were captivated by the alien sound. Behind them was her fence, a crumbling barrier built from the rotting trunks of the last trees that grew in this barren part of the new world. And out there, beyond the cows and dirt and fence, rose the red clay cliffs, their rocky surfaces glimmering like blood in the day’s final light. She saw nothing odd, no monster, human or otherwise, that could make the sound she heard. There was nothing but an endless expanse of sand and stone.

She thought she saw a shadow bolt across her periphery. Abigail slammed the shutters, locked them, tiptoed across the room, checked the safety bar across the front door of her shack, and then leapt back into bed. She rolled into a ball, sticking her head beneath the covers and breathing deep, trying to instill the warmth of her breath into the atmosphere inside her cocoon. It was cold at night, made even colder by the memory of her son and the strange, shrieking beasts outside.

Hours passed before it all ceased and she was able to fall into a restless sleep.

The midday sun blazed as Abigail walked along the boundary of her land, examining the livestock. Its glare turned her shadow into an image of Medusa, her kinky-curly hair transforming into a wig of snakes. Shaking off a shudder, she went back about her business.

The twenty heads of cattle wandering about had come with the farm, and though Mr. Hollis had promised they were of good stock, all she saw were sickly, mutated beasts. Some had missing or extra legs, some had too many or too few eyes, and all were slender to the point of starvation. Not exactly the perfect specimens, but she shrugged, assuming it would be hard to find better out here in the wastelands, especially considering there were still invisible pollutants lingering in the air that made plants whither and animals spit out teeth, bleed from their gums, and perish in the night.

She’d traveled out here in hopes of building a better life, a quiet existence far away from the crowds of frightened people back home; or at least that’s what she told herself. In reality she was on the run from her pain and her guilt, from the knowledge that the one thing that defined her—motherhood—had been ripped away, leaving her empty inside. Over the last few months she’d pushed her body to the breaking point, traveling when she should have rested her tired bones, withholding nourishment when she should have eaten, staying out in the day when she should have sought shelter from the sun. She lifted her arm and gazed at the hands that emerged from her long, tattered shirt. Her skin had been dark to begin with, but now it was reaching the point of blackness. There were blisters on her feet and fingers, and she had frequent, massive headaches. Sometimes she wondered why she pushed herself so hard, but that line of questioning was nothing but a cover for the truth.

Abigail Browning was torturing herself.

She approached one of her disfigured cattle, a female with an extra withered leg protruding from its hindquarters. It stood apart from the others, facing away from her and releasing a strange, rumbling groan. The beast let out a snort as her fingers traced its bony spine. Its head shot to the rear suddenly and it kicked out with its hind legs. The superfluous leg flopped about and Abigail jumped back, barely avoiding a hoof in the face. She slung her rifle from behind her and shouldered it, just in case the frightened animal decided to charge. It didn’t. Instead it trotted toward the others, who were gathered around the feed bins, feasting on a meager supply of grains.

Abigail stepped to the side as the cow left the scene and spotted the reason the creature had been acting so strangely. There was a calf there, lying on its side. It shivered as if cold, and a puddle of red expanded around it. Abigail moved closer, trying to see over its side, and froze. The poor creature wasn’t moving on its own accord. There was another animal there, a tiny thing with gray, peeling skin, squatting in front of the calf with its head buried in its stomach. Its neck twitched back and forth, causing entrails to flow from the gaping wound in the calf’s underbelly. Abigail slid back the bolt of her rifle, chambering a round.

“Hey!” she shouted.

The monstrosity pulled out of the calf, revealing a bulbous skull and a blood-soaked face that might have once been human. A pair of milky white eyes with tiny black dots for pupils stared at her. The creature had not a hair on its head and its grayish flesh was stretched and shredded. There was a hollow gap where the nose should’ve been. Its cheekbones were too wide, the jaw too narrow, and blood dripped from its frayed chin. It hunkered down, thin ropes of muscle tense, and then leaned forward and hissed. Abigail backed up a step.

The creature swayed from side to side before rising on its skinny legs. In a moment of panic Abigail almost squeezed the trigger, but she paused. There was something about the thing’s posture that hypnotized her. It was no bigger than Nathan had been when he died, and the way it scrunched up its empty nose cavity, exposing its sharp yet gapped teeth, reminded her of the expression that came over her son’s face whenever he tasted something that didn’t agree with him. Her breath hitched and she lowered the rifle. The creature’s shoulders sagged as it stared at her. Its head tilted, with one nub of an ear almost touching its bony shoulder, while virtually nonexistent lips puffed out, making it appear strangely innocent.

Abigail slung the rifle back over her shoulder and stepped forward, wondering why Mort Hollis had never mentioned the presence of these odd beasts. Her old leather moccasins sunk into the blood-drenched dirt. When the liquid swished beneath her feet, the tiny monster bared its jagged, dagger-like teeth and crouched into a defensive position.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

She leaned over the calf and reached her hand toward the thing, waggling her fingers to let it know all was okay. She didn’t know why she did this. The creature had just mutilated one of her cattle. It was a monstrosity. And yet her heart pattered while she stared at it, and somewhere deep down she knew the tiny thing wouldn’t hurt her.

“Take my hand.”

The creature hissed one final time, spun around, and took off. It was fast—faster than a horse, from her perspective—and it cleared the fence in one leap. In a matter of moments it was but a speck on the horizon, rushing up and over the red clay cliffs until it disappeared from sight.

Abigail frowned, staring at the landscape. She wondered how the peculiar little thing survived being out there, all alone in the desert. Strange as it sounded in her own head, she wished it well.

With a sigh she shrugged the rifle off her shoulder, placed it on the ground, and knelt before the dead calf to inspect the damage. She ran her hand over its weathered hide, feeling bumps beneath the flesh, tumors that would’ve one day sprouted extra hooves or tails or whatnot had the poor beast lived. She purposefully kept her eyes away from its gashed stomach. It’s not that she was weak in the presence of blood; she just didn’t want to think of that strange little beast as anything vile.

When she reached the calf’s neck she paused. There she found a festering sore, black and white and red, dripping pus. Lines of infection ran from the wound to its chest, along its sides and across its split belly. She sniffed and smelled the distinct tang of rot.

The calf must have died in the night, which meant her monster—and that’s how she thought of it, as hers—was simply scavenging a carcass. Abigail smiled.

That evening the chorus of howls emerged yet again. Abigail once more tried to block them out, but the wails were louder this time, more insistent, more present. She covered her ears. It didn’t work. So instead she thought about the odd little creature she’d seen earlier that day, praying it would be safe from the beasts that cried out in the night.

“So how’s the old Batchell place?” asked the toothless old woman behind the counter.

Abigail raised her tired eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Not getting much sleep, though.”

The old woman nodded. “The Howlers keeping you up at night, eh?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll happen.” Her crinkled hands tied a knot in the bag of feed Abigail had just purchased and handed it over to her. “That’ll be seven silver.”

“How about four silver and ten copper?”

“Fine.”

Abigail dug through her satchel and removed her coin purse. After dropping the last of her money into the old woman’s hands, she asked, “What are the Howlers, anyway?”

The woman shrugged. “Don’t know. Some folks say they’re wolves, but bigger’n the ones you see in books. The Sickness changed ’em, they say. Made ’em huge, gave ’em a taste for human blood. They been wandering the borders since this place was repopulated four years ago, killing livestock. Not many folks’ve seen ’em and lived, but those that have swear they’re giant demons that’ll haunt them ’till the day they die.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “That so? Who was the last one to see them?”

The old woman laughed. “Ernest Batchell, actually. Left town soon after. Said they were stalking his farm.” Her beady eyes narrowed. “Guess that’d be your farm, now.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, don’t worry none.” She placed her calloused hand on Abigail’s. “You’ll be fine. Old Ernest was batshit crazy, that’s what he was. But maybe you should go get yourself a man. That’d help matters, wouldn’t it? A man to protect you at night?”

Abigail grabbed the bag of feed, threw it over her shoulder, spun around, and exited the shop without the courtesy of answering her.

She grabbed her mule by its bit and led the animal through what passed for Westworth’s town center—a collection of dilapidated barns and sheds with hand-painted signs propped against their dry and dusty walls. There were few people out and about, but those who did brave the heat of late morning cast her suspicious glances from beneath their hats. Eyes stared at her like spotlights from the center of soiled faces. All were male, and there was an aura of danger about each of them. A shiver ran up her spine.

But maybe you should get yourself a man.

No. Wasn’t going to happen. Abigail didn’t trust men. Not anymore.

Abigail marched down the road. Draped over the mule lagging behind her were the butchered remains of one of her cattle. It had taken her nearly two weeks to build up the nerve to slaughter the poor thing, but her feed bins were running low, as were her supplies. She needed to trade the meat in. Old Man Hollis had promised that a properly butchered cow would fetch a pretty penny in the town proper, whether the meat was low-grade and diseased or not. She hoped he was right.

The sounds of people shouting came to her from over the dune to her right. In her state of exhaustion—the damn Howlers seemed to get louder and louder every night, keeping her awake and scared—she assumed it was her head playing tricks on her. But then it came again, a human bellow followed by what sounded like the screeching of a cat. She looked around, her heart picking up pace. She was near the Mullin farm, the only other cattle wrangler in town. The Mullins were comprised of three brothers and their father, who ran the farm. She’d met them all once, at the market, and didn’t walk away impressed. She was about to ignore it, but then the sound came again, and this time she made out a loud thwacking noise. Just ignore it, her better judgment warned her. Keep on walking.

Abigail didn’t listen.

Grabbing her rifle from its pouch on the mule’s saddlebag, she stormed across the sand, kicking up clouds of dust. The screams came once more, then again. She heard three distinct, frantic voices, other than whatever animal was screeching. Probably the brothers. Probably in trouble.

As she crested the hill, Abigail realized she was wrong. The Mullin brothers weren’t in trouble. The three boys stood in a triangular formation, each holding a plank of wood. They took turns raising the planks over their heads, bringing them down hard as they could on whatever lay between them.

She inched closer, and her mouth dropped open. In the center of the human triangle, crouching and bawling, with its arms raised over its head while blood poured from the wounds covering its body, was her monster. It squealed in pain as another plank smacked against it, drawing a cut across the back of its hand.

Rage filled her. She raised her rifle to the sky and fired off a single shot. In the aftermath, all movement ceased.

The three Mullin boys stared at her as she trudged down the rise. They kept passing suspicious glances back and forth. She stopped a few feet away and pointed the barrel at them.

David Mullin, the oldest boy, probably in his mid-twenties, grinned. Most of his teeth were missing and his gums bled, obvious signs of Sickness. “Well what we got here?” he said, his voice cackling. “How’re you, pretty lady?”

Abigail didn’t reply. She shrugged her rifle to the side instead, letting it speak for her. The boys complied, moving away from the poor, wailing creature.

“Aw, someone’s got a soft spot for the freak,” said Barry, the youngest.

“Shut your mouth before I put a hole through it,” snapped Abigail. He obeyed.

When the boys were far enough away, she approached her tiny monster. It shivered while it lay crumpled in a ball, but at least it’d stopped screaming. It rolled over and raised its white eyes to her. The mirage of a grin formed on its thin, frayed lips. Streaks ran down its cheeks. The beast had been crying.

“It’s okay now,” Abigail whispered.

“Like hell it is.”

A shadow flashed behind her and she was knocked sideways. Her elbow struck hard sand when she fell, causing pain to flash up her forearm. Billy Mullin, the middle brother, ran past her, weapon in hand. The vulnerable creature yelped, its eyes bulging, as Billy brought the plank down once more, this time hitting it square in the face. A couple of sharp teeth flew from the thing’s mouth, accompanied by a stream of blood.

Billy swiveled his head and stared at her, his expression gripped with rage. “This thing killed one of our horses!” he screamed. “And we ain’t gonna take that from some mutie!”

Abigail’s eyes shifted from Billy to the creature and back again. In her mind she saw Mitchell standing over her dead son, a look of perverse satisfaction painted on his face. She gritted her teeth, squeezed the shaft of her gun as her own rage took over, and rose to her feet. Billy’s expression went from royally pissed off to rather concerned as she stumbled to get her footing and then charged full-bore at him, leading with the butt of her rifle. He must not have expected her to carry through with the assault, for he simply stood there, gawking. The ass end of the rifle slammed into his nose, and she heard an audible crack as the cartilage smashed. Billy careened away from her, wailing and holding his face. Blood seeped between his fingers.

She heard movement and spun around, swinging her rifle like a bat. Its stock caught David in the jaw. His head snapped back and he cried out in pain. Abigail bounced on her heels, holding the rifle upright, daring someone to make a move. The two injured boys stumbled about, not daring to approach her, while Barry stood as if frozen, his jaw hanging open.

Finally, Abigail swung the rifle around and shouldered it. She aimed it at each brother, one at a time, and said, “Now go away.”

The boys turned tail, stumbling over the dune to their rear. David, holding his cheek (which was already purple and swelling), turned back to her. He spat a tooth out on the dirt and glared.

“Pa’s gonna hear about this,” he said, and then disappeared from sight.

Abigail stayed as she was, gun in hand, nerves on edge, for some time afterward. She feared the boys would circle around and attack her from behind, but after a while that worry evaporated. She threw the rifle over her shoulder and looked to the spot where the wounded creature lay.

It wasn’t there.

Her head shot from side to side, but it was no use. She could see nothing but sand beneath a light blue horizon. Shrugging her shoulders and breathing deeply, she trudged back the way she came, hoping the mule hadn’t taken off in her absence—especially since it still had a hundred pounds of valuable beef strapped to its back.

Abigail Browning shivered. She was sure she’d done a good thing. It wasn’t right what they were doing to that poor little creature. The Mullin boys got what was coming to them, she thought. The beginnings of a grin spread across her chapped lips.

Evening came, and so did the howls. They pierced her eardrums with their shrill timbre, louder than ever. The dying sun cast glowing streaks across the ceiling of the shack as its rays slipped through the gaps in the shutters. She lit the candles on the table beside her, hugged her nightclothes tight, and slipped beneath her covers. Her hands were clenched and held close to her mouth. She sucked on her knuckles. That damn wailing sounded so close now, as if it was right outside her door. She shivered with terror, imagining the Howlers, whatever the beasts might be, barging in and devouring her whole. With that thought, she kissed away any chance of sleep she may have had.

Something hard smacked against the door, as if her fear had been given life. She shot up in bed and pulled the blanket to her chin. Maybe it’s nothing, she thought, but then it came again, louder this time. The lone cupboard in the room shook with the impact, and one of her two drinking glasses fell over. It rolled across the shelf, dropped over the edge, and shattered.

All sounds—the howling outside, the banging at her door, the breaking glass—swirled inside her head. Her heart raced out of control and she screamed. It felt like she could have a heart attack any moment.

“Miss Browning!” a panicked voice yelled. “Miss Browning, they’re after us! Help!”

Abigail cocked her head. She couldn’t decide if the voice was real or in her head, but when it called her name again, followed by yet another loud bang, she jumped out of bed and sprinted to the door. There was someone out there. Someone in trouble, pursued by the Howlers. She had to help.

She gripped the bar across the door with both hands, yanked it from its moorings with a shrug, and tossed it aside. What followed was a prompt smack in the face as the door barged inward, sending her to her ass. She bit her tongue when she landed, and blood pooled in her mouth.

Her forehead ached, and something wet trickled into her eye. Her vision grew wobbly as she sat there on the dirty floor. She lifted her chin slowly, watching the door swing open and four sets of feet clad in filthy work boots tramp into the shack. Her eyes went from the boots, to the pants, to the tattered shirts, to four grim, scowling faces.

“Well well,” said Ennis Mullin, his sons looming behind him. “This little lass the one who did ya?”

The three boys nodded; David with his jaw in a sling, Billy with his face wrapped in bandages stained red, Barry with his weasel-like nose scrunched up. All three glowered at her, hatred in their eyes. Ennis, however, simply looked amused.

“She’s pretty.”

With the front door left open, the howling ratcheted up a notch, drowning out the ringing in her head. Abigail tried to plant her feet and kick herself backward, but her heel found no purchase. Her vision wobbled and she felt close to passing out. She leaned over and dry-heaved, drool trickling from her bottom lip.

“What should we do with her, pops?” she heard one of the brothers ask.

Ennis, cocksure and sickening, replied, “Anything you like.”

Hands on her. Beneath her armpits, under her knees, lifting her. The bed then beneath her, and a hard something striking her face. She collapsed, the back of her skull striking the headboard. She flailed her arms and legs as hard as she could, but the hands holding her were too strong. Then her nightclothes were tugged. She heard the fabric tear, felt the coldness of the open air on her bare flesh. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to focus on something, anything, to distract her from the here and now.

But all she could think of was the last man who’d seen her naked, Mitchell, and then of how she’d come home and found him on top of her son, holding a cord around his neck while Nathan’s little face turned blue and his eyes bugged out, of how she’d grabbed an axe and buried it in the back of Mitchell’s head.

She’d done so much—survived the War, then the Flood, then the Sickness—she’d brought life into the world, only to watch it get snuffed out by the man who’d promised to love and protect her.

Someone scratched her inner thigh. She came back to the real world, and that’s when she noticed there was something missing. It took her a moment to realize it, but the howling had stopped.

Again something hard whacked her in the face, and blood cascaded down her nose. One of the brothers—she couldn’t tell which, her vision was too hazy—grabbed her legs and tried to force them apart. She squeezed as tight as she could, but the pain seeping into her mind made her weak. Her knees buckled and shook, and whoever wedged his hand between them grunted. She wanted to scream, but nothing came out but a hoarse, wet gurgle.

Footsteps now, fast and plentiful. It sounded like a million ants crawling around her, their spiked feet clicking against the floor. Wood breaking, glass shattering, people shouting. She felt a withering sensation, as if she’d been transferred to another plane of existence entirely.

It took a great amount of effort, but Abigail raised her head and opened her eyes. What she saw defied description. There were bodies in motion everywhere—some dark, some light. There were men screaming and beasts growling, and every so often a geyser of red would erupt and strike the walls. Bones snapped, teeth gnashed, and still the screams of torment persisted. She felt as if she indeed had been taken away from the mortal coil, and now resided in Hell.

Something crept beside her on the bed, something large and glowing. A pair of cold, coarse hands touched her forehead. She glanced over at a muddled white oval with a torrent of red running down its bottom half. That was the last thing she saw before the blackness took her.

Abigail Browning lay with her knees drawn up to her chest. She was cold, so cold. She could’ve kicked herself for not starting a fire in the small stove that sat in the corner of her shack. It wasn’t much, but at least it would’ve provided some warmth.

She reached down for her blankets, but they weren’t there. She tried to move her head and was struck by a surge of pain that ran from the side of her face on down her neck. Her hand reached up and touched the sore spot. Her eye and cheek were swollen, and her nose felt like silly putty. With a groan, she opened her eyes.

There was no bed beneath her, only sand. And she was surrounded by sound—voices, quite a few of them, guttural and primitive, squealing. She gulped down the bile in her throat and raised her head.

All around her, creatures with gray skin sat cross-legged, their disfigured, horrendous faces aimed at the sky. They cried at the moon, their throats vibrating as the noises emerged. I’m dreaming, she thought.

Abigail gradually sat up, waited for her dizziness to subside, and then looked around once more. No dream. She glanced to her right and saw a female creature with gray, flapping breasts sitting beside her, eyes to the night sky. It acted like she wasn’t there, and as its sunken jaw moved she saw droplets of blood drip from its chin and cascade down its belly, only to be licked up by the two smaller creatures it held in its lap. Abigail’s eyes widened—really only the left one, since the other was virtually swollen shut—and one of the smaller beasts looked at her. There it was. The monster, her monster, the one she’d seen eating the dead calf, the one she’d saved from the Mullin brothers earlier that day.

The mother ceased her howling and her dotted black pupils turned Abigail’s way. The female opened her arms, and the young one burst from her grasp, its malformed penis dangling. It barreled into Abigail, and for a moment she feared the thing would rip out her throat. It didn’t. Instead it nuzzled its huge, bald cranium into her neck. Hesitantly, she brought up her hand and stroked its head.

The mother, apparently satisfied with the result, wrapped her arms around her remaining child and resumed her primal song.

Abigail sat there in amazement, holding the strange little life form. All around her she noticed it was the same scene, over and over again—female monstrosities with their young ones, weeping at the sky. She looked straight ahead, saw her farm in the distance, nothing but a speck, and gazed at the thing in her arms.

The child cooed, and then placed his crooked palm on her chest. That hand rose up and bony fingers wrapped around her jaw, moving it up and down.

In that moment Abigail understood the purpose behind the strange chorus. She mimicked the rest of the clan, gazing at the ugly yet precious thing in her arms while she sang.

The mutated child’s eyes began to close, and a smile stretched across Abigail’s face. After years of searching, she’d finally found a place to belong. She was home.

Chorus, a story inspired by the illustration by Jesse David Young that accompanies it in this collection, originally appeared in Dark Tomorrows: Second Edition, a collection of short stories by J.L. Bryan.