Scratched and faint: an old man’s voice that struggled with the words even as I struggled to recall where I had heard them.
And I remembered. I was slumped in a chair in a darkened auditorium, a dim spotlight fixed on the stage where a horrible grey-faced rector chanted.
—or no, I was crouched before a leaping flame, fighting to keep my eyes open as a small figure clad in furs and leather tapped out a monotonous rhythm on a skin tabor.
Abruptly the voice rose to a scream and faded into a chittering wail. Once again I heard that buzzing roar, softer now though more distinct, a sound punctuated by thumps, the hollow impact of empty pods on gravel. And I almost laughed—
Because when I first saw that charred landscape I thought that there could be nothing more horrible than that utterly barren place where nothing had ever grown or died, not scarab nor vulture nor thorn tree nor worm. But now I knew there was something infinitely worse.
Because in all that colorless formless desert, something was alive.
But they were not skeletons, or cadavers. They were not even remotely human. They were immense arthropods, like praying mantids or walkingsticks or leaf insects. Many-jointed, silvery grey as the scar they danced across, their long, jointed legs trailing behind them like matches spilling from a box. They had huge round eyes, smooth and curved as glass, with a tiny black spot marking the pupil. Some of them had wings that retracted when they struck the ground. They filled the black sky of the world beyond the door, a vast horde growing nearer and nearer. I saw a blurred flutter as one fell to earth and then exploded into the air again, wings beating furiously as it propelled itself toward us. Above its twitching mandibles its eyes glittered like steel bearings.
Magda Kurtz’s scream was silenced as, with a single thrust, her captors pushed her through the door. I struggled in Angelica’s arms, then pulled free.
For a final instant I glimpsed Magda Kurtz. She was on the other side of the door now, and she staggered as though blinded, arms flailing, before falling to the ground. Grey dust puffed up around her knees. I heard pebbles rattling against the wooden portal, wind buffeting the wall behind us. The air pouring from the doorway was so cold my teeth chattered. The smell of gasoline choked me. I could no longer feel Angelica’s hands clasping mine. I could no longer see anything, except what lay beyond the door.
Above Magda Kurtz hovered an immense black shape. Its dangling limbs moved slowly up and down, its huge witless eyes were fixed on what lay beneath it. For perhaps a minute it hung there, wings beating in silent rhythm. Then without warning it dropped to the ground. A cloud of glittering dust rose as it extended one long, jointed leg like the metal shank of a tripod.
In its shadow crouched Magda Kurtz. She looked impossibly small, a doll-woman or the spindly figure from a cave painting. She drew her arm up to shield her face and turned to look back at the doorway. But I could tell by her blank expression and gaping mouth, by the way her head weaved back and forth, that she could no longer see the door or what lay beyond it, that our world had closed upon her forever. The last thing I heard was her scream, a rising wail sliced off as the door slammed shut.
Before Angelica could grab me I was gone, stumbling out into the main passage. From behind me came shouts; then Angelica’s desperate voice.
“Sweeney, no!—the stairs—!”
She pointed and I sprinted down the hall to where that horrible back stairway yawned. Behind me footsteps clattered like hooves; I heard Professor Warnick’s deceptively calm voice echoing through the darkness.
Then Angelica’s scream.
“No!—let go of me—
I whirled. Francis Connelly had her by the wrist. He twisted it as he pulled her toward him and Balthazar watched impassively.
“Let
I could hear Angelica panting, could see the dark welts where he gripped her cruelly. An arm’s length from them, Professor Warnick crouched against the wall like a goblin fearing sunlight. And then Francis began to drag Angelica toward the alcove where they had taken Magda Kurtz.
“God
Francis’s voice broke off as I darted toward him. I grabbed Angelica, then, with all my strength, kicked him in the shin. A satisfying instant when I felt my boot’s worn metal toe smash into bone. With an anguished howl Francis collapsed onto the rug.
“Oh dear,” murmured Balthazar Warnick.
“Come on!” I gasped, and pulled the half-sobbing Angelica after me.
Around us all was a blur of scarlet and black and gold. I thought I heard voices, the muted sound of vast wings. Then we were at the end of the corridor. Below us the staircase unfurled. From behind us came the rattle of bone, a shrieking wind rank with the smell of gasoline and burning leaves. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move…
“Sweeney,
Angelica shoved me. I grabbed the railing and lunged down, two and three and five steps at a time. When I saw the floor only a few feet below I clambered over the banister and jumped. Then I bolted, toward a screen door gaping open onto the night. Beyond it lay the comforting yellow glow of the campus crimelights, a few half- shadowed figures gathered atop the Mound. When I reached the door I slammed my fists against the screen and, gasping, looked around for my friend.
“Angelica?”
She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hair wild, her breast heaving as she steadied herself against the rail. Her dress was torn, so that I could see her skin dead white against black lace and satin. In one hand she
