Tracy dabbed Jorah's forehead with an antiseptic cloth from the ship's med kit. It took him several tries to prep the bandage. His smartarm fizzled and jerked, having lost all of its former nuance and finesse. Through it all, she'd only given her name and muttered a thank you mister . Tracy kept quiet, understanding. The girl had just lost her cattle, her livelihood, and her father. If his smartarm felt as bad as it looked, it would be nothing compared to her pain.
Tracy himself felt like his prosthetic. Numb, rattled, busted, and clunky. Sure, he'd merked the men responsible. But their deaths didn't bring her father back. Or the cattle for that matter. So, in spite of the dwindling time wasting away, he decided to help her round up the cattle that he could.
Chasm seemed more than willing to help, as if he understood what needed to be done, and didn't seem to mind the extra weight Jorah brought to the saddleseat. Which made it easier, since Tracy was one-armed again, for all intents and purposes. The smartarm held on by a circuit, but would break soon. Any time a rebel cow or bull broke away from the herd, Chasm huffed at them with a low rumble from his exhaust pipes, scaring them back in line.
As they galloped around the remaining cattle, herding them back to Jorah's home, Tracy's mind circled around the attack he just escaped.
That thing wasn't like any animal he'd ever encountered. It was a creature straight from the depths of nightmare, as if it crawled from the pits of Noctis Labyrinthus itself.
Up until that point Tracy sided with the Earth rationalists, that the notion of alien life, particularly on Mars, was conspiracy theory cow pie, a crafted narrative to bolster Martian economics with an influx of eager explorers turned laborers. But not so, as he experienced firsthand. More like firstarm . The aliens were not crafted, but very real. And believing that lie cost him dearly.
"There are aliens here on Rubrum?"
"Of course," snapped Jorah.
"How? This is news to me. Heck, this would be the talk of everyone on Earth were it a known fact. But everyone thinks it's Rubrum propaganda."
"Y'all deserted us. Left us hung out to dry. What makes you think we'd want to even think about sending information that trivial back to Terra? Y'all think we're liars anyways. Wouldn't help our survival none either. Besides, the aliens weren't here when we first arrived. We roused 'em I think. Woke 'em up with all our chatter and clatter. Soon as we started mining the caves and aggregating the volcano quarries, then they appeared. Sparse sightings here and there. Townsfolk don't believe, but us farmers know."
Jorah quieted after that, and Tracy did not pester her.
That thing was still out there.
Chills crawled down his back. If that monstrous alien roamed Mars, what other tales about Mars were true? And what other terrors awaited him? To think, he'd slept under the stars two nights in a row, oblivious to the horrors that lurked in the dark.
But obviously the alien creatures stayed away from the settlements. Groups of people caused even predatory animals to shy away on Earth. The same must be true for Mars.
He tightened his flesh hand around the reins. He had to get Jorah home quick and be on his way to Noke'la, for both their sakes. A thing that big would not be satisfied with consuming only one adult male corpse. Lucky for Tracy, there were several of them he'd left back by the downed ship. If that thing had any kind of keen sense of smell, it would be back for more. Tracy shuddered.
Jorah gripped Tracy's duster. Her tightened grip made him reach for his blasters on instinct. But then he saw her family's wrecked speeder and understood why she tensed.
She offered her father's still body a blank stare and no words.
Tracy gave her a few moments of silence, then spoke up. "We can't leave the body here. Buzzards will get it. If we're lucky. If not, that thing will."
At first he thought she didn't hear him. She offered no response. Then, a whisper. "There's a tarp in the trunk, under the spare parts and tools."
Tracy retrieved it from the speeder. Jorah pretended to study the landscape basking in a red sunset in the distance as he wrapped the body in the tarp and strapped it to the back of the steeder. It took a while and was cumbersome with only one fully functioning arm, but he dare not ask her to help him. This wasn't his duty, but she didn't deserve this.
Once that was done, they pressed on, herding the cattle back to the farm.
By the time he got there, nightfall was creeping up the horizon, chasing away the sun. Tracy offered most of the creds he swiped off of the dead rustlers. The criminals didn't need them anymore. Tracy did, but Jorah's lack was greater.
Jorah's mother met them at the busted wire gate of their farm. The site of the now widowed woman standing amidst a broken fence made Tracy mutter burning curses under his breath. But there was nothing for it. The men responsible for the destruction met their maker.
Mother and daughter embraced. The dam behind Jorah's eyes finally broke, gushing a torrent of emotions, wetting her mother's shoulder. They shared sobs and wails.
Without waiting to be asked, Tracy helped himself to the tool shed on the side of the barn and found spare posts, an auger, and some wire, as well as a jackshovel. He fixed the fence first, as best he could, so the cattle could not escape the corral and undo his detour. After that was complete, he picked a spot and dug. As he struck the ground, the jackshovel sent tremors into his arms and chest. Sweat covered his body, running into his eyes, the smell of fresh turned soil filled the air. It didn't smell pleasant like earth. Smelled rotten. Like a festering, moist wound that he could taste on the top of his tongue. He tossed his duster, shirt, and Stetson on the ground. Throughout the excavation, his smartarm spazzed, rebelling against his commands, resulting in a warped tomb, but he kept his momentum anyways.
He thought of the man he dug the grave for. Didn't even know his name. The same rustlers who shot this man down shot Tracy down too. That crater should have been his grave. Could have been Tracy who bit the bullet today too, instead of the man he dug for.
The familiarity of Mars pacified Tracy. From the semi-terraformed desert landscape, to the phase four animals brought in to roam the wild, the fields of rye, and especially the predictable Rubrun habitants—unable to escape the human nature they fled Earth to get away from—all of it lulled him into a false sense of security. Sure there was a risk on any fugitive capture mission. But he had wrongly assumed that he was playing the same game, just not on the home field. But this was not an away-game on the opposing field. This was an alien game on a hostile planet, and one that he did not fully fathom. If he wasn't careful, Mars would slay him.
By the time he had the grave ready, the women had stopped crying, noticing the work he'd accomplished. The widow offered him a tin cup of fresh water. The kindness of the gesture warmed his heart for a brief second. The liquid cooled his throat, quenching his thirst. The women asked to see his face one last time, and each kissed his forehead. Tracy, still panting, placed the body into the grave with care. Then Tracy climbed out of the hole filled it back up with dirt.
The two wept, quiet this time.
Frigid night wind licked Tracy's damp skin. He shuddered and pulled his shirt and duster back on.
Without knowing this man, Tracy's thoughts turned to the photograph in his pocket, to Hina. He could have died today, mauled and munched on by that nameless alien predator. And his dear wife would be none the wiser, simply finding out one day that he died on duty. His trip was far from over. Plenty of time remained for him to die. He looked at the weeping women. Would this be Hina in a few weeks? A few months? Would she be forced to carry on without him, while she carried his child? Would she even make it through the third trimester this time?
When he was done patting the grave top, Tracy too shed a few tears for the women who had lost a beloved family man. And, if he was honest, he selfishly shed a few tears for his wife, as he considered the dark future that might be, that seemed far more tangible than it ever had.
Jorah whispered. "Thanks."
Tracy's brows furrowed. "You don't need to thank me. I just did the right thing."
"Not many do, around here."
She drew close, catching his flesh hand in both of hers. "You slew those rustlers. Got most of our cattle back. You avenged my father. And you kept them from...well, girls my age only get kidnapped for one reason. I'm grateful for what you did today, Mr. Marshal."
Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a light kiss on the cheek.
Tracy scratched the back of his head. They lost a father and a husband. He hadn't expected gratitude from them. He just did what any decent person should have done.
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Jorah's mother hugged him. "Why don't you stay in our guest room for the night and I'll make you a hearty breakfast in the morning. What do you say?"
Taking one look at the dark unknown of the wilderness, he decided that was best.
Chasm, ever his loyal companion, waited nearby the entire time. Tracy directed him into the stable for the night.
"You done good today, boy," he said, patting the steeder.
Two notifications from the steeder's OS pinged through the marshal's busted smartarm.
Bonding level increased 89%.
Bonding 100% achieved.
Throughout the chaos of the day, he'd missed the notifications altogether. Tracy managed a solemn smile, then turned in for some shut eye. Come sunup, he'd ride into New Oklahoma and be that much closer to capturing Roy Rothspalt. That much closer to getting home.
***
Tracy tossed on the cot, somewhere between half-sleep and a descent into the black of nightmare.
He found himself striding forward, probing the obsidian desolation.
Wet weathered walls hewn from pocked slabs erected themselves around Tracy, gleaming in the gloom. He found himself wandering through a mist-filled maze.
He walked on for time unreckonable, mere minutes, or perhaps eons of eternity. Faint whispers echoed ahead. Silence stalked him. Onward he pressed.
At some point he looked down and noticed he had two flesh arms. That wasn't right. A bizarre sensation dug into him, but he couldn't place why. He should have two flesh arms, right? That's how it had always been.
The maze forced him to turn this way, walk down a stretched corridor for a long time, turn that way, climb steps, descend ramps, cross small bridges, and circle around spires, until he was thoroughly lost. Stagnant wind stroked his face, drying his eyes and nostrils.
Whispers tickled his ears. He halted, coming to a full stop, trying to contemplate the words.
A feminine voice cut through the silence again, a single word he understood.
"Marshall..."
Eyes scanning the black, he locked onto a shadowy female form. But as he strode towards her, she evaporated like mist. Then, silence.
The silence thickened, so much so that it became a sound itself, like eerie wailing chromatic notes murmured in his ears, echoing in his skull, reverberating in his heart. Always the high walls pressed tight against him, like blinders focusing a horse, keeping him from distraction, pressing him deeper into the web of passages.
All at once the walls retreated, giving way to a field of tombstones. A lifted rostrum perched in the center of the opening, the focal point in the dead center of the labyrinth.
Strange etched symbols ran the length of the stone surface, symbols of foreign shapes without structure or a pattern. Tracy abhorred the symbols. As his eyes sought to discern a meaning, a purpose, an unease crept into his gut. For, he found he could understand, though the symbols remained unrecognizable.
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And twin moons circle through the skies,
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.
Fear outside himself bore down, crushing, smothering like an anvil placed on his shoulders.
He strained against the burden of fear, resisting. Something inside him snapped. Anger at the strange signs and a hatred towards the oppressive fear raged inside of him.
The stone slab he mistook for a raised dais shifted. Low rumbling clashed with the teeth-gnashing scrapping of rock grating on rock. Fetid rot leaked from the cracked sarcophagus lid. A visible putrid gas tumbled out of the eldritch tomb, but the contents of the slate coffin were out of Tracy's sight. Slender fingers edged over the lip of the tomb. A lithe stretched hand wrested on the rim, then an arm.
The thing pushed itself up. It arose at a slow pace. Tracy craned his neck to keep it in view as it towered over him. A yellow mantle cloaked an elongated humanoid body, like the thin sheet separating life and death. It hung in the air, narrow as a pillar, gaunt as a cadaver, outstretched beyond healthy human proportions. Yet, the infirmed figure hovering over Tracy emanated a strength that opposed its ailing frame, a strength reinforced by the spiked copper crown resting atop it's head over the hood.
A King in Yellow.
As his eyes traced the decrepit emaciation, the face of the thing arrested his gaze. It rested in the crook of a yellow hood. Sunken shadows for eyes. Hollowed cheeks. Pursed, bitter lips. A mask wrought in a tempered metal, like bronze, caught the reflection of a sourceless, faint sulphurous light.
A taste of bile crept up Tracy's throat, a gut reaction for the abhorrence he wielded against this ancient abomination, this daemon of the dark. He stumbled backwards. Terror seized his soul. His hands fumbled for his blasters, but his sides were naked. His palms dampened with slick sweat. The revolvers would have been useless anyways, like fighting a poisonous coiling serpent with a cotton ball.
Thorn-tipped fingers sought him, as if the eldritch entity remained blind while rousing from it's epoch slumber.
The marshal recoiled away from the slender fingers, but he wasn't swift enough. A dead finger brushed against the back of his hand. A shock of burning pain ran from his hand up his arm. Even as Tracy watched, his hand paled, then turned yellow, corrupting the whole arm. Bruises and cancerous lacerations formed, a sickness spreading, until his arm numbed and withered, hanging limp at his side, disintegrating. His arm was gone.
What remained of Tracy's will to live washed away, a sandcastle swept aside by a wave of overwhelming revulsion. He backed into a stone wall, jostling his head, biting his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. Pressure built in his lungs, climbing past his vocal cords. A scream exploded from his mouth as he clawed the wall with his remaining hand until his fingers were raw. He dug his face into the stone, enraptured by the horror.
Fingers as long as his legs constricted him, yanking him into the air. The bronze face rushed towards him, shadow sockets growing larger, like two eyeless pits that Tracy would plummet into and fall forever.
Darkness washed over him, a flash flood of obsidian death drowning him in insignificant, blackened obscurity. He writhed as he sank, unable to breathe, to scream. He floundered, thrashing his limbs.
He crashed into a hard surface. A yelling male voice filled his ears. After a moment he recognized it belonged to himself.
[https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1012604009468661781/1020824792875679754/DFO8922_Hastur_the_King_in_Yellow_emerging_from_the_crypt_a30ed8ab-e9fc-48bb-b355-0860279cbb67.png?width=408&height=612]
He opened his eyes and was met by Jorah and her mother holding a lantern.
Tracy lay sprawled out on the ground next to the cot.
Across the room his damaged smartarm lay, exactly where he set it after removing it for bed. Early morning light crept at the edges of the window. Sunup was just around the corner and over the horizon.
He assured them he was alright, but from their stillness and the perspiration gathered in droplets on their faces, the wideness of their eyelids, Tracy knew his night terror outburst disturbed them to the core.
Tired did not even begin to describe the way he felt. Burned out more like it. They assured him he could stay until late morning, but their quivering hospitality told a different story.
Tracy gathered his things and saddled up with Chasm.
In spite of the visceral vividness of the night terror, it faded in his mind with each beat of Chasm's hooves. By the time dawn cracked the sky, the morning sunlight burned away the memory of the nightmare.