Authors: Benedict Martin
Planet Purgatory
Planet Purgatory
By Benedict J. Martin
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 Benedict J. Martin
All rights reserved
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This book is dedicated to my wonderful family. I’m pretty sure I already dedicated a book to them already, but they’re so lovely I decided to do it again. :)
I couldn’t remember the last time the sun was that high in the sky. Typically it clung to the horizon, a too-small orb of pale light, hidden behind a depressing veil of cloud and mist. But not today; today it was big and bright, and I stood in the entrance of the supply shed, enjoying the sun’s rays against my chest while the fields before me were bathed in the soothing tones of orange and gold.
It reminded me of early autumn.
The unusual light had stirred something in Rosie-dog as well. Ears flopped low, she chugged along the dirt roadway, following the scent of what I assumed was an animal, stopping occasionally to sniff the air before returning her nose to the ground, brindle coat glowing in the sun.
There was a bounce in her step, and rather than head straight to the tractor I watched as my pride and joy went about her business.
Rosie was a
revenant
. Meaning she’d died, and using a process I don’t understand — and nor do I want to — was brought back to life. I hadn’t wanted them to do it. I’d seen revenant animals in the past, horses mostly, and they’d always left me feeling spooked. I was content searching for another dog and hoped I could train it to be half the animal Rosie was. My parents, though, were convinced the farm would be better off bringing her back. Training a new dog would be expensive, as well as time consuming, and whatever animal we did settle on could never come close to matching Rosie’s physical abilities.
Standing thirty inches at the shoulder and weighing well over two hundred pounds, Rosie was an imposing animal. Certainly there were other dogs as large as she was — Old Foster Hewitt’s English mastiff at the metal yard comes to mind — but they were slow and plodding. Rosie was quick, able to chase down hares and, provided she was motivated enough, outrun horses.
And she was dangerous. By virtue of its location, our farm was constantly visited by those who would do us harm. Whether man or beast, or something else entirely, it was Rosie’s job to see them gone, and she carried it out exceedingly well, meeting every challenge with a ferocity that’d led to her being dubbed the Beast of Harkness by the locals.
Fortunately the process of bringing her back to life had done nothing to hinder her protective skills. Practically speaking, she was exactly the same animal as before the attack, right down to the half-moon-shaped spot on her tongue and talent for passing gas. But there was a difference. It was subtle, too subtle to even describe, but it was there.
That didn’t mean I didn’t love her. Revenant or not, she was my sole source of light in that dreary world, and I’d have done anything to keep her with me. It’s funny, I don’t even remember getting her. She’d always been there, protecting me.
Cigarette dangling from my lips, I climbed onto my bright yellow tractor and drove to the irrigation pumps, Rosie trotting beside me. I’d be a fool not to water today, with the sun shining like it was.
The irrigation pumps were located beside a river tucked inside a forest on the western side of the farm, and when I reached the telltale gap in the trees, I jumped from the tractor,
SYS
rifle in hand, watching as Rosie checked the opening for danger.
It always felt strange coming here. This was the river where Rosie died. I’d just finished priming the irrigation pumps when eight
green-men
appeared out of nowhere. I’d left my gun in the tractor, and with my wrench as my only defense, I turned to escape when I slipped on some stones. Those green-men would have killed me. Thankfully, Rosie was there, and she barreled into them like a bull, snapping one creature’s neck while the rest went flying into the surrounding trees. But that’s the thing about green-men: they kept coming, and within seconds they were on her, biting and clawing at her like rabid animals.
It didn’t matter. Rosie was possessed, picking them off one by one until there were only two of the goblin creatures left. They stood on a ledge beside where the river became a waterfall. Rosie could have ended it right there, and would have, were it not for the slickness of the stones. She lunged at them, grabbing one, only to skid helplessly over the side. It was horrible, and after finishing off the remaining green-man with the rifle I retrieved from the tractor, I picked my way to the bottom of the gorge where Rosie lay lifeless on some rocks.
I was reminded of it every time I entered the woods. But if Rosie had any memory of her death, it didn’t show, as she busily sniffed at the trees while I readied the irrigation pumps for the day ahead.
I was excited. I couldn’t remember the last time the sun was that bright; having the sprinklers running would be nothing short of magic. And so I drove the tractor across the fertile soil, past the acres of corn, to my newest patch of sugar beets, Rosie balancing on the ledge behind my seat. I didn’t want her running on the ground, not when we were this far out. I doubted anything would happen, but still, the last thing I needed to discover was a chunk had been bitten out of her foot.
My dad hated that I planted as far out as I did. We almost came to blows over it. But it was my farm now, and I wanted to see if I could make a go of it further away.
The soil out here was unreal. You could tell just by picking some up in your hand. It was rich and thick and black and smelled ever so faintly of the sea. I didn’t need fertilizer or pesticides. And the further out you went, the better the earth. And you
could
go out, for miles, though no one ever did. Or at least, returned to tell about it.
Apparently the endless expanse of black earth floated atop a great ocean, and it was this ocean that gave the soil its unparalleled fertility, and depending on how far you ventured, its share of beasties.
So far, I’d been lucky. I’d only encountered a few creatures: wriggly eel-like things a few feet in length with nasty serrated teeth. I cut them in half with my machete, and those I missed, Rosie finished for me.
My dad, though, he lost a toe to what he described as a polka-dotted barracuda. Bit right through his boot. That was years ago, and he still brought it up every time he saw me climb onto the tractor. But I wasn’t worried. Sure, I was planting farther out than anyone else, but I had a special sense when it came to what was lurking beneath the ground.
I brought the tractor to a stop, admiring the green of the beet leaves in the sunlight. God, they were beautiful.
Lighting another cigarette, I joined Rosie-dog on the ground and gazed at the little patch of sky in the west. That was where Earth was. Or so they claimed.
It wasn’t long before my morning meditation was interrupted by the sound of flapping wings.
Demons
. Three of them, and they swooped down to rest on the soil not five yards from where I was standing.
Rosie, of course, started barking while the creatures watched, wings wrapped around their bodies like leathery robes. It was like this every time they appeared. I don’t know why she bothered. I knew she liked them. I’d lost count of the times I’d spied her running playfully around them while they looked on in pupilless bemusement. It made me laugh.
I called them demons, but that’s only because that’s what everyone else in Harkness called them. They reminded me of pterodactyls, with dark spiral horns and pupilless, mother-of-pearl eyes that seemed to take everything in with the same level of bewilderment. Sometimes, if they were particularly interested in something, those eyes would literally flip, revealing a deep, shiny black.
The people of Harkness disliked demons, blaming them for everything from toppled garbage containers to bad weather to sudden illness. It was common practice to shoot them, cut off their horns and, in an example of twisted logic, wear them on necklaces as good-luck charms. My dad in particular hated them. The moment he saw one, he’d run off to get his gun.
Me, I was fascinated by them. They were harmless; Rosie’s playful behavior around them convinced me of that. Although their curiosity could lead them to trouble. More than once I’d returned to the tractor after a morning spent moving irrigation pipes only to discover they’d gone through my bag and strewn my lunch all over the ground. And let’s just say I’d learned not to leave the keys in the ignition anymore. But overall, they were nothing to be scared of.
In fact, I liked their company.
“Enjoying the sun?” I asked.
They watched me, their pupilless eyes offering the slightest glint of amusement.
Smiling, I removed a cigarette from my shirt pocket and offered it to them.
It was the middle one who took it. It held it in its hands, turning it slowly in its spindly fingers before showing it to its brethren. They were fascinated, passing it around with little clicks and whistles that I could only assume was some kind of language. This was the part I liked: the sounds. I could listen to their whistles and pops all day. I watched as the demons’ eyes flipped from mother-of-pearl to shiny black. They were certainly enjoying that cigarette.
It went on for some time, until finally they made it. The
sound.
I can’t describe it other than it sounded like someone repeating “you, you, you” through a megaphone. But it wasn’t so much how it sounded that was important, but rather, how it felt going through your body. It made my insides jump. The closest I can compare it to is that squishy sensation you get in your tummy when you’re on a swing. I loved it when they did that, and I think Rosie-dog did too, because she did a mad scoot around the tractor before erupting into an avalanche of barks.
I stood there, feeling the sound waves jiggle my organs until suddenly they flew into the air, leaving Rosie and me to watch as they receded into the blue.
How odd
, I thought. Typically they hung around when I worked the back fields. They’d even dropped the cigarette. I picked it up and was about to put it back into my pocket when the most amazing thing I’d ever seen occurred. A whale broke the surface of the soil, launching itself into the sky before crashing back into the earth a dozen acres away from where I was standing. The impact was tremendous, and it was all I could do to remain upright while the shock waves traveled through the ground.
It was surreal, and I stared in wonder as another whale flew into the air a half-mile further away. They were easily a hundred and fifty feet in length, maybe even twice that; it was hard to tell against the emptiness of the sky.
If I’d had my wits about me, I would have jumped onto my tractor and hightailed it back to Harkness. But I was spellbound.
I watched as another whale soared into the air. This one was so close I could see barnacles on its hide.
Barnacles!
And then it happened: the biggest whale of them all. I knew I was in its path. But instead of running, I stayed. Down it came, this leviathan from the deep. And just like that, I died.
