Read Online Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales by Simon Strantzas - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon Strantzas
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apart. Harvey moved through the forest as quickly as he could, the small circle of light swinging before him looking for evidence of the truck’s passing. And yet he saw nothing. It was not until he recognized the distant metallic twang of his footsteps’ echo that he finally turned course.
In the inky darkness his circle of light found a metallic hull painted bright orange. Arms and gears erupted from the device, and it took Harvey a few moments to make sense of the violent clashing of parts. It was the digger, and under the light its giant wheels were sunken in a circle of torn sod and grass. Its scoop was tucked under its long arm like a bird sleeping, and across it was wet mud. It had been used recently, he could tell by its odor. It seemed the girl behind the Tim Hortons counter was right: something else was going on.
Part of him wished he hadn’t returned to the job so soon; his head wasn’t in the right place to deal with the continuous subterfuge and the front of solidarity the Six Nations were offering, pretending the land was what they wanted when clearly it was something beneath the ground that had their eye. He scanned the flashlight around the digger, looking for a hole, and when that failed he instead looked for the tracks the giant wheels had made in the soft turf. They would lead him to the dig as sure as any trail of breadcrumbs.
It wasn’t far. Harvey followed the torn ground until the tracks stopped at a long tent stretching one hundred feet yet standing less than three feet tall. Along the edges of the grooves he found footprints overlapping with one another, making strange shapes in the soft soil. Some of the prints he thought might have been made by a child’s bare feet, or perhaps some sort of large animal. He touched the sides of the tent and they felt rough and damp, like an old hide or rough canvas. Something about the spot emitted the faint but pungent odor of some large rodent’s abandoned nest. There was the sound again of footsteps approaching and he flashed the Maglite behind him but found nothing there, not even the face of his dead daughter condemning him for what he was doing.
He heard crickets chirp, wind rustle trees. The burning electrical fire continued, its smoke wafting over the Douglas Creek lot, its flames licking the horizon. Beneath the clouded sky Harvey circled the tent, looking for an entrance. There had to be one, after all. What was the point of having a tent without any way in or out? Why hide it when the whole structure was hidden to begin with? Or could that be part of the plan? Was it some method of revenge? Had the protesters finally decided to carry out their threats? The administration at Henco did not feel guilt for what they were doing and strongly urged him to feel the same. But it was there nonetheless, and they would all have to deal with it one way or another. Harvey hoped it would be on his own terms, but wondered if the rest of Henco would be so lucky.
His contemplation was cut short by the shadow hovering near the end of the tent furthest in the woods. Its arms seemed long and massive, and it was impossible to determine if it was a person or an animal hunched by the tent’s edge. Was it the protester he had seen earlier, still dressed in his horrible costume? Harvey took a step toward it, then another, and it did not move. With each advancement the shadow receded, and when Harvey dared lift his Maglite to reveal what it was the figure disappeared into the folds of the night as though it had never been there. It left behind a flap of rough canvas torn loose from the tent. Harvey checked his vicinity to ensure he was alone, then hazarded a peek beneath the tent. There was nothing but dark emptiness; a void without bottom. Harvey heard his dead daughter, Emily, cry out for him, but to his horror those cries were stifled. He knew she wasn’t there, that it was simply his guilt haunting him, but he could not deny the specter’s commands. Harvey slipped
In the inky darkness his circle of light found a metallic hull painted bright orange. Arms and gears erupted from the device, and it took Harvey a few moments to make sense of the violent clashing of parts. It was the digger, and under the light its giant wheels were sunken in a circle of torn sod and grass. Its scoop was tucked under its long arm like a bird sleeping, and across it was wet mud. It had been used recently, he could tell by its odor. It seemed the girl behind the Tim Hortons counter was right: something else was going on.
Part of him wished he hadn’t returned to the job so soon; his head wasn’t in the right place to deal with the continuous subterfuge and the front of solidarity the Six Nations were offering, pretending the land was what they wanted when clearly it was something beneath the ground that had their eye. He scanned the flashlight around the digger, looking for a hole, and when that failed he instead looked for the tracks the giant wheels had made in the soft turf. They would lead him to the dig as sure as any trail of breadcrumbs.
It wasn’t far. Harvey followed the torn ground until the tracks stopped at a long tent stretching one hundred feet yet standing less than three feet tall. Along the edges of the grooves he found footprints overlapping with one another, making strange shapes in the soft soil. Some of the prints he thought might have been made by a child’s bare feet, or perhaps some sort of large animal. He touched the sides of the tent and they felt rough and damp, like an old hide or rough canvas. Something about the spot emitted the faint but pungent odor of some large rodent’s abandoned nest. There was the sound again of footsteps approaching and he flashed the Maglite behind him but found nothing there, not even the face of his dead daughter condemning him for what he was doing.
He heard crickets chirp, wind rustle trees. The burning electrical fire continued, its smoke wafting over the Douglas Creek lot, its flames licking the horizon. Beneath the clouded sky Harvey circled the tent, looking for an entrance. There had to be one, after all. What was the point of having a tent without any way in or out? Why hide it when the whole structure was hidden to begin with? Or could that be part of the plan? Was it some method of revenge? Had the protesters finally decided to carry out their threats? The administration at Henco did not feel guilt for what they were doing and strongly urged him to feel the same. But it was there nonetheless, and they would all have to deal with it one way or another. Harvey hoped it would be on his own terms, but wondered if the rest of Henco would be so lucky.
His contemplation was cut short by the shadow hovering near the end of the tent furthest in the woods. Its arms seemed long and massive, and it was impossible to determine if it was a person or an animal hunched by the tent’s edge. Was it the protester he had seen earlier, still dressed in his horrible costume? Harvey took a step toward it, then another, and it did not move. With each advancement the shadow receded, and when Harvey dared lift his Maglite to reveal what it was the figure disappeared into the folds of the night as though it had never been there. It left behind a flap of rough canvas torn loose from the tent. Harvey checked his vicinity to ensure he was alone, then hazarded a peek beneath the tent. There was nothing but dark emptiness; a void without bottom. Harvey heard his dead daughter, Emily, cry out for him, but to his horror those cries were stifled. He knew she wasn’t there, that it was simply his guilt haunting him, but he could not deny the specter’s commands. Harvey slipped
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