Read Online Finch by Jeff VanderMeer by Jeff VanderMeer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff VanderMeer
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legs.
Returned whining. Keening. A low, animal sound from deep in his
throat. Lay curled up on the chair. Sweating. Things crawled around
inside his skull. Didn't know how much time had passed.
An enormous grub drowning in a sack of its own liquid skin.
Coughed. Sat up.
A rotting tank with the insignia of the Houses on its side, asleep under
the fruiting bodies.
Feral rubbed up against his extended arm. Finch got up, made it
to the phone, dialed Rathven, said "One done, one to go" when she
answered, and hung up. Grabbed the second memory bulb. Collapsed
back to the chair.
A monstrous City, balanced atop a single building.
Started laughing. Didn't know what was so funny or why he couldn't
stop.
Falling through cold air and couldn't feel his legs.
Wondered how much this would mess him up.
6
he night half over. Something important slipping away?
Drank more whisky, and let it swirl around his mouth. Held
the burn in the back of his throat. Followed by numbness.
The sounds out in the dark beyond the window hadn't made him
shudder or start for a long time. Skitterings. Moanings. A cut-off
shout of alarm.
A spotlight of lavender and crimson painted itself across the far wall
of his apartment, then leapt away. Once, Finch had seen a shoal of
spores take the form of a huge, bloated green monster. Spiraling red
eyes. It had bellowed and dived into a neighborhood to the north.
Smashed itself into motes against the ground.
A child might see that and cry out in delight.
Sidle, quick-shadow, scuttled up the side of the wall near the
window. Pursuing moths that had flown into the apartment. Sidle
was a happy little predator with bright black eyes. Didn't care about
anything but his next meal. Finch could put him in a cage with a
branch and water, and Sidle would be content his entire life. So
long as he got fed.
"I guess we'll soon find out what kind of bastard he was," Finch said
to an oblivious Feral. Feral was looking up at the wall. Mesmerized
by Sidle's stalking of the spiraling moth. Finch wondered how many
Sidles Feral had caught over the years.
Finch forced the second bulb into his mouth. Chewed it into
a dull paste as he moved from the chair to the couch. Lay down.
Swallowed.
The room spun a little. Righted itself.
The ceiling had a few odd discolorations but nothing to suggest
infiltration. Invisible spies. Who lived upstairs, anyway? Sometimes lately he had heard a person pacing across the floorboards in the
middle of the night.
After a minute or two, Finch sat up. Nothing seemed to be happening.
Nothing at all.
The dead man sat in the chair next to him, smiling.
"Uhhh!" Finch leapt to his feet.
The man was flanked by a Feral grown large as a pony. A Sidle grown
as large as a Feral. They both looked at him the way Sidle had been
looking at the moths.
"Sit down," the man said. An order, not a suggestion. In a strange
accent. The man looked much younger than he had on the floor of
the apartment. Had lost the fungal beard.
Finch sat down slowly. Didn't take his eyes off the man. Left hand
groping across the cushions. Where was his gun?
"I've been waiting for someone like you," the man said. "You won't
understand it, but I'm going to give you what I know. Just in case."
The window behind the man no longer showed the city. What it
did show was so impossible and disturbing Finch had to look away.
And yet the image entered into him.
The man said Finch's name. Except he didn't say "John Finch." He
used Finch's real name. The one buried for eight long years.
Finch tried to slow his breathing. Failed. Chest felt like something
was going to explode.
He must be inside the man's memories.
Then why is the man sitting across from you?
"Who are you?" An obvious question. But it kept pounding against
the inside of his skull. So he had to let it out.
The man laughed.
"I didn't say anything funny."
"More to the point," the man said, "who are you? And who are
you
Returned whining. Keening. A low, animal sound from deep in his
throat. Lay curled up on the chair. Sweating. Things crawled around
inside his skull. Didn't know how much time had passed.
An enormous grub drowning in a sack of its own liquid skin.
Coughed. Sat up.
A rotting tank with the insignia of the Houses on its side, asleep under
the fruiting bodies.
Feral rubbed up against his extended arm. Finch got up, made it
to the phone, dialed Rathven, said "One done, one to go" when she
answered, and hung up. Grabbed the second memory bulb. Collapsed
back to the chair.
A monstrous City, balanced atop a single building.
Started laughing. Didn't know what was so funny or why he couldn't
stop.
Falling through cold air and couldn't feel his legs.
Wondered how much this would mess him up.
6
he night half over. Something important slipping away?
Drank more whisky, and let it swirl around his mouth. Held
the burn in the back of his throat. Followed by numbness.
The sounds out in the dark beyond the window hadn't made him
shudder or start for a long time. Skitterings. Moanings. A cut-off
shout of alarm.
A spotlight of lavender and crimson painted itself across the far wall
of his apartment, then leapt away. Once, Finch had seen a shoal of
spores take the form of a huge, bloated green monster. Spiraling red
eyes. It had bellowed and dived into a neighborhood to the north.
Smashed itself into motes against the ground.
A child might see that and cry out in delight.
Sidle, quick-shadow, scuttled up the side of the wall near the
window. Pursuing moths that had flown into the apartment. Sidle
was a happy little predator with bright black eyes. Didn't care about
anything but his next meal. Finch could put him in a cage with a
branch and water, and Sidle would be content his entire life. So
long as he got fed.
"I guess we'll soon find out what kind of bastard he was," Finch said
to an oblivious Feral. Feral was looking up at the wall. Mesmerized
by Sidle's stalking of the spiraling moth. Finch wondered how many
Sidles Feral had caught over the years.
Finch forced the second bulb into his mouth. Chewed it into
a dull paste as he moved from the chair to the couch. Lay down.
Swallowed.
The room spun a little. Righted itself.
The ceiling had a few odd discolorations but nothing to suggest
infiltration. Invisible spies. Who lived upstairs, anyway? Sometimes lately he had heard a person pacing across the floorboards in the
middle of the night.
After a minute or two, Finch sat up. Nothing seemed to be happening.
Nothing at all.
The dead man sat in the chair next to him, smiling.
"Uhhh!" Finch leapt to his feet.
The man was flanked by a Feral grown large as a pony. A Sidle grown
as large as a Feral. They both looked at him the way Sidle had been
looking at the moths.
"Sit down," the man said. An order, not a suggestion. In a strange
accent. The man looked much younger than he had on the floor of
the apartment. Had lost the fungal beard.
Finch sat down slowly. Didn't take his eyes off the man. Left hand
groping across the cushions. Where was his gun?
"I've been waiting for someone like you," the man said. "You won't
understand it, but I'm going to give you what I know. Just in case."
The window behind the man no longer showed the city. What it
did show was so impossible and disturbing Finch had to look away.
And yet the image entered into him.
The man said Finch's name. Except he didn't say "John Finch." He
used Finch's real name. The one buried for eight long years.
Finch tried to slow his breathing. Failed. Chest felt like something
was going to explode.
He must be inside the man's memories.
Then why is the man sitting across from you?
"Who are you?" An obvious question. But it kept pounding against
the inside of his skull. So he had to let it out.
The man laughed.
"I didn't say anything funny."
"More to the point," the man said, "who are you? And who are
you
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