Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales by Simon Strantzas Read Free Book Online Page A

what they worshipped most, something from a world long ago gone, and if remembered, then only barely and as a fantasy. But it was far more real than Wendell had ever wished.
    Those subhuman things were closing in, and there was little else Wendell could do but surrender to them, let them take him away.
    Or he could use Gauthier’s gun.
    He lifted the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The half-men scattered, but not before he put two of them down. The alien’s appendages flailed madly, and waves of emotion and nausea washed over Wendell. He couldn’t stand, but was eventually able to hit the remaining three as they scrambled for cover. It took no time at all for him to be the last man alive, surrounded by the blood and gore of everyone he knew. Everyone but the mesmerized Dogan.
    It was too late for either of them. Even with the half-men dead, Wendell could feel the draw of the flickering creature in the ice, and knew he would be unable to resist much longer. In an act of charity and compassion, he raised the gun to Dogan’s temple and squeezed the trigger. There was a bright flash, and a report that continued to echo over the landscape longer than in his ears. Dogan crumpled, the side of his head vaporized, his misery tangible in the air.
    But it was not enough. That thing in the ice, it needed him, needed somebody’s worship on which to feed, and as long as Wendell was alive it would not die.
    Wendell put the gun against his own head, the hot barrel searing his flesh, but he could do nothing else. His fingers would not move, locked into place from fear or exhaustion or self-preservation. Or whatever it was that had been fed to him, pulling the flesh on his face tighter. Somehow the handgun fell from his weakened grasp, dropping onto the icy snow and sinking. He reached to reclaim it and toppled forward, collapsing in a heap that left him staring into those giant old milky eyes.
    Wendell didn’t know how long he lay in the snow. He was no longer cold, was no longer hungry. He felt safe, as though he might sleep forever. The old one in the ice spoke to him, telling him things about the island’s eonic history, and he listened and watched and waited. Existence moved so slowly Wendell saw the sun finally creep across the sky. No one came for him. No one came to interrupt his communion with the dead god. All he had was what was forever in its milky white stare, while it ate the flesh and muscle and sinew of his body, transforming him into the first of its new earthly congregation.

Dwelling on the Past

    The teenaged girl on the Tim Hortons night shift had seen it. “They fucking drove it right down Argyle,” she said, her maroon cap askew, shirt unbuttoned one button too many against company code. She wore too much makeup, and it sparkled under the drab lights. Harvey noticed her upper lip was pierced, and she wore a tiny white jewel in it. Emily would never be that age.
    “You tell the cops?”
    She snorted. “Why the fuck would I tell those stupid fucks? They’ve just been standing around watching the fucking protests without doing anything. Too fucking lazy to care.”
    Harvey nodded and tried not to look at her. “Probably. You sure that’s where the digger went?”
    “Fuck, yeah. Me and Cheryl went outside and watched them stop singing long enough to move the fucking blocks off the road. Then, as soon as they were done, they fucking moved them back.”
    She grinned, revealing a gap along the side of her mouth. Harvey lifted his black coffee from the counter, and then placed the extra napkins she’d given him in his coat pocket. There was nothing more he needed to hear.
    Outside, he lit a cigarette to keep himself busy. Wind blew a tangle of debris across the street. If he didn’t keep occupied, he would remember Emily, and the guilt would roll over him like a crushing wave. When staying home had become unbearable, he returned to Henco Industries, hoping it would be the solution, or at least a distraction from