Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction

CLOUDS Wayne Kyle Spitzer –––––––– * * * * “Meet you at the top!” Kerber hollered—cockily, as always—as he climbed rapidly past us. He gestured toward the cloud ceiling. “We’ll leave a light on!” Sean and Karen looked at each other as his balloon disappeared around the envelope of our own. “Everything a competition,” sighed Sean. There was a deafening roar as he toggled the blast valve. “Had to show us he could beat us on the ascent—even at night.” “Talk about that a little,” I said, continuing to roll. “You mentioned that his balloon was different from yours. How so?” I nodded at Eddy, who moved the boom mic closer. “Just look out at the sky, Sean, not the camera.” He scratched at his beard and seemed to marshal his thoughts. “Well, he’s running a gas balloon, not a hot-air vulcoon, which is what this is. A gas balloon uses gas instead of hot air for its lift, which is advantageous because you can stay up longer—a lot longer—and because it’s so quiet. There’s none of this,” He toggled the blast valve again and there was a mighty roar as liquid propane vaporized and ignited. “So, on that level, they’re extremely sought after. The problem is one of economy. Helium is expensive. Like, real expensive. Like five grand to fill a balloon expensive. So people use hydrogen—which, while relatively cheap, is also incredibly flammable. The Hindenburg was full of hydrogen, as is The Excelsior.” He was referring, of course, to billionaire Ronald Trimp’s promotional blimp—which, winds allowing, we’d be seeing when these balloons and others converged on the Super Bowl in the morning. Sean looked at the camera awkwardly. “How was that?” “That was good, Sean. Thanks.” I stopped recording and ran the footage back—too far, to the point where the old Indian we’d encountered before takeoff was talking. “They move,” he said, gazing at the snow-smothered hills. “T-they? The mountains? The mountains move?” “Uh-huh. They fall from sky ... onto my land.” “Oh?” He nodded. “They move.” I powered the camera down—there wouldn’t be much to see until dawn, anyway—still thinking about his words. They fall from the sky ... onto my land. “Wreckage from Jupiter 6?” prompted Eddy, noticing my expression. He was referring, of course, to the unmanned mission to the cloud planet, which had blown up in the earth’s atmosphere immediately after its long journey home. “Yeah. Maybe.” I zippered my parka all the way up. The two-way radio crackled to life. It was Kerber, calling from the other balloon. “West by northwest, you see that?” It wasn’t until Sean had turned on the spotlight and aimed it in that direction that what he was talking about became clear: for a kind of fog bank had rolled in seemingly out of nowhere—and was moving toward us at a shockingly rapid clip. “Sean ... what is that?” I recall asking nervously. But he didn’t respond, at least not at first, and it took an elbow from Eddy to remind me why we were there in the first place. I reactivated my camera. “Okay, folks. This is what reality TV’s all about. Remember, we’re not here.” I zoomed up on Sean’s beard and focused as he toggled the mic. “That’s affirmative, Gas Monkey, we see it. Not sure we believe it, but we see it.” “The weather report said clear skies,” cursed Karen, even as the radio crackled and Kerber came again: “It’s nothing to worry about. A little thermal turbulence—Gas Monkey suggests letting it pass and carrying on.” I panned past Karen slowly enough to register her concerned expression before focusing on the approaching clouds, which bubbled and roiled and shown mauve-pink, like plumes of dry ice at a rock concert. Then they were upon us, reducing visibility dramatically and smelling faintly of ammonia. “I’m not so sure,” said Sean at last. Though I may have imagined it, it seemed there was a small quaver in his voice. “Hot-air One recommends seeing how thick it is before proceeding. Stand by.” “Negative, repeat negative on that. Gas Monkey will continue to ascend.” “Jesus Christ,” hissed Sean, and released the mic. I refocused on him, liking the way the purple fog rushed past him in the dark— And something moved in that dark. Something like a giant scythe, which rose like a whale’s pectoral fin breaching water and just as quickly vanished. “Holy s**t, what was that?” blurted Eddy, and jolted, his sudden movement rocking the basket. Karen had seen it, too. “Jesus, Sean, there’s something out there ...” “Something out—” He turned and looked into the mists, which bubbled and swirled, and I regained my senses enough to tape him as he did so. “What’d it look like?” he asked, craning his neck to look up, then quickly cued his mic. “Gas Monkey this is Hot-air One. What’s your altitude?” “It wasn’t them,” said Karen. “I repeat, Hot-air One to Gas Monkey. What is your present altitude?” We all waited, shivering in the dark, and as we did so I zoomed up on Sean’s face to capture his concern. “It looked like a wing,” Karen blurted suddenly. He froze for a moment and didn’t say anything. At last he looked from her to Eddy and then to me. “Ah. I see.” He smiled suddenly and waved a finger. “You got me. Who’s idea was it? Hmmm, let me guess ...” He looked back to Karen and was about to say something when there was a sound like a slab of meat hitting the concrete and he jolted abruptly and we all just froze, in part, I suppose, because we couldn’t figure out what the massive, arrow-shaped thing that had suddenly materialized amongst us was. But then the blood dribbled from his mouth and Karen began screaming and I realized with horror that he’d in fact been impaled—impaled by some kind of spaded appendage, which uncurled in the mists even as I watched and was suddenly stretched taught—so that he was jerked from the basket with a sickening crunch and swung arms and legs akimbo into space. That was the worst of it, I think, seeing him swung about like a ragdoll like that, and in such an empty void, his body rising and falling as though in slow-motion and his arms and legs flapping almost gracefully—even as the owner of that appendage passed through the beam of the spotlight and revealed itself in full. In retrospect, I wish I’d continued recording, for what I saw in that instant is difficult to describe, even now. Suffice it to say that it had a body like that of a manta ray—upon who’s tail the balloonist had been impaled—or a manta ray combined with a bat, albeit huge, and that it was covered with a kind of camouflage which reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Jupiter—just a roil of purples and pinks and browns. I suppose that was when it first hit me: the possibility that there might be a connection between this thing and the Jupiter 6 probe. That the probe might have brought something back, even if it had just been a sprinkling of microbes on its surface. And then there was an explosion somewhere above us, the concussion of which rocked our balloon, and we all looked up to see Gas Monkey—my God, it was like the sun!—on fire; and yet that wasn’t all we saw, for as it dropped it became evident that there were more of the bat/manta ray things attached, suckling it as it fell, crawling upon it like flies. Then it passed us like some kind of great meteor—its occupants shrieking and calling out—and was gone below, the heat of it still painting our faces, its awful smell, which was the smell of rotten eggs, filling our nostrils. And then we were just drifting, all of us crouched low in the basket ... and the only sounds were those of Karen sobbing and my own pounding heart. ––––––––