the rare opportunity to enjoy a night of leisure, making my way 
through the finest public houses and dance-halls of my native 
Austhaven. | danced and ate and drank and sang and caroused into 
the small hours of the morning, and then... 


| awoke with a pain in my head, my body sore, my mouth dry, my 
stomach in tumult, an ache in my bladder, and a strong desire to 
return to a slumber | could not remember laying down for. | was no 
stranger to the ploughman's curse that is the hang-over, but seldom 
has it occurred in my life that | drank to such excess that | could not 
remember the end of the night. No sound perturbed my ears that 
morning, so | judged that | had either found my lodgings, or had 
taken unconscious in a poorly-trafficked alley. In either event, it 
seemed, there was no urgent need to me to arise, so | rolled over on 
my side and sought to settle in - when | felt a sharp object jab me in 
my side, and a stench like nothing | have ever known assailed my 
nostrils. 


My eyes darted open and the flash of the naked sun, blazing brilliant 
in the clear orange noonday sky, blinded me. | reached to my left for 
a hold to raise myself up, and my fingers sank into something warm 
and soft. Squinting, | turned my gaze from the sun to my hand, and 
an unholy horror consumed me when | espied what | had laid my 
hand upon - a human skull, sun-bleached, bits of discoloured flesh 
clinging limply to its surface. | drew my gloved hand back in horror 
and took with it a dram of brownish ichor that had once been its 
owner's eyes. 


| wretched, ejecting nothing but my own stomach juices, as a dread 
realization overcame me. Below me was a pile of discarded rags 
that had once been loosely wrapped around the dead. To my left, to 
my right, in every direction, was nothing but gore - broken limbs 
bending in every direction, bone shards jutting from distended flesh, 
thick and opaque puddles of congealing blood, undulating pools of 
worms and maggots feeding on the bounty before them, and 
surrounding everything, the undeniable miasma of death. This was 
far more vivid than the dreams had ever been, and in that instant | 
was forced to recognize that my dreams had been prophetic after all 
- for here | was, a living breathing man, lying discarded upon the 
surface of the Dead Sea. 


How was this possible, | wondered? Austhaven is many thousands 
of miles from Leng; could | have drank so heavily, so excessively, 
that | was mistaken for dead and loaded upon one of the trans- 
continental air-coaches? | still wore the heavy coat, gloves, and 
boots | had decorated myself with the prior evening, though 
definitely less fashionable now coated with gore as they were. 
Perhaps, in my cups, | committed some intolerable act and had 
been convicted by the state - or worse yet, found soulless by the 
church - and compelled to walk the Long Walk? 


Somehow, | found the wherewithal to rise to my hands and knees, 
finding some footing upon the bones of the dead, and it seemed that 
Providence, in the most meagre of ways, had shone upon me. 
Though noon had passed and the sun was already bearing towards 
its rest in the southern sky, | was able to glimpse, in the west, a 
shallow cliff face. | had not taken the Long Walk, nor had | been 
disposed of in the heart of the sea where | would have had no hope 
for survival. It would be a struggle - but it would not be impossible for 
me to reach the shore of the Dead Sea, climb to the edge of the pit, 
and survive this ghastly ordeal. 


The journey was slow in the going. Every step | took, every foothold 
| spotted amidst the rough uneven mass of carrion, could potentially 
give way and leave me to sink and drown amidst the dead. | tested 
each step with the utmost of care, often falling to all fours to better 
spread my weight among the clusters of bone and lumps of skin that 
could hold it. The heat was unbearable; though Leng is known for 
being a frigid climate, the chemical processes occurring within the 
depths of the sea kept it considerably warmer than its environs. My 
thirst overpowered me; and though all my senses rebelled against 
the notion, | forced myself to lower my lips into a pool of blood and 
drink a few sips. It tasted of death and sin, and | evacuated most of 
it sheer minutes later; it was evident that the sea would provide me 
no nourishment, and | was doomed to die if | could not reach the 
shore. Though | could easily have walked three miles in an hour on 
open land, | found myself making less than half a mile each hour, as 
the sun drew closer to the southern horizon and the bright orange of 
day grew a darker blue and purple. It was apparent that | would not 
make the shore by dusk, and | had no confidence in the moon, that 
mother of liars, to not guide me around in a circle until | dropped 


from exhaustion, so there was nothing to be done but to spend the 
night at sea. | pulled several of the larger, more intact cadavers 
together and atop one another to form a raft of sorts, and | lay flat on 
my back upon it, gazing up at a starless sky, as purple gave way to 
black. 


| slept little that night, fearing that, should | let my eyes close fast 
again, that they might never re-open. As the moon rose 
contemptuously over the horizon, the fabled corpse-fires of the sea 
began to alight, bathing the feculent stew in an eerie gleam. | 
remembered hearing a rumor supposedly passed down from the 
soil-harvesters who plied the sea under cover of darkness, that the 
lights were the souls of the dead, trying to escape and burning up 
instead. | remembered the doubts of my youth - that my soul would 
perish in the Dead Sea with my body - as | stared at the gyring 
blazes that seemed to confirm my fears. | did the only thing | could 
think of to do in such a dark and seemingly hopeless hour - | prayed. 


And in that dark hour, my prayer was answered. | heard a voice, 
both quiet and bold, humble and resplendent, seeming to whisper 
and shout at once from some cavernous void in the back of my 
mind. Fear not, it said to me in a language | could not recognize. / 
have promised you life eternal; endure now, and it shall be granted. 
It was in that instant that any trace of agnosticism | had ever 
experienced was put paid to; for here, at the edge of the world, in 
the land of the dead, in the darkest hour of my existence, | knew, 
without any doubt, that St. Azarius Himself had heard my prayers 
and had spoken to me. 


In time, the first rays of the morning sun began to shine from the 
north. As soon as | could fix my eyes on the shore, a scant five or so 
miles ahead, | resolved that | would reach it by sunset. It was 
unlikely that | could survive another night on the sea without food or 
water, and St. Azarius Himself had commanded me to carry on - 
what choice did | have? Hours passed as | picked my way across 
the wastes. As | drew nearer the shore, the going became easier - 
here were the ripest of bodies, those delivered by train from the 
lands closest to Leng, and there lay less distance between them and 
the bottom of the pit than did those further asea. | was nearly a mile 
from the shore when | spied an unusually old body amidst the mass 


of the newly dead - its skin was dry and practically mummified, 
leather wrapped over bone. It jutted skyward between two corpses 
that had lain there a week or so, its eyeless sockets fixed on the 
heavens, one sinewy claw seeming to grip for dear life to the bosom 
of one of the newer bodies. A shudder befell me as | considered this 
remnant that had once been a man - his posture, his stance, the 
look on his dried face, told me that he had died after arriving in the 
Dead Sea. Logic dictates that | could not have been the only person 
in the history of the Empire to have befallen such a fate, but here, it 
seemed, was the proof. 


| reached the shore an hour or so before sunset, and began to crawl 
and climb my way up the slope to the edge of the pit. | was halfway 
up when one of the carrion-haulers slouched up to the edge and 
discharged several hundred cadavers over the edge in my direction. 
| clung fast to the rocks and prayed, and again | heard St. Azarius 
urge me to persevere. Though they rolled over me, falling apart on 
the rocks, wooden caskets and linen wraps disintegrating on the 
way downward, limbs tearing asunder and buffeting me as they 
made their way downhill, | managed to avoid losing my grip and 
rejoining them below. Dusk had fallen by now, but | no longer had 
need of the light to guide me, for | knew which way up was. It must 
have been midnight before the slope gave way to level sand, the 
green glow of the Dead Sea lay behind me, and | knew that | had 
escaped with my life. 


What now, then, | wondered? Though | was free of the pit, there was 
no succour to be had at its edge; it was a good hundred miles to the 
nearest town, and even the carrion-haulers dared not overnight 
here. | glanced around in the darkness, hoping that the corpse-lights 
would illuminate some sign of salvation, and as | looked westward 
where the lying moon rose above the plateau, | glimpsed the unlikely 
silhouette of my rescue; a relief station, from which no light now 
shone, but which the carrion-haulers surely had need of before 
making their return trip back to the depots where their next load of 
unfortunates was to be received. 


| recall not whether | admitted myself to the men's chamber or to the 
women's; it hardly seemed like the most significant of details at the 
time. All | cared for was that there was a sink within, connected to a 


reservoir no doubt resupplied with waters from far outside this 
accused land. Water! Few sing hymns in its praise but those who 
have been made to do without. | suckled greedily at the tap like a 
baby hungry for its mother's milk. Having had my fill, | splashed my 
face, washing away the gore and sludge that had accumulated 
during my trek across the Dead Sea. | breathed a sigh of relief that 
my ordeal had come to an end. In the morning, more carrion-haulers 
would come. | could flag one down and tell him my story, and by 
day's end | would be back in my flat in Austhaven, and all of this 
would be nothing more than a thrilling tale of adventure with which to 
regale my grandchildren. Clearly | had begun to go mad in that grim 
viridian night among the corpse-fires and imagined the voice of St. 
Azarius; now that | was safe, | would need to seek Expurgation for 
those thoughts, but having done that | would never have to speak or 
think of that blasphemy again. Sighing, | rose from the sink and met 
my own gaze in the mirror - and as instantly as the earlier relief had 
swept me, a new revelation came. 


It is said that in ancient epochs, when the world was closer to the 
stars, St. Azarius struck a bargain with the gods, that man might not 
die, but live eternal if they followed His teachings. The Temple has 
always taught that this life is to come in the hereafter; when we die, 
our souls depart our bodies, and if we are worthy, then St. Azarius 
will welcome us into the new world of His making. 


| know not what negotiations He brokered with the Outer Things, nor 
what black magicks he authored in those distant ages, but | know 
now that the immortality He acquired for mankind was not the same 
immortality that the priests of the Temple had expected Him to 
deliver. Their vengeance when they realized the truth must have 
been immense. Perhaps He was the first one doomed to take the 
Long Walk into the heart of the pit. Perhaps the Dead Sea was built 
upon Him, that the Temple could hide His disgrace from the world 
without abolishing the reputation of His Holy Name upon which their 
power was wrought. | knew now that when | had heard St. Azarius 
speak to me that night in the Dead Sea, He spoke to me not from 
some metaphysical world-to-come, but that He was below me in the 
depths. 


When | first beheld myself in the mirror, | vomited. What | expelled 


was not the fresh water | had just consumed, but something far 
more foul; black and brown, malodorous and syrupy, speckled with 
bits of graying flesh. In an instant, | recalled the details of my 
birthday celebration that had previously been denied to me; how | 
was unceremoniously tossed into the street after last call at the Eel 
& Castle. How | staggered drunkenly along the cobbles en route to 
my flat, hollering impolite suggestions at the ladies on the kerb. How 
| lost my footing on the mist-slicked staircase that lead downward to 
Earl's Street. How | tumbled twice and bashed my head against an 
old stone on my way down. How the maidens had screamed for 
help. How the hospitallers struggled to carry me onto a horse-drawn 
carriage as my life-blood ran down onto the stone. 


Be not afraid, the voice spoke again in my head as | peeled the 
glove off my left hand, taking half of the soggy purple skin with it as | 
peeled it loose. / promised life eternal to all those who believe. In 
you the world shall see the fulfillment of my vow. The prophecy has 
been fulfilled, Dear Reader. The new age is upon us. The time has 
come to cast aside the false declarations of the Temple, which has 
denied us the truth of St. Azarius' promise and condemned us all to 
refuse our true immortality in favor of a false utopia. 


All of this | realized as the glove slipped free from my hand and | 
raised it to the face | saw in the mirror, felt with my own hand the 
point where my skull had caved in on the cobblestone, where shards 
of rock and bone had forced their way into my exposed brain, and 
traced my bony, skeletal finger along the contours of my pure, bare, 
white and skinless face. 


If It Looks Like a Duck, Swims Like a Duck, and Quacks 
Like a Duck, It's Probably a Shapeshifting Living 
Nightmare 


Once upon a time there was a Duckman Drakeman, who was legally 
but not religiously (very, very few members of the waterfowl family 
Anatidae are actually religiously inclined. Many of them eat fish, for 
Jesus' sake!) married to a charming duck, who bore a strong 
resemblance to Claudia Schiffer, especially when she moved her 
head to let her hair flow hither and thither for the L'Oréal ad. 


Clauduck was soon expecting. She didn't tell anyone, but she sure 
hoped to become The Duck with The Golden Eggs, so she ate gold 
dust and put the blame on pregnancy cravings. It didn't work. 


Wait wait wait, | need to pour in some suspense here. Take 2. 


... Pregnancy cravings. She soon stopped because gold doesn't 
taste good (if cravings you must have, might as well be caviar or 
créme de marrons Clément Faugier a la vanille!) and the dust made 
her sneeze. And anyway, it didn't work. 


She soon gave birth to a litter of adorable little duckies and drakies, 
whom she all baptized Caesar because they were born by 
Caeserean section. 

(What? Oh, yeah. Look, | did say very few of them, didn't |?) 


All adorable? No. One of them... was not. 


(See what I'm doing here? Suspense again. Creating a new 
paragraph and having a few short sentences in it makes said 
sentences look more important. Clever, huh?) 


Yeah, it was a duckie drakie. He had the nose, ears, four legs and 
talons required for the job. But he was not... or was he? He didn't 
look good at all. And when he padded with its siblings after 
Clauduck on their pond, he did go ‘quack’, but that 'quack' sounded 


more like the hidden and sinful child of the Concorde taking off from 
Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport, that time, yeah, but also all the 
other times put together, and the eerie song of blue whales from the 
North Pacific Gyre when they've been playing too long with plastic 
bags, with just a touch of the distress signal from Alien.