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Dark Energy

Steampunk Horror

By Donald J. BinglePublished 2 years ago 20 min read
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Dark Energy by Donald J. Bingle

Energy surged through his sinews as he ran effortlessly through the shadow-splashed night, metal-banded legs stretching and springing as they churned the decaying detritus of the forest floor. Yet he twisted and twined around the standing foliage at speed with such grace, such instinct, that he disturbed nary a dewy drop on the greenest leaf of nightshade. He raised his snout into the air, nostrils flaring to follow the scent borne on the night breeze as he sucked in oxygen more hungrily than the hottest steam boiler. His tooth-filled maw gaped open to aid the flow, saliva dripping from the corners and whipping into the air as he dodged and turned to follow his nose following his prey.

The scent strengthened as he gained ground, adding pungent coppery overtones to the strong iron scent of fresh sheep’s blood. Mutton, his favorite feast—an injured lamb, separated from the flock, and, no doubt, lost in the woods, scratched by the thorny nettles of the under-forest. Sweet, succulent, and fresh-warm, once you got past the matted wool exterior. Tender and easy to render with claw and fang, tearing through flesh and bone, eating the muscled prime cuts and more savory organs, leaving the nastier bits and gristle and chewy tendons for lesser beasts to fight over once he was sated.

Another scent, too. Faint beneath the strong odor of the lamb’s blood, but not too faint for his keen nose inhaling the deep breaths of the chase. Human, a stench despised, but not unknown to him. Shepherd, perhaps—a foolish one to be seeking out the flock at this hour, even on a moonlit night. Or a sturdy huntsman seeking a night’s kill.

He should have paused at that last thought—cunning as he was known to be, but the lust was upon him and the bloodied lamb near enough to taste, not just with his nose and mouth, but with his muscle and mind. All instinct now, he lowered his body and increased his speed, ready to leap upon his quarry and sink his fangs into his midnight feast.

A flicker of white beyond a deadfall, pale as the color of the full moon high in the sky, fixed his eye as his muscles tensed to pounce. A bright red stain splashed on white confirmed in his rational mind the scene his instincts urged upon his hindbrain and he leapt high over the twisted branches of a fallen tree. His mouth open, teeth flashing, ready to bear down with murderous intent upon the victim meal, claws stretched forward to grab and rend and hold and tear in the hot frenzy of a gourmet bloodbath dinner for one.

He was in mid-leap when he realized his error. He snapped shut his slavering jaw and twisted his body violently in an attempt to change his fate, even before he fully understood it, but the arc of his trajectory was unaffected. He swiveled his head, jerking his shoulders around to allow him to create a full circle of vision even as his body slammed into a cold disc of smooth metal, slick with the blood of a fresh-butchered lamb. His torso slid and rolled across the hard, wet surface until it collided with the hand’s-breadth-high, circular wall edging the disc. The impact with this border triggered slightly curved vertical bars to spring up from within and beneath the circular wall, instantaneously enclosing him within a vaguely egg-shaped cage. The curved bars shot upward from below with such speed and force that had his momentum careened him over the short border, he would have been impaled and thrust up as a bloody offering to the pale, full moon.

He howled in pain and frustration, a wail of anguish and warning to others of his kind to stay away, as his nose was assaulted with the scent of metal and machine oil, with a tinge of ozone on the night air. But even before he could assess these new smells or inspect his metal prison, his ears picked up a stolid click from beneath the metal disc and a high-pitched hum began to assault his hearing. His fur began to fluff up and stand on end.

A guttural roar rose from his throat and turned into a blood-curdling wail of terror and pain as the change began.

Too soon. Too soon. The night betrayed him as the moon still stared.

An eternity of agony assaulted his body as it shifted and contorted to the dreaded form: legs lengthening as though melted in the forge and stretched, the metal bands encircling his limbs tightening about them as he expanded in size; his snout and head pounded into rounder shape; his claws growing back into his digits and his digits lengthening and puffing out like summer sausages, all pale and meaty. His torso grew and fattened, the lean muscle of the predator softening into the mush of fatted prey, his senses dimming, his instinct fading as unwanted memories and logic assaulted his mind. That hated logic told him this process occurred in a matter of minutes and it would soon be over, but the pain insisted the change was all-consuming and endless and would not be stopped, until finally it did, and he was naked on the sticky wet floor of a confounded cage in the woods, his now feeble eyes unable to discern any foe in the moonlight-dappled dark, his pudgy nose unable to decipher any aroma but the smell of fear and sweat and the stink of humanity.

A match scritched upon a nearby boulder and flared up to reveal a middle-aged man, a dirty sheepskin blanket covering much of his body as he sat upon a nearby stump. The man shrugged off the sheepish cover and brought the flaming match to the ivory bowl of a carved wooden pipe.

“The worst is over,” the man murmured as he sucked in a stench of cherry-tinged smoke. After drawing on the pipe a few times and puffing its smoke from his lungs into the clear forest air, he shook the match out, held it for a moment to cool, and placed it in the right pocket of his tweed jacket, from whence he simultaneously extracted a small notebook, bound shut with leather ties. “No standing on proprieties here in the forest. You can thank me later, when you feel better.” He untied the binds and opened the notebook, thumbing quickly to what appeared to be a blank page. Still sucking on the pipe, he reached with his right hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled forth a stout pencil, licked the tip for reasons unknown, and set it to the paper. “My name is Archibald Reginald Forthswyth, lettered in chemistry and physics at Cambridge.” He inclined his head toward the cage, where but moments before a wild beast had thrashed and yowled in frenzied frustration, but now held a cold, pale, quivering human.

Me.

“Your name?” He leaned toward me, pencil at the ready to inscribe my telling for posterity.

Being naked and at a disadvantage put me in an awkward and embarrassing spot, but I was not about to succumb to disadvantage. I steeled my courage and quelled my trembling as best I was able, given my state of undress and the coldness of the strange metal disc upon my buttocks. I straightened my back and sat upright, lifting my chin in what I imagined to be a look of haughty superiority and narrowed my eyes in steely resolve. “I do not engage in casual conversation with those who capture and cage persons of my … nature.”

The scholar made a note in his book. “Persons of your … nature, heh?” He scribbled some more. “That’s a delicate way of putting it. But a few moments ago, you would have torn me asunder with your fangs as though I were but a yearling lamb to provide bloody sustenance for your wolfish appetite. Now you are but a person of a particular ‘nature’.” He scrunched his nose. “Adrenaline levels are still elevated, I would guess.” He made yet another note.

I am not a fool. I know when I find myself naked in the woods and fresh blood smeared upon my hands and face, that I have just returned from being him … being the beast. It is not a matter I discuss with strangers … or with anyone at all. It is my burden. It is my shame. Of course, typically my unassisted return occurs as dawn is breaking, waking from a feast-induced stupor of sleep—not from colliding with strange, humming cages, in the under-lit realm of the wee hours, assaulted by a professor of chemistry and physics. I summoned my courage, bolstering it with scurrilous umbrage, as if dealing with an overcharging shopkeeper of low birth. “Regardless of my past … even my recent past … we are both gentle-born men of distinction and education. I will brook no discourse in my current condition …” I gestured at my unclothed body. “… or in this unaccommodating confinement. Release me at once and be so kind as to lend me that sheepskin you used for concealment and I will consider responding to reasonable inquiries, given your assurances of discreet confidentiality.”

“From where I’m sitting, you seem to have little leverage for demanding or requesting anything. The local constabulary reports more than sheep have been killed and eaten in this parish over the last season.”

I did not rise to the bait, my logic having learned the lesson that the beast had fallen prey to: look before you leap. I simply shrugged and again gestured at my naked, nobility-soft body. “I obviously pose no threat to you in this condition.”

“True enough,” averred the smoker. “But if you were to leave the cage prematurely, the story would be quite differently told.” He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem toward the moon, still gleaming full above the reaching branches of the tangled trees. As you can see, the full moon is still high in the sky—a sight you have not seen in your current form in some time, I would dare say.” He readied his pencil. “Exactly how long, would you say?”

“I would not,” I said. “I will not be interrogated by the likes of you or anyone else in these conditions.” I put my best aristocratic edge into my voice. “After all, we are both gentlemen, sir.”

“At the moment, so long as my … device … maintains your status.” The fingers holding the thick pencil trembled in apparent anticipation. “On a scale of one to twenty, with full score being the highest, how painful would the transformation back to beast be for you? Answer true and straight or I will be forced to verify with a field experiment.”

My hindbrain liked the sound of that. Not the prospect of the agony of transformation, but the return of the tools, talent, and instinct to tear this uncivilized tormentor from limb to bloody limb. I trust not the logic of the beast, but I distrust those who capture and threaten to torture me even more. I decided to goad the professor to ill-considered action. “The moonlight has no effect on me. I have an unfortunate condition that impinges on my will periodically.”

He laughed at that, an unseemly guffaw not suited to a man of noble breeding. “That’s the first two true things you’ve said this night, Mister … Gentleman. You have a condition which affects you periodically … with the lunar phases, to be sure. And moonlight affects you not. Few with your condition have made that realization, given the periodicity of the affliction.”

I remained silent. Obviously, the man had made much study of lycanthropy, as my affliction is referenced in learned circles. Despite his irksome nature, I might learn something from him.

He continued, as I hoped he would. “But, of course, it doesn’t take many cloudy nights for the realization to come that ‘tis not the moonlight which causes the affliction. And a single instance of transformation …” he glanced at the bands on my arms and legs, “say, shackled in a dark basement, or in a locked and heavily curtained room, confirms it beyond denial. But then, why would moonlight have any affect? Tis but reflected sunlight and the strong glare of sun direct has no adverse impact on those afflicted.”

He paused long enough I felt need to prompt him for more information. “Clear to even the uneducated, or so I would imagine. Yet none of your obvious ramblings explains why I remain a prisoner.”

“Ahh,” he nodded, his pencil bobbing in agreement with his head. “Tis the uncanny and unalterable coincidence with periodicity of lunar phases that causes one to doubt even the obvious. Befuddled me, at first, before I thought about it scientifically.”

“Scientifically? Then you are not one of those who blames powers of the occult or other superstitious explanations?” Play to the ego of a professor and you will learn much of his specialty … or get a good nap. “You have discerned the true cause, then?”

“Not so difficult with a bit of critical thought, really. What else matches the periodicity of the lunar phases?”

I maintained silence. The flow of information was in the direction I favored. No need to alter the momentum of a force when it works in your favor.

“Rises and falls with the phases in synchronicity, one might say.”

I could not help myself. “The tides,” I blurted out.

“Yes,” he said with glee. “The tides. Affected by the gravitational impact of the sun and moon. Of greatest impact when the sun and the moon are aligned with one another on one side of the Earth, as in the case of a new moon, but also, due to the nature of fluid adhering to a spherical surface, when aligned with one another on exactly opposite sides of the Earth, pulling in diametric opposition as during a full moon.”

I had made the connection. Obviously, however, the professor had studied it. “Yet the new moon does not coincide with … incidents.”

He nodded vigorously once again. “That was the stumper, it was, but that was when I realized it was not the absolute pull of gravity that was the key. Else those at lower altitude, closer to the center of gravity of the Earth would be differentially affected, yet they are not. The same conclusion holds sway for those under acceleration, at least downward or laterally—even with the strongest steam engine, only modest upward acceleration can be achieved. For all my studies and research, I could only find one anomaly in frequency and duration of incidence …”

I leaned forward to catch his words. This was news to me.

“Trolls.”

My mouth gaped open and I felt lightheaded. Was this allegedly learned man actually a fool?

“Scandinavian trolls, to be more precise. Legendary, of course, though their appearance and latitude correspond nicely with tales of furred and fanged creatures of the northern reaches of America. Sasquatch, the Indians call them. Abominable snowmen, as they are known in the dime novels. That’s what led me to the device which enables you to gaze, human, at the full moon above.”

“Dime novels?”

He gave me a sour, condescending glare. “No, you idiot. Magnetism. Northern latitudes are situated differently in the magnetic field created by earth as she spins about her molten iron core. And, incidents of trolls and sasquatches spike near iron caves and at magnetic north, even more than at true north—though the lack of population at very high latitudes makes the statistics difficult to correlate accurately.”

It made sense. I motioned at my cage. “And this device?”

“Once the theoretical work is done, all that remains is engineering. Given the manner in which magnetism mimics gravity, it is a simple matter of creating magnetic coils and repulsers that allow one to fine tune the direction and strength of electromagnetic and gravitational fields so as to replicate the gravitational pull and push of the lunar phases. As I said, it is not simply the pull, but the simultaneous pull in opposite directions within a specified range. What makes a fishing line or a harp string taut is not pull in one direction, but in two. Neurons are similar at a micro-gravitational level. The brain is a delicate organ, greatly affected by gravitational and magnetic effects. It’s due to the iron in the blood, allowing the cells to align with chemically induced electrical charges of the brain. That’s why homing pigeons and migratory fowl can find their way to precise locations without difficulty—their tiny brains detect even the most minute anomalies in the flux of the Earth’s magnetic field. Of course, it required a fair bit of human brainpower to calculate the calibration of the device for a specific geographic location and lunar phase.”

He pointed at the device with the stem of his pipe. “Not to say that the engineering and manufacture weren’t challenging in their own right. Working with electricity is always dangerous and tricky. The mere act of charging the batteries—they’re buried beneath the floor of your cage—with steam power is tedious and bothersome. And coming up with a design which is strong enough to physically contain a lycanthropic subject within the ephemera of a magnetic field without itself conducting the electric power of the batteries generating the field flux was an additional sub-project. The key is alternating layers of insulators and a tungsten/platinum alloy isolated from the inducing coils above the batteries. Difficult and expensive to produce, but I think you will agree that the experiment has shown to be a success. It wasn’t easy, of course. Early models were … disappointing.”

The implications of the words “experiment” and “disappointing” darkened my thoughts. “So, you capture those of us afflicted to conduct your research.”

“Heavens, no. I used animals, of course. At first, I thought to use such staples of scientific inquiry as mice and rats, but I feared the debacle should lycanthropic vermin escape into the fertile fields of England. Rats decimated enough of the population during the Black Plague. I would not forgive myself if I were to unleash wererats upon the world. At first I used bunbuns …”

“Bunbuns?”

He reddened. “Rabbits. It’s what my grandmother called them when I was little. Perhaps that is why I realized soon after I started down such garden path I really didn’t have the heart to infect them or to see them torn asunder or fried by magnetic-induced electrical currents when testing early cage prototypes. I abandoned bunbuns as test subjects and set about to find a replacement. Cows were too large, ferrets too crafty, and dogs and cats too difficult to acquire in quantity without arousing a suspicious townfolk. Eventually, I settled on sheep. Docile, not particularly smart, and the uninfected subjects used for electro-mechanical cage tests made a fine meal when things went wrong. You, sir, are not a test subject. You are a beneficiary of my research.”

“Ah, the benefits of sitting naked on a cold metal floor—even a scientifically crafted composite that is non-conductive—in the dewy pre-dawn of a winter’s night in England escapes me. Perhaps, you could clarify.”

A stern look crossed the visage of my captor, who began to mutter below the range of my hearing, though I did catch the phrase “ungrateful snot” at one point. Finally, he tamped out his pipe, pocketed it, scrunched up his face and looked me square in the eye. “See, here, my man. I can hardly advertise a treatment for lycanthropy in The Times. I travel, at no small expense to myself, mind you, to areas infested with the problem, capture the lycanthrope and offer to allow them to come to my establishment in London Town as the full moon approaches and sit out the duration untransformed in the relative comfort of the basement of my townhouse. You, of course, supply your own refreshments and reading material. For reasons of safety, patrons are sequestered from one another lest failure of the device to … maintain … one individual not have unfortunate consequences for those who do not transform.”

I pondered for a few moments. “It is an interesting proposition. Of course, the scientific principles which permit you to prevent transformation during the full moon, could be manipulated to cause transformation at other times. How am I to be assured I will not be captured and manipulated for your own ends in such manner?”

The professor stood abruptly, stamping his right foot hard. “Sir, I am offended by your suggestion! Why anyone would ever choose to become a beast driven to lustful frenzy by the smell of blood is beyond imagination.”

The pre-dawn light brightened the surroundings as we continued our conversation. I tilted my head to one side in thought. “Conquerors, perhaps. They could create a formidable army.”

The professor scoffed, visibly relaxing. “An army in a cage. The notion is preposterous.”

The sun rose above the horizon and as it did, the professor walked over to what looked to be a rabbit hole a few feet to one side of the cage and reached in. There was an audible click and the irritating whine of the artifice faded into nothingness as the dawn chorus of indigenous birds greeted the new day. The bars of the cage began to slowly recede back into the base.

The professor suddenly shivered. “I do fear for the future, though.”

“Why is that?” I said, twisting the bands on my legs a half-turn before beginning to stand and work the kinks out of my muscles from sitting on the cold surface too long.

“As you know, tides vary in predictable cycles due to other cosmic alignments. There will be some fearsome tides in 1912, larger than usual, which may increase lycanthropic transformation in those not previously known to be afflicted. Worse, yet, in December of 2012, the full moon will coincide with Earth’s alignment with the sun and the center of the galaxy. It could be the end of the world as we know it.”

The cage fully retracted, I strode off the disc, twisting the bands on my arms half-way round and rubbing at my wrists. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” I said casually. “I’m sure technology will have advanced by then.”

He looked at me, his face drawn and fearful, but my comment had provoked a glimmer of hope in his sad eyes. “You think so? You think there is hope for controlling the situation?”

I finished rubbing my arms and grinned, feeling the exquisite pain of my fangs growing as I did so. “I’m sure,” I growled as the beast began to take me away from this world to a better world of power and blood. “You’ve forgotten the most important rule of practical engineering.” I clanged the metal bands at my wrists together, increasing the amplitude and accelerating the process already begun by the twisting of the bands but a few moments earlier. I then did the same with my feet with a brief hop into the air. “Once you put the theory in practice in the real world: miniaturize … miniaturize … miniaturize.”

My grin turned to a toothy snarl and the snarl to a roar of pain and anger and beastly delight.

The beast leapt at his tormentor, fangs crushing down on his prey’s smoky-flavored throat, hot blood gushing forth into the beast’s slavering maw, as claws ripped away cloth and skin and bone, spilling the intestines. The wolf ripped and gorged on fresh red muscle until sated.

The creature licked at the blood covering his snout, sucking at it with animal delight. A change of pace from his daily fare. Fattier than mutton, but not as gamey.

The End

This story was previously published in Beast Within 4: Gears & Growls, Edited by Jennifer Brozek (Graveside Tales 2014)

Horror
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About the Creator

Donald J. Bingle

Donald J. Bingle is the author of eight books and more than sixty shorter works in the thriller, science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, steampunk, comedy, and memoir genres. More on Don can be found at www.donaldjbingle.com.

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