Rust: One

Chapter 5

Kimberly knew bad dreams. She'd been in and out of nightmares for weeks while strapped down in St Jeremiah's, sweating in the grip of night terrors, being chased by faceless things, gibbering creatures, silhouettes crying in Aaron's voice. She wanted the man standing in the garden to be a dream as well but he was as real as the windowsill beneath her sweating palms.

"Five minutes," she repeated. "Then I call the cops."

The hobo strutted across the back garden with his left hand in the hip pocket of his coat, the other scratching at his chin. "Lot to fit into five minutes. Cold out here, too. A polite person would make me a cup of tea."

"No chance."

"This rain is drowning me, lady!"

"Four minutes."

The hobo grumbled. Now that Kimberly had a chance to look the man over, he didn't seem half as filthy as she remembered from when they'd met outside the tunnel. The ends of his coat were ragged and stained with something dark like blood or gasoline and his cheeks were scrubby with a patchwork beard, but his hands and face were clean. He wore a watch on his right wrist with a sparkling silver band and his teeth were bright behind scowling lips.

If she'd met him anywhere else - a gas station, a mechanics, in a library - she would've assumed him a tradesman with a bad burn. But just because he scrubbed up nice didn't change the fact that he'd stalked her across town. If she let him inside, she'd be lucky if they found her in any less than five garbage bags, strewn from one end of Rustwood to the other.

"They say a man can only die once," the hobo said. "That doesn't hold true in Rustwood. Everyone here died once already, so far as I can figure, but not many remember. Some turn up and believe they were always a part of the place. Some fight for a couple days. Take the tunnel or jump into the ocean or head out over that goddamn bridge. Those that stay... well, after two, maybe three days they stop fighting and forget where they came from. But you've been here two weeks now, and you've still got your mind. So, where was it? Germany? Lots come from Germany. Oklahoma?"

She didn't want to remember that moment on the platform. The lights bearing down. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"You drove the tunnel! You saw! If you don't believe me, go in again. Or you scared you'll come out where you went in?"

Sweat ran down the nape of her neck. "I thought I was dreaming," she whispered.

The ragged man grinned. "Three ways out of Rustwood. Two go in circles - that one, and West Channel. South Bulwark Bridge doesn't go anywhere. You know the longest bridge in the world? It's in Louisiana. Manchac Swamp Bridge, almost twenty three miles. I drove down South Bulwark for a whole day and didn't find the end. Lucky to get back. Betcha you remember things from before, huh? They tell you it was a dream? I still remember. Getting harder now, but I remember a whole lot."

Her hands trembled on the windowsill. She could slam it down so easily, she thought. Cut the stranger off mid-word and crawl into bed. Maybe in the morning things would look different. The dream would finally peter out.

Instead she found herself saying, "Who are you?"

The man licked his lips. "Lots of power in a name. But I figure if we're going to do this... Fitch. The name's Fitch."

"I didn't ask your name," she said. "I asked who the hell you were."

"I'm the guy that needs your help."

"Excuse me?"

"Lot of things happen here that nobody sees," Fitch said. "Then again, lot of things happen here that everybody sees, but everybody chooses not to believe. But you, you're not blind yet. Precious few like you. I don't want to die here, but I can't kill whatever's poisoning this place on my own."