Engines of Desire: Tales of Love and Other Horrors Read online

  Engines of Desire

  tales of love & other horrors

  Livia Llewellyn

  introduction by Laird Barron

  Lethe Press, Maple Shade, NJ

  Copyright © 2011 Livia Llewellyn.

  all rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in 2011 by Lethe Press, Inc.

  118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018

  www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]

  isbn: 1-59021-324-6

  isbn-13: 978-1-59021-324-7

  Credits for previous publication appear on page 198.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover art: “Schattengefluester” by Katharina Fösel.

  Cover design: Alex Jeffers.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Llewellyn, Livia.

  Engines of desire : tales of love & other horrors / Livia Llewellyn ;

  introduction by Laird Barron.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59021-324-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Fantasy fiction, American. 2. Horror tales, American. 3. Erotic stories,

  American. I. Title.

  PS3612.L495E54 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010050875

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to a wonderful group of writers, and editors, friends, and family, and wee beasties, who often had more faith in me than I did: Pirate Jenny, Brenda Ihssen, Will Ludwigsen, Aimee Payne, Sarah Castle, Peggy Alexander, Debra Englander, Joy Marchand, Hannah Wolf Bowen, Nickolaus Kaufmann, Lee Thomas, Nathan Ballingrud, Ellen Datlow, Cherie Priest, John Langan, Paul Tremblay, Kelly Link, Holly Black, John Skipp, Brett Alexander Savory, Matt Kressel, Cecelia Tan, Jason Eric Lundberg, Vince Liaguno, William Schafer, Peter Crowther, and Nick Gevers. Special thanks to my parents, Paul and Mary Llewellyn, who let me read any book I wanted in their library, including and especially the dark and disturbing ones.

  Thanks also to Lethe Press publisher Steve Berman, and to Daulton Nombroth and Alex Jeffers for all their hard work in creating such a beautiful book. And thanks to Katharina Fösel, for her stupendous photograph.

  Special thanks to Laird Barron, who’s been a champion of my work ever since I nervously sent him a story to read, many years ago.

  This book is dedicated to my best friend, my confidant, my rock:

  Robert Levy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Table of Contents

  Love, Sex, and the Heat Death of the Universe

  By Laird Barron

  Horses

  At the Edge of Ellensburg

  The Teslated Salishan Evergreen

  The Engine of Desire

  Jetsam

  The Four Hundred Thousand

  Brimstone Orange

  Take Your Daughters to Work

  Omphalos

  Her Deepness

  About the Author

  Love, Sex, and the Heat Death of the Universe

  by Laird Barron

  The thing you need to know, to be braced for, is that Livia Llewellyn doesn’t screw around. There are images you can’t un-see because they’re scorched on your brain. Steel yourself.

  Engines of Desire is that rare kind of encounter with art I can only liken to unexpectedly coming face to face with a dangerous animal in the wild, or leaping into a body of water that proves colder and deeper than anticipated, or the raw spurt of euphoria that rushes through one’s system upon feeling thin ice crack beneath one’s feet. Her writing is simply fearsome – it possesses all the madness of Sylvia Plath and the ornate and mythic flourishes of Angela Carter, yet synthesized and refined into an alloy that is uniquely Llewellyn. The old saw about opening a vein holds true, except if you hold still for a moment and permit her prose to fasten tight, and it will, then you’ll find you’re the one doing the bleeding. What she’s got to show you isn’t pretty, and that which glitters isn’t gold; it’s ground glass or the business end of a blade, the jagged tooth of a predator, the bloody gleaming bones of its prey.

  My initial experience with Llewellyn’s fiction was “At the Edge of Ellensburg,” a murderously erotic tale that fuses elements of Lovecraft’s ultra-pessimism with the sexual explicitness of Jackie Collins or Harold Robbins or the blue letters between James Joyce and Nora Barnacle, twisted and deformed into a glimpse of the pathological landscape of a Bundy, Dahmer, or Gacy. “At the Edge of Ellensburg” is representative of the Llewellyn aesthetic, the mother shell of a Russian nesting doll. Here is a tale shot through with scenes of sexual and emotional violence, depravity and murder, betrayal and self-annihilation. It examines the reduction of self, through emotional and physical abuse, to a static, supercharged core. A reduction to a particle perhaps analogous to the ultra-heavy element that exploded in the Beginning and vomited forth the cosmos. Indeed, in a thread that slithers through much of her work, the piece suggests this pattern of decay and degradation, then transformation, if not transmogrification of the fragile mortal vessel and its mercurial contents, is reflective of the life cycle of the universe – its approaching heat death, inertness, then ultimate resurrection. Paradoxically, despite the recurring themes of brutality and violence , that resurrection counters the ghastliness and the pitch-dark fates of Llewellyn’s protagonists, the immediacy of their travails. We are left to stew: is that glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel indicative of redemption and spiritual succor? Or is it the baleful headlight of Satan’s Express? The ambiguity cuts like razor wire – the dividing line between ecstasy and agony, of heaven and hell, is all too thin.

  The tales that comprise Engines of Desire grapple with the tragicomedies of human existence, its ephemeral nature, built like a sand castle so perilously upon the cosmic tide line. Death and sex, love and mutually assured destruction, these are the songs. Apocalyptic wastelands without and within the human heart, supernatural incursions, serial killers, demons that feast upon blood, lovers scorned, clone armies harvested lottery-fashion from the wombs of teenage girls to perpetuate forever wars, eaters of souls, the machinery of darkness … these too are the songs. Baudelaire read his love’s fortune in the fly-blown entrails of a horse carcass in an anonymous ditch. His song echoes to us down through the decades. Llewellyn’s dark poetics are similarly affecting in that she speaks so frankly to the intimacies of the flesh, its fragility and weakness, its hunger matched only by the insatiability of the void. Like some modern day anthropomancer, she revels in the fecundity and baseness of the human animal, seeking auguries in the guts and the gore, flaying bare the primal urges so glibly sublimated by the suit-and dress-wearing masses. Llewellyn casts the runes and shows us that after the fires of apocalypse, all circles the drain back to the mud and the womb, then darkness. And then, and then….

  Active for only a few years, but already establishing a reputation as a formidable stylist, I sense big things are in store for this author. If there is any justice in the world Livia Llewellyn is on her way to ever greater recognition and acclaim. I’m hopeful this collection serves as the clarion call that alerts many new readers and critics alike to the presence of a powerful and original force on the literary scene. The field is experiencing one hell of a renaissance with the appearance of writers such as Paul Tremblay, John Langan, St
ephen Graham Jones, Sarah Langan, and Allyson Bird; and the continued efforts of Jeff Ford, Norm Partridge, Caitlin Kiernan, and Michael Shea, among so many others. When writers, editors, and publishers at the dark end of the lit spectrum talk about strong new writers, one hears time and again of Don Tumasonis, Richard Gavin, Simon Strantzas, Barbara Roden, Glen Hirshberg, and Sarah Pinborough – well, add Llewellyn to the list. She is as deserving as any of the aforementioned and her star is surely ascendant.

  As I said at the top: steel yourself. Scant difference exists between exquisite pleasure and pain. There’s a kind of beauty so sharp and cruel that it leaves a mark on the beholder; and here it comes now.

  Laird Barron, author of Occultation

  December 1, 2010,

  Olympia WA

  Horses

  Thunder

  Conquest

  White

  …clouds drift overhead, faint strands against the cobalt blue of night. Missile Facilities Technician Angela Kingston presses her nose to the cool glass. Cirrostratus. They’ll burn off before morning, she’s sure of that. If anything, Kingston knows the rising eastern sun, knows the searing heat that coats the dead-brown scab lands of Washington. In ten hours, deep orange will bleed from the horizon, as day rips itself once more from a star-studded womb.

  Kingston turns away from the window. Across the room, her face floats in the mirror under a cap of dark brown hair, pixie-neat against her skull. She looks like a teenager, not a woman pushing forty. Below the mirror, a rectangle of plastic balances upright on her dresser, revealing a pink line bisecting a circle of white. The alchemical wedding of urine and litmus have combined to create the line—the closest thing to marriage she’ll ever know. It’s proof that two missed periods are more than the product of stress from the looming war, the constant fear that the next twin turn of the launch keys won’t be a test, but—like that faint pink line—the real thing.

  The watch at her wrist beeps. With absolute economy of movement, sculpted by a year-old routine, Kingston inspects the apartment. She couldn’t bear to leave it for good, knowing it was a mess. In the bathroom, she slips a small plastic vial into her pants pocket, next to the stick. It contains a powerful abortive drug, military issue. In the next twenty-four hours, she’ll take the pill, or a bullet. Which one it will be, she cannot say.

  Outside, gravel crunches under tires—her ride to silo 7-4 is here. Kingston hoists a duffel bag over her shoulder, and grabs a photo before locking the front door behind her. It’s part of her routine, so much so that she doesn’t notice pausing to caress its scalloped sepia edges. The photo is of a young man in uniform, a grim-faced cavalry officer astride a large pale horse. The rider’s a distant relative, whose name on the back, scribbled in fading brown ink, is “Ensley.” That’s all she knows of him. Why he rides, what it is he and his horse race toward, is lost.

  “Keep me safe, Ensley,” she mutters as she starts down the stairs. “Just one more day.”

  Sanders, the Deputy Crew Commander, drives Kingston’s crew of four to the silo without speaking. He keeps the radio in his hummer tuned to the news station. Border skirmishes, food shortages, riots and martial law—it’s their country newscasters speak of. Public figures scramble, civilians protest and pray for a second chance at peace, but Kingston and her crew know it’s too late. The only negotiations going on now are over the best hour to begin the war.

  Beside Kingston, Ballistic Missile Analyst Cabrera slumps in light sleep. Up in the front next to Sanders, Major Hewitt talks into his phone—his wife calls every morning. All the men on the team are married, and they all have children. Kingston stares out the window at the flat farmlands. She thinks about the apartment, how the sun will soon shine into rooms that look like no one ever lived there. She wanted to be an astronaut when she was little. She wanted to fly to the moon, or maybe Mars. Instead, she’s headed to a Titan-class missile silo, where her crew will stand on alert for twenty-four hours, waiting for the order to push a button. She’s proud of what she’s doing to defend her country, proud of eighteen years served. Sometimes, though, at night, she cradles a phantom weight as she slips into uneasy dreams….

  Hewitt whispers “I love you” into the phone. Kingston closes her eyes, concentrates on the news.

  Their shift passes in half-hours of systems checks and double-checks. Wing Command Post calls every hour with the same message: launch in one hour. Each hour passes with no launch. In the short calm between false alarms, Kingston stares at Sanders’ neck, his shoulders hunched over cold coffee and clipboards, jotting words down—a letter to his wife, his last farewell? “Useless,” Kingston mutters. Sanders looks up. Kingston reaches for a report, her face like stone.

  At 03:29, Kingston glances at the clock’s second hand. The latest message was for 03:30 launch. Her hands press against her pants, fingering the pregnancy stick and plastic vial. They feel heavier than her sidearm. Is this continual, low-grade fear imprinting on the fetus? Maybe the lack of fear is worse, the low-grade irritation that they haven’t yet released Black Beauty from her shackles. 03:29:30. Kingston wishes she had some gum, or a Lifesaver, anything to get the aftertaste of the MRI out of her mouth. Maybe she should take the capsule now. Her fetus and the missile, shooting out of the gate on the very same day. Thoughts like that don’t shock her. They never did.

  03:29:55. Kingston mouths the seconds down to 03:30.

  Silence.

  03:30:01.

  “Goddamnit, here we go again,” Cabrera says. His lips form the words, but Kingston can’t hear his voice: the alarm is wailing. Kingston feels her heart stop, and all emotions bleed away. Black Beauty is a go.

  Kingston and Sanders scan their equipment panels while Hewitt and Cabrera verify the authenticity of the SAC message coming through. No more nerves or baby thoughts or boredom, only buttons and switches at her fingertips—she’s the missile now. She always has been. Above ground, rotating beacons will be flashing red warnings as sirens howl. Hewitt is asking if they’re ready to launch, and Kingston’s voice gives a distant affirmative. All throughout the complex, systems shut down as they rout electricity and power to Black Beauty. Kingston licks her lips. The taste in her mouth has mutated into an unnamed desire.

  By 03:41, Hewitt has verified target selection. It’s one of two possibilities, neither of which has been revealed to the team. Kingston will never know where Black Beauty and her multiple warheads are headed, and she doesn’t care. Trans-Pacific fallout will ensure that the winds bring it all right back to America. Sanders and Hewitt have their keys out. They break the seals off the launch commit covers. It sounds like the snapping of spines.

  “…three, two, one, mark.”

  Both keys turn. The LAUNCH ENABLE light glows. They have nothing left to do but sit, and wait.

  Out in the dark earth, the Titan powers up, gathering every single bit of energy into herself, readying for birth. Kingston’s hands creep over her belly. The man was Nez Perce, like her grandpa’s family on her mother’s side. He told her his name, but she doesn’t remember it. She didn’t care. His skin was dark, hot. Black beauty.

  The SILO SOFT lights wink on. Above, the great doors are sliding open, spreading apart like a woman’s willing legs.

  FIRE IN THE ENGINE.

  Lights in the control room fade. They hunch in the dark, waiting for release. The tick of the fans, the thump of her heart, the race horse rasp of her breath: she’s at the starting gate, straining against metal bars. Kingston snaps open the leather casing holding her side arm. This is how it must be. They have a new type of ICBM across the ocean, a hydra-headed destroyer of nations. This whole planet is fucked. And she deserves life least of all, because she had the audacity to conceive it. That taste in her mouth: she knows what it is. She aches for the taste of the gun.

  Klaxons wail out one shrill warning after another. Kingston slides her weapon out, cocks the trigger. But it remains on her thigh, pointed away. Lift it. Lift it up, you spineless cunt. Her whole body sha
kes, but she can’t tell if it’s nerves or the colossal springs under the cement hollow of the control center, keeping them from cracking apart. “WE HAVE LIFTOFF,” Hewitt shouts over the last of the klaxons, and a low, long rush of air thunders through the complex as Black Beauty’s engines reach full speed: she lifts. Kingston clutches her stomach, bites her tongue. The heartbeat of some ancient god of war drills into them like jackhammers, wave after quaking wave setting their bones to ring like funeral bells…

  …and now it fades: a reprieve back to silence, as Black Beauty arcs into cold skies. Panel lights wink on and off, but Kingston ignores them. Hewitt is on the phone, confirming what they already suspect: other launches, from every silo in the nation. And in two hours time, another missile will slam back into the complex, filling the void. A constellation is soaring across the ocean, right back into their arms.

  “Officer. Hand over your weapon.” Hewitt’s voice is calm. He’s staring at the drawn weapon pressed at her thigh.

  “No, sir, I cannot,” Kingston says. “I’m getting out.” She raises her arm, moving the barrel to her head.

  “Well,” Cabrera says as he pulls his weapon, “good-fucking-bye to you, too.”

  From all directions, bullets fly. Guess they’re all getting out of the silo, one way or another. Kingston turns the barrel and blindly fires out as she drops to the floor, tucking herself into the space between her console and the wall. Cabrera slams against his chair, leaving behind a black slick as he falls to the floor. Kingston sets her sights and shoots, nailing Hewitt in the chest. Blood pumps from his shirt, staining the floor around him in an uneven circle.

  “Kingston, drop your weapon!” Sanders, somewhere in the dark.

  Kingston checks her clip, touches her belly. Suddenly, surprisingly, she wants to stay alive. Down in the empty silo, smoke and flame is roiling—the afterbirth of the engines. They’d put it out, if it had been a test. Now they can let it burn.

  Kingston stands up, weapon pointed.

  “I was going to kill myself, you stupid motherfucker. You should have left me alone.” From across the room, Sanders mimics her stance, even with his shot-up arm. Overhead, clocks tick away the seconds they have left.