by Tim Akers
“Gods, Jerry, you’re a wreck.” The other man said. I sat squinting up at their dim forms as they busied themselves at the foot of my bed. “A zippo? For roaches?”
“Roaches the size of dinner plates, Mike. Keep your eye on the fine details of the story. Never step on anything larger than your foot, my mom always said. Zippo it is!”
“But still...” Mike bent down, briefly disappearing beneath the bed. “Your mom lived in a swamp. Not much danger in setting everything ablaze when mphlumphlgump.”
“You are keen to recognize the danger of my position, Mike, keen indeed. But there was nothing for it. The roaches had drawn the wrath of Jerry Left! I dialed the zippo to what was surely an appropriate setting, primed the wick, and set about purging my kitchen of this nightmare. Have you ever burned a roach, Mike?”
Mike made a gagging sound, which drew a chuckle from Jerry. “Popcorn, my friend. Their shells erupt in the most satisfying way you can imagine. Of course, the refrigerator defrosted in an explosive manner, but at least the melted ice put out the lingering flames from the cabinets. All according to plan.”
“Excuse me,” I tried to interject. Jerry waved his hand at me dismissively.
“A moment, boy. Never interrupt a good story.”
“This doesn’t feel like a good YAURGH!” I screamed.
Screamed, you understand, because I finally saw what was wrong with their hands. Jerry gestured at me, not with fingers or palms or knuckles, but with something that could have been mistaken for a mop made of octopi, purple-black tentacles squirming over shining beaks, suckers puckering open and closed. So I screamed. Reasonable.
Jerry turned pale white in the blink of an eye, and the sudden contrast revealed the rest of his form. Which was boring in a comfortable way. He put a perfectly normal human hand to his chest, breathed in sharply, and blinked at me in shock. His other hand, the left hand, squirmed into a tight ball, like spaghetti around a fork.
“Son of a bitch!” Jerry finally squeaked out. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I echoed, pulling myself upright and drawing the sheets around my shoulders. “With your hand?”
“Glumphrgurgle,” Mike said as he stood up. Several bloody towels were hanging from his mouth, and his throat was distended with the rest of the pile. He stared at me in confusion. “Phlrbub?”
There was more screaming, more confused hand and tentacle waving on the parts of Jerry and Mike (Mike’s right hand was a match to Jerry’s left, otherwise the two appeared to be twins), and finally an unfortunate retreat from the bed that ended with me getting tangled in the sheets. I fell onto the stone floor in a heap.
“Will you stop that!” Jerry shouted at me. He and Mike were both on top of the bed, clutching each other and mincing their feet. “They startle very easily!”
“They?” I asked. “They who?”
“Left and Right,” Jerry answered. He held out his grotesque hand. It was nearly normal size, the tentacles wound tightly together, and two large eyes with figure-eight pupils, staring out at me. “I’ve been through one evacuation; I don’t want to do that again!”
“Hansuh flitch,” Mike mumbled around the towel in his mouth. He distended his jaw, worked his throat, and drew the rest of the towel into his belly. His skull reassembled itself, and he wiped his blood-flecked lips. “I mean, a real serious bitch.”
“What is happening to my life?” I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing colors and shapes into the darkness, until I remembered I was naked and alone with two men who ate laundry and had tentacles for hands. When I opened my eyes, they were still staring at me tentatively.
“Are you done screaming?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with it, no. But I don’t think there are screams enough in the world to cover this situation, so...” I stood up, wrapping the sheets around my waist. “What the hell is going on now? Are you the boss?”
“Oh, gods no,” Mike said with a disturbing smile. “Gods, the boss. Ha! I mean, really big ha!” His laughter sounded like something he practiced in the mirror, right along with that smile. “No, we’re just the janitors. The tame ones. Not the other ones.”
“There are feral janitors?”
“Where do you think the smells come from?” Jerry asked, matter of fact.
“What? Never mind. Never-freaking-mind. What do you want?”
Jerry pointed to Mike’s belly. “The towels, of course. And that sheet, frankly. You’ve made quite a mess out of it.”
“Well, the sheet is all I have to wear right now, so—” Jerry interrupted me with a sinuous handwave, then produced a pair of coveralls much like their own, only black. He set them on the bed. “Now, the sheet, if you please.”
“Some privacy?” I asked. “Turn around, or something?”
“We have a lot of eyes,” Mike answered. “There wouldn’t be much point in it. Though if it makes you feel better—”
“Nope, no, never mind. I don’t want to know about your eyes. Just wait outside. I’ll throw the sheet out when I’m done.”
“We’re supposed to take the sheet with us,” Mike said. He rubbed his belly, looking nervously at Jerry. “He could run away with it.”
“I’m not going to steal your...my life! What is— Never! Mind!” I picked up the coveralls and started unfolding them. There was a patch on the chest, an elongated hexagon that resembled a templar’s helm, but with an ankh instead of a cross. As I pulled them on, I noticed Jerry and Mike wore a similar patch on their shoulders. With some clever balancing I was able to get the coveralls on without completely abandoning my decency. I threw the sheet at Mike. “Happy?”
“We were supposed to wash him—” Mike said nervously.
“Nope! No! Get out! Go and keep going until you’re far away, both of you, go!”
I hustled the janitors out the door, then sat down on my bed and wondered about...well, a lot of things. When Tembo came through the door a few minutes later, I was perched on the edge of my bed, about to burst.
“I know I’ve asked this before, and I know I’m starting to repeat myself. But you have to understand my position. This is weird. All of this. And maybe it’s not so strange to you, considering your whole light tattoo, interesting name, silver staff deal. But I’m starting to freak out. So can you please, seriously, please, tell me what the hell is going on?”
Unfortunately, I said all of this in one breath, too fast for the words to properly form. Tembo raised his eyes at me.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“That’s really all I’ve got. It’s a lot of little things, or big things, but it would take too long to list them all. You know all this isn’t normal, right? So answer my question. What is going on?”
“A good question, but one without a single answer. Usually by this point in the initiation—”
“Initiation? Like a cult? You’re a cult, then?”
“Listen, you’re going to get yourself worked up. Just come with me.”
“No, I have not gotten myself worked up. If anything, I have gotten myself worked down, which is kind of a big deal considering what I’ve been through. Two guys with squids for hands have gotten me worked up. They wanted to wash me, Tem. They didn’t have buckets, Tem, or water. Or normal hands, Tem!”
“The janitors can be disconcerting. An unfortunate offshoot of some early twentieth-century writing that got out of hand. Most of them are friendly, but a few...” he shrugged. “Anyway. I thought you would still be asleep when they arrived.”
“How is that better? Why do you think it would be better for me to wake up to that?”
“They exude certain chemicals that, upon contact with the skin, send the victim—”
“HOW IS THAT BETTER, TEM?”
“Enough shouting. The boss is waiting for you. Are you comfortable in your new clothes?”
“Sure, why not. What’s the deal with this?” I asked, flicking the patch on my chest. “Feels like
military. This a government agency?”
“The boss got into a weird space in the 80s. Started talking about brand awareness and market placement. Wanted logos. That’s the only part that stuck.”
“Logos. Like a sports team?” I asked.
“I prefer your military analogy, John. So will the boss.”
“And who is the boss?”
“You’ll see. Come on, she’s waiting.” He turned toward the door.
“Does our little sports team have a mascot? A theme song? Maybe a name?”
“Knight Watch,” Tembo said impatiently. “And don’t ask about the song,” he muttered. “I hate the damned song.”
I’m not sure what I expected from the secret headquarters of a magical organization that called itself the Knight Watch. Maybe something between the lair of a Bond villain and dinner at Medieval Times, with a dash of Hogwarts thrown in. What I got was mildew, crumbling drywall, and flickering fluorescent lighting. Tembo looked terribly out of place in his deep blue robes and impeccable manner. I could see how the janitors felt at home, though. I stepped through the door and immediately felt safer. How could things like dragons exist in a world with this much fluorescent light? Surely it had all been a trick of the mind. Surely, I was just in a theme park on the outskirts of town. Surely.
“I have to tell you, Tem, I was hoping for a little more magic. You could at least—”
“You!” The word froze me mid-sentence. I turned slowly toward the source and tried to smile. Chesa was standing in a doorway across the hall. Her elf costume was rumpled, the edges charred, her fey-ears hanging despondently from her lobes. “What. The hell. Have you done?”
“Oh, hey, Ches.” I took a step back and bumped into Tembo, who was a lot more immovable than his gentle manner would suggest. “Glad to see you’re okay!”
“Okay? John, I am anything but okay. Do you see this!” She grabbed the edge of her armored skirt and held it up. The plasticard scale mail was charred. “This is four hundred dollars down the drain. And these ears!” She plucked one of the prosthetics out of her hair and waggled it at me. “Custom made. I had to send a plaster of my skull to freaking China for these things. Someone in China has my head, John! And now they’re ruined.” She tossed it to her feet. Half a second later, Jerry the squid-handed janitor crept out of the doorway Chesa was standing in and reached for the discarded ear. Chesa stomped on his slithering fingers. She shot him an angry look. “And these guys! Don’t get me started on these guys!”
“I think it’s safe to say that everyone finds the janitors equally disturbing,” I said. “Look, there’s a lot going on. I’m sorry about your elf-stuff, but—”
“Are you in charge?” Chesa snapped. She was staring at Tembo. The big mage shrank back a little bit.
“Thank the gods, no. We were just going to see the boss, actually, if you want to join—”
“Damn straight we are,” Chesa said. She started down the hallway, leaving us behind. Tembo shot me a look.
“Your friend is doing very well, considering the circumstances,” he said.
“I take it you didn’t have to convince her about the nature of miracles?”
“We did not get that far in our conversation,” he said. “Who knows, she may survive this encounter with her mind fully intact.”
“Fully intact? Am I not fully intact?” I asked.
“A question for later,” he said briskly. “For now, Miss Chesa is getting away, and about to make a very wrong turn.” Tembo hurried forward, calling after Chesa. “Excuse me, miss? You will want to go left at the intersection. Do not concern yourself with the sounds—” A roar of agony tore through the hallway from the door Chesa was about to open. She hesitated, looking unsure for the first time since I had seen her that morning. Tembo caught up with her and clapped his approval. “Very good. We will go this way. If you please?”
Chesa arched her eyebrow, first at Tembo, then at me, then the mysterious door. But she turned and marched in the direction indicated. By the time I reached them, the room with the roaring was well behind us.
“So what the hell’s back there?” I asked Tembo. He lowered his voice and spoke without turning to me.
“We are trying to explain Clarence’s injuries to his archenemy. It is not going well.”
I glanced back just in time to see St. Matthew dance out of the room and slam the door behind him. A flare of light outlined the doorframe, and smoke poured into the hallway. When he saw me, Matthew waved and smiled, as though there was nothing unusual about a screaming, burning room.
“Weirder by the step,” I said. Then I hurried after Tem and Chesa.
Chapter SIX
BOSS FIGHT
Tembo led us through winding hallways, illuminated by the buzzing, flickering fluorescents, sweeping past dozens of closed doorways. Most were just dented steel, but a few were barricaded shut, and at least one was actively on fire. No one seemed to mind. A squad of soldier-looking types, both men and women, squeezed past us, their olive-drab coveralls bolstered with ballistic armor and complicated tactical vests, though all their holsters were empty. Their eyes followed us curiously. I returned the favor, while Chesa stuck her chin out and ignored them completely. After they turned a corner, I caught up with Tembo and pulled at his robes.
“So you’re not a government agency, you claim you’re not a cult...but you’ve got squads of heavily armed SEAL team cosplayers wandering the hallways. Tell me, the leader of this little organization, does she have a heavily highlighted copy of the Bill of Rights hanging on her wall?” I asked.
Chesa snorted, but quickly wiped any trace of amusement from her face. Tembo shrugged.
“You are quick to pass judgment on people you have never met, Mr. Rast,” he said. “I am sure that has served you well in your relations with your many friends.”
“Point taken,” I said. “And I’ll also take that as a yes on the constitutional fetishism.”
“He has a point, though,” Chesa said. “What’s with all the soldja boys?”
“That was the containment team at the soccer field. Most have never seen a dead dragon before. All they know is that you did that, apparently by mistake. You already have a reputation, Mr. Rast.”
“You had a team of guys with guns, and you left it to me and my car?” I asked.
“The Mundane Actual teams have limited influence in these matters. They did what they could, but it isn’t much. Believe me, they feel the same frustration as you. It takes time to adjust to the new unreality. People like that, they are not accustomed to feeling helpless.”
“A common problem here, I imagine.”
“Common, and terribly unnecessary. This is one of the few places we have true control. People like me, that is. And people like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. Tembo only smiled.
“Keep talking like that and John’s going to start thinking he’s a hero. Doesn’t take much to drive into a propane tank and blow a soccer field half to hell,” Chesa grumbled.
“Yes, I forgot. Miss Chesa has not yet been converted to the unreal world,” Tembo said. “So how would you explain these things? The dragon that we all know you saw, and the janitor?”
“Not to mention the burning door back there,” I said. “That didn’t seem to bother you.”
“I’m not a rube,” she answered. “I cosplay at the highest level. A couple tanks of propane, three men in a rubber suit, and a little laser-enhanced CGI may fool most people, but not—”
“You should have saved Matthew’s little miracle for her,” I said.
“Frankly, you were much closer to a total breakdown,” Tembo said. “Chesa is handling this better than most. I will leave it to the boss to convince her. Now, be polite.” He turned on his heel and gestured to a door. It looked newer than the rest, and the lock on the door was a combination keypad and swipe card. Tembo knocked, then stepped back. The door opened.
“You aren’t coming with us?” I asked.
This was the first time I had actually been alone with Chesa since the dragon attack. She was standing there, arms folded, staring daggers at Tembo’s retreating back. I cleared my throat.
“I see you’re still the best at awkward silences and even more awkward friends,” Chesa said. She turned on me. “Really, John, you should try practicing on normal humans one of these days. There’s just no substitute.”
Before I could answer, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Unsure if the door would lock behind her, I had to scramble before it swung shut in my face. Flustered, it took me a long second to get my bearings of my new surroundings.
Unlike the hallway, this room was clean and white, with sound tiles on the walls and a microphone hanging from the ceiling. A window in the opposite wall looked into an empty control room. The microphone was suspended above a vinyl-topped card table and two folding chairs. The door shut behind me, and immediately it got eerily quiet in the room.
“Cool, soundproofing,” Chesa said quietly. “They could murder us in here and no one would have any idea.”
A door next to the control room window unsealed with a pop and then opened, allowing a middle-aged woman in tactical gear to enter. Two guards, like the ones from the hallway except actually armed and more hostile than curious, flanked the doorway. The woman was carrying an open folder in one hand and a rotary style grenade launcher in the other. She had long, steel gray hair nearly contained in a bun on the back of her head and walked with the sort of authority I usually only saw in movies about the end of the world. She read from the folder as she walked, mouthing words and frowning. She pulled one of the folding chairs out with her toe, sat down, and motioned to the opposite chair without looking up. There was only one chair. Chesa and I looked at each other. Eventually, the women looked up.
