BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  "You're going to help me."

  "You can't afford my rates." Everard sidestepped along the leather, searching for an exit.

  "I'm not paying you. Or even offering you a choice."

  A hand cupped Everard's face. In the moment before he jerked away, he felt Undone Duncan's flesh slide on the palm and around the fingers, like an oversized rubber glove.

  "I'll even let you select your new skin."

  Everard inhaled sharply, pushing back against the wall, desperate to get away from Undone Duncan's freakish skin. He caught himself, recognized his fear. It pissed him off.

  "You'll be the envy-"

  Everard punched Undone Duncan's mouth. One of his knuckles popped.

  "-of my organization."

  "Dammit," Everard hissed in pain and shock.

  "While I expect belligerence from a rebellist, that's a terrible way to treat your host. I suppose it means you've overcome your fear, at least for the moment."

  Red light filled the room.

  Undone Duncan towered over Everard, at least seven feet tall. Patches of skin clung to exposed muscle, like a circus strong man had been skinned and then tried to glue pieces of that skin back on. He wore a wife-beater, black slacks, and loafers. His chest was as big around as horse's, and he had the massive limbs to match.

  "You came at an opportune time. This skin is on its way out."

  The patches weren't stuck on. Their edges sank into the muscle, as if the muscle was slowly absorbing its covering.

  Everard froze, the pain of his knuckle forgotten.

  "My physician will see you now." Undone Duncan left the crimson-lit room through a stitched leather curtain.

  The Perforated Woman entered.

  Chapter Nine

  The Perforated Woman sauntered toward Everard. He refused to look at the sliding swarm of perforations, ignoring the hypnotic lure even as he felt it push against his mind like a wave against sand.

  Red light emanated from fleshy protrusions on the ceiling, illuminating the room that was like the inside of a leather egg. Shelves lined one wall, housing bolts of fabric and an assortment of craft and hardware store rejects.

  At the far end of the room, a rusty contraption hissed to life. The machine stood twelve feet high and twenty-five feet long. A wooden frame rattled as the jumbled mass of pistons, gears, razor blades, and conveyor belts started chugging. A spool of thread and a bolt of cloth - the same as the carpet-faces - hung above the machine, waiting to be yanked down into it. It looked like an old automatic steam press you'd see in dry cleaners, only designed by a twisted mind.

  The Perforated Woman slid a finger down Everard's cheek, forcing him to look at her. The holes enveloped her finger then swam back up her arm and across her face.

  "You're wondering again, aren't you?" she asked. "What it would feel like to open yourself up to my gifts."

  The rumble and clanking of the machine in the corner sounded muffled. George meowed. He, too, sounded far away. Everard forced himself to look away, to stop following the movement across her cheek, through her hair, back around her neck.

  At the center of the room was a fifty-gallon drum with a tangle of wires and tubes looping in and out.

  "Undone Duncan said you could choose your new skin, but he's not as experienced in this as I am. The inductees we have to coerce can never make up their minds." She beckoned him with a single finger to the shelves.

  He followed, glancing at the curtained doorway, looking for his chance to escape, fearing if that chance came, his legs might not obey.

  "I expect you'll rise through the ranks fast enough that you'll soon report only to Undone Duncan - and to me, of course - so let's find something to set you apart." She touched a bolt of thick fabric, a spool of chain, a sheet of clear plastic.

  "Hey, what's he for?"

  The unfamiliar voice shocked him out of the trance. Everard stepped toward the doorway, but a glance from the Perforated Woman stopped him in his tracks.

  A young man sat in the machine, strapped into a chair with ripped and mended seatbelts. He wore a trenchcoat and fedora, had a beard that was thickest on his neck, and was severely overweight. The contours of the chair kept his head facing the wall, so he looked at them out of the corner of his eyes. "You said I'd be next. You said I'd be the next one to progress."

  Everard couldn't tell if the pain in his voice was emotional, or if it had something to do with why he couldn't move his head.

  "When you're ready, Joshua," said the Perforated Woman, guiding Everard toward the machine. "For now, this is how you can best serve Undone Duncan."

  "But-" Joshua started to protest, but she pulled a lever and he grunted and tensed like he was being shocked. The machine kicked into high gear.

  She stopped to smile at his pain. Everard made it halfway to the curtain before she held up a hand. He stopped. The pleasure on her face shifted to exertion. He was wearing her out. Maybe he could get out of this.

  Against his will, Everard dropped George to follow her to the end of the machine. He stared into it, seeing first a chaos of gears and pistons, but gradually making out a consistency of movement, not a path to travel along but a whirlpool to be sucked through. The vision came of being shoved in, conveyor belts dragging him forward, razor blades sliding along and then into his skin, needles flicking furiously to clothe his exposed muscle and sinew in whatever material the Perforated Woman decided on.

  He couldn't move, couldn't even turn his head. He needed the machine to break. Stop. Throw a gear. Snap a piston. He willed something to go wrong, envisioned a single cog slipping and all the metal and steam imploding on itself.

  He felt that unfamliiar misty weight around his mind again, holding back his will, like when the Perforated Woman had first attacked. He didn't know what the mental blockade was, or what the result of breaking through would be. He only knew he hated anything restricting him. He pushed against it, willed himself against it, his belligerance feeling like a new appendage.

  The pistons surged, and then for a moment, the machine stuttered.

  His efforts against the mental wall gave way. The machine continued strong.

  "An honest effort," said the Perforated Woman, her breath tickling his ear. "Impressive, since you don't even know what you're doing yet, do you?" The palms of her hands pressed against his back; he somehow knew that the swarm of perforations swirled around the fingers of her right hand, and any second they would leap onto his back to fling him forward.

  An explosion - a cacophony of black powder, snare drums, and fife notes - ripped Everard from his hypnosis. The far wall had burst inward. From the patch of ripped leather, silhouetted against the darkness outside, two figures entered, male and female. The man aimed a short musket and advanced, crouched, sweeping the room. He wore a tactical vest that was some homemade amalgamation of a fishing vest and a bandolier, thrown over street clothes.

  The woman let her companion check the room as she spotted the Perforated Woman and headed straight for her. She wore a similar vest to her companion, although with a blouse and slacks like she'd come from a business dinner. In her right hand she carried a flint tomahawk; in her left a black handgun. As she advanced, she raised the gun and fired steadily at the Perforated Woman.

  Everard dove to the ground.

  He didn't know what happened to the bullets, but they didn't hit their mark. The Perforated Woman charged her challenger.

  "Goddamn Minutemen!" screamed Joshua, practically frothing in rage. "It's my turn! I'm tired of waiting!"

  These were the Minutemen the people in the meeting had mentioned - the ones who didn't listen to the Burgesses. He'd wanted to meet them, but maybe not in these circumstances.

  Everard crawled along the floor, aiming for the newly created exit, trying to get the image out of his mind of a whirlpool of razorblades and needles. George hissed from his carrier, only a few feet out of his way. He couldn't abandon Bill Bill's cat. Well, he could, considering it was the old man who'd got h
im into this mess, but it still didn't seem right.

  The Perforated Woman threw a shimmering stone at the Minuteman. She deflected it with the tomahawk, then responded by throwing the small ax, which became a spinning line of several axes that the Perforated Woman ducked to avoid.

  The male intruder had determined the room clear and was now aiming his short musket at the hole they'd created. He drew near to Everard. "My name's Stirling. You okay, buddy?"

  "Sure, except for being kidnapped by Muppets and almost thrown into a machine by a woman with living holes in her skin."

  "Good." Stirling fired through the hole. The musket bucked, knocking him back a step.

  Everard rubbed at his ear. "What the hell, man?" he barely heard himself say.

  The Perforated Woman deflected another tomahawk throw. "Joshua," she screeched, "the spell!"

  Yanking himself out of his straps, Joshua staggered toward the barrel. The Minuteman with the musket shouted "stand down!" but the teen slammed his palm through the net of wires, against the metal drum.

  The resulting boom shook Everard's bones, deafened him beyond even the musket shot.

  The world froze for a second, and then an overpowering force, infinitely greater than the Perforated Woman's hypnotism, steamrolled into his mind the desire to leave, to head away from the barrel as far and as fast as possible.

  But Everard was tired of being pushed around.

  He fought it, planting his feet, preparing to join the fight against the Perforated Woman, until a ripping pain exploded inside his chest, tore through his limbs. It disappeared as fast as it'd come. His face was pressed against the floor, and it surprised him to be in one piece.

  Everard crawled to his knees. Both Minutemen stood confused at the opening to the outside. They hadn't resisted the expelling force of whatever Joshua had triggered. The red light from the fleshy protusions on the ceiling spilled outside to reveal towers of junk.

  The Perforated Woman advanced on them.

  Joshua pumped his fist in the air, triumphant. The machine he'd left still chugged, although more slowly now. Everard felt the vibrations through the floor, his hearing still cloudy. With the Perforated Woman distracted, Joshua ran to the opening of the machine and threw himself inside.

  His screams sounded like haunted moans to Everard's recovering ears.

  The Perforated Woman rolled her eyes as the machine dragged him through flashing razorblades and darting needles. Blood spattered over the rattling wood and iron frame, and Everard realized what he'd thought was rust was actually dried blood. Everard's hearing steadily returned as the machine slowed, then stopped, leaving Joshua half skinned, half resown with thread and fabric, howling in agony.

  Everard crawled backwards, unable to look away.

  Her lackey's pain only an annoyance, the Perforated Woman leapt at the Minutemen. They dove out of the way.

  A string of gunshots echoed across the room as the female intruder fired at the Perforated Woman. The bullets didn't hit their mark, but their target did strain like she was pushing against something heavy.

  The man pulled a black sphere from his vest and tossed it at the wired drum. Another explosion, this time heavier on the colonial marching music, collapsed the device in on itself.

  Through his ringing ears, Everard heard fife and drum. This was actual marching music.

  "Cavalry's here," grinned Stirling. His voice still sounded like Everard was wearing earplugs.

  "No," growled the female Minuteman. "Not yet."

  The Perforated Woman's lips moved rhythmically, and then the space around her twisted and she was gone.

  Everard's rescuer cursed, examining the abandoned space. She seemed displaced, like her image was being refracted by water.

  "Hey, step away from there," said Stirling, going to her side. She shook with frustration.

  Continental Regulars burst inside like a swat team, wielding five foot muskets instead of automatic rifles. Or maybe they were magically automatic. Everard didn't know.

  The two who'd actually rescued him put up their hands, so Everard followed suit.

  "Hands up!" the lead Regular shouted.

  Everard recognized him. Private Nick Logan. He looked closer at the uniformed men and women who swept the room, and found Nick's father.

  Joshua cursed the Regulars, then moaned in pain. General Tim Logan gestured toward him and two Regulars set aside their muskets to start dismantling the machine.

  Tim said something muffled to Everard.

  "What?" Everard rubbed at his ear. "I'm not actually sure how loud I'm talking."

  "Pretty loudly," Tim said. Or shouted. "You should have listened to me about the Perforated Woman."

  Even shouting, Tim had a caring, grandfatherly look about him.

  "Trust me," said Everard. "I wanted to run."

  His initial rescuers interrupted.

  "You scared her off!" yelled the woman. "Do you realize how complex a feint I was performing so she'd stick around long enough to capture?" A desperation decorated the rage in her voice. Everard wondered if there was something personal there.

  The Continental Regulars around the room stared unabashedly, watching how their commander would react.

  "We answered your request for backup, Meredith," Tim's expression turned blank. "We appreciate the Minutemen informing us when they sense someone in danger; but perhaps you'd rather we didn't turn away the twenty reskinned who were headed your way."

  So that's how they knew where he was; some patriotic Spidey-sense.

  "It's Captain McIntosh in these types of settings." She adjusted her vest, then added, "Tim."

  "You Minutemen did your job well," said Tim, the grandfather coming out again, "and we thank you for that. All our charms and trinkets will never detect danger like you can. But you need to let us do our job, too."

  The grandfather had come out a little too much. "Don't patronize me. We just shut down Undone Duncan's lab."

  "He'll build another." Nick Logan tossed a row of mechanical arms with razorblades to the ground. Joshua tried and failed to tug himself free.

  "Is he dying?" asked Everard. The poor kid had no skin above his stomach. Everard's gut protested the sight, but he kept it together since everyone else acted like it was normal.

  "Nah. He's pretty angry, though," said Nick, then turned back to Meredith. "You couldn't capture her the first six times we took out their lab. Why would this time be any different?"

  Everard zoned out from the argument between the Continental Regulars and the Minutemen. He wandered over to the collapsed barrel and wire machine. Its pieces were crumpled metal now, condensed to an impossibly small pile of scrap by a bomb that sounded like colonial marching music. He'd almost had his skin replaced with fabric by a woman with a living swarm of holes in her body, so she could give it to a man whose muscles would devour it. Breathing deep, Everard leaned on the leather wall, wondered what sort of leather it was, and stepped away.

  A mixture of fear and fury roiled inside him, the first triggering the latter. A few hours ago, he'd finished the Fairfax job, headed home to relax in front of his TV, and maybe spend his time off discovering a new hobby. Clear his head a little. Wrap his mind around the fact that he wouldn't mind hearing Abby hum showtunes every day for the foreseeable future.

  Now he was tramping through a psychopath's Wonderland, trying to find these Burgess assholes so he could get them to leave him alone. Problem was, Undone Duncan had made it clear he wanted Everard regardless of the Burgesses' bounty. But Everard could jump off that bridge when he came to it.

  First, he wanted to talk to the asshole who'd sent him down here in the first place. "Hey."

  The Minutemen and Regulars paused their argument.

  "You know a guy calls himself 'Bill Bill?' Old, crazy, likes cats?"

  The Regulars looked to Tim, who answered for them. "Yes."

  "Where the fuck is he?"

  Chapter Ten

  Everard walked down a side street to a cul-
de-sac off the Mall nook market. Tim had pointed him to the Periphery's center of nightlife, saying he thought Bill Bill would be at a restaurant called the Black Sheep. Everard took off without a word. He was already rehearsing how he would tear into his elderly neighbor once he found him.

  The Minutemen, Meredith and Stirling, escorted him until they reached the amphitheater, claiming they were headed that way anyway. Everard figured they didn't want to feel their Spidey-sense call them back if someone else came after him.

  They'd given him directions to the Black Sheep, but hadn't mentioned how he'd know which building it was.

  Five buildings on the cul-de-sac hummed with patrons.

  Some shopkeepers were shutting down, locking their doors or folding up their stalls, while others were just setting up, organizing wares more suited to the night crowd.

  A pink-haired woman with gages in her lower lip and ears carefully laid little foil squares on a wheeled cart. They looked like condoms, and Everard almost postponed everything to figure out what crazy condom magic they might have down here, but he shelved his curiosity and continued on.

  George meowed and shuffled his weight around the carrier.

  "I wonder if you're getting hungry," said Everard. "How often do cats eat?" He thought it was more often than dogs, but he wasn't sure.

  He realized he was starving, and looked into George's carrier for the sandwich he'd stowed there hours earlier. The paper was ripped, and several bites of the meat and bread were gone. "So you're okay on food, then."

  George shot Everard an indignant glare, weakened by the dab of mayonnaise on his ear.

  Everard explored the marketplace, peering in open doors. Bar noise drifted out from a building made of sheet metal and rivets. Didn't seem Bill Bill's style.

  Through the windows of an imposing three-story, grey stone Victorian, Everard saw tuxedoed waiters. That place could maybe be called the Black Sheep, but Bill Bill wasn't exactly a connoisseur of the finer things in life.