BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  "That's Bermuda," said Brian. "He won't let me touch anything. We're down this way."

  Brian stopped at double doors, but the hallway continued on, like all the others. Everard stood on his toes to see farther. Tile floor and cinderblock walls, stretching into a oblivion. He couldn't tell at what point it became dangerous.

  Brian pushed open the doors, the click of the handle echoing inside.

  They entered a gymnasium, three basketball courts side by side. The polished and painted floor reflected the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.

  There was also a crater in the middle of the right court: a layer of shattered wood, a layer of busted concrete, and then a pit of dirt. Several burnt patches decorated the courts, and a spot on the cinderblock wall where the cement had melted and dripped down before resolidifying.

  "Is this where they played in Space Jam?" asked Everard.

  "I don't know," said Brian. "That movie came out before I was born."

  Everard suddenly felt old. "But, I mean—Space Jam." He wasn't sure what to make of Brian. He looked like any other skinny-jeaned hipster with overly styled hair and a band t-shirt (Everard didn't know who Rubblebucket was, but they had to be weird). Brian's demeanor was slightly different, though. The irony of the hipster personality was there, sort of, but underneath Brian seemed to honestly be this happy. Or maybe Everard just couldn't comprehend this level of irony. You never knew with hipsters.

  "Took you long enough." A woman somewhere between Brian and Everard's age stood up from where she'd been leaning against the wall, fooling around with a portable speaker. She looked about as different from Brian as you could get. A pastel sundress, hair done up nicely. "You must be Everard. I'm Renae."

  She shook his hand, firm and confident.

  "You two are siblings?" asked Everard.

  "Yeah," said Brian. "Hard to tell, though, since I got the good looks. And the brains."

  Renae didn't even roll her eyes. "Are you going to get to it, or what? I'm teaching a class later."

  "So you're both training me?" asked Everard.

  "He's training. I'm putting out any fires." She motioned to a dog curled up, asleep in the corner.

  Everard didn't ask.

  "Uh, yeah, that's another thing," said Brian. "I'm better at talking about my bent than I am at actually using it."

  "Another reason why you get to train me."

  "Yep."

  "All right," said Brian. "Let's try this out."

  Renae handed him the speaker. He turned it on then thumbed through his phone. "What kind of music are you into?"

  "I, uh, just whatever, I guess," said Everard.

  "Cool, I'll pick something out."

  The song started with little bursts of a synth melody, then broke down into a bouncy, cowbell infused B-52s imitation.

  "These guys are called Architecture in Helsinki," said Brian. He bobbed his head to the beat.

  "Can't you put on something that's not annoying?" asked Renae.

  "Sorry," said Brian. "I lost my One Direction album."

  "That's what you get for listening to it so much." Renae went back to her phone.

  "So," said Everard, "what are we doing, exactly?"

  "You gotta turn off the music. With your bent."

  "How do I do that?"

  "Just think about it, and then be like, no."

  "I thought you said you were good at talking about this."

  "Yeah, about my own bent. But dude, I don't know yours. You gotta figure it out on your own."

  "What's your bent? You said you convert energy or something?"

  "Check it out." Brian's swaying turned to a full blown dance. Not anything choreographed, but like he was getting into a concert.

  Bits of light manifested in the air around him, oranges, sky blues, pinks, appearing in time with the beat of the song, then swimming toward him in patterns that matched the melody.

  As each bit of light touched him, Brian glowed brighter.

  The volume of the music wavered as he borrowed its energy, but grew steady again as he held it inside himself.

  The light condensed around Brian's fingertips. His arms went loose, his dancing simulated a wave to pull the pastel glow from his fingers up his shoulder, rolling with his body down his other arm, then up into the air, where the balled-up light exploded into a firework, thousands of tiny points of light forming a smiley face. The face reared back and shook with silent laughter before dissipating.

  "Whoa," said Everard. He felt a genuine smile. Finally, crazy Periphery shit that wasn't trying to kill him.

  "Yeah, he's got a real career in pyrotechnics," said Renae.

  Brian ignored his sister's jab. "Dude, that's my favorite one. I've been working on something kinda delicate, though. Watch this." Brian moved to the music again, the notes converting to light then converging on his body. This time, he reached upward and four long, thin bars of light extended outward, then spun like helicopter rotors. Brian lifted off the ground. He tilted at too sharp of an angle, and the blades pulled him to the side. He let go. The spinning lights shot toward the corner of the ceiling, crashed into the steel beams and cinderblock with a noise that contained the synth and cowbells of the song.

  Brian had landed on his butt. He stood up, brushing of his pants and laughing. "Crazy, right?"

  "Yeah," said Everard. "Want to trade?"

  "No way, man. Gotta be happy with what you got. Anyways, I'd be too afraid of messing things up if I had a rebellist's bent."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm just messing with music. Sound waves and light and all that. Reality benters like you or Loretta mess with the fabric of the universe and shit. It's tricky stuff."

  "What's Loretta?"

  "Programmer."

  "What's that?"

  "Dude, one thing at a time. You gotta figure out how to stop the music."

  "But you haven't told me how."

  "I can't! Even if I could, you probably couldn't, because then I'd be in charge of you."

  "Rebellists can't ask for advice?"

  "I don't know. I think the rules change as you get going, since you can ask for advice without seeing the other person as in charge. But right now you don't know anything. Anyone who tells you what to do is gonna be like a teacher."

  "So how did the others learn?"

  "Beats me. I learned from my sister, and from a whole ton of dancers. There's around thirty of us, just in D.C. But you're the first rebellist for fifteen years. There's only like three of you anywhere. We don't know as much about how your bent works."

  "Fantastic," said Everard.

  "But Bill Bill and Mr. President figured it out, and they're not any smarter than average. So come on, try to stop the music."

  Everard focused on the speaker, imagining the soundwaves pulsing out of it. He felt that thick, mental pressure again, squeezing against his will and forcing it still. No.

  The music kept on.

  "It didn't work," he said.

  "Nope," said Brian. "Try something else."

  Everard tried thinking of the music itself, the speakers, the batteries inside, but didn't even make the music stutter. This new sense distracted him. It was like feeling cold, only through some part of him he hadn't known existed until yesterday. And only if "cold" also enveloped you like a wet blanket. Whatever it was, he felt it every time he tried to use his bent.

  He wandered the gymnasium, trying to stop the music. He thought about what he'd done earlier. The Perforated Woman had dropped her weapon, Undone Duncan's machine had stuttered, and Bowman's lighter had gone out.

  Each time he'd been scared for his life. But fear hadn't been enough to stop Undone Duncan's machine.

  The song changed to a new band, a drifting tune with a catchy baseline, about diving for emeralds. Brian danced around, playing with lights in the air like someone might fiddle with a pen.

  After he'd put out Bowman's lighter, Loretta had grilled him about exactly what he'd had in his mind
. It was the idea that mattered.

  Everard closed his eyes, listened to the music. He focused on the sounds, then shifted to just the thought of them. Not this music, but the concept of this music. Then, with all the will he could muster, he denied it. A solid needle of will darted through the cold, mental mist.

  The song wavered, then continued strong.

  "Hey!" said Brian. "Looks like you're doing it."

  But what had he done? When he tried to think about the difference between the thing and the idea of the thing, it didn't make sense. He didn't want to stop the idea of the music, he wanted to stop the actual music.

  "Whoops, that's a problem," said Brian. He stood over the speakers. "Renae?"

  Renae sighed and put away her phone. She whistled, and the sleeping dog in the corner hopped up and trotted over.

  Everard came over to the speaker. The basketball court was made of three-inch boards of polished maple, creating a pattern of parallel lines. Around the speaker, those lines were now swirled in irregular circles.

  "What happened?" asked Everard.

  "Fallout from your bent," said Renae. "Reality tweakers tweak reality. You don't control it perfectly, there's side effects."

  The dog approached the speaker.

  Everard jumped back. "What is that?"

  It had the legs and body of a black lab, but its head was that of a furry sucker fish. Its jaw turned down at the end, its mouth a flat, round hole.

  "Cleaner," said Renae. "This one's name is Rowdy."

  Rowdy excitedly found the whirled spot on the floor, nosed the speaker aside, and pressed his mouth against the wood. He slurped, loud and wet.

  "Explorers found them in the nooks beyond the Periphery centuries ago. They grabbed a few, domesticated and bred them," said Renae. "Make sure Rowdy's around when you're practicing your bent."

  "Nobody said anything about side effects," said Everard. "What if Brian had been standing closer?"

  "Then that would have hurt," said Brian. "But I wasn't. Keep going."

  "Could Rowdy have fixed you?"

  Brian looked at Renae.

  "Probably not," she said. "There's other ways to repair fallout, though. The science freaks at Roundrock have a machine that does it. Of course, you screw up too much, space and time get all twisted, and it takes years to repair. That's why we're starting out small."

  Rowdy moved away, sniffing the floor for more fallout, leaving behind perfectly parallel lines.

  "Wonderful," muttered Everard. "And I'm supposed to deny Bill Bill's limp?"

  "Yeah, kinda weird that's what he chose," said Brian. "Must have a lot of faith in you."

  Renae snapped her fingers for Rowdy to join her back by the wall. "Or he thinks you'll wait until you know you won't hurt him. Maybe he's trying to make you stick around longer."

  "He chose the test. That's on him," said Everard.

  Brian turned the music up, continued his own practice. Everard kept trying to focus on the idea of the speaker, the soundwaves, the battery, each with similar results. A tiny spear of his stubbornness pushed through the mist. The music hiccuped, but didn't stop.

  "I'm only kind of doing it," said Everard.

  Brian let his light show disappear. "I don't think it works like that. You either do it or not. Like Yoda." He laughed at his reference. "Only instead of getting rid of emotion, you have to get rid of any thoughts that someone is in charge of you."

  "I don't get it."

  "I mean I think you've got the technique down. Supposedly, it's not that hard, once you know what you're doing. Like riding a bike, except you don't scrape up your knees, and there's no neighborhood bullies to steal it."

  "You lost me."

  "Those jerks stole my bike. I was only seven."

  "We're talking about my superpowers."

  "Yeah right," said Brian. "Don't stay up waiting for the Avengers to call. Best case scenario you're on like the B-team for the Teen Titans."

  "I'm twenty-nine."

  "You know what I mean. What was the question?" Brian stared intently at nothing, like he was figuring out a tricky math problem. "Your bent. I got sidetracked. Rebellists don't really have to learn to use their bent, or deny things, as they like to say. They just kinda realize they can do it. The tricky part is that the strength of what you can do is determined by how much authority people have over you."

  "A second ago you said it was how much I think people have authority over me."

  "Yeah."

  "So which is it?"

  "I don't know. Both? Maybe there's not really a difference."

  "Shouldn't you know these things if you're supposed to be training me?"

  "Nope. The less I know, the less I'm the bossman."

  "Or the less I'll think you're the bossman."

  "There you go," said Renae, not looking up from her phone. "Someone's catching on."

  "I don't know who has authority over me," said Everard. Bill Bill was right, his life seemed like it was set up to do this. No boss. No close family. The government thought he was dead. His business paid taxes and still owed the bank for his townhouse, but it was incorporated—completely separate from Everard. He could walk away from it any time he wanted.

  "I think it's like, anyone who could tell you what to do. Or, not like give you an order, but if they asked you to do something you didn't want to, you'd probably do it just because they asked."

  "I can't do favors for people?"

  Renae put her phone in her pocket. "That's not what he said. If you'll do what someone says just because they say it, then they're in charge, right? You can still do things for people just to be nice."

  "But if I felt like I had to do it, that'd be a problem," finished Everard. Last week he'd gone to a Thai place with Abby. He didn't even like Thai, and Abby knew that, but he loved the little half smile she got when she knew he was doing something just for her. He still needed to call her.

  "Hey, shut up," said Brian. "You can't just tell him these things."

  "You already knew that?" asked Everard.

  "No, but she can't just tell you."

  "This doesn't make sense," said Everard.

  "That's because we're guessing," said Renae. "We don't know for sure. Actually, some people think different rebellists have different specific requirements."

  Everard exhaled. How long was this going to take?

  "Let me try again," said Everard.

  "Is there a song you hate?" asked Renae. "Maybe that'll help."

  "I've never had strong opinions on music."

  "He understands that all music's good in its own way," said Brian.

  "Turn on that crap on your shirt," said Renae.

  "Rubblebucket's not crap," said Brian. "Listen."

  He thumbed through his phone. The song started with trumpets and then exploded into base-heavy dance pop.

  "That's kinda catchy," said Everard.

  "You're as bad as him," said Renae.

  Everard tried denying it anyways. He held the idea of the music in his head, but kept getting distracting by thinking about Abby. Did letting her plan their Saturdays give her authority over him? What if he finally said the word "relationship" out loud? The discomforting thought came to him that maybe he couldn't deny Bill Bill's limp with Abby in his life.

  The floor rumbled. Dust fell from the ceiling.

  "Another boom?" asked Everard. "That was really fast."

  "No," said Reneae, looking up from her phone. "That was something else."

  Brian turned off the music. "The whole world wants to get their hands on you, but I didn't think anyone would be dumb enough to attack the Hall of Burgesses."

  "Attack?" asked Everard.

  The building shook again.

  Renae put her phone in her pocket. "And here I thought this'd be a babysitting job."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Another rumble, this time Everard could point to the direction it came from.

  "That's not the booms," said Brian. "What is it?"<
br />
  "Explosions," said Renae.

  "What would the Burgesses be blowing up?" asked Everard.

  "It's not them," said Renae. "Someone's coming in."

  "Who?" demanded Everard, wishing he hadn't lost the Ruger. "Inc?"

  "They'd never attack directly," said Renae. "Come on, let's get to somewhere safer."

  She pointed at the corner. "Rowdy, stay."

  The sucker fish dog whined and sat on the floor. Renae led them into the hallway. Another explosion, louder this time.

  "Why would anyone attack directly?" asked Brian, running behind Everard. "The bluecoats will wipe them off the map."

  "The prize must be worth the risk." She looked at Everard. "A new rebellist, can't defend himself yet? How could they pass that up?"

  "This is getting old really fast," said Everard. "If it's not Inc, who is it?"

  "Undone Duncan," said Renae.

  A swarm of holes played across Everard's mind. "He'd come himself?"

  "There's plenty of gangs that unofficially report to him," said Renae. "It'll be one of them."

  An explosion went off, the sound of it echoing down the stairwell ahead. "Looks like we won't be hiding," said Renae.

  "Shit," said Brian. "Who do you think he sent?"

  "I don't know. Either someone expendable or someone who'd get the job done." She stopped in front of the colonial pawnshop. "Everard, you get in there. See if you can find something to protect yourself with. Brian, turn on something we both like."

  "Let's see." Brian's hands shook as he searched through his phone.

  Everard stayed in the hallway. "I'm not running away."

  "Congratulations. But unless you figured out your bent during our fun little jog over here, you should still go in there and pick out something shiny to hit the bad guys with."

  "Oh," said Everard. "I can get behind that." He ducked through the doorway.

  The room smelled of copper, leather, and dust. Steel shelving held piles of old tools, weapons, cookware.

  Bermuda jumped out from behind a counter, pointing a short musket at Everard. His colonial garb looked ridiculous over his gut.

  "Whoa, I'm not here to hurt you," said Everard.