BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  Bits of color snapped into being around Brian in time to the music, larger and in greater numbers than before, whether from the volume of the music or something inside Brian, Everard didn't know. Instead of drawing them inside himself, they formed haphazard arching over Brian, then started to spin. The cage of lights turned to a blur.

  The humid summer air turned sweltering.

  Without warning, the Narco Saints opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off Brian's shield as he danced inside it.

  "Oh hell," said Everard. He was in it now, no matter what happened. He reached out from the dumpster and fired, hitting one thug squarely in the chest. The impact knocked him to the ground, but he immediately crawled back to his feet and got back into his position in the shrinking half circle. "Oh hell."

  The song reached a crescendo, paused, and then dropped into a heavy, full rhythm. With the drop, any inhibition in Brian's dancing disappeared. The air around him lit up like fireworks. He drew the light inside himself, sent streamers of green sparks at each Narco Saint, into their guns. Half dropped their weapons as they glowed hot.

  Sweat dripped into Everard's eyes. He fired again, this time catching a thug in the knee. Bone cracked and the thug fell but instead of writhing in pain he sat straight and continued firing at Brian.

  "Goddammit!" shouted Everard. These freaks always had some bullshit trick to keep coming.

  A third corpse shot up from the bloody concrete. Clods of mud clung to its clothes and gray flesh. Dents in the decayed skin looked like the thing had been stoned to death.

  It beckoned with both hands. The flintlock was ripped from Everard's grip, and Brian's music stopped.

  The corpse held the speaker, pistol, and Everard's phone.

  Brian struck with most of the remaining light, decapitating the corpse. It collapsed.

  Santa Muerte strode through her Narco Saints.

  Brian stared impassively.

  "Shoot him," she said.

  Everard tried to deny it too late.

  The shot struck Brian in the cheek. His neck jerked backwards. The few light specks left dropped to the ground like shattered glass.

  Everard groaned, reached for his friend.

  "Get the rebellist," ordered Santa Muerte.

  The gang opened fire. Their rounds pinged through the steel dumpster. Everard covered his head, tried fruitlessly to deny their weapons, and thought how he should have brought Abby to meet Liz.

  With a moan, Brian sat up.

  Hope flooded back into Everard, and with it, the hollow memory of dumping Abby. Stupid to think about that now. He needed his bent to work. He needed Loretta to show back up.

  Brian's jawbone was already purple, and blood poured from his mouth, carrying fragments of tooth. At the center of the wound on his cheek, the bullet had splatted against his skin like a gel. He pulled his belt out of its loops.

  The hell are you doing? Everard couldn't yell.

  Brian looked at Everard with a mix of apology and apathy. He wrapped the belt around his wrists and ankles, then pulled it tight with his teeth. The bullet had stolen control of his body, forced him to tie himself up.

  The poor kid. He'd just wanted to do the Burgesses a favor.

  The Narco Saints advanced on the dumpster, only a few feet away from flanking him.

  Loretta wasn't going to save them.

  Everard couldn't remember what thoughts he'd had when he'd denied the Lynch Mobber's rifle, but the emotion was clear: belligerent rage, the same thing he felt now.

  He thought of the chambers and magazines of the guns. He didn't know the weapons well enough to visually picture the details, but he held firm to the idea.

  No.

  His will pushed through thick mist. The gunfire ceased.

  Everard peeked around the dumpster. The Narco Saints shook their guns or banged on the grips.

  He ran to Brian's side to undo the belt.

  "Look out!" hissed Brian, fighting for control of even his tongue.

  Everard turned to see a thug advancing on him with a baseball bat. He tried to deny his balance. The mental mist held tight around him.

  The thug swung the bat at Everard's head. He got his arm up to absorb part of the blow, but it still knocked him senseless.

  The world went blurry. Santa Muerte yelled orders in Spanish. Warm, sticky concrete pressed against his cheek while his head spun. Where was Loretta?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Five or thirty minutes later, his eyes beginning to focus again, Everard heard the tapping of leather soles.

  "You're more trouble than your worth."

  Bowman squatted next to him. Two blurry suits stood behind him.

  Everard knew he was in danger, but it was a loose idea, still coalescing. He sat up, the most difficult thing he'd done all day.

  "The CEO would like another word with you." Bowman grabbed Everard's shoulder to force him to his feet. Dizziness sent him crashing back down, Bowman unable to catch him.

  Everard grunted. His vocal chords still wouldn't function. He tried to spit at Bowman. It dribbled down his chin.

  The sense of danger formed into full thought. He wasn't going back to the Bloat. He clung to the idea of Bowman's balance, tried denying it. The heavy weight around his mind held down his will.

  He growled in frustration.

  Bowman laughed. "Not so tough without Loretta backing you up."

  No wonder his one-man-raid on 12 Corcoran hadn't left an impression. They thought Loretta had caused the damage. Probably still thought their stupid floor safe had kept them safe from the Mariner's Box.

  Bowman's smug face snapped into focus. "Get on your feet."

  "What do we do with the other guy?" asked one of the other suits.

  "Let Undone Duncan have him," said Bowman. "Maybe a dancing reskinned will keep him satisfied with his station in life for a few more weeks."

  The Narco Saints murmured at the insult.

  "Deal with it or get deported," spat Bowman.

  The other two suits lifted Everard to his feet. He fought, but was too dizzy to defend himself.

  "Let's go." Bowman suddenly stood face-to-face with Bermuda.

  The Burgess held his black tricornered hat over his chest. He sweated profusely through his wool coat and britches. He cleared his throat. His voice wavered as he resolutely stated, "Inc doesn't have the authority to arrest Denizens."

  Bowman pointed at the other suits. "Leave. Don't let anyone else see you."

  They dropped Everard and jogged off. Everard caught himself on his knees.

  Once they were out of sight, Bowman said, "I'm deciding whether to let you live, and let it be your word against mine, or cover my bases and let the Narco Saints drag you down to their little hell."

  "Anacostia ain't no hell, you asshole," said a thug.

  Bowman ignored him. He drew his lighter and a hundred.

  Bermuda placed his hat on his head, revealed what he'd been holding behind it. A screwdriver.

  Bowman hesitated. "What's that? What break did you give it?"

  "It's a screwdriver," said Bermuda.

  Everard laughed out loud. His voice was returning.

  "I know that," said Bowman, and then someone shot him in the back.

  Bowman crumpled on the ground and began tying himself up.

  Santa Muerte screamed at the Narco Saints as they frantically accused each other.

  Bermuda grabbed Everard and Brian and dragged them towards cover.

  A Narco Saint's head jerked backwards, then his feet went out from under him. Another was yanked into the air by his ankle, then slammed against the theater's brick wall.

  Bermuda pulled Everard and Brian behind the dumpster.

  The thugs screamed and bones crunched. Santa Muerte screamed in Spanish, and someone unleashed a hail of gunfire.

  Everything went silent.

  Brian shook his head and looked around. "What's going on? Somebody let me out of this. Is this my belt?"

  Footsteps aro
und the side of the dumpster.

  Loretta walked into view. "Thanks for the distraction, Bermuda."

  "Did you even need it?" asked Everard.

  "It kept Bowman from seeing me." Loretta helped Everard to his feet. "I want him to see you, though. Go rough him up a little, and send him on his way."

  "Are you serious?"

  "That's why I let you tag along."

  "Won't the cops be here soon?"

  "We're not in the Periphery, but they've likely set up a shield to keep people from seeing what's going on in the lot."

  Everard steadied himself on the dumpster. "I think I have a concussion."

  "And I'm still tied up," said Brian.

  Bermuda untied Brian.

  "Go chase him off," said Loretta. "We'll deal with your concussion after we handle the initial reason we came here."

  "Wonderful." Everard rubbed at his forehead, heading out to threaten the agent of an otherworldly monstrosity.

  Everard admired the scene before him. The pools of blood shrank, disappearing into themselves. A Narco Saint lay at an unnatural angle at the base of the wall. Two more were dead, their blood smeared between the puddles.

  Santa Muerte was tied up next to the wired barrel. The hood of the jewel-studded, green cloak had slipped off her head, revealing light brown hair pulled tight by the strap of the skull mask. She watched him silently through the eyeholes.

  Bowman struggled against his own belt. The effect of the bullet had worn off, but he tied himself up so effectively now he couldn't get out. Loretta had blindfolded him with his own tie.

  Everard walked up, slapped his boots on the concrete.

  Bowman stopped struggling. "That wasn't you who attacked me."

  "You sure? You've never gone toe-to-toe with a rebellist before me." There was no way Bowman had fought Bill Bill or Mr. President.

  "You couldn't even stand up."

  "It was an act." Everard checked Bowman's pockets for his lighter. Loretta must have taken it. He checked again, then took his billfold to be safe. And because it was $1200.

  "Petty thievery, now?"

  "No it's not. It's covering my back."

  "You're taking my money. That's the definition of thievery."

  "Then I'll deny that definition. I'm a rebellist."

  "I can't believe the CEO wants you."

  Everard took a step back. He hadn't yet wrapped his mind around the fact that the Bowman he knew wasn't the body in front of him. It was the suit possessing the body. He imagined the prisoner at the top floor of 12 Cocoran, free for a moment and then possessed by that suit.

  "I was going to let you go," said Everard, "but that was mean."

  He flipped Bowman over to pull off his suit jacket.

  There was arguing behind the dumpster and then Bermuda ran over. "No, don't do that."

  "Why the hell not? He's got control of this guy's body."

  "It'll trigger an all out war between the Burgesss and Inc."

  "I just beat the shit out of him. What about that?"

  "Think of it as desecrating their temple, burning their flag, or raping their mothers."

  Everard hesitated. "What if they deserve it?"

  "Of course they deserve it," said Bermuda. "But the attack this morning will be nothing compared to what you'll bring. There will be a hundred people grieving like Brian."

  Starting a war and then ducking out of it might be the perfect way to be left alone. Everard felt like a dick even noticing the possibility. He could never do something like that.

  Maybe he could convince himself to kill Bowman, but unless he removed the suit first, he'd be killing the host, too.

  He let go of Bowman's jacket.

  "Here's what I'm going to do instead." Everard kicked the suit in the ribs. He dug through the pockets and took Bowman's phone. "You walk back to your broken skyscraper, say hello to your flabby god for me, and tell the CEO that I kicked your ass a third time. Maybe that'll get him to leave me alone."

  Bowman wheezed. "He wants you too much."

  Everard untied him. "What if I burn the suit off him?" he asked Bermuda.

  "No."

  Bowman took off his blindfold. He straightened his lapels and adjusted his cufflinks. "Don't stay too long. Can't you feel the next boom building? You already know what it feels like when you're close."

  He walked down the alley toward U Street.

  Everard tried to get into Bowman's phone, but it was locked down tight.

  Brian and Loretta joined them in the lot. The blood pools had dissipated, leaving only the red smears from the three dead Narco Saints.

  It was disgusting. No one cared about a few gang bangers dying, but you defend yourself against a parasite in a suit and suddenly you're threatening the fabric of society.

  Bermuda picked up the flintlock. Everard didn't see his phone.

  "We've probably got ten minute before Bowman gets in contact with the rest of Inc," said Loretta. "Is that enough time to take a look at this thing?"

  Bermuda grunted. "We'll see."

  Everard and Brian hung back while Bermuda and Loretta inspected the wired barrel.

  Santa Muerte watched silently, her arms bound in her lap. A pistol appeared in her hand.

  "Look out!" Everard yelled.

  Loretta looked at her. Santa Muerte's wrist snapped. The gang leader dropped her pistol and gasped at the pain.

  "What'd you do?" asked Everard.

  "She's a programmer," said Bermuda.

  "That's what Brian said. I don't know what that means. I just know everyone's afraid of her."

  "It means she's found a nook that influences our reality. She goes there and uses her bent to write programs that reshape aspects of the world around her."

  "So why don't you just rewrite it so the booms aren't happening?"

  "It's only small things," said Loretta. "And even those take forever. It took me seven months to write the code to lower my terminal velocity. Three years to make people's vision bend around me."

  "No one tweaks reality without a price," said Bermuda. "Yours is getting rid of authority. Loretta's price is plain old hours put in."

  Everard didn't ask how long to write the program that broke people's bones. He wondered what focusing so long on inflicting that kind of pain would do to a person.

  "It costs more than my time," said Loretta.

  The energy in the air practically hummed.

  "Bowman said another boom's about to happen." Everard's gut twinged at the memory of the pain he'd felt in the Junk Shoals. "He was right about not wanting to be close."

  Bermuda followed a wire with his fingers, tracing it down to the barrel.

  "Can you feel it?" asked Loretta. "The pressure in the air is growing."

  "If we were right about it building to something, it might be even stronger this time," said Everard, "I really think we should take off."

  Everard looked to Brian for support, but his eyes were glued to his shoes.

  Bermuda got down on his stomach to look under the barrel. "It's certainly the Perforated Woman's handiwork."

  "Anything that links it to Inc?"

  "Not that I can see." Bermuda pried the barrel up from the concrete an inch. "That's interesting. It's got a power cable going into the ground."

  "Where's it go?" asked Everard.

  "Gotta be into the Periphery," said Bermuda. "That's a zinc alloy cable. It transfers gathered atmospheric energy. Not something you can plug in to the D.C. power grid."

  The air felt heavier on Everard's skin. "I just felt it."

  Santa Muerte giggled. "You can't stop us."

  Loretta didn't even turn around. "Your three friends over there disagree."

  "Not to mention the dead guys we ripped up," said Everard.

  "El Soldado will put them back together." The folds of her red dress shuffled with her laughter. "Can't say the same about your guts once the Perforated Woman's symphony reaches its crescendo."

  "Yeah?" said Everard. "Why
don't you tell us more about it?"

  Santa Muerte mimed zipping the lips of the skull mask. "I have a better idea. You tell me all about Abby."

  Everard's stomach dropped.

  Loretta turned around. "Where did you find that name?"

  Everard threw Santa Muerte onto her back. He ripped off her mask, revealing a plain face. She smirked.

  "How do you know about her?" He slammed her shoulders against the ground.

  Loretta lifted Everard off of her, unnaturally strong. "You hired me to handle this."

  "No!" He slipped out of Loretta's grip. "She's threatening Abby! How do you know about her?"

  His phone fell out of the folds of Santa Muerte's dress. He'd unlocked it when he started recording, so she'd had easy access to his recent calls and texts. She probably knew about Liz, too.

  "Let me handle it," said Loretta.

  Santa Muerte lost her smugness.

  "Unless you're prepared to."

  Everard's wild rage narrowed to a calm realization. "I can't." Killing someone in a moment of self-defense was one thing. Killing someone defenseless was another. But if he let her walk away, he was putting Abby and Liz in danger.

  Bermuda was back on his feet. "This thing's about to go off."

  "We'll strap her to it," said Loretta.

  "You don't understand what it'll do to her," said Everard.

  "But I need to," said Loretta. The cold look in her eyes helped Everard understand why everyone in the Periphery was afraid of her.

  "It seems cruel," said Bermuda.

  Brian just frowned.

  Loretta dragged Santa Muerte to the barrel. She pulled zip-ties from wherever she kept pulling stuff from.

  Santa Muerte struggled fruitlessly. "Killing me won't protect you. The Burgesses are done. You can't make us hide in the shadows anymore."

  "You can stop worrying about that." Loretta used three zip-ties to strap Santa Muerte's arms around the barrel.

  "Shouldn't we question her?" said Bermuda. "She might know about the booms."

  "She's a security guard," said Loretta. "Even if she did know something, Inc or Undone Duncan—or both—will be here in five minutes. The Narco Saints are fanatics. We might eventually break her, but not in five minutes."

  That put some pride back into Santa Muerte. "Los santos me esperan."