BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  "I'll call her."

  Loretta tossed him the keys. "The Hunters are in an abandoned corner store near Lincoln Park, at 14th and Ames. I'll be in touch. If I don't call, it means Mr. President got the better of me. Don't kill yourself trying to stop him. Just get out as many people as you can."

  She sprinted away, unnaturally fast.

  Everard called Abby, but it went to voicemail again. He left a message, telling her the storm was even worse than the news was saying, and to get out of D.C. quick, but he couldn't think of a way to convince her without sounding crazy, and he eventually just asked her to call him back.

  Chapter Forty

  INTERLUDE

  Cautious, the two ancients circle the low city, each focused on the other.

  The apex rushes lightning quick from cloud to treetop, searching for a weak spot in the cowardly, confusing hunter, trying to follow its impossible, erratic movement.

  The ostracized god lifts, lowers, safe in its higher path, but straining to match pace with the hubristic bully.

  They sense another, chained within the city, its fury thick and ferocious.

  Careful of the threat below, the two ancients feint, lunge, test. Searching for weakness, determined not to let the other claim this no man's land.

  The apex is first to turn a feint into an attack, twisting its antlers towards the confusing intruder's wings.

  The ruler of the blue hills slips through the attack, ends facing the hubristic bully's back, begins its mournful sermon.

  Below, among a citizenry cowering under the unexpected storm, the third ancient thrashes against its chains.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Everard sprinted the mile back to the Range Rover. His sweat added to the muddy water drenching his clothes. He jumped in and headed across the city. Gusts tried to push the truck to one side or another, even within the city.

  He tried calling Bill Bill again with no luck. Passing the Mall, he tried to look up at the Washington Monument, at the copy that stayed behind it. If Mr. President was up there, Everard couldn't see him.

  A piercing roar resonated through the air, something between a tiger's growl and a screeching hawk.

  Everard jumped at the sound. Animalistic fear bubbled up inside him.

  A mournful, threatening howl answered, crooked somehow, like an audio recorded in reverse and then played forward.

  Riding a gust of wind, a sense of mourning crushed down on Everard. Everything he'd ever lost came rushing to the front of his mind. He knew he could never be with Abby, that Liz would never be happy, that his loose acquaintanceship with Bill Bill was the closet he'd ever have to a real friend.

  He let the car cruise to a stop. The wave of depression passed.

  Standing on the sidewalk, a police officer wiped away tears, looked around confused, then continued his patrol.

  Everard stuck his head out the window to look at the sky. Dull lightning flashed, along with low thunder. Movement in the clouds.

  The Jersey Devil and the Mothman had arrived.

  Everard floored it, shooting toward Lincoln Park. The streets were almost as barren as the beltway. People stepped onto their stoops to stare at the sky, but most stayed huddled inside, away from the wind.

  He arrived at the abandoned shop, hopped out of the car.

  His phone buzzed. He checked it, hoping to see that Loretta had taken down Mr. President, but instead saw an emergency broadcast warning. Monsters of urban legend clashed overhead, and the city warned about hurricane force winds.

  Staying down might protect the people from collateral damage, but if they couldn't stop the booms, hunkering down was signing their own death warrant.

  Everard sized up the abandoned shop. It was a one-story brick building, taking up two lots. Its windowed front said it was once a grocery store, but now only plywood kept out the insistent wind.

  A pickup and a black van were the only other cars in the small lot.

  Another screech came from the clouds above, answered by a mournful dirge.

  Everard approached the front door. Along the corner of the building ran a network of minuscule wires and computer chips. He leaned in close to inspect it. This must be how the Hunters were corralling the Boogeyman. He didn't know a thing about electronics. If this was what Mr. President sabotaged, Everard would have a hard time denying it.

  He ducked inside. He expected it to be darker than the approaching twilight outside, but the interior of the shop was lit up like high noon. Worklights blazed with high energy bulbs, banishing any hint of a shadow.

  All the shelves had been pushed to one corner, creating an open space where the team of Hunters was in full panic mode.

  Howser—the barrel chested giant Everard had met in his first meeting with Mr. President—yelled at a man who leaned over a card table, typing furiously on a laptop.

  "He's really getting antsy in there," Howser yelled. "That charge better be ready in about thirty seconds."

  "I'm working on it," came the two-voiced reply.

  As Everard approached, he recognized Jakes, the two-tongued man who'd came after him at the same time as the Perforated Woman. He had a cast around his leg, and a crutch leaned on the table.

  Two others stood by a closet door in the back of the room. Thin wires and computer chips lines the door frame. One of the men crouched by the floor, adjusting something with a tiny soldering iron. The other aimed at the door with an automatic rifle lined with its own network of wires and circuitry.

  As Everard stepped into the room, he felt a surreal pressure in the air. The air was still, but everything pushed outward from the closet.

  Howser noticed Everard. "We're about to blow this murderous fuck to tiny, multipresent pieces. Come to join the fun?"

  "I thought I'd drop by," said Everard.

  "Loretta couldn't join you?" asked Jakes. "She saved our asses earlier."

  "She's saving our asses right now," said Everard. "Mr. President gave you sabotaged materials."

  "Bullshit." Jakes didn't look up from his laptop. "The barrier's fine, if it's installed precisely."

  The Hunter with the soldering iron spat back over his shoulder, "I've done a million of these. Faulty equipment would explain why this one's giving me trouble."

  "Shut up, both of you," growled Howser. "That's a big accusation to make against the most powerful man in the Periphery. You got proof?"

  "Your barrier's not working, is it?" said Everard.

  "That doesn't prove Mr. President's the one behind it," said Howser.

  Jakes turned away from his laptop, his dual voice still oddly harmonic. "It does if the equipment is faulty."

  "Is it?" asked Howser.

  Jakes looked at the Hunter working on the barrier. "Hub's right. He knows what he's doing. It's not his fault."

  An uneasiness oozed through the cheap particle board of the closet door. The armed Hunter stepped closer to Hub, who muttered to himself while he worked on the barrier. Jakes cursed and typed furiously.

  "Keep him in there," ordered Howser. The fear in his voice rattled Everard. A man that big shouldn't be afraid of anything.

  "Let's just blow it," said Jakes.

  "If the barrier's not at a hundred percent, the sudden threat will let him manifest outside of it."

  "The wires keep slipping apart from each other," said Hub. "I thought it was all the wild energy in the atmosphere, but maybe the kid's on to something."

  "It's not a hunch," said Everard. "We found the machines causing the booms, but Mr. President stopped us from destroying them."

  A violent shriek echoed from outside. The closet door creaked.

  "Sounds like he wants to join his friends," said Everard.

  Howser harrumphed. "He's not as territorial as those other two, but he'll still view their approaching as a challenge. That fight could get a lot more violent."

  "And if it does," said Everard, "the booms will have enough power to kill everyone in D.C."

  "Why would Mr. President
want that?"

  "Because he's old and wants things to go back to the good old days. I don't know and it doesn't matter." Everard pointed at the closet. "As long as you recognize that if he gets out, everyone's in a lot of trouble. And that someone's trying to sabotage your whole setup."

  A crack appeared in the door.

  Hub jumped backwards. "He's right. I don't think this alloy was measured properly."

  "You're a rebellist, right?" said Jakes. "Give us a hand."

  Everard stepped toward the closet. He denied the crack. His will pushed almost effortlessly through the mist holding him down. The wood knit together.

  "Not the door itself, genius," said Jakes. "The barrier."

  Everard took the idea of the barrier weakening, tried to deny it. The mist thickened, held his will back. The idea was too conceptual.

  "Why would Mr. President turn on the city?" asked Howser. "I've always trusted him."

  "Let's focus on stopping it," said Everard. "Then we can talk about how it makes us feel."

  The closet door cracked again, larger this time. Everard denied it.

  "That's not helping," said Jakes.

  "Then tell me how all this shit works," yelled Everard. "I can't deny something I don't understand."

  The pressure from the closet shoved outward, sending everyone staggering back a step.

  Jakes picked up his crutches to hobble over to the closet. He ran his finger along the network of wires. "A Steineker Current runs through these wires, which are an alloy of copper, silver, and thyme."

  "The spice?" asked Everard.

  "Yes. Every six inches or so—proportionate to the size of the trap—that current activates this chip, which puts out a barrier of reverse ionization."

  "I'm still in the dark."

  "Thanks to whatever nook he crawled out of, the Boogeyman can't pass through that barrier.

  "And what's going wrong?"

  The pressure from the closet swelled outward. The lights flickered.

  "The current's not reaching the chips," said Jakes. "Could be the wires aren't the right alloy. Could be the receivers are twisted. Could be some bent-touched interference."

  "I can maybe work with that," said Everard.

  Cracks reappeared in the door.

  "Do it fast," said Howser. "We can't hold him in there much longer."

  Everard grabbed onto the idea that the current wasn't reaching all the chips. It still felt too complicated, denying that something wasn't happening. He tried it anyways. His will forced its way into the mist, almost touched the outside.

  That precise presence attacked, smashing Everard's attempt back down with exact strikes.

  Sharp pain exploded in his head. He grunted and closed his eyes.

  "What happened?" Howser had the detonator out, beckoned his men away from the door.

  "Mr. President's stopping me."

  "How's he doing that?"

  "I don't know," said Everard. "But the bigger question is why isn't Loretta distracting him? Howser, you know them both. If she faced him down, would she stand a chance?"

  "Maybe," said Howser. "Not if he saw her coming."

  "What do we do?" Jakes limped on his crutch away from the closet.

  Everard tried again, this time denying that the alloy was incorrect. Mr. President's attack came again, stabbing into Everard's mind. When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees. It awakened the rest of the pain in his body, all the beatings and bruises he'd taken the last two days. "I can't do it."

  A dark howl filled the city, pushed its way into the shop. Hate emanated from within the closet.

  The door burst into a thousand pieces. Everard shielded his eyes, taking a sliver of wood into the back of his hand. He dropped his arm and looked up.

  The black of the small closet loomed over Everard.

  Even the bright worklights couldn't pierce it, as if it were a physical curtain.

  "Everybody down!" Howser grabbed Everard by his shirt and flung him towards the front door, then clicked the detonator.

  The explosion rocked Everard, deafened him. He thought it'd blinded him, until the flashlights clicking on showed it was just that the worklights had gone out.

  Howser silently yelled, motioned for his Hunters to withdraw.

  Bobbing flashlights moved toward the front door. Everard scrambled to his feet, looked back to see Hub's leg go out from under him, get dragged into a corner. In the second it took for the others to swing their lights around, something had ripped through his body armor and into his chest. He gasped a thick, wet breath.

  "Outside," barked Howser, barely audible.

  Jakes yanked his laptop free of its cords to limp for the door. A black blur swung down from the ceiling.

  Howser swung his ax. An unnaturally lanky body split into two. Violet, lumpy blood splattered across Jakes.

  "Keep moving," roared Howser.

  The fourth Hunter fired his circuitry lined rifle into the darkness, tracking something Everard couldn't see. Figures rose up out of the shadows around him, blocking him from view. Howser ran for them. They collapsed back into the floor, and the Hunter was gone.

  "Get outside!" Howser turned and rushed for the door. Everard scrambled outside. He drew the flintlock as he turned around, aimed at the door. Jakes appeared, then a gray arm wrapped around the two-tongued man's neck and yanked him back inside. Everard dashed back in, pistol raised. Howser crashed into him, and they tumbled into the parking lot.

  The door slammed shut.

  Howser scrambled to his feet, looked down at what he was holding. It was a hand and a wrist, ripped away from Jakes' body. He flung it at the ground in fury.

  The abandoned shop rumbled. Flashes of movement in the shadows, spreading outward from the shop.

  Everard ran to his car, turned on the headlights, then stood in their glow.

  "He's free," growled Howser. "A year's worth of work, eight good men—eleven, now—and he's free."

  Thunder rolled overhead.

  "It's worse than that," said Everard. "Mr. President's got all the juice he needs. He's going to kill everyone in the city."

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Everard tried calling Abby and Liz again. Shadow must have never gotten back to Loretta. He barely heard the electronic voice over the wind in the shop parking lot, but heard clear enough to tell when it went to voicemail.

  "Dammit."

  Howser still stood in the beams of the headlights, staring at the shop door. His chest rose and fell. "What's your next step?"

  Everard didn't know. As much as he wanted to kick Inc in the balls, he was out of his league here. He wanted to go to Abby's house, get her out of the city. Why should he spend another second risking his life for a bunch of people who never bothered to make eye contact when he passed them on the sidewalk. But it was hard to walk away from a house fire when all the firefighters were looking the other way.

  "Loretta isn't answering," said Everard.

  "You're not thinking of going after Mr. President yourself?"

  "What choice do I have?"

  "I'll come with you. He helped the Boogeyman murder my crew."

  "These three monsters trying to kill each other right now," said Everard, "could you take down any of them?"

  "By myself? Maybe the Jersey Devil, if I got a lucky shot in. Not the other two."

  "Do they have heartbeats?" asked Everard.

  "Gonna try out that rebellist murder magic on them? If the Mothman has a heart, it's some fifth dimension nonsense you couldn't wrap your mind around. The Jersey Devil probably does. Nothing otherworldly about that beast. Just a million-year-old apex predator. The Boogeyman, I couldn't say."

  "Let's head to the Washington Monument. You drive."

  Everard got into the passenger seat of Howser's truck. Howser got in, switched on the cabin light, and unhooked the strap from a shotgun holster between the seats.

  As they drove, Everard tried out his rebellist murder magic. He tried to deny the Jersey Dev
il's heartbeat, but the restraining mist held his will tight. He didn't know enough about the creature to think about it as a specific idea. He'd seen glimpses of the Boogeyman, so he tried that. This time, his mental energy couldn't even enter the mist, let alone push through it.

  If he got a chance to look one of them in the eyes, maybe it could work. He looked out the window at the sky. Unlikely he'd get that chance.

  "If you had to kill Mr. President," asked Everard. "How would you do it?"

  "I would say from a mile away with a high powered rifle," said Howser. "Except someone tried that during the Machinist Revolts. The bullet hit his temple, and he denied its velocity before it could enter his skull. Mr. President's not Mr. President because he's a rebellist. He's Mr. President because he's the best damn rebellist the world has ever seen."

  "What would you say now?" asked Everard.

  "I'd convince one of the other reality benters to try. Or maybe all of them."

  "We don't have time to get all of them," said Everard. "We've just got me."

  The Washington Monuments came into view as they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. Everard craned his neck to see the hidden copy.

  "You come up with a plan, yet?" asked Howser.

  "I'm going to walk up and challenge him," said Everard. "I don't know what else to do."

  Running wasn't an option anymore. Not just because he hated running, but because he was the last chance for the city.

  Howser parked the car on the sidewalk and they both got out.

  Leaves, twigs, and trash swirled in the wind. The roads were empty and the sky full. Something impossibly fast and the size of an SUV hit the ground a block away, skidding and tearing a muddy path in the grass, then rocketed back into the sky. Everard caught a glimpse of antlers and bat wings, pursued by a thousand grasping, gray hands.

  The power in the air dropped, like it was being sucked away.

  "You feel that?" asked Everard.

  Another boom roared across the city. The car rattled with the force, and his ears hurt from the volume. That same pull to get out of the city rioted inside him. Everard resisted the implanted impulse, and his chest suddenly felt aflame. He clutched at it, trying to claw the pain out.