“What the fuck have you guys done?” I shouted. Steve had backed up nearer to the portal again, probably assuming we would need to make a rapid escape. I appreciated the fact that he didn’t just leap through and leave me to deal with this.
“Calm down, dude,” Booker said. Fitz was riffling through Stek’s clothes. He removed his backpack. “The guy was dirty.”
“Dirty?” I said.
“Yes, dirty,” Booker repeated. “As in unclean, bad, double-crossing. Good riddance.”
I made a move toward Stek, but Barton halted my passage with a firm arm and a handgun.
“Let him go,” Booker said. I didn’t bother moving any closer to Stek even after Barton removed his hand from my arm. What good would it do now?
“Got it,” Fitz said. He withdrew the wrapped flask of Witch’s Wine from Stek’s backpack.
“Oh, shit,” I said. “That’s what you guys were after? Why didn’t you just take it from him in Golem Creek?”
“Didn’t know if we could get it through that portal on our own,” Booker said. “Experience, kid. Get some.”
Fitz placed the flask carefully in a steel box in his own backpack. Barton was shifting a large, heavy-looking panel of wood from one wall to reveal an exit into the next room. Staley and Booker were wasting no time rolling Stek’s body into a large canvas tarp.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” I said. I turned to Steve. He raised his eyebrows at me and jerked a thumb toward the portal.
“Go for it,” Booker said, handing Staley a roll of duct tape. “You guys are cool. You want to go back? We’re not stopping you.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get an explanation!” I said. “You’re claiming that Stek doublecrossed someone? Well, great, fine, okay. But he was supposed to help us find Julie!”
“He wasn’t going to help you find shit, man,” Booker responded. Staley and Fitz were hefting the body through the hole in the wall. “He worked for Curwen Flowers. His whole plan was to get Mike Flowers back into Laban’s tomb and then open that fucking hellhole.”
I was stunned. “Why would he do that?” I asked.
“Because Curwen promised him all the usual, dude,” Booker responded. “Money, power, blah, blah, blah. The dude fell for it. But Curwen knew he would. That whole family, man. Bunch of fucking manipulators.”
I recalled my own “revelation” concerning Mike’s long-term plan involving me, Julie, and Steve. My heart began to sink at thoughts of Julie. Where the hell was she?
The hunters had all gone through the hole in the wall. “You guys coming, or what?” Barton asked. “’Cause I’m gonna close this one way or the other.”
I looked over at Steve. There was nothing we could do by going back—that seemed almost certain. Whatever “plan” Stek had had, it involved the Witch’s Wine. Steve gave me a quick look, then headed for the hole in pursuit of the hunters. I followed.
“We’re going to need that key, Chuck,” Booker said.
Steve and I sat in the back of a large, black van in the parking lot of the McFarlin Library at the University of Tulsa.
I opened my backpack and extracted the key, which glinted softly by the parking lot lights. The van had been stationed out behind CJ’s Bar, along with a dark-colored station wagon of unidentifiable make. Barton and Staley had taken the station wagon, loaded with the body, presumably to some predetermined “dump site.”
The notion gave me chills. Our semi-captors had then wasted no time in heading for the university. In response to my questions, and a few comments from the clearly perturbed Steve Chernowski, we gleaned that the hunters were probably right about Stek.
“The guy knew about the vinum sabbati, after all,” Booker said. “How did he get that information? This stuff needs to go right back where it belongs, man: buried along with Laban in the Murk.”
“I’m still pretty unclear about one thing,” I said. “I know that I saw you guys get torn apart out there. You’re acting like somehow I didn’t see what I know I saw—”
“All right, sorry,” Booker said. “It’s true. I haven’t explained one piece of the puzzle. But that’s because we’re sworn to secrecy about it. I’ll just be straight with you. If this all works out, I’m sure it will come clear in the end.”
I resigned myself to this explanation.
“Well, thanks a lot, dude,” Steve finally said. He had been silent for so long I thought perhaps he had been shot in the portal cellar, and hidden it as he gradually bled out in the van. “I mean, that will help us with motivation, and all that shit.”
Booker sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? But seriously. If I say a word about how we survived that attack, my mission is shot. Right in the nuts.” Steve chuckled. “That was good, man,” he said. “‘Right in the nuts.’ I’m gonna remember that one.”
It got me laughing, too. And when Fitz joined in, I suddenly felt like maybe we might at least survive the night. If not the morning after.
Booker had a passkey that got us into the McFarlin Library after hours. We took a side door. A small huddle of giggling Asian students were in a crowd at the end of the hall, but they paid absolutely no attention to us as we passed.
Booker led us through a pair of heavy metal doors into a lobby with a checkout counter in the center and a mini caf´e behind it. A wide set of stairs led down to our left, but Booker headed to the far side of the room and a smaller set of stairs beside a pair of elevators, these leading up.
“I thought we looked pretty conspicuous,” I said to Steve as we followed the two hunters up the stairs. “You think those kids are going to call security?”
Steve shrugged. “This is a college campus. I’m guessing we look as conspicuous as any other college student,” he answered. “Plus, if they do, I have a feeling Booker and Co. will have no issue making short work of them.”
“True enough,” I said. We went up five flights of stairs, Booker and Fitz seeming to practically slide up them while Steve and I kept up with a degree of discomfort.
We finally reached our destination, exiting into the middle of a hallway. To our right was a door labeled “Special Collections”; Booker headed left and slowed his pace to a crawl near an unassuming door just before the hall exit. He tapped on it in a weird, rhythmic fashion, and it opened.
Barton cracked the door open. “Good,” Booker said. “Let’s move.”
Barton and Staley exited the room.
“How did they get here so fast?” I asked Steve, who shook his head.
“My question,” Steve said, “is where did they dump the body?”
We all assembled before the very small door of what appeared to be a very small, very old elevator. “The key,” Booker said, holding out his hand
to me. I flipped open my backpack and pulled it out. It appeared to be emitting a silvery radiance when I handed it to him.
“This is going to be a tight fit,” he said as he hit the elevator button, and when the door opened, I saw why.
“Can we even fit three people in there?” Steve asked.
Booker shrugged. “Another goddamned failsafe, man. Laban didn’t want any armies getting to the other side.”
I shook my head. “But this is ridiculous,” I said. Fitz, Staley, and Barton had already squeezed into the tiny compartment. There seemed to be about enough room for one, maybe two more very thin people, but after some adjustment, Booker was able to press himself in against the rest of us.
The elevator lurched uncomfortably as the door closed.
“I don’t think this thing was designed to carry much more than a couple hundred pounds,” Steve said. “If that much.”
Booker pressed his palm against a panel on the wall just above our heads; it opened, revealing a simple lock that was obviously designed for the Silver Key. He inserted the key, and the elevator began to hum noisily. Then he hit the button on the fl
oor direction panel labeled with a little star, and the elevator shuddered into movement.
“Normally, this thing gets you to the reserve stacks for Special Collections,” he said. “They’ve actually got some cool shit. Native American skulls and stuff like that. Barton worked here when he was finishing his first Ph.D.” I heard him grunt in affirmation behind me. First Ph.D.? Who the fuck were these guys? “When we finally did all the surveying, we found out that this is exactly where Laban’s tomb should be. The overlay, I mean.” “Overlay?” I repeated.
“Right,” Booker continued. The elevator, struggling to carry us all, was certainly taking its time. “Where Laban’s dream overlaps this world. McFarlin-fucking-Tower! It makes perfect sense: the tomb is the pyramid and, in a sense, the pyramid is constructed right on top of McFarlin Tower.” He paused for a moment as the elevator started slowly screeching to a halt. “Or, they’re both occupying the same space. Kind of. You get what I mean?”
The elevator stopped. “All right, kids,” Booker said. “Let’s party.”
The door opened and we stepped out into a cold stone room with high ceilings. On a grand platform about twenty feet to our right was a miniature step pyramid, at the top of which hovered an oval portal that I could immediately sense radiating a massive degree of power. There even appeared to be a small breeze blowing out of it into the room.
We all tumbled out into the room. Other than the portal, there was a second level in a sort of ring above us, with metal catwalks lining the walls, which were set with shelves and boxes all around.
Booker handed me back the key. “Thanks,” he said. “See? Not a fucking villain.”
I gave him a weak half-smile in response. Steve was gazing in awe at the portal. Staley and Barton had taken up positions at the foot of the step pyramid. They appeared to be glancing around the room in a confused fashion.
Had I missed something?
“Okay?” Booker turned to Fitz, who shrugged.
What the hell was going on? “Um. Gimme the stuff,” Booker continued, as if stalling. “We don’t know for sure what’s on the other side of that portal.” He began to sound more confident. But was he faking it? “And we sure as shit don’t want to have to do this twice. If we even can.”
Fitz had removed his pack and taken out the little steel box with the Witch’s Wine in it. As he handed it over to Booker, we heard Staley yell.
“Incoming!” he screamed. Something plummeted from above. I had barely enough time to dive for cover, followed by Steve, as a slew of boxes and junk started avalanching onto us.
I heard clattering, grunting, and struggling but, thankfully, no gunshots rang out. Dust had billowed up around us. One or two of the hunters yelled out a handful of swear words.
Steve and I both looked up at the same time. I discerned a shape, a person, diving into the portal. “He got the stuff! ” Booker screamed. “After him! ”
“Who?” I yelled.
“Mike Flowers! ” Booker yelled, scampering up the steps of the pyramid. “You motherfu—”
Another avalanche of boxes came from above. Apparently, Mike had set up a trip wire or something on the steps of the pyramid. Steve and I only missed the brunt of the cascading rubble by hanging back behind the action. I heard more groans.
I looked at Steve. There was only one thing we could do, one possible course of action with the Monster Squad down for the count and time not waiting for any man. We both leapt up at the same time and charged the portal.
“Right in the nuts! ” I heard Steve yell as we both launched ourselves through the blackness, into a different blackness.
We landed, rather painfully, on granite.
Steve was groaning a few feet away. I rolled over on my back and checked for broken bones. I couldn’t discern any, although I was bloody enough from skinning my arms on rock from the awkward fall.
“Steve!” I said, coming to my senses. I glanced around. Another large stone room, a high arched ceiling, maybe twenty or thirty feet up, stone walls, weird tapestries with heraldic emblems on them, torchlight glinting off stones—
“Charles Leland.” The voice came from just behind me. I turned my head. “And Stephanos Chernowski.”
Standing before a large rectangular stone sarcophagus at the center of the room, gazing down at me and Steve with his usual perfect calm, was Michael Flowers.
“My students,” he said. “What have you learned during my unintended absence?”
“That you’re a thieving sonofabitch,” said Steve, standing up.
I winced, but no lightning bolts followed, no death curses or tortuous words of power blasted us. In fact, as I looked intently at Michael Flowers, I noticed that he seemed to be struggling with something. He looked, perhaps, as if he was grieving.
“And you, Charles?” Mike asked.
I hesitated. Why did he look so sad to me all of a sudden?
“Tell him, Charley!” Steve shouted. “Tell him he’s a conniving fucker! I’ll back you up. He can’t kill the both of us—at least, not quickly—”
“Nothing,” I answered Mike. Steve shut up. “I’ve learned—absolutely—fucking—nothing!” I noticed that I was trembling.
“Go on,” Mike responded.
“No!” I yelled. I staggered toward him. “No! I don’t want to. I want to go home. I want Julie back. I’m tired of this bullshit.” I waved my hand around the room.
Mike pulled out a dagger as I approached him. “Go ahead!” I screamed at him. “Go ahead! Cut my throat. Whatever. I’m not going to stop you. I’m just looking for the exit!”
“I wish you would,” he said.
“Find the exit?” Steve said behind me.
“Stop me,” Mike corrected him. He held the dagger out to me, hilt first. “Because otherwise—” he hesitated for a moment. “Otherwise. I’ll have to try to do it myself again.”
“Jesus, Mike,” Steve said. “What is this—” “All about peace,” Mike said, lowering the dag-
ger and turning to face the sarcophagus. “It was all about finding some peace. That was what Laban wanted. He saw what was to come.”
“Yeah, well, he sure chose one hell of a way to solve that problem,” I said. “What did he expect? Those creatures are going to get out, Mike! The Murk—every ‘Murk,’ every crack in the worlds— they’re all going to overflow. And those guys you just knocked out back there, they’re trying to stop it—”
“No, they’re not,” Mike said. “They’re Molly’s slaves. She saw the opportunity when Wryneck slaughtered them—”
“Wryneck?” Steve said.
“The creature from the Murk. The one that Pete Jarry learned to partially control—and infected with his strange tastes in the process of bonding with him,” Mike explained. “Those men out there had one purpose for you. Without the keyholder, they could never access this place. Once they had made their way here, once they had opened the gates for those creatures from the pit to flood this world, they would have made short work of you—if they had even needed to, at that point. You saw what happened to Stek after they’d gotten what they needed from him.”
Steve made an exasperated noise. “My mind is officially blowing,” he said, “like, right this fucking second.”
I suddenly made the connection. “They were stalling, out there,” I said. “They were waiting—for Molly. She was supposed to be here—”
“A knotty issue I took some trouble to disentangle,” Mike said. “Although the threads of it have yet to be re-woven, in light of our present emergency.”
As if to punctuate this utterance, a deep and abysmal rumbling emanated from within the stone casket.
“Mike,” I spoke carefully, “we have no way of knowing if what you’re saying is true. You hand me that dagger, and I ‘kill’ you—if you even can be killed—what does that accomplish? Why not just let those guys out ther
e kill you? Why us? Why me?”
“Curwen’s blood,” he said. “In that timestream where you made a pact with the Fairy Queen, you communicated your blood to her. This damned Molly to be the Witch’s plaything until she stole her body and took her place. A curse and a blessing. You became a part of the pact—a part of Curwen’s bloodline—yet another way into and out of the Murk.”
“But I didn’t do that—” I insisted.
“That doesn’t matter!” Mike said. “It doesn’t matter at all. We are an infinity of selves, all living out all possible lives, but there is that which remains. A spark—something ‘you’ throughout all of it—that suffers the curses of the lot. And the occasional blessing, perhaps, when some iota of intelligence seeps out of one’s idios kosmos—”
“I know what that means!” Steve exclaimed, clapping his hands.
“Where do you think the Oriental traditions got the notion of karma, anyway?” Mike finished, oblivious to Steve’s outburst. “Something owed; cause and effect. But the magicians found a means of escape—and it was Laban’s attempt to make a heaven for himself, a place where his dreams would remain safe and timeless, in lieu of any other heaven, the likes of which he could not locate no matter how far he traveled in any realm.”
Mike leaned against the stone. I could see over the edge now, into a deep blackness. He seemed tired.
“Final lesson,” he said. “And now I need your help. We must invalidate Curwen’s scheme. Laban cannot return. Please accept my apologies for the extent to which vested interests have taken this simple plan. I really thought—perhaps, years ago— that it may not need to come to this.”
He lifted the dagger to me again. “It must be you,” he said. “When I sprinkle the vinum sabbati into this grave, when I speak the final banishing, you will plunge the dagger into my heart. His blood only can destroy me. And you will ensure that I am fallen into this blackness. It is our only chance to seal the gate. It is our only chance to preserve Laban’s dreaming, if not the remainder of the world.” “‘If not the remainder’?” Steve said. “I thought Laban was like the cork in the bottle? If the gate gets sealed, why would the world still get flooded?” “It was never our decision to make,” Mike said. “We could only create the Place of Solace, and hope that the various places of overlap would be tended
Fear Club- A Confession Page 18
