Specter Rising (Brimstone Network Trilogy)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Packman,” the girl said.

  “What?”

  “It’s Packman. My code name.”

  Emily laughed. “Code name? What do you think you’re joining, the Justice League or something?”

  Johanna leaned forward, a malicious twinkle in her dark brown eyes. “At least I’ve got a cool power,” she sneered. “What’s yours? Being lame twenty-four seven?”

  It was decided: Emily didn’t like this chicky in the least. “Keep it up and I’ll show you what real power is,” she threatened, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.

  What is this, high school?

  Johanna suddenly stood, flipping over her chair.

  She looked to be kind of rough around the edges; her hair cut short, but worn shaggy, her bangs uneven and hanging down in front of her face. She was wearing an old raincoat at least two sizes too big, with a heavy, dark green sweater underneath. Her baggy jeans and work boots looked as though they had seen better days, spattered with paint every color of the rainbow.

  “Was that a threat, Barbie?” she snarled.

  “Barbie?” Emily asked incredulously. She was the farthest thing from a Barbie doll, in her own mind, and really took offense that this little twerp had the nerve. “I think you’d better sit your butt down and not say another word.”

  Emily went back to looking over the girl’s application, but she could sense that Johanna was still standing.

  “I said sit down,” she warned, trying to use her sternest voice.

  Johanna smiled defiantly.

  And then the atmosphere in the room changed. It suddenly became colder, and a strange smell—a wild animal smell—filled the small space.

  Something nipped at Emily’s ankles, and she jumped.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, feeling her anger grow.

  The girl just laughed.

  Emily was pinched again, this time on her thigh. She could also hear something snuffling, growling deep in its throat . . . multiple somethings.

  “Stop it right now,” Emily demanded.

  The girl was really enjoying herself.

  “Stop what?” Johanna asked, throwing up her hands in mock surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not doing anything.”

  Emily was mad, and so was the beast that lived inside her. She felt her skin begin to tingle, and then to itch.

  She could hear the clicking of animal claws on the floor of the interview room, but there wasn’t anything there. She stood, eye to eye, with Johanna.

  “I’m not going to tell you again,” Emily said. She could feel her teeth start to ache now, on the verge of getting longer . . . sharper.

  “Aww, c’mon,” the girl teased. “I love to hear you beg.”

  That’s it.

  Emily tore away the skin of her face with a scream that became a roar. The wolf was free, and boy, was it ticked.

  The look on Johanna’s face was priceless. She jumped back, nearly tripping on her overturned chair.

  “I warned you,” Emily growled in the voice of the wolf.

  Johanna pressed herself flat to the wall of the interview room. “Get her!” she cried.

  And the strange sounds intensified, claws scrabbling across the floor, multiple growls and barks zeroing in on Emily.

  Emily couldn’t believe it. She was being attacked; invisible teeth sinking into the thick black fur of the wolf. It was if she were fighting a pack of wild dogs.

  The door to the interview room suddenly opened, and everything became deathly quiet.

  “What’s going on in here?” Bram asked as he entered, Mr. Stitch close behind him.

  “Why are you like this?” Bram motioned at Emily’s wolf form.

  She tried to explain, pointing a clawed finger at the girl still pressed against the wall.

  “It was her . . . she . . .”

  The sounds of invisible movement again filled the air inside the room. Bram looked around, searching for a source, but finding none. Something close by had started to growl.

  “Am I the only one hearing this?” he asked his second in command.

  Stitch shook his head, ponytail swinging. “No, you’re not.”

  “Then I bet it has something to do with her,” he said, pointing to the girl pressed into the corner.

  “And you’d be right,” Stitch said, looking at his own clipboard. “This is Johanna Harkness,” he began.

  “Packman,” the girl corrected.

  “Packman?” Bram questioned.

  “It’s her code name,” Emily explained with a roll of her eyes.

  Stitch ignored them and continued to read from his sheet. “It seems that Miss Harkness is psychically bonded to a pack of ghost dogs. Supposedly they obey her every whim.”

  “Packman,” Bram repeated. “I get it now . . . sort of.”

  The growling inside the room grew louder, the ghost animals becoming more agitated.

  “Call off your dogs, Miss Harkness,” Bram ordered.

  Emily was surprised by the amount of authority she could feel radiating from her friend. Over the last few weeks he had certainly begun to take the whole position of commander of the Brimstone Network much more seriously.

  And it seemed to be agreeing with him.

  “Packman,” the girl corrected again.

  “You heard me,” Bram stated, his stare intense.

  Emily was glad that he wasn’t looking at her this way. She thought there was going to be a staring contest, but Johanna finally backed down.

  “Heel,” she muttered beneath her breath, patting her paint-covered thigh, calling the ghostly beasts to her. “That’s it, come here and behave yourself.”

  “Too bad she couldn’t listen to her own advice,” Emily said, pulling the dried fur and flesh away to once again reveal the human beneath.

  “Not sure if anybody ever mentioned this, but that’s disgustingly gross,” Johanna said, face twisted in revulsion.

  “She’s right, you know,” Bram said, taking the clipboard from Mr. Stitch.

  The girl was silent, watching him with squinting eyes.

  “It says here that you want to be one of our special agents,” Bram said, showing her the clipboard. “Is that true?”

  She shrugged.

  “Well, if it is true, I can’t even begin to figure how you thought this little display between you and Agent Larch was going to play in your favor.”

  “I can’t help it if your wolf-girl has a bad attitude,” Johanna said, the plastic straw finding its way into her mouth again. “She needed to be shown that not everybody is afraid of her.”

  Emily bit her tongue, silently slipping into her uniform.

  Bram tossed the clipboard onto the tabletop. “I believe you’ve been misinformed, Miss Harkness,” he said. “That’s not how a potential agent of the Brimstone Network behaves, I’m afraid.”

  The room was silent.

  “So that’s it?” Johanna asked, her annoyance coming through in her tone. “I’m out because I showed off a bit with my pack?”

  Nobody said anything, but deep down Emily hoped that was exactly what it meant. This girl was way too wild and unpredictable.

  “Fine,” Johanna finally said, throwing up her hands. She reached down, picked up her chair, and roughly slid it beneath the table. “I just came because I thought it might be worth a laugh . . . y’know, see some freaky stuff up close.”

  She smiled at them before turning toward the door. “Guess I’ve seen enough.” She threw open the door, stepped through, and slammed it closed behind her.

  Stitch was the first to speak. “What an unpleasant young woman.”

  Bram nodded in agreement, then turned his attention to Emily.

  “I know, I know, I should know better, but . . .”

  The door suddenly flew open again, and Johanna Harkness stood there.

  “If one of you guys isn’t doing anything, do you think you could give me a ride to the train station?”

  Unde
r the cover of darkness, the small, dimensional portal opened with a faint pop, the uninvited traveler stealthily creeping its way into the earthly realm unnoticed.

  The entrance closed behind it as quickly as it had opened, the magickal reverberations of its conjuring barely perceptible. Since the Event, happenings such as this had become commonplace all over the world: Passages to weird and potentially dangerous places were opening all the time, and closing up just as quickly.

  And occasionally things came through; it was just the way things were now.

  Most times it was purely accidental, but others . . .

  The creature stayed close to the shadows, its demonic senses immediately alert to its new environment. It sniffed the cool night air, sifting through the myriad smells searching for the one it had been specifically created to find.

  Humans and non-humans, it thought as its nose twitched, sampling the aromas carried on the cool evening breeze. Through large, circular eyes created to see in complete darkness, it stared at the refurbished Scottish castle before it.

  It knew that its prey was to be found inside this stone structure, for this was the headquarters of its most despised enemies—enemies of all the darklings, beasties, and night things that yearned to spread into the world of man.

  This was the headquarters of the Brimstone Network.

  The dimensional traveler snarled with the thought, feeling the explosive juices that it would use to slay its enemy begin to fill its stomach. The beastie stroked its now protruding belly as it continued to sample the air.

  It had been sent here on a mission most holy, to end the life of the one who had managed to keep the accursed Network alive, despite the deathblow that had fallen upon it.

  The nightling hissed as it captured the scent.

  There, it thought, eagerly scurrying through the tall grass and the darkness toward an entrance to the structure. It had found the scent of the one it had been sent to destroy.

  It had found the scent of Abraham Stone.

  Bram smiled as he entered the crowded dining hall.

  He scanned the room, looking at the tables filled with Brimstone agents, both young and old, and again felt a proud surge of accomplishment.

  Emily and Bogey waved from across the room, and he motioned that he would be right over as soon as he got something to eat.

  Supposedly the food was excellent. Bram couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten as he sauntered up to the counter to place his order.

  “And what, may I ask, would be tickling your taste buds this evening, Commander?” a familiar voice asked.

  Mr. Stitch, clad in a stained white apron and a puffy chef’s hat, stood behind the counter, hands on his hips.

  “What are you doing back there?” Bram asked with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you cook as well.”

  The patchwork man held up one of his large, plastic-gloved hands and flexed his fingers. “This hand is a constant surprise to me,” he said, with a hint of a British accent. “It can conjure a spell of conflagration in a heartbeat, and in another, whip up a soufflé that would bring the finest of French chefs to tears.”

  “Impressive,” Bram said, looking at the steaming pots of soup and steamed vegetables laid out before him.

  “So what can I get for you?” Stitch asked, eagerly grabbing a plate.

  “What’s the special?” Bram asked.

  “Ah, the special,” Stitch repeated, eyebrows wagging. “Bogey has already had three helpings.”

  “If Bogey had three helpings, it has to be good,” Bram said with a laugh. “Give me that.”

  “One special coming up,” Stitch said, going to work.

  Bram turned around, again searching for Emily and Bogey. He found them and raised a finger signaling that he’d be right along.

  A loaded plate was put down in front of him, the contents slathered in gravy and steaming.

  “What is it?” Bram asked uncertainly.

  “The special,” Stitch answered proudly. “Shepherd’s pie.”

  “Shepherd’s pie,” Bram repeated.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never had the pleasure,” Stitch said cautiously.

  Bram shook his head.

  “It’s a traditional British dish, normally made with lamb, but I used beef this time. It’s meat, onion, chopped tomatoes, butter, oil, some mixed herbs of my own selection, and mashed potatoes all mixed together and baked as a delicious pie. Now aren’t your taste buds screaming for a bite?”

  Bram carefully took the plate as though he were afraid that it was going to jump up and bite him. “Thanks, Stitch,” he said, setting it down on his tray.

  “You be sure to tell me what you think,” the large man said, smiling proudly.

  After getting a large glass of water and some silverware, Bram finally found his way to his friends.

  “What’ve you got?” Emily asked, nose wrinkled with distaste.

  “The special,” Bram answered, sitting down across from her and Bogey.

  “The heart attack special is more like it,” she said, having some more of her salad.

  “Don’t listen to her, Bram,” Bogey warned. “That stuff is great. I’ve already had three plates.” The Mauthe Dhoog gestured toward the three empty plates on his tray.

  “That good, eh?” Bram said, ready to dig in.

  “Reminded me of the Unt-Garth my egg-mother would make,” the creature stated.

  “Unt-Garth?” Bram asked, digging into the thick, gravy-covered mashed potatoes.

  Bogey nodded. “The large intestine of a mature filth-eater fried in the blood of razor bats and served in the crispy skin of a stomach eel.” The creature licked his lips and rolled his big eyes. “Heaven.”

  Bram looked down at the bite on his fork, suddenly not feeling all that hungry. “The large intestine of a filth-eater, eh?” he said, the forkful slowly descending.

  The Mauthe Dhoog nodded eagerly. “The blood of the razor bats really helped bring out the tanginess of the eel.”

  The leader of the Brimstone Network set his fork down and pushed his plate away. “I think I’ve had enough,” he said.

  “May I?” Bogey asked, licking his thick lips.

  “Go right ahead,” Bram said as the Mauthe Dhoog pulled his tray over and voraciously began to eat.

  “You know that was his plan, right?” Emily asked.

  Bram watched his friend eat. It was like he hadn’t eaten in days.

  “Sure,” Bram said, taking a drink of water. “I really wasn’t all that hungry, anyway. I just didn’t want Stitch to feel insulted.”

  Emily nodded, wiping her mouth and placing her fork down upon her empty plate. “I want to apologize for losing my cool this morning with that new recruit,” she began.

  “No problem,” Bram said. “It’s already forgotten.”

  She smiled at him, and he immediately became self-conscious.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re really getting the hang of this,” she said. “Being the commander and all.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Really don’t have much of a choice.” Bram was about to explain how he never could have done it without them—his initial team—but Emily’s cell began to ring and she quickly took her small portable phone from her pocket to see who it was.

  “It’s my folks,” she said, standing up and walking away.

  Bram looked over to where Bogey had just been sitting and found the seat empty. His plate had been cleaned and added to the other three, and the Mauthe Dhoog was gone, likely having rifted away.

  “So much for stimulating dinner conversation,” he muttered, finishing up his water.

  Bram left the table, looking around at the agents mingling with one another. It felt good to see, but it also made him a little sad. He wished his father were there to see how much he had achieved, but then again, if it were not for his father’s death, none of this would have happened.

  Walking through the doorway out of the dining hall, he almost tripped ov
er Dez as he rolled around the corner in his wheelchair.

  “Hey, Dez,” Bram said, immediately on guard. It had been two days since the handicapped boy had buried his father, and not once had Bram asked how he was doing.

  “Hey,” the boy answered softly, briefly making eye contact.

  “Are you doing okay?” Bram asked.

  Dez nodded, and then shrugged. “It is what it is,” he said. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

  Pangs of guilt needled Bram. If it were not for him, and his desire to see Douglas St. Laurent finally laid to rest, the man’s animated body would have likely still been around. Bram knew it was for the best, but he wasn’t sure if Dez felt, or ever would feel, the same.

  “Do you need anything?” Bram asked, immediately regretting the question.

  Dez just looked at him. “No,” he finally answered. “Everything’s great.”

  Bram knew that wasn’t the case at all, but decided he would leave it there. Dez had to deal with his grief in his own way; Bram just hoped that Dez knew if he needed somebody to talk to, he and the other members of the original team were there for him.

  “Going to have some dinner?” Bram asked stupidly.

  “Yeah,” Dez answered, staring into the hall.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you,” Bram said, stepping out of the boy’s path.

  His thoughts were suddenly filled with the memory of the service they’d had for Dez’s father three days before. He remembered the intensity of the sadness that he’d seen in Dez’s eyes, and how it had stirred emotions he hadn’t had the opportunity to experience after learning of his own father’s passing.

  There hadn’t been time for mourning then; he had a Network to build and a world to protect. Dez’s father’s service had provided him with an opportunity denied to him up until this point.

  “Have a good night,” Dez said with a wave over his shoulder as he rolled himself toward Stitch’s food station.

  “I’ll certainly try,” Bram answered, missing his father more then than he had in a very long time.

  3. JOHANNA SAT ON THE WOOD BENCH IN FRONT the train station waiting for the 7:25 back to the city.