Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  I turn back to the room. One wall is just closet doors, but these kinds of apartments usually have en suite bathrooms, right?

  I pull the doors open until I find it. A small bathroom. Beige tiles, a shower, a massive mirror.

  And a monkey. Sitting on the toilet.

  I blink. The monkey blinks back, seemingly as surprised as I am.

  It takes me another second to realize what is odd about this situation. (Besides the monkey on the toilet.)

  The monkey has a human face. A human face of a man in his seventies. Wrinkled skin. Bald head, rheumy eyes.

  “‘Infected be the air whereon they ride!’” the monkey shrieks.

  I brandish the dildo in panic. The monkey doesn’t seem fazed.

  “‘And damned all those that trust them!’” it shouts.

  Fuck this.

  I take a step forward, imagining I look like fencers do when they do that fancy lunge and strike.

  Except I’m trying to lunge forward in a tiny bathroom with a white dildo as a weapon.

  I hit the monkey across the face.

  There’s a meaty thud. The monkey shrieks its anger, turning around on the toilet. At first I think it’s trying to get away from the dildo, but a moment later it turns back with a huge revolver. A Smith & Wesson if I’m not mistaken.

  “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!’”

  I frown. That sounds . . . oddly familiar. But I don’t have time to ponder it any further. Not with a gun pointed at my face. I duck out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed.

  An explosion rings out, and a huge hole appears in the door. The bullet flies past my head, missing my cheek by an inch.

  A flash of pain. I reach up, feel something warm and wet. My ear! I feel gingerly around. There’s a nick taken out of my earlobe!

  That goddamn monkey shot me in the ear!

  I should have hit the little bastard harder.

  There’s another bang on the bedroom door. This time higher up. At around arm height.

  That gives me pause. How? Who the hell is banging on the door?

  I hurry over and put my eye to the keyhole. At first I can’t see a thing. Just a vague darkness. Then the darkness shifts back, lightening as it goes.

  My eyes widen. The spiders have clumped together again, this time forming a full humanoid shape. With arms and legs and everything. I can make out individual spiders scrambling across the figure, disappearing into the mass then appearing again.

  I jerk back, trying to fight down panic. What do I do? Jump out the window, probably breaking my leg in the process, or run past the weird spider-monster in the lounge? Nothing in life has prepared me for this situation.

  There’s a click behind me. I whirl around to see the bathroom door slowly opening. I catch a glimpse of an old rheumy eye appearing at knee height, peering cautiously out of the bathroom. I lunge forward, colliding with the door. It flies inward, hitting the monkey-pensioner and sending him crashing back against the toilet.

  The monkey’s still holding the gun. It tries to point it at me, but I grab its tiny wrist, pushing it up toward the ceiling.

  “‘Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end,’” snarls the monkey through clenched yellow teeth.

  The gun goes off at the exact moment I realize the monkey is talking in Shakespearean quotes. The bullet hits the light. A flash of brightness, then the bathroom is plunged into darkness. Glass showers over my head as I bunch my fist and punch the monkey in the face.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not one for cruelty to animals, but demonic monkey-pensioners are different, right? They don’t count.

  I yank the gun from its hands and close the door. Back to the bedroom door. I peer through the keyhole but can’t see the spider-man anywhere.

  Now’s my best chance.

  I pull open the door and sprint out into the lounge. I skid in the blood and gunk leaking from Jorge’s sheared back, only just managing to right myself. I leap over the couch, heading toward the front door.

  I cast a quick look over my shoulder and instantly wish I hadn’t.

  The spiders are swarming across the roof toward me, a solid black mass of skittering, pulsating, arachnoid nightmare fuel.

  I open the door and run outside, slamming it shut behind me. I stuff the gun into the waistband of my jeans and run down the stairs, heading toward my pickup. I bang up against the truck. Fumble for my keys. A quick glance over my shoulder and I see the spiders erupting through the door, pouring over the balcony like a wave of sand and pooling on the asphalt below. Then they rise up, forming into the shape of a man that starts to run toward me.

  I wonder if I’m going mad. Did I inhale some dodgy chemicals today? Ingest some acid? Maybe that’s why the crime scene had been shut down. Some kind of secret government testing.

  Thing is, I’m not going to wait around to see if the spiders are real or not. They sure as hell look real, and right now that’s good enough for me.

  I unlock my door and climb in. Start the truck and wheelspin out of the parking lot, almost sideswiping a Humvee. The Humvee swerves to the side, honking, the driver leaning out the window to scream obscenities at me.

  I put my foot down on the gas, veering off the small roads and heading back to the south side. I check the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just normal LA rush hour traffic.

  What that means is I’m not actually moving very fast. Which is cool because it means no one else can come after me fast either.

  I need to figure out what to do. No—I need to figure out what I’m on. I need to get tested. So . . . hospital?

  Except . . . I don’t really feel high. I did acid once, and it wasn’t like this at all. Back then I thought I was an Egyptian solar god and the sun was trying to make out with me. I’d been blind for a week after staring up into the afternoon sky with a huge smile on my face. But it was worth it. The sun was a good kisser.

  But right now . . . I feel totally fine. Which I’m not. Obviously. Because . . . if I’m fine it means that what just went down actually went down. Which is crazy.

  I chuckle to myself, ignoring the creeping sense of dread and horror that is taking up residence in my stomach and spreading throughout my body.

  Crazy.

  Yeah.

  I flick the radio on. Old-school tunes. Kylie Minogue and the Locomotion. There we go. Good old Kylie. She’s still hot, even after all this time. She must be older than me, but she’s still bangin’. Yeah. There we go. Stop thinking about the massive spiders. And the creepy monkey man. Think about lovely Kylie.

  I hear it first, a dull crashing and crumping sound from somewhere behind me. But I refuse to take any notice of it as I sing along desperately to lovely Kylie.

  Then comes the screeching of tires. The heavy thud of concrete.

  I feel the panic rise up. Don’t look, I tell myself. If you don’t look, it can’t be real.

  The crashing sounds grow louder, accompanied by the blare of car horns.

  My eyes swivel upward, drawn to the rearview mirror.

  A swathe of slow-moving cars is being parted behind me, plowed aside into the concrete bollards as a huge eighteen-wheeler thunders through them.

  BARP! BARP! The air horn of the eighteen-wheeler.

  It’s impossible, I know that, but I feel like whoever is driving the truck locks eyes with me. Like I’m in a movie or something.

  The truck puts on a burst of speed, screeching and juddering through the traffic.

  I punch the horn. “Move!” I scream. “Get out of the way!”

  I hit the gas, bumping up against the car in front of me. The driver jams on his brakes, yanks the hand brake up, and gets out, swearing and gesturing at me.

  Until he sees the truck coming up behind us. He shoots back into his car and tries to get away.

  I drive forward, bumping and jostling the cars in front. They move aside as much as they can, trying to get away from the crazy driver, so I’m able to edge slowly forward, scr
aping past the cars and leaving behind a trail of very angry commuters.

  I wind down the window. “Look behind you, morons!” I shout.

  They do. That shuts them up. It also starts a panic that spreads through the slow-moving cars like the rumor of a raid at a whorehouse.

  Which is fine for me, because I make it to the off-ramp and shoot off the freeway, taking random turns until I find myself on a deserted piece of road huddled beneath a freeway overpass that curls overhead.

  I stop the truck and get out, straining to listen. Nothing. No horns. No screeching tires. No screaming motorists. I did it. I got away.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow and turn in a slow circle, allowing myself to feel some relief.

  But the thing about relief? It’s always a lie.

  Because at that moment a waterfall of spiders spills over the edge of the overpass and slaps to the ground only twenty feet away, quickly followed by the monkey with the old man’s face.

  “‘Brevity is the soul of wit!’” he screeches, bouncing up and down.

  I make for my truck, but the spiders are already moving in a tide toward it. They climb over each other to form into the shape of a man and slam the door shut, turning to me with a gaping smile replete with spider legs and the glint of black eyes.

  I pull the gun out and fire. It cuts a hole through the spider monster and hits my pickup.

  The monkey jumps onto the roof, screeching at me and jumping up and down.

  I shoot it in the head.

  It falls off the truck and hits the ground. Then I turn and start to run.

  Wait! What the hell am I doing? I skid to a stop and whirl around, my high school English classes coming back to me.

  “‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,’” I shout. “Boom! Take that with your weird-ass Shakespearean quotes fetish, you creepy motherfucker.”

  Then I run.

  I don’t get far.

  The spiders have used the time to surround me. A wall that slowly starts to constrict, rising higher as it comes.

  I turn in a slow circle, my gun raised. I don’t shoot, though. Waste of bullets.

  The spider-wall stops moving. I notice movement behind it and see that there are more bugs coming. Beetles, centipedes, scorpions, more spiders. They stream from cracks in the road, from the weeds along the shoulder, rippling in streams that join up with the wall.

  The creatures shiver and rise up, taking on the shape of a man once again. The mouth opens, and a long tongue flops out (a brown centipede). The centipede rises up, making it look like the figure is licking the air.

  “Where is-s-s-s i-t-t-t-t-t . . .?”

  I blink, look around. Did that wall of insects just talk to me?

  “Where i-s-s i-t-t?”

  Yup. It did.

  “Uh . . .” I say, feeling incredibly stupid. “Where’s what?”

  “Give i-t-t-t-t to u-s-s-s.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” I say nervously. I look around. There are no cars around this little side road. They’re all up on the overpass. This is LA, for Christ’s sake. Why is there no one about?

  Not that anyone would do anything. They’d just record it on their phones, thinking I was filming a movie.

  Thinking this, I realize it’s a surprise that the cops haven’t turned up to check my filming permit. Someone gets shot? Nothing. Suspected of filming without a valid permit? The fucking SWAT team moves in on you.

  I hear a tiny plink sound behind me, like a vial of glass being snapped in half.

  I whirl around and find myself face-to-face with a figure that has a naked skull for a head. A skull with odd runes and drawings etched into the bone.

  The figure is holding a huge gun.

  I fire the revolver before I can even think about it. The bullet hits the figure in the chest.

  Which is pretty unfortunate, because the figure yanks off the skull—which turns out to be a mask—to reveal the pain-filled features of Crew Cut, the dude from the crime scene this morning.

  “You . . . dick,” he snarls, blood spilling from his mouth.

  Crew Cut drops to his knees. The massive gun falls from his grasp, hitting the ground.

  “And that’s . . . d-i-c-k,” he says, painfully spelling it out. “In . . . case you were wondering.”

  Then he dies.

  Chapter Three

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

  I drop to my knees and prod Crew Cut Dude. He doesn’t move. I put my fingers to his throat. No pulse.

  Definitely dead. I mean, the huge hole in his chest is a pretty good indicator, but still . . . you live in hope. Especially in a situation like this.

  So . . . to recap. I, Harry Priest, am a murderer.

  I’m going down. Life behind bars.

  If I survive long enough, that is.

  I get to my feet. The spider-wall is drawing closer. Actually, I can’t even call it that anymore. The creepy-crawly wall is more fitting. I’m pretty sure I can even see a couple of snails trying to catch up in the background.

  It’s only about ten feet away now.

  Plink.

  That sound again. Like a tiny vial of glass breaking open.

  I whirl around and instantly stagger back, tripping over Crew Cut Dude and falling on my ass.

  Standing before me is a fifteen-foot-high . . . monster. It’s black and shiny, its body covered in some type of armor so that it looks like a beetle. A white, putty-like head has been shoved down into a hole on the top of its body, protected on the sides and back by a collar of glistening cartilage. Its eyes are black and empty, and its arms . . . its arms are long, tipped with lethal-looking talons.

  “Give me the coordinates,” the creature whispers.

  “The . . . ?”

  “Coordinates.”

  “Sorry. Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” I peer quickly over my shoulder, but the creepy-crawly wall is hanging back, content to let this creature do the talking.

  I fire the last few bullets in the revolver, but they do absolutely nothing to slow the creature down. I look frantically for another weapon and spot the gun that Crew Cut dropped lying about five feet away. It doesn’t look like any gun I’ve ever seen before—bone white, covered in bumps and knots—but at least it’s something.

  The creature steps forward.

  “Give me the—”

  “Yeah, the coordinates. Heard you the first time, pal. You know what—fuck this.”

  I throw the revolver away, then roll to the side and grab the gun.

  But as soon as I touch it I almost drop it again. It feels warm to the touch. Clammy. And now that I see it up close, it looks like it’s made from bone and sinew. It shifts unpleasantly in my hand. Almost as if it’s alive.

  No time to be squeamish. I roll onto my back and fire.

  The gun makes a grunting, satisfied noise that instantly makes me think of someone orgasming. Nothing solid comes out the gun, but the air convulses, as if a sound wave has hit. Black veins crawl up the creature, and then it explodes wetly, turning into a puddle of black and crimson.

  The section of creepy-crawly wall behind the monster also falls apart, the beetles and spiders turning to dust that floats up into the air.

  I stare at the gun in amazement. Nice. I climb to my feet and fire again, holding the quivering trigger down. I turn in a slow circle, aiming the muzzle at the insect wall until there is nothing left.

  I take my finger off the trigger. The gun shudders once. Twice. Three times. Then gives a satisfied sigh. I toss it away in disgust and wipe my hands on my shirt.

  Silence.

  I hold my breath, waiting for another attack.

  It doesn’t come.

  My gaze falls on Crew Cut Dude and the mask he’d been wearing.

  Why was he wearing it? I mean, the guy is ugly, but not hide-your-face-from-the-world ugly.

  I pick it up. It looks like it’s carved from real bone, the eye holes filled with dark green
glass. I try to follow the spirals and runes etched across the yellowing surface, but they shift and squirm as I look, dancing away from my gaze.

  I frown, slowly lifting the mask. As I bring it closer for a better look, I feel it pull inward. I freak out and try to tug it away, but it jerks in my hands, throwing itself against my face.

  I cry out, try to yank the mask away. It doesn’t budge. Feels like it’s glued there. I spin in a circle, struggling to get my fingertips beneath the bone. But I can’t. No gap. It’s as if the mask has joined seamlessly to my face.

  It’s at about this moment that the new noises I’m hearing manage to penetrate the bubble of panic and fear. The noises that started up when I put the mask on.

  I stop whirling around. Bend over. Stare at the ground. Listening.

  Screams. Shouting. Gunfire.

  I unlatch my fingers from the mask. Straighten up.

  And my entire world changes. (Not that it hadn’t changed before. You know, with the freaky monkey and the wall of insects. But . . . all that other stuff, maybe I could have put it down to food poisoning. Or a psychotic break. But this . . .)

  I’m looking through the glass eyes of the mask, and they reveal to me a world that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  The first thing that catches my attention is the massive rip hanging in the air before me, like someone has peeled the wallpaper of reality away to reveal the wood and mortar behind. Except in this case the wood and mortar is a huge area where a pitched battle is currently being fought.

  The rip is about twenty feet wide and thirty feet high. I walk slowly forward, my mouth hanging open in amazement.

  I see the guy from the crime scene earlier today. Havelock Graves, I think he said his name was. He’s whirling and ducking with surprising agility, firing what appears to be a double-barrel shotgun into . . .

  . . . well, into creatures straight from the stuff of nightmares. A giant black scorpion, ridden by what looks like an orc from the Lord of the Rings movies, lunges at him. Graves doesn’t even flinch. He shoots the scorpion’s tail, and it explodes into steaming ichor, the black fluid landing on the orc and instantly burning through its skin. The orc screams and leaps from the back of the scorpion. Graves shoots the orc before it hits the ground, its ugly head exploding in a fine red mist.