Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  The team is indeed in the town square. And over it. And round the edges. And . . . pretty much everywhere, really.

  The ICD team sent here to nullify the Superior are all dead. Their bodies are strung up between two half-broken statues, intestines hanging in the air like bunting. Their eyes have been plucked from their heads, left to dangle against their cheeks.

  I look around in confusion. “Did the Superior do this? I thought we were here to clean up the scene after these guys fixed it.”

  “We were.” Graves turns in a slow circle, studying the perimeter of the square.

  “So what—”

  “Hsst.” Graves holds up a hand to stop me talking. Then he points. “There.”

  Ash and I both look. There’s a figure hanging from the doors of what looks like the town hall. He’s blond, seven feet tall. Wearing blue spandex with a red logo on the chest. I can’t see what the logo is. An M, perhaps? It’s hard to make out.

  But that’s not really important. What is important is the fact that the Superior is dead as well, his throat ripped out so his head hangs from a piece of skin.

  “Yeah, hate to be the guy asking the stunningly obvious question here, but if this guy is dead, then who took out your team?”

  Graves turns to stare at me. There’s something behind his eyes. Triumph? Elation? No. I must be wrong. Those emotions don’t make sense here.

  But then Graves smiles. “I thought so,” he says.

  I turn to Ash, but she looks as confused as me.

  “Graves?” she says. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t done a thing.”

  And then I hear it.

  Plink.

  Plink.

  Plink.

  Like tiny glass vials snapping apart.

  Graves yanks his backpack around and pulls out the bone guns. He throws one to Ash, then grabs the one that belonged to Crew Cut Dude and tosses it to me. He grabs his own shotgun and racks the chamber.

  “Graves, what’s going on?” demands Ash.

  Graves doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to, because approaching us across the square are three amorphous . . . blobs. They’re about ten feet tall, bulbous, and misshapen. Like a kid’s Play-Doh figurine. Their skin is translucent and wet. I can see black blood coursing through their veins.

  “Shoggoths!” shouts Graves.

  I glance at Ash. “Another one of Lovecraft’s, right?”

  She nods. I watch the creatures coming, wondering how they found us.

  And that’s when I realize the truth.

  The look of disappointment on Graves’s face after we’d finished work yesterday. I couldn’t figure it out at the time. Now I know. He was bummed out we hadn’t been attacked.

  I ignore the approaching blobs. Lower my gun and turn to face Graves. “You set me up!”

  Graves doesn’t even look at me. His hands clench and unclench around the bone handle of his shotgun as he scans the square.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “Yes! You do! That’s why you offered me a place on your team, right? I’m bait! You’re using me to get your old job back.” I turn to a wide-eyed Ash. “Did you know about this?”

  “No! I swear.” Her eyes shift to Graves. “Graves? It’s not true. Right?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Why else would you seek me out? You have hundreds of people at ICD to fill your team. Why me?” I glance at Ash. “Didn’t that seem weird to you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And? What did he say?”

  “That he . . . felt bad leaving you behind. Wanted to bring you behind the curtain.”

  “Bullshit. He wants to solve the case that started this off. Wants to get out of Department Zero. Right?”

  “Oh, God’s sake!” shouts Graves. “Fine! Yes! So what? I figured this lot would be after you. Decided to dangle the carrot in front of their faces. What does it matter? We get out of the basement, wonder boy here gets to experience life outside of his hitherto shattered and pathetic existence, we bag the bad guys, and the Inspectre gets egg on his face. Everybody wins!”

  “Everybody wins?” I shout. “Are you kidding me? You lied!”

  Graves finally turns in my direction. “I lied? What are you, twelve? So what if I lied? It was for the greater good.”

  “That’s not cool, Graves,” says Ash softly.

  “Look, can we debate the ethics of this later?” He gestures at the approaching shoggoths. “After we deal with these guys?”

  He raises his gun. “Just don’t kill them. We need to find out who sent them.”

  The lead shoggoth pauses. Two red eyes emerge from inside the pulsating mass. A long, misshapen arm rises up and points at me. “Give . . . us . . . the . . . coordinates,” it says in a wet, gurgling voice.

  Graves and Ash look at me. I shrug. “The other one asked me the same thing. The Dimensional Shambler? I have no idea what it means.”

  I hear a ripping sound off to my left, like flesh being torn in half. I turn and see a crack of blue-white light hanging in the air. The crack jerks and shudders, ripping wider and wider. Light spills out, bathing the shattered stone in a pallid, hospital glow.

  “Is that a Slip?”

  “No,” says Graves. “I keep telling you. That’s a Rip. Ours are officially sanctioned. Planned out. That there is a rip in reality. Barreling through God knows how many alternates and forcing its way here.”

  A shadow appears behind the crack, fluttering against the light.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Stand firm,” snaps Graves. “Wait for it to come through. Ash? Cover the others.”

  “I am.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Um . . . smiling.”

  Graves and I both turn. Sure enough the three shoggoths are standing on the edge of the city square, watching the rip open up with satisfied smiles on their bulbous faces.

  A horrific shriek echoes through the square. We whirl around and see a huge creature pulling itself through the Rip. It’s a bird of some type, easily the size of an elephant. A black-beaked head lunges and snarls, teeth snapping at the air. Huge, bat-like wings erupt outward, flapping as it tries to drag itself through the Rip.

  It’s like I’m witnessing some nightmare creature giving birth.

  Then the creature bursts through and falls to the stone. It lays there for a while, panting.

  “What is that?” I whisper.

  “A shantak.”

  “A . . . ?”

  “A shantak.”

  “Another—”

  “Will you please stop asking if every single creature we come across is one of Lovecraft’s? So far, that is indeed the case, yes. Which says more about you or that globe you shattered. If a creature isn’t from the mythos, I’ll let you know, how does that sound?”

  The shantak scrambles to its feet and starts to pull the Rip wider apart.

  That’s when we all realize we should be firing our guns.

  Graves shoots first. The shantak launches itself into the air, flapping its wings to gain height.

  I track and fire. The weapon convulses and shudders, invisible strands sending shock waves through the air. But the shantak is fast. It dodges and spins, veering effortlessly through the sky.

  “Behind us!” shouts Ash.

  I turn and see two more of the creatures pulling themselves through.

  I run toward them, not even realizing what a colossally stupid thing this is to do. I fire. Again.

  “Harry!”

  I turn as soon as I hear Ash’s warning. The first shantak is diving for me, claws outstretched.

  I throw myself to the side, and the creature soars through the air where I was standing. I roll onto my back, finger pressing down on the quivering trigger. But it’s hard to aim when you can’t actually see the bullets. I sweep the gun back and forth, but the shantak dodges, screaming at me as it darts and weaves against the gray clouds.

>   The other two shantak pull through the Rip and rush toward me. I shift my aim, pointing the gun at them. I hit one of the creatures in the leg, and the limb bursts into a puddle of ichor. The shantak screams and stumbles, hitting the ground as black blood pumps out of its stump.

  The other shantak keeps coming. I shift my aim again, but the creature barrels into me, knocking the gun flying. I fall back, the creature on my chest. It snaps at me, trying to rip away my face.

  Then it bursts like a water balloon. If said water balloon was filled with vile, foul-smelling, hot blood.

  The liquid falls directly on me. Into my mouth, up my nose. I roll over, vomiting and coughing. It’s disgusting. Like oil and blood mixed together. I stagger to my feet. I can’t get the stuff off. I try to pull it away with my fingers, but it just stretches like gunky string.

  “Down!” shouts Ash.

  I drop to the ground again and feel the whoosh of wind above me as another shantak flies past. I wipe the crud out of my eyes and look for my gun. There. About thirty feet away.

  I scramble to my feet and make a run for it. There’s a screech of triumph behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see two shantak flying toward me. I try to coax some extra speed from my rubbery legs. Twenty feet. Ten. Another look. The shantak are close. I can see their eyes, black against yellow.

  Five feet. A shriek of pain. A quick look and I see one of the shantak is now a cloud of black ichor pattering onto the stone. I turn back, reach out for the gun—

  And then I’m yanked backward. My breath explodes from my body, and I fold up with a gasp of pain. The gun recedes below me as I’m lifted into the air. I try to pry the shantak’s claws from around my ribs. Then I realize how stupid that is, considering how high up I am.

  Down below, the three shoggoth freaks have chosen that moment to attack Ash and Graves. The shantak banks in the air and drops lower. I think it’s about to join the fight, but it changes direction and heads back toward the Rip.

  I realize what’s happening and quickly fumble at my belt for my mask, jamming it hard onto my face just as the shantak flies straight into the Rip.

  Blue-white light surrounds me, slices through me. I scream in pain, and then everything goes black.

  Chapter Eight

  I wake up in darkness with a headache that makes me think I must have had a goddamn amazing time last night. Usually when my day starts this way I do a quick mental run-through of events, trying to figure out if I need to be embarrassed or happy.

  When I do the run-through this time, however, I sit bolt upright in fear.

  Or try to. I can’t, because I’m strapped to some kind of stone altar. Legs, arms, chest. Everything.

  I remember the attack back in the town square. Being grabbed. Pulled through the Rip.

  Crap.

  I can still move my head. I look left and right, trying to get an idea of where I am. I see old stone pillars, a low, vaulted ceiling, and wine racks up against the far wall. The air is damp and cold. Old-fashioned bulbs hang from the ceiling, giving off a flickering orange glow. Some kind of cellar. A big one, by the look of it. And it has wine.

  Which is annoying as hell, because I could really do with some of that wine right about now. A couple of bottles, if I’m honest.

  A door creaks open from somewhere behind and above me. I wait, straining my ears, my whole body on edge. Then I hear footsteps. Lots of them. Soft feet shuffling along the stone.

  A few seconds later a dark-robed figure appears in my peripheral vision and slowly walks around the altar. The figure is followed by another, then another, and another, until I’m surrounded by a ring of sinister figures wearing black robes, cowls pulled up to hide their faces.

  They just stand there, not making a sound.

  “Uh . . . hey,” I say, trying to keep it light. Overwhelm them with charm. “You should give your stylist a raise. Black, you know? Very slimming. And the cowl thing? Perfect. Intimidating and mysterious. Two for one.”

  The clamps are around my forearms, so I manage to raise both my thumbs in the air.

  No response.

  I stare at them, waiting to see what is going to happen next. Minutes pass. No movement.

  “Yeah, kind of getting a bit awkward now, guys,” I say. “Any idea when things are going to kick into gear?”

  Nothing.

  Another few minutes pass, and just when I think I’m about to explode with built-up tension, the robed figures all step back, revealing a new arrival. A man.

  He’s robed, but doesn’t have a cowl over his face. He looks . . . Egyptian, I think. Or Middle Eastern.

  I tilt my hand up and give a small wave. “Hi.” I squint at him. “Are you wearing eyeliner? Or are your eyes really like that? It looks good. Suits you. Makes them pop.”

  The figure steps forward. My heart thumps erratically in my chest. I check his hands to see if he’s holding a sacrificial dagger, but they’re empty. That’s something, at least.

  He reaches out and puts his fingers on my head. His touch is cool and dry.

  “Come on. You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

  His fingers press into my skin. It gets painful pretty quickly. I try to move my head, but his fingers pin me to the altar.

  “Hey . . .” I start to say, but then I freeze as I feel his fingers sink into my head.

  I scream. I can feel his fingers in my mind. In my brain, rooting around, playing with my thoughts. He’s rifling through my memories like an office worker rifling through a file cabinet, searching for something.

  My cry trails off. My thoughts drift into nothingness, my mind fogged and fuzzy. I no longer know what I’m doing here. No longer care. I just lie there, mouth half-open, drooling, while this freaky-deaky dude plays with my brain.

  Then he finds something. A memory that I see before me. That day on the freeway. Me, taking the small glass globe out of my pocket, staring at it in surprise before I toss it to Graves. The brief flash of awareness when I see those numbers hidden in the depths of the globe, so quickly I barely registered them at the time.

  The memory freezes there, the Blu-Ray of my life on pause. The numbers leap into sharp focus. There are two separate strings: 58384-689fh-63al/7 and 583030-65839h-64ak/4.

  The numbers imprint themselves on my mind. I screw my eyes tight against them, but they just hang there, hovering against my eyelids.

  I open my eyes again. The robed figure steps back, extracting his fingers from my mind. He turns to the others and claps his hands together.

  “All right. There we go, people. All done and dusted. Wonderful. Super. I like what I’m feeling here. It’s positive; it’s warming. You know? I feel the love. Praise Azathoth.”

  All the cultists respond, “Praise the Great Old Ones!”

  “Yeah. The Great Old Ones. Those super cosmic gods. Praise to those hoopy dudes. Come on. Let’s go have some canapés and soda.”

  They turn and file slowly through the basement, leaving me lying there feeling violated and used.

  “Hey,” I say weakly. “You guys gonna let me up?” No answer. “At least put a bottle of wine in my hand!” I shout, mustering all my energy.

  The door creaks shut again. I close my eyes, exhausted. The numbers are still there, clear as day. What the hell are they? Why are they so important?

  More to the point, how the hell am I going to get out of this?

  I strain against my bindings with everything I have. Nothing. The straps are old leather and metal buckles, the kind used to lock down crazy patients in old movies. No way am I getting out of this.

  “Graves,” I mutter. “I curse you and your bloodline from now to eternity. I hope you contract an embarrassing sexually transmitted disease.”

  I stay like that for the next hour. My arms and legs turn numb. I’m so bored I doze off for a bit.

  Something startles me awake. You know how it is. You wake up, heart racing, but have no idea why. You lie there, every one of your senses straining to detect the murd
erer you know is coming for you.

  “You look comfortable,” says Havelock Graves.

  I peer through the gap between my feet. He’s standing there, smug as ever, looking around the cellar with interest. I see he’s holding a dusty bottle of wine in his hands. He inspects the label.

  “Good year,” he says.

  “Wonderful,” I snap. “But could you put the wine down and get these things off?” I shake my hands and feet.

  Graves stares at me for a moment. “You’re not going to do anything silly if I do?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like blame me for all this.”

  “Who else should I blame?”

  “Well . . . me. Sure. But you’re not going to attack me or anything like that?”

  “No, I’m not going to attack you. We’re not in high school.”

  Graves stares at me a bit longer, then puts the wine down next to my leg and unbuckles the straps. I sit up, rubbing life back into my wrists and ankles while Graves hunts around the cellar.

  “No corkscrew,” he complains. “How the hell am I supposed to open this?”

  I hold my hand out. “Give it here.”

  He hands it over, and I give the top of the bottle a quick tap against the altar. The neck of the bottle breaks and falls to the stone floor. I check the break. Clean. No splinters. I hold the bottle above my mouth and pour the wine in. I manage to get half the bottle down me before I hold it out for Graves.

  When he reaches for it I hit him. Right in the cheek.

  Graves dances back, holding his face. “You said you wouldn’t hit me!”

  “So I lied. Asshole.”

  We stare warily at each other.

  “You done now?” he asks.

  I think about it, then nod.

  “Good. And just so you know, I always had a plan. I knew they might come for you. I tracked you through your mask.”

  “Oh. It was still a shitty thing to do. Where’s Ash?”

  “Back in the office. She’s not talking to me.”

  “Good.” I hop off the plinth. “Just so you know, they were after some numbers in my head.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Yeah.” The numbers come instantly to my memory. They’re imprinted there. “They’re 58384-689fh-63al/7, and 583030-65839h