Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  The thief pulls out something from beneath the altar and puts his foot on it. The Dusters all do the same thing, and a second later they all start to furiously pump their feet up and down.

  Foot pumps. Like the ones you get for pumping air into bike tires.

  They’re pumping the blood from their prisoners into a dead Martian using foot pumps.

  I stand up and take out my gun. “All right!” I shout. “Everybody be cool and don’t freak out or anything.” The Dusters all stop pumping and look up at me. I point at the thief. “You, my man, have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Who are you?” shouts the thief.

  “My name is . . . Atticus Pope. And I’m here to put a stop to your freaky-deaky shit.”

  “No, you’re not!” shouts one of the Dusters.

  “I am!”

  “You’re not!”

  “I am— Look, this isn’t a goddamn pantomime. Just put your hands up, okay?”

  And it’s at around this time that a cold metal bar joins together (at rapid speed) with my soft, fleshy head.

  And here we are. Me, groggily coming awake, hanging thirty feet off the ground, ten feet above an overripe Martian corpse, while a congregation of sweating and puffing Dusters tries to suck blood from my body.

  “Pump!” shouts the thief. “Pump with all your might, my unfit children. We will bring our master back to life with our sweat and burning lungs. We will raise our Lord from the dead with our rapidly cramping leg muscles.”

  “You realize it was the bacteria you carry in your blood that killed them in the first place, right?” I shout down.

  “Do not listen to the unbeliever. His blood will be the catalyst. His essence will spark the fire of life—”

  “I mean, not literally your blood. But . . . you know . . . the bacteria here on earth. So, I guess the same bacteria is in our blood? I was never big on biology at school. I sat next to this amazing redhead. Sarah was her name. Very distracting.”

  “Silence!” screams the thief. “The donors do not speak.”

  “They might not, but I do. Guess you forgot to drug me, huh?”

  The thief throws an accusing look at the woman who led the procession of prisoners into the church.

  “Apologies, Most High Venerated One. I forgot.”

  “Don’t take it out on her, HVO. Look, let’s be serious here. You’re not going to resuscitate this creature here. It was on the turn forty years ago.”

  “We’ve kept it on ice.”

  “Yeah, sure. For forty years? Come on. Bits of it must be dripping by now.”

  “Silence!”

  This is getting stupid. How the hell am I supposed to get out of this? There’s no blood in the tube dangling from my arm yet. But some of the other donors aren’t so lucky. About half the tubes are dark red.

  “Wouldn’t this kind of thing be better if the blood came from the devout?” I call out.

  “Uh . . . no,” replies the High Venerated One. “Better if it’s from an outsider.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Um . . .” The HVO’s leg moves up and down as he operates the pump. “It just is. It’s the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  “His!” He gestures at the Martian corpse.

  “Right. Talks to you, does it?”

  “Yes! He communicates with only me! And I pass his wishes on to the congregation.”

  “Of course you do. I—”

  The doors at the far end of the church fly open, slamming hard against the walls. Leaves and old newspapers fly inside, slapping up against the pews.

  Nothing else happens. The HVO frowns, stops pumping, then moves into the central aisle. He leans forward, peering toward the door.

  The HVO turns to his second-in-command. “Doris, close the—”

  Which is as far as he gets. Machine gun fire erupts outside the door, cutting the HVO to pieces. He screams and jerks, blood spurting from his body.

  The acolytes scream and scatter from their pews. The muzzle flash comes closer as the gunmen enter the church, firing. They’re all wearing long gray trench coats, with huge goggles covering their eyes. They fire at the fleeing acolytes, mowing them down as they try to escape.

  I struggle against my chains, but it’s hopeless. The attackers stop firing the machine guns, and I decide holding perfectly still might be the best thing to do right now.

  The men in gray trench coats move through the pews, heading straight for the altar. The leader lifts his goggles, and I recognize him. Himmler again. He grabs the spear, shouts something at the others about . . . Wewelsburg Castle? I think that’s what he says. And then they retrace their steps back out the church, pulling the doors shut behind them. Considerate. Bit of a chilly night, after all.

  The silence after the gunfire seems like the loudest sound in the world. I stare around the church, at the dead bodies littering the pews, the blood dripping down the walls. I hear a slow, gurgling breath, then nothing.

  Wonderful.

  The doors slam open again. A shadowy figure appears in the entrance. Have they come back to finish the job?

  “Is this going to become a habit?” calls out Graves.

  I fight down the traitorous feeling of gratitude that wells up in me when I hear his voice.

  “What?” I call back. “Being kidnapped by cultists while trying to clean up your mess? I really hope not.”

  “No. Me having to rescue you from your own stupid mistakes.”

  “Get me down and I’ll show you a stupid mistake.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means I’m going to punch you again.”

  “Then why would I let you down?”

  Crap.

  “Ignore that. I was hit on the head. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. Scout’s honor.”

  “Were you a scout?”

  “No.” Crap. “Yes! Yes, I was!” I sigh, my head hanging against my chest. “Just get me down, Graves. It’s been a long day.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Four hours later, Graves and I are flying above the German countryside in a passenger zeppelin, sipping dark coffee in our shared cabin while Ash gives us a lecture through our masks on what to expect in our near future.

  (We didn’t just abandon those poor bastards back at St. Paul’s, though. Graves called the local police to come and pick them up, and we took them down from the chains, making them as comfortable as possible before getting the hell out of there.)

  “Heinrich Himmler signed a hundred-year lease for the seventeenth-century Wewelsburg Castle in 1933,” says Ash. Her voice sounds crackly and distant. “Apparently Himmler originally wanted to turn the castle into a training facility for the SS.”

  “Wanted to?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He decided to aim a bit higher. See, most of the Nazi leaders believe in myths and legends. They think these magical tales dictate their future. Hitler is obsessed with magic, and Himmler decided to turn the castle into a training facility focused on the occult. He called the place the Grail Castle.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Is the Grail there?”

  “No. But the Grail Order is another name for the SS. The castle is where Himmler plans on bringing all the mythical treasures they find. He believes that when the Nazis rule the world, these artifacts will give off a magical power that would help them rule. Himmler named many of the rooms after King Arthur and his knights. There’s even a round table with twelve chairs around it.”

  “And the Spear of Destiny is one of these artifacts?” asks Graves.

  “Yeah. Looks like they’ve been after the spear for years. Ever since Hitler saw it in a museum when he was younger. Some say that’s why he invaded Vienna in the first place. To get the spear.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence they came after it at the same time as us and Nyarlathotep?” I ask.

  “Looks like it. The display at the museum was the perfect opportunity for al
l parties.”

  “Well I think it’s just ludicrous,” complains Graves. “How is a man meant to do his job when all these cults and secret societies constantly get in the way? It’s inconsiderate, is what it is.”

  “Listen, I’m going to sign out,” says Ash. “I’ve already exceeded the contact time frame.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” says Graves. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  We take our masks off and stash them in our satchels.

  “Any idea what Himmler is going to do with the spear?” I ask.

  “Well . . . it’s what? 1938? Almost time for the war. I imagine they’re planning something they hope will destroy their enemies. Most likely some infernal rite will take place. Human sacrifice will no doubt figure largely. Lots of blood. Probably at midnight. And if there’s a storm on the go then so much the better. Adds drama.” Graves settles back in his seat and folds his hands over his large stomach. “Now be silent for a while. I want to get some sleep.”

  I let him sleep. After another hour or so of travel, the zeppelin docks at a place called Büren and we catch a train to the village of Wewelsburg.

  Nothing much happens on the train, but I will say that traveling with Graves is just as bad as I thought it would be. He complains about everything. About the quality of the seating, the tea, the coffee, the food, the light that enters through the window, the constant rattling noise of the train going over the tracks. Everything.

  Imagine every family trip you’ve ever taken with bored kids, then multiply that by a hundred. And I’m not talking family trips nowadays, with iPads and handheld games and portable DVD players. I’m talking an eighties trip. When all we had were books, comics, and your old man’s cassette collection. The one that consisted only of Talking Heads, Dire Straits, Kate Bush, and Queen. That’s what it’s like traveling with Havelock Graves.

  I’ve already spotted our destination as the train leaves the station in Wewelsburg. The castle sits atop a small, tree-covered hill in the center of the village, a triangular structure that looks more like an old hospital than a castle. I mean, it has the rounded towers capping off each of the three points. They even have crenellations. But it doesn’t scream “Nazi castle” to me. It’s the kind of place that would probably serve as a bed-and-breakfast back home.

  Speaking of home . . .

  “What time is it?”

  Graves pulls out the ornate pocket watch from his waistcoat. “After three in the morning.”

  “What time is that in LA?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I need to say good night to my kid. I don’t know when I’m going to get a chance to talk to her again.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Come on. We just chatted to Ash. Can’t the masks . . . forward my call or something?”

  Graves frowns, then shakes his head. “No. I do have a phone, but it’s for emergencies only.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  “Saying good night to your accidental offspring is not what I’d consider an emergency.”

  “Come on, Graves,” I say. “Saying good night is about the only time I get to talk to her.”

  “Then you should have thought of that before you . . .” He waves a hand in the air. “. . . cheated on your spouse.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Became an alcoholic.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Developed a gambling problem.”

  “Again . . . no.”

  “My God, man! I don’t care why you divorced. But I am sure it’s because of something you did, so now you must deal with the consequences.”

  I spot a bench outside the station and head toward it.

  “What are you doing?” demands Graves. “We have work to do.”

  I ignore him and sit down.

  “Oh, so that’s how it is?” snaps Graves. “What are we? Ten years old? Fine. You want to sit there all night, be my guest.” He shivers and pulls his coat tighter. “Bit chilly though. Going to be a long wait.”

  I ignore him and stare at the building opposite us. He makes an exasperated sound and stalks off along the cobbled streets, muttering under his breath.

  I wait. To give him his credit, he holds out for twenty minutes before stomping back and dropping a phone in my lap.

  “Be quick,” he snaps. “If anyone sees you with something like that around here we’ll be investigated for retrophile offences.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. I dial zero, then punch in the number for home.

  Susan answers. “Hello?”

  “Hiya, Suse. It’s dad.”

  “Dad!”

  “Just phoning to say good night.”

  “Mom’s already read my story. She said you weren’t going to call.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “That’s what I said!”

  “It’s fine. You can fill me in on what happened next time. You head off to bed now, you hear?”

  “’Kay. Love you lots like jelly tots. Have lovely dreams. Have a nice night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”

  “Love you lots like jelly tots. Have lovely dreams. Have a nice night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, squish a few.”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too, kiddo,” I whisper, trying to disguise the lump in my throat.

  She hangs up. I wordlessly hand the phone back to Graves, who—to his credit—doesn’t say anything as he stashes it in his satchel.

  “Can we go now?” he asks.

  I get to my feet. “We can go now.”

  Graves strides away. “Consider that your tea break!” he calls over this shoulder. “You’re on the clock till we finish the job. Understand?”

  We make our way through the deserted village, catching sight of the castle between gaps in the buildings.

  “I have to say,” declares Graves as he takes long strides up the hill, “it’s a bit of a letdown, no? The center of Nazi occult learning and this is the best they can come up with? You think the SS is being hit with budget cuts in this alternate? The place looks like a hotel, for God’s sake. Incredibly disappointing.”

  We eventually leave the village behind and follow the cobbled street until we’re about three hundred feet from the castle. We hide in a clump of pine trees to get a good look at the structure. The road carries on to a bridge that leads directly to the front door, a deep, arched entrance that cuts through the thick walls. Two guards stand by the doors. They’re wearing thick gray overcoats, rifles held against their shoulders.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “Well,” says Graves, leaning casually against a tree trunk, “I thought we could sneak up, knock those two chaps—” he points at the guards, “—over the head, hopefully eliciting a comical reaction from at least one of them, then—”

  “Please don’t let the next words out of your mouth be along the lines of ‘we steal their uniforms and sneak into the castle.’”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that kind of thing only works in movies. Incredibly bad movies.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a solid plan.”

  “It’s not! They’ll see us coming and shoot us.”

  “They’re not monsters!”

  “They’re the SS! Look up ‘monster’ in the dictionary and you’ll see a picture of them.”

  “Oh, now you’re just overreacting.”

  I look at him in amazement. “Do you know what Hitler did? How many people died?”

  Graves waves a hand in dismissal. “Thousands, I’m sure.”

  “Thousands?”

  “Keep your voice down,” snaps Graves. “Or they might add two more to their count.”

  I snap my mouth shut and rub my temples. How many hours to go on this shift? All I want right now is my bed and a good night’s sleep.

  “Ooh!” says Graves. “What about waiting for the laundry service to come? Perhaps we could—I don’t know, I’m ju
st spitballing here—dress up as washer ladies and sneak in the service entrance?”

  “Perfect.”

  Graves straightens up. “Really?” he says. “Because I’ve always wanted to dress up as a washer woman. I’ll have to hide my masculine good looks, of course, but—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But you said—”

  “I just meant we should look for the service entrance. Try and sneak in around the back.”

  “You want us to skulk?”

  “If it keeps us alive.”

  “Havelock Graves does not skulk! I refuse.”

  “Fine. I’ll skulk; you can do . . . whatever it is you do. Let’s just look for the service entrance first, okay?”

  Graves stares at me for a moment, then turns and strides back along the road, keeping out of sight of the guards. I catch up as he hits the bend in the road and hurries across to the other side.

  I join him at a low wall. There’s a sheer drop on the other side down to the walls of the castle itself. No chance we can get down there. We’ll slip and break our necks.

  “I don’t have time for this,” says Graves. “If we don’t get back soon I’m going to miss my soap operas. Wait here.”

  Without waiting for me to answer, he moves along the wall at a low crouch, heading toward the small bridge and the guards. He gets about twenty feet from them before the guards spot him. They call out, and Graves simply straightens up with his gun and shoots both of them, turning them into clouds of greasy ash.

  I jog along the road to join him.

  “See?” he says. “Easy.”

  He pushes the doors open, and we walk through the short tunnel into the inner courtyard. It’s a lot smaller than you’d think from outside, a claustrophobic, cobbled triangle filled with old benches and wooden chairs. We try the first door we come to. Locked. Same with the second.

  The third, however, gives us entry into the castle. We step inside, finding ourselves in a corridor lit by old-fashioned bulbs with glowing orange elements hanging from wires nailed into the mortar.

  “So . . . where do we find these guys?” I ask. “We can’t just wander around the castle.”

  “Interesting you should ask,” says Graves. “I actually have a concrete plan about that.”