by Paul Crilley
Just a dream. I must have dozed off. I stand up and stretch. Time for bed, I think.
I freeze.
There’s a blue light coming from inside my apartment. The same light that accompanies a Slip through to Wonderland.
Graves, maybe? Coming to talk about the case?
I almost stride into the apartment, demanding to know what the hell he thinks he’s playing at, but I stop myself. My old training is kicking in again, making me uneasy. Graves wouldn’t do this. He’d just wait till morning.
I press myself up against the wall and peer slowly past the sliding doors. It’s dark in the lounge. The glow is coming from my bedroom, the anchor point. I chew my bottom lip nervously. What do I do?
Then I see the tactical team entering the lounge and fanning out around the furniture. Dressed in black, faces covered, holding the ICD freaky-ass versions of tactical assault weapons against their shoulders as they check for threats.
I don’t move. What the hell is going on here? Are they from ICD? Or are they members of the cult? Have the bad guys found out where I live? Do they want to put a stop to the investigation?
I look around. The only weapon I have is an empty beer bottle, sitting on the tiles next to my plastic chair. I check to make sure none of the intruders are looking through the door, then slowly crouch down. I reach out, trying to keep hidden. The bottle is too far away. I lean slowly forward, fingers stretching out. I touch the glass . . .
. . . and knock the bottle over. It topples and hits the tiles. I snatch my hand back and flatten myself against the wall as the noise rings out. No way they didn’t hear that.
Sure enough, I sense movement behind the glass and glimpse a shadow approaching the half-open door. I tense as the bone-colored gun barrel appears, followed by gloved hands and then the body.
I grab the gun, yank it forward, and pull it from the guy’s hands. He staggers, falling against the railing with a shout of surprise. His cry alerts the others. They rush toward us. Someone fires. The glass of the sliding door turns to dust. Another shot. I duck against the wall, and the bullet hits the guy I stole the gun from. He dissolves into greasy ash and drifts away.
I fire wildly into my apartment from behind the cover of the wall. A scream. Shouts of confusion. I keep firing, realizing I have to move now. Staying here will just give them time to get to cover, and then we’ll have a standoff. No way I’d get out of that.
I take a deep breath, let off another barrage of invisible bullets, and dive into the room. I slide across the tiles and hit up against the back of my couch. On the other side is the coffee table and my flat screen. I hope no one’s damaged it. I can’t afford a new one.
Everyone’s gone quiet. I take deep, calming breaths, then get to my knees and carefully shuffle along behind the couch.
It’s still dark. The only light is coming from the Slip in my room—a blue, pulsing glow. The intruders are positioned between me and the front door, which means . . . the only way out is through the Slip. To wherever the bad guys came from.
Which is stupid in so many ways, but at least it means I won’t get cut down in my own lounge.
I pause and listen. Still no sound. Nothing at all. These guys are good. My bedroom door is about ten feet away. Ample time for them to riddle me with bullets. This isn’t a movie. No way I’d make it.
I need a distraction. This isn’t a movie, sure, but distractions always work, right? I flatten myself down and peer under the couch. Lots of silhouettes. I feel around. An old pizza box. When did I have pizza last? A month at least. Gross. My hand hits something plastic. A game controller. That will do. Heavy enough. I pull it back, hesitate. Controllers aren’t cheap. I don’t really want to break it. I drop it and grab the pizza box instead. That will make enough noise.
I slide it out then throw it Frisbee-style against the far wall.
Shouted orders and the low, sonic-cannon sound of the guns firing. I scramble to my feet and sprint to the bedroom door. A shout behind me. I dive to the floor then hit up against my bed as the bullets go phip-phip into my wall, sending black veins crawling up the plaster.
I scramble to my feet, grab my gun, then my mask, and ram it onto my face. I leap through the Slip and run, ignoring the long corridor filled with sliding tentacles and freaky shadows.
I sprint as fast as I can. The exit Slip appears ahead, and I burst through—
Into Wonderland.
I stumble to a stop and pull my mask off, looking around in shock.
This can’t be right. It has to be some kind of mistake.
But I know it isn’t. I’m ignoring the truth here because it’s too big to face up to.
The people trying to kill me came from here. Wonderland.
ICD.
Fuck.
I realize I’m still standing in the arrivals room. Which means my attackers are going to be right behind me.
I run again. Straight for the elevators. I jab the button. Keep hitting it over and over till the doors open. I leap inside and stab the button for Department Zero.
The elevator takes ages to descend. I’m getting more and more panicked as I drop, wondering just what the hell is going on. A hundred different scenarios run through my head, none of them making any sense, and all of them feeding my paranoia and fear. Is my family safe? If the intruders know where I live, do they know where Megan and Susan are? My stomach twists with terror at the thought, and I can’t shake it. What if they’re there right now? At my old house.
The elevator bings, and the doors open. I see the muzzle flash and hear the explosion of gunfire at the same time. Proper gunfire. Old school. I dive forward, landing hard on the floor behind a desk. They’re here too. Christ. What have I done? Why are they after me?
“More?” screams a familiar voice. “Bring it then, you curs! I’ll take you all on!”
I frown. “Graves!”
A pause. “Is that you, Harry?”
“Yes! The hell you shooting at me for?”
“I thought you were one of them!”
“I’m standing up now,” I call. “Don’t shoot, okay?”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Graves . . .”
“Fine. I promise.”
I slowly stand up. Graves is hiding behind a metal filing cabinet, his gun leveled at me.
“What’s going on?” I say, moving toward him. I stop, then turn back to the elevator just as the doors are closing and kick a wastebasket between them so they can’t close on me.
“Why are you here?” demands Graves.
“Someone just tried to kill me. They came through a Slip. Into my home!”
“You too?” Graves lowers the gun and moves back to his desk. I follow him. My steps falter when I see the bodies lying on the floor, all of them wearing the same black tactical gear.
“Are they . . . ?”
“Dead? Yes.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“Again, yes.”
“Shit, Graves. This is bad. I think they’re . . .”
“ICD? I know.”
“You know? How?”
He stops rifling through the papers on his desk then looks at me as if I’m insane. “Because I recognize their faces.”
“And you still killed them?”
“They had masks on! I didn’t know who they were when I fought back!”
“Right. Sorry. So . . . what do we do? It’s a mistake, right?”
He carries on scrambling through the papers on his desk. “No. We’ve been Lizbeth’d.”
I pause. “What?”
“Lizbeth’d. Elizabeth MacLeod. An ICD agent. She was declared rogue a hundred years ago. She ran away and took a posse of agents with her. She was hunted down. The name just stuck.”
“And?”
“And?”
“What happened to her?”
“She was killed! What do you think?”
“Right. And this is happening to us because . . . ?”
“I have no ide
a. The memo didn’t say.”
“You . . . got a memo saying you were going to be hunted down?”
“No, idiot. I hacked into the Inspectre’s e-mail. Ages ago. It was helpful having access to the high-level stuff.”
“Um . . .” I glance nervously at the elevator. “I didn’t kill mine. I think they might have followed me back.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“So . . . you got a plan? You know what’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that after you went home for the day I reported to the higher-ups about what happened. I made my report. About the spear. About Nyarlathotep. About them summoning Shub-Niggurath.”
“And?”
“And then one hour after I made my report we were declared rogue and someone tried to kill me. And you.”
“Shit.” I remember something. “Ash—”
“She’s fine. I checked. I didn’t mention her in my report. She wasn’t with us.”
I nod. “Okay. Good. So . . . what are you saying here?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“That someone in the ICD is in league with Nyarlathotep?” I scan the deserted office, my mind racing. “That they want us to stop chasing the spear?”
“And the Jewel of Ini-taya. Two sets of coordinates, remember? The spear is a powerful artifact, more powerful than I knew. I assume the jewel is the same. That massacre at the motel where I first met you? The coordinates? It’s all been about these two items. It’s why Nyarlathotep and his cronies were so keen to break cover. I always wondered. Coming out into the public eye the way they did . . .” He shakes his head. “I should have known it was big.” Graves cries out in triumph and waves a file in the air.
“What’s that?”
“The coordinates. The ones from your head. And Ash’s research into the next world.”
I start to ask him what he plans on doing, but he holds his hand up to stop me. He tilts his head, listening. I do the same. I can hear the trundling arrival of another elevator.
“Time to go!” shouts Graves. He grabs his mask, rams his own shotgun into his pants, and starts running for the bank of elevators. I follow, but we’re not even halfway there when the elevator doors open.
Graves fires wildly with the handgun he’s still carrying. The guys in black scramble for their lives, some ducking back into the elevator, others diving for cover behind the desks.
Graves keeps firing until his gun clicks empty. Then he throws it in their direction. I hear a clunk and then someone shouts.
“Ow!”
The silent bullets start peppering the area around us, turning parts of the office into entropy and dust, black veins creeping up the walls. I overtake Graves, slipping past his heavier frame.
“Hey!” he shouts. “I’m the senior officer here! I go first.”
“Sorry, man. Youth before bulk.”
I get into the elevator and hit the button for the arrivals room. Graves joins me, and we try to hide behind the doors as our attackers pop up from behind the desks and start firing into the elevator.
The bullets hit the wall behind us, the black veins crawling up to the ceiling, turning the metal to rust. The doors slide shut, and we start to rise.
“They’ll follow us up,” says Graves.
“So we’ve got . . . what?” I ask. “Twenty seconds’ lead?”
“Maybe thirty, if their elevator already started back up.”
“So what is the plan?”
“The Jewel of Ini-taya. If it’s even remotely as powerful as the spear, we need to get it before they do.”
“But they’re not connected. They’re two separate things.”
“The Spear of Destiny is not just a spear. It’s disguised as a spear. Whatever it is, it’s Elder Gods magic and somewhere along the years someone made it look like its current form. The jewel will likely be the same.”
“Okay . . . and? What do you think they do?”
“We know what they do. The spear was powerful enough to almost free Shub-Niggurath. We know what Nyarlathotep wants. To free all the Old Ones, to bring Cthulhu out of his underwater prison.”
“And you think that’s what these two things will do? If they’re brought together?”
“That’s what I fear they will do. If Nyarlathotep succeeds, then they will take over again. Understand? You. Me. This place. Your family. All of it. Everything. The Old Ones will devour it all.”
“And the ICD knows this?”
“Someone does.”
“Are we talking conspiracy here?”
“That’s exactly what we’re talking.” He swings toward me, eyes wide. “I bet the Inspectre is involved! It makes perfect sense.”
“How does it make sense?”
“The man’s a complete buffoon!”
“That’s not a reason. Sure you’re not letting your personal feelings get in the way?”
“My personal feelings have nothing to do with the fact the man is an odious oink. He’s involved. I feel it in my blood.”
The elevator crawls up past the various departments and stops one floor below the gate room. The doors ping open, and we wait, just in case anyone wants to shoot us in the face.
Nothing happens.
“Take a look,” says Graves.
“You take a look.”
“I’m the boss. I order you to take a look.”
“Not a chance. I don’t think they’ve even started my medical coverage yet.”
“Gads, you remind me of someone I used to work with. He was just as annoying. Short, too.”
“I’m not short. I’m average height.”
Graves shuffles toward the doors. “Keep telling yourself that.” He takes a deep breath, then darts his head out into the hall and back in again.
“Anything?”
“No.”
He steps out into the corridor, breaking into a jog. I follow, passing door after door as we head toward the stairwell at the far end of the passage.
Graves stops before the door and looks at me expectantly.
“What?” I ask.
“Your turn. I did the elevator.”
“Oh for . . .” I lean past him and yank the door open. Nothing. Just an empty stairwell. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Graves pushes past me and climbs the stairs. I follow behind him, glancing across the graffiti that has been scribbled on the institutional green walls. There is a surprisingly large amount involving Graves.
“People don’t really like you, do they?” I ask as we round the bend in the stairwell and come into view of the door to the penthouse level.
“I’m not here to make friends.”
“Just as well.”
Graves ignores me and gently pushes the door open. I strain to hear anything, but there’s just silence. Graves pushes it wider and peers out.
A gloved hand reaches around the gap and puts a gun against the side of his head.
I react instinctively, slamming my foot hard into the door. It hits against Graves’s assailant, sending him staggering back. Graves is still in the process of turning around in shock, and I lunge through the door and punch the guy hard in the stomach. He doubles over, his breath sucked from his body, and I bring my knee up as hard as I can, hitting him in the chin.
His neck snaps back, and he slumps against the wall. I turn around and face an amazed Graves.
“What?” I say. “I’m just getting real goddamn tired of people shooting at me today, that’s all.”
We make our way to the glass doors that lead into the penthouse offices. We crouch down and peer inside. Steel desks, computers showing screensavers. Abandoned. Stretching away into the distance.
“They’ve cleared out the room,” whispers Graves.
“What’s the plan?”
“We sneak in, enter the coordinates, and run to the Slip.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Graves slowly pushes the doors open and crawls into the room. I follow, and
we move slowly through the maze of desks, heading closer to the rows of pedestals where the Slips appear. Some of them are empty, others are pulsing a light blue color, as if they’re in low power mode.
My senses are stretched, trying to pick up any sound of movement. The scuff of a shoe, an indrawn breath. But I hear nothing. Either these guys are really good or they all went downstairs looking for me.
Graves stops before a desk and slowly pulls the keyboard onto the floor. He types in the coordinates, pushing the keys as lightly as possible. Then he looks at me.
“Wait,” he whispers.
He hits Enter, and one of the gates at the far end of the room flares to life.
Immediately, the room is a cacophony of shouts and orders. The leader of the tactical force orders his men out of hiding and into action. I look at Graves questioningly, but he’s typing rapidly again. He hits Enter and starts crawling toward a second Slip that has opened up, this one close to us and far away from the first.
We make it to the Slip without bullets riddling our bodies. We put on our masks and crawl through the gate, into the tunnel of endless midnight, going God knows where in order to save the multiverse from being devoured by the Old Ones.
Just another day at the office.
Chapter Fourteen
We exit the Slip into a solid wall of heat.
I stagger into a cramped room, my breath sucked from my body. It feels like I’m suffocating, like I’m trying to draw something heavy and thick into my lungs.
My vision is weird, a green tinge over everything. It takes a moment for me to realize it’s because the mask has gone silent. No information scrolls past my eyes.
I touch the catch beneath my chin and release the mask. Graves does the same.
“We’ve been cut off from Wonderland,” he says.
“Completely?” I ask.
“Is your mask working?”
“No.”
“Then yes, completely.”
“What do we do?”
Graves flops down in a wooden chair and rubs his face. “I don’t know.”
I stare around the room. It’s cluttered with old, dusty furniture. “Is this a safe house?”
“Yes.” Graves throws the file at me and closes his eyes. “We’ll have to do this old school. Read the briefing to me.”
