by Paul Crilley
He staggers back, shrieking in agony, his face a ball of fire. Dana drops to the ground, the black veins spreading over her face, aging her until she’s nothing but a skeleton that turns to dust.
Nyarlathotep grabs the bag containing the head, and he dives into the Rip, trailing smoke and the smell of burning flesh behind him.
“Not cool, guys. . . .” comes his distant voice as he sprints away through the tunnel. “This . . . really hurts.”
I look at Graves. “What now?”
“We follow after.”
So saying, he slaps his mask onto his face and leaps into the Rip, just as it’s starting to close. I grab my own mask from the satchel and quickly follow.
Chapter Twenty
The Rip snaps shut behind us. I’ve never been in the tunnel without a functioning mask, so I have no idea what to expect. I mean, it’s still there, covering my face, but it’s not linked to Wonderland. Surely that will have an effect.
It’s dark. A soul-level, primordial darkness that speaks to the collective memory of humankind. A darkness that drove us into caves, that made us gather around fires in primitive family units to fight off the night.
Something slithers in my peripheral vision. I turn quickly. Lightning flickers. I see strobe-like images of tentacles and claws, flashes of old bone and serrated teeth. Horned gods dancing in ancient forests that stretch from one coast to the other.
Fear surges through me, ancient, primal. I tense, readying myself to run, but Graves grabs me by the arm.
“Control it,” he says softly. “They can sense your panic.”
“What are they?”
“Ancient fears. Given life by humankind’s collective unconscious. They only exist here now, between the worlds.”
“I didn’t feel this before.”
“You think we use those masks because they make us look dashing? The Elder Gods were the only ones who knew who they were. Understand? They had evolved beyond fear. Beyond self-doubt, narcissism. They accepted their reality utterly, and when they could do that they gained control over it. The masks that we use—parts of the Elder Gods—hide us from the echoes in the dark. Now, enough questions. We need to move.”
He gestures ahead. Nyarlathotep and the remaining hounds are stepping through the end of the tunnel into bright sunshine. I feel a surge of happiness at the sight. Sun. Normalcy.
Graves starts moving at an odd, skipping trot. I follow at the same pace, wondering why we don’t just run for it. Especially as I’m sure something is following us and oh, look—the Rip is starting to close up, healing itself and knitting back together.
“Graves—”
“Slowly,” he says. “We have to time this properly.”
He moves faster, then slows, then suddenly speeds up again. The Rip has almost closed up in the middle, streamers of sunlight shifting and dancing across the inside of the tunnel. Invisible creatures surge and hiss away from the light, pulling back into the darkness. We’re not going to make it. We’re going to be shut in here forever, with no way to contact Wonderland—
“Run!” snaps Graves, and he leaps ahead of me, sprinting the remaining distance to the opening.
I’m stunned into immobility at first, watching his back recede. Then I feel something wrap around my ankle, and I shriek and surge after him, moving faster than I’ve ever moved in my life.
Graves dives through the Rip. The opening is tiny, barely two feet long and getting smaller. I throw myself forward, sailing through the air like Superman and landing like . . . well, like me, the most unathletic person I know.
I hit the ground hard and roll onto my back just as the Rip winks out of existence. I groan and blink in the afternoon light, staring up at the blue sky. A second later the surrounding sounds filter into my awareness. Traffic. Horns blaring. A distant gunshot.
My eyes widen.
It . . . it feels like . . .
I scramble to my feet, looking around in amazement.
Home.
We’re back beneath the overpass, where I shot the creepy old monkey man.
“How are we here?” I ask.
Graves is peering along the deserted street. “Hmm?”
“How are we here? And where’s Nyarlathotep?”
“Oh, he’s gone. Why do you think I was hanging back in the tunnel? You think I like it in there? What was the first question again?”
“Is this . . .? Are we back in my world?”
Graves frowns. “It appears so, doesn’t it? Didn’t really see that coming, to be honest with you. Bit of a shame, really.”
I stop staring at my surroundings and instead stare at him accusingly. “You’re about to say something bad. I know it. Why is it a shame?”
“Think about it, moron. Nyarlathotep has the two pieces he needs. He wants to free Cthulhu. Which reality do you think he’s going to go to?”
“The . . . one where Cthulhu is held prisoner?”
“Check out the brains on Harry. Got it in one, sport. And if Cthulhu is released it’s good-bye planet earth. He’ll use it as his all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet.”
“But . . . we’re going to stop them, right?”
He looks at me in relief. “Are we? Great. How?”
“I don’t know!” I shout. “Don’t you?”
“Oh. No, not really.”
I press my fingers against my temples. “Jesus Christ, Graves. I swear to God I’m going to shoot you unless you start being helpful.”
“Hey! I got us here, didn’t I?”
“No. You didn’t. We were ambushed, and the priceless artifact was stolen from us. Again.”
“Yeah, but . . . we’re here.”
“Where an ancient cosmic god is about to be freed from his prison, killing all seven billion people on this planet. My family included.”
“Well . . . sure. If you put it that way. But she’s your ex. She doesn’t really count, does she?”
“Graves . . .” I take a step toward him.
He holds his hands up. “Relax. We’ll think of something.” He looks around. “Problem is, we’re still cut off from Wonderland. Which is a pain in the ass.”
“Well . . . don’t you have a safe house here? Can’t we use it to communicate with Ash?”
Graves looks at me with wide eyes. “You know, that’s actually the most intelligent idea you’ve had since we met. Well done, you—wait, where are you going?”
“To see my family.”
He hurries to catch up. “You can’t. We have more important things to do.”
“No. We don’t. Last time I was here I was attacked and people tried to kill me. I haven’t seen my daughter in days. I would like to make sure she’s still alive, if that’s okay with you. Then we can go to the safe house.”
“Fine. But make it quick. ‘Hello, dear, daddy’s still alive. He hasn’t been devoured by an ancient cosmic entity yet.’ Then we’re off, okay?”
We “borrow” an old Ford and use it to drive to my house.
There’s nobody home. I can sense it even before I walk up the drive. The house has that vacant, empty feeling. Abandoned.
“We’re too late,” I whisper, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” says Graves. “Why on earth would they target your family? They know nothing about what’s going on.”
“To get to me.”
“Wow. Paging Dr. Ego. I think you have a rather overinflated opinion of your importance, good sir. Me, on the other hand. If I had any family, I would fear for their safety on a permanent basis. Because I, as opposed to you, am incredibly important. Whereas you’re not.” He waits a bit. “But I am.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
I try the door. Locked.
“What do we do? Should we call the police?”
“For what!? You’re being absurd!”
I peer through the window. Everything looks normal.
“Come on,” says Graves. “We don’t have time for this. We have an apocalypt
ic-level event to prevent.”
“Have you got a plan yet?” I ask.
“I’m working on it, okay?”
“Because I have an idea.”
“Oh? Careful not to get ahead of yourself. Two ideas in one day, you’re liable to burn out that little brain of yours.”
I wait.
“Well? What is it?”
“You sure you want to hear it? Because I’m good if not. I mean, you’re probably right. It’s most likely stupid—”
“Priest, just tell me the damn plan!”
“Fine. What I’m wondering is what happened back at the motel.”
“The . . . ?”
“The motel. When all this started. The . . . carnage. The one you came to investigate.”
“You mean when you murdered my coworker?”
I sigh. “Yes. Then. Did you ever find out why that weird glass ball was there at that motel? The one with the coordinates?”
“Well . . . no. We were demoted, remember? Because you murdered—”
“Yes, yes. But don’t you see? That kicked all this off. Why were the coordinates there? At that motel? And for there to be a massacre, it meant there had to be two different groups. I can see Nyarlathotep and his cronies being there. They wanted the jewel and the spear, after all. But who else? Who was the fight between? It wasn’t you guys, was it?”
“ICD?” says Graves thoughtfully. “No. We got the call after the fact.”
“CBC?”
“No. If they were involved we wouldn’t have even been called out.”
“So who was it?”
Graves stares at me for a moment. “You know,” he says slowly. “I think if we can find out what happened at the motel, it might give us a lead. Somewhere to start.”
I blink at him.
“Don’t look so vacant!” shouts Graves. “Think about it. And keep up, please. Who else was at the motel? There were two sides fighting. And if the other side wasn’t us, who was it? There were human body parts there. So if they didn’t come through a Rip they must have come from here. Your reality. Which means someone here on earth knows about Cthulhu. About Nyarlathotep. It’s imperative that we find out what happened that day!”
“Harry?”
I whirl around and see Megan and Susan standing at the bottom of the drive.
“Daddy!”
I run to Susan and then swing her up into my arms, holding her tight against my chest.
“Harry? What the hell are you doing?” says Megan. “Where have you been? You haven’t called. We even went round to your apartment. We—Your daughter was worried.”
I lock eyes with Megan. I can see it there. See what she won’t say.
I put Susan down, carefully stroking her hair back into place. “I . . . had to go away for a bit. Um . . . new job.”
“New job? What is it this time?” asks Megan. “Street cleaning? Funeral director.”
I stare at her, silently pleading with her not to do this in front of Susan.
“Actually,” says Graves, strolling toward us. “Harry is helping me.”
Susan squints at him. “You look funny.”
“Indeed I do, small human. It’s part of my charm.”
“And who the hell are you?” asks Megan.
Graves pulls out a leather wallet and flashes a very shiny and official-looking badge at Megan. “Havelock Graves. ICD.”
Megan glares at me. “What have you done now?”
“Oh, you misunderstand. Harry here is part of my team.”
“Part of . . . ?”
“My team. A highly trained team that solves crimes. His past training in law enforcement and his local knowledge made him eminently suitable for the job. We’ve been on assignment, and I forbade him from using phones. It was more for your safety than his.”
Megan looks at me. “Is this true?”
I’m staring at Graves in amazement, but pull my gaze back to Megan and manage to nod.
“Are you a policeman, Dad?” asks Susan.
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“Indeed, tiny person, he is. But now we must go. We have an urgent case to solve! It involves monsters and naughty men with narcissistic tendencies and a desire to ruin the world. Harry, let us away!”
With that, Graves turns and strides toward the Ford.
“Sorry, honey. Dad has to go. I’ll come round later, okay? When this is all over.”
I give Susan a kiss on the head. I glance once at Megan, then set off after Graves.
I’m halfway to the car before Megan calls out. “Harry, wait.”
I pause as Megan approaches.
“Sorry. About what I said. The street-cleaning thing. That was a low blow.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. I haven’t exactly been the most . . . ambitious guy, have I?”
She smiles slightly. “No, not really.” She lightly touches my arm. It feels like a shock of electricity. “But congrats. I’m happy you’ve got something in law enforcement. It’s what you’ve always wanted to do.”
“Yeah.” I think about telling her the kind of law enforcement I’m actually involved with, but decide not to utterly ruin the moment. (See? I’m learning.)
“Harry!” shouts Graves. “We have somewhere to be.”
I nod to Megan and wave at Susan, then jog to the street. “Thanks,” I say as we get into the car. “For saying that.”
Graves shrugs. “It’s the truth. No need to thank me. Now, let’s go and stop that incredibly annoying death cult from releasing an ancient god, shall we?”
Graves drives us through Central LA, whistling. He seems to be in a better mood now that we have a plan. He turns left into Rossmore, then right on Melrose, taking another right into South Western, lurching to a stop against the sidewalk before we hit Koreatown.
I look out the window, at the dealers lounging against the shop fronts, smoking and passing bottles around. The passersby laughing and shouting insults. The fight with broken bottles going on a few feet away. Yup. Definitely home.
“Nice neighborhood,” I say.
Graves looks around without much interest. “Is it?”
He gets out the car and heads toward a pawnshop before leaning forward to peer through the dirty glass door.
“Why are we here?” I ask, hurrying to catch up.
“This is the safe house.”
“Charming.”
“It doesn’t need to look nice,” says Graves. He pulls the door open, and a little bell jingles. “It’s supposed to be low-key. That’s the whole point.”
I follow him in. The smells of old leather, cigarette smoke, oil, and ramen noodles hit me in the senses. The scents hang heavy and dense, weighed down with stale air and old smoke. The shop is a cluttered mess of old typewriters, tube televisions, watches, and gold jewelry. It’s some sort of time capsule, as if it was locked down in the eighties and hasn’t been opened since.
“Dante!” Graves shouts. “Where are you?”
“We’re closed!” a voice shouts from behind a curtain of plastic beads.
“No you’re not!”
The curtain parts, and a face wearing the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen peers out. Noodles hang from his mouth. He blinks owlishly at us, then sucks the noodles up with a loud slurping sound.
“Havelock Graves?”
“The same.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Still hale and hearty. As you can see.”
“No, I definitely remember you being dead. Few years back. Something to do with a vampire dragon.”
“Oh, that. Yes, that was me. I got better.”
“Good for you.”
The little man steps into the front of the shop. He’s wearing a dirty Hawaiian shirt, stained cargo shorts, and pink flip-flops. He’s also holding a huge tub of steaming noodles. “How long were you dead for?” he asks.
“Couple of weeks, apparently. Listen, we need to use the link to Wonderland. That okay?”
“Uh . . . Sure, man. Why wou
ldn’t it be?”
“No reason,” says Graves, heading through the curtain. “That’s Harry Priest,” he calls out. “He’s the rookie.”
Dante shuffles forward and peers up at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Want some noodles?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“You sure? I’ve got sweet and sour or peri-peri.”
“Thanks, no.”
“They’re really good. I get them imported from Japan.”
“My God, man!” shouts Graves, his head emerging back through the curtain. “He doesn’t want any noodles!”
Graves disappears again and leaves me with Dante. The guy stares at me as he eats his noodles. Doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“You want a pickled egg?” he asks eventually.
“No.”
“Some jerky?”
“No. Seriously, thanks, but I’m not hungry. I mean, I am, but not for that.”
He blinks at me. “I need a wee.”
“Have fun.”
He nods, then disappears through a door off to the side. A moment later I hear the flushing of a toilet.
I wait, but Dante doesn’t reappear. I suppose I should be grateful, but when five minutes pass I start to get uneasy. I move toward the door and knock.
“Dante? You okay in there?”
No answer.
I knock harder. Still nothing. I try the handle, and the door swings open to reveal a cesspit of a toilet, green fungus covering the walls, chipped and broken tiles, a sink that might have once been white but that is now gray and black with grime.
And an open window.
I stand on the toilet and peer out. A sun-bleached alley lies beyond, litter and old crates strewn across the asphalt next to a rusted Dumpster filled with old mannequins and computer monitors. No sign of Dante anywhere.
This can’t be good.
I hurry back to the bead curtain just as Graves comes back through.
“I found a name,” he says. “One of the victims from the motel.”
“Dante’s gone.”
