“There’s no way to describe …”
Clemmens stopped speaking, going for his handkerchief once more. Nardi knew things were beyond horrible. When skinny men sweat, his captain used to say, things are in the shitter.
“At least,” thought the security man, “he didn’t walk us to the library. Whatever the problem is, it ain’t our fault.”
“Please, brace yourself, sir,” said the university president. Stuffing his sopping, useless handkerchief back into his breast pocket, he pushed on one of the main doors to the Exhibit Museum, adding, “the Egyptian exhibit I was telling you about is this way.”
The pair moved forward in silence from that point on. Although his agency’s responsibilities to the university centered only on the library, Nardi had made it his business to know the layout of the entire campus. Indeed, after only a few years in Arkham, he had practically the entire town memorized.
“Come in handy if I ever want to get a good job,” he mused, “like a cab driver.”
As the two men entered the Exhibit Museum, Nardi had no problem spotting the epicenter of the university’s current problem. A pair of large metal doors stood closed before them, a throng of people clustered around it. Three campus security guards stood before it, barring them entry. The crowd parted for the on-coming Clemmens, as did the guards. Stopping just before the door, the president ordered the security men to disperse the crowd, to use force if necessary. As they proceeded to move the intruders outside, Clemmens turned to Nardi and said;
“Franklin, you have done Miskatonic a number of fine services since we brought you in on retainer. I will not bandy words coyly with you now. Mr. Balnco is inside, behind these doors. He discovered … an intruder, of sorts.”
“Of sorts?”
“Please, you know what kind of town this is, the kinds of things that go on here. He came across something, something inside. Something evil. On the surveillance cameras, it appears to be just a man, just an ordinary man. But …”
“But it ain’t—right?”
Clemmens hung his head sadly, his bony shoulders drooping even further than normally. Unable to meet Nardi’s gaze, he simply muttered,
“The cameras can’t reveal exactly what has transpired within, but … something terrible has happened to Mr. Balnco. I’ve spoken to you often enough to, to appreciate the type of man you are. Before we alerted the authorities … I knew you would want to go in first.”
Nardi nodded. Glancing downward, staring at the floor, not seeing it, he took a deep breath, then reached for one of the massive doors. As he began to push it open, Clemmens’s hand touched his wrist.
“You don’t have to go in there, sir,” the president told him. “Indeed, I would strongly advise against it.”
“You did right to call me,” answered the former police detective. “I talked Tony into comin’ here. It’s my responsibility.”
Clemmens stepped back, allowing Nardi access to the exhibit hall. Letting him know he would be returning to his office to call in the proper authorities, the president watched the security man pull the large metal door open, watched him pass through it, then watched for several long seconds as it glided quietly back into place. Clemmens stared at the solid, silent bronze for another handful of moments, then turned and walked nervously away, returning to his office to, for all he knew, call more men to their doom.
- - -
“Tony, where in Hell are ya?”
Nardi moved forward, not so much cautiously, but with a certain wary prudence. He had no idea what had really occurred within the hall, but somewhere within lurked one of his partners with someone, or something, looking to do him harm. Best he lead as he would have back in Manhattan, as if there were nothing to fear.
“God how I hate this town,” he thought. “Ghosts, vampires, the goddamned walkin’ dead. Of all the towns in New England, I hadda pick the capital city of the Twilight Zone.”
Nardi knew, of course, that Arkham was not the only dark place in Northeastern America. He had heard the tales of the enclaves of fishfolk all up and down the Massachusetts coast. Numerous other stories as well. Still, what was supposed to be a quiet, Mayberryesque escape from the dread concrete reality of NYC had slowly unfolded into a black and nightmarish truth all its own.
“Looking for someone, Franklin?”
The voice came from Nardi’s right, but also from below and above, from all directions.
“Whatever that was,” his mind hissed, “it’s to our right.”
“I’m looking for my partner,” answered the security man, turning to his right. “You seen him?”
Nardi was rewarded with the sight of what appeared to simply be an ordinary man: Middle Eastern in appearance, lanky, well-dressed, seated casually on the corner of a display case. Walking toward the stranger, the security man remained wary as the figure spoke, telling him, “I believe I have.”
“Wanta tell me where?”
“Actually,” replied the stranger, a thin smile cracking his immobile face, “I do.” His dark, unblinking eyes flashing with a sinister spark, the intruder raised an arm, finger pointing to Nardi’s left. “I believe you were looking for Mr. Balnco, yes?”
Franklin Nardi turned, and the world rushed past him. Staring at the far wall, he saw a wriggling mass of flesh and bone, a blasted smear of nerves and bones, organs and skin, all jumbled, all tangled, writhing on the marble surface, suspended in some manner at which the security man could only guess. On the one hand, there was nothing about the horrid mass from which anyone might have identified a specific human being. There were no identifying marks, no familiar gestures or a long-familiar smile or twinkle from which might spring recognition.
And yet, there was no doubt within Nardi’s soul that he was staring at his old friend—turned inside out, somehow still alive—suffering an agony as no man had ever known since the beginning of time. He stood before the pulsating wad, transfixed—helpless. Was Tony alive? Could he feel? Could he think? Could he be saved? What had happened, how could, why—
Questions mounted within Nardi’s mind, spilling over one another, contradicting, pulling him apart, accusing the thing on the display case one instant, himself the next. His spine vibrating, limbs shaking, mind going liquid, the security man grappled for some unknown amount of time, desperate to simply control himself, to find a direction in which to funnel his energies before they twisted free from his control.
Finally, his brain clearing to the point where he could grasp some small amount of control over his faculties once more, he spun around, beginning to shout, syllables of fiery hatred tumbling up his throat. Then, a millisecond before they could become words, he slammed his mouth closed, drowning their emotion.
“You are a clever ape, are you not.” The intruder was not asking a question. “More so than poor Mr. Balnco.”
“What— what … what happened here?”
“Relying on your training … yes, very good.” Uncrossing its legs, the humanoid figure of a man of Middle Eastern extraction slid forward off its seat. Moving toward Nardi in a non-threatening manner, it said, “He said I did not belong here. He was wrong in this assessment. I dismissed him.”
“You—”
Once more, Nardi threw an iron grip over his emotions, strangling them, beating them back. Denying them, casting them aside, forcing them into submission before they earned him the same fate Tony’s most likely had earned for him.
“Mr. Balnco did not understand my importance in the shaping of Egyptian history,” said the intruder. “I am not certain you do, either, but you are willing to show respect—enough to keep yourself breathing, anyway.” Smiling once more, the intruder gestured toward the shivering mass hanging against the wall, then said in a whisper;
“Of course, I suppose Mr. Balnco is still breathing as well.” The stranger then sat down upon the air beneath it, stretching out its limbs as if in some manner of invisible recliner. “Do you think that is a kindness on my part, Franklin? Allowing him life? He
breathes and thinks. If he thinks, he is—correct? That is what your species believes—yes?”
Nardi staggered, reeling from what he had seen, what he was hearing. Crippled, impotent, the security man did not know what answer to make, even how to make one. As he stammered without sound, his mouth moving, tongue unable to find sounds to expel from his mouth, the stranger added;
“Tell me, Franklin, honestly … do you think me cruel?”
Nardi’s mind was swimming, struggling to find the means to response. Yes, he told himself, he had encountered strange things since coming to Arkham, but nothing like what hung before him on the far wall. Neither that, nor the casual being responsible for it. Swallowing hard, balling his fingers, the security man was about to force some jumble of words from his throat, when suddenly a voice rang out from the doorway.
“Mr. Nardi, could you come here, please?”
“Clemmens,” he thought, his desperate mind struggling to center on that one piece of tangible reality. “It’s Clemmens.” Closing his eyes, blotting out everything but himself and the university president, he called out;
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” When Clemmens repeated his request for Nardi to join him, the security man turned to the intruder once more. Opening his eyes, he managed,
“Could you excuse me a moment?” With a gracious nod, the stranger dismissed Nardi, turning its attention back to the display. Walking briskly, but forcing himself not to run, the security man found his employer waiting for him on the other side of the main door to the hall. As Nardi joined him in the hall, Clemmens said, “You were in there over an hour—” The security man began to protest, then realized he had no actual idea how long he had stayed frozen before the sight of his partner. Conceding the point, he asked what Clemmens wanted.
“It’s become a madhouse outside. There are all manner of people demanding entrance.”
“Worse,” said another voice. “We’ve got this to contend with.”
Nardi turned, finding a young man—medium height, slightly overweight, watery brown eyes, limp hair—holding a laptop up for his inspection. Noting that the device was connected to the Internet, the security man asked,
“And what is this ‘this’ we have to contend with?”
“Someone managed to hack into our security camera network here on campus. They downloaded this footage to YouTube.” As Nardi stared in horror, he saw a blurred image of his partner, his splattered, inside-out partner, wriggling across the marble wall of the exhibit hall. Blood dripping, mouth screaming, exposed nerves shivering in the air-conditioning.
“It’s already registered over 150 million hits worldwide since it was posted.”
“People are flocking here by the thousands,” added Clemmens. “The campus is overrun. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage to the gardens alone.”
“My partner,” answered Nardi in a growling whisper, his hand pointing toward the chamber behind them, “in there, dyin’, sufferin’, and you’re worried about people steppin’ on your goddamned flowers?” Making fists of his hands, the security man slammed them against his eyes, gouging them into his face as he screamed;
“What? What is it you want of me?!”
“Please, please, sir,” said Clemmens in a soft, placating voice, “we need your help. We … we don’t know what to do.” When Nardi demanded an explanation, the president told him;
“These crowds, this terrible thing that has happened, if they enter the hall, if they see, see for themselves … the panic. So many in danger—”
“This couldn’t have anything to do with your school’s precious reputation, could it?”
The younger man with Clemmens tried to interrupt, but the president silenced him with a stern wave of his hand. Turning back to Nardi, the older man said, “Miskatonic has a reputation so blackened by the misunderstanding of the forces which roam this world that precious little could be done to it by what has happened to Mr. Balnco. But, sir, I beg you to consider: that thing in there, it wants something; of that I’m certain.”
“Tell me, Franklin, honestly,” Nardi heard the words of the intruder within his mind once more, “do you think me cruel?”
“It did ask me a question.”
“Did you answer it?”
“Not yet.”
Clemmens pulled at his narrow chin, relief flooding his eyes, pushing out his old fears, just as quickly washed away by new ones. Closing his eyes, taking several short breaths, the president bowed his head, pressing his lips together for a long instant, then finally addressed Nardi once more.
“Whatever answer it receives, that will decide everything.”
“And the crowd,” asked the security man, working to calm his own demons, “what about them?”
“We were hoping, I know you had experience back in New York with, with crowd control. If you could … but, it’s so much to ask, the crowd, the exhibit hall …”
“Keep that goddamned room sealed,” snarled Nardi. Running his hands over his hair, he started marching for the front door, shouting, “Don’t let anyone in there. I’ll be right back.”
Yard by yard, the security man stormed his way to the main entrance. With every step he felt his fear and confusions being consumed by a growing rage. As he neared the doors, he reminded himself, “Don’t get angry, don’t let it use you. Think, you miserable wop bastard—think—’cause that’s our only ticket outta this mess.”
Reaching the doors, Nardi stopped for a moment, pulling all of his energy inward. Resisting the overwhelming urge to purge his mind of the horrors straining to assault him once more, he drove all thoughts from his mind, stepping away from the past, refusing the future. Living only in the moment, the security man took hold of one of the great bronze door handles and pulled.
Two Arkham police officers waited for him on the other side, their backs to him. Both male, both large, the pair were throwing all their energy into intimidating the swelling throng before them, to keep them from entering the Exhibit Museum. Ignoring them, brushing aside the tearing waves of curiosity stabbing at him from all directions, Nardi stepped to the left, jumping up onto the back of one of the two great granite lions which guarded the front entrance.
Where are ya, ya prick bastard? he thought, his eyes scanning the crowd. I know you’re out there somewhere.
One by one, Nardi searched each face, looking for something he knew he would find. Somewhere in the crowd, he was certain, was the one person who could help him keep the situation from escalating into chaos. The security man had no idea who he was looking for—male or female, black or white, tall or fat or gay or whatever—he was not looking for an individual. Franklin Nardi was searching for an attitude. After six minutes, he found that for which he was looking.
It took him several more minutes of pointing and shouting to have the fellow in question moved to the front of the crowd. Once the youngster was at the front doors before Nardi, the security man stepped down from his perch, asking;
“Why do you think I wanted you up here?”
“I don’t know,” answered the younger man. Smiling as if he did not mind being lied to, Nardi responded;
“I need to take one person in there,” he said loud enough for enough people to hear that his words were certain to be spread throughout the crowd, “who can verify what has happened and tell everyone else. Now, why do you think I chose you?” The younger man hesitated for another second, then pride forced him to ask;
“How did you know it was me that hacked the system?”
“Arsonists, bombers, hit-and-run drivers … you all return to the scene of the crime.” Almost bowing, Nardi pointed toward the doors, usher-like, bidding the hacker enter. “Let’s go see yours.”
“You mean I get to go in and check this thing out personal,” he exclaimed with excitement. “This is wicked cool.”
“Yeah,” growled Nardi as the main doors closed behind them, cutting off the roaring protests of those left behind, “ain’t it, though.” The young man smiled, p
ractically beaming as he said,
“And Haggerty said I was going to get in trouble. This is so totally awesome. So, what is that booger, anyway?”
“My best friend.”
And then, Nardi back-handed the hacker and sent him reeling. Catching up to him as he stumbled blindly, the security man grabbed the younger man by the shoulder, almost lifting him off the ground, as he half carried, half-dragged him to the Egyptian exhibit hall. Finding Clemmens and his assistant still guarding the doors, he ignored their protests as he had those of his captive. Throwing open the doors, he tossed the young man inside, then turned to the president, saying,
“This fine fellow has business inside. Come in if you like, but I advise you don’t.”
Picking himself up off the floor, the hacker tried to run from the room, but Nardi caught him easily. Spinning him around, he dragged him across the room, screaming at him,
“C’mon, you little prick bastard. Come get that up-close look you were dyin’ for.” Shoving the young man up toward the two-hundred-and-eighteen pounds of meat and liquid oozing its way along the wall, Nardi bellowed, “There it is, you miserable fuck! That was a man a few hours ago. A man with a wife. With kids. And you made this—look at him, look at him,” Nardi grabbed the hacker’s head, holding it steady so he could do nothing but stare forward—
“That’s the image you gave to the world. That’s the way you decided his kids should remember him. You’re gonna decide that much about his life, then I think you ought to meet him.” Grabbing the youngster by his shirt front, ignoring his cries and tears, Nardi shook the hacker violently, then threw him into the mass that was once Tony Balnco, screaming,
“Shake hands, fellas!”
The hacker fell to the ground, his voice coming out in one long keening screech. Hitting the floor, he skittered madly on his hands and feet like a wounded dog, curling up under a glass-topped exhibition table. As his shrieks muffled down into a mad series of groans, the intruder approached Nardi once more.
“So, sir,” it said, its enigmatic smile still etched into the flesh of its assumed face, “what do you think? Am I cruel?”
Arkham Detective Agency: A Lovecraftian-Noir Tribute to C. J. Henderson Page 3
