“No way.” Before she fell silent, retreating into her own thoughts and memories, Evie drew her feet up onto the chair, and buried her face in her knees. “The magician does tricks, the witch and the wizard bend science to gain power, for good or for evil,” she said. “A sorcerer is something quite different. A sorcerer moves between worlds.”
CHAPTER 20
THOSE WHO WOULD DESTROY US
I left the street lights and headed down the railroad tracks through the darkness. The railroad tracks were built along with Hamilton, for the steel industry, and a century and a half later here they were, anachronisms in more ways than one. As the industry faded and the highways got clogged with big trucks, there were fewer and fewer trains. But in another way, the tracks were like wounds carved into the body of the earth that the city was built on. Wounds that had never healed because, even when everything around them was paved, the tracks remained, unhealed and oozing untended weeds that grew into trees and bushes, hiding places for wild creatures that eked out an existence in the silences between trains: creatures that rejoiced and thrived as the trains became fewer and those silences got longer and longer. But the tracks had a lot of history, and back at PoW some kids even claimed to have seen ghost trains: black freights, unscheduled and unbranded, that came and went in the dead of night, rumbling past the houses of unhappy sleepers as they passed, forcing late-night drivers to screech to a halt as, without warnings or signals, the black freights crossed little-used intersections at reckless speeds.
Where the tracks crossed Barton I looked both ways, but traffic was light. I crossed the road like a creature of the night, unseen by the thousands of people sleeping or driving or drinking the night away in every direction. I briefly bobbed into the lights of Barton and then sank back into darkness again, following the railway cut toward Markle Avenue.
Maybe I had miscalculated, I thought, and the Church too would be silent. Even the brain-dead slaves of alien gods have to sleep sometime. But as I approached Markle, headlights crossed the tracks. I dodged their beams and crept through the bush to see what was going on at the old chain factory.
Sure enough, the place was surrounded by a shiny new chain-link fence, with a guard at the gate to check incoming cars. I frowned when I saw that instead of fencing over the railway tracks, there was another gate installed there, padlocked but just as shiny and new: why would there be a gate? Why would the Church still have freight cars rumbling into its beat-up old loading dock?
These questions didn’t concern me as much as the question of getting inside and finding the Proprietor. I started to circle around the Church, picking my way carefully through the undergrowth outside the fence. I was poked by branches, and thorns tore at my clothes. When I saw a clearing open up ahead of me, I gratefully lurched toward it, only to have my right leg sink into the ground up to the knee.
Quicksand was my first thought, thinking of all those old Tarzan movies I’d seen, but all I’d stepped into was loose dirt. Someone had been digging there. Or ... I thought of my run-in with Stumpy. Even if the midnight games failed, even if we managed to outmanoeuvre the Hounds, the city of Hamilton was riddled with tunnelling dritches of different sizes and dispositions. Who was going to deal with them?
I stepped back from the hole and once again pushed into the bush, trying not to make too much noise.
Behind the Church, it was dark and deserted. I couldn’t see a security camera anywhere; it looked as if the only surveillance was from the guard at the front gate.
I pulled out a pair of soft leather gloves. This was a technique Dana had told me about. “If you look hard, you can find a pair of cheap ones in any Goodwill,” he said, “and here’s what you do ...”
Basically, the gloves are for protecting your hands when you climb chain-link fences. This had been one of Dana’s significant survival skills. He had also walked around town with a pair of cowboy boots tied to his backpack: he only put them on when he needed to fit their narrow toes into the diamond openings of the fence wire.
I didn’t need to worry about that. Until at least my next growth spurt, which, I was sure, would begin any day now, I could get an efficient purchase just with the toes of my running shoes. All the same, using the gloves, I did my best to pull my weight with my hands and arms, taking deep breaths and moving slowly and deliberately so that I made it up the fence with a minimum of clatter. Fortunately the Church hadn’t topped the fence with barbed wire or razor coil. Getting over the top was tricky but I figured it out and dropped to the ground. I could get good at this. I ran toward the Church to hide myself in its shadow.
A minivan came through the front gate and pulled into the corner of the yard, which was already filled with cars. I crouched in the darkness and watched. These people looked like normal working-class families with mums in ponytails, dads in Ticats jackets, kids in hoodies. I slipped around the corner and joined the crowd as the door opened, and in a moment I was inside.
Even at this time of night, the Church had a full house. At one side of the room there were snacks and coffee urns. At the other side, a stage draped with the church’s name, that familiar logo and the lines from a poem:
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these bright and shining mills.
The crowd was excited and rackety. At the other end of the room, someone would occasionally bang a hammer or run an electric drill. Several Church members were putting the finishing touches on an enormous metal door that, from the raw timbers around it, had just been installed. They worked in a pool of sawdust where something dark had spilled, something that also stained the door. To the side, there was a pile of junk metal and plastic that seemed to be attracting vandals like flies: every few seconds someone would kick it or rip a piece off it.
I didn’t know what I was doing, and I had the feeling that I looked like I didn’t know what I was doing. I kept moving through the crowd, trying to get my bearings. A tall guy with a crewcut and a white jacket, embellished with the Church logo, was leaning against a wall. I caught his eye just for a second, but he started weaving through the crowd toward me.
There was a familiar figure in front of the stage: Kara. That girl just kept turning up. She seemed to be with the Church every step of the way, but right now, as White Jacket got closer, she was all I had. I made my way to the stage and greeted her.
“Nate – I’m surprised to see you here!”
“Heck, I can’t really miss this.” I grinned like an idiot. “Tonight’s the big night.”
“How’s things up the Mountain?”
“You know, same old same old. Fell asleep the other day and had a dream about Yog-Sothoth.”
Kara leaned forward and whispered. “They said you were on the other side.”
I looked around. Seeing the two of us chatting like old buds, the guy in the white jacket was moving away. “I came around,” I said to Kara. “You’d have to be nuts not to want what the Great Old Ones are offering. More jobs, better government ... thank goodness for the Resurrection Church.”
She frowned. “That’s funny, because, watching how these people work ... I’ve been starting to have a few doubts.”
“No way,” I said. I was getting into this. “I think the Proprietor’s the greatest. Is he here tonight?”
She looked around. “You mean Raphe? Oh sure, he’s somewhere.”
“Right – Raphe.” I dipped my head in an awkward gesture to signify embarrassment – and also to keep Kara’s face between Clare and me as she slipped past us through the crowd. Just as she glanced my way, the lights went down and loud music started up as a spotlight was turned on the stage.
THE FIRST person to step into that circle of light was, to my surprise, the Proprietor’s henchman Jimmy. He stepped up to the microphone and adjusted it.
“And now ...” he started, but the music – some kind of hurray-for-us, Star Wars–type orchestral music over an electro beat, with a chorus of girls’ voices – was too loud. Jimmy gestured toward th
e sidelines and the volume went down.
“And now,” he began again, “I know we’ve all worked hard for this day. And this day hasn’t really started yet. We thank you all who came to help with this crisis ... or really it’s just a glitch ... or a dritch ...!” Jimmy flashed a desperate-looking smile when he made this last remark. No one else seemed to get the joke; I sure didn’t.
“Of course,” he continued, “that dritch was a glitch. It’s really nothing to worry about. Nothing can stop us now!” This time, he got a few whoops from the crowd, and scattered applause.
“I remember that first time I came to this church. I was looking for hope. And I found out about the ceremony – the midnight ceremony that the Church has been repeating since the summer, each time building its strength, building its heart, building its goals ...”
“The heart of the Hammer!” somebody yelled, and there were cheers.
“When I went to my first ritual I thought, what the hell is going on? I know a lot of you felt the same – we’d been told something big was coming, but where was it? But that night I came – it was only in July – that was the first night we approached success, the first night our combined energies actually summoned the great Yog-Sothoth, the first night that many of us got his awe-inspiring message. The first night we got a hint of the glorious rapture that will be life on earth, once the Great Old Ones are returned to power!”
This time he got a big cheer. Even Kara, who had just revealed to me that she had doubts about the Church, was clapping and smiling with evident sincerity, and I could see that Jimmy himself was getting into it. I admired the graceful way he pronounced Yog-Sothoth. That name was a real mouthful.
“Also on that big night – a night that changed my life – I met the man who is responsible for all of us being here tonight. A man who wouldn’t stop searching and questing. The man who has been anointed as the Proprietor by the Great Old Ones themselves, by Yog-Sothoth and the giant sleeping god Cthulhu, and by the dreaming of the vanished Nyarlathotep, our saviour from the stars; anointed by them to care for their kingdom on earth, as the Proprietor. I’m literally thrilled to pieces to have the honour to introduce him. Please welcome our beloved leader, the man we know as the Proprietor – Raphe Therpens!”
Conscious of the paper in my pocket, I joined the crowd in a tremendous ovation as the Proprietor strode to the stage, shaking hands and stopping to talk with a group here, and a group there, and slap the shoulders of the workmen. He waited a second for Jimmy to finish adjusting the microphone, then they embraced each other in a fat showbiz bro-hug and the Proprietor turned to face the crowd.
“Thank you, my friends – more than friends, my family,” he said as the applause died down, and then he paused. There was a flower display next to Kara, so I buried my nose in a flower as the Proprietor surveyed the room.
“We are near the end of a long road. The road began for me one night, years ago and many miles from here. I was home after a long day, a long day in the law profession, a profession where I fought every day for the freedom to give our citizens access to our country’s great resources, to protect the jobs of working people such as yourselves. I was dedicated to my profession, but until that night I had no idea that dedicated as I was, that profession was not my true calling.
“I remember I stayed up late that night, because when I looked up, the night sky was full of falling stars. Meteors – the heavens reaching out to us. Somehow, that was a special night. Somehow, without a continuum threshold or a church or a following to guide me, another world came very close to me, reached out. That night as I slept, I was visited by the Great Old Ones themselves. I heard their message. Those of you who have been to our ceremonies – especially the last one, that was a doozy, wasn’t it? –” the crowd laughed “– you know what it’s like when you hear that voice. It’s warm and comforting. It’s not a god you read about in some book; it’s a very real god, a god who truly loves you. It’s a voice like you’ve never heard, it’s the voice. The voice you’ve been waiting to hear all your life. It’s the voice of ... the Great Old Ones.”
A stout middle-aged woman was threading through the crowd. I was afraid she was looking for me, but then her eyes lit on Kara, who was right in front of me, and she bustled toward us. As the Proprietor continued to speak she caught Kara’s attention, speaking in a loud whisper.
“I been looking for you everywhere! Kara, you’re flower girl tonight. Take these.”
They put their heads together and began picking a bouquet out of the assortment on the stand. I had an idea and thought I should stick close by.
“It’s been a long night,” the Proprietor was saying, “we’ve averted what could have been a major problem. In fact, we’ve killed two birds with one stone, since that horrible creature, that big shellfish-thing on the scooter, should keep the dritch from getting too hungry before tonight’s ceremony. We’ve eliminated a major opponent – someone from the world of the Great Old Ones who thought she was being left out, who would stop at nothing to hurt us – even to strike at Yog-Sothoth himself –” the crowd hissed its disapproval “– and keep us from the glorious rapture that’s knocking at the gates of heaven itself to land at our very door.” While Kara and the flower woman turned away, I plucked a single red rose from the remaining flowers and wrapped the slip of paper around its thorny stem.
“But now ... I want you all to be ready for the biggest night of your life. Go home, congratulate yourself on a job well done, get some sleep ... and get ready for a new life that starts tonight!” The Proprietor raised his hands and the crowd erupted in more cheers. He moved away from the microphone and to catch him before he left the stage, the flower woman ushered Kara to the front of the room, brandishing before her a large bouquet of multicoloured blooms. I stayed close to Kara and kept my head down.
Up on stage, the Proprietor and Jimmy shook hands and embraced. The Proprietor reached the steps just as Kara got to the bottom. Seeing the approaching tribute the Proprietor bowed, faced the crowd and reached down. Kara skipped up to the top step and extended the bouquet.
I came in close, shadowing Kara among the crowd. The bouquet was between the Proprietor and me. His hands came closer and I jumped up and pushed the rose toward his fingers. Thinking it was a straggler, he gingerly picked it up, careful of the thorns, as he took the bouquet and beamed at Kara. He gestured her up on stage. Then his eyes met mine and his face clouded over.
He pushed Kara to one side and dropped the bouquet. Remaining in his hand was the one red rose, the parchment slowly unwrapping and flapping in his hand. I waved bye-bye and started for the door.
“Why you little ... stop him!" The tremble of horror in his voice was satisfying to hear, but I didn’t stop to enjoy it, threading my way through the crowd as fast as I could. I had passed him the runes just as everyone was ready to relax and go home and they paused when they heard the Proprietor’s voice. I burst from the crowd into the open space near the front door, when suddenly someone caught my arm. I pulled and heard the fabric of my hoodie rip, then I was free. I lunged toward the door –
– and at least two people tackled me and we piled onto the hard concrete floor. I had the wind knocked out of me and tried to struggle to my feet. But there was a big guy on either side of me, and neither of them were letting go. When I tried to scramble away they just lifted me off my feet as they towed me back to the stage where the Proprietor, now laughing and smiling, gestured them to bring me up next to him.
“You think you’re so funny!” he had the microphone in his hand and gave me a noogie with the other, hard. It hurt, especially because he still had the rose in that hand. He dropped it on the stage and held up the parchment.
“Let go of me,” I said. The guys were squeezing hard onto my arms. In the crowd I saw laughing faces, Kara looking horrified, then more laughing faces.
“Here’s the perfect end to a perfect evening,” the Proprietor announced. “This little bugger has been a thorn in our side since the
last ceremony. When we warned him off, he ignored us – and a friend of his died, died horribly. When we tried to claim a book that was rightfully ours – the blessed Necronomicon, my friends – he stole it. He plucked it from our trusting hands and kept it for himself. When we confronted him, he called for help from those who would destroy us. He called upon the monster who calls itself the Interlocutor – he’ll see how we got together and squashed that bug. He called upon the fiends who he thinks are his friends. And you know what? I think friends should be together.” He turned to the men holding me.
“Throw him in the vault.”
As they dragged me to the back of the room, the Proprietor shouted, “Empty his pockets. No weapons. No phone.” I tried to turn around to look at him, and saw that the pile of garbage I’d noticed before was an electric scooter, a lot like the Interlocutor’s. “And now, just as we enter our finest hour, this white trash tries to put a curse on me. A curse.” Then I saw the tubes and bags, the splash of black blood. It was the Interlocutor’s chair.
I craned my head back as much as I could. The Proprietor was holding the parchment over his head. Then I was thrown onto the floor and kicked. Hands went through my pockets. I heard my phone go skittering across the floor and crack against the wall. A pen, a pocket knife, my wallet ... when they had pretty much gone through my pockets like rats through a pizza box, they hauled me up and dragged me toward the steel door.
“These are mystical symbols ... mathematical codes ... that only the most esoteric, the initiated, know about. For a second I thought the little bastard had me.” The Proprietor’s eyes locked onto mine, and he raised his voice. I heard the steel door open. I was about to find out whatever they kept in the vault. “But it’s a fake. Some phony has done this up with a ballpoint, on dollar-store bond. The parchment is a fake.”
“No, it’s not,” I said weakly.
“He thinks he can trick me. Well we’ve got a dritch we’ve gotta keep happy, so let’s see him trick a dritch!” The crowd roared its approval. The side of my head bashed against the door as it was swung open. I tumbled down wide wooden stairs, landing on a dirt floor, and the door slammed shut behind me, plunging me into darkness, along with whatever was down there with me.
The Midnight Games Page 14
