Waiting

by Stephen Jones

  VIII

  Earlier, while lost in the grim, stifling tunnels, Claude stared at Luna in disbelief. A storm of questions surged through his mind but, instead of asking, he decided to heed Luna’s gesture for silence. Slowly, the hand that had been clamped over his mouth was lifted away.

  The man who’d been standing behind him now stepped into view. It was the Russian he’d spied at the Witch House, only now he was not dressed in finery. Instead, his form was draped in a dramatic robe of crimson satin. A great sash crossed his breast. Strange symbols had been embroidered upon the sash in glinting gold thread. Amulets of stone hung from his spindly neck.

  His wife was dressed similarly. She held what looked to be a bolt of silk against her breast. This she unwrapped, revealing what appeared to Claude to be a great pendulum resembling a paddle. It was a rectangle, approximately three feet in length, fashioned in some form of polished wood. The rope it was attached to resembled a withered vine.

  Around the bend in the tunnel, flames danced and chants echoed. The tremors had begun to increase in both frequency and power. Claude could not help but believe that the end was nigh.

  Yegor Volos gently guided both Luna and Claude to one side. From the folds of his robe he removed a golden flask. He muttered something in Russian. Mrs. Volos traced invisible words in the air with her finger. Sparkling water poured from the flask. Yegor used this to baptize the polished board. He rose and nodded. The couple embraced quickly. Dominika Volos then unexpectedly placed a kiss on the brows of both Luna and Claude.

  The hierophant moved toward the entrance to the chamber. He gripped the vine firmly. The wooden pendulum swung to and fro as if ticking off these last few seconds. Dominika pressed her hands together in prayer. Luna found herself mimicking this pose.

  Yegor rounded the corner. His wife immediately followed. Whatever fear of discovery the couple might have had was now vanquished, for the old man was bellowing words that the two Junior G-Men could not understand, yet they sensed were not in Russian. It was a tongue far older—a long-dead language resurrected, perhaps to meet a threat as ancient as this spell.

  A deep pulsating sound now filled the air. Claude scurried to the entrance and peered into the brighter chamber.

  What he witnessed was a drama of the abyss, a nightmare made flesh.

  The room was a vast oval cavern. Torches blazed from mounts in the earthen walls, their fire illuminating the procession of black-robed figures that paced a slow widdershins ring around what looked to be a bottomless pit in the floor. This vast opening was framed by large blocks of shimmering black stones, four in total. Each stone formed a trapezoidal wall. The hooded figures were each carrying what looked to be incense censers, the kind used to perfume cathedrals during Mass. But what billowed and swirled about these chained bowls of copper seemed less like smoke and more like . . . fog.

  Claude felt his jaw drop. It was the selfsame mist he’d seen filling his family’s shelter, the fog that had come spilling out from his loved ones.

  The hooded shapes were in turn pouring this mist into the pit. Each new offering was met with a fresh and fiercer tremor.

  The chorus of whispers chanted in cycles: “E’yayayayaaaa . . . ngh’aaaaa . . . Nasht . . . Kaman-Tha . . . Nyarlathotep. . .”

  Standing upon a dais, elevated above this moving snake of devotees, was the celebrant. His robe was a vivid yellow. He held a gleaming kris sword, its wavy blade suggestive of a surging serpent.

  “Oh my God,” Luna whispered in Claude’s ear.

  “Mayor Fenton,” Claude added.

  Mayor Fenton did not seem interested in the feeding of the pit, for his gaze was fixated on a higher object. Claude looked upward and was horrified by what he saw.

  Hanging upside down above the pit was Agent McMillan. Naked as the day he was born, his limbs bound by ropes, and his mouth gagged, he dangled above the pit, wriggling in a vain attempt to free himself.

  But when Yegor and Dominika Volos charged into the chamber, the mood of the ritual was instantly shattered. Mayor Felton snapped his head around to face the couple as they moved swiftly toward the pit.

  The rhythmic pulse that Claude and Luna had heard was coming from the wooden pendulum, which Yegor was now swinging above his head. As the pendulum hummed and circled around, it created a great wind that began to draw the mist out of the copper censers being held by the robed figures. The fog of Mitford’s dreaming started to lift away from the pit, and soon began to dissipate in the higher climes of the great chamber.

  There was an immense howl of rage. It came from Mayor Fenton, who charged down from his dais. He stopped just a few paces from Yegor Volos, who cursed at him in a sonorous shout. Gripping the kris sword with both hands, Mayor Fentor swung.

  With one cold and accurate stroke, Yegor’s head was sliced free from his body.

  Like a malfunctioning automaton, the old man’s decapitated trunk somehow managed to continue swinging the purifying board. But then his arms twitched and groped sightlessly. Yegor’s heart pumped his life’s blood out where it stained the ancient stones of the cavern. His body crumpled. The pendulum clattered to the ground.

  Dominika Volos unleashed a cry that was the single most awful thing Claude or Luna had ever heard—a mewling howl that was equal parts anguish and horror.

  Mayor Fenton lifted the blade again, taking a step toward the woman. Her demeanor instantly transformed. She released a spiel of phrases and gestures.

  The sword shot out of Mayor Fenton’s hands. It clanged as it struck the far wall of the cavern. Unfazed, Mayor Fenton advanced and began to strangle Dominika. His face was a feral, evil mask.

  By now the procession had broken. The chamber was in chaos. Robed figures were hurriedly pouring what little fog they had left into the pit, others were beginning to saw at the ropes that held Agent McMillan in place. Their aim was plain: to feed him to whatever was inside the pit.

  Before Claude had even registered what was happening, he caught sight of Luna bolting past him. She ran fearlessly into the chamber. With unbelieving eyes, Claude watched her rescue the pendulum from the gore that had once been Yegor Volos. She immediately resumed the old magician’s task, spinning the wooden board around above her head.

  When Claude spotted two of the robed men charging toward Luna, he raced into the chamber and picked up the kris sword. On instinct, he swung. The blade sliced both men, one of whom cried out while the other dropped without a sound.

  The other men drew daggers from their rope belts. Claude tried to grip the sword as best he could with trembling hands.

  Above the pit, Agent McMillan’s one arm had been cut free. He knew that within seconds he would fall headlong into that hungry abyss. As a last ditch effort, he yanked the gag from his mouth and pronounced:

  “Ateh Malkuth ve-Gevurah ve-Gudalah le-Olahm Amen!”

  At this, the entire world seemed to shift, and shift violently. The once-whispering congregation now scattered like insects, darting for various tunnels that led out of the chamber. A few were actually flung off their feet, their heads striking stone. The entire cavern rumbled and shook. And the dark pit was suddenly rinsed with light.

  Claude raced and helped Agent McMillan free himself. Once safely on the ground again, the agent stepped over the lifeless bodies of Dominika and Yegor and hurriedly peeled a robe off one of the unconscious devotees and donned it.

  “Let’s go,” he told them. “And bring that.” He pointed to the pendulum tool that Luna still held.

  Together they rushed through the dark caverns, holding hands in order to stay together in the impenetrable dark. Agent McMillan clearly knew these tunnels well, for their travels were swift, and in a moment they were climbing up a set of rugged steps. Luna recognized them.

  Claude was disoriented when he climbed out of the hearth and found himself inside the Witch House.

  “It’s not safe in here,” the agent advised them. “Come on, this whole place might cave in at any moment.”

&
nbsp; They ran outside, into a night that was strangely tranquil. Claude had never been happier to see Leo’s face.

  IX

  When they had gathered at the pickup truck, Leo finally asked the burning question, “What was all that about?”

  The group then listened raptly as Agent McMillan divulged the history and aims of the Human Protection League, as well as the details he could reveal concerning their archrivals, the Olde Fellowes.

  “So the Voloses have been working with HPL all this time?” Claude asked.

  “Yes,” the agent replied. “Their skills in magic were all that stood between humanity and a god they call Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. Nyarlathotep lurks in the endless void between the Dreamscape and this world. When the Olde Fellowes learned of the Red Scare, Elder Fenton developed a plan that I grant was nothing short of genius. He came to a zone of occult power, here at the Devil’s Humps, and created a network of tunnels where he could collect the dream-essence of Mitford’s sleepers. Being in those shelters put you and your neighbors too close to Nyarlathotep. That rite we just witnessed was the final feeding of the Crawling Chaos. If I’d been served as the main course, like the Olde Fellowes had planned, Nyarlathotep would have broken through into our universe.

  “Had it not been for the Voloses’ help and their abilities, the Crawling Chaos would have emerged right through those serpent mounds. The spells that the Ojibwe tribe used to keep It bound to the depths were growing weaker and weaker over time, and Elder Fenton was using all the powers of the Armies of the Night to awaken It. The Voloses were our best defense. That’s why I urged the Junior G-Men to stay close to them.”

  “I feel just awful . . . ,” Claude muttered.

  “Don’t,” Agent McMillan replied, placing a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “Fenton’s very persuasive. I don’t blame you for letting him know where I was. Besides, the way I see it, you’re a bona fide hero.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Luna began, “is why the Human Protection League had only one agent here in Mitford. I mean, the threat was huge, so why not send reinforcements?”

  “Believe me, they tried,” Agent McMillan replied, “but unfortunately the League is stretched very thin. Most people aren’t aware of the preternatural dangers we keep at bay, day in and day out. The threat to Mitford was just one of many. We do what we can, where we can.”

  “I can’t believe this is the world I live in,” Leo said.

  “You remember what I told you? Nothing is ever what it seems. Well, it will be dawn soon. The good people of Mitford will soon be waking up safe and well rested. They’ll have no idea how close they came to an apocalypse. And we must never tell them.”

  “Why not?” asked Luna.

  “They’d never believe you, for one. And secondly, the job of the Human Protection League, of which the Junior G-Men can now consider themselves honorary members, is to fight secret threats by secret means. Keep the shadowy things in the shadows. It’s better that way.”

  “Just one last question, sir,” said Claude. “How did the HPL even know about the Witch House in the first place?”

  “We own it,” Agent McMillan replied, “or owned it I should say. We’ve been at this for more than a decade now, and our resources have grown markedly thanks to the support of some generous benefactors. Where we can, we make it our business to know the zones of occult power all over the world, and we do what we can to keep them sealed. Shortly after the League came into being, the building you call the Witch House was bought up by us.”

  “Well, that’s maleficent,” exclaimed Leo.

  “I think you mean magnificent,” laughed Luna, “although in this case you could be right . . .”

  EIGHT

  At the Hills of Hollywood

  “WAIT FOR IT, BABY.”

  I pumped my fist up and down Little Arty, getting ready.

  “I could do that for ya, ya know. I mean, ain’t that why we’re here?”

  “Be cool, honey.”

  Slow, then fast. Slow, then fast.

  “Or I could do it with my mouth. I don’t mind. Boys usually like that.” From the set, through the not-quite-closed door, I could hear the whirr of the crane. The click as they locked it down.

  “Hush now, baby. It’s almost time.”

  A hoarse voice from the set called, “Ready?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I whispered.

  The naked blonde was invitingly splayed over a purple-and-green divan left over from some Tony Curtis sword-and-sandal pic. She frowned over her shoulder, narrowing her baby blues at me.

  “Whatcha doin’ over there, anyway?” she said.

  “Roll sound” came the call from the studio.

  “Speed!”

  “I’m gonna roll you, baby.”

  She licked her lips.

  “Roll cameras."

  “Marker.”

  “Say it, say it, say it,” I begged. I stepped up, grabbing hold of her with a couple of slaps.

  “Set!” came the call.

  “Set,” I said.

  “I never done it like this,” said the girl. “It’s a little unusual.”

  “Action!” called the director.

  “Yes,” I said, rocking my hips.

  That’s when it went off.

  “Shit!”

  I let go of the girl and looked for my pants.

  “He-e-ey!”

  “Hold your giblets.”

  I found my clothes dangling from the tip of a balsa scimitar. Some wit had etched BERNIE’S A BENDER into the wood with a penknife. I reached into my keys-pocket for the little black orb which buzzed and vibrated in my palm.

  “Fuck a duck,” I said. I couldn’t ignore this.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, darling.” I slipped the device back into the pocket and pulled my trousers on. “Just a gadget to tell me somebody needs me. I’ve got to go.”

  “But what about . . . ?” She indicated her exposed loins with a bob of her chin and cupped her breasts.

  I sighed. “Duty calls.”

  “What about my audition?” she said.

  “You’re a star, babycakes, I can tell. I’ll pass a good word on to Mr. Dmytryk. Hand to God.”

  I could see my lie in her eyes.

  “What kinda crap is this, anyways?” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Hollywood, baby. It’s Hollywood.”

  “Burns! Arty Burns!”

  Fat little Lemkovitz charged at me as soon as the director called, “Cut.”

  “Hey! What’s the scene, Jimmy Dean?”

  “Hah?”

  “What d’ya want, Larry? I’m on the move.”

  “You don’t talk to me like that, shmendrick. I’m the producer here . . .”

  “Associate.”

  His tiny, bald head went puce. “Yeah, well you’re associate nothing. Goddamn studio security, so-called. What the hell do you secure, anyway? I’m missing a gold pen. A keepsake, even. Gone, poof, like the Lindbergh baby.”

  “Just like,” I said.

  “RKO used to be a nice place to work, you know.”

  “Someone took your little pen?”

  “Gold.”

  “Solid or plate?”

  “It was pl—what the hell? I’m reporting a theft here.”

  “You know I won’t sleep until the culprit’s in the hoosegow and you’re back in the ink. But right now, I’ve got to see the big man.”

  “Listen to me, you little c—” My words caught up with his mouth. “The big man?”

  I nodded just enough to crush him.

  “Mr. Hughes?” he mouthed.

  “There a bigger man here?”

  “No,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “No, no, of course not. But, but . . .”

  I held back the big smile I felt.

  “Would you pass on my kind regards?” he said, gently stroking my elbow. I bet I could have scored a hand job off the bastard, if I’d wanted.

  “I’ll
mention the pen,” I said.

  “No,” he yelled. “No, please, don’t do that . . .”

  But he was already in my dust and I wasn’t feeling so bad about missing out on the blonde.

  “Hey, Sweet Knees!”

  I stood up a little straighter before turning around.

  “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

  “Hi, Faith,” I said.

  She stopped in her tracks, cocked a hand on her narrow hip and pouted those thick lips at me as if I’d just taken her teddy bear away. She wore an orange and pink sarong-y thing that begged to be unwrapped before Christmas. I don’t normally dig brunettes, but Faith Domergue was an exception to prove any rule. A string of tiny, pink flowers had been woven into her velvety brown hair.

  “Is that the best you can do for me, Arthur?” She added a dirty look.

  “Sorry, gorgeous, I’m distracted. I’m on my way to . . .” I stopped, pointed at her clothes. “We lensing a South Seas pic? I don’t remember hearing about it.”

  “What? This old thing?” she asked. She gave a twirl, just as a breeze kicked up, raising the hem high enough to see the lighthouse at Bora Bora. “You like?”

  “Jeez, Faith, you sure could drive a fellow places.”

  “I’ve got the car if you’ve got the key.” And she let out a laugh like clinking highball glasses.

  “Maybe I could fill her up a little later?”

  She gave a furtive look around, an impish grin on her puss. She reached up and plucked one of the little pink flowers from her hair and pressed it into my palm.

  “You just got leied,” she teased.

  “You wonderful, dirty girl!”

  “Vroom-vroom,” she said. Then she got all serious. She looked around again, then beckoned me closer. Little Arty throbbed with anticipation.

  “Did you hear?”

  “What?” I asked. I licked my lips and placed a hand on the small of her back.

  “Bob Shayne got named,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “You know Bob, don’t you? I did that awful mad scientist thing with him. He’s a sweetie.”