Division Zero

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Kirsten, we’ve got a situation. Two Division 1 patrol officers have gotten themselves trapped by a possible category four manifestation.”

  She gulped. The Wharf Stalker rated only three. “How much do we know?”

  Eze’s hand on her shoulder stalled her ever-widening sapphire eyes. “Some mechanic took a few pot shots at a passing Div 1 unit. They pursued him into an abandoned building, and at some point thereafter hit their panic buttons. By the time backup arrived, they were gone. There are also reports of strange sights, screams, and to use the technical term they did: ‘weird shit’.”

  “What sector?”

  Eze shook his head. “No sector, it’s off the map. Southwest of where the city plates stop, a pre-war building right on the surface.”

  She bit her lip, never having been that far south before. “Who’s the mechanic?”

  “I’ll relay the details while you’re en route. No criminal record, no idea why he fired. Their sergeant wants someone out there ASAP. His people are refusing to go inside.”

  Refusing? With fellow officers in danger? What the hell is this thing?

  “On it, sir.” She leapt into the waiting car.

  Kirsten tapped at the control sticks urging the car to power on faster. Any trepidation she had at tangling with something that might be worse than the Wharf Stalker evaporated under her sense of duty. She thought only of other cops in danger.

  Twenty minutes of blurred buildings later, the patrol craft shot out over the edge of the city. The exposed Earth fifty meters below looked desolate and brown; dotted here and there with scrub-brush and cacti. The car descended into the shadow of the endless urbanity behind her. The rearview monitor filled with the vast network of pipes and support struts between the great city plates and the ground, a place known as The Beneath. She had been down there before, many years ago, but now was not the time to dwell on old memories.

  Not with lives at risk.

  hattered plaster rained down everywhere as unseen gunfire tore chunks out of the wall above her head. Kirsten raised her arms to shield her face from the fall of debris and closed her eyes. After the shooting stopped, the wall rocked with a powerful impact that knocked her forward into a squatting wobble. With a flail of her arms, she recovered her balance enough to fall back against the crumbling cinderblocks. Sinister laughter, touched with insanity, echoed from around the corner before fading to silence. Soon, only the sounds of her rapid breaths and the crunch of her boots upon the debris broke the stillness.

  Kirsten kept her back against the wall, crouched with her service weapon held to her chest. Dampness hung in the musty air and the smell of rotting wood teased at her nostrils. Two spots of azure light traced along the sides of the pistol in an endless march, tinting the dingy walls with undulating light. Police outside had no idea what went on in the building, their sensors unable to read anything but static. The same sort of static shimmered above her left arm guard where a tactical holographic display struggled to appear. Since she had entered this old asylum, it managed only to make a panel of scintillating black and white dots that saturated the area around her with an otherworldly glow.

  He has to be alive. Ghosts don’t use guns, and he sure isn’t having any trouble projecting his voice into the mortal world.

  She held her weapon out to the left, using its mirror-like housing to peek around the corner. Seeing nothing, she sprang to her feet. With her E90 leveled off at the darkness, she swatted dust and scraps off her uniform while she tried to sort out the situation. Her comm-link proved unreliable as well; she forced the unending hiss in her right ear out of her conscious mind. Her psionics could not pinpoint any specific source, the entire building vibrated with paranormal energy.

  What are you doing? Those cops need you. The urgency dispelled her worry about the malfunctioning gadgetry.

  Not only had two Division 1 patrol officers been trapped in here by who-knows-what, the living suspect had just shot at her. She had made it only ten feet in from the door when the slugs started flying, and the shooter vanished before she could return fire.

  I’m being an idiot. I see half a man walking around… no sweat. She trembled, wondering where the next bullet would come from―an attack she could not stop with her mind. At least I got farther than Div 1. A distant scream drew her eyes to the ceiling.

  They’re counting on me. I can’t let them down.

  She swallowed her fear and forced herself to continue deeper into the old building, pausing by a small window overlooking the front yard. Blue bodies, blurred through a century of grime upon the glass, huddled outside, clinging to their guns a few yards from the stairs. Whatever they had seen had been enough to keep them out of the building. Kirsten placed her boots with caution around the scattering of debris that filled the halls, mindful to prevent her gear from snagging on anything. Distant cackles and screams laced through the air, punctuated by shouts and banging metal. At least some of the noises came from the dead trapped here. From the appearance of the place, this old hospital had been out of commission for a long time.

  Kirsten dreaded the possibility she would have to kill a man. Not only did she loathe taking life, killing someone just started another process of having to deal with them. Ghosts could be vindictive. If they felt like being real sons of bitches, they would linger for years and mess with you at every opportunity. Of course, not every astral sensate shared her other talent. Most could only see, hear, and speak to them. Kirsten could hurt them, even to the point of final obliteration, Division 0’s ace in the hole against spirits. So far, she had not confronted a ghost she was responsible for making.

  The thought made her sick with guilt.

  Her eyes focused on a faint light radiating from a half-closed door further ahead in the hallway. A patch of shadow darted through it, a hint of a man ducking for cover. Kirsten chased, stopping against the wall just next to the room. She kicked in the door and aimed over a flipped bed into an empty room, the walls hung with the tattered remnants of padding. Roaches scurried away from her noise.

  Oh, hell, he’s getting to me―I’m seeing things.

  Sniveling from beyond the bed, the sound of a terrified man wavered in the air. Relaxing her guard, she moved up to an emaciated and neglected man in a dirty hospital gown. He cowered on the ground in a ball, his fingers gnawed bloody. His bleeding hands did not stain the bed, and he wore the unmistakable presence of the dead. For an instant, they locked eyes, and then he looked up and past her.

  You poor bastard, how long have you been trapped here?

  “No.” he shrieked, crossing his arms in front of his face. “Not again.”

  Kirsten’s attempt to say something to calm him was cut short as powerful hands grabbed her arms. Her head darted to either side as she struggled with a pair of inhumanly large men in white orderlies’ uniforms. One man was dark-skinned, the other fairer, and neither had hair. Both had stark, pale eyes with no pupils. Old, dried blood had smeared across the chest of their dingy uniforms. Grinning with demonic glee, they hauled her into the air as though she weighed nothing at all.

  The clatter of her E90 hitting the ground never made it to her ears amidst the nauseating blur of the floor and ceiling trading places. The men, far too strong, overpowered her. She squirmed but could not escape. The sensation of being lifted and thrown around brought back memories of her mother, triggering an involuntary fit of screaming and thrashing. The spinning halted with her face coming to rest on the padded floor with a sharp pop.

  Her breath left her in a forced gasp as the straps of a straitjacket cinched with painful constriction around her body and through her legs. She rolled to the side in time to see the two orderlies haul the malnourished patient, protesting and kicking, into the hallway. The orderlies walked right through the wall, pulling the panicky ghost through the open doorway between them. His eyes grew frantic as if he approached his second death; as they dragged him out of sight, he clawed at the air, reaching for her help. In defiance of her trappe
d arms, Kirsten scrambled to her feet just in time to run face-first into the padded door as it slammed.

  No, dammit, let me out!

  Her aimless squirming did little against the dirty jacket. As the sensation of being trapped flooded her mind with terror, images flashed on the walls. Her mother’s gargantuan face filled each surface in turn, echoing with a deep demonic laugh. Backing away, Kirsten tripped over the fallen bed and landed sitting with her back against the cushioned wall. As her head hit the padding, clothes appeared in the air above her, swaying. The cell took on the appearance of an oversized closet, and her uniform faded away to a dingy dress and bare, bruised legs. The sight of the hanging coats sent her lunging at the door, screaming and kicking at it over and over until she sagged forward, out of breath.

  The E90 lay on the floor, mocking her with its uselessness. Not only did it require her fingerprint on the trigger, it would do more damage to her than it would do to the coat. The whisper of a child’s voice in the back of her mind warned her not to make too much noise, or mother would be angry.

  No, Mother’s dead. She’s not coming.

  Kirsten concentrated, slowed her breathing, and ceased her impotent struggle against the canvas crushing her arms to her chest.

  Not real, this is not real, she chanted.

  The presence of her mother seeped into the walls, leaving them tattered pads. Her little girl’s dress gave way to her uniform. The ancient door should crumble at a touch, not behave like stone. Likewise, the straightjacket should be as brittle as paper, not crush her with suffocating force. With a tenuous grasp on her composure, she wriggled around to peek. Her shivering ebbed at the sight of unfastened buckles. An unseen force drew the straps ever tighter.

  Just energy. She gasped. I can get out of this.

  Her short-lived respite ended with the sudden appearance of the mechanic’s face in the door’s dirt-encrusted window. It almost stopped her heart.

  He flashed a gleeful grin and licked the glass. “Time for dying, little one.”

  She gave up squirming and opened her senses. The energy imbued into the restraint became tangible to her, like a coat of slime. Her trembling ebbed; she locked eyes with the man in the window.

  “I’m not that easy.”

  Kirsten snarled as her power overwhelmed the entity. The straightjacket exploded away from her as she flung her arms out to the sides. She dove for her weapon through a flurry of tattered canvas as the ancient restraint disintegrated, and a long-needed rush of air filled her lungs.

  She somersaulted over the E90, up onto one knee, and put a blast of azure light through the padded door. Two more beams followed, tracking to the left as the man ran off. Each shot made a half-inch hole in the wall, ringed with embers. She closed her eyes and allowed a few short breaths to calm her nerves in a room too small for comfort. With hands braced on either side, she stomped on the door until it gave out. A wheeze of relief followed her out of the cell. Before she could enjoy freedom, an unexpected noise made her turn.

  A gurgle emanated from a doorway down the hall, drawing her gaze past a fallen gurney and over a wheelchair that had been rusting in place since before she was born.

  Oh shit, please don’t tell me I hit a cop.

  The holes in the opposite wall and rooms beyond had no blood. She edged up to the doorframe, taking in a deep breath while trying to rein in her racing heart. Fragments of conversation floated out of the hiss in her ear. The officers outside reacted to laser streaks coming out of the building; what they said after that drowned in white noise.

  The tip of her gun quivered in midair for the second or three it took to find the courage to whirl through the door and aim at the source of the noise. A pallid man lay upon the bed, clad in a hospital gown; his body arched such that only his shoulders and feet made contact with the mattress. His head, crushed almost flat, stained the pillow black with a puddle of gore. Clawing at the air, his hands raked in erratic strokes, like film fast-forwarded in short bursts. He struggled to rise, glued to the bed by his smashed skull.

  She ran to his side. “You poor man, what did he do to you?”

  Most would have run screaming at the sight; then again, normal people would not have even seen him. Kirsten frowned, shaking her head at the confused haunt. A disembodied eyeball amidst the carnage of what used to be a head shifted to look at her.

  This is where you realize I can see you. Yep… that’s right. I can see you.

  The eye followed as she backed into the corridor.

  “I’m sorry for what he did. I will release you.”

  Twitching hands pointed up at the ceiling.

  Kirsten jumped as the ambient lighting flickered in time with a distant electrical buzz; screams in the voice of the starved man from the padded room rang through the building. It continued for a few minutes, and then fell silent.

  A shiver of dread ran through her. Please just be a residual imprint and not that poor guy suffering all over again.

  The dead man had gestured at the second floor. She remembered seeing the steeple of a small chapel at the back of the building on the way in, and cringed. That always meant trouble. Dark energy often congregated in those places, as if the structure could focus their power.

  Kirsten yelped when she opened the doorway to the stairwell, startled by an old woman in a wheelchair. Her crushed head ran down into her lap like a melted candle. The visage reintegrated and gave her a commanding look. Kirsten nodded, muttering assurances she would help. Satisfied, the elder pivoted and wheeled off through the wall.

  Kirsten’s boot alighted with a squeak on the first step. She froze, sensing the approach of something paranormal as the scent of industrial lubricant surrounded her. An involuntary ‘eep’ escaped her lips as she whirled to find the mechanic, close enough to kiss her. Scraggly brown hair hung to the shoulders of his stained jumpsuit, his head cocked at an odd angle. His eyes, solid white without a trace of color in them, glowed against the unnatural darkness settled over his face.

  Reflex.

  Her E90 leveled off at his chest without thought. The weapon chirped as it armed, detecting her fingertip poised upon the metal trigger.

  Hesitation.

  The man just stood there waiting for it. Her eyes narrowed as her finger lifted away from the kill button. Her lip curled as she summoned up a wave of mental energy. Now she felt it: two entities stared at her, not one.

  She scowled. “No.”

  A tendril of ethereal white light formed within her hand and swiped across his chest, pulling bits of ghost out through his flesh. The body shuddered as a spectral apparition exuded out behind him and coalesced a few feet away, in the shape of a middle-aged doctor holding an ancient medieval mace coated with blood. An echoing wail filled the corridor, rattling windows and small objects on distant metal trays. The sound emanated from the wraith, not the living man. Her astral lash hurt the spirit in no small way and filled his lifeless eyes with fear of obliteration. Glaring, he darted up through the ceiling before she could attack again.

  The dull thunk of the man’s head on the stairs brought her attention back to the living. Devoid of strength, his hand released the pistol, which clattered to a halt a foot or two away, a wisp of smoke rising from the barrel. The blinking red light above the handle meant it had run out of ammo.

  Thank you… Grateful for not having to take a life today, she kicked the gun off to the side just to be sure. This poor sot is as much a victim as anyone else.

  Kirsten rolled him onto his back and pinned him with a knee in the chest, just in case he woke up fighting. After checking his pulse, she patted his cheek until he opened his eyes. He tried to look at her, but his head wobbled in delirium. The boundary between their thoughts blurred as his recent memories became clear to her. Fleeting images of the outside: walking to his car, a cactus, a cat darting out of a hiding place, a trace of motion from the window of the rotting abandoned asylum. Then, without warning, the doctor right in front of him.

  Kirsten
shrieked and jumped back, her link interrupted by the abruptness of the face in her mind. The rapid motion snapped him out of his daze and he sat up, squinting, with a hand on the side of his head.

  “Who… where…”

  Kirsten tried to use her comm. Only static answered, but even if she had gotten through, she doubted the ordinary beat cops would come inside.

  “Come on, get up.”

  Kirsten nudged him to his feet and dragged the stumbling man by the arm to the exit. Outside, she shoved him into a line of waiting Division 1 officers who all cringed and aimed at the door’s sudden opening.

  “The entity possessed him. He’s a victim, not a suspect.”

  Without waiting to see what happened, Kirsten ran back to the stairwell and up to the second floor.

  Sounds broke the eerie stillness every so often; a moan, a wail for help, metal banging on metal, and somewhere―soft crying. The first room had another squirming body on the bed, a heavyset woman, also with a crushed head. These walls lay covered with erratic ramblings in jagged black scrawling. She, too, appeared fused to the mattress where her mutilated face oozed all over the pillow. Sensing Kirsten, the spirit’s arms went rigid and flailed. A wheeled serving table pivoted and flew right at her, out into the hallway.

  Kirsten dove, somersaulting as the rickety cart smashed into the wall with enough force to bend. She picked herself back up, shaking her head. Not every ghost wanted to see her; some, like that one, brimmed with such misery and rage they took it out on everyone. Continuing past more occupied rooms, she tried not to look, as the sights within would haunt her, even without the ghosts.

  Okay, doc. What’s your game, been around the crazy people so much you cracked, too? Made your last set of rounds with that mace? Flashes of murder played in her thoughts with each ghost. She could not help but imagine him hovering over them, wild with laughter as the old weapon struck again and again. Defenseless people. How depraved… This doctor almost makes Mother look sane.