Limbus, Inc., Book III

by Jonathan Maberry

They wanted him to feel safe. That was the only explanation. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t bring himself to think about it. He had two massive lizards who were about to attack him, and he had no way to defend himself.

  Chip took a tentative step forward, and one of the creatures lunged. He stepped back, and felt someone grip his shoulders. It was Kohl, and he had a needle in his hand. He plunged the needle into Chip’s neck. Chip opened his mouth to protest, but everything spun wildly and went black.

  *

  When he woke up he was in a cage. Not one of the dark, smelly cages that Janet had been in, but a clean one, well lit, with a cot and toilet. He didn’t like that the toilet wasn’t private, but it was better than a bucket. The cage was in the center of a lab, and all around him scientists in white coats were typing on laptops or conferring with one another. Several of the naked monkey men were scurrying about on errands. One of the creatures was delivering a plate with a sandwich on it to Kohl, whom Chip noticed was in close conversation with Ms. Spravedlnost. There were a series of cages in the back of the lab. They held small rodents—rats, most likely. Chip watched as Janice went from cage to cage, refilling their feed canisters.

  She wasn’t locked up. It had all been a test, he realized. The whole thing had been a test. Everything he had done, every move he had made, had been watched. This was just one more sick experiment.

  Chip tried to catch her eye, but she was deliberately not looking at him. She finished her work and pushed her cart out of the lab.

  Kohl, however, looked up and smiled. “The subject appears to have awakened.” He and Ms. Spravedlnost approached the cage.

  “What is going on?” Chip demanded. “I went in the wrong door, and now you are going to experiment on me?”

  “Excuses are no longer important,” Kohl said. “Experiment is now over. We had to understand not only why you were not a good person, but what would trigger your badness too.”

  “What experiment?” Chip demanded.

  “I’m afraid it’s you,” Ms. Spravedlnost explained. “You were an early model, the earliest to live, and obviously things went quite badly.”

  “We had to know how you would react under the stresses,” Kohl said. “So we gave them to you. Make for you the stress and see how you react. It is very much educational.”

  Chip thought about his mother, her calling him her little miracle. He remembered the money from Versteckt Labs. “Are you telling me that I’m an experiment, like those monkey things?”

  “Different,” Kohl said. “Our servants are much more advanced, the product of several decades of advanced research. You were a more primitive model, a simple genetic copy of a normal human. We sold several thousand of your model, but you were the first to display these kinds of behaviors, so we hoped to know what has gone wrong. I told you before. We do not leave any stone unturned until we understand our mistakes.”

  Chip put his hands to the bars. “How long am I going to be in here?”

  “Until we figure out where your genetic code went wrong,” Kohl said.

  “And then?”

  Kohl shrugged. “And then we shall see.”

  Chip was going to ask more questions, but they turned away and went over to the other end of the lab. They were looking at data on a computer screen, and Kohl was explaining something even as he took large bites of the sandwich. Ms. Spravedlnost nodded with great interest as he spoke.

  Chip stepped backwards until he reached the cot. He sat down, staring ahead. The sandwich looked good, but he wasn’t very hungry.

  Maybe he was a genetic creation. So what? That didn’t mean he didn’t have any rights. They were going to regret putting him in here, treating him this way. It was a mistake, the world had often learned, to try and push Chip around. This was going to be one more instance to prove that. He just had to wait for his moment. One of these days, it would arrive.

  Second Interlude: It is Written

  Malone had heard of Chip Dunston. Probably wasn’t a person in America who hadn’t. But Malone had a special hatred for him. Figured if the liberals ever got around to banning guns, it would be guys like Chip that would give them the excuse. Still, he didn’t like to think that the story he’d just read was true, even if he knew it couldn’t be. Right?

  Malone’s plane had just landed in Boston when his phone rang.

  “You got any idea what it costs to run a full tox screen?”

  Malone frowned and wished Pierson could see it.

  “Did you find anything or not?”

  “Sure I did.”

  Malone leaned forward, gripping the headrest of the passenger in front of him with such force that the man turned and glared at him.

  “What? What did you find? Exotic poisons? Anything plant based?”

  “Just hold on, Sherlock. No, we didn’t find any poison. But we did find a considerable level of flunitrazepam in her blood stream, a nitro-benzodiazepine better known as Rohypnol.”

  “She was drugged?”

  “Oh yeah. Enough to knock out a couple horses. At least she didn’t feel any pain.”

  “What else? What else did you find?”

  “What? I give you the means by which the killers got the girl to the mine and that’s not enough for you?”

  “Pierson, shut the fuck up and tell me what you found.”

  “That would be a contradiction in terms, detective. But I’ll humor you. There was nothing else in her blood. No opiates of any kind, no alcohol, not even any sign of pot. Seems like she lived a pretty clean life, or she had for the past few months or so. Also no sign of sexual assault. From what I can tell, they drugged the girl and then killed her, just as simple as that. Oh, and we also found hops in her hair.”

  “You found what?”

  “Hops. You know. It’s like a flower they put in beer? Can’t say I’m too familiar. I was always a wine guy.”

  “But you found them in her hair?”

  “Yeah, which is weird, right? Only thing we can figure is that she might have been a beer enthusiast, maybe she brewed her own? Anyway, we sent the hops over to a lab that has the capability of figuring out what kind of hops they are and what kind of beer you’d make with them. Thought that might be helpful for you. You can thank me later. Williams swung by. Seems they’ve ID’d the girl. Student down at Birmingham Southern. She told her friends she was staying in, studying for a Calculus exam or something along those lines. That was the last they saw of her. He’s running up a profile of all her friends. There’s a boyfriend, but no exes. Apparently they’d been dating for a while and he’s all broken up about it, but Williams still figures he did her in.”

  “Did he ask about the hops?”

  “What?”

  The passengers in the forward rows had all exited, and the woman with the window seat beside him was shooting daggers at Malone. He rose, cursing her and Pierson under his breath.

  “The hops you found in her hair. Did Williams ask anybody about it?”

  “Oh. No. I didn’t think to mention it. I’ll let him know. Anyway, when are you coming by the lab?”

  “Later. I just landed in Boston.”

  “Boston? What in the hell are you doing there?”

  “I’ve got to see a man about a book.” With that, Malone hit end on the phone, and smiled a little at the thought of Pierson’s confusion. But it was true. He’d come to Boston for answers, and there was only one man he figured could give them to him.

  It was an early spring morning, which in Massachusetts meant the snow was piled high and the wind cut to the bone. Malone was woefully underdressed, but he tried to ignore the cold as he followed throngs of weather-daring tourists into the North End. He cut through the old burying ground at Copp’s Hill, past the ancient, crumbling tomb of Cotton Mather, into the labyrinth of narrow corridors and side streets north of Prince. He stopped at the mouth of one and stared with sudden recognition at a ramshackle storefront. He had reached his destination.

  Ramshackle, yes, but purposefully so, t
he way all the hip places were these days. Exposed brick and factory-style ceilings. The millennials loved the style, and Unbound was happy to capitalize. Malone jogged across the street, ignoring the shrill honking of angry drivers, and stepped through the front door of the book seller. A bell above tinkled as the door swung open, and, as if in answer, an ancient grandfather clock chimed the early morning hour. The store was crowded, but even through the crowd Malone caught the bespectacled eye of the man he’d been looking for.

  Malone didn’t bother acting like he was there for a book. Instead he strode directly across the store, never taking his eyes off its owner—Matthew Sellers.

  “Well, sir,” said Sellers, “you look like a man who knows exactly what you want.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Sellers. I do.” Malone flashed his badge, quickly and discreetly. “Detective Malone, homicide.”

  Sellers arched an eyebrow. “Well, is that so? Bryan,” he said, calling to a young man in an apron who was stacking books on a shelf. “Leave that for now and come mind the register. I’ll only be a moment.” And then, turning back to Malone, “How about we discuss this in the back.”

  Sellers stepped to the side and raised the bar that separated the general customers from the back area. With a sweep of his hand he said, “After you.” Malone walked through, and then followed Sellers into a back room that served as his office. The walls were adorned with pictures of Sellers—at various ages it seemed—at locations around the world. Sellers at Machu Picchu, Sellers rafting the Colorado, Sellers climbing a mountain Malone just went ahead and assumed was Everest. “Mount McKinley, actually,” Sellers said, as if reading his mind. “They call it Denali now, but it will always be McKinley to me. Most people assume its Everest. And I let most people continue in that assumption. Please, take a seat.”

  “I have a few questions, Mr. Sellers,” Malone said as he sank into the leather chair across from the owner of Unbound. “Shouldn’t take too much of your time.”

  “I can’t imagine what I can help you with. I don’t know anyone who has been murdered, and I certainly haven’t killed anyone.” Sellers grinned, and Malone wondered just how much of a lie he was trying to sell him.

  “Be that as it may, I think you can help me. Tell me what you know about Limbus.”

  Sellers’ grin hung for a minute, then faded. “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not.”

  Sellers barked out a laugh. “I’ve gotta say detective, over the years I’ve had a lot of people come through here and ask about Limbus, but never the police.”

  “So it’s a popular subject, then?”

  “Yeah, among the kooks and the crazies. People who think that Limbus is real. That the book was all an elaborate ruse to make people believe otherwise.”

  “Well, in fairness, that is what the book says.”

  Sellers leaned over his desk and fixed Malone with his eyes. “Don’t you think if we were trying to fool people into thinking Limbus was a fraud, we wouldn’t tell them about it first?”

  Malone shrugged, removed a pack of cigarettes, held it up to Sellers. “You mind?”

  “This is Boston, detective. You can’t smoke anywhere.” He sighed, pulling out a drawer and dropping an ashtray onto the desk. “That being said I’ve been known to indulge myself.” Malone offered a cigarette, and Sellers took it.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sellers,” Malone said, picking up where they’d left off, “maybe it was a double blind. You tell them it’s a ruse, and that makes it all the harder to believe it’s not.”

  “Have you read the book, detective?”

  “I’m working my way through it and…some related materials.”

  “So you think it’s plausible that we live in a world of ancient rituals, galaxy-spanning aliens, and talking dogs?”

  “Actually,” Malone said, “I don’t think the dog talked.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Sellers, “I can promise you it’s fiction. The work of a very deranged mind.”

  “So the Templeton story is true?”

  Sellers nodded, took a drag of his cigarette. “It is. I owe that man a lot. He made the store. When I started, I was just a dumb kid with a dream.”

  “I know. I read the prologue.”

  “Right. Of course. I’d have been out of business in three months if it hadn’t been for that book. We sold the film rights last week to Plan B Entertainment. Heard of it? It’s Brad Pitt’s.”

  “Congratulations. Maybe he can play you in the movie. So you just made up the last bit? The part where Recruiter Hawthorne shows up?”

  Were it not for so many years reading people, Malone might have missed the slight shiver from Sellers at the mention of the name.

  “The book needed an ending,” he said. “So I provided one.”

  “So it’s all made up? All fake?”

  “Every last bit.”

  “Then what do you make of this?” He flopped the business card down in front of Sellers, the one that bore the Limbus name. The other man gave it only a passing glance.

  “Where’d you get that? A prop store?”

  “It was underneath the body of a murdered girl,” Malone said, embellishing. Sellers blanched.

  “My God,” he said. “They’ve finally taken it too far. I always knew they would, the fanatics. The ones who were obsessed with Limbus. If you love Harry Potter you dress up like a wizard at Halloween. If you love Limbus, you kill people, apparently.”

  “Come on Sellers,” Malone said. “Cut the crap. I know you know more than you’re letting on. Now tell me or we can talk about this somewhere more official.”

  Sellers smirked and snorted. “A little bit out of your jurisdiction for such a threat, aren’t you detective? Oh, don’t look so surprised. You only showed it to me for a second but ‘Alabama’ sorta stands out.”

  “A girl’s dead, Sellers. If you know anything, you should help, out of the goodness of your damn heart.”

  Sellers leaned across the desk.

  “You want to know the truth, detective? You are way fucking down the rabbit hole right now. Way further down than you ever imagined you’d go.”

  Now it was Malone that blanched. “What did you say?”

  “I said you are dealing with things you don’t understand. Things that could get you in trouble.”

  “No…about the rabbit hole…you said…”

  The corner of Sellers’ mouth crept into a grin. He opened a drawer, retrieved a package. Dropped it in front of Malone. There was no return address, just the outline of a rabbit in the upper left corner where one should be.

  “I received this today. This morning in fact, just before you arrived. But somehow, I don’t think it was meant for me.”

  Malone picked it up, studied it. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Jack Rabbit? No, detective. Whatever else I may have gotten myself into, I’m still just a book publisher. But I bet I know someone who might be able to give you some direction. A man with very powerful friends.”

  “Who?”

  Sellers grinned. “Bernard Samuelson.”

  “Bernard Samuelson? You mean the guy with the niece? The one that was kidnapped?”

  “Made quite the story in our little anthology, don’t you think?”

  “So he’s real?”

  “He’s real. His niece, too. Though I think you’d have a hard time finding Ryan Dixson in the Marine Corps registry.”

  “So that part was made up?”

  Sellers shrugged. He picked up a pen and tore a sheet of paper from a pad. He then ripped it in half. On one half he wrote an address and a name.

  “Here,” he said. “It’s a Thursday, and if I know Samuelson at all, he’ll be at a club called The Eye at 7 p.m. It’s a weekly ritual of his. The Eye is very exclusive, and no one gets in unless they are a member or at the request of one. But you are in luck. I am a member.” He folded the other paper in half and handed it to Malone. “Give that to the doorman. He’ll let you in. Now get out of
here. I have nothing else to add, and nothing else to give. Besides,” he said, nodding at the package Malone held, “I think you have some reading to do.”

  Right On, Sister!

  By

  Keith R.A. DeCandido

  1

  Wanda Jackson tried to ignore the pain in her calves as she walked gingerly through the slush-covered sidewalk of 116th Street. She’d just finished her morning shift waiting tables at Smith’s Diner on 110th.

  Unfortunately, it was her last shift ever. The place had been robbed a dozen times in the past two years, and the insurance premiums kept going up, and Mr. Smith decided to stop paying those premiums. Which was only a problem when they got robbed the thirteenth time. The police said to report the crime to the insurance company, but Mr. Smith didn’t have insurance anymore. And that meant he had to pay for the window the robbers broke himself, and he couldn’t afford it.

  So he just declared bankruptcy and that was it. Wanda, along with six other ladies who waited tables and the two guys who cooked in the back and a couple of cashiers, were all out of work. Sure someone could buy the diner. But probably nobody would. It would hardly be the only abandoned building in Manhattan, and who’d want to open a diner in Harlem these days? Even if someone did, there was no guarantee they’d be hiring Wanda to wait tables every morning.

  In fact, there was no guarantee that anybody would hire her. Morning shifts were hard to come by, since all the ladies with kids were snatching them up. They’d work in the morning, then pick up their kids at school in the afternoon. Wanda only got the gig at Smith’s because Mr. Smith was friends with Grams.

  At least she still had the afternoon job at the law office. She filed for Charlie Charles. His flyers were up all over Harlem, usually taped or stapled to walls that said POST NO BILLS, and he had ads on the tee vee. Honkies called Charlie an “ambulance chaser,” but Wanda just saw a brother who was trying to make a living. He had a law degree, so why shouldn’t he help the brothers and sisters go up against the man?

  She got to Lenox Avenue and walked through the big glass door next to the picture window that had CHARLIE CHARLES, HARLEM’S FAVORITE LAWYER stenciled on it. The storefront was in the ground floor of a crummy apartment building. Wanda always thought he should’ve just put “Attorney-at-Law” on the window, but Charlie always said that made him look too much like some jive honky lawyer. “A brother should be honest,” he always said. “And Harlem done loves Charlie Charles.”