Limbus, Inc., Book III

by Jonathan Maberry

  What amazed the urban explorer was the timing. They’d come here by boat and Priest had ordered the captain to drop anchor twenty miles offshore and wait. Eleven hours later the dormant volcano erupted and blew Queen Mary’s Peak a thousand meters into the sky. It was only the second eruption in recorded history, and the first since 1961.

  “How did you know?” demanded Keppler as their ship rocked in the churning sea.

  Priest’s only answer was a manic grin.

  The explosion was abrupt and intense, but it was of strangely short duration. Even though smoke continued to rise, the flow of lava was not nearly as intense as Hiro thought it should be.

  “They will be coming,” Boris said. “The British will send ships and planes.”

  “Of course they will,” agreed Priest, “but not in time.”

  The mission timetable was the only part of this that Hiro understood. Even in a mechanized age such as this, it would take time to get boots on the ground here. Tristan da Cunha and the four smaller islands of this archipelago were fifteen hundred miles from the continents of Africa and South America. It was one of the most remote inhabited places on earth. Help would come, aid and rescue and surveillance would all happen, but not in time. Not according to the schedule Priest had given them.

  “Nine hours,” he said. “We have a window of nine hours before anyone of real authority arrives here. We need to be done and gone before that.”

  “What about flyovers and satellite imaging?” asked Rink.

  “I don’t care about any of that. If they take our pictures be sure to give them a pretty smile.”

  Their ship, The Nautilus, was an ultra-modern dual-purpose craft whose hull was coated with the same radar deflecting materials as a stealth fighter. It was fast, with both diesel-electric and hydroplane engines, and it could close up and submerge to a depth of one hundred feet. The vessel was one of a new class of smuggler boats financed by billionaire drug lords. Hiro had no idea how Priest acquired it, but the damn thing could outrun anything except aircraft and in a pinch it could simply vanish into the ocean while the eyes of the world were still goggling at the inexplicable volcano.

  Now they were on the island. The ship’s crew—a collection of South African mercenaries who were probably a very short step away from being actual pirates—offloaded their gear. Five heavy-duty all-terrain vehicles stood on their fat, low-pressure tires. Gassed and ready.

  While Priest was busy checking his instruments, Hiro Tsukino took Rink by the arm and pulled her gently into the shadows of a boulder. Hiro nodded to the tall man who kept taking them from one impossible place to another.

  “What’s going on with him?” Hiro asked, keeping his voice down. “He’s getting freakier by the day.”

  She licked her lips. “He’s always been a little, um…”

  “A little what? Crazy? Bugfuck nuts?”

  “I was going to say ‘intense’.”

  “Really? Intense? That’s the best word for it?”

  Rink looked away. He knew she was as worried as he was.

  “Has he ever told you what his end game is? I mean…why are we doing this shit?”

  “All I know,” she said, “is that someone is paying him a lot of money to collect these books. Or to prove for certain that those that are believed to have been destroyed are actually gone for good. He has to know one way or another. That’s the job.”

  “Right, but why?”

  She shook her head.

  “C’mon, Rink,” insisted Hiro, “it’s our asses on the line here, too. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, which means we have to trust one another. Right now Boris and Keppler aren’t high on my list of people I give much of a shit about. Aside from me you’re the only one left who hasn’t become a zombie. We have to stick together.”

  But Rink shook her head. “Priest knows what he’s doing.”

  Hiro couldn’t let it go, however. He shifted around to stand in front of her. “Maybe he does. Maybe he’s the great genius of our age, but I need to know if I can trust his judgment. And I need to know what the fuck we’re doing. What’s our plan? What’s our goal?”

  “We’re here to get the Unaussprechlichen Kulten. You know that.”

  “Okay, sure, fine…but do you know what the fucking Unaussprechlichen Kulten is or why Priest was hired to find it? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Priest knows and that’s all that matters.”

  “C’mon, Rink, don’t jerk me off. Getting that device is another step in a process that he hasn’t explained. He wants us to do this, and then he hinted that there were like a dozen other places we had to go, all of them remote, each of them every bit as dangerous as Poliske and Nazca. I know the papers all say that I’m an adrenaline junkie, and maybe that’s true, but it’s not as true as it used to be. I’m greedy, sure, but what good is making boatloads of cash if I’m dead? Or in jail somewhere.”

  “You can always opt out,” said Rink. “No one’s forcing you.”

  “Whoa, what the hell, Rink, what’s with you? Why are you being like this? You know what I’m asking.”

  “You want to know what’s going on, Hiro?” said a voice behind him. Hiro whirled to see Priest standing right there, with Keppler and Boris flanking him. “Why not ask me?”

  Hiro licked his lips. Boris had his rifle slung in front of his chest, one hand resting on it. The Russian soldier had become devoted to Priest since Poliske, and Hiro wondered if the man thought that their patron was God almighty. Or something approximating that.

  “Okay, fine,” Hiro said, taking a shot at it, “what are we doing on this island? What is the Unaussprechlichen Kulten? What does it do or what’s it good for? We’re exactly in the middle of nowhere and you haven’t told me what to expect.”

  Priest widened his eyes and lowered his voice. “Expect the unexpected.”

  Hiro gave that a beat, then said, “You do realize that not only is that a bullshit answer, it’s literally impossible?”

  Priest laughed then shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  “I’m serious, man…”

  “I know, I know.” Priest nodded. “Okay, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten is one of the rarest books in the world. It was written by the philosopher and alchemist Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, and the first printed edition of it appeared in Düsseldorf in 1839. An English translation surfaced in 1845, but it was a deeply flawed translation. Some scholars argue that even Junzt’s version is actually a translation of a much older work whose authorship is unknown. In either case, the original version is bound in heavy leather and fastened with iron clasps. There are also holy words and phrases carved into the covers by priests who sought to…shall we say ‘contain’ its secrets?” He grinned like a cat. “The Brotherhood of the Lock have managed to hunt down nearly all copies of it. Those copies were burned. However my sources tell me that the original is here on this island.”

  “Why?” asked Rink. “This is a weather research station. Why would they want an old book like that?”

  Priest laughed. “No one on this island is studying the weather, my dear. This station is not unlike the base we found in Poliske. The British have been working on their own Orpheus Gate, but unlike the Soviets, they were smart enough not to conduct that research on their own soil. If something happened to this base, then the government could write it off and no one in the world would care. Or notice. After all, did any of you even know of this island before I told you about it? No? Of course not. That is the nature of discretion.”

  “You knew, though,” said Hiro.

  “It is my business to know these things,” said Priest, still smiling.

  “What’s so important about the book?” asked Rink.

  “Importance is such a relative thing, wouldn’t you say?” He shrugged, though, and added, “The book contains highly detailed information about the rituals and beliefs of the cult of Ghatanothoa.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Hiro.

  “You wouldn’t h
ave,” said Priest dryly. “The book also includes many important spells and useful invocations, and it is believed to hold clues necessary to locate items such as the Black Stone, the Smoke of Bisiall, the Mathematics of the Worm, and the location of the Temple of the Toad.”

  Hiro stared at him. “Are you just making shit up now?”

  Priest laughed. “Hardly.”

  “This is nuts.”

  “I’m not asking you believe in it, Hiro. All that I require is that you do what you are being paid to do. We’re here to retrieve an artifact before British agents can arrive to take possession of it.” He nodded toward the volcano. “And before that thing makes this whole trip an exercise in futility.”

  “How did you know about that before we even got here?” asked Hiro. “And don’t tell me that you had insider information. If geologists knew it was about to blow then the Brits would have evacuated this base.”

  “True enough,” said Priest, “but I’m afraid I prefer to keep the source of my information confidential per my agreement with my employer. What I can tell you is that it is directly related to a bungled attempt to open an Orpheus Gate. Our job is to get in, find the book, and get out.”

  “Wait,” insisted Hiro, “what kind of accident? Another meltdown? I need to know what we’re walking into.”

  Keppler spoke up for the first time. “There’s been no spike in radiation and the radiation here on the island is well within, even below, normal background levels.”

  Priest nodded, “Don’t worry, Hiro, this is not a nuclear situation. The Soviets were the only group crazy enough to put their base near a reactor. The competing teams have learned from that error, yes?”

  “Yeah, okay,” conceded Hiro, “but we’re still walking into an accident site with no idea what to expect?”

  “We are,” said Priest. “Should be exciting.”

  Before Hiro could reply to that Boris held up a hand. “Wait…” He touched the earbud he wore and listened, then looked at Priest. “There’s a ship inbound. British navy. They must have had one close. It’ll be here in six hours.”

  Priest cursed and stared off toward the rocky shore as if he could see the craft.

  “What kind of ship?” asked Rink. “Can they launch a helicopter?”

  Boris spoke in rapid Russian to the captain of the Nautilus. Then he looked up. “No aircraft. They’ll probably send a Zodiac. Figure six hours to get here, then fifteen minutes to put boots on the ground.”

  “Is that enough time?” asked Rink, touching Priest’s arm with her fingertips.

  “If we hurry,” said Priest, and true to that he wheeled and set off toward the line of four-wheel ATVs that had been floated in by their ship’s crew. Like most of the equipment for this run, Hiro knew that the ATVs would be abandoned. And like the other machines, weapons, and supplies, there were no identification numbers of any kind. Nothing could be traced, and certainly not back to the United States. Every single item had been purchased from foreign markets or specially manufactured for this trip. That was how Priest did everything, spending top dollar to be essentially invisible. That always impressed Hiro, but at the same time it added to the density of the secret walls Priest built around himself. And Hiro hated being on the outside of those walls. Absolutely hated it.

  Now, though, even the time to complete their conversation about this mission had suddenly evaporated. Priest’s original projection was a window of nine or ten hours.

  Hiro traded a quick look with Keppler, who shrugged, snatched up her pack and ran to catch up. Hiro was the last one off the beach, but in his gut the worm of doubt was turning. Was this going to be another Poliske? Was the structure that upheld the world as he understood it going to lose another strut? If so, how soon would it fall and how hard would it land on him?

  Thinking bleak and frightened thoughts, he ran to his ATV. Soon the whole team was roaring away from the frigid waters that lapped onto the brown and troubled sands.

  -11-

  Sam Hunter

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  “Mr. Hunter…?”

  I heard her voice rising from the cell phone that lay on my desk. I dug a tissue out of my pocket and wiped my eyes and blew my nose. My heart actually hurt. It felt like a big bruise inside my chest.

  “Mr. Hunter,” called Acantha, “are you still there?”

  I picked up the phone. “No,” I said. “I’m not sure I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and I think she meant it.

  “Tell me something, lady,” I growled, “why call me in on this? Even if Joe Ledger is circling the drain can’t you call the people he works for? I got the impression they were the A-Team for this kind of shit. You can’t put all this on someone like me.”

  “The Department of Military Sciences has been compromised,” she said. “As have many of the groups who would normally handle something like this. And the few special projects groups we might otherwise call, such as Arklight, are dealing with matters of nearly equal importance.”

  “Equal to this? How the fuck can something be as bad as the frigging antichrist?”

  “Oh, Mr. Hunter,” she said softly, “you have no idea how truly large and frightening the world is.”

  “I beg to differ. I think I do know—”

  “No,” she said firmly, “you do not. And I hope you never find out.”

  “Well, let’s be straight here, toots, every time you assholes call me it ups both my booze and therapy bills by an order of magnitude.”

  “Would you rather we crossed you off the list of people we trust?”

  I wanted to throw the phone across the room. “Bite me.”

  There were a few long moments of silence on the line. “This is how it’s going down,” she said. “Maybe it’s one of those completely random examples of arbitrary synchronicity or maybe it’s fate—or whatever you personally choose to call it—but three separate teams are converging on Philadelphia right now. All three want to take possession of the Manifesto for different reasons.”

  “Three? Shit on toast, lady. The Brotherhood, the Closers, and who else?”

  “The third team is not composed of hostiles,” she said quickly. “They are, in fact, on the run from the other two parties.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve managed to obtain one of the Unlearnable Books and are trying to get it to Mr. Church, the man Joe Ledger works for. That process is complicated because, as I said, his organization has been compromised. Although Mr. Church is very much one of the good guys, he is dealing with deeply serious matters and therefore is unable to help.”

  “Who are these other players?” I asked.

  “There are two of them,” said Acantha. “A young man named Harry Bolt and a woman who is currently using the code name of Violin.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Mr. Bolt works for the CIA, though I’m afraid he is not the strongest player on their team.”

  “Meaning?”

  She sighed. “Meaning, he’s probably the most inept spy I’ve ever even heard of. He is also, however, lucky, which is why he’s still alive. Part of that luck was encountering Violin during a botched mission in Europe. The Brotherhood wiped out Bolt’s team, but Violin saved his life by eliminating the opposition.”

  “So, she’s a fighter?”

  “She is that and more. Violin is one of the most dangerous women you will ever meet unless you have the great misfortune to meet her mother,” said Acantha, though again she did not elaborate. “Shortly after they escaped with the book, they were ambushed by a team of Closers. They managed to slip past them, though it was a messy affair, and now they are on the run. They have been on the run, in fact, for weeks. We believe Violin is trying to get Mr. Bolt and the book to Mr. Church.”

  “Who is running a compromised agency,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “And this is a different boo
k than the one at the U of P?”

  “Yes. The book Violin and Mr. Bolt have in their possession is De Vermis Mysteriis.”

  I tried to translate it. “Mysteries of Vermicelli…?”

  “Mysteries of the Worm,” she corrected.

  “Oh. Right.” I frowned.

  “And that,” she said, “is the second thing I need you to do.”

  “What is?”

  “First you need to secure the Manifesto,” said Acantha, “and then you need to steal the De Vermis Mysteriis from Violin and Harry Bolt.”

  “I—”

  “Without them knowing you’ve taken it. That is of the utmost importance.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “Answer your door,” she said.

  “There’s nobody at my—”

  Somebody knocked on the door. I shot out of my chair and hurried across my office. My office is about the size of a phone booth, so it didn’t take a lot of hurrying. I whipped the door open and nearly gave a FedEx guy a coronary. No, I hadn’t shapeshifted but I had a kind of look, I guess. He yeeped. Seriously. That’s the sound that came out of his mouth.

  He had a big box on a hand-truck and a thick envelope tucked under his arm. I glared at him, snatched the electronic pad from his fingers, scrawled some approximation of my name, and jerked the envelope from him.

  “Beat it,” I said.

  He beat it.

  I took the box and the envelope inside and put them on my desk, extended one fingernail and exerted some lupine mojo to make it grow into a nice sharp point, and then cut open the box. Inside was a book. A massive old book. It was big, two feet long and eighteen inches wide and at least seven inches thick. It was securely sealed by six metal bands running laterally and two more going up and over. Each one was fastened with a small but sturdy padlock. The bands were covered with etchings and engravings of monsters with talons and teeth, prancing goats with too many heads, writhing squids, demon faces with hundreds of eyes, shapeless mounds with too many mouths and worms for hair.