by Brian Lumley
Shortly, the central hexagonal column of elevators became visible, and at the same time the stutter of automatic gunfire sounded from ahead. Ripping into a row of silent slot machines, the stream of bullets was like an invisible buzz-saw that gutted them and spilled their coins on the floor. Then the raking fire found Bygraves and lifted him clean off his feet. Shot in the right shoulder, injured, but by no means fatally, the W.O. went down in a stream of bright silver, a splash of bloodred, and his own cries of disgust and frustration.
And in the central area, close to an elevator door marked PRIVATE, there stood a flame-eyed Thing in human form, cradling a gun that spat fire one more time before the major sent a single bullet in through his left eye. Swatted, the vampire thrall thudded backwards against the elevator doors; his feet slid out from under him, and he sank down onto the floor in a seated position.
While Bygraves’s subordinate went to his aid, Trask and the others approached the vampire thrall. One of Malinari’s pair of minders, he obviously had to be dead … but wasn’t. As his right eye opened, burning yellow in the gloom, so he toppled onto his side, turned himself facedown, and began to claw his way erratically away from the elevators. In another moment, however, the effort became too much for him. He came to a halt, coughed once or twice, and slurred out the words, “Oh, fuck it!”
He had dropped his gun and no longer posed any real threat. He looked up at Trask and his colleagues, and his clenched left hand jerked and twitched where he reached out towards them. His left eye was a gaping black hole oozing blood and pulped brains, and the rest of his face was a red- and greysmeared mess.
But as the major stood back a little and took careful aim, so the thrall’s hand opened and he dropped a metal key onto the floor. Then he gurgled, “This is wh-what you want, right? So go on, f-finish it. Then find that fucker and f-flnish h-h-him.”
The major didn’t have to finish it. For as the man’s head slumped to the floor, so a gush of blood and morbid fluid erupted from his ruined eye, and he jerked once more and was done.
Trask had called the elevator; as the doors opened, Goodly picked up the key, and the major called out to Bygraves’s subordinate: “Try to get the W.O. out of here. And see if your number three is okay. We’re going upstairs.” He got in the elevator with Trask and Goodly.
The push-button control panel in the rear wall of the elevator had buttons for two basement levels, the ground floor, and floors one and two; plus two keyholes, one of which was marked PRIVATE—UP. The other keyhole was unmarked. The precog looked at the key in his hand and said, “Couldn’t be simpler … could it?”
“Too simple by far,” Trask growled. “And we’ve been losing men left right and centre.”
“Your talent?” said the major. “You’re still uneasy?”
“Worried sick!” Trask answered. “The whole thing is wrong. But we’re committed now.” He gave Goodly a nod, and the precog put the key in the UP hole and turned it … .
Liz had found the wounded NCO inside the Pleasure Dome’s main doors and helped him out of the casino into the fresh air. She had thought he might be able to call down Chopper One, but his radio had been damaged when he was hit. When she’d left him to go back inside, he had told her that when he’d last seen Trask and his party they’d been heading toward the central elevators. Then he had warned her that for all he knew the vampire sniper who had shot him was still on the loose in there.
Going back into the casino, and knowing what might be waiting for her, Liz had not dared to call out after Trask. By that time some of the flares had burned out, leaving it much smokier and a lot darker in there. So that when she’d heard noises from deep inside—shouting, shots, and crashing sounds—she’d taken a circuitous route in the hope of avoiding trouble. In so doing, she had somehow managed to bypass Red Bygraves and his man on their way out.
But intent as Liz was on what she was doing—finding Ben Trask, and relaying Chung’s message—her telepathic guard was down. Which was precisely the opening that Nephran Malinari had been waiting for.
Ben, where are you? she anxiously wondered, as she saw the hexagonal spindle of the elevator column looming ahead. But of course Trask wasn’t a telepath, and Liz’s probe (if she’d actually sent one, if she had even tried to, for in fact she’d simply been talking to herself, a natural response to her circumstances like whistling in the dark) would go unanswered.
Or it should have gone unanswered. But:
Liz? (it was Ben Trask’s voice—his telepathic voice?—in her head!) Is that you, Liz? But … can you hear me? If so, please listen. You’ve got to help us. We’ve got ourselves trapped down bere, behind a bulkhead that only opens from the other side. Your side, that is. But there’s been shooting and now the place is burning. We’ll burn, too, Liz, if you can’t reach us!
She could actually feel the heat behind his mental S.O.S., could almost see the flames, it was so brilliantly clear. Clear like never before. So perhaps Jake was right: her talent really was growing stronger minute by minute! Yes, it must be so. And:
Ben, she sent. But how can I reach you? Where are you?
Down here, he answered. Down in the guts of the place. You can reach us via the elevators. It’s the only way.
In the guts of the place? Underground in that maze of tunnels and pipes? At which she instinctively glanced at the floor … and at the ghastly figure of a dead man, who lay there with his brains trickling out through his eye.
Liz jumped a foot, but Ben had obviously seen through her eyes and quickly said: We got that one, and followed the others down here. But you’ll be safe because they’re on the other side of the fire. Use the elevator, Liz, the one marked PRIVATE. But please burry!
She had already called the elevator, and anxiously watched the tiny indicator lights bringing it down to the ground floor. But bringing it down? Well, the military must have used it. For of course, the whole place would have to be checked out.
The doors opened and she got in, and the voice—Trask’s voice, in Liz’s mind—said: Is there a key in one of the keyholes? He sounded even more anxious, urgent now, and his voice was tinged with something else … anticipation, maybe? But of course it was! She had given him hope, and he was looking forward to being rescued.
A key, yes, she told him. In the UP slot.
Take it out, he said. Use the other keyhole. Turn the key ninety degrees clockwise. But quickly, Liz, quickly!
She did as instructed. And the cage descended, taking her down, down, down … .
On Jethro Manchester’s island, Jake Cutter, Lardis Lidesci, and Joe Davis arrived at the open-ended, roofed-over section of the man-made channel that housed the millionaire’s yacht—in effect a boathouse—midway between the villa and the sea. Hearing voices in heated argument, they split up and Davis took the far side of the structure, while Jake and the Old Lidesci crept up on that end of the boathouse closest to the burning villa.
The lock gates were open, but the yacht was still tied up. Both the boat and the ceiling of the flat-roofed structure were illuminated by their own lights. On the canopied deck, just aft of the cabin, two men faced each other down. The one was older, taller, white-haired and -bearded. Dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts, he looked almost military in his proud, upright stance. This was Jethro Manchester himself, Jake knew. The younger man, who was holding a shotgun on the first, was shorter, stockier; but his hard, leathery, sunbeaten features were very much similar to Bruce Trennier’s, his older brother’s, which Jake would never be able to forget.
“Martin,” Manchester’s voice rang out in the night, “can’t you see it’s all over and you can’t run from these people? Man, you’re like a walking plague, a pestilence—you and me both—but a far worse pestilence than any in the Bible! And would you take that among the people? I see that you would. Well, and why not, for you brought it down on me and mine! That was sheer treachery, Martin! So say and do what you like, you won’t be taking my boat. She’s mine and she goes with me … wherev
er.”
Manchester had a jerrycan in both hands; as he had spoken, so he had been splashing its contents on the deck. The smell of diesel was unmistakable.
“Jethro, I’m not forgetting that I owe you,” Martin Trennier spoke up. “It’s the only reason you’re still alive while we stand here and argue like this. But you’re wrong to think this is the end of everything. It’s only the beginning! You were the last to be taken—after he’d used your family to get his way—after he’d promised that he would give it all back, and cure us of this thing. Well, he’s a liar, as we’ve seen, and he made me take you, too. But you were the last and it’s still taking hold of you. When it does, and when it has fully taken hold—which it will!—then you’ll know I was right. So stand aside and let me get on. Or better still, come with me and let’s see what we can make of things together.”
As he had spoken, Trennier had stepped to the port side of the boat to cast off a rope. But Manchester had taken the opportunity to pick up a second jerrycan. This time, before he could begin spilling its contents, Trennier stepped close and knocked it out of his hands. And now he trained his weapon dead centre on Manchester’s body.
“I’ve no time for this, Jethro,” he growled. “You can come with me now, or stay here. You can live or you can die. One way or the other, it’s your choice. So what’s it to be?”
Manchester took out a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his shorts. He flicked it once—and it failed to spark! Trennier cursed, but he wasn’t about to give the older man a second chance. Sending the butt of his weapon crashing into Manchester’s face, jostling him to the side of the boat, finally he succeeded in knocking him overboard. And as Manchester swam toward the side of the channel, so Trennier clung to the deck rail, leaned out over the water, and fired his weapon at almost point-blank range.
Which was as far as Jake was willing to let it go. He and Joe Davis acted together. Davis ran in under the far end of the boathouse, firing on the yacht as he came, and Jake ran to meet him, skidding to a halt on his knees to play the roaring, searing lance of his flamethrower on both the vessel and the man on her deck.
Trennier fired another shot, and another—fired blindly, through the shimmering fire that enveloped and ate into him—while the boat literally erupted in flames and he turned into a jet-black, shrieking silhouette, dancing in agony until finally he crumpled down into himself and lay still.
As Jake shut off his lance, there came the sound of feeble splashing from the channel. It was Manchester. The flesh at the back of his head, his neck, and across his shoulders was a livid, liquid red. “Let me out!” he cried, climbing sunken steps. “Let me out and finish it then, but not in the water. I lived in the water—lived for the water—so I don’t want to die in it.”
And when he was out, and staggering on dry land, Jake told him, “Mr. Manchester, we heard everything. And we’re sorry.”
“I know you are,” Manchester nodded his bloody head. “Yes, and I’m glad you came. My family … is no more, and I … have no reason or right to be here.” With which he held out his arms in the shape of a cross, stood there and closed his feral eyes.
Then Joe Davis gritted his teeth, and cut the old man down with accurate, merciful shooting; the Old Lidesci went in close and used his machete; and finally, making absolutely sure, Jake finished it with roaring fire. By which time both the yacht and the structure that housed it were a mass of leaping flames, and the three backed away, leaning on each other while they watched it all burn … ..
In a little while Davis’s radio crackled, and call signs began asking him, was it all over? He told them yes, called down Chopper Two, told everyone they could start mopping up. But as he and his party began to make their way back towards the villa:
“What?” said Jake, whirling on the balls of his feet. His eyes were wide and darting, searching here and there across the sculpted landscape of the gardens, and his ruddily-lit face was shocked and puzzled. “Liz?” But then his eyes went wider still, in sudden understanding.
It was Liz he’d heard calling for him, yes, but she wasn’t here … she was in Xanadu!
Jake! Jake, if you can bear me (her telepathic voice was a tiny, terrified whisper huddling in a corner of his mind), then please, please come and get me out of here!
And behind her sweet voice another—but a loathsome, gurgling thing—like hot tar bubbling in some medieval torturer’s cauldron: Ah, no, my little thought-thief. No one can help you now. You thought to use your mentalism against me, but Malinari has used it against you! I have lied to Ben Trask—impossible, but I have done it—and I’ve located and lost your locator. As for your marvelous precog: be senses nothing but confusion, for the death and destruction that he foresaw was his own and yours and Xanadu’s, but never mine! And now there’s this Jake—your lover, perhaps? But where is he? Oh, ha ha haaaaaa!
“Jesus!” Jake moaned. But he knew what he must do. Korath! he called out into the deadspeak aether. And:
About time, said that one. But first tell me, do we have a deal, you and I, as prescribed? Do you willingly give me access to your mind?
There was no way around it, and no time to argue. And so: Yes! said Jake. Anything! Only show me those numbers.
So be it, said Korath. And Jake’s inner being lit up like a lamp, as those impossible numbers scrolled in not-quite-endless progression down the computer screen of his mind. But not quite endlessly, because he instantly recognized a pattern and suddenly, “instinctively” knew where to freeze it. Then:
A door! And:
Go! said Korath. And I go with you … .
Jake went—stepped in through the door—vanished from the view of Lardis Lidesci and Joe Davis, and was gone.
“What?” Davis stood stock-still, frozen in his amazement. And for a moment even Lardis was lost for words, astonished as ever by this thing. But then he recovered and said:
“Pay no attention. It’s a trick he does. Just an optic—er, an optical—er …”
“An optical illusion?” Davis’s jaw hung slack.
“Aye, something like that,” Lardis said, gratefully. “Er, but we needn’t expect him back. He has his own ways of getting about, that one.” And once again, with a knowing, emphatic nod of his grizzled head, “Aye!” he said.
In the ultimate, primal darkness of the Möbius Continuum, Jake whirled like a leaf in a gale. “BUT WHERE TO?” he said, and was nearly deafened as his words gonged like the clappers of a mad, gigantic bell.
The tbougbt itself would appear to be sufficient, Korath told him, awed in his own right. For I sense this place is the very essence of notbingness, wherefore physical speech—which is something—is forbidden bere. But deadspeak, being as nothing, is permissible.
Jake steadied himself—discovered that he could actually steady himself—and repeated, Wbere to? He could feel the Continuum tugging on him, and believed he knew where it would take him if he gave it the chance: Harry’s Room, at E-Branch HQ. But that wasn’t where he wanted to go.
Who is it you are concerned for? Korath remained logical.
Liz, of course! She had called out to Jake—asked for his help—and her telepathic voice had been a beacon. Now he remembered it, remembered its coordinates, and went to her. It was as simple as that. At least the going there was simple, but the rest of it wasn’t.
When the door formed, Jake didn’t know how to make an exit and so simply crashed through it. Into a living nightmare!
It was a room, shaft or cavern, but its lighting after the Stygian darkness of the Möbius Continuum was glaring, brilliant, blinding. Overbalanced as gravity returned (by the sudden, unaccustomed weight of the flamethrower), tripping and flying headlong into a wall, and rebounding, Jake landed on something soft and squirmy … .
.. Something that cried its terror, and two seconds later wrapped its arms around him.
“Jake, oh Jake!” Liz gasped, holding tightly to him on the one hand, but wriggling and kicking desperately away from something on the ot
her. Her Baby Browning was clenched in her fist, and she kept aiming it and pulling the trigger—click! click! click!—as the firing pin fell on blank space. A pair of empty clips lay on the sandy floor where she’d discharged and discarded them.
It was the strip lighting that had blinded Jake, that and his dizzying, head-over-heels emergence from the Möbius Continuum. Now, as his head stopped spinning, he saw what had turned this determined, self-possessed, assertive woman into a frightened little girl again: weird, morbid motion.
The floor of the place was alive … or undead!
Jake could scarcely take it in—scarcely believe what he was seeing—but he had to, and quickly.
The cavern was the size of a large room. A planked walkway crossed the centre of the floor and disappeared into tunnels at both ends. On the other side of the walkway, maybe fifteen feet away, the floor was … different. It was humped, veined, corrugated … and mobile. And it wasn’t the floor!
Something tossed and turned—or churned—there. Something throbbed and gulped and gasped. It was a fleshy, flopping octopus of a thing; an immense doughy pancake of metamorphic flesh, throwing up purple-veined extrusions that groped blindly in the air before collapsing back down into the bulk of … of It! The colour of dead flesh in its main mass, it squelched, fumed, and stank like gas bubbles bursting in a swamp. And mindlessly, aimlessly, it worked at fashioning its ropy extensions.
Or perhaps not mindlessly. For as Jake sat there cradling Liz, so the thing extruded a tentacle that came whipping across the walkway to rear before them in a questioning, semi-sentient fashion. It pulsed, vibrated, and an eye formed in its tip! The eye was a uniform red, lidless, apparently vacant—yet it must be seeing or sensing something. For as Liz shrilled and started pulling the trigger again—click! click! click!—so a second tentacle emerged and lengthened in their direction.
