“Wait one,” Breanna said while the query ran in the foreground. “The system’s firmware pings back as a Bravo.”
“No way!” Brett yelled.
Breanna turned around so fast that the men flinched. Her eyes darted in their direction, sized them up before looking away slowly, and sighed. She then rubbed her temples in an effort to calm down. Breanna may not have been born a redhead, but she clearly embraced that particular stereotype.
“You want to come up here and check?” Breanna challenged.
Mason cringed and thought it best to say, “Why don’t you check the tally plates, Brett.”
The request coming from Mason managed to diffuse the situation. Brett disappeared from sight, since getting to those plates required him to squeeze by two industrial capacitors followed by hugging the outer casing to avoid making contact with exposed circuits.
“Fuck!” Brett yelled, although the sound was muffled by the surrounding equipment.
“Everything good?” Mason asked.
“No!” Brett exclaimed just as he lit a red filtered torch. “I just ran into a high capacity power conduit.”
For a man who insisted he knew these generators intimately, that certainly raised a slew of questions. One did not just forget the location of power transmission lines, since inadvertent contact when the system was operational meant disintegration.
Minutes later, the red light bled out into the room followed by Brett. It gave the man a certain demonic look despite the wide eyes and soft features that were trademarks of those humbled.
“Mister Fusion Mark Twelve…” Brett said. “Bravo,” he whispered.
Mason cocked an eyebrow once that information hit him. His memories were clearly aligned with Brett’s. In fact, he would have bet his life on it. No matter, his bruised ego could be addressed at a later time and for now, they needed power.
“How long will it take you to establish a power bypass?” Mason asked.
Brett sighed, then looked up towards Breanna. His shoulders were slumped and his face was crestfallen. It was clear that he did not take well to being proved wrong.
“I don’t know,” Brett replied. “I’ll have to consult the technical manuals to provide an assessment.”
“So, safe to say that you’ll need at least four hours?” Mason asked.
“Safe to say,” Brett responded. “Yes.”
Mason turned to Breanna and said, “Does that phone of yours still work?”
Breanna withdrew the device from the depths of her lab coat. She tapped on the surface, and on command the screen came to life, so she nodded.
“We are going to be here a while—,” Mason said.
“On it,” Breanna said in haste, seeing how she could stand to eat as well.
Breanna flew past the apps and menus until she neared the option she sought. At least, that had been her intent, but the Chinese restaurant she wanted was not listed. Odd, since she passed it just this morning and the memory of that fried rice wafting from out of their exhaust, was enough to make her salivate.
“It’s not there?” Breanna asked.
“What do you mean?” Mason queried in return.
“General Chang’s Lucky Wok,” Breanna said. “Doesn’t show on Scroogle or even on Street Peeper.”
“I loved that place!” Brett whined.
Mason stepped back and immediately latched onto a solid object to avoid falling in between the equipment. Distractions in this current situation were ill advised, but these disconnects from reality were making it more likely.
Was the group’s collective memory faulty? Not only once, but twice now? Or was there something else at play they had yet to consider?
“What’s there now?” Mason asked.
Breanna spread her fingers over the screen to zoom in on the sign and answered, “King of Donair.”
“What’s a donair?” the men asked.
Mason was tired of this, so he hopped, skipped and jumped through the gaps until he reached the exit. Once he pressed the button, he expected to hear the airlock equalise pressure. Instead, the door slid open to reveal a storage closet.
“What the fuck!” Mason swore.
* * * *
“All done!” Victoria exclaimed.
She ripped the page from the drum of her antique typewriter and placed it neatly upon the fresh stack. Her muse was back and this new material would keep her creative juices flowing for the foreseeable future.
Victoria leaned back and heard the familiar creak from the chair. She looked into the fire as it crackled happily while its flames danced, leaving her momentarily entranced. Victoria thought about the hours spent looking at the beauty of those flames and found it hard to imagine how all of that was about to change.
A lot of things had changed in short order, with more to deal with in the upcoming years. This time, there was a guide, someone to lead her, and Victoria hoped their relationship would grow like it had for Evelyn and Marc. It was her wish that she would not only call Evelyn a friend, but consider her to be a sister, albeit a deceptively older one.
A smile appeared on her face, once she heard a knock at the door. She excitedly jumped over the corpse of the building’s doorman to answer it. How unfortunate that he needed to be dealt with in such a manner. Unfortunately, he had been far too inquisitive about her return, and his bothersome insistence on calling the authorities only sealed his fate.
At least he was delicious, and she still remembered the ecstasy experienced from draining the life from him. The essence of his life now flowed through her veins. It invigorated her, but that now came with the faint smell of his decomposing corpse. When she opened the door, Evelyn greeted her and kissed Victoria tenderly.
“You have been naughty, non?” Evelyn asked with a giggle, and licked the last of his blood from Victoria’s lips.
Victoria blushed, but Evelyn said nothing more on the matter. One’s first kill was a personal affair, as were the emotional and psychological repercussions. That had been the way for Evelyn and it would be the same for any of Victoria’s progeny. Corpses did pose a problem, but there were ways to make people disappear. One did not live long in this day and age without having a few tricks up their sleeve.
Victoria turned her attention to the fire before noticing that Evelyn was different somehow. There was something about her attire, which was better suited to a formal New Year’s ball. Her suspicions were confirmed when Evelyn slipped her hand into a bag and pulled a beautiful porcelain mask. At first, she imagined this mask to represent some wild beast, just like those described in her writings. Instead, it turned out to be the perfect porcelain reproduction of Evelyn’s face.
“Sometimes the truth is far more monstrous than fiction, ma chère,” Evelyn said.
To that, Victoria agreed. Predators did not hide their true intentions; their motives were plainly governed by their genetics. While a growl and teeth could elicit primal fear, people were in far greater danger when such traits were hidden by the thin veneer of civility.
“Now come!” Evelyn shouted while she glided over the uniformed corpse. “We have to introduce you to the family, and I assure you that their masks will not be as obvious as mine.”
With a smile, her mentor walked into the hallway and left Victoria to clean up before following suit. On her way out, Victoria left the fire a well-deserved gift for being her kindest critic and biggest fan. She was certain the flames would happily consume this final token of her appreciation. Just as she closed the door, never to return, the flames spread over the cover page and left only the line The Portrait visible.
In the hallway, she heard Evelyn say in musical tones, “In case you are wondering, Marc will be the one wearing a mask representing a dire wolf… Though he will be doing so grudgingly!”
All the while, Victoria thought back to what she wrote long ago, and said, “Remember, what lies beneath, is by far, more frightening.”
* * * *
Victoria’s eyes fluttered open, but she felt
there was resistance with every movement. Her senses were numbed, as though she were under constant pressure. For a moment, her mind conjured the image of being cocooned in bundles of warm and thick blankets. While the thought was nice, she quickly dismissed the idea as being far too hopeful.
“If only life were that simple,” Victoria thought.
Her mind quickly focused on the complete absence of light, which corrupted that thought until she imagined herself being buried alive. Victoria wondered if that explained the humidity clinging to her skin, but that analogy did not align either. Her experience was more akin to being immersed in liquid.
“Hello?” Victoria tried to ask, but no sound came out.
Victoria sat up as fast as she could and learned how this viscous liquid also hindered her rate of motion. Since there was nothing to see, she swept her arms all around but came up empty. Although, she did find out that the floor had the consistency of sand, but she wondered how that tidbit of information would prove useful.
“Why are my lungs not burning?” Victoria thought.
That idea opened a crack in her mind, enough for a panic to seep in. She hyperventilated, which in turn filled her lungs with more fluid. Wait! What? How? Her mind struggled to come to terms with this new reality. Whatever the gravity of her situation, breathing was no longer a concern for her, or at least for now.
With renewed conviction, she got onto her knees and confirmed there was clearance before standing upright. When another search came up empty, she ventured up ahead.
Eventually, she encountered a flat surface, so her hands ran over the rough texture to find gaps between the quarried stones. Victoria followed the surface and realised this wall formed a circle, one filled with something thicker than water. It did not take much after that to hazard a guess. So that meant she was at the bottom of a well?
If that’s where she was, then that scene with Evelyn had been nothing more than a dream. Either way, that insight did nothing to explain her predicament.
“Unless—,” Victoria attempted to say once again, but to no avail.
The viscosity of the fluid made it impossible for her vocal cords to resonate. Hence, the silence which left her to wonder what would happen if she remained down here in absolute solitude.
To confirm her whereabouts, Victoria looked up. Sure enough, there was a faint source of light, and from this vantage point, it looked like a single red star lighting up the dim sky. Again, how would this help her get out of this mess.
“How long—How do I—Can I climb—” Victoria’s chaotic mind wondered.
Such questions were cycling through her mind so fast that it prevented her from focusing on a single task. Once again, panic took hold and invaded every corner of her being until it consumed her.
Victoria screamed. Her noiseless act of defiance somehow created a protective barrier that kept the conflicting voices in her mind at bay. As she let out all of that frustration, fear and doubt melted away until all that remained was raw untapped determination.
She poked and prodded the walls of her cell and found the spaces were wide enough to get a good grip. It may not have been enough to climb a steep cliff, but when supported by a liquid that imbued her with some additional buoyancy, the conditions for an ascent were suddenly favourable.
Her first attempt caused her fingers to radiate in pain. Victoria had forgotten how her failed attempt to arrest that descent had torn off her fingernails.
It was ultimately that maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that permitted her pain to return, which in turn, caused her to tumble down. The slow descent into the soft sand may have left her no worse for wear, but in her mind, the pain brought on was on par with running into a wall. With a silent grunt, she got off her rump and attempted another ascent.
With every attempt, the damage to her fingers grew worse until it blinded all other stimulus. The pain served to focus her, to drive her, but she was also motivated by fear of losing her sanity if she stayed down here for long. How could anyone keep it together when under the exclusive company of their thoughts?
Writers were normally content to be left alone, free to find inspiration in mundane occurrences like a sunrise, moments that the bulk of humanity took for granted. But to remain alone in the dark, summarily deprived of the bulk of her senses? There were limits to creativity, times when the wellspring of inspiration would run dry leaving behind a world bereft of ideas.
Condemned to suffer like that for all of eternity, Victoria could think of only one word that fit: Hell.
After countless attempts and hours wasted, Victoria’s hand pierced the pool’s surface. The cool air made her skin tingle, the first positive sensation she experienced since her awakening.
Excitement welled inside her, and that grew in intensity once she dragged her tired body out from the pit. While there were no mirrors in this perverted chapel, Victoria imagined herself looking very much like Carrie did during her graduation ceremony.
It took all of her strength to lift her remaining leg from out of there. Victoria had the strangest feeling that the pool was holding her, so much so, that she needed to expend what was left of her sheer force of will to tear herself from it.
“Well—,” Victoria tried to say, but only managed to spew out fluid from her lungs.
Victoria got on her hands and knees just in time to convulse. Every muscle in her core contracted and relaxed at a fantastical rate. With every wave, a stream of fluid was evacuated until she was able to take her first deep breath.
She looked up towards the stunning fresco that covered the ceiling as tears streamed down her cheeks from all that pain and exertion. For a second, she saw a crescent moon overlooking the crucified body of Christ. Her mind instead focused on the stale humid air filled with. Instead, despite the poor air quality, the pleasure of breathing air once more was nothing short of rapturous.
Alas, with her first deep breath came a coughing fit, all in an effort to clear out any remaining pockets of fluid. These coughs were so violent that her vision was marred by streaks and every fit sapped her strength until she was no longer able to move.
In tears and beyond the point of exhaustion, her body gave up. Before her vision blurred and faded to black, she caught sight of a passage etched at the edges of the ceiling.
“Fides dominaretur super oram chlamydis Saul,” Victoria whispered.
The words meant nothing to her, but once unconscious, her lips moved to the following phrase, “Faith shall dominate the usurper.”
LEATHER AND LIPSTICK
A gust of wind blew in from the mouth of the courtyard and turned Clara’s skin to gooseflesh. Her training in life taught her how to ignore extremes of heat or cold, all to achieve success. Clara thought back to a time when she was stark naked in freshly fallen snow. That had been a cold and brutal night, but she nonetheless managed to approach, entice, and dispatch one of them in the process. That dumb bastard was too busy focusing on her tits to wonder why a woman was out in the middle of a battlefield.
This situation was different. Ninety-years spent in paradise led to some skills fade. Clara responded by biting the inside of her cheek and was pleasantly surprised by the taste of her iron-rich blood.
“At least some things haven’t changed,” Clara muttered.
From out of the corner of her eye, Clara caught something unexpected. She turned to investigate and noticed that one of those boarded up doors from earlier was not anymore.
As a precaution, she stopped, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. While sound carried well at night, doing this honed her senses. Despite her caution, there was nothing that gave her cause for concern.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Clara said under her breath.
She headed towards the door to examine the heavy steel frame and broken lock before she let herself in. Since her eyes were already adjusted to low light conditions, it was a trivial matter to figure out this store was empty.
This place did have rows of empty racks and shelves that
would have been home to garments, shoes, and accessories. Surely, a real treasure trove if it were still open to the public.
“What a shame,” Clara said pausing to see if those words got some attention.
“Size twelve?” Edith asked. “How… possibly be a size twelve… two of me.”
Clara blinked several times in rapid order, all in some misguided attempt to refresh her view. Alas, the place remained deserted and, as judged by a thick layer of dust, it had been for years.
From the opposing corner of the disturbance, a hanger struck the floor which resounded throughout the room. She focused all of her senses on that spot, but there were no hangers to be found. There were no other sounds, visual cues, changes in temperature, nor did a chill run down her spine.
The Van Helsing Resurgence Page 8
