by Sean Platt
Boricio winked. Mary took a turn smiling like she couldn’t help it. Paola smiled wider. Rose looked at the three of them curiously, like someone only partly in on the joke.
Boricio had told Rose everything about what had happened on the other world, except for all the stuff about him being a serial killer, and of course the miscellany and whatnot that went with it. He held nothing for later, except for the dirtiest details she never needed to hear. There was a part of Boricio that wanted to say it out loud since keeping anything from Rose was like crushing a flower in his pocket. But there were some things a good woman wouldn’t understand, or be too open-minded about, and murder was one, if not the biggest.
Fortunately, Rose was open minded about all the rest, and willing to believe in a way that wasn’t quite natural. Boricio loved his Morning Rose, and didn’t for one curly cock-hair of a minute think he could live beside someone for the rest of his life, however long that might turn out to be, without being straight as a level about all the beer-battered bullshit that had gone down on some other fuck of an implausible world. He was grateful for her ear, even though at first she thought he was fucking with her. But Boricio was convincing, even when speaking about aliens and magical boys who could jump in your head n’ fix you up. Rose might have kept on thinking he was yanking her chain like he yanked on her nozzles, but then they drove to North Carolina and met Mary and Paola, the Rory and Lorelei of his little adventure, and stayed with them for a long week of impossible stories. Every one of ‘em matched, down to the dirtiest details that went missing from the yarns. Rose moved from incredulous to awestruck.
“It’s so good to see you,” Rose said as she hugged Mary, then Paola, before leading them both toward the sofa and grabbing a pair of thousand-dollar water bottles from the mini-fridge. They all got to talking straight off, and it wasn’t too long before Rose got to doing what Boricio worried she would, but had given a goddamn and a half to hoping she wouldn’t.
“I think I have a solution for you guys,” she said, without any preamble and holding too much promise in her voice. “This might sound a bit weird, in fact I’m sure it will, and I wouldn’t believe it if you told me and I hadn’t seen … or done it for myself. But after all you guys have been through … over there … you might have an easier time accepting the impossible.”
“Rose,” Boricio said, cutting her off, and hoping to steer her toward a topic that didn’t include hoodoo voodoo Hollywood juju. “Luca’s our closest thing to a sure thing, without needing 1.21 gigawatts of whatthefuck.”
Rose spun from the girls to Boricio and gave him the only look in existence that could zip him, a look no one else in the world could ever even try. The look shut Boricio up, put him in his place, and made him want her right fucking now.
“Okay, Sweetie,” he said.
Mary laughed, and was joined by Paola. Mary made a sound like a whip cracking, and so did her daughter.
Boricio said, “Yeah, laugh it up, Ladies! I’ll have you know, it ain’t about being whipped, it’s about showing respect,” then he left the living room with a series of grumbling mumbles and sat over by the mini-bar, plopping both feet up on the countertop, leaning back in his seat while Rose finished her pitch.
“It isn’t official yet, but it looks like I’ll be doing some business with these guys named the Maris Brothers, up-and-coming directors who are really big in The Church of Original Design … they’ll be making The Billfold.”
Mary and Paola shifted in their seats, uncomfortable like they should be.
“I know, I know” Rose said, responding to their dubious looks. “I thought the same thing, and yeah, I know, it sounds like I’m drinking the Kool-Aid. And you can totally think that, but I really want you to at least hear me out, I think you should. I might have just the solution for Paola, and that is why you drove all night to get here, right, for help?”
Paola said nothing.
Hesitantly, Mary said, “Go on.”
“The Church believes in something called ‘The Current;’ they think it’s a force between mind and body. They have this machine that’s supposed to repair your cells, or something, and well, I went inside the machine, it’s called The Capacitor, and there were all these blue sparks and things while I was in it. Then it stopped doing whatever it was doing, I got out and my migraines were gone.”
“Power of the mind,” Boricio said, “it’s a beautiful thing.”
Rose ignored him. “I’ve been having these really awful panic attacks. And now they’re gone, too.”
“You are what you decide to be,” Boricio muttered, leaning toward the mini-fridge to grab himself another thousand-dollar bottle. “Hell, The Church ain’t even original, they stole that ‘force’ shit from Star Wars!”
Rose rolled her eyes, and Boricio winked.
“What was it like?” Paola asked.
“It was a metal chamber, long like a bullet, with a tiny window at the top. The inside was nice, really plushy and soft.”
“Like a coffin,” Boricio offered.
“No,” Paola said. “I mean, what did it feel like … when it worked.”
“Oh,” Rose paused in thought, then after a moment said, “It was dark, until these blue lights started sparking from my body. It felt like there were a thousand bulbs lighting inside me, all at once. Then that thousand lit into something more like a million, and the machine stopped. The doors opened, and my headaches were gone. I’ve felt amazing since. Better than ever. I feel like I can see better, hear better, taste better, and best of all, really start to understand the world around me.” Almost hesitantly, she added, “I feel like my eyes have been opened.”
“I dunno,” Mary said, again shifting in her seat, this time ever so slightly away from Rose. “I’ve kinda had my fill with cults what with the compound and stuff.”
Before Rose could defend the 10-ton mountain of batshit crazy that was The Church of Original Design, Boricio said, “Ha, Rose, you’d tell the Maris Brothers, Marina Harmon, and every other citizen of Crazy Town to fuck off, too, if you had ever spent any time at the Ole Ponderosa with Brother Rei and his crazy ‘Prophet.’ Mary’s right, The Church is a cult, and the problem with cults — every single goddamned one of them — is that they’re all confusing madness with mission. The Church, like Brother Rei, is juggling juju with nuts.”
“Boricio!” Rose said, sharp enough to shut him up and get him wondering when it was bedtime.
With Boricio’s pie hole shut, Rose turned back to Mary-Kate and Ashley.
“I understand how you feel,” she said. “Totally. And I felt the same way. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do, or that would in any way make you uncomfortable. But you did ask for help, and I truly believe this might be what you need, or that at the least it’s worth looking into.”
Mary’s eyes softened.
Rose continued, “Even though they use the word ‘church’, Original Design isn’t a religion, at least they don’t seem to be. I wouldn’t say they were a cult, either. It’s more like a self-help group, with science behind them. And yeah, of course, I can hear the words as I say them and am plenty skeptical about some, maybe even most, of it, but I’ve been in the machine and the machine works.”
Boricio said, “1.21 gigawatts,” so low only he could hear it.
Mary looked at Rose, her face painting many pictures at once; she clearly appreciated Rose, her suggestions, and her desire to help, but had been through too much horrible shit to take a crap and not look for the corn inside it, and you’d have to be blind, deaf, and drool-bucket stupid to not see that The Church was leaking crap at the seams, magic machine or no.
Mary stared for what was likely a minute, though to Boricio — waiting for alone time with Rose — it felt like a long, fucking hour.
Finally, she spoke. “I just can’t, Rose. Thank you, really, so much. But I have to listen to instinct, and mine’s saying no.”
Rose opened her mouth to respond, but Paola cut her off.
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“I want to try it.”
Mary and Rose turned to Paola, both silent.
“I’m too young to look this old,” she said. “There are too many things I’ve never done: fallen in love, sang a song and posted it to YouTube, tried food I can’t even pronounce … ”
“I can help you with that last one,” Boricio offered.
Her face pained, Mary turned to Boricio, desperate. “What do you think?” She swallowed then added, “I trust you.”
And there it was, three women staring at him, all three trusting Boricio with eyes and expressions alike, odd as if his ball sack had started brewing gold bullion. Boricio wanted to say fuck that shit, and pipe bomb the entire “Church” to the old, dead world where it likely belonged, but even more than his anger at the machine, and feelings that it might be pulling his Morning Rose in for a ride, he wanted to please her, and help the Olson Twins. Besides, as low as odds might be, Boricio had been wrong before, and could be wrong again. This might be one of those rare times; he was a world from convinced that the machine worked, but couldn’t argue with Rose’s improvement. Still, he saw explanations as easy: Mind over matter could accomplish near everything; Boricio knew that like he knew this his devil’s smile could push a parishioner’s panties to her ankles.
He grinned. “Why not give it a shot? At worst, nothing happens and we laugh while we piss on ‘The Church.’ You ladies go, take care of whatever you need to. In the meantime I’ll start snooping, see if I can’t locate Luca the Boy Wonder.”
Nineteen
Steven Warner
The J.L. Harmon Estate
September 2013
Steven sat on the floor of the meditation room, naked, feeling the early-morning sun kissing his skin. One-way glass ran the length of the wall, opening out to the ocean.
As IT grew more comfortable in ITS human skin — no easy feat considering ITS contempt for the species — IT felt the connection thinning with the rest of ITSELF, The Darkness, spread among the people IT had infected.
IT had become greedy, such a human weakness, and tried spreading too quickly. In doing so IT risked losing ITS connection and control of the humans who hosted IT.
IT blamed ITSELF.
IT hadn’t expected the human hosts to resist, let alone be aware of, The Darkness inside them. IT had chosen them because they were weak, or filled with hate and easy to infiltrate. IT hadn’t realized that for some people, weakness and hate were temporary states. Once they started stitching their lives back together, some part of their brain, a part even they weren’t aware of, began fighting back. However, most humans were ill equipped for such mental and psychic warfare. They didn’t know what was inside them, or what was “wrong” with them, so their instincts to fight back when no enemy could be seen were turned into violent urges, manifesting toward others, and in some cases, themselves.
Sixteen had snapped so far, most killing others before turning their confused fury out on themselves. One had drawn way too much attention, killing more than 80 people in a massacre which was all over television. So many acts of violence in such a short amount of time benefited nobody and only weakened ITS overall power.
Fortunately for IT, The Darkness died with the hosts, forever undiscovered. But now, one of ITS hosts had been captured, still alive, and brought to Black Island, which meant that ITS enemies knew IT was here, robbing IT of ITS advantage of working in the dark. Now IT would have to speed up ITS search for the vials.
To that end, IT had managed to find a host inside Black Island Research Facility who might soon give IT an advantage. While the humans might know IT was here, they did not know IT was already among them, nor did they yet have the technology to find the infected among them.
IT had to be smarter, though, more strategic when choosing hosts. Otherwise, IT would never survive, let alone thrive.
Finding The Church of Original Design had worked brilliantly. Already, IT had found 24 people to infect — both within the organization and among The Church’s members — deeply flawed subjects, ripe for the plucking.
Another human truth: When people were lost, they would beg for someone or something to turn their lives over to, knowing that any answer, even the wrong one, was better than the dull ache of simply not knowing and being lost.
IT had found Marina quite by accident, the most fortunate accident since ITS crossing to this world.
One of the people IT had nested a part of ITSELF inside, a man named Peter Eccles, was a high-ranking member of The Church. Through Peter’s perception, IT picked up a strong sense that Marina was somehow touched by The Darkness. So, IT figured she might lead IT to where the vials were stored on this world.
So, “Steven Warner” entered the picture, rising to become Marina’s head of security, in hopes of finding her connection to The Darkness and the vials. IT had considered infiltrating her, however IT was unable to for some reason IT wasn’t quite sure.
Once IT grew closer to her, IT realized that she hadn’t been the one who’d been touched by The Darkness, at least not directly. Instead, if his religious teachings were any indication of the truth, it was The Church’s founder, Marina’s father, J.L. Harmon, who had been in contact with The Darkness. But he was dead and buried, along with his secrets. IT had sifted through many minds in The Church’s inner circle, including Marina’s, but so far none had known of the vials’ existence, leaving their location an absolute mystery.
Still, this was as close as IT had come to them so far, so Steven stayed around. Soon, IT realized that The Church was fertile ground for building ITS army once the time came to move to the next phase, but IT had to be careful in ITS selection of people; some in The Church were strong-willed and could prove tough to control. The last thing IT wanted was to lose command of a host so close to ITS home.
For now, IT built slowly, using The Church’s newfound popularity with the “resurrection and prophecy” of J.L. Harmon to position ITSELF for the right moment when the vials were discovered. Then, nothing could stop IT.
IT stared out at the window, then closed ITS eyes, trying to connect with ITS other parts to see if anyone had yet stumbled across someone It could use to find the vials.
It focused on the collective memories gathered since ITS last meditation, rapidly sorting and sifting through memories like files on a computer, searching for anything which stuck out as particularly unusual or useful.
IT was inside the memories of a homeless man, Kenny Watkins, who was standing outside a hotel by the airport, when IT saw something that brought a low and rumbling tremor to Steve’s body.
The tremor rolled, shoulder to toe, then left IT with chills.
No, it can’t be.
He’s here?
IT slowed the memory, inspecting it closely, to be certain. A man who looked just like him, or rather the man he’d been before, Boricio Bishop. This was his Earthly counterpart: Boricio Wolfe.
Boricio Wolfe, the murderer turned protector to Luca Harding, had been touched by The Light, had it flowing through his blood, which made him a looming threat.
Why is he here?
Is he searching for me?
On one hand, IT was curious to know more. On the other, IT wasn’t so strong that IT could allow a human emotion, such as curiosity, to lull IT into complacency.
IT should — must — eliminate the threat early.
IT reached out into the world to find ITS closest hosts.
IT shared Kenny’s memory with the others, and with it, a message:
Find Boricio Wolfe, and kill him.
Twenty
Brent Foster
Brent sat at the computer, staring at his latest freelance assignment, which wasn’t even close to finished, while he held the phone in his right hand, waiting for Lara Andrews to answer. He was going out on a limb calling his former colleague, but if anyone could help him get into Harrison Psychiatric, it was her.
He’d tried to get a hold of the hospital’s director, Mindy Benson, but she was conve
niently out of the office and not returning his calls. It was sickening how so many so-called friends — or at least acquaintances who pretended to be so nice to him — while he had been working at the paper, turned out to be ghosts when he needed them most.
He hoped Lara wouldn’t turn out to be another ghost. She was an investigative reporter with a pit bull’s tenacity and a bloodhound’s instincts to follow a trail, and she knew plenty of people on the inside of Harrison, following an exposé she did on the place a few years ago, prior to Mindy Benson coming on, which led to massive reforms and greatly improved working conditions.
Lara picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
She sounded out of breath. It was Friday morning, and there was a good chance Lara had just finished her morning jog before going into work.
“Hey, Lara, it’s Brent, Brent Foster,” he said, not sure what number or name showed up on caller ID when you used a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone.
“Oh, hey, Brent, how’s it going?”
“Good,” he said. “How’s the paper?”
“Same as it ever was, long hours, little help, and a battle of who could care less between bosses and readers. And you, how are you doing?”
“OK,” Brent said, trying not to sound as depressed as he’d been feeling through his most recent stretch of forever. “Working freelance, which alternates between writing awesome stuff that I actually like and a ton of other stuff that’s too sucky to mention, so, in other words, pretty much the same, minus the health insurance.”
Brent laughed but knew it sounded hollow, then since Lara wasn’t one he needed to waste small talk on, he got to the point, “You still tight with anyone at Harrison Psychiatric who can pull some strings?”
“Depends on what strings need pulling, and why; what’s up?”
