"War On Reality"
May. 13th, 2022 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"War On Reality"
2/27-2/28/2012
I.
Nowhere could the words "Mandate" or "US Department of Justice" be seen. There was nothing to indicate that this rectangle of chrome and glass, reaching up eleven stories and set back from First Avenue by its own parking lot, was anything but a mundane office building. At ten o'clock on a February night, Jeremy Bane swung his Mustang in off the street and pulled up to a guard booth which had a horizontal metal bar protruding to block his path. He held up the document case which contained his driver's license and PI license, and the guard inspected it dutifully but Bane was sure that he had already been identified by more than one camera and that the people in that building were scrambling to get ready for him.
He was also certain that he was being covered by at least one expert sniper from one of those booths on the roof that supposedly held elevator machinery or air conditioning units. He had dealt with the Mandate before. Parking in a convenient spot in a lot nearly empty this time of night, the Dire Wolf strode for the main entrance, wide glass doors under a chrome plaque that read WORLDWIDE LITERACY DRIVE with a drawing of an open book behind a globe. As he approached, Bane heard locks buzz open and he entered. The lobby had tiled floors and marble walls, two elevators side by side and a semi-circular desk with an attractive young brunette in a white blouse and black skirt sitting behind it.
"Good evening, Mr Bane," she said pleasantly. "I don't see that you have an appointment."
They had never met before, but even if she had not been briefed, Bane knew he was easy to recognize. A tall gaunt man dressed all in black, with a narrow feral face and short black hair, his unmistakable feature was a pair of cold grey eyes that alarmed people. He was surprised that he had not been asked to surrender his pistol, the long-barreled 38 Smith & Wesson in a hip holster but evidently they were making exceptions for him. The matched silver daggers sheathed on his forearms were encased in high-density silicone molds for camoflauge during searches and this usually kept metal detectors from revealing them.
Before he could speak, a man in tailored suit and tie emerged through an unmarked wooden door behind her desk. He was middle-aged, with wavy blond hair and bushy eyebrows over watchful eyes. "It's all right, Nita," the man said. "Mr Bane, my name is Fischetti. If you would follow me, please?"
The Dire Wolf did not trust himself to answer. He was so angry that he felt he might say the wrong thing before he could get what he had come for. The Mandate agent led him down a corridor that bent once and then ended at an elevator door. Bane followed Fischetti in sullen silence. The agent did not try to make conversation and the Dire Wolf let it go at that. The elevator descended at least three levels, before opening onto a bare metal chamber with nothing but a bench against one wall and a thick plate glass one-way window. Next to that window was a door without handle or knob. On the wall next to the door was a speaker grid. The room was lit by overhead flourescent tubing, and the air was arid and chilly.
Waiting for him was a huge, potbellied guard in a uniform of light blue shirt with name tag and pressed black slacks. He was the most throughly armed guard Bane could remember seeing in some time. Sidearm in flap holster, billy club, spray tube, taser... the man seemed ready for a riot. He also had a walkie-talkie strapped up on one shoulder. As Bane stepped forward with the older agent behind him, the elevator door hissed shut behind them.
The guard gave them both a long penetrating stare before reaching over to thumb a button on the intercom. "Confirmed, Harry. Code for today is 'meerkat.'" Bane knew that using the changing code word was meant to show that the guard was not being coerced. If he had used a different word or simply omitted it, armed men would have stormed the room.
"I'm letting them in," came a voice through the speaker. The door swung open on its own, revealing it was three inches thick and airtight. Impatient and annoyed at the whole procedure, the Dire Wolf headed for that door but a hand touched his shoulder in restraint for a second.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this, sir?" asked Fischetti as if warning someone about to step in front of a train.
"Absolutely," Bane snapped. He went through the door, which swung shut behind him. The agent remained behind.
There were two lightweight chairs in front of a smooth plastic counter which ran full width, dividing the room into identical halves. A thick sheet of bulletproof glass stretched from ceiling to counter, and from side to side, leaving no opening between the two compartments. In the far wall was one of the closed doors without handles. Bane pulled out a chair and sat down to face the man he had come to see.
Seated on the other side of the glass partition in a chair that was bolted to the floor, Neil Kachigan stared down at his handcuffed hands resting on the counter in front of him. He wore an orange jumpsuit without belt or buttons, and a plain white T-shirt showed under the open collar. Kachigan was thirty-seven, Bane knew, but he looked much older. The cheeks had sunk beneath eyes that had dark bags under them. Once thick and glossy, the black hair now hung down lank and unhealthy-looking. The man had lost at least twenty pounds since his file photo had been taken a month earlier. Now, he reluctantly raised his head and faced the sharp intense stare from Bane's grey eyes.
This was the Mandate's top agent, decorated at the White House once, said to be on his way to being a legend. Then he had started murdering random victims and arranging their intestines into an oval shape with the hacked-out heart in the center. Kachigan had been caught in a sleazy motel with his third victim and had babbled nonsense that sounded like a non-existent language ever since. The psychologists had called these sentences 'neologisms.'
Seeming to recognize the Dire Wolf, Kachigan grinned a horrifying leer that only lifted one corner of his mouth. His eyes remained dull and introverted. He muttered something that sounded like gargling with consonants.
"I know what you were investigating," Bane said quietly, even though he couldn't spot where the microphone was. "You found them, didn't you? You met Those Who Remember."
II.
The reaction was immediate and violent, as Kachigan tried to jump to his feet but couldn't fully stand up. Bane saw the man was restrained to the stationary chair by a strap around his waist. The former Mandate agent made a strangling noise and sank down again, head drooping.
"My guess is that you learned knowledge that is ruining you," the Dire Wolf went on after a moment. "Just finding out about the Sulla Chun is enough to unbalance many Human minds. Dealing with the cult that wants to free them is like learning the whole world is on the edge of falling into shreds."
Slowly, grudgingly, Kachigan managed to say, "I... think I saw one."
"Just a glimpse was enough, eh?" Bane said evenly. "Listen. You know who I am. I actually witnessed a Sulla Chun in action. It destroyed my friend Khang in a mutual annihilation. I experienced waking nightmares for a week where I couldn't function without help. Last summer, out West, I was in the area where another Sulla Chun almost came up out of the ground. People lost their minds for miles around. The sky was on fire. Birds and animals fell dead in their tracks. It was only a disciple offering his life in sacrifice that sent the Sulla Chun back to being inert again."
Kachigan was breathing rapidly and had broken out in a heavy sweat. He leaned forward, face almost pressing against the glass, and his mouth worked but no sound emerged.
"The murders you committed," Bane continued, "were not really your fault. Just a glimpse of a Sulla Chun has damaged you. People have had psychotic episodes after being near one of them. I have some resistance because I'm a Tel Shai knight. I don't know if that means anything to you, but I have enhanced healing that works on a mental level as well. Maybe that's why the Midnight War hasn't worn me down after all these years."
Something about the Dire Wolf's assured attitude was calming Kachigan down slightly. The man's breathing became less panic-stricken and he stared intently, taking in every word. His fists were tightly clenched, his shoulders raised but he was visibly easing up.
"Your bosses did not want me to see you for some reason," Bane said. "This is important. You were investigating the cult. I want you to give me a name, an address, something to point me in the right direction. Go ahead."
Neil Kachigan struggled to answer. At first, he just made incoherent noises and then a few words in the non-existent language. Finally, as if forcing each word out against resistance, he managed to say, "Iron.. horse." Then he started convulsing, straining against the strap which held him down. Blood started from his mouth as he bit his tongue. In an instant, the door in the wall behind him swung open and two enormous guards charged in to restrain him. Beefy as they were, they had difficulty holding him still while getting him free of the chair strap. Through the open door came an older man in a white smock, who pressed a gauze pad to Kachigan's bloody mouth.
As the guards wrestled the struggling man back out of the room, the doctor gave Bane a venomous glare. The door on Bane's side of the room opened and the guard who had escorted him there loomed up in the opening. He did not have to say anything. The Dire Wolf rose, gave the now empty other side of the room a thoughtful glance, and followed the guard back outside. Once up in the lobby again, Bane found Agent Fischetti waiting by the desk.
"The Director wants to see you," the man said, already ushering the Dire Wolf toward the twin elevators.
"I bet he does," Bane replied sharply.
III.
The office was surprisingly cozy and old-fashioned, with dark wood walls and comfortable leather-bound chairs and a number of potted plants on shelves next to old books. There was even a high narrow window with its curtain drawn, flanked by oil paintings of seascapes. Behind a massive walnut desk sat the old man who watched as Bane was escorted in, the deceptively mild puppet master who commanded this branch of the Mandate organization.
In front of the desk were two of the overstuffed chairs and Bane dropped down into one without being invited. Obviously a bit miffed at this, Agent Fischetti remained standing behind him. The Dire Wolf also spoke first without waiting to be recognized, breaking one protocol after another.
"There was no evidence of any Ghoul warrens in the Baja," Bane said tartly. "And you knew that when you arranged for me to hear about the reported sightings. I wasted two days searching for any infestations out there before I decided to confront you."
Charles W Stigbert had never been a large man and, now that he was hitting seventy, he had dried into a tough, spare figure who moved with deliberation. Evidently he had still been at work although it was near eleven at night, because his dark grey suit was crisp and his tie knotted. The white hair was cropped short over a remarkably high forehead and jet black eyes studied Bane with inscrutable thoughts going on behind them. "We have reasons for everything we do, Jeremy."
"Normally you people use me as a convenient weapon," Bane said. "I'm outside your organization. I can be aimed at enemies too dangerous or too well-connected for your teams to tackle but I can also be disavowed when things go wrong. I know this. I'm okay with it, because almost every time your targets are threats I would want to go after anyway."
Stigbert stalled for a second by a straightening some loose papers and placing them on the corner of the desk nearest him, then leaning forward with his gnarled hands folded. "Our purposes do often overlap, as my predecessor used to observe."
Bane made no comment at the reference to Seth Petrov. He said, "You haven't sent me on a wild goose chase before. Now I'll have to react to every tip from you people with even more suspicion than before. It was because of Kachigan, of course."
"Yes," admitted the old man. "We thought it best to be sure we could apprehend poor Kachigan and get him secured before you might have found him. He's not the first to display this bizarre psychotic behavior."
"There was a similar murder two months ago. The same removal of the intestines to form an oval and the heart placed in its center. But that suspect died resisting arrest... or so the offical statement said."
"In fact, there were two such unfortunate incidents," Stigbert told him. "The first involved a relative of the governor and was successfully kept quiet. The public still hasn't heard about it. Neil Kachigan is the third person to act in this gruesome manner and to lose the ability to speak in a way that makes sense." The old man unfolded his hands and tapped one bony finger on the desk surface. "Neither the governor's nephew nor our agent have provided any useful information and certainly we have tried various methods of questioning."
The Dire Wolf had not lost his attitude and it gave an edge to his voice. "You were worried I would kill Kachigan if I caught him? Then you wouldn't be able to interrogate him? So you slipped me a fake report of Ghoul activity on the other side of the country to get me off the scene."
"Naturally, a certain amount of misdirection is part of our trade," Stigbert said. "Our agents know only what is necessary for them to know and often they have to be given a misleading brief."
"Look. I've said this before," Bane snapped. "I am not one of your agents. I don't work for the Mandate! The more lies and manipulation you guys pull, the less inclined I am to deal with you at all. As soon as my sources informed me about Kachigan, I figured you would be holding him here. The question is, why did you allow me access to him just now?"
The old man allowed a trace of a satisfied smile. His face was a mask he used like any other tool. "I thought you might be able to get at least some information out of him. He knows who you are. He said, 'iron horse.' Does that mean anything to you, Jeremy?"
"Just the obvious," Bane replied. "Trains."
"That was my reaction. The Native Americans called the steam locomotives 'iron horse' when they first appeared on the plains. What does the cult have to do with trains, though? Is their leader connected with a railroad? Or is their headquarters located near a station? There are many possibilities."
"Well, you have the manpower to follow a hundred leads." Bane stood up and sensed Fischetti tensing behind him at the unexpected move. "I'll use my own methods and see what I turn up."
Stigbert rose also, with no apparent difficulty despite his age. "The Mandate has been investigating the paranormal since before you were born, Jeremy. We have our differences. I know you dislike our organization, perhaps even hate it. But we are necessary. Agent Grace Cornish will join you in the lobby."
"Oh, not this again!" Bane shouted. "Look, Stigbert. I'm not part of the Mandate, I won't work with a partner. You've tried to send one with me before and look how he ended up."
The old man held out his hands, palms up, in an obvious pleading gesture. "If you refuse, she will just follow you with her usual partner. You will then have them trailing you and perhaps getting in your way. Also, Agent Cornish is our expert on Those Who Remember. They are her specialty, you might say."
The Dire Wolf scowled but gave in. "While I'm concentrating on evading them, I wouldn't be paying full attention to the enemy? All right, Stigbert. But don't blame me if your Agent Cornish doesn't survive this. The Sulla Chun are the worst enemies of living things there are."
"She knows the risks, Jeremy," Stigbert said and for a moment his face seemed to show genuine regret. "We are all expendable. It's the price of duty."
With that, Fischetti escorted Bane from the office and back to the elevators. The blond man had not said anything extraneous and he did not start now. When the cage door slid open into the lobby and the Dire Wolf stepped out, Fischetti remained behind without a word. Waiting by the desk, where the brunette Nita was now writing on a clipboard, was a woman Bane had never seen before. She held out her hand and he shook it politely.
"Hi! Grace Cornish, I know who you are of course. Call me Grace, please. I get enough Agent This and Agent That around here."
In that flash, Bane's long years of Kumundu training sized her up. She was within a year or so of thirty, five feet seven and about one hundred and twenty pounds. His appraisal was that she was in excellent physical condition, with reflexes and co-ordination at a high level. From the way she stood, she was carrying a small pistol at her right hip and the brown leather handbag slung from her left shoulder seemed heavy enough to indicate that it held professional equipment rather than just personal items.
To an ordinary passerby, Grace would seem rather unassuming, even mousy. She was wearing a pleated Navy blue skirt, cream-colored silk blouse and black suit jacket, no jewelry other than plain pearl earrings. Her wristwatch was small and modest. Dark blonde hair, straight and reaching just past her shoulders, matched her pale skin tone and green eyes. The black-rimmed eyeglasses with noticeably thick lenses were an appealing touch. Grace was not pretty as such, but certainly presentable and that was probably better for her work than getting the attention being gorgeous would draw.
With faint amusement, Bane realized she had visually examined him at the same time. He was sure she would be able to provide a detailed description of him after her own brief glance.
"We should talk on the way," she told him, signing the clipboard which Nita held out for her. Grace pressed her right palm to a glass panel on the desk and there was a flash of light beneath it. She gave Bane a wry little smile. "I don't expect to win you over with charm, Mr Dire Wolf, but we might as well make the best of things."
They headed out to the nearly empty parking lot. "I think we might take your car, Jeremy. May I call you Jeremy? You wouldn't want to leave it here and I can always phone for a Mandate car to come get me if I need it."
"Okay with me," Bane replied. "Stigbert said you're knowledgeable about Those Who Remember?"
"Yeah, I've written the file on the group. Back in college, I majored in folklore and that's how I first found out about them but I've never actually met a cult member." Her voice took a new note of interest as she asked, "You've clashed with them? In person, I mean?"
"Yes." Bane stopped walking for a second without realizing it. There were so many memories to sort through before he answered. "I have to admit that at first I did not take the cult seriously. I thought they were nuts, that Humans couldn't reach the Sulla Chun or have any effect on those monsters if they did. But I learned better the hard way."
Grace studied his face in the harsh light from a nearby lamppost. "We know something atrocious happened in New Mexico last May. All those reports of the 'burning sky' and dead animals all over. More than a dozen people in the Rio Soledad area suffered complete breakdowns. There were six suicides in a single day. But we don't have solid information except that we know you were there."
Heading toward his car again, Bane said, "It's better that way, Grace. If you ask me, the less that Humans know about the Sulla Chun, the better. Life is scary enough." He took out his keys and chirped the doors open on his Mustang. As Grace Cornish lowered herself into the passenger seat and placed her handbag by her feet, he got behind the wheel. "So, where are we going?"
"You know where Tompkins Square Park is? I have a theory I have wanted to check out for a while but the Director wouldn't approve an excursion. With you on hand, I guess it'll be okay."
The Dire Wolf drove out of the lot and turned right. They were in the lower Forties and passed the United Nations building in a minute. "You saw what too much forbidden knowledge did to Kachigan. What makes you think you can handle it any better?"
"Poor Neil. He was one of our best investigators. He didn't know those people he killed, and he can't explain why he mutilated them. The truth is, Jeremy, I expect we will have to keep an eye on each other. Any sign of bizarre behavior will be reason for one of us to incapacitate the other and retreat back to base."
"In all seriousness, Grace, you must know a little about me," Bane said. "I am kind of dangerous. If I turn all demented and start speaking in a non-existent language, how are you going to stop me?"
"Oh, I'd shoot you in the leg," she replied promptly. "Maybe both legs. I wouldn't take any chances."
IV.
On the way down to the East Village, Grace explained her theory about the true nature of the Sulla Chun. "I don't think they're spiritual beings as the usual folklore says," she declared firmly. "In my opinion, they are Extra-terrestrial, perhaps even intruders from another dimension altogether... a dimension that does not follow the laws of physics our universe does."
Bane shrugged. "If you say so. According to the Teachers at Tel Shai, the Sulla Chun were created by the Halarin and Halarim before there was even life on Earth. They were an experiment that went all wrong."
"Hmph. Well, whatever Tel Shai tradition may say, it seems to me that whenever one of these entities makes the slightest intrusion into our reality, physics goes out the window. Anything can happen."
They stopped at a red light and Bane turned to study her somber expression. "So. In your opinion, what would happen if a few of these monsters broke free entirely?"
"I think the real world as we know it would fall apart," Grace Cornish said. "Nothing would make sense. You couldn't even rely on cause and effect. From our viewpoint, there would be a few minutes of incredible horror and confusion before we all died."
On an almost deserted East 4th Street by Avenue A, they pulled into an empty spot and Bane turned off the motor. "This is what I find hard to understand. Why would anyone want this to happen? Why does the cult work so hard to free the Sulla Chun if it means they will go crazy and die along with everyone else? I don't get it."
"Ah, Jeremy. I don't think it could ever make sense to you. From what I know about you, you're a survivor. You've had a tough life and all your instincts are to fight back and hang on. But the members of Those Who Remember hate the world. They think we have screwed everything up beyond repair and that the human race is scum that deserves to be wiped out." Grace unbuckled her seat belt and picked up her handbag, then paused with one hand on the handle of her door. "That doesn't fit with the way you view life, does it?"
"Not at all," Bane admitted. "How do you feel about it?"
"Oh, I don't agree with nihilism at all. My sister just had twin girls. Preemies. They are so tiny and precious that I almost cry when I look at pictures of them. They deserve a chance at life. We all do." She opened the door and said, "Let's have a look."
They stepped out onto a sidewalk empty of passers-by. Traffic was almost non-existent that night. It was cold and damp, just after midnight, and nothing was open in this neighborhood. Grace Cornish pointed to an ancient, two-story red brick building at the corner and said, "There's where my research leads me."
They walked down the block and stood before the structure. It had two wrought iron lamps on either side of the door, burning dim 40 watt bulbs. A brass plaque next to the door read FINAL SUNSET POETRY CIRCLE - MEMBERS ONLY. All of the windows were dark. Bane scrutinized the building as if expecting to be attacked at any second, "What's with the poetry angle? Just a cover story for the cult?"
"To some extent," Grace answered. She was staring at the front door as if offended by its very existence. "Those Who Remember was founded just after WW I by a notorious Decadent poet named Jean-Georges Bouchard. His experiences during the war seem to have left him incredibly disillusioned."
"A poet..? Have you read his stuff?"
"Oh yes. Unpleasant, to say the least. On the surface, it's all about romances turning cold and people having affairs but if you read between the lines, his poetry is horrifying. It's really about wiping the Earth clean of people and starting over. 'After the Storm' is the clearest example. Bouchard's poems were popular in the 1920s and he used his fame to help establish Those Who Remember."
The Dire Wolf unclipped a small electronic device from his belt, took some readings on it and turned a dial. There was a humming sound from the Link, and he seemed satisfied. "Okay. Burglar alarms are off for the next hour or so."
"What? You did that with your smartphone? How?"
"I can't explain, sorry." He took what looked like a metal pen from an inner pocket and pressed it to the keyhole. Grace Cornish couldn't see what the Trom device was doing, but thin filaments extended into the lock, reshaped themselves and rotated. As Bane withdrew the device, he opened the front door as if it had not been locked in the first place.
The Dire Wolf noticed she placed her hand behind her, under her jacket for a second. She was adjusting her gun in its holster to make sure it was ready. He felt the same way. He couldn't say why, but he was suddenly apprehensive and alert as if he had caught sight of someone watching from concealment. "When we get inside, stay as quiet as you can for the first minute," he said. They stepped into darkness and closed the door behind them.
V.
Standing in the murk, the Dire Wolf slowed his breathing and after thirty seconds, his enhanced hearing kicked in. This was one of the first Tel Shai techniques he had mastered. Finally, he took Grace by the sleeve and whispered, "We can talk in low tones. There's no one on this floor."
"How do you know that?" she asked, "and don't just say you can't explain."
"It's an ability I've been taught. I don't really understand how it works myself. The bad news is that something is going on beneath us. Concentrate on your feet for a minute."
Grace was silent, then took a breath. "Yes. It feels like something big moving. Like when a subway train goes by?"
Bane took a pencil flashlight from his jacket and narrowed its beam to a brilliant white thread which he played around the area. They were standing in a vestibule with a bench and hooks on the wall for coats. A large bronze plaque read FINAL SUNSET POETRY CIRCLE and beneath that, DEDICATED TO THE WORKS OF JEAN-GEORGES BOUCHARD AND HIS FOLLOWERS. It was decorated with a bas-relief of a broken rose in snow. There was no door blocking the entry way.
"Jeremy, I'm not much for hunches but I have a strange apprehension about this place," the Mandate agent said. "I feel like I'm about to put my foot into a beartrap or something."
"I feel it, too." Bane reached into the collar of his turtleneck and tugged out a tiny golden wheel on a fine-linked chain. "Here. Do me a favor and put this on."
She examined it in the dim backlight from his flash. "I don't get it. It's a wheel."
"It's a talisman crafted and ensorcelled by the Eldarin themselves," he said in a whisper. "Powerful protection. Please, just humor me on this."
She dropped the chain over her head and tucked the talisman inside her blouse. "It sounds crazy but I do feel relieved. Well, probably just auto-suggestion."
Bane examined the hall where they stood. There was a cabinet next to them that held crystal goblets and fine china, with a potted plant sitting on the top. Further down the hall were two wide oaken doors side by side, separated by a shelf holding an old-fashioned rotary phone. In two niches were waist high stands holding statuary. The hall itself ended in a pair of swinging doors that had oval windows in them. He handed the flashlight to Grace, saying, "Here, I have a spare." Then he slid one of his daggers from its sheath beneath his sleeve and held it up.
The narrow blade shone as if reflecting a spotlight, bright enough to cast shadows. Bane regarded the dagger somberly.
"Well, that's a neat trick," Grace said. "How's that done?"
The Dire Wolf returned his weapon to its sheath. "The blades are ensalir... silver blessed by the Eldarin. Not only are they shining, they're hot to the touch right now. Grace, we are in real danger. Do you want to call for back-up?"
"I'm tempted," she admitted as she ran the flashlight up and down the empty hallway. The light reflected off the lenses of her glasses. "But that's not the way to get promotions. I want my own office within the next two years. Okay, Jeremy, let me point out something I just spotted." She took a few brisk steps down the corridor and stopped in front of a wall niche. Here was a dark wood pedestal that stood chest high, and on it was a black metal sculpture of a rearing horse.
"Remember what Kachigan said?" she asked. "All he could manage to get out were the words 'iron horse?'"
Peering closely, Bane saw that the sculpture represented an animal that had been starved. Every rib showed, the backbone was a sharp ridge. As a small as that statue was, he could see that the horse's eyes were depicted as rolled up in panic and its mouth was wide open. "Not a pleasant piece of art," he said.
"About what I'd expect from fans of Bouchard." Grace Cornish gingerly touched the statue and tried turning it on its stand. It didn't move. Only when she twisted the horse's head to one side was there a click and a panel slid open in the wall next to them. She glanced over at Bane and said, "Looks like Neil managed to give us a pointer."
Behind the panel were steep concrete steps leading down. On the wall above those steps was a brass plaque with an abstract relief of an oval with a red stone in its center. "That eye..." she began.
"Yes," Bane whispered. "It's what Kachigan was recreating with the internal organs of his victims. And so were the other two men who encountered Those Who Remember." With the last word, the Dire Wolf abruptly lunged into the opening behind the panel and swung back, pulling a big man with him. The cultist was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Bane yanked him up entirely off his feet and drove a hooking punch into the pit of the man's stomach. All the air left the cult member's lungs at that blow and he doubled up. As he dropped to his knees, Bane smashed an elbow down to the back of the man's neck. That ended the one-sided struggle.
Lowering the cultist to the floor, the Dire Wolf patted through the man's clothing and brought out a knife with a wavy seven-inch blade. He found no other weapons. The guard of Those Who Remember had a shaggy black beard and long hair, with a prominent nose in a wide face.
"I didn't hear him coming up the stairs," Grace said with remarkable calm after witnessing that flurry of violence.
"Neither did I. It was his shadow that gave me a split-second warning." Bane hauled the limp body back into the opening behind the wall panel and sat him up against the wall. He checked the man's pulse. "He'll be out for a while. Actually, he could use some medical attention or he might not recover at all. I didn't pull my blows much."
Putting away the pencil flashlight, Grace Cornish reached behind her and drew out her Glock 19, clicking its safety to off and holding it with both hands. "My skin is crawling," she said. "I feel as if someone is breathing on the back of my neck. I'm not usually one for nerves."
Bane made no comment. A faint reddish light was coming from the stairwell. He nodded at her and began moving silently down the steps. Grace tapped her glasses back up higher on her nose, resumed her grip on her sidearm and followed.
VI.
As they descended, the air felt increasingly oppressive. It had the heavy leaden sensation of the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. There was a landing before the final dozen steps which opened to a doorway through which the sullen red light was coming.
Putting his mouth next to Grace's ear, Bane whispered, "Close your eyes and cover your ears." As she complied with some bewilderment, tucking her gun under one elbow, she heard a sharp detonation that echoed louder than thunder in the underground space. Even through her eyelids, blazing white light flashed.
It only took her a few seconds to recover, as she realized Bane must have used some sort of flash-bang device. She shook her head, got a good grip on her weapon and came down the steps into a huge high-ceiling chamber with rough stone walls. Her ears were ringing and spots swam before her eyes but she could function well enough to take in the scene.
Five men and one woman were sprawled in various positions on the bare rock floor, some trying dazedly to get to their hands and knees. They were wearing dark red smocks over their clothing. Bane was moving quickly among them to seize the wavy-bladed daggers each seemed to carry. He threw the knives in the opposite corner of the chamber. As one of the cultists managed to get up, blinking and moving his head side to side in dazed confusion, Bane roughly shoved him back down to the floor again.
While the Dire Wolf was doing this, Grace Cornish glanced around and her heart missed a beat. In the unfinished rock wall in front of her, a bulge protruded big enough for a person to be curled up within. Unsettlingly, the solid rock of that bulge was moving somehhow. She experienced a vivid and horrifying image of a parasite wiggling under a person's skin at the sight.
Bane had disarmed the cult members and dragged them into a loose unresisting cluster. They were all middle-aged or older, not much threat physically to him or to Grace without their knives, but he still glared at them suspiciously. Then he looked up and saw the bulge in the wall that Grace was staring at.
"Well," he growled, "Looks like we're not a moment too soon."
"Is that one of them? Is that a Sulla Chun?"
"No, not nearly big enough," Bane said. "They're the size of a mountain. But I think it is the beginning of one trying to enter our world. That's like the bare fingertip poking at the barriers." He turned his attention to the five dazed cultists. One of the men had a bloody nose and they all seemed hopelesly confused from the combination of blinding light and thunderous concussion. Their age worked against them recovering as well.
Grace Cornish was still holding her pistol with both hands, and now she lowered it to point at a spot in front of her where no one was in line of fire. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes were alert. "So. Listen, Jeremy, you said you saw one of these creatures before and there was a way to make it settle down? We could sure use that trick now."
The Dire Wolf hesitated before answering. "One of the cult members offered himself as a sacrifice. Guy named Jesse Redbone. The Sulla Chun seemed to accept his life as an offering and became quiet again. That was the incident in New Mexico you heard about."
She made a scoffing noise. "I don't have much hope we can talk one of these geezers into doing the same. So what's the plan? Damn, I keep seeing shadows rush past me but I know there's nothing there."
"It's the presence of that monster affecting us," Bane said. "I'm starting to hallucinate a little, too. Everything seems so far away. The walls are wavering. I'm trying to fight it." He suddenly swiveled around and crouched, then relaxed. "I could have sworn something furry was running at me..."
From the base of the steps, not ten feet from where they stood, a slim dark-haired man in formal evening dress was aiming a double-barreled sawed-down shotgun at Grace Cornish's head. "But I am quite real, young lady. Slide your gun to the other side of the sacred chamber. Gently. That's it."
Bane froze into position. His grey eyes locked on the newcomer with the deadly concentration of a predator watching prey but he held still.
"Oh, the servants of the Old Ones know about you, Dire Wolf," said the man with the shotgun. "You are known to wear excellent armor under your clothing but the same is not true of this lass. At this range, a double dose of 12 gauge would leave her difficult to identify."
Grace gaped and, despite the situation, took a step closer to the man. "You look just like the photo on the dust jackets. But it can't be you...."
"Ah, the truth is quite surprising," answered the man. "But yes, I am indeed the inimitable Jean-Georges Bouchard."
VII.
"You'd be over a hundred years old," said Grace. "Come on. You have to be his grandson or someone who just looks like him."
Bouchard smirked. With his slicked-back hair, pointed mustache and goatee, he had no trouble looking supercilious. "Ah, how little you know. Being near my masters has extended my usefulness to them. I hung bleeding on barbed wire in No-Man's-Land for two days and two nights. I saw Western civilization lose all its values in the Great War. No one had anything to believe in anymore. We were just empty husks going through the motions of life."
The Dire Wolf snorted. "Yeah right. So rather than pick yourself up and do something constructive with your talent, you wrote those vile poems and founded Those Who Remember. You started your war on reality which has gotten nowhere in a century. I'm not impressed."
"Bah. Even for an American, you are gauche. You are little more than a blunt instrument yourself, Dire Wolf, striking down those who dare show deeper perception." Bouchard took a few steps to one side, still covering Grace with both shortened barrels of his shotgun, until he was standing next to the shifting bulge in the stone wall. "Soon. Soon. This filthy planet will be scrubbed clean of all life. Maybe in a million years, some microscopic organisms will form again. Maybe they will do better with their second chance than we did."
Bane folded his arms across his chest defiantly, which made Bouchard laugh.
"Oh no, Dire Wolf," said the mad poet. "I know all about the daggers up your sleeves. Forget it. Fast as you are, you cannot stop me from reducing this girl into suet."
"You really believe in the Sulla Chun?" asked Bane. "You'd do anything for them?"
"Absolutely. My life is theirs. My commitment is total." Bouchard smiled smugly, leaning back against the bulge in the rock. "They are my gods now."
Unexpectedly, with a sweet unassuming voice, Grace said, "I have a first edition of your best-known book. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN, Rue Blanc Press, 1922. I've read your poetry, Bouchard."
That caught him unprepared. He did not lower his weapon but he did cock his head to one side. "Did you really? What did you think?"
The Mandate agent leaned forward, lowering her voice confidentially. "I thought... I thought it had style but lacked substance." With that, she lunged two steps forward and jammed the shotgun up under Bouchard's jaw just as he fired. The poet's head splattered in all directions, leaving little attached above the neck. His blood and brains and skull fragments splashed all over the wall behind him.
As the headless body slumped to the floor, the shotgun clattering next to it, Grace Cornish gasped and almost fell herself. She was breathing quick and shallow after the stress of that moment. The wall was now nothing but rough unfinished stone covered with gore. That writhing bulge had subsided entirely.
Bane glanced over at the cult members still lying on the floor. Three of them appeared to be dead, and one was feebly twitching in a futile attempt to rise. Between the concussion grenade, exposure to the Sulla Chun and seeing their revered leader dying in such a gruesome manner, none of them seemed coherently aware of anything anymore. He turned his full attention to Grace Cornish.
"Whew, my hands are shaking," she said. "I don't feel too steady. Am I starting to talk nonsense language?"
"You sound normal to me."
Bane retrieved her sidearm and handed it to her. She put the safety on, then holstered it automatically. The Mandate agent took some deep breaths and said, "I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm okay. Ummm... time to report. Call for a clean-up squad to make this mess all disappear."
"Good idea. I think the Final Sunset Poetry Circle has held its last meeting. Tell me, were you planning on doing that all along?"
"What? No, no, not consciously at least. The second I got the idea, I acted on it. Dear God, if I had not been quick enough, that would be me lying there."'
Jeremy Bane tapped her on a shoulder, about as comforting a gesture as he ever made. "You saved everyone from a Sulla Chun manifestation, Grace. Great work. To be honest, most of the agents the Mandate force on me don't survive the case."
"Ha." She tried for a smile that didn't quite make it. "Glad to be the exception. Well, I bet I'll have real nightmares for a while, if that counts."
7/9/2016
2/27-2/28/2012
I.
Nowhere could the words "Mandate" or "US Department of Justice" be seen. There was nothing to indicate that this rectangle of chrome and glass, reaching up eleven stories and set back from First Avenue by its own parking lot, was anything but a mundane office building. At ten o'clock on a February night, Jeremy Bane swung his Mustang in off the street and pulled up to a guard booth which had a horizontal metal bar protruding to block his path. He held up the document case which contained his driver's license and PI license, and the guard inspected it dutifully but Bane was sure that he had already been identified by more than one camera and that the people in that building were scrambling to get ready for him.
He was also certain that he was being covered by at least one expert sniper from one of those booths on the roof that supposedly held elevator machinery or air conditioning units. He had dealt with the Mandate before. Parking in a convenient spot in a lot nearly empty this time of night, the Dire Wolf strode for the main entrance, wide glass doors under a chrome plaque that read WORLDWIDE LITERACY DRIVE with a drawing of an open book behind a globe. As he approached, Bane heard locks buzz open and he entered. The lobby had tiled floors and marble walls, two elevators side by side and a semi-circular desk with an attractive young brunette in a white blouse and black skirt sitting behind it.
"Good evening, Mr Bane," she said pleasantly. "I don't see that you have an appointment."
They had never met before, but even if she had not been briefed, Bane knew he was easy to recognize. A tall gaunt man dressed all in black, with a narrow feral face and short black hair, his unmistakable feature was a pair of cold grey eyes that alarmed people. He was surprised that he had not been asked to surrender his pistol, the long-barreled 38 Smith & Wesson in a hip holster but evidently they were making exceptions for him. The matched silver daggers sheathed on his forearms were encased in high-density silicone molds for camoflauge during searches and this usually kept metal detectors from revealing them.
Before he could speak, a man in tailored suit and tie emerged through an unmarked wooden door behind her desk. He was middle-aged, with wavy blond hair and bushy eyebrows over watchful eyes. "It's all right, Nita," the man said. "Mr Bane, my name is Fischetti. If you would follow me, please?"
The Dire Wolf did not trust himself to answer. He was so angry that he felt he might say the wrong thing before he could get what he had come for. The Mandate agent led him down a corridor that bent once and then ended at an elevator door. Bane followed Fischetti in sullen silence. The agent did not try to make conversation and the Dire Wolf let it go at that. The elevator descended at least three levels, before opening onto a bare metal chamber with nothing but a bench against one wall and a thick plate glass one-way window. Next to that window was a door without handle or knob. On the wall next to the door was a speaker grid. The room was lit by overhead flourescent tubing, and the air was arid and chilly.
Waiting for him was a huge, potbellied guard in a uniform of light blue shirt with name tag and pressed black slacks. He was the most throughly armed guard Bane could remember seeing in some time. Sidearm in flap holster, billy club, spray tube, taser... the man seemed ready for a riot. He also had a walkie-talkie strapped up on one shoulder. As Bane stepped forward with the older agent behind him, the elevator door hissed shut behind them.
The guard gave them both a long penetrating stare before reaching over to thumb a button on the intercom. "Confirmed, Harry. Code for today is 'meerkat.'" Bane knew that using the changing code word was meant to show that the guard was not being coerced. If he had used a different word or simply omitted it, armed men would have stormed the room.
"I'm letting them in," came a voice through the speaker. The door swung open on its own, revealing it was three inches thick and airtight. Impatient and annoyed at the whole procedure, the Dire Wolf headed for that door but a hand touched his shoulder in restraint for a second.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this, sir?" asked Fischetti as if warning someone about to step in front of a train.
"Absolutely," Bane snapped. He went through the door, which swung shut behind him. The agent remained behind.
There were two lightweight chairs in front of a smooth plastic counter which ran full width, dividing the room into identical halves. A thick sheet of bulletproof glass stretched from ceiling to counter, and from side to side, leaving no opening between the two compartments. In the far wall was one of the closed doors without handles. Bane pulled out a chair and sat down to face the man he had come to see.
Seated on the other side of the glass partition in a chair that was bolted to the floor, Neil Kachigan stared down at his handcuffed hands resting on the counter in front of him. He wore an orange jumpsuit without belt or buttons, and a plain white T-shirt showed under the open collar. Kachigan was thirty-seven, Bane knew, but he looked much older. The cheeks had sunk beneath eyes that had dark bags under them. Once thick and glossy, the black hair now hung down lank and unhealthy-looking. The man had lost at least twenty pounds since his file photo had been taken a month earlier. Now, he reluctantly raised his head and faced the sharp intense stare from Bane's grey eyes.
This was the Mandate's top agent, decorated at the White House once, said to be on his way to being a legend. Then he had started murdering random victims and arranging their intestines into an oval shape with the hacked-out heart in the center. Kachigan had been caught in a sleazy motel with his third victim and had babbled nonsense that sounded like a non-existent language ever since. The psychologists had called these sentences 'neologisms.'
Seeming to recognize the Dire Wolf, Kachigan grinned a horrifying leer that only lifted one corner of his mouth. His eyes remained dull and introverted. He muttered something that sounded like gargling with consonants.
"I know what you were investigating," Bane said quietly, even though he couldn't spot where the microphone was. "You found them, didn't you? You met Those Who Remember."
II.
The reaction was immediate and violent, as Kachigan tried to jump to his feet but couldn't fully stand up. Bane saw the man was restrained to the stationary chair by a strap around his waist. The former Mandate agent made a strangling noise and sank down again, head drooping.
"My guess is that you learned knowledge that is ruining you," the Dire Wolf went on after a moment. "Just finding out about the Sulla Chun is enough to unbalance many Human minds. Dealing with the cult that wants to free them is like learning the whole world is on the edge of falling into shreds."
Slowly, grudgingly, Kachigan managed to say, "I... think I saw one."
"Just a glimpse was enough, eh?" Bane said evenly. "Listen. You know who I am. I actually witnessed a Sulla Chun in action. It destroyed my friend Khang in a mutual annihilation. I experienced waking nightmares for a week where I couldn't function without help. Last summer, out West, I was in the area where another Sulla Chun almost came up out of the ground. People lost their minds for miles around. The sky was on fire. Birds and animals fell dead in their tracks. It was only a disciple offering his life in sacrifice that sent the Sulla Chun back to being inert again."
Kachigan was breathing rapidly and had broken out in a heavy sweat. He leaned forward, face almost pressing against the glass, and his mouth worked but no sound emerged.
"The murders you committed," Bane continued, "were not really your fault. Just a glimpse of a Sulla Chun has damaged you. People have had psychotic episodes after being near one of them. I have some resistance because I'm a Tel Shai knight. I don't know if that means anything to you, but I have enhanced healing that works on a mental level as well. Maybe that's why the Midnight War hasn't worn me down after all these years."
Something about the Dire Wolf's assured attitude was calming Kachigan down slightly. The man's breathing became less panic-stricken and he stared intently, taking in every word. His fists were tightly clenched, his shoulders raised but he was visibly easing up.
"Your bosses did not want me to see you for some reason," Bane said. "This is important. You were investigating the cult. I want you to give me a name, an address, something to point me in the right direction. Go ahead."
Neil Kachigan struggled to answer. At first, he just made incoherent noises and then a few words in the non-existent language. Finally, as if forcing each word out against resistance, he managed to say, "Iron.. horse." Then he started convulsing, straining against the strap which held him down. Blood started from his mouth as he bit his tongue. In an instant, the door in the wall behind him swung open and two enormous guards charged in to restrain him. Beefy as they were, they had difficulty holding him still while getting him free of the chair strap. Through the open door came an older man in a white smock, who pressed a gauze pad to Kachigan's bloody mouth.
As the guards wrestled the struggling man back out of the room, the doctor gave Bane a venomous glare. The door on Bane's side of the room opened and the guard who had escorted him there loomed up in the opening. He did not have to say anything. The Dire Wolf rose, gave the now empty other side of the room a thoughtful glance, and followed the guard back outside. Once up in the lobby again, Bane found Agent Fischetti waiting by the desk.
"The Director wants to see you," the man said, already ushering the Dire Wolf toward the twin elevators.
"I bet he does," Bane replied sharply.
III.
The office was surprisingly cozy and old-fashioned, with dark wood walls and comfortable leather-bound chairs and a number of potted plants on shelves next to old books. There was even a high narrow window with its curtain drawn, flanked by oil paintings of seascapes. Behind a massive walnut desk sat the old man who watched as Bane was escorted in, the deceptively mild puppet master who commanded this branch of the Mandate organization.
In front of the desk were two of the overstuffed chairs and Bane dropped down into one without being invited. Obviously a bit miffed at this, Agent Fischetti remained standing behind him. The Dire Wolf also spoke first without waiting to be recognized, breaking one protocol after another.
"There was no evidence of any Ghoul warrens in the Baja," Bane said tartly. "And you knew that when you arranged for me to hear about the reported sightings. I wasted two days searching for any infestations out there before I decided to confront you."
Charles W Stigbert had never been a large man and, now that he was hitting seventy, he had dried into a tough, spare figure who moved with deliberation. Evidently he had still been at work although it was near eleven at night, because his dark grey suit was crisp and his tie knotted. The white hair was cropped short over a remarkably high forehead and jet black eyes studied Bane with inscrutable thoughts going on behind them. "We have reasons for everything we do, Jeremy."
"Normally you people use me as a convenient weapon," Bane said. "I'm outside your organization. I can be aimed at enemies too dangerous or too well-connected for your teams to tackle but I can also be disavowed when things go wrong. I know this. I'm okay with it, because almost every time your targets are threats I would want to go after anyway."
Stigbert stalled for a second by a straightening some loose papers and placing them on the corner of the desk nearest him, then leaning forward with his gnarled hands folded. "Our purposes do often overlap, as my predecessor used to observe."
Bane made no comment at the reference to Seth Petrov. He said, "You haven't sent me on a wild goose chase before. Now I'll have to react to every tip from you people with even more suspicion than before. It was because of Kachigan, of course."
"Yes," admitted the old man. "We thought it best to be sure we could apprehend poor Kachigan and get him secured before you might have found him. He's not the first to display this bizarre psychotic behavior."
"There was a similar murder two months ago. The same removal of the intestines to form an oval and the heart placed in its center. But that suspect died resisting arrest... or so the offical statement said."
"In fact, there were two such unfortunate incidents," Stigbert told him. "The first involved a relative of the governor and was successfully kept quiet. The public still hasn't heard about it. Neil Kachigan is the third person to act in this gruesome manner and to lose the ability to speak in a way that makes sense." The old man unfolded his hands and tapped one bony finger on the desk surface. "Neither the governor's nephew nor our agent have provided any useful information and certainly we have tried various methods of questioning."
The Dire Wolf had not lost his attitude and it gave an edge to his voice. "You were worried I would kill Kachigan if I caught him? Then you wouldn't be able to interrogate him? So you slipped me a fake report of Ghoul activity on the other side of the country to get me off the scene."
"Naturally, a certain amount of misdirection is part of our trade," Stigbert said. "Our agents know only what is necessary for them to know and often they have to be given a misleading brief."
"Look. I've said this before," Bane snapped. "I am not one of your agents. I don't work for the Mandate! The more lies and manipulation you guys pull, the less inclined I am to deal with you at all. As soon as my sources informed me about Kachigan, I figured you would be holding him here. The question is, why did you allow me access to him just now?"
The old man allowed a trace of a satisfied smile. His face was a mask he used like any other tool. "I thought you might be able to get at least some information out of him. He knows who you are. He said, 'iron horse.' Does that mean anything to you, Jeremy?"
"Just the obvious," Bane replied. "Trains."
"That was my reaction. The Native Americans called the steam locomotives 'iron horse' when they first appeared on the plains. What does the cult have to do with trains, though? Is their leader connected with a railroad? Or is their headquarters located near a station? There are many possibilities."
"Well, you have the manpower to follow a hundred leads." Bane stood up and sensed Fischetti tensing behind him at the unexpected move. "I'll use my own methods and see what I turn up."
Stigbert rose also, with no apparent difficulty despite his age. "The Mandate has been investigating the paranormal since before you were born, Jeremy. We have our differences. I know you dislike our organization, perhaps even hate it. But we are necessary. Agent Grace Cornish will join you in the lobby."
"Oh, not this again!" Bane shouted. "Look, Stigbert. I'm not part of the Mandate, I won't work with a partner. You've tried to send one with me before and look how he ended up."
The old man held out his hands, palms up, in an obvious pleading gesture. "If you refuse, she will just follow you with her usual partner. You will then have them trailing you and perhaps getting in your way. Also, Agent Cornish is our expert on Those Who Remember. They are her specialty, you might say."
The Dire Wolf scowled but gave in. "While I'm concentrating on evading them, I wouldn't be paying full attention to the enemy? All right, Stigbert. But don't blame me if your Agent Cornish doesn't survive this. The Sulla Chun are the worst enemies of living things there are."
"She knows the risks, Jeremy," Stigbert said and for a moment his face seemed to show genuine regret. "We are all expendable. It's the price of duty."
With that, Fischetti escorted Bane from the office and back to the elevators. The blond man had not said anything extraneous and he did not start now. When the cage door slid open into the lobby and the Dire Wolf stepped out, Fischetti remained behind without a word. Waiting by the desk, where the brunette Nita was now writing on a clipboard, was a woman Bane had never seen before. She held out her hand and he shook it politely.
"Hi! Grace Cornish, I know who you are of course. Call me Grace, please. I get enough Agent This and Agent That around here."
In that flash, Bane's long years of Kumundu training sized her up. She was within a year or so of thirty, five feet seven and about one hundred and twenty pounds. His appraisal was that she was in excellent physical condition, with reflexes and co-ordination at a high level. From the way she stood, she was carrying a small pistol at her right hip and the brown leather handbag slung from her left shoulder seemed heavy enough to indicate that it held professional equipment rather than just personal items.
To an ordinary passerby, Grace would seem rather unassuming, even mousy. She was wearing a pleated Navy blue skirt, cream-colored silk blouse and black suit jacket, no jewelry other than plain pearl earrings. Her wristwatch was small and modest. Dark blonde hair, straight and reaching just past her shoulders, matched her pale skin tone and green eyes. The black-rimmed eyeglasses with noticeably thick lenses were an appealing touch. Grace was not pretty as such, but certainly presentable and that was probably better for her work than getting the attention being gorgeous would draw.
With faint amusement, Bane realized she had visually examined him at the same time. He was sure she would be able to provide a detailed description of him after her own brief glance.
"We should talk on the way," she told him, signing the clipboard which Nita held out for her. Grace pressed her right palm to a glass panel on the desk and there was a flash of light beneath it. She gave Bane a wry little smile. "I don't expect to win you over with charm, Mr Dire Wolf, but we might as well make the best of things."
They headed out to the nearly empty parking lot. "I think we might take your car, Jeremy. May I call you Jeremy? You wouldn't want to leave it here and I can always phone for a Mandate car to come get me if I need it."
"Okay with me," Bane replied. "Stigbert said you're knowledgeable about Those Who Remember?"
"Yeah, I've written the file on the group. Back in college, I majored in folklore and that's how I first found out about them but I've never actually met a cult member." Her voice took a new note of interest as she asked, "You've clashed with them? In person, I mean?"
"Yes." Bane stopped walking for a second without realizing it. There were so many memories to sort through before he answered. "I have to admit that at first I did not take the cult seriously. I thought they were nuts, that Humans couldn't reach the Sulla Chun or have any effect on those monsters if they did. But I learned better the hard way."
Grace studied his face in the harsh light from a nearby lamppost. "We know something atrocious happened in New Mexico last May. All those reports of the 'burning sky' and dead animals all over. More than a dozen people in the Rio Soledad area suffered complete breakdowns. There were six suicides in a single day. But we don't have solid information except that we know you were there."
Heading toward his car again, Bane said, "It's better that way, Grace. If you ask me, the less that Humans know about the Sulla Chun, the better. Life is scary enough." He took out his keys and chirped the doors open on his Mustang. As Grace Cornish lowered herself into the passenger seat and placed her handbag by her feet, he got behind the wheel. "So, where are we going?"
"You know where Tompkins Square Park is? I have a theory I have wanted to check out for a while but the Director wouldn't approve an excursion. With you on hand, I guess it'll be okay."
The Dire Wolf drove out of the lot and turned right. They were in the lower Forties and passed the United Nations building in a minute. "You saw what too much forbidden knowledge did to Kachigan. What makes you think you can handle it any better?"
"Poor Neil. He was one of our best investigators. He didn't know those people he killed, and he can't explain why he mutilated them. The truth is, Jeremy, I expect we will have to keep an eye on each other. Any sign of bizarre behavior will be reason for one of us to incapacitate the other and retreat back to base."
"In all seriousness, Grace, you must know a little about me," Bane said. "I am kind of dangerous. If I turn all demented and start speaking in a non-existent language, how are you going to stop me?"
"Oh, I'd shoot you in the leg," she replied promptly. "Maybe both legs. I wouldn't take any chances."
IV.
On the way down to the East Village, Grace explained her theory about the true nature of the Sulla Chun. "I don't think they're spiritual beings as the usual folklore says," she declared firmly. "In my opinion, they are Extra-terrestrial, perhaps even intruders from another dimension altogether... a dimension that does not follow the laws of physics our universe does."
Bane shrugged. "If you say so. According to the Teachers at Tel Shai, the Sulla Chun were created by the Halarin and Halarim before there was even life on Earth. They were an experiment that went all wrong."
"Hmph. Well, whatever Tel Shai tradition may say, it seems to me that whenever one of these entities makes the slightest intrusion into our reality, physics goes out the window. Anything can happen."
They stopped at a red light and Bane turned to study her somber expression. "So. In your opinion, what would happen if a few of these monsters broke free entirely?"
"I think the real world as we know it would fall apart," Grace Cornish said. "Nothing would make sense. You couldn't even rely on cause and effect. From our viewpoint, there would be a few minutes of incredible horror and confusion before we all died."
On an almost deserted East 4th Street by Avenue A, they pulled into an empty spot and Bane turned off the motor. "This is what I find hard to understand. Why would anyone want this to happen? Why does the cult work so hard to free the Sulla Chun if it means they will go crazy and die along with everyone else? I don't get it."
"Ah, Jeremy. I don't think it could ever make sense to you. From what I know about you, you're a survivor. You've had a tough life and all your instincts are to fight back and hang on. But the members of Those Who Remember hate the world. They think we have screwed everything up beyond repair and that the human race is scum that deserves to be wiped out." Grace unbuckled her seat belt and picked up her handbag, then paused with one hand on the handle of her door. "That doesn't fit with the way you view life, does it?"
"Not at all," Bane admitted. "How do you feel about it?"
"Oh, I don't agree with nihilism at all. My sister just had twin girls. Preemies. They are so tiny and precious that I almost cry when I look at pictures of them. They deserve a chance at life. We all do." She opened the door and said, "Let's have a look."
They stepped out onto a sidewalk empty of passers-by. Traffic was almost non-existent that night. It was cold and damp, just after midnight, and nothing was open in this neighborhood. Grace Cornish pointed to an ancient, two-story red brick building at the corner and said, "There's where my research leads me."
They walked down the block and stood before the structure. It had two wrought iron lamps on either side of the door, burning dim 40 watt bulbs. A brass plaque next to the door read FINAL SUNSET POETRY CIRCLE - MEMBERS ONLY. All of the windows were dark. Bane scrutinized the building as if expecting to be attacked at any second, "What's with the poetry angle? Just a cover story for the cult?"
"To some extent," Grace answered. She was staring at the front door as if offended by its very existence. "Those Who Remember was founded just after WW I by a notorious Decadent poet named Jean-Georges Bouchard. His experiences during the war seem to have left him incredibly disillusioned."
"A poet..? Have you read his stuff?"
"Oh yes. Unpleasant, to say the least. On the surface, it's all about romances turning cold and people having affairs but if you read between the lines, his poetry is horrifying. It's really about wiping the Earth clean of people and starting over. 'After the Storm' is the clearest example. Bouchard's poems were popular in the 1920s and he used his fame to help establish Those Who Remember."
The Dire Wolf unclipped a small electronic device from his belt, took some readings on it and turned a dial. There was a humming sound from the Link, and he seemed satisfied. "Okay. Burglar alarms are off for the next hour or so."
"What? You did that with your smartphone? How?"
"I can't explain, sorry." He took what looked like a metal pen from an inner pocket and pressed it to the keyhole. Grace Cornish couldn't see what the Trom device was doing, but thin filaments extended into the lock, reshaped themselves and rotated. As Bane withdrew the device, he opened the front door as if it had not been locked in the first place.
The Dire Wolf noticed she placed her hand behind her, under her jacket for a second. She was adjusting her gun in its holster to make sure it was ready. He felt the same way. He couldn't say why, but he was suddenly apprehensive and alert as if he had caught sight of someone watching from concealment. "When we get inside, stay as quiet as you can for the first minute," he said. They stepped into darkness and closed the door behind them.
V.
Standing in the murk, the Dire Wolf slowed his breathing and after thirty seconds, his enhanced hearing kicked in. This was one of the first Tel Shai techniques he had mastered. Finally, he took Grace by the sleeve and whispered, "We can talk in low tones. There's no one on this floor."
"How do you know that?" she asked, "and don't just say you can't explain."
"It's an ability I've been taught. I don't really understand how it works myself. The bad news is that something is going on beneath us. Concentrate on your feet for a minute."
Grace was silent, then took a breath. "Yes. It feels like something big moving. Like when a subway train goes by?"
Bane took a pencil flashlight from his jacket and narrowed its beam to a brilliant white thread which he played around the area. They were standing in a vestibule with a bench and hooks on the wall for coats. A large bronze plaque read FINAL SUNSET POETRY CIRCLE and beneath that, DEDICATED TO THE WORKS OF JEAN-GEORGES BOUCHARD AND HIS FOLLOWERS. It was decorated with a bas-relief of a broken rose in snow. There was no door blocking the entry way.
"Jeremy, I'm not much for hunches but I have a strange apprehension about this place," the Mandate agent said. "I feel like I'm about to put my foot into a beartrap or something."
"I feel it, too." Bane reached into the collar of his turtleneck and tugged out a tiny golden wheel on a fine-linked chain. "Here. Do me a favor and put this on."
She examined it in the dim backlight from his flash. "I don't get it. It's a wheel."
"It's a talisman crafted and ensorcelled by the Eldarin themselves," he said in a whisper. "Powerful protection. Please, just humor me on this."
She dropped the chain over her head and tucked the talisman inside her blouse. "It sounds crazy but I do feel relieved. Well, probably just auto-suggestion."
Bane examined the hall where they stood. There was a cabinet next to them that held crystal goblets and fine china, with a potted plant sitting on the top. Further down the hall were two wide oaken doors side by side, separated by a shelf holding an old-fashioned rotary phone. In two niches were waist high stands holding statuary. The hall itself ended in a pair of swinging doors that had oval windows in them. He handed the flashlight to Grace, saying, "Here, I have a spare." Then he slid one of his daggers from its sheath beneath his sleeve and held it up.
The narrow blade shone as if reflecting a spotlight, bright enough to cast shadows. Bane regarded the dagger somberly.
"Well, that's a neat trick," Grace said. "How's that done?"
The Dire Wolf returned his weapon to its sheath. "The blades are ensalir... silver blessed by the Eldarin. Not only are they shining, they're hot to the touch right now. Grace, we are in real danger. Do you want to call for back-up?"
"I'm tempted," she admitted as she ran the flashlight up and down the empty hallway. The light reflected off the lenses of her glasses. "But that's not the way to get promotions. I want my own office within the next two years. Okay, Jeremy, let me point out something I just spotted." She took a few brisk steps down the corridor and stopped in front of a wall niche. Here was a dark wood pedestal that stood chest high, and on it was a black metal sculpture of a rearing horse.
"Remember what Kachigan said?" she asked. "All he could manage to get out were the words 'iron horse?'"
Peering closely, Bane saw that the sculpture represented an animal that had been starved. Every rib showed, the backbone was a sharp ridge. As a small as that statue was, he could see that the horse's eyes were depicted as rolled up in panic and its mouth was wide open. "Not a pleasant piece of art," he said.
"About what I'd expect from fans of Bouchard." Grace Cornish gingerly touched the statue and tried turning it on its stand. It didn't move. Only when she twisted the horse's head to one side was there a click and a panel slid open in the wall next to them. She glanced over at Bane and said, "Looks like Neil managed to give us a pointer."
Behind the panel were steep concrete steps leading down. On the wall above those steps was a brass plaque with an abstract relief of an oval with a red stone in its center. "That eye..." she began.
"Yes," Bane whispered. "It's what Kachigan was recreating with the internal organs of his victims. And so were the other two men who encountered Those Who Remember." With the last word, the Dire Wolf abruptly lunged into the opening behind the panel and swung back, pulling a big man with him. The cultist was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Bane yanked him up entirely off his feet and drove a hooking punch into the pit of the man's stomach. All the air left the cult member's lungs at that blow and he doubled up. As he dropped to his knees, Bane smashed an elbow down to the back of the man's neck. That ended the one-sided struggle.
Lowering the cultist to the floor, the Dire Wolf patted through the man's clothing and brought out a knife with a wavy seven-inch blade. He found no other weapons. The guard of Those Who Remember had a shaggy black beard and long hair, with a prominent nose in a wide face.
"I didn't hear him coming up the stairs," Grace said with remarkable calm after witnessing that flurry of violence.
"Neither did I. It was his shadow that gave me a split-second warning." Bane hauled the limp body back into the opening behind the wall panel and sat him up against the wall. He checked the man's pulse. "He'll be out for a while. Actually, he could use some medical attention or he might not recover at all. I didn't pull my blows much."
Putting away the pencil flashlight, Grace Cornish reached behind her and drew out her Glock 19, clicking its safety to off and holding it with both hands. "My skin is crawling," she said. "I feel as if someone is breathing on the back of my neck. I'm not usually one for nerves."
Bane made no comment. A faint reddish light was coming from the stairwell. He nodded at her and began moving silently down the steps. Grace tapped her glasses back up higher on her nose, resumed her grip on her sidearm and followed.
VI.
As they descended, the air felt increasingly oppressive. It had the heavy leaden sensation of the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. There was a landing before the final dozen steps which opened to a doorway through which the sullen red light was coming.
Putting his mouth next to Grace's ear, Bane whispered, "Close your eyes and cover your ears." As she complied with some bewilderment, tucking her gun under one elbow, she heard a sharp detonation that echoed louder than thunder in the underground space. Even through her eyelids, blazing white light flashed.
It only took her a few seconds to recover, as she realized Bane must have used some sort of flash-bang device. She shook her head, got a good grip on her weapon and came down the steps into a huge high-ceiling chamber with rough stone walls. Her ears were ringing and spots swam before her eyes but she could function well enough to take in the scene.
Five men and one woman were sprawled in various positions on the bare rock floor, some trying dazedly to get to their hands and knees. They were wearing dark red smocks over their clothing. Bane was moving quickly among them to seize the wavy-bladed daggers each seemed to carry. He threw the knives in the opposite corner of the chamber. As one of the cultists managed to get up, blinking and moving his head side to side in dazed confusion, Bane roughly shoved him back down to the floor again.
While the Dire Wolf was doing this, Grace Cornish glanced around and her heart missed a beat. In the unfinished rock wall in front of her, a bulge protruded big enough for a person to be curled up within. Unsettlingly, the solid rock of that bulge was moving somehhow. She experienced a vivid and horrifying image of a parasite wiggling under a person's skin at the sight.
Bane had disarmed the cult members and dragged them into a loose unresisting cluster. They were all middle-aged or older, not much threat physically to him or to Grace without their knives, but he still glared at them suspiciously. Then he looked up and saw the bulge in the wall that Grace was staring at.
"Well," he growled, "Looks like we're not a moment too soon."
"Is that one of them? Is that a Sulla Chun?"
"No, not nearly big enough," Bane said. "They're the size of a mountain. But I think it is the beginning of one trying to enter our world. That's like the bare fingertip poking at the barriers." He turned his attention to the five dazed cultists. One of the men had a bloody nose and they all seemed hopelesly confused from the combination of blinding light and thunderous concussion. Their age worked against them recovering as well.
Grace Cornish was still holding her pistol with both hands, and now she lowered it to point at a spot in front of her where no one was in line of fire. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes were alert. "So. Listen, Jeremy, you said you saw one of these creatures before and there was a way to make it settle down? We could sure use that trick now."
The Dire Wolf hesitated before answering. "One of the cult members offered himself as a sacrifice. Guy named Jesse Redbone. The Sulla Chun seemed to accept his life as an offering and became quiet again. That was the incident in New Mexico you heard about."
She made a scoffing noise. "I don't have much hope we can talk one of these geezers into doing the same. So what's the plan? Damn, I keep seeing shadows rush past me but I know there's nothing there."
"It's the presence of that monster affecting us," Bane said. "I'm starting to hallucinate a little, too. Everything seems so far away. The walls are wavering. I'm trying to fight it." He suddenly swiveled around and crouched, then relaxed. "I could have sworn something furry was running at me..."
From the base of the steps, not ten feet from where they stood, a slim dark-haired man in formal evening dress was aiming a double-barreled sawed-down shotgun at Grace Cornish's head. "But I am quite real, young lady. Slide your gun to the other side of the sacred chamber. Gently. That's it."
Bane froze into position. His grey eyes locked on the newcomer with the deadly concentration of a predator watching prey but he held still.
"Oh, the servants of the Old Ones know about you, Dire Wolf," said the man with the shotgun. "You are known to wear excellent armor under your clothing but the same is not true of this lass. At this range, a double dose of 12 gauge would leave her difficult to identify."
Grace gaped and, despite the situation, took a step closer to the man. "You look just like the photo on the dust jackets. But it can't be you...."
"Ah, the truth is quite surprising," answered the man. "But yes, I am indeed the inimitable Jean-Georges Bouchard."
VII.
"You'd be over a hundred years old," said Grace. "Come on. You have to be his grandson or someone who just looks like him."
Bouchard smirked. With his slicked-back hair, pointed mustache and goatee, he had no trouble looking supercilious. "Ah, how little you know. Being near my masters has extended my usefulness to them. I hung bleeding on barbed wire in No-Man's-Land for two days and two nights. I saw Western civilization lose all its values in the Great War. No one had anything to believe in anymore. We were just empty husks going through the motions of life."
The Dire Wolf snorted. "Yeah right. So rather than pick yourself up and do something constructive with your talent, you wrote those vile poems and founded Those Who Remember. You started your war on reality which has gotten nowhere in a century. I'm not impressed."
"Bah. Even for an American, you are gauche. You are little more than a blunt instrument yourself, Dire Wolf, striking down those who dare show deeper perception." Bouchard took a few steps to one side, still covering Grace with both shortened barrels of his shotgun, until he was standing next to the shifting bulge in the stone wall. "Soon. Soon. This filthy planet will be scrubbed clean of all life. Maybe in a million years, some microscopic organisms will form again. Maybe they will do better with their second chance than we did."
Bane folded his arms across his chest defiantly, which made Bouchard laugh.
"Oh no, Dire Wolf," said the mad poet. "I know all about the daggers up your sleeves. Forget it. Fast as you are, you cannot stop me from reducing this girl into suet."
"You really believe in the Sulla Chun?" asked Bane. "You'd do anything for them?"
"Absolutely. My life is theirs. My commitment is total." Bouchard smiled smugly, leaning back against the bulge in the rock. "They are my gods now."
Unexpectedly, with a sweet unassuming voice, Grace said, "I have a first edition of your best-known book. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN, Rue Blanc Press, 1922. I've read your poetry, Bouchard."
That caught him unprepared. He did not lower his weapon but he did cock his head to one side. "Did you really? What did you think?"
The Mandate agent leaned forward, lowering her voice confidentially. "I thought... I thought it had style but lacked substance." With that, she lunged two steps forward and jammed the shotgun up under Bouchard's jaw just as he fired. The poet's head splattered in all directions, leaving little attached above the neck. His blood and brains and skull fragments splashed all over the wall behind him.
As the headless body slumped to the floor, the shotgun clattering next to it, Grace Cornish gasped and almost fell herself. She was breathing quick and shallow after the stress of that moment. The wall was now nothing but rough unfinished stone covered with gore. That writhing bulge had subsided entirely.
Bane glanced over at the cult members still lying on the floor. Three of them appeared to be dead, and one was feebly twitching in a futile attempt to rise. Between the concussion grenade, exposure to the Sulla Chun and seeing their revered leader dying in such a gruesome manner, none of them seemed coherently aware of anything anymore. He turned his full attention to Grace Cornish.
"Whew, my hands are shaking," she said. "I don't feel too steady. Am I starting to talk nonsense language?"
"You sound normal to me."
Bane retrieved her sidearm and handed it to her. She put the safety on, then holstered it automatically. The Mandate agent took some deep breaths and said, "I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm okay. Ummm... time to report. Call for a clean-up squad to make this mess all disappear."
"Good idea. I think the Final Sunset Poetry Circle has held its last meeting. Tell me, were you planning on doing that all along?"
"What? No, no, not consciously at least. The second I got the idea, I acted on it. Dear God, if I had not been quick enough, that would be me lying there."'
Jeremy Bane tapped her on a shoulder, about as comforting a gesture as he ever made. "You saved everyone from a Sulla Chun manifestation, Grace. Great work. To be honest, most of the agents the Mandate force on me don't survive the case."
"Ha." She tried for a smile that didn't quite make it. "Glad to be the exception. Well, I bet I'll have real nightmares for a while, if that counts."
7/9/2016
