BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  "Low turnout," said Lucy. "Usually have more shoppers on Thursdays."

  A man on stilts stepped carefully among the costumed menagerie, to a lamppost with a fading light. On his back he wore a box wrapped in canvas, green light leaking through. Balancing expertly above the heads of the crowd, he reached behind his back to procure a spider the size of his fist. The spider emanated a swampish glow, legs waving. The lamplighter removed a dull spider from the lamp, and replaced it with the fresh one. The glass on the lamps wasn't blurry, but full of spiderwebs.

  "Is this some kind of festival?" he asked. He'd seen LARPers in the park, dressed as knights and wizards and elves, pretending to kill each other with swords and fake magic. Maybe this was some kind of underground, LARPer Comicon.

  Lucy stopped, politely waiting for Everard to gain his composure. "No, Independence Day was several weeks ago, and the Mormons did their Pioneer Parade last Wednesday, but there's no festivals today, just folks doing their shopping. Or were you thinking of the Folkmeister Music Festival? That's not until the third. My sister will be playing 'Lovers of the Great Recession' on her bladder fiddle. Took me weeks to find a proper cymbal that would fit atop it and harmonize with her bent."

  Everard translated her rambling. No, it's not a festival. "Then why are all these people down here?" He'd never heard of any kind of farmer's market under the Mall. He'd never heard of anything down here, especially nothing upside-down. Those weren't really roots. They couldn't be.

  "Have you been cooped up inside so long you've gone daffy? I should say it doesn't matter who you are - everyone needs some fresh air now and then." Lucy counted on her fingers. "It's been about eight years since the Mall really picked up in business. The first brick-and-mortar shop that went up infuriated the Burgesses - well, Mr President anyways - but after that there was no stopping it. We all come here to listen to those who think they're in charge, might as well pick up the essentials while we're at it."

  "Who is 'we'?" Everard waved his open hand, indicating the crowd.

  "All the Periphery denizens. Who else would I be talking about?"

  "What's the Periphery?"

  Lucy's jaw went stiff. "You're not trying to reorient yourself. You're just mocking me."

  "I'm not!" insisted Everard. "I don't know who these people are. I've never been here before!"

  "I'm not ignorant to the cruel tricks you play." Lucy yanked her bag back onto her shoulder. "I've had enough. Go find someone else to humiliate."

  Lucy walked into the crowd.

  "Wait!" called Everard, picking up George and hurrying after her.

  His boots schlocked in mud, body odor mixed with cooking spices assaulted his nostrils, people jostled him to and fro. Everyone packed in tighter than he'd thought. He peered around, taller than most, but not all. A flash of red dress deeper into the crowd. He followed.

  "Pardon me young man," said a frail elderly woman, inching through the crowd with a walker, "could you spare a dollar?"

  She wore Ray Ban sunglasses below wispy white hair and above wrinkled, leathery cheeks.

  "Sorry, I don't carry cash," said Everard.

  The woman removed her sunglasses, left the walker, and walked away, saying to an appeared accomplice, "I told you he wouldn't go for it."

  At least, Everard had thought he'd seen white hair and wrinkled skin. Now it was a girl his age.

  He tried to get a better look, and bumped into someone.

  "Excuse you," spat a middle-aged woman adorned like a teen pop star. Her younger, similarly dressed entourage smacked their lips and sneered.

  "So sorry," he pushed on, hoping he could still catch up to Lucy.

  He stopped. Lucy already told him where he could find the Burgesses - in the square with Inc.

  He didn't need Lucy's help any more than he needed anyone else's.

  Except to ask for directions.

  A four-hundred pound man in a "Han Shot First" t-shirt waddled by, licking an ice cream cone.

  "Hey, could you tell me where the square is?"

  The overweight man lumbered to a stop. Chocolate ice cream dripped on his shirt. He looked Everard up and down, probably trying to decide if he recognized him. With a stubby finger, he pointed in the direction Lucy had disappeared.

  "Thanks."

  See, that was exactly the sort of person you'd expect to see at this sort of ComicCon, renaissance fair type of event. "This isn't as weird as it seems," he told George. "Don't worry."

  The crowd thinned slightly as Everard continued. He still had to maneuver around people, but now he had a better view of everything. There were more buildings and fewer stalls. The stalls that remained displayed shinier wares, organized more neatly.

  A boy shouted next to a stack of newspapers. "Inc Takes Down the Face With No Name! Shadows still dangerous! Read about it here, or download our free app!"

  Next to the newspapers was an unmanned stand with a simple sign reading, "Attention Watchers: Protect your country. Competitive salaries. Take a form." The box for the forms contained instead ash and burnt paper.

  Neon words blinked above the entrance to a brick building, "Batteries Recharged."

  A surprisingly solid-looking shop built from welded-together scrap, with a sign made from bolts drilled into sheet metal, offered "Unmachining."

  Questions brewed in Everard's mind. How much would building all this cost? Why had he never seen it advertised? What organization would lay down the cash to build all this, and then not even publicize it?

  He had enough Facebook friends into anime and superheroes and Harry Potter that he figured at least one of them would have posted something about this... event. What was it even called? You'd think there'd be a big welcoming banner.

  Everard walked too close to one of the stalls.

  "Good evening, sir!" called a bearded man wearing a heavy apron. "You look like a man who enjoys proper cuisine."

  His counter displayed some kind of thumb-sized rubber socks, like condoms for unfortunately endowed men.

  "Just slip one of my patented Taste Shields over your tongue," he demonstrated, "and eben da driest hamburger will taste dibine!"

  "Uh, no thanks," said Everard, not slowing.

  "They'll last foreber!" he removed the patented Taste Shield. "Blessed only by the most experienced hagiomagi."

  Everard kept on, trying to figure out what a hagiomagi was. "Hagio" had something to do with religion, but that's all he knew.

  He found his attention drawn to the spaces between the haphazardly placed buildings. The spider lamps illuminated a long stretch of the cavern, but the short alleyways quickly fell into darkness. How far back did the cavern go? The edges of the shadow flickered, despite the emerald spiders' glow.

  A recorded female voice interrupted, emanating from some invisible speaker, "This is a public service announcement. Remember to report any uncleaned benting. Responsible benters make a livable reality."

  Everard kept on, and found himself standing over the Reflecting Pool. Or rather, under it. He looked down into the water, and the night sky looked back. Refracted starlight surrounded a shimmering moon, all framing the silhouette of the Washington Monument.

  He suddenly felt lightheaded. That looked real. Crazy what technology could do. It really looked like he was walking around underneath the National Mall, with his feet stuck to the bottom of the ground. He sat down next to the water, George by his side.

  "Where did Bill Bill send us?"

  He picked up a pebble and dropped it into the water, expecting it to land on a submerged screen.

  Instead, it plopped through the water, disappearing as it fell up into the sky.

  So this was a really deep pool, with the image of the monument projectd onto the bottom. He rolled up his sleeve and reached into the water.

  It warmed his skin, like it was only a few feet of water that had been basking in the August sun all day, not like it was a deep, underground pool.

  If the image was a projection, he should se
e it on his arm; but his arm blocked the view.

  "Hey," an authoritative voice rose above the buzz of the crowd. "Stop that."

  Everard ignored it. He reached deeper, feeling for a screen, and his fingers broke the surface below. He felt humid wind on his hand, even while he looked at his sleeve submerged in water. He jerked his arm out.

  "What are you doing?" An older voice, two men behind him.

  He didn't care. He scrambled for an explanation to a pool without a top or bottom, water suspended in midair, between the surface and this inverted marketplace, if Lucy was right.

  Still ignoring the approaching men, Everard stomped on the ground. Could he break through? Would he just fall into the sky?

  A gentle, firm hand gripped his shoulder. "Easy there."

  Everard grabbed the wrist and yanked the man past him, sticking out his leg.

  Panic bursting through his body now, Everard turned to run.

  And found himself staring down the barrel of a bayoneted rifle, the point millimeters from his chin.

  "Back up!" it's owner yelled, a young kid with a tricornered hat.

  "Get that out of my face," growled Everard.

  He took in what was happening. This wasn't a rifle, it was a musket. And behind it was a bulky teenager decked out like a Revolutionary War reenactor. He wore a blue coat with red lapels, over white pants and boots. Blond hair peeked out from under his hat.

  The man he tripped was older - with gray hair in a ponytail - but dressed the same. He brushed off his muddy white pants and picked up his musket.

  "What the hell are you?" Everard thought out loud.

  "Nick," said the older soldier, "lower the gun. He's harmless."

  Everard considered punching that calm old face just to show how harmless he was.

  "He attacked you," said Nick.

  The point of the bayonet pressed into Everard's chin. He didn't flinch.

  "He panicked. Look at him. Doesn't have a clue where he is." He pushed Nick's musket down by the barrel, then stuck out a hand to Everard. "I'm General Timothy Logan of the Continental Regulars. This is my son, Private Nick Logan."

  Everard ignored the offered handshake.

  "Have you been drinking?" Timothy sounded like a cop. Maybe these guys were the security down here.

  "No."

  "Do you need an escort back out of the nook?"

  "Nook?"

  "This part of the Periphery," said Nick. "You were right, he doesn't know where he is. How'd he get down here, then?"

  Timothy put his musket's butt on the ground to lean on the barrel. "How did you end up down here? You shouldn't have been able to find the stairs without looking for them."

  "Unless he came through another nook," said Nick.

  "That doesn't seem likely." Timothy scratched the gray stubble on his cheek. "You forget how to talk, son?"

  Everard shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "Yes, I came up the stairs. Down the stairs. I don't know, it was weird."

  Nick laughed, the sound of a high school bully. "That's the staircase."

  "How'd you find it?" asked Timothy.

  "Uh, business card with an address. I was looking for something else."

  "Who gave it to you?"

  "My neighbor."

  "Who's your neighbor?"

  Everard's frustration with authority pushed away his disorientation. "What's it to you?"

  "Just a question," said Timothy.

  "Why'd you come down here?" asked Nick.

  "I took a wrong turn. Is that a crime?"

  "No," said Timothy.

  "But using unauthorized doorways is," said Nick. "Why were you trying to pass through the Reflecting Pool? That's for the view only."

  "Be quiet for a second," said Timothy. "First of all, that's not illegal, it's discouraged. Don't suggest there's written laws you're enforcing. Secondly," he turned to Everard, "who are you, and why are you down here? I think we started off on the wrong foot, but we're here to help."

  Everard picked up George's carrier. "I told you. Wrong turn. But I'm headed back now. Don't worry about it."

  Maybe if he got out of here for a few minutes, he could clear his head and figure out what was going on.

  "Be careful," said Timothy. "The Face Without a Name is off the street, but the increased frequency of bumps is real."

  Everard kept walking.

  "And there's speculation Undone Duncan has something planned. The Perforated Woman's been a lot more active."

  Everard stopped.

  "Oh, uh, but we're on the lookout for her. Shouldn't be long before we catch her."

  Everard turned around. George shifted in his carrier. "Who?"

  "The Perforated Woman. Undone Duncan's lackey. The brains behind his more... bizarre experiments."

  "Dark hair? Holes in her skin that tend to wander?" Everard wiggled his fingers over his face.

  "You've seen her? Where?"

  "In an office complex off North Capitol. Who is she?"

  "She's dangerous as hell, that's who she is. You see her, you run the other way."

  "Gotcha." Everard didn't want to hear any more. It wasn't something Bill Bill had slipped him. That woman really had holes swarming around her skin. He scratched at his cheek.

  "Now hold on, son. If she's set her sights on you, you've got a tough time on your hands."

  "I'll be fine," said Everard. He had to get away from this insanity. Get back to his truck, and start driving.

  "Call us if you see her again."

  "I don't have your number."

  Nick gave him a look like he was an idiot. "It's 911."

  "Right." Fighting panic, Everard hurried back towards the impossible iron staircase.

  Chapter Five

  Everard pushed through the same bizarre crowd as he headed back, but now they felt more aggressive. He kept his head down.

  Those Revolutionary War freaks knew about the woman who'd attacked him. That meant she was part of whatever the hell the Periphery was. She could be down here.

  He moved toward the center of the street, away from the shadows in the alleyways.

  If he could get back to the staircase, he could get away. Empty his bank accounts and cut town. These guys probably knew about Abby, so he'd have to convince her to disappear for a little while, too. If she would listen to him after seeing all those messages from Liz.

  Oh shit, what if these freaks knew about Liz? She couldn't exactly cut town. And how could he run off without making sure she was safe?

  A vendor hawked his wares with angry shouts, spittle flying out with the sales pitch. His voice snaked through the crowd, right by one ear - "divine which nutrients your body is craving" - and then the other - "and which toxins it desperately needs to flush" - then on to the next prospective customer. Everard didn't bother to look for a hovering speaker this time.

  If it was just some organized crime assholes after him, he could deal with that. Pay them off, whatever. But he couldn't deal with this. A bunch of freaky shit he didn't ever want to see again.

  A woman with frazzled dark hair stood facing away from him. Everard's breath caught and he froze.

  George meowed, shifting his weight in the carrier.

  The woman turned around. It wasn't her.

  A bedraggled young mother pushed a stroller with one hand and yanked along a toddler with another. The little boy glided along the ground like he was wearing those shoes with wheels in the heel, except what kind of wheels could glide so easily over mud?

  The boy swung around toward Everard. He jumped back. George thumped against the side of the cage.

  The lamplighter on stilts still made his rounds, striding to each dull lamppost. He passed over Everard, and a fist-sized spider dropped onto his shoulder. Everard jerked away, knocking the glowing arachnid off his shirt. The lamplighter deftly reached down and snatched it out of the air. "Don't let him bite you," he said with a Boston accent. "Poison control is out of town."

  Everard's heart pounded
, panic pushing out with each pulse, trying to take over. "Stay calm," he whispered to himself. He only needed to get up the stairs.

  A group of teenagers and young twenty-somethings moved surreptitiously through the crowd, eyes down, faces shadowed by hooded sweatshirts. Everard moved to the side of the street, not wanting to get involved in whatever this was. Others noticed the teenagers, and worried murmurs passed through the crowd, which thinned out around him. Everard continued past the commotion.

  Something flashed bright behind him, illuminating the street ahead. He didn't bother turning to look. People screamed, but out of surprise, not fear or pain. A sixties protest song burst across the market, followed by a loud recording of dozens of voices chanting: "Free Ryker! Fuck the NSA!"

  One of the hooded youth sprinted past Everard, cutting around a corner.

  Everard picked up the pace, not wanting to get involved, then slowed down, not wanting anyone to think he was involved.

  He spotted the museum foundation ahead. "Another hundred feet," he assured George.

  They sidestepped a man having a conversation with a parrot who was doing more than just parroting; it was responding to questions and giving it's opinions. The parrot paused midsentence to stare at Everard, feathers ruffling. "You shouldn't be here," it squawked.

  Everard picked up the pace. "You going to start talking, too?" He lifted the carrier to look through the grated door. "Why don't you tell me what Bill Bill wants with me?"

  George stared passively back.

  Everard noticed people staring, but kept on. "Talk already! What's going on?"

  One woman stepped towards him. A blur of movement on her cheek.

  Everard swallowed air and scrambled away. He glanced back to see her waving him off.

  "Drunk asshole," she called.

  The movement was probably just a shadow, but he couldn't be too careful until he got the hell out of Dodge.

  If yelling at George hadn't grabbed the crowd's attention, that freakout did. He lowered his head and hurried on.