The universe will be reflected in mankind.
Then the gateway shall be opened
And the Next Age will pass through
And the Old One will again move among us.”
The man’s voice sounded uncommonly even, almost flat. There was no emotion in it: only stalwart intent.
“I remember that one,” Carl said. Of course the passage held new meaning for him now. He looked around at the dark figures. They all, Paul included, had turned toward the sea. Panic entered his bloodstream.
No, it can’t be. Not yet.
He stared out with the rest of them down the beach, past the white sand, the plodding and gliding seagulls and white crashing froth, to the steadily mounting and breaking waves. The ocean resembled an enormous living creature—swelling, darkening, breathing—so immensely stretched out beneath the night sky that Carl felt nauseous. The air felt charged with electricity; with a solemn, trembling, nerve-racking anticipation.
Then he saw it. Far out, as far away as his vision reached, something dark and pillar-shaped rose from the ocean, erecting itself among the tossing waves. A flesh-like, reptilian column forced upward toward the nighttime clouds. The members of the Order drew their daggers and extended their arms in greeting. Steel gleamed in the infant moonlight.
“Oh no,” Carl said. He willed his legs to move backward, but they ignored him. His heart thrummed a mile a minute. This was too early. Everything was happening way too fast—
The dark pillar erected higher out of the sea, joined by others now, until nearly half a dozen colossal shapes waved in the sky. Thunder and lightning pulsed among the clouds, as some unknown storm commenced to break. Wind tore at the shrubs, bushes, and sand, spinning the seagulls into oblivion and roaring in Carl’s ears.
Whenever lightning stabbed the sky it threw glaring light on the rising pillars, spotlighting them against the black night, illuminating their texture, outline, and form. He froze at the sight of the Old One, its massive tentacle appendages covered in barnacles and seaweed. Something like a single yellow eye appeared, slitted and gazing toward the beach. Huge suction cups opened and closed along the tentacles like the mouths of dying fish.
The members raised their daggers and began to chant, an unwholesome parody of human speech, a single word Carl could not comprehend; varied syllables, each one mounting on the other until they reached a crescendo.
The world filled with sound—thunder, lightning, wind, waves, chanting—alive with motion—sloshing waters, waving daggers, swinging shrubs, rising tentacles—and the one single eye—that god’s eye—blinked with slow, methodic precision from miles and miles away.
What is all this? Am I going to die here?
Then it was too much, overwhelming him. He screamed, shielding his ears, but his cry was drowned in the mighty chants and his useless fingers could not block out the titanic upheaval in the sea, the rumbling within the Earth, or the grotesquely alien sights that relentlessly filled his eyes, refusing him any merciful moment to reestablish his sanity.
The world was truly coming to its end.
The deepest and most primal fear flowed into Carl’s soul. So unbelievably intense that for an instant he forgot who he was, forgot his name and his life, and saw himself as a child, as a little innocent baby lying in his mother’s arms, suckling on her naked breast.
He shrieked and blew spittle from his lips; he snatched out his .38 and fired a single shot toward the heavens.
CRACK!
Everything folded back on itself, collapsing inward like a closing umbrella—the chants, the daggers, tentacles, and the one piercing eye; the wind, waves, even the storm—all of it reverberated backward, rewinding into the stream of time, and then it was all gone, all absent, as though nothing had happened.
As if it had been a delusion.
Only night.
Only silence.
Only breezy calm and slumbering sky.
The Rosicrucians watching him fanned into a crescent. Dark forms with steel daggers returned to their hips, now brandishing pistols of their own and aiming them right at Carl.
Paul emerged again, leveling a heavy chrome Magnum Desert Eagle. The sight of such a weapon weakened Carl’s bladder. Fingers shaking, he lowered his revolver and pointed it toward the curator.
“You… couldn’t even fire a ga-gun like that,” he said.
“Try me,” Paul answered.
Carl’s finger sweated on the trigger. He had the experience of “itchy trigger finger,” when emotion, fear, and panic overrode calm, methodical thought processes in a firefight situation. He’d suffered it when he nabbed Roaring Rolf. But that was a long time ago.
Perhaps he wouldn’t try Paul. Not just yet.
He focused on his breathing, sending calming breaths down into his stomach. But it wasn’t working. All he could see in his mind was the thing rising in the sea, and all the members of the Order lifting their daggers toward the sky. He was shaking like a leaf. Some invisible force seemed to press at him, urging him to act rashly, to shoot, shoot, shoot…
But he resisted. Pulling the trigger now would only get him killed. There were seven guns to his one—including a Desert Eagle not two feet from his face. He needed to get a hold of himself. He had to think.
“Put your piece away,” Paul said.
“No,” Carl replied automatically, wagging his muzzle at the ocean. “What in the hell was that? Tell me what’s going on!”
Paul shook his head. “Oh Carl, must you pretend to be so stupid? You know exactly what is going on. And you know full well what dwells in the Atlantic, just beneath the surface, even as we speak.”
He tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. Paul was right. Carl did know what was going on, only he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d clung to some small hope—that he was wrong, that he was crazy, that it was all a bad dream. Now he just felt scared and confused. He was an old man; he was tired of being afraid.
“Think about it, Carl,” Paul said. “Listen carefully to my words. Several gun barrels are on you at this very moment. If you pull your trigger, you might kill one of us. Rest assured that we’ll certainly kill you. Is that what you want?”
With effort, Carl shook his head.
“Good, because that’s not what we want either.”
After a pause, Carl forced his hand to go down. He took a deep breath and felt like crying. He wanted to give in, wanted it all to be over.
The members of the Golden Rose Croix Order of Oriphiel lowered their weapons. A cold breeze suddenly blew between them, ruffling their silken robes.
“Go home, Carl,” Paul said. “Finish your book. Take care of yourself. Stay away from your friends at the NYPD. Find a publisher, and then unleash your words on the masses.”
Somehow Carl found the strength to nod once. After holstering his revolver he lit a cigarette with still-trembling hands, got in his car, hit the headlights, and drove away. He glanced in his rearview and in the glow of his taillights saw the gathering of the Order growing smaller, smaller, and smaller…
Until they were gone.
***
And the Earth is plunged into unutterable darkness, and the skies are overtaken by vast streaming plumes of pollution. Chemical waste clouds blot out the sunlight and cast an endless shadow over the land. Trees and plants wither in the absence of illumination, shrinking in on themselves so they grow stunted and malformed, while all the seas, lakes, and rivers dry up, leaving only inaccessible subterranean streams. Rocks and mountains swell to encroach upon the forests, jungles, swamps, and grasslands.
The Earth is now desiccated, depleted of its life-sustaining resources. Only the bare minimum remains, allowing just enough support for the surviving human population to subsist, and then only desperately.
The Old One has walked here, stalked from the ocean on legs made of tentacles and slime, has heaved its massive bulk over beach and hills, cities and towns, crushing everything in its wake. Its weaving appendages have devasta
ted the standing buildings and towers of this once grand planet, this home of the great human race, and consigned everything to rot and rubble, cultivating more minerals, stones, and more brittle earth.
Lava erupts and flows from rocky bowels, cooling along the upper surface in dune-like, rock-hard ridges, which have replaced the green and fertile environment and the mighty structures built by the humans, the well-thought-out cities and skillfully designed skyscrapers. Now there is only sand, ash, and bone.
What little animal life endures has adapted to rigidifying conditions—dying in devastating numbers and resulting in mutant species and deformed abominations, wretched creatures that scour the landscape. Insects flourish, the new conditions allowing them to breed exponentially, creating new evolutionary strains, until they are the dominant life form on the planet, usurping the reign of the humans.
Full-scale war was waged against the Old One when it arose from the sea. Yet nothing the humans had created—no degree of nuclear impact or rocket-propelled projectiles or eruptions of fire—not even the nitrous oxide or chemical-based weapons—had any effect on the titan. The Old One rolled its impenetrable bulk across the surface of the Earth for almost three months and then disappeared back into the ocean.
But not everything was taken.
And not everything is lost, nor every nation obliterated. Millions of survivors remain, left to struggle against the new planetary conditions, to try and work to get things back in order and create something from the chaos, to make a new world from the ashes and refuse of their last one. Such is their task, their challenge, these survivors who are scattered and disconnected, and rendered powerless.
They need hope. Something to believe in. Someone to guide them, direct them, give them purpose and direction—unite them under a common cause and a mutual interest.
That someone came to power just months before the Old One heaved itself out of the ocean. He arrived on the political scene very quickly, seemingly from nowhere, and rose through the echelons of power, driven and lifted by the sheer force of his own will and charisma. Anyone who came into contact with him was changed, transformed by his mere presence, swung over to his side, and all who listened to his words were likewise altered.
In no time at all he had thousands of devoted followers. He spoke differently, of new and exciting ideas, of concepts that went against the grain of scientific reality. More than just talk, he was able to demonstrate these new concepts, show the people how they worked, how they changed things and influenced the material world.
Some called him a messiah; others called him a charlatan and rallied against him, but when these opponents either met him in person or considered his words without bias, then they shifted, their whole being moving toward him; at that point he won them over. They would do and believe anything he said, not simply because he’d spoken it, but because he could demonstrate it.
This man campaigned for the United States Presidency in 2013 and won the election. He took up his office soon after and was in power when the Old One appeared and everything changed for the world. But he also survived the Old One’s rampage and was one of the last world leaders to be alive during the following months.
Yet his faith, valor, charisma, and sparkling intellect diminished not. If anything these were enlivened. And when the call came for a leader to lead the lingering and battered remnants of the human race back to glory, he answered the call with gusto. As he said in one of his first speeches following the world’s traumas: “…that at this time, we can expect nothing but darkness, nothing but harrowing trials and tribulations, lying ahead for us. We do not even know what has happened. What was this terrible creature come from the ocean with such wrath, such malice? We may never know. And we may never know whether or not it will return. All we can do is work to pull together, to establish a New World Order, one that can handle the present task given to us.
“And I’m taking it upon myself to inaugurate this Order and lead it to victory. I promise you all that I have new skills and new abilities which defy everything you thought you ever knew, but which alone will enable us to meet the challenges we face: new and radical abilities for a new and radically different world. For instance, I’ll demonstrate and teach every last one of you how to exist without eating physical substance—to imbibe and survive alone on prana, the food of the gods—and how to alchemically change mineral materials into water and hydrating fuel—even how to ignite your own Inner Sun and shine it out into time and space. I assure you we can still live on this planet, but it requires us to elevate our consciousness, to evolve and attain a higher level of being. This requires endurance, courage, power and faith. And so I ask all of you out there tonight, listening to the words I speak: Do you have what it takes?”
***
…Carl snapped awake from his dream and bolted upright on the sofa. He made a sucking sound as his lungs fought for air. He glanced around, recognizing his apartment. He let out a deep sigh and fell back against the cushions. His forehead and hair were soaked with sweat.
In his mind he was still there. The visions burned in the darkness behind his eyes: the ugly, devastated surface of the planet; the raving insect plagues and rocky lava landscapes; the menacing Old One groping over the culmination of human civilization and demolishing it; the endless dead bodies, the survivors huddled away against a harsh new world… yet most of all he remembered the man in the business suit, the one from his dreams, the angel—Oriphiel—stepping to the frontline, eager to lead the remnants of Earth to some higher vision of reality.
He shook his head and shivered. He put his face in his hands.
Jesus, I feel like I’m losing my mind. Lorraine would tell me she told me so. Say she tried to warn me against becoming wrapped up in these cases—especially one as strange as this. Like she did when Roaring Rolf was eating me alive.
He summoned the last of his nerve to open his eyes, but he had to rub them vigorously before he could see anything. He snatched his Camels from the coffee table and lit up, glancing toward his writing desk, where his laptop sat open, the screensaver colorfully whirling, American History and the Occult paused where he’d last left off. It was nearly finished. He only had the conclusion to go.
But he couldn’t begin working just yet. His brain felt too mushy, too filled with things that he didn’t understand. He got up and made some breakfast: a fried egg and an everything bagel. He extinguished his cigarette and sat at the little dining table by the window. Fresh morning sunlight streamed through the glass, gliding above a typical Manhattan scene of traffic, people, and buildings. He turned on the small television set on the counter, enkindling an image of some news broadcast.
He felt so hollow and dead suddenly, so isolated and alone. The muted silence of his home had triggered it. He thought about Denis and Detective Gawain, wondering what they were doing at that moment. Probably pouring over the Adam Francis murder book—again. Still, he wished he were going over it with them.
He thought of Lorraine and felt like crying. He remembered seeing her in the library, how different she’d looked, and that only confused him further. So he quickly dashed her face from his mind as he bit into his bagel.
As he chewed, his eyes finally registered what was on the television. He gagged on his mouthful and then choked, trying hard to swallow. He took a drink of water, relaxing and forcing himself to breathe. But holy shit, there it was, right there on the TV screen. He turned up the volume, craning his head forward.
Castle Heidelberg was on display from a topographical viewpoint, surrounded on all sides by the colorful blur of breaking news banners. It looked as if the camera was positioned inside a helicopter, for the viewpoint slowly oscillated above the old stone structure—which, unbelievably, lay in a pile of rubble and ruin.
The anchorwoman was saying, “…and it’s just a complete tragedy, as you can see, that this was one of Germany’s most treasured national landmarks, and now it’s totally destroyed. The earthquake reportedly occurred early this morni
ng around sunup—that would be sundown back in the United States. Earthquakes in Germany are relatively weak, but they do occur several times a year. However this one registered at nearly five on the Richter scale, and one of that magnitude hasn’t been experienced here in almost two hundred years. The strangest and most tragic part about this is that it seemed to be centered directly in Heidelberg, right beneath their historic castle. The result is that this once mighty structure, which served as the basis for tourism in Heidelberg, has now been destroyed…”
Carl gaped at the screen, speechless. Somewhere he registered the fact that he was in shock but that didn’t reconcile the horror of seeing Castle Heidelberg reduced to mounds of stone. It was sacrilegious in a way.
Palms sweating, he switched to another news channel to see if they were also covering the Heidelberg earthquake. They were—all of them were. It was the story of the day.
Abruptly the newsfeed cut out, the screen blipped and went black, and was replaced by the Great Seal of the United States. Before a backdrop of red curtains, a wood podium appeared supporting a microphone. The Great Seal also clung to the curtains. A line of text at the bottom of the screen said, simply: US Capitol Building, Washington, DC.
“What in the hell is this…” Carl muttered.
But when the man in the business suit, the gaunt pale figure with black eyes, the one from his dreams, stepped up to the podium and made the Holy Mudra with his right hand, then the Sign of the Horns with his left, Carl lost it. He couldn’t help himself. The shock was a tidal wave of fear and confusion and disbelief that welled up from the depths, overtaking him completely. He stood, knocking the chair out from behind him, as he leaned down toward the television.
“Fuck you!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice cracked and he lurched into a fit of violent coughing. He dropped to his knees, hacking up phlegm.
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