by Alex Gordon
Nyssa grimaced as she crumpled the leaves and rubbed them over her skin, her clothes, leaving trails of green stains behind. “This smells horrible.”
“To demons, it smells worse.”
“What are they? Demons. Do they all come from Hell?”
“I think Stef or Peter could answer that question better than I can.” Lauren rubbed the leaves between her palms until they formed a damp, stinky mass, which she distributed among all her pockets. “The one we fought in Gideon had been human once. I guess you could say he went all the way over to the dark side.” She wiped her hands on the seat of her pants, and wondered whether the litter-box stink would ever wash out. “I think the term defines actions and behavior more than the type of being something is. But I’ve never met an official Bible-type demon, though I have heard they exist.” She felt a hard mass pressing against her leg. Stuck a finger in the side pocket of her pants, and hooked out the toy car.
Nyssa hurried over to her. “Where did you get that?”
“At the bottom of the garden. There used to be a pond there.”
Nyssa nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t there long. Dad didn’t like it.” She took hold of the car. “Grandfather gave me this. He liked giving me boy toys because he knew it irritated Mom.” She held it in her cupped hands, like a baby bird. “Can I keep it?”
Wing-it decision the first. Lauren took the car back, squeezed it, felt nothing. It’s empty. All magic spent. “Okay.” She gave it back to Nyssa. “But let me know if it starts acting weird.”
“Like if it gets hot or something?”
“Or if anything comes out of it.”
“Okay.”
They circled the building first, searching for signs of warding or anything else that looked out of place. Lauren rooted through the grasses and weeds with her hands, while Nyssa rummaged a length of broken board and used it to poke around. They worked in opposite directions and met in front of the door.
“Ready to go inside?” Lauren studied the knob before she put her hand on it. “This looks newer.” She gave it a push as she twisted it, expecting to find it locked. But it turned freely and slipped out of her grip as the door opened. The panel swung back before she could stop it, and banged against the inside wall with a sound like a gunshot.
“Smooth move.” Nyssa stepped inside.
“Whatever’s here already knows about us.” Lauren followed her. “Did anything ever happen here that you can recall?” The space felt as dead as the rest of the settlement, the air still and stale.
Nyssa shook her head. “No. It was always just the two of us.” She stopped, then bent low and clapped her hands over her ears. “Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Nothing.” Nyssa straightened. “It’s so quiet.” She headed to the far end of the room and crouched in the corner. “There’s bits of black plastic here. Like someone smashed up something hard.”
Lauren walked along the windowless wall, saw the trails of black on the floor. A few larger pieces, but bits, mostly, along with powder. “I’m seeing the same thing.”
“Is it a ward, too?”
“No. I think it’s just junk that the wind blew in.” Lauren caught sight of something in the shadowed corner. “There’s something here.” Flashes of white as she drew closer. “It’s another bone pile. It looks bigger than the other one.” She held up her hand as Nyssa came closer. “Maybe a larger bird.”
“Who set them? Stef?” Nyssa started to reach for the bones. “I’m going to have to have a talk with her. How do you protect a place if you have to kill things to do it?”
Lauren grabbed the girl’s wrist. “Don’t touch it. Don’t think about it and don’t touch it. It needs to stay in place.” For all the good it’s doing. She maneuvered Nyssa out to the middle of the floor, felt the flex and creak beneath her feet. Stopped, and studied the boards, saw the squarish outline, the slight difference in the color of the wood. “Look down at the floor here. What do you see?”
Nyssa looked where Lauren pointed. She started to shake her head, then stopped, stepped back, and paced back and forth. “No way.”
Lauren dug through her pack. “Did you bring any tools?”
Nyssa patted the pockets of her cutoffs. “No.”
Lauren pulled out a nail file. “This might be enough.” She lay flat on her stomach and sighted along the floor, looking for any deviation from perfectly flat.
“Just jam it in here.” Nyssa pointed to the hair-thin space that ran down the middle of one of the boards.
“If this is what I think it is, there should be a handle somewhere.”
“Maybe it’s operated below the floor—only someone down there can open it.” Nyssa walked to the entry and hunted around the jamb. “Or maybe there’s a hidden panel here.” She probed between boards with her fingers.
“I’ve got it.” Lauren inserted the tip of the file into what looked like a tiny lip obscured by the tongue-and-groove joint, and twisted. A section of the floor whispered upward, the hinges and workings silent despite their age and the rust and grime that coated them.
And in the opening, just visible through the darkness, metal steps, the open-tread type used in factories and fire escapes. Dust dulled the silver surfaces, while spiderwebs that were disturbed when the door opened fluttered like torn flags with the movement of the air.
“Are you kidding me?” Nyssa crept toward the edge of the opening. “Was this always here?”
“No. Your grandfather had it built in the late sixties.” Lauren stuck the file back in her pack, then hunted for a flashlight. “Underground labs, invisible from the air. He must have been worried that someone would find out what he was doing.”
“Did my mother know about this?” For the first time, Nyssa’s voice held a hint of Carmody ice.
Oh hell yes. Lauren forced a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know.”
“But you think she found out stuff from Grandfather.” Nyssa paced around the opening. “I’ll go first.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, but I will.” Nyssa took the flashlight from Lauren and descended the steps.
“I BET THERE’S an elevator in one of the other buildings.” Lauren followed after Nyssa, struggling for balance as the soles of her hiking boots caught on the toothy tread. “No way I’d want to climb down this thing every day in a skirt and high heels.”
“Maybe no women worked here.”
“I saw them. Unless they were limited to aboveground offices off-site, which I confess wouldn’t surprise me given the time period.”
The flight of stairs proved short, reaching down only a single level belowground. Lauren felt hard flooring beneath her feet—the flashlight beam revealed bare concrete, thick rubberized baseboards, a cement block wall painted chalky mint green.
Then a sizzling, popping sound filled the air, and overhead lighting sputtered to life.
“Wow.” Nyssa gaped.
Lauren stared at the lights, and wondered what powered them. A generator, triggered by the door? But what powered a forty-five-year-old generator? Any petroleum-based fuel would have degraded. Batteries would have gone dead. Solar cells were invented in the fifties. But assuming Steven Carmody had opted for such an exotic technology, the arrays of solar plates would still need to be in place outside. There aren’t any. Her heart beat just a little faster. We’re someplace else now. Dorothy and Toto had kissed Kansas goodbye.
Narrow corridors lined with observation windows and solid-looking doors radiated from the area around the staircase like the spokes of a wheel. They seemed to stretch on for hundreds of feet, and ended in darkness.
Nyssa grimaced. “Do you smell something rotten?”
Lauren sniffed. “It smells like the fungus that Sam ate.”
“She put something that stank like this in her mouth?” Nyssa made retching noises, then turned off the flashlight and handed it back to Lauren. “So which way do we go?”
“Let’s see what this sig
n says.” Lauren walked partway down the nearest corridor until she came to a large, old-fashioned black menu board complete with stick-on white letters. “There’s X-Ray. Psychology.” She hesitated. “Interrogation.”
“Was this a hospital?” Nyssa came up behind her and read the sign over her shoulder.
“I’ve never been in a hospital that had an interrogation room.” Lauren scanned the other items on the board, which proved to be numbers separated from proper names with hyphens. Offices. She hunted for any names she recognized. Found only one.
0023—Dr. E. Rickard
Lauren looked down each corridor in turn. The fact of the smell bothered her. Where did it come from? She walked down the corridor toward the first observation window, and trailed her hand along the wall. She pressed her hand to the cold, painted surface but felt nothing.
Then she stood before the window. On the other side was some type of examination room. A chair stood in the middle, a recliner like you’d see in a dental office. But there were restraints on the arms, the footrests. A strap dangled from the curved headrest, and the ends of a seat belt dangled over the sides.
“Once you sit in that chair, you’re in it for good.” She stepped back from the wall. Rubbed her fingers together, then looked down at her hands. Something thick and shiny, like ointment, coated her fingertips. She sniffed it. “Nyssa? Pull a bandanna out of my pack.”
Nyssa dug one out of a side pocket and handed it to her. “What happened?”
“I touched something.” Lauren wiped her fingers, then sniffed them again. “It smells a little like the fungus that Sam ate. Maybe more sweet.”
“I’m sure that makes a difference.” Nyssa stamped her booted feet, the thump echoing along the corridor. “Is it growing down here? Yuck.”
“Don’t make so much noise.”
“You said that whatever’s here already knows we’re here. I want to see it.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Lauren felt around the window. Then she found it. A small patch of jelly-like material the size of a child’s hand, located beneath the lower edge of the window frame. The rest of the wall was clean. A patch of mold? She had never seen colorless mold before. She looked up at the ceiling, which consisted of the same acoustic tile she had seen in classrooms and offices all her life. Darker than usual in places, from dirt or the green kind of mold. She gave her fingers a final wipe, then folded the bandanna so that the mess was on the inside, and tucked it into her pack’s outer pocket. “I’m going to check inside.”
“It’s just a room.” Nyssa put a hand to the glass. “Isn’t it?”
“Wait here. Keep an eye out for anything.” Lauren turned the knob and pushed open the door, then checked the other side. No knob. Anyone who worked in here would have had to depend on an observer to let them out if whoever sat in the chair got loose, became violent. She spotted a wheeled cart set against the wall, pulled it over, and used it to block open the door.
The exam chair looked old and tarnished, the surfaces coated with a thin layer of dust. Lauren brushed off the footrest then pressed her hand to the upholstery. She hoped for leather, but it proved to be vinyl—the chill, grimy surface crackled under the pressure of her touch, but gave up no secrets.
She walked around the room. Opened the drawers of a metal table set against the far wall, found nothing but a roll of ancient gauze, a few paper clips, a scalpel. When she touched the cotton gauze, the air hazed for a few moments, but soon cleared. She stuck it in her pack anyway, along with the scalpel.
She found a trash can next to the table and checked the contents. A crumpled piece of paper, blank but for a line of inked X’s that might have been doodles, or part of an evaluation. Some wadded tissues. A small block of wood, the size and thickness of two fingers.
Lauren picked up the wood and examined it closely. It was light-colored, like birch or white oak, and sanded smooth.
“Are you almost done?” Nyssa pushed the cart out of the way and blocked the door open with her body. “I think I hear something.”
“I thought you wanted to meet it.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Almost done.” Lauren held the wood up to the light, turned it over, angled it one way, then the other. Picked out the depressions that formed semicircles on each side, the telltale scrapes and ridging of tooth marks. Closed her hand around it, pressed her fingertips to the marks, and felt—
—blood in her mouth and stabs like wasps stinging and the fear and so much pain.
Then a scream, which rattled her like the concussive force of an explosion.
Lauren dropped the wood, staggered, fell against the exam chair, and slid down to the floor as the room spun and acid rose in her throat.
Nyssa started toward her, then stopped so she could keep the door from closing. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Lauren pulled herself to her feet. “We need to get out of here.” She picked up the wood block with two fingers and stuffed it in her pack.
“About time.” Nyssa waved Lauren back through the door, then pulled it closed. “What happened to you? I thought you fainted.”
“I almost did.” Lauren felt a strange pressure in her sinuses, the trickle of something out of her nose. Touched it, then stared at her blood-smeared fingers.
“Your nose is bleeding.”
“I know.”
They rounded the corner and headed for the stairway, and stopped.
The stairs had vanished, and someone blocked their way.
“Hello?” The man cocked his head. He wore a lab coat over business clothes and carried a clipboard. Middle-aged or a little older, his face lined and dark hair streaked with gray.
Lauren studied the man. He looks like he did in the photo. And then there was the smell. “Dr. Elliott Rickard?”
“Yes.” Rickard looked down at the name sewn on his pocket, then back at Lauren. “Do I know you?” He looked her up and down. “You are not on my list.” He then directed his attention to Nyssa. “But you are. She’s been waiting for you. You can go to her now.” He looked back at Lauren and frowned. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“She comes with me.” Nyssa took hold of Lauren’s hand. “She’s my friend.”
Rickard shook his head. “She was most adamant. She wants you all to herself.” He took a step toward Lauren and reached out his hand.
“Stay away.” Lauren took out the scalpel.
“Now, Miss—” He studied his clipboard again, and flipped to a different page. “If you could just sign in here and we can start to process—”
“I’m not signing anything.” Lauren waved for Nyssa to stay behind her. “You worked for Steven Carmody. You tested people. Psychological evaluation. Why?”
“Steven?” Rickard’s brow furrowed. “He’s not here.”
“You tested them.” Lauren pulled the wood block out of her pack’s side pocket. “And some of them failed.”
Rickard stared at the block, and something about his eyes changed. They darkened. Clouded. “It’s sad, when they fail.”
Lauren took a step closer, ignored Nyssa’s frantic poking. “Did Heath Jameson fail?”
“Yes.” Rickard nodded. “He needed to be sent back.”
“You let him go?”
“We sent him back. For retraining.”
“He’s not making any sense.” Nyssa whispered into Lauren’s ear. “Can’t we just go?”
Lauren waved her quiet. “Where did you send him?”
Rickard straightened, his eyes clearing as he fixed on something behind Lauren. “You’ll soon see.”
Lauren turned, dreading what she’d find.
Nyssa gasped.
Fernanda Carmody walked down the corridor toward them, big as life and more beautiful than any photograph. She wore the same dress that she had when Lauren had seen her the previous day, a sleeveless rose-tan mini a few shades lighter than her skin. On her feet she wore flat-soled sandals fashioned from spaghetti-thin straps of br
onze leather. Her black waist-length hair hung loose, and any makeup had been applied so skillfully as to be invisible. Frozen in time, she looked more like Nyssa’s older sister than her mother. A face that could launch a thousand ships, or break a man into a thousand pieces.
“Darling.” A mellifluous voice, touched by an accent. “You’ve finally come to me.”
“Mom. Mommy.” Nyssa’s voice shook. “You’re dead.”
Fernanda smiled. “Never.” She held out her hand. “You know I am not. You’ve seen me often enough.”
“I’ve never seen you.”
Fernanda tsked. “Now that’s a lie you know it’s a lie you shouldn’t lie, darling.” The words flowed together in something like a song, hypnotic and soothing.
Oh, you got good. Lauren sensed the woman’s power. It touched her skin like chill air, needling along her fingers and up her arms.
“You understand, don’t you, Lauren? That a girl should be with her mother?” Fernanda shrugged, then gestured toward Nyssa, her hand floating in the air with a ballerina’s grace. “What good has her father done her? What good did your father do you? Fathers are men, after all, and men lie, and when you face them with their lies, they kill you.”
“My father didn’t kill me.” Lauren waited for Fernanda to reply, but the woman—the ghost—the demon—only had eyes for her daughter.
“You see only part of the world, darling. You must come with me to see the rest of it. The best part.”
“She means that you have to die, Nyssa.” Lauren jostled the girl, who seemed transfixed.
Fernanda shot Lauren a hate-filled look, then turned back to her daughter. “Do you remember when I brought you here, darling? All those years ago?” Her voice had taken on an edge that she struggled to control. She spoke more slowly, and forced a smile. “I pulled you in your wagon. We sang songs, and ate chocolate, and spent nights beneath the stars.” She took one step forward, another, slow and collected as a cat on the prowl. “You loved it here, because it was home. You are home now, with all those who love you.”
“Dad loves me, Mom.” Nyssa had pinched the skin of her forearm between two fingers and twisted it white.