It wouldn’t last, of course. The storm was out there, somewhere, eating the worlds.
Costa glanced once to Church before looking again to the rolling hills of the cemetery. As with every floor, there was no indication as to where the portal might be. The clues would come when they came.
But what was most important with these most recent floors was first to put distance between themselves and the oncoming storm front. Costa would have the team strike out straight ahead, directly away from the cemetery gate. She set her sights on a structure that sat on a hilltop several hills distant, little more than a silhouette against the dark purple horizon.
“We could all do with a few hours rest, Sara,” said Church, speaking up at last. “When you feel it safe to do so, of course.”
“Of course, Doctor.” Costa nodded in the direction of the distant structure. “There. That mausoleum or whatever it is.”
“That will do.” It was now Church’s turn to look back behind them. The world remained quiet. “An adequate distance, I should think.”
“That was my thinking.” Costa looked to the rest of the team as she started back toward her pack. “Sorry, people; movin’ out. Up and at ‘em.”
She went over to Ramos, her gear in hand. It looked to Church like she was advising the corporal of her plans, of their route and destination. Ramos was nodding silently as he listened.
Asher slipped into his backpack as he approached Dr. Church.
“A mausoleum,” he said. “I hope this isn’t more of the Adversary’s warped sense of humor.”
“Sir, I believe we are in the very heart of his sense of humor.”
Ramos stepped past them and started downslope into the heart of the cemetery.
“Ya’ comin’?” he asked without looking back, without slowing.
“After you, Doctor,” said Asher.
“No, no Peter… you first.” Church grinned playfully. “I insist.”
Asher gave an exaggerated nod in thank you and followed Ramos. Church and the rest of the team trailed along behind and they started down the hill.
§
The lush green lawn beneath their feet was well-manicured, and the sweet-scented aroma of freshly mown grass hung in the air. There were hundreds of tombstones scattered across the landscape, all shapes and sizes, some quite old, some appearing fairly new; all were cast in an eerie pale glow, the world illuminated by the hazy band of stars that spread across the otherwise empty, inky black sky.
Many of the tombstones were blank. Some had names carved into their faces, nothing extraordinary. There were a few with phrases: ‘beloved wife’, ‘our sweet daughter’, ‘I told you I was sick’. When there were dates, they were often only years, though occasionally more. None were dated more recent than the nineteen fifties; not even the newer tombstones.
Ramos led the way; quiet, calm and a steady pace. No one was very talkative. There was something about walking a cemetery at night… they didn’t like the quiet, but there was something unsettling about breaking that silence. There were a few hushed comments, an occasional awkward attempt at humor, but for the most part they kept their heads down and walked, one behind the other.
They crested one hilltop, then another. They stopped at each, confirmed their direction, and took in their surroundings. The cemetery continued all the way to the horizon; to all horizons. Behind them, as yet no sign of the impending storm.
Ramos held a protective arm out to one side for those behind him to stop. He continued forward another step.
“Wait here.” He continued forward then.
Costa moved quickly past the others. “Wait here,” she said, echoing Ramos, and she followed after him.
Together they approached a heavy, sarcophagus-like stone. The words ‘Your guess is as good as mine’ were carved on the marble face. Sitting comfortably atop the stone was a very thin, extraordinarily pale man, dressed all in black. He had jet-black hair, a small tuft of beard on a pointed chin, and the short bony nubs of a pair of horns protruding through the pasty skin of his forehead.
Asher and Church stepped up beside Costa. Lisa and Susan weren’t far behind. Church took a moment to study the smiling face of the strange being looking down at them.
“Our friend the Acolyte,” he stated calmly, to no one in particular.
Costa frowned at Church, glanced quickly at the others and then again to Church. “I thought I asked you to wait.”
“Oh, I believe we are well beyond that sort of thing, Sara. Don’t you?”
“I do now,” she grumbled. She focused her attention fully to the being sitting on the stone.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
The Acolyte lifted his hands before him, rolled his long, bony fingers, and then slowly, delicately pointed a yellowed, claw-like fingernail randomly at one person and another, “eenie, meenie, miney, and… mo,” stopping decisively at Susan. Those who were nearest her quickly closed ranks to stand between her and the Acolyte.
The demon chuckled happily. “Oh, dear, dear, my dear comrades. My fellow travelers. I joke with you. Yes I do. Most certainly.”
“We are not amused,” Church said frostily.
“Not even a little bit,” said Costa. She repeated then, “What do you want?”
The Acolyte responded lightly, “Sergeant, my sergeant, I drop in only to say hello. I wish to see how you are doing.”
“Hello,” she responded dryly. “We’re doing fine. Kinda’ busy. Maybe we’ll talk later.”
“No.” The Acolyte hopped down from the stone. There was a dramatic change in his tone and manner. “We talk now.”
“All right,” said Costa. The Acolyte’s sudden personality shift had taken her by surprise.
“But really, do make it fast,” said Asher. “We are in rather a hurry.” He gave a gesture to the scene behind them. The storm front had arrived. A great wall of gray nothing was just now pushing onto the floor.
“Yes,” said the Acolyte. “Yes, the storms, as you call them. The very matter to which I will speak.”
“I thought you just dropped in to say hello,” said Ramos.
The Acolyte kept his attention on Sgt. Costa. “My master, the Creator of All Things, would acknowledge his distress as regards the phenomenon.”
“I’m sorry,” said Costa. “Perhaps I’m just thick-headed, but I don’t get it.”
“Apologies,” the Acolyte said with a slight bow of the head. He continued. “The existence of the… storms… was not intended. The Creator of All Things is attending to the issue.”
“You mean make them stop? That would be appreciated.”
“Yes. He will make them stop.”
“Great,” said Ramos. “He should get about doing that.”
The Acolyte continued to speak to Costa. “The Creator of All Things would also recognize your stalwartness, Sergeant Costa; your strength during these unfortunate times.”
“Simple desperation,” stated Costa.
The Acolyte bowed his head again and offered another thin smile.
“The Creator of All Things would know otherwise,” he said gently. He slowly then, very slowly, faded to a thick mist, the last wisps drifting on the hint of a breeze.
“Well. That was interesting,” Asher said thoughtfully.
“Quite,” said Church.
“How so, Doctor?” asked Ramos. “They screwed it all up and now we’re the ones paying the price.”
“It means, Corporal Ramos, that our host is not infallible.”
Episode Nine / Chapter Three
Carmody was leaning back in one of the chairs near the radio station, her clasped hands resting on her belly, her thumbs tapping together in rhythmic boredom. She looked over at Dr. Banister, over at the table looking through the same paperwork for the thousandth time.
What could possibly be so fascinating?
She spun slowly about in her chair.
They were pulling radio monitoring duty while the others were out on the afternoon search runs. The day
was warm, the wind and rain continued to beat down on the metal shell of the Quonset hut with a loud, deep drumming.
Carmody continued to absently spin… around… around…
“Hey, Doc… how about we play some cards?”
Banister set a sheet of paper aside, studied the next. He spoke distractedly, without looking up. “I don’t believe we have playing cards, my dear.”
Carmody held her feet to the floor, stopping the spin. “I could make some.”
“A most worthy endeavor,” said Banister, just as distracted.
She sat up straight, leaned forward. “Yes sir. It most certainly is.”
Carmody started to stand, to go in search of materials to make her deck of cards, when something caught her attention. She wasn’t quite sure at first just what it was, but then…
The thrumming noise… the deep drumming of the wind and rain pounding against the Quonset hut… it was fading.
It had been with them for days, beating down on the corrugated metal, creating a hollow bass that was almost physical, pressing in on chest and skull.
Its sudden absence was strangely unsettling.
Carmody and Banister stood in unison, slowly, warily. They walked to the door without saying a word. Hesitating a moment, Banister reached out and turned the knob.
The world outside was wet and ugly gray, but the rain had stopped and the wind was dying down. Blowing debris was slowly settling wherever the last wafts of breeze would take it.
“Oh, my God. Doctor… what is that?” asked Carmody.
There was something on the wall of the tower. At this distance, it was impossible to tell what it was; from here they were discolorations, blemishes…
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Banister. “Let us find out.”
§
Major Connelly, Sgt. Miller and Dr. Lake stood several dozen yards back from the tower, took another step back, and then another, their heads tilted back, as they tried to take in the entire view.
Seven vortices… appearing like open wounds on the wall of the tower; each a spinning, shifting whorl of gleaming, shimmering mist.
Banister and Carmody joined the others.
“What have we here?” asked Banister, conversation more than query.
“I just got here myself, Banister,” said Lake. “Could be tears in the membranes between worlds.”
“Portals,” Banister stated.
“Yes, portals,” said Carmody. “They look like portals.”
She and Banister had seen a few of them up close and personal. To her, these looked a lot like portals.
One of them was set low to the ground, very near the base of the tower. Two others were thirty feet up and a few yards apart. The remaining three were set in the wall well above these.
“You figure that one opens to the first floor?” asked Carmody, indicating the one at ground level.
“It could lead anywhere, my dear,” said Banister.
“Perhaps we should find out,” said Miller. He started forward, took a several steps toward to the portal.
“And if there be no way back?” asked Banister.
Miller moved to within three paces of the vortex and stopped. He looked back at the general, and then to his captain.
Connelly stepped up then and held the sergeant by the arm.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Major?”
“There’s something wrong.” She wore a haunted look. “It’s wrong. It’s… empty. There’s nothing there. Gray. Empty gray…”
“Perhaps they are not portals at all,” suggested Lake. He was still quite partial to the torn membrane theory.
“I believe Doctor Banister is right,” said Connelly. “I believe they are indeed portals. But they were not meant to be. They are… wrong.”
§
The monk-robed Acolyte was waiting for Dr. Owen when she stepped back through the set of double doors following her audience with the Adversary. He said nothing to her at first, simply held out a hand indicating they should walk.
They started down the walkway, the vast emptiness visible beyond the tall columns lining either side.
“I apologize for being unable to stand with you,” he said at last.
“No problem,” answered Owen quietly, nearly absent of emotion.
“It was not an option.”
“I get it,” she mumbled.
They walked in silence for some time. The walkway was as long on the return as it had been on her journey in. Behind them, the great doors were eventually lost beyond the vanishing point on the horizon, ahead the corridor stretched as far as she could see.
“I trust it went well,” the Acolyte said at last.
“It could have gone better.”
“That’s too bad.” He knew just what she was feeling. “Such is the way of it.”
“He can be quite abrupt,” she grumbled.
“Yes, I suppose that is so,” the Acolyte spoke easily now. “But then, there is much demanding his attention just now.”
“I don’t think that was it.”
“You don’t.” The flat comment was an observation more than a question.
“No. I don’t,” she stated.
They continued on for another along while. She thought she heard something then, very briefly; as if a whisper, heard from a distance. She slowed her step. She listened.
It was nothing. She went on.
“He’s a real pompous sort, if you ask me,” she said. “Rather full of himself.”
“Well,” the Acolyte just managed to get out. This was getting uncomfortable. “He is Creator of All Things.” A clear justification, he thought.
“Uh, huh… yeah. About that. I think I’ll stick with ‘Adversary’, all the same to you.”
§
Quinn stood atop the thirty-foot wide pillar, a stone cylindrical tower standing in the dark, rising up from the depths of the void that surrounded him. Several hundred yards distant, he saw a row of columns spanning the black, hanging in empty space like a bridge across the void.
There was some illumination within the columns. It was as though this ethereal bridge was some strange, alien corridor spanning an alien abyss.
Voices then, reaching across the night. Quinn couldn’t make out the words. He took a few cautious steps nearer the edge of the top of the pillar. He listened.
Someone was talking. He took one last step, now just a foot from the edge. He looked up and down the column-lined corridor in the distance.
Movement; two figures walking the corridor. At this distance, it was difficult to know for sure, but Quinn was fairly certain that one of them was Dr. Owen.
He called out to her. His voice sounded muffled, dulled and lifeless. It rolled out a few yards and faded away. He called out once more. There was no sign that she had heard him. She continued along the walkway, moving further and further away.
Quinn watched until he could no longer see them; waited until he could no longer hear Dr. Owen. He stepped back then, backed his way to near the center of the pillar.
He was alone.
§
Church worked his way up the slope to the top of the hill. The mausoleum was a small building, a single room with a wall of individual tombs set opposite the front door that now stood open. The doctor stopped at the foot of the steps and turned about, looked out across the cemetery world. From behind him came the voices of several others of the team inside.
Asher came around from behind the building. Neither had found any signs of the portal during their brief searches.
“We’ll have to move on soon, Peter,” said Church. He was still looking out across the cemetery. The gray wall of the storm took up the entire horizon.
They had been at the mausoleum a little over two hours. By his calculations, Church believed they had less than that amount of time remaining.
“It hasn’t stopped,” noted Asher. “It hasn’t even slowed.”
“It would appear the best efforts of our distraught h
ost are as yet ineffective.”
“I’m still not a hundred percent sure that this isn’t just one more tiresome game the Adversary is playing on us.”
“It may well be, Peter,” said Church. “I certainly do not trust the Acolyte, but in this case I do believe he spoke the truth.”
Asher let out a barely audible hmpth and said nothing.
“You do not believe he spoke the truth?” asked Church.
“It isn’t that,” said Asher. “I was just thinking… either this is a game that sooner or later we’re going to lose, or we’re in the hands of a being not in control of the universe that he’s created, and this universe is trying to kill us.”
“Ah, Peter,” Church sighed. “You don’t get invited to many parties, do you?”
“I can’t say as I do.”
Susan appeared in the open doorway behind them. She managed to maintain a quiet calm.
“Doctor Church, Peter. We found it.”
“You found it?” asked Church. Curious only, he was not yet ready to voice true enthusiasm.
“The portal. We found it. It’s here.”
“Really?” Asher asked cautiously. He wondered about Susan’s subdued enthusiasm. “That’s great.”
“Um… yeah… you’re probably not going to like it.”
§
They were all crowded into the small room that made up the interior of the mausoleum. Several of the individual tombs set into the far wall had been unsealed and stood open.
Susan casually indicated one of them.
“It’s in there,” she mumbled.
Episode Nine / Chapter Four
Banister was sitting on a bench outside the command center Quonset hut, legs crossed, hands clasped at a knee. The day held a hazy, filtered sunshine and a thin evaporating mist hung just above the pavement.
Banister was looking at the tower across the way. The earlier seven vortices set into the side of the tower had increased in number to twelve. And this was just on what they had taken to calling the front wall of the tower. There were as many on each of the other sides.
He couldn’t help but wonder how many more before the integrity of the tower was compromised; or more accurately whatever it was the tower represented was compromised.
The Black Tower: The Complete Series Page 28