The doorman held the screen closer to his face and squinted, “Can’t say I’ve seen ‘em.”
Carmichael tried on several expressions before settling with a vaguely distrusting grimace, “I’m sorry, you haven’t seen them, or you’ve seen them, but you can’t say?
Cobb stepped forward quickly, eager to diffuse the tense atmosphere, “Haha, I’m sorry, you’ll have to pardon my colleague. I’m sure you’ll have no objections if we canvas the residents?”
Steely faced, the doorman handed the tablet back to Agent Carmichael, “Go right ahead.” He nodded towards the staircase.
Cobb turned to face the other agents, “Middleton, Clements, Myson, head up to tenth and work down, we’ll work up from ground and meet in the middle.” While the other three agents headed towards the small elevator, Cobb made for the stairwell and began his ascent to the first floor, two stairs at a time.
By the time they’d reached the fourth floor, they had the rap and tap procedure down to a fine art. Cobb knocked at the first door while Carmichael and McMahon moved on. A balding, obese and heavily tattooed man answered the door to Cobb; he clearly wasn’t one of their suspects so Cobb opened with the apology.
“I’m sorry for taking up your time,” He flashed his FBI credentials and continued, holding out a printed copy of the contact sheet with photographs of David and Stephanie Beach, “We are currently trying to locate the people pictured here. Have you seen either of these individuals?”
The man grunted and shook his head. Cobb flashed an insincere smile, “Sorry to bother you. If you do happen to see either of the people pictured here, please call the FBI at this number …” he handed the man a card, “We would urge you not attempt to approach them or alert them in any way. Have a nice day.”
Carmichael had a no show at 412 and moved on past agent McMahon who was struggling in conversation with an elderly Chinese gentleman. Cobb leapfrogged to apartment 414. The door was pulled open in small jerking motions by a boy who could have been no older than four.
“Good morning, is your mommy or daddy home?”
The boy shook his head and pressed his knuckles into bleary eyes.
Cobb heard Daniel Wheatley’s voice in his ear, “What the heck is wrong with people?” He knelt down, “Do you have a babysitter?”
The boy shook his head and his lip quivered as if he was about to cry. Cobb held out his open hand, “It’s okay, don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.” Wheatley’s voice again, “I should call this in to protective services.”
“Do you know where your mommy or daddy are?” Cobb tried again, now eager to curtail Wheatley’s social outrage.
“Daddy’s in bed.” The boy managed, pointing an awkward scrawny arm back towards the depths of the apartment.
Cobb smiled, “Okay, there’s no need to wake him. You have a nice day.” The child’s brow furrowed as his small hand pushed the door shut on Cobb.
West held up his hands to silence the others. He ushered Charlene and David into the bathroom, and motioned for Stanwick to join him in the hallway. Closing the bathroom door gently, he walked a little way down the hall and entered his bedroom, leaving Stanwick on her own.
Stanwick walked quietly back towards the living room and waited.
Footsteps. Knock.
Stanwick walked back down the length of the hallway and opened the door, raising her eyebrows in feigned surprise.
“I’m sorry for taking up your time,”
Stanwick shrugged, “Don’t worry, I have plenty.”
Cobb floundered, distracted by being pulled off-script. He held out his badge, but Stanwick shrugged it off, pointing towards the crisp white lettering emblazoned across the front of his chest, “FBI right?” She took the piece of paper from Cobb’s hand before he was able to launch back into his spiel.
“Aw, she’s cute. What’s she done to get on the FBI shit list?”
Cobb raised his eyebrows as Stanwick looked up at him demurely, “I’m not at liberty to discuss the nature of our investigation mam. Do you recognize either of the people pictured here?” She noticed Cobb’s helmet-mounted tactical Camera and tilted her head, allowing her hair to fall in front of her face, “I’m sorry … I don’t recall seeing them around, I just moved in recently though.”
Cobb reached forward to retrieve the paper from the woman. His hand paused in the air between them, a short click of static sounding off in his ear piece, Daniel Wheatley’s voice, steady but urgent, “Agent Cobb, we have a positive ID on your current mark. Stanwick Thrass … card-carrying member of the GOP. She attended several rallies which Beach would have been present for. I can’t confirm the Beach connection, no record of his attendance at the events, but Undersecretary Carlton was present so it’s a safe assumption that Beach attended.”
Cobb moved closer to Stanwick, tilting his head so that he could see the page. He pointed at the image of David Beach, “How about this man, are you sure you don’t recognize him?”
She held the paper closer to her face, pretending to examine the picture more carefully, “Should I?”
Cobb heard Agent Middleton’s voice in his ear now, “Keep her talking, we’ll be with you in less than a minute.” Cobb was bemused by what he heard. He hadn’t requested backup. Whether or not this woman had ever been in the same room as David Beach, he didn’t think she posed a threat and certainly not such a threat that it would warrant the support of three additional agents.
West’s voice called out from inside the apartment, “Who is it hon?”
“Sweetie, you should get a load of this, it’s only the frickin FBI.”
“Jesus hon, do you think they could gimme a minute, I don’t even got my pants on in here.”
Cobb wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, mopping away a little of the perspiration that had built up under the heat of his helmet, “Actually mam, I’m boiling in this getup, do you mind if I step inside for a glass of water?”
West came into view behind Stanwick, wiping his hands on his pants before leaning towards Cobb, “Good afternoon sir, what can I do you for?”
His rifle held to his chest, Cobb shook West’s still damp and oddly limp hand, craning his neck to try and get a better view of the apartment’s interior.
“You want to come in?” West stepped aside and welcomed agent Cobb into his apartment, pushing the door to behind him.
“There some kind of trouble?” West asked, stepping past Cobb and making his way towards the kitchen.
“No trouble,” Cobb hoped, “we’re just on the look out for these two.” He followed West towards the kitchen and laid the contact sheet down on the counter.
Wheatley again, “Cobb, I’m patching your camera through to everyone now.”
West poured a glass of water and handed it off to the agent as he picked up the sheet of paper. His eyes traced over the photos of Stephanie and David. No trouble. Not anymore. He listened, not to the footsteps in the hallway, or the distant voices of the city, but to Agent Cobb’s breathing, his heartbeat, the movement of his muscles, the particular rumblings of his gut. Even through the ballistic padding, West could hear that Cobb wasn’t one of them.
McMahon’s voice now, “Agent Cobb, proceed with caution. The guy you’re looking at is the same asshole who attacked us yesterday.”
Wheatley came back quickly, “Affirmative McMahon. I’ve got a probable match on West Yestler… I …” she paused, “I’ve got nothing. There’s no rap sheet on this guy, but he’s in the database, so there has to be a reason.”
There was a knock at the front door. Cobb looked over his shoulder, glancing self-consciously at Stanwick. He spoke openly, casting his eyes towards the ceiling, pacing in a confined circle in an attempt to avoid eye contact with his hosts, “Agent Middleton, have you completed your surveillance of the upper floors?” The voice in his ear was abrupt, “Cobb, cut the shit and open the door.” Cobb looked at Stanwick and smiled nervously, “That’s a negative Agent McMahon, I’m nearly done in here. Ca
tch up with you in a minute.” This time, Middleton’s voice in his ear actually sounded vicious, “Agent Cobb, clear for breach in ten …”
Nine, Middleton’s voice continued. Cobb’s eyes flitted about the room nervously, his finger’s crawling over the surface of his weapon, searching for the M4’s safety. He placed the glass of water on the counter behind him, but his hand was met by West’s. With a firm tug, West spun him easily, opening up his stance with his free arm and lifting the rifle in a smooth motion so that the strap slipped off over Cobb’s head. Eight, too quickly the woman closed in on him, sweeping his legs and grabbing him by the chest, throwing him easily over the back of the couch so that his head landed near the large pedestal desk.
Seven, West stood over him, stripping the M4 down, tossing the magazine to the floor, pumping the charging handle rapidly, his hands a blur of motion as, six, he popped the awkward locking pins and threw the stock and barrel to opposite sides of the room.
Five, Cobb lifted his head up off the floor and started to prop himself up on his elbows, but West shook his head knowingly, pointing to the floor, mouthing the word ‘down’.
Four, Cobb watched as the two figures moved out of sight. With his head lowered to the floor, he could see their feet through the gap under the couch, both of them crouching by the wall at the end of the hallway.
Three, he shuffled backward, towards the far corner of the apartment, unholstering his pistol and trying to steady his shaking hands by holding his right arm against the floor.
Two, Middleton’s countdown was all but drowned out by Agent Wheatley’s voice, “Hostiles sited in cover, South East, agent Cobb in cover, South West corner.”
One, Cobb inhaled slowly and aimed down the Glock’s iron-sights, ready to let off a round into the male target’s torso.
“Breach,” Cobb heard the first half of the word, but the rest was lost in the small explosion, the breaching charge blowing the lock and door handle into the apartment.
Agent Middleton peered through the doorway, looking down the length of the hall. With no sight of the hostiles, he nodded to Agent Myson and the two of them moved silently, stepping carefully across the threshold, pressing their backs against opposite walls. Carmichael and McMahon followed, both of them taking the right-hand wall, creeping behind Agent Myson while Clements held back by the door, his rifle primed, the stock tucked comfortably into his shoulder.
Philippa Myson saw it first; a shadow passing through the space at the end of the hall, the light from the windows flickering momentarily. She felt the weight of her fingertip on the trigger, but she hesitated, feeling a cold air pass over her body. The hallway darkened again, but this time it was no fleeting shadow; it took form and rose up beyond the expanse of the room, sharp edges forking down from where the ceiling had been. She tried to inch forward, but ash gray smoke rings reached towards her, roping around her feet and neck, holding her against the wall. She could hear the slow thumping of McMahon and Carmichael’s rifles, the machines grinding laboriously, but she was certain that their bullets made it no further than the black beyond. The floor rose, a billowing charcoal tongue, curling at the edges as it pulled away from the amorphous walls. The darkness swallowed, contracting about them, cancerous serpentine strings of saliva obliterating all visibility and hope.
“What the hell’s going on in there? Why aren’t you moving?”
Myson gasped her relief, holding on to the sanity of Agent Wheatley’s words in her ear. It pained her to open her mouth, her jaw rigid, the muscles of her neck fighting against her own words, “Are… you not… seeing this?”
The voice that answered wasn’t Wheatley. Where there had been shadow and smoke, now a tar-like slurry slapped and gurgled the words, echoing in the cavernous pit that surrounded the agents, “I see all. You offer your hands to the service of a false god. Your tongues pronounce his lies. Lay down your arms and repent, or answer for his blasphemy.”
With immense effort Middleton stepped forward, leaning against the wall, feeling his way with both hands. He could barely make out the forms of the other agents, but he signaled for them to move with him. Myson felt Carmichael’s hands on her back, urging her forward. She willed her legs, pushing her right foot slowly, desperately.
Now the voice came as a chill and thunderous blast of wind, roaring all about them.
“This is the hour of Ahken’s folly; see his Blood-Bastards offer themselves unto my mouth. The first to fall,” deeper the voice pounded, “first to bleed.”
Myson felt the weight of her upper body dragging her to the floor, her legs too weak to support her. She reached out, afraid of what would happen if she didn’t wrench herself through this despair. Suddenly there were hands at her throat, dragging her up from the floor. She lashed out desperately, kicking and punching at the shades that moved about her. Connecting with something, she squeezed instinctively, digging in her fingers, writhing with as much energy as she could muster. When she could do no more, she fell back to the ground, or perhaps the ground rose up to catch her because she could no longer be sure. She could scarcely see her own hands raking at the floor, but there beside her, she caught sight of Agent Carmichael, his empty eyes staring at nothing.
Danielle Wheatley was hesitant to leave the comfort of the van. She’d watched the feed from Clements’ tactical camera as the other agents had stumbled into the apartment like drunks on a merry-go-round; what she had seen hadn’t filled her with confidence. Then she had spoken to Myson, who had started spouting off dire esoteric omens. The situation was not inviting, but she couldn’t call for backup, at least not officially. She considered leaving, which would only be slightly worse than staying in the van. Her options weighed, she climbed through to the rear cab, took a rifle and a sidearm from the lockup, and dragged the heavy door open.
When she reached the apartment, Clements was standing in the doorway, one arm resting nonchalantly against the door-frame, the other holding his rifle steady.
“Clements, I’m on your six.”
Clements didn’t budge an inch. Wheatley tucked in behind him, checking his view from the AR screen in the corner of her visor.
“Has there been any movement?”
She thought she noticed Clement’s head shaking, but he still didn’t move from his position. She nudged him, and his body listed forward, his arm still cocked out to the side like a waxwork high-fiving no one in particular. Wheatley lunged forward and grabbed the back of his jacket, ramming her feet against the sides of the door to stop herself from toppling into the hallway with him. She dragged him back into the corridor, undid his helmet and pulled his visor down towards his neck. His eyes were non responsive.
What had they all seen?
Stanwick listened to the sound of her own breathing, blocking out the cacophony which was engulfing the apartment about her. The chaos was beautiful, but she could drown in it if she allowed herself to swim too long. She clutched West’s hand tightly, feeling his frenzy; he was lost in the same dark mire as the agents, tumbling in dread and delusion, but as much as she wanted to help him, Stanwick couldn’t afford to divide her attentions. She wasn’t even sure how she’d managed to project this nightmare into the apartment in the first place.
A tall man with graying hair, leaned cautiously out of the cover of the hallway, only a couple of feet from where Stanwick crouched. She closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on the space where he stood, cloaking herself in hell and dancing around him.
Wheatley felt the weight of Clement’s body shift in her hand as his feet kicked out against the tile floor. Suddenly his arms were thrashing, fingers reaching out for something of substance, gloved hands slapping the plastered wall to his left. Wheatley still couldn’t see what Clements was reacting so violently to, but whatever it was had roused him from a kind of catatonic trance into a series of savage spasmodic gestural movements. He jerked free of Wheatley’s hand and she watched in dismay as her little canary faltered, flapped and staggered into the fray, falling towards
, then attacking the other agents.
Ducking low, Wheatley exited cover and pushed hard left around the edge of the wall. Her sight blurred immediately, but even as the daylight about her was swallowed, her shoulder connected with something hard and her hands tangled up in loose fabric. Collapsing on whoever had been waiting there for her, she felt fingers pushing up under her helmet, into her hair, grabbing tight; she wondered to what end until she felt her head pulled back, the sharp warmth at her neck, the cloying confusion raveling all that was left of her senses. Wild, sea-green, splashes of foaming white, Danielle glimpsed the eye of the storm that would be her ruination. Giving in a little, breathing in a thrumming bubbling gasp, she stroked her right hand slowly down the length of her body and un-holstered.
With two shots fired, Wheatley couldn’t breathe, the air too thin. Her first thought was that perhaps in her confusion she had shot herself - punctured a lung or something. She felt her body lifted, the weight of her head arching her neck, her right arm lolling towards the floor as the gun slipped her grip, clattering away. Her helmet fell away too, the strap tangling in her tattered hair. She opened her eyes as best she could, watching the topsy-turvy room swaying to and fro, and as her head tilted further she felt her airways closing completely. A limp and useless rag-doll, she was tossed amongst the other bodies in the middle of the room, her face barely an inch from Carmichael’s. She opened her mouth, tried to breath in, and failing that, tried to breath out. Carmichael’s upside-down face, suddenly flecked with her blood, now stirred into motion, his eyelids twitching and his lips twisting in disgust. He squinted, getting a fix on the wreckage that had just landed in front of him.
Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Page 27