by C. Gockel
Monsters:
I Bring the Fire Part II
Copyright © 2012 C. Gockel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, subject “Attention: Permissions,” at the email address below:
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Other Works & Author's Note
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank my editor, Kay McSpadden. Kay read and reread this story more times than I can count. I also would like to thank Gretchen Almoughraby. Her suggestions helped me clarify situations and make the action more believable. Also indispensable was Laura Stogdill. She consulted on legal aspects of this story. My brother, Thomas, was great as a myth reference, my dad James Merril Evans lent a hand in editing for content, and my mother, Cherryl helped with editing for grammar (I should note, if you see mistakes they are mine and mine alone). All of my readers weren’t afraid to tell me when I screwed up; for that I am eternally grateful. For all their hard work, Kay, Gretchen, Laura, my dad, my mother, and my brother may pop up in the story from time to time. I wish I could reward them more.
And last, but never least, I want to thank everyone who took a chance on “I Bring the Fire: Part I ~ Wolves”. Your reviews, feedback, suggestions for edits and design help made the story (and cover art!) better than I could have ever managed alone.
Thank you.
And now on with the show...
Chapter 1
Steve Rogers sits at his desk in the FBI’s new office for the Chicago Department of Public Liaisons. The small office is on LaSalle Street in Chicago’s downtown, the infamous Loop. It’s just a few blocks south of city hall, and a little up the street from the Chicago Board of Trade. Outside, the downtown traffic is a cacophony of engines, honks, and screeching tires. It’s September, but Chicago is experiencing a sweltering Indian summer. The air conditioning in the ancient building hums away; and it’s still too hot in the room.
With one hand he holds a phone to his ear. In the other hand he holds a photo of a little girl. She’s wearing a neat navy blue school uniform, her large brown eyes are bright, her hair is pulled back in neat black cornrows, and she’s smiling at the camera.
Steve’s own skin is very dark. He and his folks are from rural Alabama. The little girl’s skin is cafe au lait like her mother’s. Her name is Claire, she’s Steve’s daughter, and she’s 8 years old today.
The phone rings once, twice, and three times. Steve closes his eyes, is about to hang up, but then it’s answered.
“You missed her. She just stepped out with her grandmother. They’re going to go pick up some balloons.” The woman’s voice on the other line sounds tired and irritated — as usual. She says it’s all the anger and irritation she stored up during the eight years of their marriage.
“Awwww...Dana,” Steve says to his ex-wife. “Can you go get them? I just want to wish her a happy birthday.”
“They’re gone, Steve,” Dana says. “Why don’t you call after the party, before we go out to dinner with my folks, around 3 pm?”
Turning to his computer, Steve pulls up his calendar, “I have a meeting at 3 today —”
“Busy saving the world,” says Dana in a bored voice.
“It’s with the mayor,” Steve says. Old habits kick in and he goes on the defensive. “I’m actually meeting with the heads of the agencies the city set up after 9/11 to deal with terrorism. I think we’ll finally start coordinating.”
The FBI’s main Chicago office is out west a few miles. The whole reason they opened this satellite branch was so that the Bureau could start leveraging local assets, and to do that they needed agents greasing city hall’s wheels. Steve’s only been here a few months, but he’s managed to charm the mayor and is on a first name basis with most of the aldermen.
Pride creeps into his voice.
He should know better.
“Glad the marriage to your job is still going well. Three o’clock and that’s it,” says Dana. “Look, I have to go, there’s a delivery.”
The line goes dead.
Setting the photo down, Steve leans back in his chair and puts a hand through his short cropped hair. He looks at his computer. It’s 10:03 a.m. He swivels in his chair...maybe he should get a coffee?
An enormous shadow alights in Steve’s window and he jumps up, hand going to the gun at his hip. “What the...”
Steve swallows. The biggest raven he’s ever seen is on the window ledge. Oblivious to Steve, the raven looks down. With a loud “Rawk, rawk,” it plunges.
Steve blinks. He served in Kandahar during his stint in Afghanistan as a United States Marine, but something about that big black bird still makes his heart race. He definitely needs a coffee.
Getting up from his desk, he swings on his suit coat to hide his piece. On the way out of his office he nods at the receptionist and at the other agent in the office, Tonya Fitzpatrick.
Older than Steve’s 38 by about fifteen years, Tonya is half Irish and half Italian, and that goes a long way in this town. She isn’t a natural actor like Steve, though, and that doesn’t go over quite as well. When you’re dealing with politicians you have to have a high tolerance for bullshit. Steve can tolerate and smile.
Right now Tonya’s got her phone pressed to her shoulder and she’s scowling, a long lock of curly gray hair falling over her face. Catching his gaze, she rolls her eyes toward the phone and then holds up a hand for a minute.
As Steve watches, she manages to get off the phone with whomever she’s talking to and jogs over to him. “Talk to your little girl?” she says.
Steve’s stomach sinks and he frowns. When it comes to his divorce and Claire, his acting abilities disappear.
Raising an eyebrow, Tonya says, “Let’s get our coffee.” She opens her mouth, probably to say something encouraging, but Steve doesn’t want to think about his phone call. To change the subject he smiles and says, “You know, you really shouldn’t scowl when you talk on the phone. People can hear it in your voice.”
Tonya narrows her eyes up at him — she’s only 5’ 4” or so and Steve towers over her at nearly 6’ 5”. She maintains her glare and her silence until they reach the ornate but slightly decrepit lobby they share with a bank, a photo shop, and a clothing store. Steve maintains his smile and laughs when her lips quirk up.
They actually get along pretty well together. Steve plays good cop, she plays bad cop. It disorientates people when the large black man is seemingly less formidable than the small Irish-Italian mom-grandmother type.
Together they step out of the building. They take their first breaths of the Chicago heat. Tonya scowls. Steve does, too. Chicago heat is worse than Alabama heat. It’s just as humid, maybe more, the sound of traffic is grating, and Steve’s sure he can taste the pollution on his t
ongue. They’re just about to cross over Jackson to the wide open plaza in front of the Chicago Board of Trade when a loud “Rawk! Rawk!” sounds above the din of traffic.
Next to him Tonya says, “Those are the two biggest crows I’ve ever seen.”
Steve scowls at the sky. Ravens aren’t city birds...and these two are enormous, their feathers so black, they’re nearly blue. “Those aren’t crows, they’re ravens,” he says.
“How do you know?” Tonya asks.
Before he can answer, both of their phones go off. Meeting each other’s gaze, they pick up. “Agent Rogers,” he says, as Tonya says her name nearly in unison.
The voice on the other end is eerily calm. “We have a stray kitten reported in the tunnels beneath the Chicago Board of Trade. Containment teams are on their way. Civilian personnel laying fiber optic lines in the LaSalle tunnel just north of Jackson need to be evacuated. All available agents are requested to assist.”
Stray kitten is codename for suitcase nuke, and it is currently right under the building just a few yards in front of Steve and Tonya.
Their eyes meet and Steve doesn’t have to ask if she received the same call.
“Better to take the entrance to the tunnels in the basement of our building,” says Tonya, and Steve can hear her forcing herself to stay calm.
Turning back the way they came, Steve nods. “Do you think that the local law enforcement has caught wind of this?”
A few blocks up LaSalle Street comes the screech of police sirens. “I think so,” says Tonya.
“I’ll go talk to the fellas repairing the fiber optic line,” says Steve. He smiles broadly. Anyone passing by will think they’re having a normal conversation. Tilting his head towards the cop cars ensnared a few blocks up in the Chicago traffic, he says, “You handle them.”
Tonya nods and Steve darts back in their building. He’s at the far end of the lobby when he hears a woman scream behind him and a loud, “Rawk, rawk!” Turning, he sees the ravens swoop past a cowering woman at the door and then rise to circle the lobby.
Steve’s mouth drops, but he doesn’t have time to deal with it; he heads to the staircase that will lead him to the tunnels. Entering the stairway, he takes the steps down, two at a time. When he reaches the basement level there are two doors. One goes to the basement proper and another leads even further below, to Chicago’s underground tunnel system. The door to the tunnel system is behind several deadbolts, but Steve has keys for emergencies just like this. He’s putting his key into the first lock when he hears a door open and shut above. He freezes. “Tonya?” he calls.
For a moment he swears he hears the flap of wings, the clack of claws on metal, and then there is nothing else but the sound of his own breathing.
Shaking his head, he turns the key and carefully opens the door. A blast of cold air hits him and the door swings wide, banging against the wall. Steve has a strange sensation, like someone just pushed past him. He looks behind. No one. He looks in front of him. He’s alone. There is just a dark, narrow alcove with ancient concrete walls and a fire door with a deadbolt. Beside the fire door is a touchpad for scanning fingerprints and a keypad for entering his personal access code.
Taking a breath, Steve goes forward and forces himself to stay calm. But the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he finds himself shivering. He tells himself it’s the sudden change of temperature. Down here by the tunnels, it’s only about 55 degrees. He swallows. Still...the pressure in the room doesn’t feel right. He feels as though someone is in here with him.
With another deep breath, he touches his thumb to the fingerprint scanner. A green light goes on and he enters his code. There is a sound of two bolts unlocking, and then all that’s left is one more key activated deadbolt.
He has the key in the lock and is almost about to turn it when there is a loud click beneath his fingers, and this door swings wide, too. There is another strong gust of cold air. He feels pressure on his chest and finds himself pressed against the door as though by an invisible hand. Something sweeps by him into the darkness, and just as quickly as it came, the pressure on his chest is gone.
Steve doesn’t panic as a general rule, and he’s not panicked now. Could there be something in the air making him hallucinate? He picks up his cell, says, “Tonya,” and gets the no-service message. He should have expected that, even if he wasn’t at basement level. There is a nuke threat. The FBI is going to block all cell phone signals in a wide radius to keep the baby nuke from being triggered remotely.
Steve looks ahead. There is a dark stairwell with dark crumbling brick walls and stairs that are just bare metal mesh. The stairs lead down to the tunnel level. Steve goes forward and down, the metal mesh ringing under his feet.
The tunnels were built in Chicago in 1903. They were originally designed for laying telephone lines but by 1914 were being used to haul coal and freight to downtown office buildings along miles of crisscrossing underground rail tracks. By the mid 1950’s, they were no longer in use for freight anymore and were mostly derelict until the silicon era when firms started using them for communication lines.
The wire mesh stairway gives way to a concrete platform once used for receiving coal. This area actually belongs to the building he works in and is lit by emergency lighting. There’s a low drop of about 2 feet to the tunnel proper and nearly complete darkness. Steve is about to hop down when he notices a long feather, so black it’s almost blue on the floor. Picking it up he looks around nervously. Slipping it in his pocket, he pulls out his keychain with attached maglight. He is about to turn it on when he glances south where the LaSalle tunnel intersects with the Jackson street tunnel. Where he stands the tunnel is only about 7.5 feet high by 6 feet wide, but beneath the Board of Trade is a “station,” a wide open space where many freight cars could park and men could gather to receive coal and load used ash. That is where a containment perimeter should be established. He sees light there and what looks like the shapes of men in hazmat suits, but they seem frozen in place.
Steve looks quickly up the tunnel to the north. He sees no sign of fiber optic technicians — he should look for them, but... He puts his maglight away, pulls his gun from his holster and goes as quickly and silently as he can southward towards the light.
Walking along the wall, he carefully avoids stepping on the metal tracks in the middle of the tunnel. The sound of his feet don’t betray him, but as he gets closer to the “station” below the Board of Trade, he thinks the loud beating of his heart might.
There are men in hazmat suits on the station platform. And a bomb robot, too. They are all as still and silent as statues. In the middle of the Board of Trade platform is what looks like an exploded duffel bag and an exposed metal casing of some kind. In the casing is a sphere, about two hands wide, alternately pulsing with light and darkness. Pacing around the pulsating sphere is a Caucasian male, about 50 years old with a gray beard and an eyepatch. He’s dressed in armor that looks like renaissance fair meets SWAT. Circling around him are the two ravens.
Oh. Shit.
Steve finds himself frozen, too, not sure if he’s hallucinating. From just a few feet behind him he hears the sound of footfalls. Cursing himself for not paying attention, he turns, gun upraised. And then he lets his arm fall.
Two men are in the tunnel he just came down, one older, one younger. The old guy is holding up his Bureau badge, but Steve doesn’t need to see it to know they’re on the same team. The old guy oozes FBI, and he’s probably ex-military, too. He’s got the classic high and tight haircut, and a black suit on. The younger man has a mop of unruly brown hair, a rumpled suit and he looks like he just rolled out of bed. He’s carrying a large cylindrical case over his shoulder and something that looks almost like a geiger counter.
“Agent Rogers,” says the old guy. “I’m Assistant Director James Merryl and this is Agent Ericson,” he tilts his head at the young guy. The young guy nods and swallows. Putting his badge away, Merryl says, “We’re from the FBI Dep
artment of Anomalous Devices of Unknown Origin, also known as ADUO.”
“What?” says Steve. He’s never heard of ADUO before in his life.
From the platform comes the raucous squawk of the ravens, the beat of wings, and Steve spins again, gun at the ready to find the ravens flapping just a few meters in front of him. He looks past the birds, the motionless men in their hazmat suits, and the silent robot — the old guy by the sphere is paying Steve and his companions absolutely no attention.
One of the ravens looks at Steve, follows his gaze to the old man, and then turning back to Steve starts to shriek. “What? What? You thought that Odin needed the staff Gungir to stop time, human? Well, you are wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Gungir only concentrates and strengthens his powers! He doesn’t need it! It’s like Hoenir’s hut! Or Loki’s —”
“Muninn, shut up!” squawks the other raven, landing on the ground.
Beside him, Steve hears Ericson whisper. “Yep, this is definitely our department.”
The raven on the ground rises into the air. “You think you can contain Odin, All Father, Agent Miles Ericson?” It cackles maniacally.
Beside him, Steve hears Ericson swallow.
“You tell him, Hunginn,” cackles the other raven. “The World Seed will be his! His!”
Steve looks past the ravens to the old man they call Odin, hovering around the sphere. As Steve watches Odin bends down and tries to lift the sphere. There is a bright flash of light, and then the space around the sphere goes absolutely pitch black and the man disappears. Steve’s ears pop, and he feels air rush from behind him. The two birds flap their wings, squawk and struggle not to be sucked backwards.
Beside him he hears Ericson shout, “My readings are through the roof!”
There is another bright flash of light, and Odin is standing there in front of the sphere again — but only for an instant. The sphere pulses, there is an electric sounding crackle, and then Odin is flying backwards through the air. With a loud thud he hits the far wall.