The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

The Overlord was not in the best mood. That much was obvious. When his instructions ended, his voice dissolved into an innumerable assortment of four-letter words. He didn’t mix well with power outages or loss of control.

  “You heard the man,” said Zachary. “We’ve graduated from screwed to extra-screwed. Might as well see if we can get lost in a maze.”

  He led the pack, bringing them deeper. The group was grateful that he had a keen sense of navigation. They’d already taken so many lefts and rights they didn’t know which way would guide them back to the entrance.

  The walls seemed to press in on them with each turn. None of them were claustrophobic, but the sharp curves and indistinguishable corridors confined and restrained their mobility.

  At a fork, an arrow inscribed on the wall pointed left. Misdirection? Zachary wasn’t positive they should rely on every suggestion.

  “Should we go with the flow? Or do we want to see how much we can stress the Overlord’s OCD?” asked Evelyn.

  The puking spell left her pale. Still, she wasn’t one to let bouts of sickness weigh her down. She had that mutinous spark of youth propelling her to the finish. He admired her.

  “As much as I’d like to make that guy squirm,” said Cranston, “I think we should do what he says. The sooner we get through this, the faster we can knock his teeth down his throat.”

  They traveled left, left, then straight up. Another door resembling the ones in the cabin barred their path. It couldn’t be that easy.

  There was a lightning bolt symbol carved into the handle. Zachary checked the door, knowing it couldn’t be unlocked. He was wrong.

  It opened into an area that was the perfect mirror of the dead deer room. He frowned as he investigated the familiar touches. The wooden squares weren’t exact matches, but the riddle appeared to be the same.

  He guessed this was the puzzle that Ortiz and Michael were supposed to solve. But where were they? If they had already entered the maze, how come they hadn’t waited on the rest of the group?

  Zachary didn’t like the sensation slithering up his spine. If the other two men weren’t in this room or the maze, then what had happened to them? Were the Labyrinth’s unknown factors of the lethal variety?

  He rejoined Evelyn and Cranston. They backtracked to the original junction—after a wrong turn somehow sent them to the maze entrance—and selected the right path.

  A second fork foiled them immediately. Now there were three options. Arrows labeled “Fortune” and “Glory” pointed right and straight ahead. The left route was unlabeled.

  “We got nowhere the last time we listened to an arrow,” said Evelyn, crossing her arms.

  “Yeah,” Zachary said, “but I figure we got ourselves a ‘fool me once’ situation here. I’ll wager one of the arrow paths is a safer bet. Maybe both.”

  “Well,” said Cranston, “do we prefer fortune or glory? I don’t want to use a nursery rhyme to figure this out.”

  “What,” said Evelyn, smiling despite their nutty trial, “you don’t want to catch any tigers by the toe?”

  “You can spend a fortune,” argued Zachary, “but glory is eternal. I say we go with the big G.”

  The three bemused test subjects jogged forward. It was yet another three-way intersection. This Labyrinth sucked. Zachary hadn’t thought about them before, but now it was official. He added mazes to his shit list.

  There weren’t arrows this time. A phrase daubed with the same black splash of paint he’d witnessed twice before tainted the wall: MACHINES FOLLOW COMMANDS.

  He wished he could punch the wall, but breaking his knuckles wouldn’t help them escape the maze. He hated these stupid messages, was tired of their obtuse and roundabout explanations. If Cranston didn’t deliver on his promises to tear the Overlord a new one, Zachary would.

  “So, uh, how do we follow nonexistent commands?” asked Cranston.

  Evelyn shrugged. “Beats me. I’m thinking the Overlord doesn’t care if we get out or not. He’s here to enjoy a show.”

  Zachary fought the desire to knead the budding hives on his neck and said, “We don’t have infinite directions here. We pick our poison and go. If it’s a dead end, we can always try another path. Whatever we’re supposed to be dealing with in this maze, it hasn’t shown its ugly face.”

  Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “You guys smell that? It’s blood. Someone’s hurt.”

  “Where?”

  She darted right, up, right, up, left, and up again. Zachary and Cranston hurtled after the reckless girl, breathing heavily. Age trumped physique. Evelyn was a marathon runner compared to her older escorts.

  When she stopped, and they had the chance to cool down, it pleased him to see her and Michael reunited and wrapped in a warm embrace.

  “Thank God,” she said, kissing him multiple times on the lips. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I had a close call,” he said, kissing her back, “but I’m okay now.”

  “Where’s Jorge?” asked Cranston, looking forlorn.

  Michael shook his head and stared at his feet. “He didn’t make it. Some kind of mutant creature killed him.”

  “Was it hunched over? Did it have suction cups on its feet?”

  “No,” said the young man, “it was like a cat-human hybrid. We never saw it coming.”

  “Great,” said Cranston, hanging his head, “so there’s multiple monsters. I’m sorry, Jorge. Descanse en paz, buddy.”

  *

  Their significant progress into the maze astounded the Overlord. He had counted on their being duped by his little tricks, but the three subjects formed a solid team. The reunion with Michael was sure to light a fire under their butts and make them believe they were invincible.

  They were mistaken. Keeping one eye on the monitor displaying the presumed federal agents, he pressed the intercom button, glad to ruin their touching moment.

  “What a lovely party,” he said, always the egotistical performer. “Such a shame it’s been cancelled on account of rain.”

  With childlike glee, he mashed his fist on the switchboard. In the Labyrinth, water cascaded down around the flustered test subjects. It wasn’t sprinklers. He’d drained the pool on B2 along with its only inhabitant.

  This was one of many alternative states for Test Chamber 2. Using FEL-01 to root out Michael had inspired him. The company needed data and the Overlord would give it to them. On his terms.

  “Subjects MK, ER, KC, and WZ, you have done well to get this far,” he announced, “but don’t think you’re done swimming with sharks. How will you fare, I wonder, when you must combat an opponent on his own turf?”

  Scuttling along the bottom of the myriad flooding and twisted corridors, OCT-03 swished his stringy seaweed arms and prepared to devour his next meal.

  SCARRED

  When the backup generators engaged, the lights flashed on. Donahue and Kasey dove under the desk, expecting the worst.

  They waited for the inevitable sound of a turret whirring to life. Nothing happened.

  When it was clear that they weren’t being poked with more holes than a cheese grater, the women stood and dusted themselves off. They turned off their flashlights. With the power back, they wouldn’t need them to guide the way.

  “Must’ve been a malfunction,” said Kasey, drawing her Glock out of its harness.

  “Yeah, but why was it so easy to kill the power in the first place?” asked Donahue. “And why conduct tests in his grandfather’s house? You’d think the Smiling Man would know better.”

  Kasey didn’t seem perturbed. “Arrogance blinds any man.”

  She didn’t think that was a concrete answer, but what did it matter? They were here to rescue civilians from some kind of nightmare proving grounds, not ponder a madman’s lack of foresight.

  Marcus Maverlies was the Smiling Man. Putting a name to the face not only removed the enigma, but downright demeaned their opponent’s mysterious prowess. He was a disfigured man with a massive ego and a Napoleon complex. How els
e could they explain the front door colossus or the elaborate underworld scheme?

  Donahue wished she had a backpack or a knapsack where she could stash Maverlies’ book. Assuming they could capture Marcus, it’d be great evidence in a court of law. As it was, she could only fit a few ripped pages and the photograph in her pockets.

  The bookshelf behind the desk had been moved. Neither of them had noticed when they first entered thanks to the darkness. Red-tinted light filtered through the seams. There was another room behind the shelf.

  They tried shoving it open. It was like lifting a heavy duty truck with bare hands. A power lifter could do it with enough willpower and a couple of buddies, but it would sap their energy dry.

  There had to be another solution. A blinking green light in the upper right corner of the topmost shelf suggested the bookshelf operated via electricity. They needed to find an unlocking mechanism.

  “There’s an inscription here,” said Kasey, gesturing at a steel plate nailed to the wall in the space between shelves.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Basically,” said Kasey, tracing her finger through the dust as she read the words, “it says that in order to open ‘the gateway to paradise’ we must ‘render unto providence that which is the mark of the purified man.’”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly clear,” Donahue said, giving Kasey a pair of sardonic thumbs up.

  “Hey, I didn’t write it. If I did, you’d be answering questions about sexy lingerie or where you can buy the sweetest lattes. This philosophical mumbo jumbo isn’t my forte.”

  Donahue had already solved enough unsavory puzzles in Lone Oak. “Now that everything is up and running, we could use the lift on the ground floor.”

  “No,” said Kasey, “we can’t risk it. We don’t know what sorts of security measures have come online in the main hall. Not to mention the turret overlooking the elevator. We need to figure out what this ‘mark of the purified man’ is.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You should know more about these people than I do,” said the blonde, “so tell me, what does the cult of Ein Geist have to say about our situation?”

  Donahue scowled. “Do I look like an initiate?”

  “No, but Llewyn said you two uncovered a lot about them during your investigation of Jane Harley’s murder.”

  “Patrick Rhinehold wasn’t part of the cult. He was a loose cannon who took their god—the parasite—and used it for his own purposes. We never met anyone who was an actual member.”

  She didn’t want to discuss the subject, but since Kasey insisted on bringing it up, she added, “All I know is that thanks to that disgusting creature I’ve got this ugly scar on my back.”

  Donahue turned and lifted her shirt, exposing the ragged three-inch scar between her shoulder blades.

  “Sorry,” said Kasey, closing her eyes and looking away, “I didn’t realize how much you suffered.”

  “I can still hear the evil bastard whispering in my mind,” she said, rolling the shirt down over her midriff.

  “Wait a tick, that’s it,” said Kasey, stopping Donahue from covering herself.

  “What? My scar? You think that’s the mark he’s talking about?”

  “His mouth is all screwed up, right? What if one of those parasites caused that instead of a knife?”

  It wasn’t impossible, but Donahue couldn’t help thinking she was searching for a connection that simply wasn’t there.

  “Okay, say that’s true. What do you want me to do? Show my spine to the camera? Grind against the bookshelf like a bear with an uncontrollable itch?”

  “No,” said Kasey, shaking her head, “but there is a biometric scanner underneath the words on the plate. You and our little friend Marcus might be a matching pair.”

  Perhaps she was right. If the Smiling Man was infected in the past, he’d have a similar scar to prove it. And the photograph caption said it was taken after some unspecified surgery.

  “Crazier things have happened, I guess,” said Donahue, bending low and arching her back into the reader.

  Moments later, a reassuring beep filled the room, and the door camouflaged as a bookcase unlocked.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” said Kasey, nudging the bookshelf ajar.

  “Why wouldn’t he do more to keep intruders out? Why not have voice activation triggers? Or a fingerprint scanner?”

  “I told you: arrogance. He thinks he’s one of a kind. It never occurred to him that someone else might have a scar or two just like his.”

  *

  Michael knew there was something stalking them in the water. It had to be the creature he saw in the marine tube. Now he floated neck-deep in dark water. He couldn’t imagine a worse situation for Evelyn. She wasn’t a good swimmer, had almost drowned in a boating accident two years after they started dating.

  She kicked and splashed, struggling to keep her head above the water. Cranston and Zachary tried to help, but couldn’t get close without swallowing a mouthful of salty liquid.

  “Try touching your feet to the bottom,” he said, calling out to her.

  “I can’t,” she cried, “it’s too deep.”

  “Evie,” Michael said firmly, “you have to stay calm, all right? We’ll get through this, you and me.”

  Evelyn nodded, the confidence in his voice reassuring her that everything would be okay. She trusted him implicitly and always had.

  “Good. Now, it’s not that far to the exit,” he said, hoping that what he claimed was true. “Just remember to stay afloat with your arms and thrust with your legs, okay?”

  She nodded again. “Okay,” she said, giving him a nervous smile and relaxing.

  “If you feel you’re slipping, grab a hold of me,” said Cranston, not one to let his bravado or considerable size go unnoticed. “I’ve got room for two.”

  Zachary said nothing. Michael thought he might’ve seen that monster in the water, but he didn’t seem to be staring at anything. The man’s eyes appeared to have contracted into a kind of languid gaze. He was distant, removed from the situation, as if his body was only performing the basic function of propping his head above the murky water.

  “Mr. Zachary,” he asked, “which way do you think we should go?”

  They heard a loud squelching sound, like a sticky toy arrow being pulled off a flat surface. Cranston’s bravery vanished in an instant. He plunged into the flooded maze, leaving them behind without a second glance.

  “Where does he think he’s going?” asked Evelyn, wide-eyed and panicking again.

  “I don’t know, but we don’t want to stay here,” said Michael, looking for any signs of bubbling in the water. For all he knew, the creature needed to surface like marine mammals.

  “Follow me,” said Zachary, returning to the world of the alert. “I know which way to go.”

  Michael would’ve asked what he meant or how, but right at that moment it didn’t matter. If another monster like the one that killed Ortiz was nearby, he didn’t have time to play twenty questions with Zachary.

  Hounded by the obnoxious squishing sounds, they swam a crooked path through the winding Labyrinth. Relying on Zachary’s sudden steadfast guarantee that he was certain where the exit was located, Michael kept Evelyn aloft in the lukewarm waves.

  Everything felt so manufactured, so unreal here. They were swimming in high water, but there was no current. No breeze. The smell was wrong, had that methane and iron stench like a dirty pond. It was as if the Overlord placed them in a virtual reality, a kind of false river generated by switches, pipes, and one lunatic on the fringes of madness and genius.

  Somewhere in the faux depths lurked a sea monster, but nothing erupted from the water. Perhaps the maze was playing tricks on his senses. Maybe he’d invented the creature, but that didn’t explain the noises or Cranston’s fearful retreat. The big man couldn’t fake that reaction.

  They zoomed through countless twists and turns. Several confusing messages and illogical arrow plac
ement marked the walls. Michael was sure they would hit a dead-end, but Zachary’s flawless navigation steered them correctly every time. He was either a lucky man or he’d figured out a secret to the maze he refused to share with them.

  Given his radical pace and the fact that Evelyn needed his help, exhaustion bowled him over like a drunken date on prom night. His arms and legs ached with soreness and burned hot as a stovetop. If they didn’t slow down or find the exit soon, he’d be submerged in a watery grave.

  “Hold up,” he said, breathing hard and swiping his hair out of his eyes.

  “We can’t stop now,” said Zachary, glowering at the dark green, almost black water surrounding him and his tired companions.

  “Give us a second,” demanded Evelyn, just as tuckered as Michael.

  “But it’s coming for us,” countered Zachary, “and as fast as we moved, we don’t belong in this nasty goop. It’ll kill without us even knowing it’s there.”

  Good points, but they still needed to rest. Whether Mr. Zachary was leading them right or wrong didn’t matter if swimming sapped their dwindling energy like a brain-sucking amoeba.

  “We don’t know how close we are to the exit. It could be twenty feet from here. It could be one hundred. Maybe we’re not even halfway there. Tiring ourselves out won’t stop a monster chomping down on our legs.”

  Zachary disagreed. “Two more lefts and we’re home free.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” said Evelyn, latching onto Michael’s shoulder.

  “I do,” said Zachary, “because I’ve been here before.”

  “What are you saying? Are you involved in this?” asked Michael, thinking they’d been conned and the real monster was in front of them.

  Zachary ignored him and turned around. He paddled through the scum-polluted water with the perfect form and grace of an Olympic swimmer. How that man’s stamina surpassed theirs—at his age—neither he nor Evelyn had a clue.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

  They had no choice but to follow him again. The revelation that Zachary had unveiled to them didn’t mesh with his previous actions. Maybe the loss of Ortiz and the cowardly departure of Cranston had addled him. Maybe there were mind-altering chemicals in the water and he’d ingested them, becoming at least a few straws shy of a hay bale.