Nameless Cult

by Grey Durose

  Carlos rubbed his head and decided to get on with his day, there were matters at the office that needed to be attended to and Judith's cover would be worse than useless, as ever. He went back to the bathroom and got his act together, the discoveries of the morning still replaying in his mind. Within half an hour he was in the car and well on his way to the office, the memories of his dream were starting to fade but the part about John suddenly struck a chord.

  'Pulling the strings.' he murmured bitterly. 'JOHN!' he shouted, as if trying to raise the old man from his grave.

  Carlos waited patiently to discover if he was insane, his eyes still trained on the road but his mind focused on his former boss's image. 'JOOOOHN!' he yelled again.

  This time there was a reply, it was quiet and creaking and hidden somewhere at the back of his head, but it was just about recognisable as a word. 'What?'

  'Is there anything you want to tell me about what happened after I went to sleep last night?' Carlos seethed.

  'A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.' came the weary reply.

  'I get the impression there are no gentlemen in this car.'

  'Give me a break, Carlos. I didn't do anything I haven't had to endure while you did them.'

  'That's not the point, asshole! I can do what I like with MY body. You're just a passenger.' Carlos was tempted to punch himself in the head but restrained himself.

  'Listen, kid; I've been trapped inside your head for years, until you took that shot I couldn't even talk. Do you have any idea what that's like? Stuck in solitary with no hope of parole.'

  'Tough shit, John. You had your life, you don't get to fuck with mine now you're dead.'

  'Try to think of it as a conjugal visit.' John quipped.

  Carlos nearly lost his temper again, he slammed his hands on the steering-wheel and stamped on the brakes. He pulled the car over and sat for a few moments trying to summon up some calm.

  'Carlos?'

  'WHAT?'

  'This doesn't have to be a problem.'

  'Oh sure, no problem at all. I wake up to find my dead boss's been fucking whores and drinking champagne and doing Christ knows what else in MY body, in MY apartment. How could that possibly be a problem?'

  'Come on now, I used a rubber and it's not like you don't drink.'

  'That's not the point, John, and while we're on the subject of rubbers, you couldn't even get that right, the damn thing was on the wrong way, I'm surprised it even stayed on, and don't you know you can't flush those things.'

  'For the love of Pete. Can you hear yourself, Carlos? You sound like my wife.'

  'You... violated me! You made me have sex while I was unconscious.'

  'You'd better call the cops then buddy, tell them the old guy in your head raped you. “I didn't want to but he made me do it anyway. I just wanted to sleep but he kept putting my cock in that pussy.”' John mocked.

  'It's not a joke, John. This is serious, we need ground rules.'

  'And what kind of rules did you have in mind, Carla?'

  'For starters: this is my body, not yours. You don't get to do stuff when I'm trying to sleep.'

  'How do you propose to stop me?' John asked.

  Carlos shifted in his seat, he knew John was right; there really wasn't any way to stop him. While he was awake he could keep John in the back seat but as soon as he closed his eyes at night the old fart would have control. 'If I don't get some sleep, I won't be able to function, I'll get sick, eventually. If I can't function, neither can you, you shitty old bastard, and if I get sick we're both screwed.'

  There was a silence between them, like two old team mates that no longer wanted to work together but knew they'd have to eventually.

  'Okay, agreed.'

  'No more nocturnal activities?'

  'No more fucking with the lights out, maggot. Any more rules you'd like to add?'

  'That'll do for now but I warn you John; if you try anything like that again I'll call the pharma division and get them to send me a whole stack of their crappy military stims, psychosis included.'

  'I know you, Carlos. You wouldn't fuck up your own brain just to stop me getting some tail.'

  'Try me, John. You can hear my thoughts, see for yourself.'

  John went quiet again, Carlos took the opportunity to start the engine again. They drove the rest of the way in silence and it wasn't until they got to the office that a word was said. 'You're not sulking are you John?'

  'I'm thinking. I can't stay in here the rest of your life, you'll drive me crazy with your whining.'

  'It's not exactly my dream arrangement either.' Carlos started up his laptop and waited to log-in.

  'You're the man with the plan, isn't there a research project we could use to get me out of here, maybe move me over to someone a little more compliant?'

  'I'm not going to shift you in to someone else just so you can force them to do what you want.'

  'I bet the occult department would know a way.'

  'Not going to happen.' Carlos was adamant.

  'You don't like this any more than I do, Carlos. It wouldn't need to be anyone who matters, just some schmuck with a square jaw would do.'

  'No.'

  'I guess were stuck with each other then.'

  Carlos knew that the status-quo would be intolerable. John had seemed decent when he was alive but now he was inside Carlos's head he seemed creepy, like he was suppressing something terrible that might suddenly lurch to the surface.

  'Listen, I know we can't live like this and you know I know. I'll find a way, somehow. A way that doesn't involve you taking over someone else's body.'

  'Make it good, Carlos. I have no intention of spending eternity in a hard-drive or some crappy robot, like you were just thinking about.'

  'I have a contact, he seems to know a lot about the kind of thing our occult department usually takes care of; the guy who gave me the lead in Brazil.'

  'I know the guy you mean, the guy you never met, the guy who's just an email address.' John sneered.

  'It's a long shot but we're short on options, if anyone knows what to do it'd be him.'

  'I don't know, Carlos. This is a pretty dangerous thing to hand over to a complete stranger who won't even tell you his name.'

  'I have his name, I had him traced. Calls himself Master Javeed, online, seems to have a lot of sticky fingers in a whole lot pies.'

  Chapter Ten

  George opened his eyes, it took a moment for them to focus but as they did he began to pick out the details of his situation. Above him was a sandstone ceiling, the floor and walls were constructed of the same material, apart from one wall. There was a partition consisting of thick iron bars with a closed gate in the middle and a heavy chain and padlock securing it. There was a small barred window in the wall opposite the gate and daylight was streaming in. Judging by the heat of his cell and the angle of the light, George determined it was the middle of the day, he must have been out for many hours and his head was throbbing.

  He decided to take a look out of the window but when he went to get up he realised his hands and feet were both cuffed, with his hands trapped behind his back. First things first, George thought as he rocked himself in to a more upright position. Whoever had trapped him hadn't fully realised who George was, he was unguarded and the only things preventing his escape from the cell were a few locks.

  Moving quicker now his head had cleared, George rolled on to his back and pulled the chain of his cuffed hands down below his backside, he held his bent legs in the air and forced the chain under and around his feet. Part one of his escape was complete. Now he could reach up to his mouth with his hands and carefully pulled out Giovanni's lock picks. He placed one pick in the lock of the handcuffs and, with a quick twist from the other pick, the cuff was released. Next he turned to his ankles and in less than a minute he was free of his bonds and back on his feet.

  He walked over to the window, it was above head height so he had to jump up and grab the bars to see out. The view didn't
look promising, all he could see were a couple of old out buildings and an even older looking rusted truck. The cell must have been in the basement, since George found himself looking out at almost ground level through the thick walls. He gave the bars a good tug but there was no movement, if he was going to escape he'd have to go through the gate and whatever lay beyond the wooden door which was the only way out of the cell.

  The padlock was a heavy duty but rather standard outdoor lock made of polished steel with some brass around the keyhole. George took his picks and made short work of its mechanism: in, delve, twist, and click. He carefully lifted the chain from around the bars and began to slowly open the gate. There was a grinding screech from the hinges, George stopped for a moment holding his breath and listening for any sign that he'd been heard. He moved over to the hinge side and mustered up what saliva he had, he applied it to the hinges and returned to the other end of the gate to try again. The spit had worked, imperfectly but the screech had become a low groan instead, far less alarming to the human ear.

  George squeezed through and in to the next area, it was empty save for a wooden chair in the corner, they must have considered George to be of a lower risk than previous guests. He crept over to the door and placed his ear up against it, he could hear the hum of a ceiling fan in the next room but no human noise. Just to be sure, he took a peek through the keyhole below. It was an internal room with artificial lighting, there was a desk with a computer in the middle and a couple of cabinets by the far wall, next to another closed door. There were no people in the room, that George could see, but a cup and plate on the desk suggested there had been.

  George tried the handle, the door opened, he placed his picks carefully back in to his mouth and walked cautiously in to the room, looking in the direction of the corner of the room which had been hidden to him from the keyhole. The room was indeed empty, George walked over to the desk and felt the cup, it was warm and the contents had the smell and appearance of black tea, perhaps half an hour old. George took a sip, it was too sweet for his taste but he had no idea when he might next get the chance of a drink so he gulped the remainder down.

  He searched the desk for anything useful and managed to find an old Webley Mk VI in the middle draw. Of all the weapons in the world this one was probably the least likely to have ever been fired. The gun might come in handy later but for now he had to be as quiet as possible, so he tucked the revolver in his belt and continued searching. There was nothing of any use in the remainder of the desk so George moved on to the cabinets. He was only too happy to find his bag waiting for him in the first draw. He checked through the contents and, other than Ahmed's gun, nothing important had been removed. George equipped himself with his dagger and shouldered his bag before moving on.

  George found himself on a worn stone staircase leading up to an open doorway. He climbed the stairs slowly with his dagger to hand and a trickle of sweat meandering down his cheek. He reached the top, got down on his belly and looked each way to see where any dangers might lie.

  The doorway joined on to a short connecting corridor between two rooms. The room to the left was above the cell he'd been held in, it was a relatively small room with large windows, looking out on the view he had already seen through the barred window of his cell. It seemed to be another office. The room to the right appeared to be more of a library, there were metal shelves lining the walls - filled with books - and a couple of plain wooden tables in the middle of the room. There was one large window in this room which looked out of the other side of the building.

  George got to his feet and wandered in to the library, heading towards the window. On his way he ran his finger along one of the book shelves, scanning the titles. Some of the books were quite old but nothing he hadn't seen before, these were the kind of books that interested people who didn't know anything about the real dangers out there and would do nothing to alleviate their ignorance by reading them.

  He pressed up against the bookshelves and peered sideways through the grime-smeared glass. There were two outbuildings, cobbled together from wood and aluminium sheeting, and an open fronted garage area. Cement blocks, steel and glass, the size of a small aerodrome; inside he could see a collection of four-wheel-drive vehicles, which might be useful when he needed to leave. Further along to the right was another structure, it appeared far older than the other buildings and much more ornate. All the buildings along that side were shaded by a long steep ridge of sandstone and this older building seemed to be mostly built in to the ridge. It had heavily worn stone steps at the front, which led up to a wide entrance with pillars on either side, all carved from the natural stone of the ridge. George was surprised to find that he could see absolutely no signs of any of his captors through the window.

  Outside, the sun was beating down and the air was still and dry, he couldn't see anyone and George took the opportunity to make some quick progress. He made it to the garage and no one had noticed him or shown themselves, he was starting to think they'd abandoned the place and left him to die. Inside it was shady and the open front allowed plenty of air flow under the high roof but today there was no wind and the only flow of air was generated by the relative coolness of the shade. George tried the door on one of the Range Rovers at the front, it was locked, he looked around and noticed a rack of keys on the wall nearby. He found two sets of matching keys and tried the buttons on both: the first opened a car well to the back of the garage, which would have required the movement of other vehicles, the second set popped the locks on the one he'd just been examining.

  The car was dark green, though it had looked blacker from outside. It was polished to a bold sheen and the tyres had been freshly washed, leaving their rubber a deep matt black. Dark trickles of water still marked the path of the relatively fresh off-wash on the cement floor.

  George climbed in to the car and turned on the electrics. The factory smell of leather and plastic still lingered, reminding him of all the new cars he'd ever sat in. The tank was full and this would make the perfect escape vehicle. He slid his bag down in to the foot space on the passenger side and got out, he couldn't leave until he'd at least taken a look at the other building.

  George began to trot, hugging the bottom of the ridge until he reached the side wall of the old stone building. He edged along the wall with his dagger at the ready, his captors had to be somewhere and he strongly suspected that this was where they were hiding. He reached the corner and began to ascend up the short flight of steps which flared out at the sides and narrowed at their apex. He stopped at the top, staying hidden behind one of the three smooth stone pillars which held up the facade.

  Inside the building was dark and gloomy and George was aware it would be a lot easier for anyone on the inside to see him coming than for him to spot them in the shadows. He sprang diagonally across the entrance and plunged in to the darkness over by the wall on the far side. No one had seen him coming.

  As George's eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light, he found himself in an entrance way, empty, save for a bench along one wall with six piles of clothes puddled up on top and a row of twelve hooks on the opposite wall. One of the hooks still had a black robe hanging from it. At the back, a purple satin curtain hung across the only other possible exit point. He approached the hook with the robe on it, lifted off the robe and examined it; it was slick, black and made of silk, on the breast was a symbol stitched in gold thread, the sleeves were wide and gaped at the ends. The shape of the stitched symbol was a simple one, presumably deeply symbolic to its intended wearer but it was meaningless to George; a dodecagon with a solid circle at its centre and meandering arms reaching out from the circle to each of the twelve points.

  He quickly put the robe on over his clothes and went to the back of the room. The curtain disguised an open passage which sloped downwards steeply for about thirty feet, if he wanted some answers he would have to go down there. George descended along the passage until he reached a crossroads, to the right he could hear the sound of
low chanting but the left turn was silent; left it was. The passage was lit by small oil burners in holes cut in to the bare rock wall which seemed natural in parts but heavily tooled in others. It wound its way through the natural stone for about thirty yards until it opened out in to a man-made cavern. 'It must have taken decades to cut through all this stone.' He pondered under his breath.

  Inside the cavern there were piles of books, thousands of them, or so it seemed. Some were quite ancient but they were all made from the same material, even the most recent ones. The cover was some sort of wood wrapped in brown leather, with the same symbol as was on the robe, branded on to the front. George picked up one of the older books, it was heavy and he used both hands to transport it to a wooden desk at the back of the cavern, where the light was better. He opened the book slowly, respectful of its age: inside were a series of lists, each written on a single vellum page, of which there were twelve. Each of the lists had a heading then twelve entries below, scribed in an Old Persian dialect and a form of late cuneiform script not used by any other people.

  George struggled to read the text, he was not overly familiar with the script used, though he had a basic grasp of the language. The headings seemed to be places, the first referred to this part of Mesopotamia, the second to Athens, the third to Antioch and so it continued, listing twelve great cities of their time. Below the heading were the twelve entries, each one a name. George mulled the significance of these names for a moment, then sprang to the conclusion that these must be the names and locations of the various members of some organisation, twelve sites each with twelve members. He searched through a few more of the books to confirm his theory and found they were all in the same format. The names and locations changed over time but still twelve groups of twelve, only one of the sites remained constant, this one.