by Nick Pollota
“Present,” Raul said, scrunching his face into a scowl.
Mindy poked at the vacant spot with the tip of her sword.
“Blown up?” she asked. “Teleported away? Eaten? What did they do with it, Ra?"
He gave a palms up shrug. “There's no way of telling."
“Wait,” Jessica said in a soft whispery voice. “There's a feeling ... a message..."
Eyebrows rose.
“A message from the Scion?” Mindy scoffed in amusement.
“Or fan mail from some flounder?” George added softly.
Speaking quietly, so as not to disturb my wife's concentration, I explained. “Telepathic residue. Hadleyville is so twisted in the different dimensions, it would have been unusual to discover there wasn't any ghostly thoughts from the former residents."
“Its very fuzzy,” Jessica spoke, her eyes closed in concentration. “Jumbled ... chaotic...."
“That sounds like the Scion,” agreed Raul.
Using his armored Bible, Father Donaher rapped the mage on the head and Raul got the hint. No jokes. This situation was too unclear. We needed information badly. Lots of it, and now. What was their master plan? Where was the Hadleyville Hotel? And what happened at the occult convention which started these events? Was it an isolated incident, or an event chain that we could somehow break?
“Mostly there's hate,” Jess whispered hoarsely, her mental vision turned to infinity. “And disgust at the decadence of the world."
We exchanged glances. Could that be the big reason? The Scion were ethical purists and wanted to destroy the world because civilization was so decadent?
“But also a purpose,” she muttered. “And much happiness. The Day is coming soon, very soon."
That sounded bad. We could hear the capital letter.
“Which Day?” George demanded, taking notes.
“Soon,” my wife breathed and with a body jerk, Jessica returned to the real world.
“Good work, kid,” I complemented, patting a knee.
She smiled, then went pale and clutched my arm. “Oh Edwardo, they know who we are!"
“That we're Bureau 13?” Mindy asked shocked.
“Say, that is bad news,” Raul agreed somberly.
My wife shook her head. “No! The Scion knows who each of us is, individually."
“We, as in us?” Father Donaher asked, with no trace of his phony Irish accent.
“Our names?” Raul squeaked.
Jess gave a frightened nod.
Mike and I both made the sign of the cross. Sitting side-by-side, Mindy and George bumped hands and I could have sworn they maintained the contact for a bit longer than decorum allowed.
“How?” Raul asked, his fingers white on the staff lying across his lap.
“The license,” Jess explained wearily, looking as if she had not slept for a week.
What license? Oh, the license plates on our ex-van were Illinois state and we had a Chicago city sticker in the window. With that much info, tracking us was easy. I smacked a fist into my palm. Damnation! The team had been fighting non-sentient monsters for so long, we made a serious mistake. In this business, one was all you got. On the other hand, what was the worse they could do with that information?
“Jessica, check our apartment!” Mindy cried, rising from the floor.
Grabbing a hold of the glowing necklace, my wife closed her eyes and frowned in concentration. “Somebody is there!"
“What?” we bellowed in loose harmony.
“There are dead werewolves littering the floor,” she spoke in a monotone. “They must have died by the dozens to gain entrance, but they did get inside."
At least our defenses had held that much.
“Donaher!” I snapped. “Call both of our downstairs tenants and inform them the building is on fire. Order them out now! Save nothing! Just get out!"
“Done!” he cried sprinting for the desk phone.
A towel wrapped around her head, and thankfully wearing a bathrobe, Kathi had exited the bathroom during the shouting match. “What about deaf family on floor first,” asked Kathi in concern. The deudonic pulses of her steel wand ebbed and sparked in mimic of her emotional discord.
I waved the trifle aside. “They have a computer monitor hooked to the phone that allows them to see and read any incoming message. A flashing red light tells them the phone is ringing."
Cassock twirling, Father Donaher spun around. “George!"
“Yeah?"
“Ready the SDC!"
He gulped and got busy with equipment bag. Soon, he handed me a miniature radio transmitter with a built in keypad.
“Jess?” I asked, typing a long coded phrase into the mini-computer.
She released the gem. “Yes, the tenants are safe outside and the fire department is on the way. The monsters are rummaging through our computer files."
I hit the switch.
In a way, I was glad we couldn't see the results of that simple action. Our apartment building was designed by the Technical Service geniuses of the Bureau to be as fireproof as possible on the outside. Meanwhile, the inside was packed with enough thermite and napalm to put that theory to the ultimate test.
Tossing the SDC aside, I slumped in my chair. Jessica touched my arm and gave a squeeze. Mindy tightened her fists until her knuckles cracked. A solemn Donaher began saying his rosary. George closed his eyes. Raul was livid. Kathi was pale.
Everything we owned was gone. Our wedding album, family photos, Mindy's antique weapon collection, Raul's library on magic, our trophy room filled with irreplaceable mementos from our combined ten years of service. Gone. What a day this had been! But at least it was over.
No, it isn't, Jessica sent.
Good lord, what now? An IRS audit?
We should be so lucky.
Uh-oh.
“We didn't get them all,” Jessica announced aloud.
Heartfelt groans greeted the statement.
“How many escaped?” George asked wearily, picking at some lint on his new slacks.
“No, we killed the werewolves in our apartment,” my wife amended. “But Hadleyville boasted a population of 2,000 and we have only eliminated about a hundred."
“So its not over yet,” Mindy growled, partially drawing her sword and then slamming the blade back into the scabbard.
“Not by a long shot,” Jess stated firmly, stroking her necklace. The jewel pulsed with inner lights, and sparks crackled along the chain.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There's to be an attack on Bureau headquarters.” Jess said the words hesitantly, as if not sure she had that correct. “I was trying to scan their minds when the roof caved in, but I definitely got that much."
“Faith, lass, and how could they possibility find it?” Father Donaher countered. “We don't even know where HQ is!"
A reasonable question. Since the Slaughter of ‘77, when an unknown enemy destroyed most of the Bureau, not even its own agents knew where headquarters is located. I thought we had found it once in Manhattan, but by the next business day, it was gone.
“That doesn't matter,” Jessica said, in that sad voice.
“What?"
“Eh?"
“Nonsense!"
“Why?” I demanded, getting to heart of the matter.
“The exact location of the Bureau isn't pertinent to the attack,” she wearily explained in a monotone. “Now that the Scion knows we come from Chicago, they plan to totally destroy the city. All of it. Every building, person, rock and tree. That way they're sure of getting our hidden main base."
Dead silence filled the motel room, only the dripping of the shower could be faintly heard in the background.
“But HQ may not even be in Chi!” George suddenly stormed. “It moves around, so this sort of thing can't happen!"
Running a palm along his face, Raul scowled. “Try telling them that."
“When is the attack?” I asked breathlessly.
“Midnight."
“Tomorrow? Next week?” Mindy prompted hopefully.
“Tonight,” sighed Jess, gazing at the clock on the motel wall. “In less than four hours."
Tick-tick.
CHAPTER TEN
After placing a telephone call to the local FBI office, within minutes a commandeered Bell Air Ambulance helicopter retrieved us from the Lazy Eight Motel. Violating federal and civilian air traffic laws, the chopper ferried my team to the Lake City National Guard Arsenal where a sleek USAF supersonic transport flew us back to Chicago. Traveling at Mach Two, we arrived almost as fast as Mr. George could drive.
En route we telephoned a travel agency and made reservations in our own names for a railroad to New York and chartered a plane to London, England. That was to throw the Scion off the trail. Underestimating these people was fast becoming a sure way to die.
Also, I sent a coded, scrambled, radio message to our hidden headquarters detailing our discovery and the possible threat to Chicago. A special meeting was arranged at the downtown Sears Tower at 9 o'clock; which would give us twenty minutes to examine the ruins of our apartment building for any clues or Scion survivors. Telepathic impressions were good, but if we could secure a prisoner and make the bum talk, we might bust this plan before fruition.
That is, if winged hordes of flying Mack trucks didn't try to ram the plane in flight. Luckily, there were no attacks and we arrived on schedule. It made me nervous.
There was a big crowd of reporters at the main terminal, so we chatted with the O'Hare security and took a side route through the hangars and called a cab from there.
* * * *
We saw the crowds from a block away. Police cars with flashing lights, fire truck spewing streams of water, the crackling ruin of our decimated home. Parking at the corner, we paid off the cabby and proceed on foot. Nobody said a word.
The marble outside of the building was black with soot. Every window was gone, the roof was missing, and it was painfully obvious that the structure was now hollow.
Strong shoulders and grim determination got us through the bustling crowd of curious onlookers. A TV station was here filming the destruction and maybe a dozen people in the crowd had cameras. Raul gestured with an ‘empty’ hand and the TV camera shot out a geyser of sparks. Kathi sub-vocalized an unintelligible word and every chemical camera in the crowd popped open, spilling rolls of film onto the ground. The digital cameras simply fell apart. A city ambulance was nearby, and I saw our tenants getting treatment for smoke inhalation. But otherwise everybody seemed fine. Our Bureau-issued insurance would cover medical expenses, replace of their stuff and pay ample punitive damages for relocating. Even if we survived this night and rebuilt the place, I made a solemn vow never to have tenants again. It was too damn dangerous.
FBI badges allowed us passage past the police cordon, and a telepathic suggestion from Jessica convinced the Fire Captain to let us by the sweaty, tired firemen.
Picking our way through the jumble of fire hoses, safety barriers, and pools of water and foam, we stepped into the thermal ruins. Destruction was rampart. Great slabs of concrete were piled atop each other, and bits of furniture smoldered with flame. Glancing up, I could faintly see the stars through the thick smoke rising from a thousand small blazes still crackling. The heat was intense, the cloying smoke thick enough to chew. Raul regulated the temperature and Kathi cleaned the air. Father Donaher did a blessing and George kept guard with his banjo. I cursed. The building was gutted to the walls.
“Our home,” Kathi sniffed.
As a crumbling wall collapsed, a smoking timber fell from the sky directly toward us.
“Yeck. What a mess,” Mindy said, irritably batting the hundred pounds of charcoal away with her sword. The neatly twained pieces hit a pile of wet foam to expose the red embers underneath.
Ed, Jess sent.
“Yes?” I asked aloud, using my shoe to push about an unbroken dinner plate on the soiled terrazzo. Wow. Must be that Corel style.
Pirate Pete is gone.
“Really can't blame him,” George commented, nudging a charred section of flooring with the muzzle of his M-60. “What self-respecting ghost would want to stay in a dump like this?"
“No,” Father Donaher said, his body stiff with rage. “There has been an exorcism."
I started to ask why, but the reason was obvious. We wanted prisoners to talk and they wanted the same. But I would bet good money that the old buccaneer who lived in our cellar had probably put up a magnificent fight before the Scion finally drove him into the Great Abyss from which nobody ever returns.
Obviously, the Scion telepath had gotten more from us in Hadleyville than we had ever imagined. Okay, that agent would be the first to die.
“Another score to settle with these brigands,” Mindy growled.
Her long hair fanning in the smoky breeze, bolts of lightning playing about her partially recharged staff, Kathi agreed. I gave her a nudge and made her stop that. Too many witnesses.
With a gasp of delight, Raul pulled an undamaged volume from a pile of embers. Promptly, the book disintegrated into ash.
“Enough searching for physical clues,” I commanded, dusting off my hand. “Let's do a full globular sweep. Psionics, ethereal, mystic and EM scan."
Devices were activated, spells unleashed, and wands waved to the grand sum total result of nothing. The Scion covered their tracks well.
Pocketing my scanner, I sighed in resignation. “Let's go."
As we departed the burnt shell of a building, George retrieved a broken closet door from a pile of bed frames and jimmied it into a sagging doorway. Without looking back, Team Tunafish left home for the very last time.
Weary and angry, we moved resolutely through the crowd of puzzled people trying to shove uncooperative film back into cameras. Heading uptown, we hung a right. No sense getting a cab for seven when the Sears Tower was only a few blocks away.
Once past the hubbub, the streets of Chi were almost entirely deserted at this hour. Elsewhere in the country, the joints may be jumping, but we midwesterners like to get our sleep. In the far distance, a lonely Pace bus was rumbling along its night owl route. Wisps of steam rose from the manhole covers dotting the street, and you could hear the streetlights click as they went from red to green.
“Holy jamoke!” a voice cried out in the night. “Look! It's them!"
We spun about. Across the street was a delivery truck with its rear flap rolled up and a score of men and women lifting boxes into the vehicle. The crowd turned away. Their auras were human so I relaxed. Oh, hell. What now? A news team?
“Jamoke?” Mindy asked with a quizzical smile.
Rising to his full height, Father Donaher scowled. “Faith, that's a mining term!"
“I can't sense them,” Jess said with a touch of urgency.
Then the group across the street pivoted towards us with machine guns blazing. Tracer rounds filled the air with burning specks. Donaher was slammed against the wall, blood sprayed from Kathi's left arm and something punched me in the stomach. Reaching upward, Mindy grabbed my belt and yanked me to the pavement behind a parked car. The sidewalk felt rough and cool against my cheek.
Windows exploded. Ricochets blew stone chips off the brick wall behind us. Parked cars bucked from the multiple impacts of heavy caliber bullets. Rolling onto my knees, I drew both Magnums and paused as I smelled gasoline.
“Hut! Hut! Hut!” I cried, in a battle phrase inspired by some old foes. Dead and buried thankfully.
Rolling to new positions, we waited the standard six seconds, then popped up and returned the gunplay in an orchestrated attack pattern. Six of the people shooting at us hit the ground in a manner to highly suggest that they were going to definitely stay there. But the rest stood brazen and uncaring of the lead-and-silver fusillade slamming into them.
Then they started to grow in size. Seams split as limbs expanded. Coats of hair sprouted, and toothy snouts extended. Ears went pointed. Hands became paws.
In seconds, the remnants of their shirts and dresses went fluttering to the ground. But instead of being naked, each creature was wearing a SWAT-style full-body flak jacket.
Aiming with extreme care, I pumped six rounds into the chest of one of the werewolves. The manbeast didn't even stagger from the triphammer blows of the .357 slugs. Our rounds can't penetrate their body armor. Hoo boy. Not SWAT body armor, but NATO Red Class military bodyarmour. Bad, this was very bad.
With a bow twang, Mindy put an arrow into the left eye of a werewolf. Startled, the man paused and yanked the shaft free, snapping the hard wood between hoary talons. Raul sent a Lighting Bolt their way, and a werewolf crackled into ash. But another took her place. George added a concentrated burst from his M-60, making their delivery van detonate.
Dripping flame, they continued towards us. What the hell?
They're coated with Cosmoline, sent Jess. A thermal resistant chemical compound that stage magicians use so they can hold burning coals in the palms of their hands.
“Limitations?” Father Donaher asked, ramming fresh shells into his shotgun. The rosary wrapped around his hand clinked with every round. Bureau body armor showed through the hole in his cassock.
It'll wear off in about an hour, and there's a good chance of cancer within five years.
“We're in trouble!” I announced to the rest of the team in case they had not been paying close attention. I swallowed and commanded myself not to barf. Geez, my stomach hurt!
Store windows were gone. Alarms were clanging. Lights were coming on in a hundred windows. A crowd was starting to gather. The police would be here in about thirty seconds.
“If we had some explosives, we could blow the flak jackets off and then shoot ‘em,” George stated loudly, peppering a werewolf with .30 silver bullets. The soft metal rounds simply flattened against the military flak jackets and stayed there. The linked belt of ammo dangling from his machine rifle was shrinking fast.
Livid, Jessica was staring at the monsters. Whether she was trying to brain blast them, steal information, redirect the police, or shoo away civilians, I didn't know. Hopefully, all four. And maybe a fifth.