Shimmer: A Novel

by Passarella, John

  “That’s enough!”

  Crashing inside—sound of a body tumbling down stairs.

  “I don’t have time to explain!” With his free hand Barrett reached through the gap in the door and clutched the security chain. He glanced at Grainger, who stood less than six feet away. “You won’t shoot.”

  “You won’t enter that house with a deadly weapon.”

  Barrett didn’t like the look in Chief Grainger’s ice-blue eyes. He shrugged. “Your call. Shoot me.”

  “Barrett, no!” Liana yelled.

  Gaze fixed on Grainger, Barrett tugged down on the faltering chain, ripping the mounting bracket screws out of the wood. Before the screws clattered onto the hardwood floor inside the house, Grainger was pulling the trigger of the Glock. Might have been a warning shot, but Barrett had decided not to gamble on the chief’s goodwill. He contorted his torso to the side, whipping his head back as the percussive path of the 9mm round lanced the air in front of his throat. The roar of the gun seemed to sound at the same instant the round blasted into the opposite doorjamb. To the normal human eye, it might have appeared that Barrett had just dodged a bullet. Grainger certainly seemed surprised. But all Barrett had done was anticipate the chief’s action and the trajectory of the bullet. At close range, it would have been hard for his enhanced senses to miscalculate.

  Immediately after shouting a warning to Barrett, Liana had taken matters into her own hands, literally. She’d thrown back her sleeve and, with the fingertips of her right had, traced a graceful path along the golden sigils adorning her left forearm. The elegant, graceful tattoos began to glow with a warm light. Pointing the fingers of her glowing arm at Grainger, Liana murmured three words in a sibilant language uniquely her own, “Se ressum lethis.” Then she spoke a word Barrett and Logan recognized. “Sleepy.”

  Grainger staggered, losing his firing stance, his gun arm dropping to his hip as he shook his head and yawned. “What the…?”

  Barrett was through the door, with Liana right behind him. He heard her instruct Logan to help the confused police chief. Just as well. That would keep the boy out of trouble. Besides, he was looking a little green around the gills courtesy of his premonition nausea.

  Because he’d heard someone fall down the stairs, Barrett rushed past the dining room to the base of the staircase, hoping for a survivor. Instead he found the blood-splattered body of the twenty-something brother sprawled across the bottom stairs, arms crudely amputated below the elbows, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and vacant staring eyes. Whatever had killed the young man, Barrett knew, awaited them at the top of the stairs.

  From above came the hopeless sound of a woman moaning. Barrett shook off the palpable dread that assaulted him, fortified by the knowledge that either mother or daughter, possibly both were still alive.

  Edging around the body, he proceeded up the stairs, back to the wall—grazing the staggered row of framed family portraits—as he directed his gaze toward the second floor. Bits of glass crunched underfoot, the result of one dislodged picture frame smashing during the brother’s fatal descent.

  Before he reached the second floor, Barrett saw an ashen-faced young woman—Chelsea he assumed—standing forlornly at the end of the hall, her face and clothes sprayed with blood. Her body trembled and her hands twitched as she stared in wide-eyed horror down the length of the hall. A moment later she shrieked, almost convulsing as she dropped to her knees, whimpering hysterically.

  Barrett heard several wet, meaty thuds.

  Knowing his hesitation had resulted in one death, and possibly a second, Barrett disregarded caution and ascended the remaining steps two at a time, sword held high. His heart sank as he saw the dismembered body of the mother scattered across the carpeted upstairs hallway—awash in crimson, exposed gleaming white sections of bone.

  Dark movement drew his attention away from the mutilated remains. A black rift oozed along the opposite wall. A hole in reality—a hole conjoining realities—and something on the other side was attempting to cross. Although the rift appeared flat, a sinuous shape roiled across its slick obsidian surface. Snakelike, with a viciously clawed tip, it lashed through the dark opening.

  Barrett anticipated the attack on Chelsea and placed himself between her and the Outsider. Mid-strike, the Outsider veered away from the girl and swiped at Barrett’s throat. Arching backward, Barrett avoided the potentially decapitating blow and swung his otherworldly blade at the serpentine appendage. Off-balance, his attack also missed.

  “Get her out of here!” Barrett shouted to Liana.

  When Liana placed her hands on Chelsea’s shoulders, the young woman flinched and screamed. Whispering soothing words in Chelsea’s ear, Liana helped her to her feet and led her toward the stairs.

  Barrett focused on every movement of the whipping, snakelike appendage, attempting to decipher the telltale ripples in its musculature so that he might anticipate the angle and direction of its next attack. This was almost second nature to him when interacting with humans but studying something this alien required heightened concentration. The tentacle seemed to defy inertia and momentum as it weaved a hypnotic but unsettling pattern in the air.

  Barrett whispered under his breath, “It watches the watcher.” But he knew the truth was even stranger. It senses the watcher.

  Careful of the treacherous—and macabre—footing, Barrett advanced.

  The tentacle paused in mid-sway—

  —then struck with lightning speed.

  Chapter 20

  Logan’s stomach had begun performing somersaults soon after Liana drove away from Fallon’s house. When he’d told his sister to hurry, she took one look at his face and floored the accelerator. He’d told her where to turn, praying she didn’t flip the conversion van before they could come to Barrett’s aid.

  Down the street from Chelsea Conrad’s house, he’d seen the standoff between the sword-wielding Barrett and the gun-toting police officer and he’d wondered if his stomach had made a premonitory mistake.

  “Barrett wouldn’t have his sword out unless he saw or sensed something from the house,” Liana had concluded. Without hesitation, she’d swerved the van on a course between the two men, giving Barrett the cover he needed.

  Because he hadn’t been coping with the sudden onset of nausea, Logan had been grateful for the order to stay behind with the police chief. Unfortunately, Chief Grainger was recovering from his Liana-induced grogginess and already intended to enter the Conrad homestead. “No,” Logan said. “Wait here. You’re still dizzy.”

  “I am not dizzy,” Grainger said slowly, angrily, shaking his head. “Tired—not dizzy.”

  “Even so,” Logan said. “We’d better wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Grainger said indignantly, a moment before his knee buckled. He righted himself. “I’m the chief of police!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Logan said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I—what are you talking about?” Grainger yawned, pressing the back of his gun-hand to his mouth. “What happened? What’s with the sword? And her arm—was it glowing?”

  “It’s kinda hard to explain…” Logan began tentatively, not sure how much he could or should reveal to the uninitiated.

  “Don’t bother,” Grainger said, shrugging off Logan’s hand on his arm. “I’ll find out for myself.”

  Before Logan could attempt to stop him, Chief Grainger hurried through the splintered doorway, gun held high. With a resigned sigh, Logan started to follow him but paused when he heard the roar of an engine. He glanced down the street and saw a speeding blue pickup truck. A moment passed before he remembered where he’d seen the truck before: parked in Fallon’s driveway. And as the pickup swerved to the curb behind the illegally parked conversion van, Logan saw Fallon behind the wheel.

  The truck came to an abrupt stop, but not before the left front tire hopped the curb. Fallon sprang from the driver’s seat and raced up the walkway toward him. “It’s happening now,” she s
aid breathlessly. “Isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  As she reached his side, Logan caught her hand and imagined himself a tour guide leading her into a grim world she could never have imagined. Seconds behind Chief Grainger, they entered the Conrad house.

  Chapter 21

  Ambrose was shelving books in his office when he heard her scream. No mistaking who it was since everyone else had left the house. He carefully laid the worn tome, which detailed a third century rift, on the center of his desk, then hurried down the hall to the first floor guestroom. Aside from a cot and a freestanding lamp, the room was unfurnished. Ambrose flipped the light switch on and saw her lying in her paint-spattered smock, thrashing on the cot, still caught in the grip of a frightful dream.

  “The dark! The dark! It’s coming!” she shouted, eyes scrunched shut. “Coming again!”

  Despite the cone of amber light shining from the pole lamp, the dark-paneled, windowless room seemed to shrug off the electrical attempt at illumination, as if Thalia’s terrified words gave power to the darkness.

  “Thalia,” Ambrose said softly, gripping her shoulder to shake her awake. Her fragile psyche teetered in a dangerous place, trapped in the border between dreams and consciousness, balanced on the precipice of insanity. “Thalia, wake up now.”

  With a shriek, she grabbed his arms and wrenched herself upright. Her eyes were wide with fright, her body trembling. She looked at him, as if for reassurance.

  “Relax, Thalia,” he said as calmly as he could manage with her fingernails digging into the flesh of his upper arms. He tried to sound convincing as he added, “You were having a bad dream. Nothing more.”

  “No, not a dream…” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “The dark!”

  “What about the dark?” Ambrose asked. Walker dreams were often prescient, but there was little comfort in accepting that. “You said it was coming.”

  “I was wrong,” she said solemnly.

  “Exact—”

  “It’s already here.”

  Ambrose supposed it was possible. The rift was definitely mobile. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder. “Here, you say?”

  “Yes. Don’t you feel it?”

  Ambrose cleared his throat. “In this house?”

  “No,” she admitted at last. “But close.”

  Ambrose took a deep breath to calm himself, but also to carefully consider his next inquiry. Thalia’s lucidity could be fleeting at times, especially in stressful situations. “Thalia… do you know what it is? This thing?”

  Her wide hazel eyes searched his face. “In… in the dark?”

  Ambrose brushed tangled strands of blond hair from her face and nodded reassuringly. “Yes, dear.”

  She began to rock nervously. “He’s… he’s the dark one—in the darkness. He has many names.” She nibbled at her lower lip and looked around the room before her nervous gaze returned to Ambrose’s face and locked on his eyes. “You would call him Messor Carnis.”

  Latin? Ambrose thought. He ran a hand through his gray-white hair. “Meat,” he said. “Reaper… Oh, dear! Reaper of Flesh?”

  Thalia nodded twice quickly, then cast her gaze at the floor. “Another, closer name,” she said. “Carnifex.”

  “Butcher,” Ambrose whispered. “What else do you know about this butcher, this executioner?”

  “He opens the way,” Thalia said. “He leads them. First before others. Lacerator! Reap the flesh. Oh, God! Reap the flesh! Reap—!” The word turned into a shriek as she began to convulse on the cot.

  Ambrose caught her arms to steady her, then pulled her into a hug. “It’s okay, Thalia. That’s enough—enough for now.”

  “Stop him,” she whispered piteously. “Stop him before it’s too late.”

  Ambrose held her at arm’s length so she could see the confidence in his face. “We will, Thalia. We will.”

  A tremulous flicker of hope returned to her eyes. “Promise?”

  “Facimus quem nobis faciendum est,” he said softly. “We do what we must.” Ambrose sighed. Much easier said than done.

  Chapter 22

  Barrett leapt to the side the same moment the tentacle shot toward him with the speed of a hurled javelin, attempting to skewer his midsection. The evasive maneuver cost him his balance, though. He struck the wall as he swung his sword down in a double-handed grip, hoping to sever the eviscerating claw at the end of the lashing tentacle. As if sensing his intentions, the black appendage whipped aside and smashed into the banister supports before rising again. It reared in the air, curled into a reversed S like a snake poised to strike.

  He heard a scuffle of feet.

  Liana shouted.

  Chelsea had slipped free of Liana’s grip and disappeared into what appeared to be a small guest room on the opposite side of the staircase.

  Placing emphasis on each word, Barrett whispered fiercely, “Get her out of here.”

  “I’m trying,” Liana said defensively. She spared a quick glance at the Outsider before following Chelsea. “Wait!” Liana said as Chelsea shoved past her clutching a brown folding metal chair in both arms. “Chelsea, we need to get you out of here.” Liana caught her arm, but Chelsea shrugged it off.

  “Not yet!” Stark terror had transformed into unhealthy rage.

  Barrett glared at the young woman. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  As Chelsea hoisted the folded chair above her head, Barrett didn’t need latent prescient abilities to know exactly what she had in mind.

  “Chelsea,” Barrett said tightly, “that’s a bad idea.” With the mother and brother both dead, Barrett had hoped they’d arrived in time to save the daughter. One survivor out of three victims was not a good day, but no survivors would be a hundred times worse, a complete failure. “A really, really bad idea.”

  “I don’t care!” she yelled and flung the chair at the raised tentacle.

  In the blink of an eye, the tentacle struck, snatching the chair out of the air, wrapping its hook around the back leg brace. Without hesitation it pulled the chair into the rift, disappearing into the inky darkness with it.

  “Satisfied?” Barrett said, angry with her for risking otherworldly retaliation. “Now get out of—!”

  Rippling movement skimmed the black surface of the rift—

  A crumpled brown metal sphere the size of a basketball erupted from the absolute darkness—

  —rushing toward Chelsea’s head.

  Barrett clicked. That’s how he thought of his sudden transformation into sensory and reflexive overdrive, courtesy of his hyperacuity and hyperaesthesia—as clicking. He always operated in a heightened state of awareness and physical response, but in the middle of battle, sometimes as the result of an immediate threat or a blood wound, he would switch into that preternatural high gear. Colors became more vivid, sounds more distinct, odors more pungent, and movement around him seemed to slow down. This time the triggering threat was to an innocent victim.

  As the crumpled ball of metal burst from the darkness toward Chelsea’s head, Barrett had insufficient time to complete the one word thought—decapitation!—before he sprang away from the wall and swung his sword, striking the sphere and deflecting its trajectory.

  The crumpled metal chair blasted through a picture frame with an explosion of wood and glass, lodging in the wall behind it. Few inches to the right and the metal projectile would have smashed Chelsea’s head.

  Trembling, she stared at the embedded remains of the chair.

  Barrett shouted, “Go!”

  As Chelsea nodded mutely, Liana caught her arm again and led her down the stairs.

  Then Barrett heard somebody rushing up the stairs.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Grainger, Barrett thought in frustration. Just what I need.

  Several steps below the second floor, Grainger had already trained his Glock on Barrett. “Drop the…” Sinuous black movement caught his attention. “Holy shit!”

  “N
othing holy about it,” Barrett said.

  During the brief distraction, the rift had drifted several feet toward him. The tentacle uncurled from within the darkness and the vicious barb weaved a hypnotic pattern in the air.

  Grainger’s braced grip swung sideways away from Barrett as he took a bead on the tentacle. Before Barrett could warn him, the police chief fired four quick shots at the Outsider. Two of the four shots hit the bobbing tentacle, the impacts momentarily jarring the appendage—but the slugs ricocheted off its surface without creating any permanent damage.

  Barrett twisted his head and shoulders and felt the passage of one deflected bullet a split-second before it plowed a furrow into the wall beside him.

  The tentacle rammed forward, smashing through two banister uprights on its way to impaling the Hadenford chief of police—at least it tried to impale him. Grainger dropped in a flash, collapsing across the incline of stairs. The obstruction of the banister had given him enough time to avoid a potentially fatal injury. Even so, Barrett had to admire the man’s solely human reflexes.

  From his prone position, Grainger yelled, “What the hell is that thing?”

  “You’re in the right precinct”

  The tentacle withdrew and traced a new, irritated pattern in the air. The bullets hadn’t injured the Outsider but they had provoked it, like smacking a beehive with a flyswatter. Agitated, the tentacle was looking for something to strike.

  Mindful of the gore soaking into the hallway carpeting, Barrett stepped in front of it, placing himself between the Outsider and the ordinary human. The tentacle was quick to take the bait. It darted forward in a series of quick attacks, the lethal claw whistling through the air like a scythe. Barrett dodged, side-stepped and ducked as necessary to avoid the fierce onslaught, caught in an intricate and deadly dance too quick for normal human eyes to track.

  Each time the tentacle withdrew for another attack, Barrett countered with a deft but quick swipe of his sword, taking care not to leave himself unprotected. Twice the claw clanged off the flat of the blade. Then he followed a parry with a sudden thrust, nicking the surface of the tentacle. Black fluid, maybe blood, sprayed across the hall carrying a foul stench. The tentacle’s attacks became fevered—and careless. Barrett blocked a high attack, spun his sword around in a half-loop and severed the tentacle inches behind the hooked barb, which dropped to the damp carpet with a heavy thud.