by Tim Curran
“Here we go,” Gibson whispered, and reality shifted.
Blasts of wind, accompanied by wild, animal roars, appeared as the walls and ceiling disintegrated, revealing a blurred white sky spotted with obsidian stars. A too familiar scene. The chaotic air buffeting Campbell smelled of cinnamon and over-ripe fruit. Everyone but The King ducked at the gusts pounding their bodies. He stood stolid, his arms folded as the gurneys rattled around him. Where the walls had stood, just beyond the concrete floor, a world of sandy desert surrounded the group. Although the air shimmered, the wind only assaulted those within the remains of the basement.
Campbell stood straight, tried composing himself to match The King’s firm countenance. He shuddered when he saw they were no longer alone. As if from thin air they’d appeared, too many figures to count. The things, the Carcosans, were everywhere, spotting the sand dunes into the distance. Campbell shuddered, the guards stood alert, and Gibson turned and said something that was lost in the wind. Campbell was distracted anyway, for a tall, spindly male creature now stood facing The King, its ugly, elongated form matching those surrounding them, matching those things he had seen murdered on video.
Fingers reaching past its knees twitched on multiple joints as the Carcosan bowed before The King. Its face, small and withered within a bulbous head, bore a grin of huge black teeth, its eyes glazed and unfocused. It spoke and Campbell shivered, the ugly voice resembling scratches on a record. It didn’t speak English, yet the words appeared in his brain as such.
“You bring things? Good things yes?”
The Carcosan raised its head and giggled like a child. Its voice filled the air as it looked to the sky, its chest convulsing at it laughed at some private, alien joke. It looked to The King and nodded. “Good things.”
Movement in the corner of Campbell’s eye shifted his gaze to the gurney on his right. Another Carcosan had stalked closer, now looming over Dewitt. Unlike the others, this one, a female, wore a diamond-shaped, bone-coloured mask over its face. It stared down from narrow eye slits, teasing its hands across Dewitt’s prone form like a pianist. Then Dewitt awoke. His screams filled the air, louder than the chaotic wind as he rocked in his gurney, twisted against the straps. The female Carcosan pressed a spidery hand against his mouth and muffled his terror. More movement – to his left Campbell saw another masked female interfering with the Stuart man.
“You return to your blue world now. Live blue lives,” the male Carcosan said. The King looked small now, insignificant before the being, and was he shaking? “Goodbye day,” the Carcosan continued, and in an instant Campbell’s world became a void of black silence. Light-headed, his knees crumbled and he was on the floor, his quick reflexes saving him from injuring himself. The sight of his spread hands pressed against concrete replaced the darkness, and the room surrounding him stood whole again. Nearby, he heard one of the guards vomiting. Footsteps to his right followed, tender hands gripping him as Gibson helped him up from his knees. He looked around and found The King bent forward, pawing through a large burlap sack. The Carcosan had deposited this before disappearing—their payment for the offerings.
After he composed himself, Campbell approached The King with slow hesitancy. The gifts from the Carcosans varied in usefulness: boxes of costume jewellery, crumbling maps to unknown continents... once a map had been in French, titled Carcosa: Chemins Le Fer. The name had stuck, for the aliens.
“Anything useful?” Campbell asked.
The King shook his head and snorted. “Uh, pieces of half built technology. I don’t know what but Tech will have a field day. Nothing living, thank god.” These words brought some measure of relief to Campbell. The living things were always the worst, especially when they consisted of the mutilated, mewling remains of past offerings. Sometimes, the Carcosans deposited the corpses of future offerings, condemned criminals still alive somewhere in America. At least in those cases, locating and procuring the subjects proved simpler.
It was a relief to everyone it was over, the feeling palpable within the room. Still, leaving it felt even better, the King bearing the device before him with Campbell hauling the burlap sack over his shoulder. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the memory stick.
Campbell went home that night in a mental haze. Gibson had noted his disposition, even offered to drive him home but he’d refused. His fellow agent meant a lot to him, and he didn’t want to show weakness before her. He drove to his apartment knowing that if he’d left his car at the Bureau, it would have meant her picking him up in the morning and more time alone with her.
He stepped into his apartment, flicked through the day’s post, then slumped on the couch, drained of energy and also, feeling poisoned. The Carcosan’s had that effect on him, every single time. A shower wouldn’t clean the psychic stink from him, and neither would changing clothes.
A little later he plugged the memory stick into his computer, re-watched the movie, and was disgusted and confused all over again. Afterwards he put the offending object in his wall safe. The tiny object seemed offensive there, polluting the sanctity of his mother’s heirloom jewellery, his safety cash.
He stripped, worked out on his treadmill for half an hour, then took a shower before going through a few glasses of Jim Bean, laid on the couch naked while watching television. At 11 p.m. he went to bed, masturbated, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
As with every day after a Carcosan Event, a 9 a.m. conference was held by Mr. King. Usually this was in regards to what the aliens had given them, and what they would do with information gleaned from their technology. Campbell was not looking forward to it. For a start, it would be the ideal time to admit to owning the memory stick. Secondly, he felt like shit. The night had been a long one, waking constantly from vivid dreams about Gibson intermingled with nightmares about the Carcosans. Still, he went through the motions of getting up at 7:30 a.m., showered and dressed. He was on the motorway and winding his way around slow moving traffic at 8:15, was in the offices with ten minutes to spare. When he left home he’d brought the memory stick with him. For some reason, he felt it was safer on his person.
When he stepped into the large, white-walled Conference Room B, sugar-loaded coffee in hand and his brain still foggy from last night’s poor sleep, the tense atmosphere hit him like a sledgehammer, instantly clearing his head. Fellow agents were already seated at the circular, glass-topped table at the centre of the room. The King stood before the TV on the far wall, his scarred, stony face looking more cadaverous than usual. He turned to Campbell at his entry, as did the other agents. All looked worried, to a man. All men... Gibson wasn’t present and this, for a start, seemed wrong – in Campbell’s experience she had never been late for anything. Then The King spoke.
“They’ve taken one of our own.”
Those worried faces stared at him. Campbell wasn’t partnered with Gibson, but he did spend a lot of time with her, had formed a friendship, of sorts.
“Gibson,” he said quietly.
The King opened his mouth, stretching his pockmarked cheeks to reveal white, perfect teeth. “Sit down Campbell,” he said finally. “We have it on surveillance.”
Campbell slumped into his seat, his coffee ignored as he watched The King fiddle around with a remote control.
“I just had this spliced together by the tech team,” he said.
The screen came to life, revealing black and white surveillance footage of the reception room downstairs. The time code at the bottom right said 8:19 a.m. The King pressed fast forward, zooming two minutes ahead, and on the screen Gibson came walking through the doors into the reception.
Her hair in a ponytail, she wore a black trouser suit, her usual attire. For some reason she looked unusually flustered. Campbell, feeling a fluttering in his chest, looked around self consciously before returning his gaze to the screen. Another scene followed, Gibson walking down a corridor on the first floor.
“No
sound on these,” The King said, “but the explosion was heard throughout the building.
“Explosion?” an agent whispered and many nervous glances were shared. Campbell kept his eyes on the screen. Gibson entering an elevator, the next camera shot showing her stood inside the elevator. All looked normal, and then Gibson shuddered, spasming where she stood. This happened two further times, then she dropped her briefcase. Next, her head turned directly towards the camera. Her mouth opened wide, her head flicking back so brutally that Campbell flinched like he’d heard it snap. Gibson’s eyes rolled back in her skull, leaving nothing but staring whites. She froze there, and the screen turned to static.
Silence filled the room until a few agents muttered to one another across the table. The King switched the screen off and sat heavily in his chair. Campbell noted this peripherally as he continued staring at the screen. He watched his own dim reflection and screamed inside.
“She never left the elevator,” The King said.
Tortured and violated. Mutilated for sadistic, insane needs.
“Forensics have been over it with a fine tooth comb.”
They’ll deposit the remains in front of us, with a smile.
“Nothing. The explosion had no natural source. We believe it was just some part of the abduction transition.”
An agent said in a panicked voice, “This could be an attack! It had to happen eventually.”
Another said, “Any of us could be next.”
Campbell rose from his seat. All heads turned to him, but the only gaze he acknowledged was The King’s. He said, “We have to get her back.”
The King had flatly refused Campbell’s request. It went completely against protocol. Campbell had argued that protocol had been broken as soon as they’d taken Gibson. The King still refused. Campbell had gotten angry, shouted. The King had ordered him from the room or face suspension.
Campbell sat in his office and brooded, fingering the memory stick.
Revenge is sweet.
He slipped off the end cap and examined the USB. It was still tarnished with black residue, despite multiple uses. With unconscious volition he brought it to his nose. Sulphur, the stink of hell. Campbell plugged the memory stick into his machine and found, as before, an .avi file. He clicked the link.
This movie was different. Impossible, but there it was.
Men in black combat boots and fatigues, their faces concealed behind black balaclavas, stepping over the Carcosan corpses. They were armed with MP5 machine guns, the preferred weapon of choice for the F.B.I’s own Black Ops teams. The leader with the sign, for this was most certainly a continuation of the other footage, stood to the right, talking animatedly with another masked man.
Of those examining the dead, one nudged a corpse with his foot. The leader budged past him as he strode towards the camera’s POV. The man he’s been talking to dropped his arms dramatically in resignation. The sign was dropped, and the leader signalled to the one holding the camera. The view changed to that of the leader’s head, armoured shoulders, and the terrible Carcosan sky. The leader raised a gloved hand and started pulling his balaclava up. Campbell saw a stubbled chin, then the leader had the balaclava past his lips and up over his nose and eyes, leaving the head past a thick tangle of unkempt sandy brown hair. Campbell gasped at the face, for his own, familiar visage stared back at him.
“How... What the hell?”
Impossible, it’s impossible. No, not really, he realized, as offerings from the Carcosans had defied time’s arrow before. Who was to say he couldn’t do the same, at least if he was there, in their world?
He knew just what to do.
A betrayal, a betrayal of The King and the F.B.I., was what was required to retrieve Gibson. He couldn’t just leave her there, suffering at the clammy hands of those terrible beings. I can’t, he thought, sat in her office, a room already cleared of her personal belongings. It wasn’t right. She had a family. What if he was next? What if The King was next? Would a retrieval be in order for him?
Campbell looked at the only remaining object on Gibson’s desk: her telephone. He picked it up and dialled a little used, in house number connected to Project Yellow Sign.
“Yes?” answered a male voice.
“This is Agent Campbell. We need a small team for a Black Operation. I know this is out of the blue, but The King ordered it. Yes of course I have proof. Just get a team together. We’re going through the incursion.”
A barrage of expletives followed, giving Campbell pause. He bit his lip then said, “We’re going through, armed. We’re going to retrieve a lost agent. Be ready in twenty.” More arguments followed, then Campbell added, “Bring a video camera.”
He checked his watch. One-fifteen, The King should be out. Campbell rose from the desk, looked around the bare room wistfully, and steeled himself for the next part of his unsanctioned operation.
The King’s office stood two floors above Gibson’s, and after popping to his own office to collect a few folders, Campbell headed there trying to hide his nerves from those he passed in the corridors. As soon as he reached his destination, he was forced to deal with The King’s secretary, Mrs. Bell, a small red-headed woman with a stern demeanour who told him flatly to come back when Mr King returned from lunch.
“He needs these files on his desk when he comes back,” Campbell lied, waving his props in the woman’s face. He ignored her further protestations and walked past her desk, into The King’s office.
What could she do after all? Complain to The King when he returned? All going well, Campbell would be long gone.
The King’s office was cream, with dark brown carpet tiles underfoot. A large pine desk stood against the north wall, against which stood a large cabinet stroke bookshelf filled with books and files. The one window, upon the east wall, was shuttered with a blind. He looked around briefly, then stepped towards and around the desk. Campbell sent the office door a look but the secretary didn’t appear to interfere with him. He slapped the files onto the desk, sneered at the framed family photos stood there, then moved The King’s chair, leaning down to reach the safe beneath the desk.
Five, seven, nine, two, he thought as he typed the numbers into the safe’s keypad. All the agents connected to the project knew the code, just in case something happened to The King. No one would have thought of using it for this. The door unlocked, Campbell opened it and found sealed letters, a few files, a Glock 22 (he took this, pocketing it), and the device, wrapped in its black cloth. He hesitated over touching it, briefly, then he was barging from the office, past the shocked Mrs. Bell and towards either his doom or his destiny. He didn’t know which.
It took taking the elevator to the basement, walking down those cold corridors, then entering the currently unguarded, summoning room before everything finally hit home.
Fuck, I’m going into their world. Their hellish world. And what if I’m already too late?
Campbell scraped his shoes across the concrete and stared at the reinforced door, left ajar for his team. The device was tucked under his right armpit, its presence not a comforting one. The Glock 22 in his left hand was. After a few minutes stood in indecision, the idea of backing out was taken away from him as he heard footsteps marching down the corridor towards the room. A quick check of his wristwatch told Campbell they were right on time.
Yes of course I have proof, he’d said, and hoped the object under his arm was proof enough.
The footsteps paused at the door, followed by silence, then the door burst open.
The King entered the room, his face red with rage. This unforeseen sight made Campbell gasp. The Black Ops team, their weapons trained on him to a man, followed The King, and his shock became fear.
He awoke from a dreamless void, his mind hazy, his sensations padded in cotton wool like he’d just come around on a dentist’s chair. The comparison was apt, for Campbell found a plasti
c mask strapped tightly over his face. Laid flat, he blinked at the bright, nebulous vision above. Gentle noise surrounded him, distant waves crashing against a shore. Then, his vision cleared, his mind cleared, and he saw a looming nighttime sky in negative.
Campbell screamed into his mask. Fear overcame his numbed body with an impetus to move. He struggled but found himself strapped tightly down against... he knew what.
A gurney. The ritual. The Carcosan Event.
He twisted his head to the right; saw The King, other agents, stood solemnly in the desert. They could hear him. One of the agents, Barnes he was called, had his head bowed in shame.
Campbell screamed himself hoarse, begging, the foam from his pleading mouth soaking his lips. He froze his struggles as a thin shadow fell atop him, a shadow sourced by a cadaverous, Carcosan female. She was naked but for a diamond-shaped, bone-coloured mask with slits for eyes, a slit for a mouth. Long fingered hands stroked Campbell’s chest and he voided his bladder in fear. The Carcosan laughed and said something in their twisted alien tongue. Campbell didn’t hear the translation. The fear growing too much for him, he started to hyperventilate, shuddering uncontrollably
The Carcosan touched his crotch, stroked it intimately, then lifted her hand towards the mask. Unattached by anything visible, the mask came up easily. The shrunken face revealed, too small for the surrounding, swollen yellow head, looked down and smiled. The thing wore Gibson’s face.
oyt Hefti’s ninetieth birthday was coming right up, and the founder of Layboy Enterprises and framer of the Layboy Philosophy was not planning to let the occasion go by unnoticed. He liked parties and held them constantly, filling the Layboy Mansion with curvaceous Laymates from recent years, as well as all the sports and cinema celebrities he could invite. The Big Nine-O would be special, far more exciting and extravagant than his other bacchanals. The occasion surely merited it, but that was not all. For Hef’s fortunes had begun to fade, his gleam to tarnish, in recent decades. For one thing, the competition was fierce. At first he had to deal with rival sex magazines, more of them every year, and most of these did not bother with his own Layboy’s “tasteful” and “artistic” approach. His competitors tended to be down and dirty, going straight for the sex, the cruder the better. After all, what was the whole point of such a magazine? The interviews in Layboy were interminably long, the “party jokes” moronically stupid, the kitschy merchandise too expensive. No, the whole point was sex, and Layboy’s pages didn’t have enough of it to satisfy your average masturbator, whatever his age.