Within seconds, the beast would have him. The cruel teeth would rip at his flesh, pulling him deeper into the creature’s maw. His only hope was that the end would be relatively quick, for it most certainly would not be painless.
Chuck, however, thudded onto something hard and solid. The sudden jolt flared pain through his body and his lungs expelled their air in one sudden burst. The tube on the light fixture popped, releasing a puff of gas while slivers of glass bit into Chuck’s arms and legs. Somewhere behind him, there was a mighty splash and Chuck realized what had happened before he even opened his eyes.
Forward momentum had carried him through the air before gravity slammed his body onto the checkerboard floor, delivering him from the monster’s jaws. His soaked clothes reconstituted the thick dust into mud and Chuck rolled over onto his back, gasping for air as he stared up at the ceiling. When his heart no longer felt as though it were jackhammering against his sternum, he lumbered to his feet, intending to take one last look at the swamp that had almost claimed his life.
The trail of rotting pumpkins and stagnant water, however, was gone. There was nothing but hallway again, as firm and unbroken as the section he’d landed upon. The lockers on either side, though, glistened as water trickled down their doors, offering the only shred of evidence that anything other than tile had ever been there.
“You’ll have to try harder than that.” Chuck addressed the school as if it were a living entity, raising his middle finger as he spoke. “Motherfucker.”
Turning, the man walked through the double doors and entered the lunchroom. As soon as he was within its confines, the hallway winked out of existence. There was no longer a doorway bridging the gap; there was only a continuous circle of darkness with the spotlighted table in its center.
Chuck noticed that the object resting atop the table was, indeed, a bag. It looked like a single piece of burlap with the sides gathered at the top and tied off with a section of rope. The bottom of the bag ballooned out, telling him that there was not only something within the bag, but that it was also fairly big.
Reaching toward the rope, Chuck’s fingers coaxed their way into the knots, loosening them within seconds. He unwound the cord and the sides of the crude bag fell away, revealing what had been hidden within. A severed head stared at him with unblinking eyes; its mouth was a thin, tight line with narrow lips bordered by a brown goatee that was just beginning to show the first streaks of gray. The face was one Chuck knew intimately and for a moment he could only look at it, all words and thoughts obliterated by his discovery.
“What the hell?” he finally stammered.
Picking up the head with both hands, Chuck studied the faint pockmarks left by adolescent acne. The mole on the right cheek, the little crease between the eyebrows, and the tiny scar at the corner of the right eye: He knew all these features well, for he looked at them every day in the mirror. The severed head contained within the bag was his own.
It was heavier than he’d thought a head would be. Probably nine or ten pounds. The flesh felt elastic and cold against his palms and he raised it to eye level, surprised by the sense of detachment that washed over him.
He was studying the striations of the iris, admiring the flecks of gold peppered among the emerald green and wondering how he’d never noticed them before when the pupils contracted. The mouth dropped open and the detached head drew in a sharp gasp of air, despite the fact that it had no lungs. When it spoke, the voice was a thin, raspy wheeze.
“It’s found you.” The head sounded tired, as though it had clung to the vestiges of life for centuries, waiting to deliver its message. “It’s found you and is coming. Beware. It’s found you.”
Within the skull, a rattling emerged. The sound quickly built to a crescendo as insects scuttled out of the thing’s mouth and nose. Tapered abdomens reflected light as the multitude of legs sprouting from segmented exoskeletons scampered over Chuck’s arms. He wanted to toss the head away, to throw it as far as he could, but his hands seemed as though they’d somehow fused with the sides of the skull.
The insects swarmed out of the head, thronging over Chuck in a steady stream. His arms had completely disappeared beneath the teeming mass of bugs as they scurried over his shoulders and thousands of legs tickled his neck and chin as he whirled, shaking his head in an attempt to fling the insects away.
But there were simply too many; they poured out of the head’s orifices and darted over his body, their shells clicking and clacking as they swarmed over him. Chuck bit back a scream as the insects pushed against his lips, knowing if he opened his mouth they would flock inside, burrowing into his lungs and throat, laying eggs in the soft tissue as his chest cavity writhed with densely packed bodies.
He reeled blindly: twisting, spinning, and thrashing his head from side to side, retching as he choked down bitter bile, and stumbling over his own feet.
Tiny legs forced themselves between his lips, stinging and pinching flesh that already felt numb and swollen, demanding entrance into their new nest. A pair of insects wriggled into either nostril, their bodies restricting air flow as they crammed into Chuck’s nose. Others followed and within seconds his sinuses were entirely clogged; their exoskeletons scraped against the sensitive lining and his eyes watered as blood oozed between their bodies and trickled down his upper lip.
His lungs demanded air, but his face was a mask of squirming insects, each one prepared to dart inside the moment an opening presented itself. Lack of oxygen kicked panic into overdrive and Chuck tripped as he flailed, tumbling to the ground as the colony continued swarming out of the severed head attached to his hands.
Chuck couldn’t hold his breath any longer. The strangled scream burnt his vocal cords and his mouth flew open, releasing the cry as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat-soaked sheets slid off his glistening body and his hands slapped at his face, swatting away the phantom tickling of legs that were no longer there. Huffing the cool air in his bedroom, his heart raced as his eyes darted about the room. Taking in the familiar sight of his alarm clock at a glance, he barely registered the red LEDs informing him that it was two in the morning. Instead, his eyes scanned the room, leaping from object to object as his mind sought comfort in objects that were commonplace and ordinary. His bedside table, the faint glow of a streetlight filtering around the edges of the drapes, the mirrored dresser nestled against the far wall: He was home.
A dream…
It had only been a nightmare. Not a Crossfade. Not another fucked up assignment from The Institute. Only a run of the mill, everyday nightmare.
Chuck collapsed onto his pillow and tried to calm his breathing as he stared up at the ceiling. By the time the sweat on his body had begun to cool, he’d regained his composure and he sat up again, flicking on the lamp beside his bed. And there, crawling across the table, was an insect with a tapered body and dozens of hairlike legs sprouting from its segmented exoskeleton.
It was solid for a fraction of a second. Then it faded, growing more and more transparent until nothing but the polished oak of the nightstand remained. But in the back of his mind, Chuck heard the severed head wheeze its warning.
It’s coming for you…
Chapter 2
Without the steady hiss of his Sleeper’s ventilator, Chuck’s office was unusually quiet. Nodens had died during the night a couple days earlier; his body had been unhooked from the IVs that had kept the terminally ill patient in an induced coma, the instrumentation that monitored his vitals had been unclipped from the leads, and the breathing apparatus powered down. His body had been wheeled out hours before Chuck’s shift had begun; by the time he arrived at his office, the hospital bed had been stripped of sheets and pillows, the silver railings lowered, and the plastic bed liner sprayed with a disinfectant, which flooded the room with a pine scent.
Normally, the Sleeper would have been immediately replaced with another. As a Level I Recon and Enforcement Technician—or Whisk, as they were more commonly called—Chuck’s job dep
ended on it. But there had been a shortage lately. For some reason, fewer people were willing to sign over the remainder of their lives so surviving relatives could continue on with financial security. Some claimed it was ethically and morally wrong to subject their loved ones to a funeral service that was nothing more than a ruse. Others were more direct, pointing out that infighting over inheritance had flared the moment the word inoperable passed the doctor’s lips; these individuals didn’t want to leave a single penny to people who measured an entire lifetime in dollars, cents, and material possessions. Most, however, didn’t give the recruiters a reason. They simply stuck to their guns, repeatedly saying no despite substantial increases in the promised payout.
Without the data provided by a Sleeper’s vitals and the recordings of the ghostly voices that spoke through them, there was no way to pinpoint the location of a Crossfade. Since Chuck’s primary job responsibility was journeying into the ethereal realm and helping the souls who’d become trapped in those spaces, there was little to occupy his time while he waited for Nodens’s replacement to be issued.
The first day had been spent catching up on paperwork, ensuring that his postoperation briefings were as thorough and detailed as possible. Most of the information would be skimmed over by his superiors, the key points being summarized in high-level overviews presented at The Institute’s biweekly stakeholders meetings. Occasionally, though, some reports were pulled for quality audits. These scores factored highly into a Whisk’s year-end review, which impacted not only how much of a raise the technician received but also what percentage of the annual incentive bonus they were entitled to. Because of this, Chuck was initially grateful for the additional time to work on them.
An hour into this morning’s shift, however, all of his outstanding reports had been refined, finalized, and submitted for sign-off. He’d tried to putter about his office, but the furnishings were so sparse—and the overnight cleaning crew so thorough—that his efforts amounted to nothing more than adjusting the angle of the Buddha fountain in the corner, turning it by a fraction of an inch so he could more easily see the gurgling waters from the other side of the room.
With that task completed, Chuck eyeballed the couch he laid upon every time he guided himself into a meditative state and freed his consciousness from his body. He’d stifled yawns all morning long and he was so tired that his muscles seemed to have the consistency of spaghetti. He shuffled through his office as if in slow motion, gazing at his surroundings through the grainy veil that haunts the vision of the sleep deprived. Taking a nap was tempting; the tasseled pillows and plush sofa looked so inviting…but Chuck couldn’t fully commit to the notion. He was being paid for the time he spent in his little office and the mere thought of sleeping on the job made his cheeks warm with shame. He wasn’t a slacker. He wasn’t a goldbricker. He was a professional, damn it, and would behave accordingly—even if there really wasn’t anything for him to do.
To solve this dilemma, Chuck had gone down to Theoretical Positioning and borrowed a chess set from Jewel. The handbook, after all, recommended strategic games as a pastime since they forced participants to think ahead instead of blindly reacting. So, he rationalized, playing chess could at least be considered work-related.
With the board set up before him, Chuck sat in lotus position on the carpet with his legs crossed and each foot resting comfortably atop the opposite thigh. He took his opening move, sliding the white knight two squares up and one to the left, and glanced at the camera perched in the corner of the room.
“Your move, Control.”
For a moment, the speaker embedded in the ceiling only hissed, though Chuck thought he could hear the woman’s tongue faintly clucking against the roof of her mouth as she considered her options.
“Knight to F6,” she finally said, mirroring Chuck’s stratagem. As he repositioned the ebony horsehead, she continued. “You okay, Chuck? I hate to say it, but you look like shit, buddy.”
He knew she was right. Dark bags drooped beneath his bloodshot eyes and his skin had an ashen quality, as though colorization had been bleached out overnight. Trying to catch up on sleep, he’d hit the snooze button on the alarm repeatedly, drifting in and out of consciousness until he couldn’t put off getting up any longer. As a result, his clothes were wrinkled and the areas of his chin and neck not covered by his goatee were darkened with stubble. Advancing one of his pawns two spaces, Chuck rubbed his eyes with a balled fist and yawned.
“Yeah. Not been sleeping too well this week. Seems like every time I close my eyes I have a nightmare. It’s just starting to catch up with me, that’s all.”
“Pawn to E6.” Control’s voice was tinged with concern, her brow most likely furrowed as she leaned over the microphone. “Anything you need to talk about?”
“Actually,” Chuck responded as he pondered his next move, “there is. I’m wise to you, Control. All this chatter? You’re trying to throw me off my game. Won’t work, though. I’ve got this.”
Though she probably rolled her eyes, Control waited for Chuck to make his move before continuing.
“Seriously, buddy…you know what the handbook says about bad dreams.”
Indeed, he did. According to protocol, chronic nightmares should have been promptly reported to his supervisor since prolonged exposure to Crossfades could occasionally result in a mild form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Chuck, however, didn’t relish the thought of delving into the innermost areas of his psyche while The Institute’s resident shrink nodded and scribbled in her notebook. If he were going to be on a couch, it would damn well be the one he used to do his job.
“It’s not an issue, Control.” His tone was sharper than he intended. “Are you going to play or what?”
“Jeez, no need to bite my head off. Bishop to E7. I’m just worried about you.”
As she spoke, the telephone in Control’s office rang and staccato bursts of chirping came across the open com. With the link left active, Chuck heard her chair creak and when Control next spoke, her words were muffled by distance.
“Command Center, L5 speaking. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Yes, we’ll be there immediately.”
Chuck arched his eyebrows as he looked at the camera, patiently waiting for an explanation.
“Hey, buddy, the Director wants to see both of us in the conference room ASAP. And he didn’t sound happy, so we better get a move on.”
Standing, Chuck exited his office and entered a hallway evenly spaced with doors, each requiring a retinal scan before it would unlock. These were the offices of other Whisks and he passed six of them before entering the section of hall reserved for Command Center suites. A door marked L5 swung open as he neared it and a woman with blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail joined him; a smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and accentuated her high cheekbones as she smoothed her black skirt with her hands.
“Know what this is about, Control?”
Though he smiled back, a small part of Chuck withered every time he laid eyes upon this woman. She looked so much like her sister, Lydia, the lost soul he’d tried to rescue from a particularly nasty Crossfade and ended up falling in love with. It was easier when Control was nothing more than a disembodied voice monitoring him through cameras; actually seeing her caused all the memories to flood back into his mind, painfully reminding Chuck that the woman he loved had crossed The Divide while he remained in the physical world, waiting for the day they would be together again.
“No clue. Sounded important, though.”
The hallway terminated at a door set between two plate-glass windows. Venetian blinds hid the room from curious eyes, but unlike the offices this door had no special security measures. It opened without hesitation, leading into a room with plush brown carpet. A whiteboard covered with equations and scientific notations dominated the far wall and a television perched atop a rolling cart sat off to the side, its screen frozen on a picture of The Institute’s official seal. Conference tables formed the shape of a squared horse
shoe, each one embedded with Ethernet and USB ports along the far edge. Wheeled chairs ringed the tables, but Chuck was momentarily distracted by the open box of donuts near the center of the configuration: festively colored sprinkles contrasted against white frosting, globs of raspberry jelly and Bavarian cream oozed from dimples in powdered sugar, and flakes of glaze shined like treasure beneath the overhead track lighting.
Convincing souls who didn’t truly believe they were dead to cross The Divide wasn’t the hardest part of the job as far as Chuck was concerned; that distinction was reserved for the strict diet Whisks were expected to observe, one which excluded refined sugars and excessive carbs. It had been close to a decade since he’d relished the sweet bliss of a pastry on his tongue; yet his mouth still watered at the mere sight of them and his stomach growled, protesting the unbuttered, whole-wheat toast that was his customary breakfast.
“You look terrible, Grainger.” Director Murphy sounded as serious as he looked. The man was dressed in his usual tweed jacket and his bald head appeared shiny; he peered at Chuck through horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes seeming to burrow into Chuck’s soul.
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
Chuck and Control took seats across from their boss and for the first time, Chuck noticed the little girl sitting beside the man. Braided pigtails brushed the tops of her shoulders and her skin was a rich, cocoa color that perfectly complemented her dark eyes. She couldn’t have been older than eleven, but her expression conveyed a gravity not normally seen in one so young.
“Allow me to introduce Miss Marilee Williams.” The girl nodded her head by way of greeting as the Director spoke, her eyes sparkling as she studied the couple sitting across from her. “Marilee is on loan from Physical Research and Anomalies. You’ll be working together closely in the coming days, so I don’t want to hear any reports of patronizing or condescending attitudes. Especially from you, Grainger. Do I make myself clear?”
The Realms of the Dead Page 14