Modern Rituals

by J. S. Leonard

  “Susan, tell me we got something,” he said.

  Susan’s furious expression remained locked on the touchscreen, her hands swiping and tapping like mad. An eternity passed.

  “Sorry sir, Super-814N still hasn’t made an appearance, even with Coercive Protocol Three.”

  A deep sigh slithered from Theo’s chest.

  It’s been two hours…two hours! No deaths.

  “What the hell is she thinking?” he said to himself.

  A loud beep emanated from Susan’s terminal. She stilled, her arms and hands idling in mid-air. She frowned.

  Oh dear God, what is it now?

  “Susan, I can’t help but notice it when you see something you don’t like. What’s going on?”

  She tapped the screen, then swiped toward the massive monitor in the front of the station, transferring the contents of her display to HULK, which stole the attention of the room’s 48 occupants.

  Theo’s stomach seized—the constriction forced a wad of bile into his mouth. He chewed it back.

  “You have gotta be kidding me. Spectral interference? Is Clayton sleeping on the job, or something?” Theo said.

  “You know this isn’t Clayton’s fault,” Susan said, then realized she’d spoken out of turn, and tried to recover. “I…uh…yes, sir, perhaps he is.”

  Theo’s eyes might have been X-rays for the stare he gave Susan in response to her retort.

  HULK displayed a topographical map of the school grounds and surrounding area. Seven blue dots moved about: two moving quickly from the southern perimeter, the others paired in different enclosures. The school occupied the dead-center of the round map, surrounded by forest and beyond that, nothing. Three red blotches, representing spectral interference, floated here and there in the forest.

  “We need cleanup ASAP on those specters,” Theo said. How peculiar…and potentially disastrous. “Get Trevor in here, now! Ugh, we gotta call this in.”

  He turned to find General Ethan Holmes gone. He didn’t miss the antagonizing glare of disapproval at which Ethan was a pro, nor protecting his subordinates from its harassment—only a commanding officer could master such a stare.

  Convenient time to step out… That cheeky, babysitting bastard. He’d better not be up to anything.

  Next to Theo resided a tablet with a single purpose: to inform upstairs of anomalies discovered within a ritual. Theo detested the thing—it demonstrated weakness and also possessed the uncanny ability to freak out his superiors, who, when alarmed, could be dangerous—downright lethal, even.

  He stroked the tablet’s aluminum bezel, then drew his pictorial password. The login screen animated into a big, red CALL button. The button’s simple and singular design infuriated Theo since he’d designed it for complete idiots.

  He mashed his finger down on the button—establishing an instantaneous connection like a walkie-talkie—and then leaned into the tablet’s microphone.

  “This is Purgatory 8 reporting. We have a Code 24 and are engaging a cleanup protocol. The situation is under control.”

  A female voice emitted from the device: “Copy—we have noted your report. Please keep us informed as to the outcome of the Code 24. Do you require further assistance?”

  “No, we got it from here. Over and out,” he said, double-tapping the screen, severing the connection.

  Well, now we’re on their radar. I’m sure we can expect a visit from the CO. Or shit, even worse—dammit.

  As Theo hung up, he caught Susan watching him. She quickly rummaged in her desk drawer, found a towelette and wiped her monitor. Susan would remain by him, regardless—he cherished a few true allies within Magnus and Susan was their poster child.

  A good part of a successful ritual meant playing the waiting game. Magnus couldn’t interfere too much, lest they reveal their presence to the God, for which the ceremonial ordinance (a.k.a. ritual) had been declared. This would be bad. Very bad. And would result in the horrific, world-altering consequences they sought to avoid. So far, their record had been stellar: five thousand years and still batting a thousand. Yet, all they could do was set up the pieces in their favor—and hope the ritual succeeded according to the God’s wishes.

  Theo had made a name for himself as an exceptional strategist by devising ironclad tactics. He knew his exact percentage for success: it evolved in his mind as an ever-present calculation, which now declined—and for every downward dip, his systolic rose a point. An inversion of control, if you will.

  “Sir! Super−814N just appeared in the northern grounds of the school, approximately 20 yards from Parts Five and Six!” Susan said.

  Fucking finally.

  Theo’s eyes swiveled to HULK. The two blue dots had moved from the southern perimeter to the center of the school. An ominous green dot materialized north of them at the end of a corridor.

  Do they notice?

  The blue dot moved between the green dot and the third.

  Aw, how heroic.

  In her signature Super-814N fashion, the green dot shot toward them, zigging and zagging as only a zombie girl could.

  Here we go. C’mon baby—don’t let us down…

  The two blue dots dodged left and dashed for the primary classroom building. The green dot continued into the Zen garden—then faded away.

  “What the holy fuck just happened?” Theo said, pounding his fists, “And why are we in ambiguous zoom? Give me some faces Goddammit!”

  Susan nodded, tapped and swiped. Theo remained transfixed on HULK. Participants Five and Six found safety in an alcove, though they were no longer blue dots—instead a high resolution camera feed displayed them in fantastic clarity. They huddled, feverishly talking amongst themselves. Part Six stole a look around the corner of the building, then Part Five ushered them inside the building’s doors.

  Theo fought the urge to throw over his desk. If a kill didn’t take place within the next 13 minutes, 28.53 seconds, his dwindling 97.942% success prediction would plummet three points.

  In the station’s rear corner, three suits stood whispering to each other. Theo ignored them and focused on HULK.

  Purgatory 8’s high-security door bleeped. Three guards positioned at the entrance converged into a fortified formation—just in case. Theo sighed.

  Clicks and clacks and slides and twists announced the door’s coming to life. It slowly marched open. A slit of light outlined a silhouette that became a person—Trevor Banks joined the party.

  “Trevor, my boy! Aren’t we glad to see you…” Theo said.

  Trevor strode into the room, sporting a pair of jet-black fatigues. His presence was overwhelming—if not for his illustrious tan and young, ripped figure, then for his square jaw and charisma that could end an ice age.

  “Don’t be too glad yet,” Trevor said when he reached Theo’s station.

  An intimidating man entered behind Trevor. Decorated in medals, his face chiseled and weathered from battle, he too made his way to Theo.

  Ugh. Ethan.

  “Theo, I must admit, I don’t like these numbers. Will the spectral interference pose a problem?” General Holmes said.

  “No, sir, just a minor inconvenience. I’m sure Trevor here will be more than capable of handling cleanup.”

  Holmes, eyes fixed on Theo, refused to blink and instead squinted at him.

  “Theo, you seem distressed. Are you positive this is moving as planned?”

  Theo wiped all doubt from his face. “Absolutely, sir,” he said.

  Susan broke the tension with some good news.

  “Sir! Super-814N just appeared. She seems to be in pursuit of Part Seven,” she said.

  The saggy weight on Theo’s chest lifted. He swung around, identifying Part Seven’s position. Not far from the classroom building.

  Thank God.

  “Susan, we need to make things a little tougher for our friends. It’s time to turn out the lights,” Theo said.

  4

  It was the bloody dream again.

  A mo
ist pillow licked Olivia’s neck and a soaked nightgown clung to her in stabbing chills. A comforter was near her feet—no, it was across the room, strewn like tossed dough over her footboard. She had unfurled the corner of her fitted bed sheet and had entangled it in her feet.

  Bollocks.

  She slid her head up her headboard and pulled her back tight against it then shoved her pillow under the small of her back. The bed sheet flew from her feet after a few concerted kicks—she drew her knees into her chest and floated in the darkness.

  The darkness.

  It had engulfed her. She recalled the penultimate image of her mother, standing within a black void, arms outstretched, calling to her. Then an absence—not black—but a color devoid of light. It receded from her mind’s eye as she wended through the dream stuff and replayed the vision—no, a dream, not a vision—a dream, right?

  A leather tunic had draped her chest. Only it was hadn’t been her—it had been someone else that “she” had inhabited. The leather’s gritty underside scraped at her where folded skin—her armpits, her bosom—lay tight against the material. It even itched—she had never itched during a dream. These sensations came to her through an unfamiliar channel, like a game of telephone, where the experience was manifested from a whisper rather than truly felt.

  It was weird.

  Then she was off, carried in a fleshy vehicle that dashed and danced along a lengthy corridor. Two forms traveled with her—they all followed an enormous figure whose naked torso rippled and tensed with each imposing stride. Upon the figure’s arms golden bangles sparkled, and these were all she could focus upon through the mask’s eye holes—her “head” refused to move.

  More senses spoke to her. The shaft of something heavy and wooden weighed down her left hand, and by chance, her head stole a glance at the object: an ornate bow of intricate leaf carvings that swirled and wrapped its frame. An almost imperceptible, taut string pulled the bow’s long limbs tight and looked as though it could slice steel. Her head looked away. She was now in a vast throne room.

  Images sped by. A man in black. Weapons. Yelling—and falling. Darkness. It was then she realized she no longer occupied another’s body—she no longer occupied any body. There was no earth. No gravity—only an alien lightness, as if the cosmos and Earth swapped places and she wafted in the space between. And in this limbo her mother appeared then vanished—and she awoke.

  Mum…

  Olivia hadn’t seen her mother in months and they rarely spoke. Belfast proved too far and her mother far too busy. Jordan had left—with his mother now, she assumed, or perhaps with that hussy who stole him from her—maybe both. She reflected on the day she recommended they move to Belfast, her good intentions paving a road to hell. Oh well—she’d manage. She always managed.

  On Olivia’s 18th birthday, her mother acted totally out of sorts, left work early and took her to dinner. There they got legless over peppermint schnapps and eventually found themselves fireside in her mother’s town house having moved on to a bottle of syrupy Petite Syrah. Choking between laughs, her mother had mentioned Olivia’s grandmother, of whom she spoke little—it caught Olivia off guard and Olivia’s laughs settled into a serious stupor. Her mother explained that Olivia’s Nanna had a gift—a gift that skipped generations, sometimes more than one—a gift of sight, of seeing beyond reality’s veil. Her mother didn’t subscribe to such tosh, but there she was, divulging like a drunken sailor.

  “Listen Olive,” Susan, her mother, had said. “If you’d have met your nan, you two would have been the best of friends.” Susan touched her throat and fought a hiccup. “It’s a shame she went a bit nutter toward the end—with those dreams and all.”

  “Dreams?” They sat on the floor near the fireplace’s warmth. Olivia scooted closer to her mother and her skin grew toasty and stung.

  “Ah yea, the dreams!” Susan slapped the air. “All my life she complained about them—got worse as she aged. I just think it was dementia later on—but I can’t explain her gift, telling when people were sick.”

  Olivia discovered she shared the gift a few years later.

  “What’s this gift?” Olivia rubbed her arm to cool the burn.

  “Oh yea…the gift. The strangest thing, your nan could, like, tell when people were ill. Seen it myself, I did. She’d diagnose random folks in our neighborhood, ‘Jim, go get yourself checked out for Crohn’s,’ and ‘Nancy, you’ve got a good bit of inflammation in your shoulder—take this.’” Susan said. “Your nan never studied medicine, but she was always right with these prognoses—always helping anyone and everyone.”

  “Sounds amazing.” Olivia picked up her glass of wine and took a sip, holding her gaze on her Mother over the glass’ crystal rim.

  “It was,” Susan said. “I remember I had a friend when I was a young lass: a boy named Anthony. He’d drop by to play and would get into these fits, grabbing his tummy like it was on fire. Your nan took one look at him and rushed him to the hospital. Turns out it wasn’t a belly ache, it was the start of a deadly heart condition. He received treatment soon enough and got better…I wonder whatever happened to him.”

  “How come you’ve never told me of these stories before?” Olivia said. “These are great.”

  “Oh you know me…barely any time to shower, let alone talk about the past,” Susan said. “And as great as these stories are, your nan had a certain darkness in her that frightened me.”

  Olivia shifted her weight to her right and shook alive her left leg.

  “What do you mean?”

  Susan watched the fire as its flames curled around three chunked logs and filed high into the chimney.

  “In the hospice, toward the end, your nan would often wake up screaming her head off about fighting valiant battles, about being a champion, about old gods, and about creatures, terrifying creatures…all kinds of nonsense, y’ know?” Susan said, still staring into the fire. “She’d get this look in her eyes—that kind of look a soldier gets on the battlefield: of having seen death and reckoned with it. Seen that look all through my life—and at the oddest time, like full moons and certain holidays. Me and auntie Claire knew to stay away during those times—hell, that’s one of the reasons why I left home so early. Never looked back, really, until your nan got sick.”

  Olivia realized that the hairs on her arms were upright despite the fire’s heat.

  “I mean, she wasn’t a bad person—the opposite, actually—I had my own issues too,” Susan said and looked at Olivia, then touched Olivia’s arm. “You remind me of her sometimes—the good parts, that is.”

  The tips of her mother’s fingers brushed against Olivia’s skin, causing a slight tingle that snowballed into an arm-crawling chill. It tickled. And comforted her.

  Olivia smiled. The chill calmed and her cheeks felt puffy and hot. She was drawn to this story and dared to inquire more before one of her mother’s million other duties took precedence over the lovely evening.

  “So…this gift, it skipped generations?”

  Susan drained the last half of her wine and turned the glass in her hand, inspecting the viscous, purple residue that coated its inside. “Good stuff…” she said and returned her gaze to Olivia. “Yea—who knows—maybe you have it too,” Susan said and laughed. “But honestly—Mom would go on and on about how special we were, about how her great, great granddad had the gift as well, and how his grandmother had it and so on.”

  “Oh, it’s not just women?” Olivia picked up the bottle of Syrah, gauging the remaining content—enough for two more glasses—and then refilled her mother’s glass.

  “Apparently not—oh, that’s enough dear,” Susan said and placed her hand on top of her glass. “I need to wake up bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Sorry—Special?” Olivia said. “You aren’t going to tell me our family descends from a band of gypsies with magical powers, are you?”

  “God no. Nothing like that.” Susan said. “Your nan said there were others like her spread about the
world—and that they were all as rare as pink-star diamonds…and important. Never explained why—I assumed she just meant how they could help others. But, enough about this rubbish.” She leaned in close to Olivia and raised her voice a pitch. “Are there any boys in your life?”

  Olivia attempted to steer the conversation back onto her grandmother, but when her mother decided to change a subject, it stayed changed. The evening ended soon thereafter and became but a cherished memory. Of course, now she knew her grandmother hadn’t been crazy, or if she was, then that craziness infected Olivia as well. Still, Olivia wasn’t as extreme as her gran—she couldn’t switch on her gift, it came when it damn well felt like it. And the dreams: they were enough to melt nerves of steel into a gooey puddle.

  She desperately wished to have met her grandmother—her unanswered questions upset her stomach. She feared her gift and its untold potential—and feared its toll on her sanity. Perhaps one day she’d prick her finger on a needle in a haystack and meet another like her.

  The sweat on Olivia’s skin had evaporated and her breathing steadied. Sleep then overtook her, and to her good fortune, she slept dreamless until dawn.

  5

  Horace Mann—in the midst of a blissful evening—found himself transported to an awful place, wearing equally awful cotton flannel. He stood in a pitch-black janitor’s closet—though a moment before he had snuggled beside Thiago, his Brazilian boy-toy, in his Beverly Hills home.

  This companionless quandary befuddled him.

  He also realized something troublesome: an evil lurked within the walls. This place, whatever it was, oozed a murderous intent.

  He gripped his chest as his memory touched upon Thiago’s big, bewitching hazel eyes. A surge of adrenaline extinguished the provocative image. He charged forward—bursting through the closet doors like an imprisoned beast—and collided with a stainless steel counter. His upper body folded atop it, the wind knocked from his chest. He coughed and glanced around. Steel counters, fridges, sinks and cabinets lined the outer edge of the room, though his eyes struggled to distinguish them. What dim light there was came from a wide service-window that opened onto a hall.