“You know, I never could figure these things out. I just take two pieces of paper like this,” he reached for a couple Post-It notes, “and slide them through the slot. Voilá! Together forever, no staple. Amazing.”
A bead of sweat glistened on Clayton’s brow, traversing furrowed creases in his forehead’s contours. His eyes bulged, burrowing into the console before him. The vessels near his nose and cheekbones clogged with blood sent from the straining jugulars bursting on his neck. Magnus employees referred to this expression as the Clayton Glower.
On Clayton’s first day of work, a jokester had asked him to find the ID for creature SKF-412—a silly trick since that happened to be the ID. Clayton, unable to detect sarcasm, eager to bolster his reputation, offered to help and pursued the assignment with wild abandon. Two days later, he provided a seventy-two page document detailing the creature (a Class 4 Gremlin) and actually went and met with SKF-412 to run a full psychiatric profile. Prior to this document, no one knew that Class 4 Gremlins could communicate, nor that they had highly reactive psychic properties, and if provoked, could foretell distant, future events. This little incident eventually led to the creation of an entirely new department dedicated to Gremlin research and outreach. And all the while, any time someone attempted to interrupt him during his Gremlin tirade, he would just glower at them as if they were a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe. Thus, the Clayton Glower was born.
And Trevor loved it.
“Clayton…how’d the specters get in anyway?” he said.
Clayton broke eye contact from the screen and turned his glower on Trevor. A hair or two on the back of Trevor’s neck made feeble efforts to tremble in fear, or perhaps cautious curiosity—not a small reaction given Trevor’s stalwart resolve.
“Whoa there, Clayton, I was just asking how some specters could get into Facility 7, given your track record. There’s no blame to pass around. You keep all the gobbly ghouls in check! I don’t envy you,” Trevor said.
He caught a glimpse of the containment doors behind Clayton’s desk. There existed every manner of horrifying monster beyond that thin threshold. That, and an isolation hallway nearly a mile long.
Clayton inhaled, swelling his chest, froze, then permitted the air to escape through his nostrils.
“That’s just it, Trevor—I haven’t the slightest idea. I recently installed an optimized spectral fence in F7’s perimeter security system. It quite literally reduces the chance of this level of infestation to less than a tenth of a percent. That, coupled with no leaks from our containment facility, should make any unauthorized specter presence impossible, anywhere. It’s as if they materialized from within Facility 7.
“I want you to be especially careful with the Spectral Securer—I’m not quite sure what we’re dealing with. Their readings appear within presumed standards, but their origin is far outside assessable risk.”
Trevor smiled and said, “They’re dirty little things and love your vacuum. I’m sure they will dive at the chance of getting sucked off.”
Clayton’s focus changed to his monitor before Trevor’s comment had a chance to bypass Clayton’s humor filters. He made a series of gentle taps on the screen and in an almost cartoonish arc, swung his index finger down, engaging the monitor with a satisfying thud. Behind him a door swung open adjacent to the containment facility.
“Come with me—it’s time to suit up,” Clayton said.
“I love suit and tie occasions.”
Clayton stepped away from his standing desk and checked various parts of his maintenance uniform, from the crisp, long-sleeved cuffs to the single piece of pocketed coverall that swaddled his dress shirt and slacks. He exhibited an executive janitorial quality, befitting, Trevor supposed, Clayton’s unusual position as Chief Paranormal Officer.
Trevor followed Clayton into a lengthy, narrow storage room lined with shelved contraptions and lockers and file cabinets. Clayton stopped before a pod unit about his height that held an eye-level viewing window. Inside, lit by a nauseating yellow light, a suit stared back at them. Its mask suggested it had been designed for hazmat workers. Sewn throughout the arms and legs, flexible, mechanical tubes—inlaid with knobs, buttons and various control devices—wound like an infectious disease.
“Ah, there she is. I missed you baby—can’t wait to get back inside you,” Trevor said.
Clayton ignored him. “You know the drill Trevor—just point your hands into the specter cloud and the suit will do the rest. Try to place yourself within the cloud, as uncomfortable as that may be. When it has detected no noticeable specter presence, it will provide an auditory signal and cease to operate until triggered again.”
“Yup—got it.”
Clayton punched thirteen digits into the pod’s control panel resulting in an unlocking hiss. The pod’s door trudged open after a sharp pop. Vapor from the cooling system drizzled out of the unit as Clayton pulled the door open wider, fully revealing the deflated suit that looked as though it was enjoying a prolonged nap.
Trevor went to work donning the suit, first unzipping it from top to bottom, then stepping into the boots. He zipped up each leg and felt the suit’s auto-suction mechanism fitting them to his exact dimensions—like a glove. The helmet locked into a circular housing, sealing him inside, triggering the display HUD to overlay the mask’s polycarbonate viewing window. It displayed a number of system audits, scrolling through codes and output messages Trevor intended never to commit to memory. It finished up with a green checkmark and asked Trevor to walk five steps in the four cardinal directions as it performed final calibrations. He did so. All was in working order.
“I keep forgetting how heavy this thing is,” Trevor said.
Clayton didn’t respond.
Trevor realized he’d forgotten to turn on the voice repeater system—the suit was aurally insulated within and without, a protective measure against paranormal attacks that utilized vibration.
“Surry, may I have some sound please? Both ways for now,” Trevor said.
An icon of a tiny speaker projected onto the transparent console.
“Hello there Clayton, how are you?” Trevor said.
Clayton turned to Trevor. Reflected on the inside of the helmet, a glow near Trevor’s chin cast a spooky light on his face—he considered telling Clayton a ghost story, but the previous fourteen attempts ended in disappointing, dismal reactions. Enough was enough—Clayton was the keeper of ghosts, after all.
“Pleasantries aside, you have work to do,” Clayton said.
“Always so uptight, Clayton! We need to get you a woman,” Trevor said.
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
They made their way out of the supply hallway back to Clayton’s desk and walked passed the containment facilities.
“Clayton, can we? Please—can we?”
“Not this again,” Clayton said, chin falling to his chest.
“C’mon! I know you keep him out of the isolation chamber.”
Though terrible, horrifying creatures resided within Magnus’ walls, some were downright delightful. Clayton had formed a special bond with one such creature, who happened to be of a lucky sort.
“Trevor, you do realize that he possesses no magic without the end of a rainbow.”
Trevor sighed as Clayton’s fangs sunk into his jugular, draining all enthusiasm.
“Yes, but the little guy lifts me up. That has to count for some form of luck, rainbow or not.”
“Right.”
Clayton made an abrupt turn toward his desk. A touchscreen, embedded in the desk’s countertop, displayed an array of images depicting drawers, lockers, cabinets and other storage types. He tapped on a simple, square shape that presented him a numeric pad on which he typed a long code. Trevor raised an eyebrow when a thick, clear acrylic receptacle slid from the perfectly smooth aluminum wall.
“There he is!” Trevor said.
A miniature man, inches tall, dressed in a fuzzy green jacket dotted with
golden buttons, topped off with lederhosen and cap, bounced around the container.
“Jesus, can he breath in there?” Trevor said.
“You are assuming he breathes,” Clayton said.
Trevor walked to the receptacle, leaning in for a closer look. Staring back, the quintessential definition of a leprechaun waved in throes of excitement.
“How’s my favorite leprechaun in the whole worl—“
“Only,” Clayton said.
Trevor cleared his throat.
“How’s…the only leprechaun in the whole world doing today?”
The doll-sized figure gestured for Trevor to open the lid. Trevor moved his hand to the latch.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Clayton said.
“What could it hurt?”
He opened it.
Up sprung the leprechaun with enviable aerobatic grace. He landed atop the lid, arms extended as if ready to hug.
“Trevor! Long time, my good boy!” said the leprechaun—it goes without saying that he spoke in a thick Irish brogue, though high-pitched considering the size of his wind-pipes.
“Listen, I’m about to go do my usual dangerous, life-threatening routine. Mind if I give that belly of yours a rub—for good luck?”
The leprechaun smiled wide, sticking the paunch of his stomach out. Trevor gave it a Pillsbury tickle.
“Thanks! Now give me a tiny handshake and I’ll be on my way,” Trevor said.
Trevor presented his index finger to the creature, who awkwardly shook it up and down with both his hands.
“Ah, it’s been a long time since you let me out Clayton.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Clayton said.
“Too late!”
And he was gone.
Clayton shrugged.
“I knew it—you can never trust a mythical spirit.”
“Well, at least when you find him, you know it’ll be good luck,” Trevor replied.
“Yeah.”
11
Trevor avoided Clayton’s eyes as Clayton left to search for the leprechaun. A nearby HyperLoop station posed a ten-minute walk with his hefty getup. He kept to unoccupied hallways—being alone cleared his mind before assignments. Plus, his suit could scare the needles off a porcupine.
Trevor had shone as a bright blip on Magnus’ recruitment radar early in his childhood. The discovery of his genius emerged during 3rd grade when his teacher had caught him nose-deep in Flowers for Algernon and, thinking it a joke, told him to put away the book. Trevor, bored to tears with lectures of basic math and grammar, asked the teacher to select a random page, of which he retrieved a mental photograph and from it, effortlessly recited the text word for word. Trevor had demonstrated a perfect eidetic memory.
Upon shaming aptitude test after aptitude test, the National Council for Gifted Children determined Trevor’s 8-year-old intellect surpassed those earning PHDs and made immediate plans to transform his school curriculum. Trevor’s parents—loving, though of average means and skill—decided against this and instead desired their little boy to grow up as little boys do—with friends and family and healthy social interaction.
The council expressed their disapproval, citing the important contributions children like Trevor can make to society, and pleaded with his parents to, at minimum, provide him a supplemental tutor. They agreed, and Trevor entered home-schooled college at the tender of age eight, using elementary school as a facade for social interaction.
Years fled. His parent’s intuition proved correct: Trevor exceeded intellectually as well as socially—a rarity among geniuses. Though he earned his master’s degree whilst attending his freshman year of “high school,” he remained there to lead two varsity teams—basketball and football—and earn the homecoming-king crown. He entered Yale that same year to focus on a dual PHD in Pathology and Physics.
He completed both PHDs in three years.
At eighteen-years old, the world lay spread wide before him, and his ambitions ran high with sights set on a Nobel prize. He accepted an offer to work at Harvard, where he spent four years developing algorithms that modeled viral transmissions. There he met Ethan Holmes, a mysterious military official.
Holmes struck Trevor as peculiar. His military service uniform, with jet-black blazer and white-collared tie, bore unusual decorations: aside from hundreds of tiny striped and wildly colorful awards arrayed in a fantastical grid on his breast, he also wore a small patch on his right arm with a silhouette of an eye and ankh—a symbol Trevor never knew a U.S. Military official to advertise.
Ethan had buzzed around Trevor, hovering at odd hours of Trevor’s work day and social events. Trevor tolerated this for a time, but Ethan relentlessly circled, and soon Trevor wanted to swat him—that is, until Trevor’s department encountered a devastating budget deficit. As Trevor teetered on the brink of unemployment, Ethan appeared with a lucrative grant providing enough money to keep the research facility operational. Holmes, connected to Harvard’s wealthiest elite, had earned Trevor’s trust.
Thereafter, Ethan presented Trevor with a position at a private research firm whose facility outshone Harvard’s and promised to catch the Nobel Foundation’s eye. Trevor took the job. He knew little of his new employer, Magnus, and their immense, far-reaching power. He excelled in the organization, which challenged him on enticing new levels. They trained him as soldier; they tasked him as a scientist; and they upheld him as an exemplary blend of the two.
Once he’d fulfilled his probation, Magnus revealed to him their true purpose: the preservation of rituals. They explained in detail the world-altering consequences that would result if they failed. For all the training and natural talent he possessed, nothing had prepared him for these shocking revelations.
Though he still focused on algorithmic models, the goal had shifted: rather than modeling viral transmission, he modeled hormonal transference in humans. Magnus also tasked him with researching methods to control paranormal phenomena. This had led to the design of the ghost-vapor-sucking hazmat suit he now wore.
Trevor arrived at the HyperLoop entry. A placard adorning an embossed “403” aluminum cutout hung above a pair of double-wide doors decorated by slanted porthole windows. These windows ran along a diagonal divider where the doors separated—diagonal doors take some getting used to, as Trevor discovered his first time riding the HyperLoop.
The loop provided Magnus employees near instant access to any part of the massive operations compound. All ritual facilities, field centers, administrative offices, training areas, lodging, food—everything resided within a minute’s trip (no small feat considering they were often miles apart). Each HyperLoop carriage floated atop a hyper-conductive air cushion that created a nominal friction coefficient nearly ten-thousandth of a percent. Nuclear resonated electromagnets provided acceleration and deceleration.
Throughout the world, Magnus maintained an undisclosed number of these compounds, or Departments of Paranormal Rituals, and had named this compound Una Corda. It housed twelve Purgatory monitoring stations and boasted a stellar track record of efficient ritual protocols. Brilliant talent such as Theo Watson III, Trevor himself and countless others had contributed to its success.
A hyper-resolution OLED monitor outlined a map of the HyperLoop’s tube system. The carriage destined for Station 403 displayed a twenty-two second arrival time, indicated by a labeled dot. Magnus kept track of every significant detail—similar maps of the facility tracked all personnel on the premises.
Trevor shifted in his suit. His hand shot down and attempted to rearrange the material around his crotch that had begun to chafe his inner thighs. A nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind. It had nipped at his conscience since his introduction to the rituals.
Convincing oneself that the necessity for human sacrifice outweighed its cost—apocalypse—remained an easy intellectual argument. Emotionally, however, Trevor’s human wiring struggled with such pragmatism.
The hyper display ran an animat
ion informing Trevor of the carriage’s approach. A silver pod snuffed out the portholes of the HyperLoop entrance. Trevor stepped in the pod as the doors slid diagonally into the frame.
12
James’ arms grew weary, his knees slick, puss seeping through his khakis. After an endless journey traversing labyrinthine ducts, he and Olivia arrived at a niche adjoined to a curious wall. A soft, translucent mesh covered a series of peep-holes, offering an unobstructed, private view of the other side. They saw an altar and a group of people gathered around someone on the floor.
Olivia pressed against the wall, and it swung open wide. There stood Anthony, Colette, Keto and Tomas staring back at them.
“What in the bloody hell!” Anthony said.
“Oh, dear God!” Colette said, gripping the fabric of her shirt.
“Shit! It’s just us! Sorry, we should have announced ourselves,” James said.
He threw a condescending look at Olivia. She shrugged.
“Damn, James, we’re happy to see you, but don’t do that again,” Colette said.
“Are you two okay?” Anthony said. “Where were you? You were gone for an hour or more.”
“Yeah, fine. Tired. We fell into a small basement-like space beneath this room. Not sure what it was for, but we found someone down there—”
“Alive?” Tomas said.
Olivia said, “No, dead. Broken legs—not sure the cause of death. They had this on them.”
Olivia presented the card.
“Listen,” James said. “Whatever this place is, I think it’s designed to keep us here. I know this goes without saying, but we need a game plan to figure a way out.”
The injured man lay on the ground, eyes fixed on James with a discomforting intensity.
“And who are you?” James said.
“Horace—” He cleared his throat. “Horace Mann. You are James, I take it? I must thank you for saving me. Anthony and the rest here filled me in on what happened. I apologize—the last few hours are a bit hazy.”
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