by Tim Waggoner
They’re speaking through the firebabies, she thought. She knew what word was next.
“Atone.”
Louder this time, angrier. The sound hurt her ears, the pain like that of a seriously bad ear infection. She clapped her hands over her ears to protect them, but the sound of her doing so sent fresh bolts of pain shooting deep into her ear canals, and she moaned. She gritted her teeth then, and pressed her hands tighter against her ears, not giving a damn if it hurt. She knew another two words were coming.
“OR SUFFER!”
This time the chorus of infant voices seemed to come from inside her brain, and the resulting pain of their furious shout caused her to release a scream of agony. She fell to her knees, hands still pressed against her head, as if to keep it from exploding. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she could no longer see them – the members of the Cabal – but she could feel the weight of their scrutiny on her, as if they were waiting for her to give them the response they were seeking. The problem was, she had no idea what that response might be.
The firebabies’ combined voices seemed to echo forever in the auditorium, but eventually they faded. When they were finally gone, the pain in Lori’s head – far worse than any migraine she’d experienced – began to lessen. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. She rose to her feet, weak and shaky. She spoke then, raising her voice so the assembled Cabal members could hear her, although she had a feeling that she could whisper or even merely think her words, and they would all be able to hear her just fine.
“What is it that you think I’ve done?”
The firebabies remained silent as the Cabal gazed at her, faces impassive. She felt tears of frustration building and as they began sliding down her cheeks, she cried out.
“How can I confess if I don’t know what I’ve fucking done?”
Still no response.
She looked to the Driver. He stood near the bottom of the spiral ledge, where it curved down to meet the floor. She went to him, trying to run but too weak and lightheaded to manage more than a fast shuffle. He said nothing as she drew near, but she saw that the patches of skin over where his eyes should’ve been were pulsating more rapidly than they had been earlier. She didn’t know what, if anything, this might mean.
When she reached the Driver, she almost reached out to grab his arms, intending to shake him, as she demanded to know what the other crimson-robed men and women wanted from her. But at the last instant, she restrained herself. She sensed that touching the Driver would not be safe. Why this should be, she didn’t know, and she preferred not to find out.
“Please, can you tell me what’s going on? Why am I here? What do these—” she hesitated a second before continuing, “—people want?”
She hoped he would answer her. He’d spoken to her in the car with his own voice, so she knew he didn’t need to speak through the mass of firebabies. Like the other members of the Cabal, his expression had been detached, almost clinical, up to this point. Then, without warning, the Driver slapped her. The strike was too swift for her to avoid, the impact so strong that it drove her to her knees. The pain hit her an instant later. It felt as if her jaw was aflame and she wondered if it was broken. She tried to look up at the Driver, but her vision had blurred out of focus, and she could only make out the crimson outline of him. She wanted to ask him why he’d hit her, but she feared that if she spoke, he’d hit her again.
She felt hands take hold of her arms and lift her to her feet. Her legs were too weak to support her, but whoever had hold of her kept her upright. Her head lolled to the left, and she saw a hazy image of a woman’s face – a woman with goat eyes. She looked to the right and saw Officer Rauch, gill slits opening and closing, opening and closing, as if he was excited. Both wore the crimson robes of the Cabal. Deep inside, Lori was scared – fucking terrified – but the Driver’s slap had left her conscious mind too dazed to feel much of anything. She returned her gaze to the Driver and waited to see what he would do next. But he did nothing. He simply stood, arms at his sides, and regarded her. His facial expression was indifferent, but his eye patches pulsated rapidly.
She heard a sound then, a grinding, like stone sliding against stone. The goat-eyed woman and Rauch roughly turned her around, and she saw that in the middle of the auditorium’s floor, directly beneath the red-glowing mass of firebabies, an object was emerging. It wasn’t rising through a hole, though. It was growing, the floor’s substance flowing upward inch by inch to form the shape of a large X. Her jaw still felt as if it was on fire, and she could feel the flesh there beginning to swell. She blinked several times to clear her vision, and while it improved, it remained a trifle blurry. Had the Driver hit her so hard that she had a concussion?
When the X had fully emerged, there were soft rattling sounds, and manacles grew from the top and bottom of the X. She didn’t need to ask what – or who – the restraints were for.
She tried to pull free of Goat-Eyes’ and Rauch’s grip, but they were too strong. That, or she was too weak. The two Cabal members dragged her toward the X-cross, and again she resisted, thrashing and kicking, but her efforts were feeble and ineffective. Goat-Eyes and Rauch pushed her against the cross and arranged her limbs in a spread-eagle position, then – moving with swift efficiency – they locked manacles around her wrists and ankles. When they were finished, they stepped to the sides of the cross. She slumped forward, the manacles keeping her from falling face-first to the floor. They were cold against her skin, and the edges hurt her wrists as the manacles now bore her full weight. She forced herself to stand upright, and although her legs still felt like spaghetti, she managed it. The pain in her wrists lessened immediately.
The Driver had only watched as his two colleagues had chained her to the X-cross, but now he stepped toward her, face still impassive, eye patches pulsating even faster. When he reached her, he stopped, grabbed hold of her nightgown’s bodice, and ripped the flimsy thing off her, the fabric tearing as easily as if it were paper.
“There’s really no point to it,” the Driver said. He lowered his hand and let the torn gown fall to the floor. “It’s not like it left anything to the imagination. Plus, it would just get in the way.”
In the way of what? she thought, but she didn’t really want to know and said nothing.
Several firebabies detached from the mass above her and drifted down to the discarded nightgown. They lowered to within inches of the fabric and trained their glowing gazes on it. Within seconds, small sections of the gown began to blacken and smolder, and then flames appeared. The firebabies floated upward to rejoin the others as the flames spread, growing larger and brighter. Within seconds, the entire garment was ablaze. As quickly as it had started, the fire burned itself out, and the gown was gone, reduced to a scattering of charred ash.
Lori’s mental fogginess had mostly lifted now, and she raised her head to regard the assembled Cabal members – at least the ones she could see from this angle. They demonstrated no reaction to her being naked and chained before them, but maybe this kind of thing was old hat for them. She, however, felt exposed in a way she never had before. Hundreds of people were looking at her nude body, and she could do nothing to cover herself, couldn’t hide from their silent, angry gazes.
It was her turn to get angry now.
“Let me go, you sick fuckers!” she shouted. “You have no right to do this to me! I haven’t done anything wrong!”
The Cabal didn’t react at first, then she heard a soft chuckle come from above her, from one of the firebabies, she guessed. It was followed by a second and a third, and then the entire floating mass of miniature infants was laughing. No more chuckling now, but rather full-throated roaring laughter, which sounded eerily adult coming from their tiny mouths.
Goat-Eyes and Rauch joined in the laughter, and while the Driver didn’t, he did break out in a grin.
“Haven’t done anything?” he said. “My dear, you’ve done ev
erything.”
Another object began to emerge from the floor, this one several feet in front of the X-cross. It was flat and rectangular, and as it rose, Lori realized it was a table. When it was all the way up, a number of smaller shapes formed on its surface, all aligned in neat rows. At first she couldn’t tell what the objects were, but they quickly resolved into specific forms, and she saw they were tools. Some were simple things like hammers and knives, but others were more complex and made her think of medical equipment, and some were bizarrely complex, and she couldn’t guess at their function. These were large and wicked looking, all edges and angles and teeth and spikes, and she suspected they had no analogue in the real world.
“The Intercessor provides,” the Driver said. The firebabies repeated his words, almost as if it were a religious invocation.
The Driver stepped over to the table and perused the instruments displayed upon it. Goat-Eyes and Rauch joined him. They took their time, but eventually each selected one of the tools, pulling it free from the surface of the table with a tug. Goat-Eyes held something that looked like a speculum covered with inch-long spikes. Rauch held a knife with a blade that had been beveled to give it four separate cutting edges. At first, Lori thought the hand that gripped the knife trembled, but then she realized it wasn’t Rauch’s hand that was shaking – it was the blade. The thing quivered in Rauch’s grasp, as if it couldn’t wait to begin cutting into her smooth, unmarked flesh. The Driver had chosen a rod-like device that looked something like a cross between a huge dildo and a cheese grater. He touched a button on the base, and the device began to hum softly. At first she thought it was vibrating, but then she saw it begin to emit a faint orange glow, and she realized the device was heating up – and fast. If it kept going like this, it would soon be white-hot. The dildo-grater didn’t have a protected handle, and she heard the sound of the Driver’s palm flesh start to sizzle, and she smelled burning meat. The Driver’s eye patches thrummed as quickly as hummingbird wings, and his mouth stretched into a wide smile.
Lori couldn’t take her gaze from the trio of horrible instruments the Cabal members held. She felt cold inside, sick, and she shook her head in denial as the three stepped closer to her.
“Please,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Don’t do this. Please!”
“I hope for your sake you figure all this out soon,” the Driver said. “But not too soon. My friends and I would like to have a little fun first.”
The three crimson-robed figures began their work then. Lori screamed, and while she couldn’t be certain, she thought she heard the firebabies giggle with delight.
* * *
She opened her eyes.
She didn’t scream, didn’t throw herself off the couch as if desperate to escape. She simply lay there for several moments, head resting on one of the couch arms, the soothing warmth of a fuzzy blanket over her body. She was alone. She remembered Larry holding her as she fell asleep. Where was he?
Her phone lay on the coffee table in front of her and she reached for it to check the time.
Seven fifty-two.
Groaning, she pushed the blanket off her and sat up. She expected to feel her head pound in response to this action, but it didn’t give so much as a twinge of pain. After the nightmare she’d had, she wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up with a raging headache. Thank Christ for small favors. Her first client of the day wasn’t scheduled until nine, but she double-checked her work schedule on her phone to make sure. Yep, nine. She was scheduled to work with Debra Foster today, and while Lori usually dreaded working with her, she’d do so today with a glad heart. Anything to take her mind off the shadow creatures and lunatics dressed in red robes.
She rose from the couch, her body protesting. She always felt achy if she fell asleep out here. The couch was secondhand – she’d gotten it from her parents when they’d decided to refurnish their house – and while it was comfortable enough to sit on, it played hell with her back whenever she slept on it.
A thought came to her then, that maybe she hurt this morning because of what had been done to her in the Vermilion Tower. Her dream hadn’t ended as Goat-Eyes, Rauch, and the Driver began torturing her. It had continued for some time, and she recalled every horrible detail. The things they’d done to her…. She hurt everywhere this morning, outside and inside. She felt as if she’d been taken apart piece by piece, and every bit of her – skin, organs, bones – had been violated in unspeakable ways before being put back together. Except – she didn’t feel exactly herself. It was like some of her pieces were missing, as if her torturers had forgotten to put a few back or perhaps had put them together in the wrong order, forcing some pieces to fit where they shouldn’t, like the way someone frustrated with a difficult puzzle tries to jam a piece into a spot where it doesn’t belong.
She shuddered and pushed the memories away. It had been a nightmare to end all nightmares, no doubt, but it hadn’t been real. Then again, if she’d fully experienced pain in her dream – and she had, god, how she had – how was that any different from experiencing it in real life? Beyond the fact that she hadn’t woken up with any injuries, of course. Pain was pain, however you experienced it, and the emotions she’d felt as the Cabal members had violated her body to the sound of the firebabies’ delight – the shame, the humiliation, the absolute and utter degradation – had been real, and she still felt them now. It seemed to her that being tortured in her dreams was, in one way, worse than being tortured in real life. The next time she fell asleep, it could all begin again. She could be tortured night after night, rising whole the next day, like a warrior in Valhalla whose battle injuries healed each evening so he could fight anew in the morning, on and on for eternity. She didn’t know if she could take another night like that, thought she might go mad, or maybe her heart would give out, her mind pulling the plug to keep from experiencing such agony again.
She knew the pains she felt were psychosomatic, a result of stress from the break-in combined with the emotional residue of her nightmare – not to mention watching a man die in FoodSaver’s parking lot last night. She wasn’t hurting because anything had really happened to her physically. There was no Nightway, no Vermilion Tower. But then again, the shadow creatures were real, weren’t they? And if they were real, who’s to say the rest of it wasn’t real, too?
Forget about it for now, she thought. You’ll feel better after you get some coffee in you.
She doubted it, but making coffee would give her something to do, so she started shuffling toward the kitchen. On the way, she tried calling Larry’s name, but her mouth and throat were dry, her voice hoarse, and the sound that came out of her was little more than a croak. She doubted he’d have heard her if he was standing next to her, let alone if he was in the bathroom. She was going to try calling out for him again when she saw a folded piece of paper sitting on the counter in front of the coffee maker. She reached for it, then hesitated. What if it was another message from the Cabal? She thought if it was, she might start screaming and never stop.
Don’t be such a baby, she told herself.
She picked up the note, gratified that her hands only shook a little as she opened it. She was immediately relieved to see Larry’s handwriting, and she quickly read the message.
I didn’t have the heart to wake you after the night you had. I got up early and cleaned (a little) so you wouldn’t have to wake up to a total pigsty (ha ha). I’ve got a signing gig this morning at a conference for small business owners downtown. Sounds like a snooze-fest, but at least I’ll get a check out of it. Call or text me if you need anything. I hope you have a good day!
Larry.
He’d drawn a small heart next to his signature. She knew it wasn’t a romantic gesture. He always drew a heart next to his signature, even when signing official documents like contracts or tax forms. It was just part of who he was. Seeing it cheered her a little, and she put the note down o
n the counter, leaving it open so she could see the little heart while she made coffee.
She made a of couple slices of toast while the coffee brewed, and she decided to spoil herself a little and slather some blackberry jam on the bread. The dining table and its chair stood upright once more – Larry had righted them after the crime scene tech had departed. She didn’t feel comfortable sitting at the table, though. The shadow creatures had knocked it over when they’d rushed through the open patio door. They’d touched it. She didn’t think the things had poisoned the table or cursed it or anything. Then again, who knew what the creatures were capable of?
So you believe the shadow things are real, but the Vermilion Tower isn’t? How can you choose to believe in one impossibility but not the other?
She drank her coffee and ate her toast standing at the counter. She loved blackberry jam, would eat one jar after another if she allowed herself, which was why she bought it so rarely, and when she did buy it, she saved it for a special treat. But she barely tasted it today, and she only managed to eat one piece of toast and a single bite of the second before she lost her appetite. She felt slightly nauseated, but she downed the rest of her coffee – appetite or not, she needed the caffeine – then put the uneaten toast down the disposal. She then rinsed her mug and put it in the dishwasher.
Normally she did yoga in the morning, following along to the routines on one of the DVDs she owned. As much as her body hurt this morning, she could use the exercise. But she wasn’t sure she had the time, not if she didn’t want to be late for her first client. A shower might do more good for her body than yoga today anyway. It would sure as hell be more soothing. But she was hesitant to head to the master bathroom. This was partially due to the fact that the shadow creatures had broken into her bedroom last night and pounded on the bathroom door as she hid there, terrified. But she was also reluctant because the lock on her patio door was broken. She’d call the rental office before she left and ask them to send someone to fix the lock, but it would likely be a while before a maintenance worker showed up. In the meantime, anyone could enter her apartment through the patio door. Anyone – or anything. She didn’t like the idea of standing naked in the shower, defenseless and wondering if someone had snuck into her apartment and was walking down the hallway, heading for her bedroom, intending to break the lock on the bathroom door and come rushing toward her.