by Tim Waggoner
He took another sip and grimaced.
“How are things this morning, Erika?”
She didn’t look away from her screen as she answered.
“Small talk is a waste of time and energy.”
He tried to suppress a sigh and failed.
“Seriously? I’m all for the cause—Flavor to the Feast—but don’t you think that’s carrying it a little too far?”
She did turn to look at him then. Her eyes were cold, her almost nonexistent lips pursed.
“No, I don’t. And you have better things to spend your mental energy on. After the way you and Barry cocked up last night, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do to Deanna.” She almost but didn’t quite smile, then turned her attention back to her screen.
Bitch, he thought. He’d forgotten how hot his coffee was, took a long swig, and said, “Fuck!” Coffee sprayed from his mouth and soaked his shirt and tie.
As he wiped uselessly at the wet mess on his clothes, he thought back to what Harris had said.
The Big Dark’s coming for you. Coming soon. I can smell it on you.
He hadn’t mentioned the old man’s pronouncement during his debriefing. He wasn’t sure why. The moment had been recorded, like all the others during the surveillance, and the Analysts were no doubt pouring over the video at that moment. So it wasn’t as if he could keep what Harris had said to him a secret. But for whatever reason, he didn’t want to talk about it right now. Besides, it probably meant nothing. Harris had long ago lost the last few remaining scraps of his sanity, and he’d most likely been raving.
Give my regards to the Vast.
Then again, in his lunacy, maybe he had sensed something that Kevin hadn’t. And maybe that was the real reason he didn’t want to talk about it—because he feared it might be true.
A cell phone lay on Erika’s desk next to the laptop. It pinged and she glanced down at the display. This time her smile was fuller.
“Deanna just texted me. She’s ready to see you.”
“Of course she is.” With another sigh, Kevin stood and started walking toward his supervisor’s office.
Deanna Nicely—and wasn’t that an ironic last name?—had one of the few private offices in the suite. It was located in the rear of the suite, down a narrow hallway, in the corner of the building. This meant that she had not one but two windows, which officially marked her as a Big Fish in their little pond.
Deanna did not believe in an open-door policy, and she insisted that everyone knock, even if she was expecting them. So when he reached her door, which had nothing on it, not even her name, he paused and knocked three times. He gave what he thought of as Goldilocks knocks—not too hard, not too soft. He’d noticed on previous visits to his boss’s office that if he didn’t knock just right, it put her in a pissy mood. And after what had happened last night, he didn’t want to make her mood any fouler than it already was.
She called out, “Come in,” on his third knock, which was odd. She usually made him wait several seconds after his last knock before giving him permission to enter. This did not bode well.
The first thing he noticed when he opened the door and stepped into Deanna’s office was that she wasn’t alone. Deanna had two chairs in front of her desk, and occupying one of them was another Maintenance employee. Olivia Kwon was a petite Asian woman, thin—if not quite as emaciated as Erika—with short black hair and a perpetually expressionless face. Kevin had never seen her smile, frown, scowl, tighten her mouth, flare her nostrils, or widen her eyes. He suspected she might be some type of artificial life form Maintenance Control was field testing, and he would’ve found that less creepy than if she were a real person that emotionless and controlled.
Both Olivia and Deanna looked at him as he entered. Olivia, of course, did so with a neutral, calm expression. Deanna, however, looked irritated. But that didn’t tell him much since she usually looked that way. She noted the fresh coffee stain on his shirt with a grimace, but she didn’t remark on it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had someone else in here with you. I can wait out in the hall. Or I can come back later.”
Much later, he added mentally. Like several years.
Deanna was square-headed, broad-shouldered, and big-handed. She wore her black hair tied back in a ponytail, and while she had on the same white shirt and black pants as everyone else who worked for Maintenance, her tie—which hung over a mammary shelf of truly epic proportions—was red, a sign of her rank.
“Sit down, Mr. Benecke,” she said.
Kevin did so, feeling even more awkward than he normally did in Deanna’s presence. Was she going to give him a dressing-down in front of Olivia? If so, it didn’t make sense. Deanna was a tough boss, but she wasn’t cruel. Not without good reason, anyway.
Her office—like the rest of the suite—was almost entirely devoid of personal touches. She had a desk, chairs, laptop, cell phone, a couple filing cabinets, and of course her two windows. She always had the curtains drawn shut, though, and he’d never understood the point of having windows if you didn’t look out the damn things once in a while. The sole decorative item in the office was a framed picture hanging on the wall behind the desk. It depicted a starfield, in the middle of which was a large black space surrounded by a swirl of colors. If you looked closely, you could see several stars stretching and lengthening as they were pulled into the swirl. This was the Gyre. It lay at the heart of all creation, and it was the reason Maintenance did what they did. Kevin wasn’t sure, because he’d never spent enough time in Deanna’s office, but he thought the image in the picture might be moving, but so slowly it was almost impossible to detect.
“Have you finished your incident report about last night?” Deanna asked.
Deanna was a big woman, muscular, not fat, but the voice that came out of her stern, disapproving face was high-pitched and girlish. Kevin thought hearing that voice come out of such a severe-looking face made her even scarier.
“Not yet. I’ve been—”
She cut him off with a sharp gesture. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have Erika type up a report for you based on the Debriefer’s notes. You can look it over later and make whatever changes or additions you deem necessary.”
It was standard procedure for Maintenance employees to speak to a Debriefer after an “incident,” but they were expected to write their own report afterward. Never before had Kevin escaped this chore, and instead of being relieved, he was suspicious. He knew better than to say anything about it, though, and he kept his mouth shut.
“Mr. Harris has been transferred to Holding, and a cleanup crew is working on his home. From what they’ve told me, the place is seriously corrupted, and we may end up having to destroy it if it can’t be cleansed.”
Kevin wasn’t surprised. The negative energy he’d felt inside Harris’s house had been strong, maybe stronger than anything he’d ever experienced before.
“And Barry?” he asked.
“Mr. Reuben’s remains are on their way to the Homestead. A memorial service will be scheduled as soon as it’s practical.”
Which meant there was a good chance Barry would never get a service. Maintenance was always busy, and more often than not, really busy. Managing entropy was more than a full-time job, and there was rarely any downtime. But again, he kept his mouth shut.
He was confused, though. If Deanna hadn’t summoned him to berate him for botching last night’s surveillance, then why was he here? Just as important, why was Olivia?
“Olivia has been driving Surveillance Van Number Six solo for the last month, ever since the loss of her partner.”
Olivia, not Ms. Kwon, he noticed. Interesting.
He turned to Olivia.
“I’m sorry I missed Simon’s memorial service. I was on assignment at the time.”
Olivia inclined her head in a motion he could only think of as mechanical. There was no emotion on her face or in her eyes.
He wasn’t sure what h
ad happened to Olivia’s partner. He’d heard something about them locating a farm outside town where a family had been conducting rites to create a dimensional schism. Something had gone wrong—he didn’t know what—and Olivia and Simon had ended up being forced to confront the family. Simon hadn’t survived.
“Last night—while you were busy with Mr. Harris—Olivia detected a surge of negative energy in a neighborhood over by the high school. A significant surge.”
Kevin raised an eyebrow. Deanna wasn’t one for exaggeration, so when she said significant, it meant something.
“It happened on Hollyhock Drive,” Olivia said, “around 3:45 a.m. I believe I managed to pinpoint the exact location, but further surveillance will be necessary to confirm.”
“And that’s why you’re here,” Deanna said to Kevin. “I want you to partner with Olivia and take Surveillance Van Number Two and see what else you can discover about this location.”
Kevin avoided glancing at Olivia to gauge her reaction to this news. Him? He’d rather be demoted than partnered with her. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but Deanna must’ve seen something in his face, for she said, “If this intrusion is as serious as I fear it may be, I want two people working on it. And while both of you have had your separate…issues, you’re both highly qualified Surveyors. But”— she held up a finger—“Surveillance is all I want you to do. If it becomes apparent that there’s a need for closer contact, I want you to call for an Intervention Team. And by want, I mean you will. Got it? I don’t want to lose either one of you.”
And just when Kevin thought she was showing concern for them, she added, “We’re shorthanded enough as it is.”
She then asked if either of them had any questions, and they both said they didn’t.
“Good. Get to work and keep me informed. Flavor to the Feast.”
“Flavor to the Feast,” Kevin and Olivia repeated, then they rose and left the office, Olivia preceding him. Kevin closed the door behind them and followed Olivia to her cubicle. It was even more bereft of personality than Deanna’s office. Desk, a single chair, laptop, and nothing else. Olivia sat, leaving Kevin to stand awkwardly nearby.
She swiped her finger across the touch pad and the computer’s dark screen grew bright. “Is now a good time for me to brief you?” she asked.
He wanted to tell her that he was exhausted and needed to go home and get at least a few hours’ rest. Instead, he said, “Sure, but let me get a cup of coffee first.” He paused. “And a chair.”
* * *
Joan kept busy all morning with clients, and for the most part, she managed to keep her mind off her bizarre dream and her surprise basement. But at lunchtime, instead of going out with fellow therapist Theresa Martinez, as she usually did, today she claimed she needed to stay in her office and get caught up on work. Theresa said she understood and left, Joan got a package of peanut-butter-filled crackers and a diet soda from the vending machines in the hallway, then returned to her office and shut the door. After a moment’s internal debate and feeling more than a little silly, she locked the door. She then took a seat at her desk, opened her soda, took a drink, and thought about what she should do next.
Joan had a Masters in counseling, but her tiny office didn’t reflect her level of education. The room was little larger than a broom closet, and she didn’t have any windows. Although she would’ve preferred a larger workspace, the size actually worked in her favor. It helped foster an intimacy with her clients, and the lack of windows made it feel as if they were in an enclosed, hidden place, where they could talk without anyone seeing or hearing them. But Joan found the office to be a bit on the claustrophobic side, so to combat this she kept pictures of outdoor scenes on the walls. Soothing ones—a white-sanded beach with achingly blue water, a snowcapped mountain range below a mass of white clouds, lush tropical plants with thick dew-dotted leaves… Whenever she felt as if she were trapped inside these four walls, she’d pick one of the pictures and focus all her attention on it, imagining what she might hear, smell, and feel if she were really there. Her favorite was the jungle scene, but looking at it now gave her an uneasy feeling.
For an instant she felt humid tropical air enfold her, heard a metallic clacking that made the hair on the back of her neck rise. She hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, hadn’t had anything to drink other than the couple swallows of soda she’d just taken. Acid roiled in her stomach, and she imagined the carbonated liquid inside her foaming, expanding. Her stomach lurched and she thought she was going to puke on her desk, but she managed to turn and lean over the wastebasket. Her stomach muscles spasmed once, twice, but nothing came up. Slowly, the clacking sound faded, and while she was covered with sweat, she no longer felt warm. She felt cold, so much so that she started shivering.
She wanted to throw the damn crackers away—the thought of eating made her stomach cramp a little—but she feared part of her problem, although by no means all of it, was low blood sugar. So she unwrapped the crackers and forced herself to start nibbling one. The mushy peanut-buttery paste was a near-tasteless lump in her mouth, but she managed to swallow it with the help of good-sized swigs of soda, and after several minutes of this, she did begin to feel better, at least a little. Her head had begun to ache, though, and she hoped it wouldn’t get any worse. She didn’t want to take any medicine, not with how touchy her stomach was.
Her phone rested on her desk, and she looked at it now. She thought about calling Allison, but she was reluctant to do so, and she didn’t know why. Discovering you were the owner of a hidden basement was weird enough, but to find it on the morning after having one of the worst—if not the worst—nightmares you’d ever had increased the bizarre factor exponentially. And there had been that moment when she’d been down in the basement, when she’d experienced some kind of flashback to her dream. Just as she had a moment ago. Maybe she’d be better off not calling Allison, and when she got home, she should put new wallpaper over the basement door. Or better yet, cover it with plaster. They’d been happy enough with the place before they’d discovered the basement. And it wasn’t as if she and Jon needed the extra space. The house was more than big enough for the two of them.
You’re acting like there’s something wrong with the basement, she told herself. Like it’s a Bad Place.
So what was she saying? That she thought the basement was haunted? She tried to laugh at the idea, but all she managed was a soft choking sound.
Not haunted, she thought. Something worse.
Her vision blurred and for a second she thought she saw cold blue-green flame burning in the night. But then the vision, if that’s what it was, faded and was gone.
She snatched the phone off the desk and called Allison.
It rang six times, and Joan thought she was going to have to leave a message, but then Allison answered.
“Hey, Joan! What’s up?”
At first Joan was startled that Allison had greeted her by name, but then she realized the other woman must have caller ID. But then again, why would she have her office number programmed in instead of her cell?
You’re becoming too paranoid, girl.
“Hey, Allison. I’m on my lunch break, and I thought I’d call and see how Indiana is treating you.”
“I’m going crazy playing housewife. I’ve got résumés in at a few places, but no nibbles so far. We’re not hurting for money, though. Wes makes a good salary at his new job. But there’s only so many times you can run the vacuum before you start climbing the walls.”
“You’ll find something soon, I’m sure. And before long you’ll be complaining that you’re so busy you don’t have time to clean your house.”
Allison laughed. “From your mouth to God’s ears. So how are you and Jon adjusting to the house? Loving it as much as we did, I hope.”
Joan didn’t answer right away. Her silence went on too long, prompting Allison to say, “Hello? You still there, Joan?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s just that somet
hing weird happened this morning.”
She went on to tell Allison about her discovery of the basement. She didn’t say anything about her dream or the flashback she’d experienced down there, though. When she finished, she asked, “Did you know about the basement?”
“No, I didn’t. That is so strange! To think we had an extra room the entire time we lived there. It’s kind of cool and kind of creepy at the same time.”
Creepy, yes, Joan thought. Cool, not so much.
“Did you know the people who owned the house before you?”
“Not personally. Our Realtor told us a doctor lived there. A widower. He was getting ready to retire, and I guess he didn’t want to stay there with no one for company but memories, you know?” She paused for a moment, and then in a breathless voice added, “Hey, you don’t suppose he was some kind of serial killer who buried his victims in the basement, do you?”
Jon had said the same thing this morning.
“The floor is concrete,” Joan said.
“Maybe he put in the floor after he buried them. Or maybe he stuck them in the walls or something.”
Joan couldn’t believe she was talking about this seriously. Was she considering the possibility that there were dead bodies in her newly discovered basement?
“If he did hide bodies down there, why would he do such a crappy job of concealing the door? Why use a thin layer of wallpaper when you could plaster it over?”
“Maybe he thought wallpaper was enough. After all, anyone crazy enough to murder a bunch of people and seal up their bodies in the basement isn’t going to be the most logical person.”
“I suppose. So should I call someone to come out and check the basement?”