Havoc Rising

by Brian S. Leon

  I took my time eating, and before I left the bagel shop, I asked one of the employees for some honey. All they had was a squeeze bottle for tea drinkers, but it would have to do. I pocketed the bear-shaped container, left five bucks behind, and headed back up Eighty-First Street to the museum.

  Once on Fifth Avenue, I pushed my way past the sea of photographers, reporters, camera crews, and at least twenty news trucks clogging the street, until I got to the barrier tape blocking off the entire sidewalk in front of the museum. It took me a minute to get the attention of a few overworked cops trying to maintain the perimeter, and I flashed my official-looking Metis Foundation ID badge at them. Surprisingly, they let me pass without too much scrutiny and then directed me over to the mobile command center, which had been set up in four trailers just to the right of the museum’s entrance.

  As vast as the circus was outside the tape, inside it was worse. It reminded me of an anthill. In addition to the trailers, there were ten vans of varying sizes parked anywhere they could fit. Some of the vans were nondescript black or white vehicles, but most bore the markings and license plates of various federal and state agencies. There must have also been another dozen police cars and trucks spread between both ends of the museum.

  For every car, truck, or van, there had to have been at least a half-dozen people milling about, talking, or moving with purpose in various directions. If there was any order to this chaos, I sure couldn’t see it. I cringed a bit when I saw that the mobile command center—four trailers, each sprouting a bumper crop of antennas and satellite dishes from its roof—was the most heavily populated area. To make matters worse, none of the trailers appeared to be marked, so I walked up to the most officious-looking guy I could find in the crowd and introduced myself.

  Dressed in a cheap, wrinkled suit with an NYPD detective’s badge hanging from his breast pocket, he was busy berating a crime-scene tech about some kind of protocol, and he completely ignored me. From all my many years serving in militaries around the world and throughout history, I understood chain of command. I also knew that mid-level drones, like that guy, lived to rain crap down on anyone on a lower rung, especially after they themselves had been doused in crap. Above all, I had no illusions about the stress levels of everyone involved in a potential terrorist attack on US soil. But I had very little patience for blowhards and bureaucracy, and after three thousand years of being mostly self-reliant, I did not play well with others—or so I’d been told. It took an act of will to rein in my irritation, by controlling my breathing and staring at my shoes, while I waited.

  Finally, after a few minutes, it was my turn. “Whaddya want?” he practically spat at me.

  My first reaction was the desire to punch him in the throat. Fortunately, reason won out. “I need to see Agent Wright of DHS,” I said as flatly as I could and then pulled out the folder and opened it, pretending to read down the page. “Agent Sarah Wright, to be specific. My name is—”

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re Fiorello La Guardia himself. Do I look like some kinda liaison officer?” He pronounced liaison like lie-ay-zon. “You’re at the wrong trailer, buddy. Ask the guys over there.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the trailer farthest from us.

  I weaved my way through the crowd over to that trailer, which actually did have a very small sign taped right next to the door that read “Interdepartmental Liaison,” among other things—though, in my defense, it was written in tiny, sloppy script. I walked up the steps into the trailer to find it empty except for one mousy woman with short gray hair. She was busy typing on her cell phone and talking into her headset.

  “Can I help you?” she said without taking her eyes off her phone.

  It took me a second to realize she was actually talking to me.

  “I’m a consultant with the Metis Foundation. My name is Steve Dore, and I’m looking for DHS Agent Sarah Wright.” I tried not to sound incompetent after she’d caught me off guard.

  She glowered at me as if I’d just killed her dog. “What agency did you say you’re with?” she asked, clearly annoyed that I’d disturbed her. She was probably playing Angry Birds.

  I flashed her my most winsome smile. She must have been immune because not only did she keep her clothes on, but she didn’t even smile back. I wasn’t bad looking for a guy who was born in 1230 BC. In fact, I looked exactly the same age as I had when Athena had made me immortal—anywhere from thirty-five to forty. However, I was still over three thousand years old, and interacting with people, particularly women, made me feel it.

  It probably didn’t help that I had no interest in fashion or style. I kept up with the times, but only as far as I was comfortable. For the most part, I’d always had a beard and moustache, though I kept them short like my hair. While I’d been told I was ruggedly handsome and outdoorsy, I’d always considered myself plain because of my swarthy skin, straight dark-brown hair, and simple brown eyes. Anyway, I was getting used to rejection over the past hundred years or so.

  “I’m here to meet with DHS Agent Sarah Wright,” I repeated.

  “I’ll call her, and she’ll meet you out front,” she said dismissively. Clearly, she was busy, and I was taking up valuable time. Gotta make those green pigs pay.

  I walked out front to wait and began to survey the museum’s grand front façade. It made me think about when the Met was founded back in 1870 and what a big deal its opening was to the city. It had originally opened in a small building way down Fifth Avenue, but the art collection grew so fast they had to move it three years later into a private mansion, and then they built this place.

  The building had actually begun as a hideous red-stone gothic disaster that they fortunately covered up with its current design and finally finished to huge fanfare in 1902. Unfortunately, I was off dealing with issues during the Second Boer War in Africa, so I had to read about it in the British newspapers we got weeks afterward, but I had seen the museum before its current incarnation and again when I got back to the city a year after its grand opening.

  As I began to think back to what the rest of New York had been like a hundred years ago, someone walked up behind me. I spun around to see… gray eyes. Funny what you notice first.

  She was attractive enough to require a double take but not enough to make you stop and stare, at least not dressed as she was with the sleeves of her shirt rolled up, no makeup, and sweat stains under her arms. With her dark hair pulled back in a partially disheveled ponytail, hands on her hips, and wearing latex gloves, she was all business and apparently less than thrilled to be interrupted. I was batting a thousand so far.

  “Steve Dore?” she asked without offering a hand.

  “That’d be me, yes,” I answered, trying to mimic her all-business tone. “Agent Wright, I presume?”

  I didn’t dare try my charming smile on her, for fear of taking yet another blow to my ego so early in the day. Still, there was something about her that kept my attention, and my reaction surprised me. I didn’t even want to think about how long it’d been since my last real date. Dates? What the hell was I thinking? I had to focus, dammit.

  Trying to keep things professional, I approached her and offered my hand, which she ignored. I let it hang for a second and then let it fall. Stee-rike three…

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Dore? I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t heard.” She waved a hand toward the museum before returning it to her hip.

  “I’m from the Metis Foundation. I was told I needed to see you as an aid to your investigation.”

  “Leave your ID with Margaret, and she’ll get you a visitor’s pass,” she said, pointing back inside the trailer, her tone starting to relax a bit.

  I walked back into the trailer. It took me a few minutes to get Margaret’s attention away from her phone, but I won out in the end by pretending my ID badge was a bird flying around. The pure
of heart always prevail.

  When I finally re-emerged, clipping my visitor’s pass to my jacket collar, Agent Wright was in a heated phone conversation. I tried to look as though I wasn’t listening in as I waited for her to finish, but it was hard not to overhear. While I didn’t hear my name specifically, I did hear the Metis Foundation mentioned several times.

  She clearly was not happy about my presence. She hung up with an exaggerated jab at her cell phone and stared at the ground for a moment before facing me as she rubbed her forehead. She had taken her rubber gloves off.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” I said, trying to sound conciliatory. “In fact, I might be able to help. I specialize in stuff that’s… well, not normal. I promise not to get in the way, and I’ll be out of your hair as fast as I can. I swear.” I held my hand up.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not you.” She sighed. “It’s just this thing is a jurisdictional clusterfuck, and the last thing I needed was one more group to coordinate with. Follow me.”

  She strode toward the museum’s entrance at a good clip, weaving through people like a skier on a slalom course, then crossed under the second line of perimeter tape surrounding the stairs up to the main entrance and flashed her ID at the guard. I flashed mine as well and followed, trying not to fall too far behind. She had the gait of a damned cheetah.

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” I said as I caught back up to her. “I’ll be in and out before you know it, and I’ll provide you with any pertinent information I find. I just need to see both crime scenes and all the video footage for two hours before the event, if I can. Oh, and I prefer to work alone.”

  Unless mundane people really carried out the bombing and robbery independently and randomly, I was sure I’d find some evidence—or better yet, witnesses—to show me who, or more precisely what, had done the crime. The only problem was that the witnesses I was searching for wouldn’t willingly show themselves to anyone, including me, without the right motivation.

  I didn’t expect to find any physical evidence, even of the supernatural kind, because the crime-scene investigators would likely have taken everything, no matter how small or insignificant, so I was putting all my money on a witness. Just as importantly, however, I needed to see the scene myself. I’d seen enough explosions in my lifetime to know the difference between man-made, natural, and supernatural detonations.

  “Not a chance, Mr. Dore,” she said without sounding distrustful. “We just got word that an extremist terrorist group called Jundullah is claiming responsibility for the bombing. And there are already dozens of crime-scene investigators in there from at least five different governmental agencies. I can get you copies of the security footage, and you’re welcome to walk the scenes. Please just stay out of everyone’s way.”

  We rushed up the steps and into the main entrance, and the place was even busier inside. Halogen work lights had been set up on stands all around the Great Hall and aimed down from the balcony above, illuminating every conceivable inch of the immense space with a harsh, hot, and unnatural white light.

  At least two dozen crime-scene techs scrambled around on their knees, picking at the marble floor and taking photos, while another dozen scoured the columns and walls with specialized magnifying goggles and metal detectors. Just behind them stood the brass, pointing and second-guessing everything the techs were doing. I doubted they were trying to be obtrusive, but it was a high-profile incident, and I could imagine that nobody wanted to screw up. To make matters worse, the strong lighting heated the area to near sauna-like conditions, making everyone miserable, especially the techs in their biohazard suits.

  The smell inside the Great Hall assaulted me at once—it was a cross between ozone and an electrical fire, but there was no scent of charred flesh at all. There were five more biohazard-suited investigators photographing and working around the specific area where the explosion had occurred. My first impression was that it was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

  “Put those on, and wear these, but try not to touch anything,” Agent Wright said, handing me shoe covers, rubber gloves, and a dust mask. “If you feel the need to touch something, call me, and I’ll get you permission. I’ll be in the security office.”

  She handed me her business card and marched off into the fray. As she left, she stopped to speak to the first person she encountered—a tall, lanky man in shirtsleeves with his tie thrown over his shoulder. As she spoke to him, she pointed back at me, he nodded, and then she continued on her way. The guy glared at me and furrowed his brow until another person, covered head to toe in a biohazard suit, approached him and demanded his full attention.

  That was my cue.

  CHAPTER 6

  I tried to examine the scene of the explosion, but other than physical damage, I didn’t see much. But even with the volume of techs scouring the area and blocking my view, I was able to come to a few conclusions.

  The origin of the blast was obvious: a scorched spot about two feet wide at the center of a circle of busted marble tile that radiated out along the floor over a diameter of maybe twenty feet. The epicenter was about halfway between the four giant limestone colonnades at the entrance and the information desk. Anything inside that area was cracked or destroyed, including all four of the colonnades, part of the adjacent wall to the north, and most of the information kiosk. Predictably, every window along the front and in the entry doors was shattered, and glass was everywhere inside the Hall.

  What I didn’t see was more telling. There were no small pieces of rubble or any debris of any kind within the blast area, not even broken glass, which was everywhere else. I doubted that even the army of techs could have been that efficient at collecting evidence. It was as if everything in that area had just vanished, including—from what I overheard—the bomber’s body, along with three others that were still considered missing.

  The part of the information kiosk that had been within the blast radius was also missing, but just outside that area, papers, pamphlets, and maps—all unburned—lay scattered about. Then there was the glass, which was all inside the Great Hall, not blown out as I would have expected.

  Unfortunately, I’d witnessed my fair share of explosions, IEDs, and suicide bombings, and this was unlike anything I’d ever seen before—by extremists or anyone else. While the bodies had been most certainly removed the day before, there was very little blood left behind and no bits of body on the walls, as when other suicide bombers targeted crowded places.

  Initial reports suggested that fifty visitors had gotten caught by the explosion, but there was a total lack of carnage. What blood was present was well outside of the apparent blast radius and was most likely from flying shards of glass or bystanders blown into walls, the information kiosk, or the colonnades opposite the entrance.

  According to the reports on the radio, the injured survivors and dead bodies they did find were massively battered and had countless splintered and shattered bones, as well as lacerations from broken glass, but they were all otherwise intact. No one was blown apart.

  They were the kind of injuries that would come from intense shockwaves following massive explosions rather than from proximity to any kind of bomb I knew of. The blast must have been hot, too, because it left a scorch mark at its origin point. The charring on the white-and-yellow marble floor didn’t spread far, though, so the explosion couldn’t have been hot enough to incinerate the bomber. Plus, a simple fire wouldn’t have interfered with electronics the way this blast had.

  The TV news was already reporting that the surveillance footage showed a blinding blast just before the cameras and all electronics within the building fizzled out, but I’d know more when I reviewed the footage myself. So, what had happened to the bomber? My first guess was lightning bolt because that was the only thing I could think of that could cause a highly localized blast intense enough to burn and crack marble and possibly inci
nerate several bodies. Its impact could also throw bodies around like ragdolls. However, a lightning bolt didn’t fit because none of the survivors or any of those killed showed any signs of being struck or even had electrical burns. And as hot as lightning was, it wasn’t hot enough to disintegrate a body, let alone four. Plus, I couldn’t figure out how it would have gotten through the building without destroying the domed ceiling, which was still intact way overhead.

  None of these clues pointed to a conventional IED or even a natural phenomenon. That meant that I wouldn’t learn anything by just poking around the Great Hall. I’d have to wait until the interviews with survivors were completed to find out any more details about the explosion, and I didn’t have time for that.

  I scanned the crowd of investigators but noticed only normal mortals. The ability that Athena gave me to pierce veils and glamours also allowed me to see auras of powerful beings, such as some fae and wizards and witches. In the case of magical veils, I saw the haze of magic around the hidden item or individual. I couldn’t perceive the glamours used by many fae, so I just saw the fairy as it appeared naturally, despite whatever deception it may have been trying to cast.

  Those beings who possessed and controlled real power—Old Ones such as Athena or my friend Ned to a much lesser extent—couldn’t mask it from me, so I saw their auras. The auras of the power emanating from magic users such as witches and wizards were directly related to strength: the stronger the magic user, the brighter the aura. In the case of the Old Ones, I saw both their auras and their true appearances, which in some cases were so overwhelming that they could have been devastating to a mortal mind. Some beings, such as Athena, were benevolent and appeared as simple but powerful humanoids, while the forms of others were more consistent with their natures. True evil was indescribably grotesque. My ability protected me from any damage those visages might have caused and prevented me from being controlled or manipulated as well. My perception was not a power I had to activate; it was simply how I saw the world.