by Joshi, S. T
Do something, Yefrem had urged him. Try. But what could he do? The portal, if that’s truly what it was, was open. It was linked to the immense thing that the powerful electric charge had brought back to life. Established as it was, how could he possibly close such an opening? Especially now that its guardian, or whatever, had been activated before it?
One thing he did feel for certain. If even one of the horrors he had barely glimpsed through the open portal succeeded in squeezing its way through to this side of the opening, nothing man and all his puny devices could do would be able to force it back in again.
It was this that told him what he must do. The realization horrified him, but not as much as what he had seen below. He knew he had no choice.
His supposition was quite correct. The above-ground facility’s test was in full swing when he arrived in the control room. Though startled by his somewhat wild appearance, those who knew him accepted his presence without question. After all, he outranked nearly every technician present. Walking swiftly around the room, he began to issue orders. Though puzzled by some of these, the respective techs to whom he addressed instructions readily complied. In fact, they were relieved at his arrival. Properly, the test should not have been initiated without him present.
It was only when his directives began to trespass certain boundaries that this or that technician thought to take issue with them.
“Comrade Koslov,” one tech muttered softly, “are you certain you wish to disable these systems?”
Koslov was more than firm in his reply. “Engineer Samsov, how can we expect to determine the ultimate safety of the system if we do not proceed to the inevitable conclusion of this test without the automatic shutdown mechanisms disabled? It is the only sure way to determine if the overall safety system in place will operate properly.”
“Yes sir, I see that, but …”
Koslov leaned close. “Don’t argue with me, Samsov! Do your job. I take full responsibility.”
“Yes, Comrade Director.” Reluctantly, the engineer moved to comply with the command.
Beneath them, the floor quivered noticeably. A number of the techs on duty exchanged uncertain glances. Someone suggested the cause might be a small earthquake. That was absurd, another objected. One reason the plant had been sited on this location was because it had been determined to be tectonically stable.
That did not prevent the floor from heaving upward again, this time at least a full centimeter. An increasingly desperate Koslov thought he could hear a distant howling, rising in strength and intensity, though those around him thought it was only the machinery. Trying not to appear panicked, he grimly issued additional orders.
“Insert the control rods! All of them!”
A couple of the techs looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that the personnel responsible did as he commanded.
The result was as he hoped. Even as a greenish-gray pseudopod the thickness of a telephone pole thrust upward through the floor, there came a tremendous surge of power from below that had nothing to do with the awakening monstrosity from the Antarctic and everything to do with the design of the fourth component of the plant.
The interaction of superhot fuel with the overwhelmed cooling pools resulted in a shattering of the fuel itself together with an immediate increase in pressure. Striving to escape the resultant discharge of freed radioactive material, the thing beneath gave a tremendous, desperate shove upward. The thousand-ton protective cover plate that shielded the upper portion of the facility strained at its foundations, was dislodged and pushed aside. Fuel channels ruptured and control rods jammed in place. As the speech of confused and now terrified technicians dissolved into an incoherent babble around him, Koslov closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.
There was an explosion of almost incalculable dimensions.
Thrown skyward, shattered fragments of shoggoth rained back down into the gaping hole, only to be utterly consumed by the towering blaze that now roared a hundred meters higher than the plant itself. As they struck the fire the organic pieces ignited, turning the flames all the colors of the rainbow. Melting downward, molten nuclear material rushed into the subterranean research facility, obliterating the portal before Something vast and evil could push its way through. That was all the obituary the dozens of scientists and technicians, the workers and guards, ever obtained. Their memories were erased as thoroughly and completely as their work.
In the depths of the Kremlin a singular secret file pays tribute to the heroes of that day. Not to the technicians who strove mightily to subdue the runaway, destroyed facility, nor the firemen who gave their lives to fight the strangely multihued blaze that erupted from its depths. Their monuments are widely known, the statues to them plainly visible to the occasional visitor to the site. Only within that sole file, hidden from the rest of the world and unknown to all save a few specially selected and carefully cleared scientists and politicians, can be found the names of such as Dr. Marian Schumenko, Director Arkady Koslov, Colonel Yefrem Andropov, and dozens of others. It is a necessary shame that their sacrifice can and will never be known to but a chosen few.
Meanwhile the greenery and wildlife has returned to Chernobyl. Limited numbers of tourists stroll its grounds, marveling at the dead town of Pripyat and gawking at the ruins of reactor #4, never knowing what once stirred beneath their fully covered feet (sandals are not allowed). Never wondering why the containment vessel is really called a sarcophagus. Though most are curious as to why it is in the process of being replaced by a new containment vessel of steel and polycarbonate when, despite the arguments, the old one looks perfectly capable of containing something as diffuse as mere radiation.
Unless, of course, there is something more than radiation that needs to be contained.
DEAD MAN WALKING
WILLIAM F. NOLAN
IN A LONELY HOUSE NEAR THE HEART OF L.A., A PHONE RANG.
“Hello?”
“Dex, Sanford Evans here. Listen: have you heard about that dead girl the police found in Bel Air? Not too far from you. It’s all over the TV and Internet …”
“Afraid I haven’t been watching the news,” Philip Dexter replied. He was in his early thirties, a strong-boned man whose only vice was smoking. Lighting a cigarette, he frowned in self-disgust, then stubbed it out on a desk ashtray.
“Well, it’s a real strange situation, Dex. Chief of Police gave an interview claiming that the washed-out skin and collapsed, sack-like appearance of the girl’s body was the result of exsanguination: the body had been totally drained of blood. But—here’s the kicker—coroner said there were no serious injuries. Like it was sucked right out of her.” There was a beat of silence over the line. “The speculation made me think of you.”
Dexter cleared his throat. “I can guess what the ‘speculation’ was all about.”
“So guess, Dex.”
“The undead, am I right? ‘Vampires’ …”
“You win the magic prize, Dex! There’s been a lot of vampire talk—”
“All of which is horseshit!” Philip himself was surprised by the virulence of his declaration. Calmer: “That’s what I’m debunking in my book—all the … misconceptions.”
“Easy, Dex! Just thought you should know about it. Speaking as your publisher, how’s your little opus coming along?”
Philip snorted into the handset; he detested it when people called him Dex, but he needed this book deal. “I’m well into it. Been working from a ton of notes. Gonna be an eye-opener.” He looked at the clock, feeling the urge to get back to work.
“Excellent. We’ll need the manuscript here in New York by mid-January at the latest: Can you swing that, Dex?” Evans’s voice had an edge; the two men rarely spoke, and Philip had the feeling that Evans didn’t really take him or his work seriously.
“No problem. Got it all set up in my mind. Nothing like it since Houdini.”
“That’s my man! Can’t wait to read it. We’ll target
it for a spring release. Have a good day, Dex.” The line went dead.
Philip put the phone down and walked to a large picture window facing the ocean. The wind was up and heavy waves were riding onto the beach, spilling lines of white froth along the sand. The sky was slate-gray, totally devoid of clouds. Turning away, he walked into the den, thinking about having a cigarette. “Gotta quit,” he muttered.
The recently purchased Malibu home was still largely unfurnished: crates of unpacked books lined the walls, scattered furniture, and some boxes littered the unlit rooms. Philip Dexter sat down to a bright computer screen; he hesitated, organizing his thoughts, then began dancing his fingers across the keys.
Why is it that otherwise intelligent, clear-minded people continue to believe in the supernatural? Things such as ghosts, demons, and vampires? There is no rational basis for such bizarre belief. It’s time to expose the phonies who bilk millions each year out of gullible victims; time to go after the fake seers, bogus fortune tellers and trick mystics …
Philip checked a notebook entry, nodded to himself, and resumed typing:
Harry Houdini exposed countless fake mediums in the last century—the glowing face which he proved to be a dummy’s head … the ghost of an old woman’s dead son who turned out to be the medium’s own kid in a weird getup … the floating trumpet on wires …
The phone jangled at his elbow, and he eased back from the screen to answer the call. “Yes?”
“Is this Philip Dexter?”
“Speaking. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Evelyn Court, the wife of Alex Court.”
“The sculptor who died of a heart attack last month? My condolences on your loss. I enjoyed his work.”
The woman hesitated. “I—I heard about your forthcoming book, and I need help from someone who understands … the supernatural.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy, Mrs. Court. With all due respect, I’m into proving that it’s just superstition and nonsense.”
“No.” Another pause. “No, I assure you, Mr. Dexter: it’s all real— but … the police refuse to believe me.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that my husband is … alive.”
“Wait a second. His funeral made headlines. And now you’re saying—”
“Alex hated me!” she blurted out. “He blamed me for trying to destroy his career. Out of jealousy! Because he was famous and I wasn’t.” Her tone was intense. “It’s not true! I was never, ever jealous of his success. I loved him, Mr. Dexter. But, time and again, we got into terrible rows over it. And … and he threatened me …”
“Threatened you how?”
“To … to kill me, Mr. Dexter.” Philip could hear the tremor in her voice. “And … and I’m afraid he will!”
Philip was shocked into a momentary silence.
“Dead men don’t kill people, Mrs. Court. And they sure don’t come back to life! I’m not the guy to talk to. I suggest you see a shrink. Sounds to me like you need professional help.”
“No—I need to see you! If you’ll just meet me I know that I can convince you that what I fear is real.”
Philip thought for a moment, idly playing with a paperclip. “I’ll admit you’ve made me curious. Maybe you’ll end up in my book.”
“Then you will meet me?”
Philip laughed. “When and where?”
Evelyn Court was full-figured, attractive, with nervous eyes and a tight, thin-lipped mouth. She sat uneasily on a red leather couch in her Bel Air home, twisting a scarf in her hands as she talked.
“Two nights ago, I thought that I heard a sound. So I went out to my husband’s studio—the first time since his death—to check on a gallery sculpture for a client.” Fear radiated from her eyes. “As soon as I stepped inside he was there … standing in the shadows … glaring at me.”
“Who? Who was there, Mrs. Court?” Philip asked.
“Alex. It was Alex.”
“Are you saying that you saw Alexander Court’s ghost?”
“No: not a ghost, Mr. Dexter. He was there … in the flesh.”
“How can you be sure it wasn’t an intruder?” Philip was scribbling notes into a worn notepad.
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Dexter, it was Alex, my husband. When he stepped into the beam from my flashlight, I saw him clearly. He had a sculpting knife in his hand.”
Philip looked up. “What did you do?”
“I—I ran back to the house and locked myself inside. Then I called the police. But since there was no sign of a break-in they thought I was—”
“Delusional?”
“Something like that.” She got up, paced the room. “After the police left I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing noises from the studio, but I wasn’t about to go back in there.”
“Could be an animal. A raccoon maybe.”
Mrs. Court gave a strained smile. “I think he was there again … in the studio.”
Philip lit a cigarette.
“Please … I ask you not to smoke.”
“Sorry,” he said, hastily stubbing out the cigarette. “Lousy habit. I’ve been trying to quit.”
She stared at him. “You’re like the police. You don’t believe me, do you—about seeing Alex?”
He rubbed his forehead, thinking. “I believe that you saw an intruder—even one who may have looked like your husband.”
She moved to a desk drawer and picked up a small flashlight. “I can prove what I say is true if you’ll come with me.”
Reluctantly, Philip followed her as she crossed the rear yard toward a marble edifice at the edge of the property: a family crypt. The late afternoon sun cast long tree shadows over the ornate entry door, which was adorned by two marble angels.
“Alex had this built when we bought the house three years ago,” she said, pushing open the heavy door. “He loathed the idea of being buried in open earth, so we placed his coffin here, according to his wishes. He created the door sculpture himself.”
Philip was impressed with the sumptuous craftsmanship. “Amazing: quite a talented man.”
She continued: “At first, I think he truly loved me.” She took a step inside. “But then …” Her voice trailed off as she probed the gloom with the flashlight, illuminating a portion of marble wall. Under the bright beam, Philip was able to read the chiseled inscription:
ALEXANDER EDWARD COURT
Rest in Peace
Evelyn slid back the marble facing and pulled Alex Court’s bronze coffin from its slot. “Go ahead,” she said to Philip. “Open it. See for yourself.”
Philip tipped back the lid as she directed the torch beam to reveal the silk-lined interior.
The coffin was empty.
“Now are you satisfied, Mr. Dexter?”
Philip sighed. “Afraid not. The way I read it, this intruder, whoever he is, wants you to believe your husband is alive. I think he removed Court’s body from this crypt …”
“What possible reason would anyone have to perpetrate such an awful hoax?”
“I don’t have an answer for that,” he replied.
“I think Madame Jechiel has something to do with this.”
“Who is Madame Jechiel?” Philip continued to scribble in his notepad.
“She owns a gallery on La Cienega. I arranged for a showing of my husband’s work there about three weeks before he died. She has a strong belief in the … occult.”
“So do lots of misguided people,” Philip said. He looked back into the coffin. “I don’t see any connection.”
“Alex was terrified of dying! He knew his heart was bad. He survived two previous heart attacks. He told me he’d talked about his fear of death to Madame Jechiel—and that she made a bargain with him. She gave him a special ring.”
Philip looked at her. “What kind of ring?”
“Allegedly it’s from Egypt, in the shape of a beetle. Very ancient, known as the Osiris Scarab. According to what Alex told me when I asked him about it, this ring has a uniq
ue power. The scarab is apparently a symbol of immortality over there.”
Philip laughed. “Utter nonsense.”
“Not to Alex: She gave him the ring in exchange for a promise …” She stroked the lining of the casket.
“Which was?”
She smiled, glancing at Philip. “He refused to tell me, but he wore the ring everywhere, even to bed … when he slept, that is. That was when he began to spend long nights working in the studio, sleeping mostly during the day.”
“And that was unusual?”
“Very much so. Before that, he worked maybe an hour, two hours at a time. He liked to … brood over his sculptures.”
“What made him change?”
“I don’t know, but he warned me to stay away. Kept the studio locked from the inside. After his death, I put a padlock on the studio door. I have the only key.”
“This … person you saw: how did he get in?”
She paused, considering the question. “I—I don’t know. All the windows were nailed shut—and the padlock was intact.”
“You have to admit, this is all pretty crazy. But I would like to have a talk with this Jechiel woman—to find out what kind of promise your husband made to her.”
“I really appreciate your help, Mr. Dexter.”
“Not help,” he said, looking into her eyes, sensing her fear. “Just plain curiosity.”
* * *
Philip’s station wagon rolled to the curb in front of the Jechiel Gallery, on La Cienega a block short of Wilshire. The imposing façade, in black granite, was broken by a small window displaying a modernistic painting of the Devil astride a galloping white stallion.
Evelyn and Philip entered the gallery. In the muted glow of overhead lights, dozens of framed paintings were on display. A variety of sculptures were mounted on pedestals arranged along each wall. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” said Philip. “Where’s our mystery woman?”