by R. R. Virdi
He didn’t twitch. The giant stood there, watching. It was reminiscent of Church in a way.
Well, if Church started the Crisco diet anyways.
His movement brought me back to attention. The large man pointed down the hall, waggling a finger in admonishment.
“Wait, I can’t go down that way or something?”
He rested one of his giant fingers along the base of his neck, slowly dragging it across. A warning about the phage.
I snorted dismissively. “Not if I kill it first.”
His eyebrows shifted and he turned his head. He gave me a dubious look.
Really? Now I had hallucinations doubting my ability?
“I’m going,” I resolved with a low guttural growl.
He gave me the “Nice knowing you” look.
Everybody’s a critic, even the imaginary.
I flashed him an extra wide smile and flipped him a finger of my own. Call me petulant, but I’m not one to take crap from illusions, especially my own.
I left him behind and made my way toward the far end of the hall. My hand moved of its own accord at times, trying to brush away the nonexistent fumes. The pool of tar drew closer. I had no idea what to expect. Sure, it was an illusion, but it had to represent something. At least, I believed it had to. After all, they weren’t solely hallucinations, but a tool to lead me to the phage. Or to lead it to me. I didn’t know what I’d be able to do if the phage got the drop on me. I had no weapon. Then there was my condition. Tripping on supernatural psychedelics isn’t the best state to be in when confronting a monster.
I was an arm’s length from the pool now. Its surface roiled like a flame was beneath it. My fingers waggled in anticipation and I reached toward it. Every bubble forming on its surface erupted. Geysers of thin motor oil sprung toward the ceiling, attaching themselves like strands of a grim cobweb. They collapsed on themselves, shrinking in thickness and flattening out. A sickly black curtain spread before me. A noticeable seam of white ran down the middle. Seemed simple enough.
Except I’d learned over the years that when the paranormal are involved, nothing is what it seems. And nothing is ever simple.
I formed a pair of stiff shovels with my hands and thrust them into the sludgy seam. I pulled. I met some resistance as the gooey material clung together. It refused to part no matter how much I huffed and puffed. Leveraging more of my weight, I leaned into the wall and used the muscles in my back as well as my arms. The curtain spread, peeling away from itself and leaving clinging trails of gook. I reminded myself that this, too, was imaginary and stepped through the tendrils of foul gunk.
My arms spun in circles as my legs almost cut out below me. Teetering, I flailed, trying to regain my diminished sense of balance. My vision adjusted and I stared down a spiraled stairway of stone. My feet hung well over the first step.
“This is one hell of an illusion.”
I stepped down to the next stair. I wondered if I was, in reality, descending a flight of stairs. If I was, where in the asylum had such a place? A layer of chilled cotton clouded my thoughts as I tried to recall the path I had taken to get here. My chest strained as I worked my way down. Breathing became a laborious task and my arm tingled.
“No,” I panted through clenched teeth, denying the heart attack. But the heart attack never came. I cracked a smile, telling myself that this time, what I felt were the symptoms of my warped mind. Calmed by my understanding of it I took another step.
Apparently the heart attack was indeed a Jedi mind trick—one meant to distract me from my legs. The second my foot contacted the floor, it continued bending. My leg collapsed on itself like a bit of rope. Walls and steps passed by as I tumbled. I didn’t even have the chance to blurt out a string of ever-creative obscenities before hitting the bottom.
The first impact sent me into a world of varying reds and whites. My vision went haywire. Everything from electric bursts of pain to sharp jabs and heavy thuds filled my body. I don’t know how long I fell. You lose track of time when you’re being subjected to skull-jarring impacts. One agonizingly-long moment I was bouncing down the stairs like a Graves slinky; the next, I was staring at a ceiling that was spinning with no sign of stopping.
Time has a funny way of escaping when you’re in the Neravene, or when you’re under the influence of magical LSD. My forearm rested atop my eyes as I lay prone on the cold stone. I pulled it away and noticed my tattoo had lost the four. Thirteen hours remained.
Normally that would have spurred me into action, but every instinct objected to that. It felt nice to rest and let my thoughts wander. As used to pain as I am, I’m not fond of it. Nor am I keen on constantly absorbing it without reprieve. My breath came in deep, calming inhalations that did nothing to ease my aching body.
How the hell did I lose another hour, and so fast? Even thinking about it sent a twinge lancing through my head. There was only one conclusion that fit. My ingestion of the phage’s toxins hampered my perception of time. My senses were dulled. A flare of pain rolled through my ribs as I entertained the thought of moving in slow-motion down the halls. God knows how long it actually took me to get as far as I did. All the way to the bottom of a stairway.
Talk about progress.
All manner of body parts cracked, groaned, and cried out against my sudden motion to rise. The joints from my shoulders to my wrists quaked as I tried to push myself up. Molten globules burned within them. Folding my tongue between my teeth, I bit down—lightly. I redirected some of the pain to my tongue and strained the muscles in my arms. A forceful huff of wind left my nostrils. Something warm tagged along. The stone floor bore a minute splattering of ruby jelly. Using the knuckle of my forefinger, I rubbed it against the soft cartilage. It came away red. Thankfully it wasn’t broken, just battered.
My left arm responded a bit late after my fingers dug into it. A few motions with it reassured me that, while injured, it was functional. Good thing too. Another set of repugnant-looking curtains blocked my path. Vibrations rang through my throat as I summoned up a glob of saliva. My face twisted in contempt as I spat at the wall. Of course it didn’t react. I wasn’t expecting it to.
For the second time in an hour, my balance wavered as my heel crashed into the curtains. They absorbed the impact and exerted a force of their own up my leg. I lost the battle and fell. The ground greeted my ass with an impact that made its way to my jaw, rattling my teeth.
I shot up, willed away the pain, and launched myself into the wall of demonic Play-Doh. I didn’t peel it apart like before. I barreled into it, trying to separate it with sheer force. My knees struck the wall and it faltered. I didn’t let up. I swung at the wall, releasing the frustration I’d accrued over the case. With a final surge and crash, I plowed through the seam, falling into a scene from Tolkien.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hanging gardens don’t belong in mental asylums. Despite my certainty of that fact, a masterwork of stone and flora surrounded me. At least...I’m sure it was a masterwork at some point in time.
Someone had forgotten to pay for garden maintenance. My fingers trailed over grass that brushed against my knees. Columns of stone losing the battle against time reached for the sky around me. Beams of aged wood ran between them. It was a miracle the wood still held together. The place made my stomach feel like it was nursing a bundle of agitated snakes.
Antiquated vases of brass hung from chains that looked close to breaking. Exotic plants sprouted from them in varieties that only a botanist could identify. In the distance was a mass of deteriorating stonework that could easily have been a city at some point.
“Fuck me,” I breathed as it struck me. “Babylon.” The hallucinations were giving me a vision of Babylon. Or its fall, I reasoned. The crumbling architecture, neglected grass and deserted city made it clear.
A coolness no larger than a penny hit my head. My fingers dug into my hair. One of them came away with a moist sheen. I looked up and found channels of pitted stone hanging in cant
ed angles. Another sphere struck my face. My fingertips slid over my cheek with abrasive intent after I saw what emanated from the aqueducts. Tendrils of blackened vapor rose from the old stone.
I bounded forward. It was a battle for level surface as I navigated the cobbled stones masked by stalks of grass. I may not have suffered any consequences from inhaling the mist-like gunk with the butcher, but I had felt the water dripping on my face. I wasn’t going to take a chance. It was likely it was tainted, but the question of how I’d even felt it occupied my mind.
Illusions were and are just that—illusions. The list of creatures that can conjure something you can interact with is short. My mind pulled up images of the Ifrit from my last case in New York, and the shadow it had summoned. It was a type of apparition that was as close to real as it could get. But that took a level of power a Babylonian phage didn’t possess.
There were two options: the grass and water were real, or I believed I was feeling them. That fit more within the realm of what I knew about this breed of phage. They couldn’t whip up actual horrors, but they could make the mind believe them, and that’s enough. The mind is a terribly potent and wonderful thing. It can subject you to a myriad of emotions—all with physical effects.
Anger may not have a physical form, but you can sure as hell feel it on the inside. Your heart picks up in tempo. Your temples drum as a slew of chemicals race through your blood. It’s the same principle behind phantom limbs. A person loses an arm or a leg in some tragedy, yet they have moments where they can feel their missing limbs. A Babylonian phage exploits the most powerful organ in the human anatomy—the brain. It perverts one of the most fantastically exciting and petrifying things humans possess.
The ability to feel.
The tainted water was manipulating my brain on a level where I thought I was feeling things. The only thing real was the ground beneath me. Unable to shake off the effects of the drugs, I legged it, reminding myself that I was still within the asylum. No matter how powerful the hallucinations were, I refused to let them jeopardize my case. I was using them to find the phage, not the other way around.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll believe it. The grim thought echoed through my skull.
A low whistle left my lips as I made my way to an upright block of stone that would dwarf a shipping container. The thing would’ve taken dozens of cranes to move and yet somehow, it was raised to stand vertically. Walking past it, I entered the ruins of what I assumed was the fabled city. My intestines knotted as I moved through the maze-like remains. The air felt almost like syrup, thick and heavy. No sounds filled my ears as I progressed. Soft earth muffled my footsteps. The scene, the silence—all of it was dissonantly beautiful. And that, most of all, is what sent a tongue of grease slithering down my neck.
I walked through the remains of one of the greatest cities in the world. A city brought low by paranormal creatures that didn’t just inspire horror, but generated it. And it was as tranquil as a fucking Disney movie.
It’s quiet. Too quiet, giggled a voice of insanity.
“Fucking clichés,” I spat.
Something chalky white raced along the edge of my vision. Strands of muscle worked like rebar to keep my neck from tearing as I swiveled my head. I turned in time to catch sight of...nothing. No monster. No dirt or dust kicked into the air—nothing. The rocks were undisturbed. A couple of spindly-looking flowers swayed in the wind.
Which would’ve been fine if there was any wind. I may have been sort of tipsy, but something did move through there. This freak might’ve preyed on fear, but fear works both ways. It doesn’t render you completely helpless. With fear comes an edge of hyperawareness. Every possible ounce of human potential is squeezed out. I risked shutting my eyes for the briefest of moments, taking in several breaths. I wasn’t working to decrease my fear. I was taking control of it.
The hairs on my arms stood at attention. Miniscule bumps formed over my skin. Breathing sent a menthol-like chill through my nose, but there was no actual drop in temperature.
“Okay,” I breathed. “It knows you’re here, and you know it’s here.” I spread a wary gaze over my surroundings. No movement. No sounds. I found myself sympathizing with Arnold. I now knew what if felt like being hunted by the Predator. Except, in his case, it was a giant guy in a costume. I doubted I’d be so lucky.
So far the phage had avoided direct confrontation. That was a plus. Given how fast the thing could move and what it could do to my mind, I wasn’t itching for a fight. At least, not a fair one. I needed one hell of an advantage if I was going to take on that freak. I clenched my fists several times to loosen the tension in my body.
A blur of white zipped by.
I refused to react. The thing was baiting me, trying to unnerve me. Another cooling rush of air sailed up my nose. I let it settle there for a bit before exhaling. This thing could’ve attacked me already if it wanted to. So I ignored the motions and moved on.
I passed through a narrow alley and stopped. There were markings on the stone. Rudimentary in design, they still got the message across. A roughly humanoid shape—slender, chalky white with lengthy appendages—covered the wall. The ends of each limb trailed off at odd angles. The drawings were the products of haste...or something else.
Peculiar writing accompanied the markings. Akkadian if I had to guess. I couldn’t understand the language. The way it was written told me it probably wasn’t legible in the first place. It had the look of something scrawled in a panicked flurry. I peered closer. The stone bled.
Color seeped from the walls, shaping themselves into all manner of images and words I couldn’t discern. All of them made one thing clear: Charles didn’t lose his mind. It was broken. And the guy still managed to ID the phage while losing his marbles. That was an impressive feat. One I was going to reward by ganking this monster.
I tore myself from the wall and moved out of the alley. A long stretch of dirt greeted me. It was puzzling deciding where to go next.
Screams filled the air. I turned and saw a pair of children rushing towards me.
Their ruddy faces were caked in grime and tears. They ran from some unseen terror.
I waved. “Hey!” They showed no signs of hearing me.
As the nearest of the two children passed by, I reached out. My fingers sailed through their arm and exited out their torso. The children kept moving until they faded from sight.
I rubbed my eyes. The hallucinations were starting to get the better of me. I reacted to those children as if they were real. Their screams had thrown me off focus.
I shook my head and hoofed it down the path the kids had taken. Hollow sounds thrummed through the wind. I felt like I was walking through a ghost town. Only, here, the ghosts still lingered—the ghosts of the asylum, the ghosts of Babylon. There seemed to be no end to the remnants of the dead.
A thought crept into the back of my mind as I progressed down the road. My perception of time, among many things, was altered. The urge to check my forearm won over and I looked. For the first time in checking it, I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. My timeline remained the same.
Too bad the scenery hadn’t.
A jarring flicker of color swept over me like a tsunami crashing over rocks. Someone left the faucet on near a megaphone. The magnified sound of water falling in steady drips echoed through my ears. Aged service lights cast an unreliable pale glow over wet stone, darkened to an iron gray. My head swam with the cavernous roaring.
Before I could exhale, the experience faded. I wasn’t aware that I’d been moving during the mental onslaught. I couldn’t have moved. Regardless, lengthy fingers of wheat surrounded me. I blinked and pinched the tip of the nearest stalk. It broke free with ease. I rolled it between my fingers before sending it tumbling through the air.
I craned my neck back to search for the city. An endless ocean of pale gold stretched out in every direction. Tufts of wheat waved. Something scraped against them and I braced.
H
umming—melodic and feminine—graced my ears. She came into clarity. She was dressed like she had walked off the set of a Greco-Roman movie. Dark-featured and sun-weathered, unbound hair hanging past her shoulders. She ran her fingers over the tips of the golden stalks. The gentle hum increased.
Normally a person appearing out of thin air would get my heart thumpin’ a bit. After the incident with the children, I didn’t feel the need to invest any energy or time with this illusion.
I gave her a brusque nod. “Heya. You’re gorgeous and all, and I know we’re alone in a field and that’s giving you ideas of a romantic nature. The thing is…” I cut off as she drew a sharp breath. Her head snapped up, eyes seeing me for the first time. Her pupils dilated. I snapped my fingers before her nose, causing her to recoil. “You…you can see me?”
Her eyes ballooned as she stood rooted to the spot.
“Hey,” I breathed in a soft and reassuring voice. “It’s okay.” I extended an open hand. “I’m one of the good guys. I gank monsters.” As I said it, another voice went through my head. You’re an idiot. You’re talking to an illusion. “Shut up.” The woman took another step back. “Oh, sorry about that. Wasn’t talking to you. That was directed to my cynicism angel. I’ve got one squatting inside my brainpan because he’s too lazy to perch on my shoulder. Between you and me, he’s an ass.”
A hand flew to her chest, clutching it as if she were in pain. Her free hand shot up, fingers splayed. A clear message for me to back off.
“Okay.” I held up my own hands in a gesture to calm her. “I get it. Graves no bueno here.” I backed off a step.
Her mouth parted. The scream ricocheted through my eardrums and jarred my eyeballs. The girl had a set of pipes. She muttered something incomprehensible. It sounded like a prayer as she backpedaled.