The Mists of Osorezan

by Zoe Drake

  Nozaki rubbed his eyes, gong through one idea, one memory after another. In his time at Tsugaru, he had got to know the University thoroughly. The campus with its idiosyncratic architecture fascinated him. He had spent long afternoons wandering through the buildings, up and down in the elevators, with no clear destination in mind, only sampling the ambience. And there were areas that the public didn’t know about…

  He put his head down, looking carefully at the tiny screen. He typed in instructions. He pressed ‘send’, sucked in breath and let out a deep sigh. Whatever happened, happened. He was out of the drama; he was safe in this locked room, for the time being.

  The impact of something large against the door rattled it on its hinges, and startled him out of his seat.

  *

  At 16:14 the Aomori city police sealed off the hospital. Eleven minutes after that the first TV crews began to arrive, three-person teams of reporters, photographers and sound technicians crowding their way right up to the yellow and black police tape stretched across the entrances. Lines of uniformed police officers held them back, outstretched arms ending in spotless white gloves.

  At 16:48 a black and white truck arrived; the mobile base of the National Police Agency Crisis Negotiation team.

  Inspector Kohama had lived in Aomori prefecture all his life, except for the two years he’d spent training with the NPA down in Tokyo. At the age of thirty-five, he’d been promoted to the rank of Chief Inspector and so automatically transferred to the NPA, based in Aomori city. In his fifteen years as police officer, he’d seen a countless numbers of murders, fires, car crashes, and he’d successfully negotiated an end to three armed siege situations.

  Still, nothing had prepared him for this.

  “All right,” Kohama said, lighting up a cigarette and loosening the tie around his neck. “Do we know if anyone’s injured?”

  “Apparently one man stabbed,” the second-in-command, Officer Shibasaki, replied.

  “Sir.” Officer Fukuda, the female police officer sitting at the back of the control room, pointed to her laptop. “I’ve got the blueprints for the hospital buildings up on the screen.”

  “That’s good. Shibasaki, How about the numbers of the people involved? I know it’s hard to get a figure, but do we have any idea of how many people might be in the hospital?”

  “Very difficult, sir. We’re trying to get an accurate account of how many patients are inside and how many staff were on duty when all this started, but that coachload of volunteers is a real problem.”

  “Yes, that’s what bothers me. They turn up for some kind of meeting and then almost at the same time, this cult storms in. You know what that makes me think, gentlemen?”

  Someone nodded. “They were really after the volunteers.”

  “Now they’ve taken them up to the eleventh floor and barricaded themselves in. Why, for heaven’s sake? What’s so special about the eleventh floor?”

  “It’s a Sleep Research Laboratory.”

  “A what?” Kohama stared back in disbelief. Fukuda briefly explained.

  “Meaning what?” he said at last. “You mean they’ve taken the hostages up to the tenth floor for some rest and relaxation?”

  “There’s something odd about that lab,” Shibasaki murmured.

  “Explain.”

  “Do you remember that teenager? The one who died during some kind of experiment?”

  Kohama froze, his cigarette halfway to his mouth. “Wait, wait. Are you saying this is the same hospital?”

  Shibasaki nodded. Kohama stared back at him in silence, his mind working furiously. “What the hell’s going on? Is it possible that these maniacs are doing this out of revenge?”

  “You mean they’re connected with the Yoshidas?”

  “I can’t see why, sir,” said Fukuda. “The Yoshidas seem like an ordinary family…”

  Kohama stubbed out his cigarette in frustration, looked down at his notes. “But stranger things have happened.”

  *

  Fujita sat in the corner of the lab, trying to focus on what was going on. His vision slipped in and out. His hands were getting sore and tired from grimly holding onto the blood-encrusted bandage around his belly.

  They had all been taken upstairs to the Sleep Research Lab, and Mr. and Mrs. Yoshida were standing close to him. As he turned his head, he saw Mr. Yoshida glance in his direction and then quickly look away. The lawyer had seen a lot of pained incomprehension in his time, but never such a pitiful expression as that.

  Matsuoka walked around one of the trolleys, bringing him close to the lawyer. Fujita leaned forward, trying to catch his attention, his voice coming out in little more than a croak.

  “You can’t…you can’t possibly mean to kill them all.”

  The leader stopped, put his hands on his hips, and gazed at the lawyer with amused contempt. “Don’t try to talk about things you don’t understand. All we are doing is putting them to sleep.”

  “Like putting animals down? I’ve had dealings with cults before. I know the inside-out language you people use, liberating people, bringing them to God, ridding them of karma. It all comes down to the same thing. You’re killing them.”

  “Listen. I am not killing them.” Matsuoka stepped closer, and the lawyer nodded his head lazily, pleased to see his comments making an impression. “There’s nothing lethal in what I’m administering them. I have never told a lie in my adult life since I entered the Heralds of the Storm. It’s a mild sedative, and we are putting them to sleep – but in that sleep, all of these people will awake from the fever dream that is this world, and they will awaken to their true selves. They will awaken to their perfect bodies in the world provided by Susanoo.” The leader stopped, a smile spreading over his thin, mustached lips. “But you can’t comprehend that, can you, you man of law. You’ll die in your own little concrete and glass dream.” Matsuoka turned away, and snapped his fingers at a white-robed cultist. “Take these two next.”

  “They haven’t received the Treatment yet,” the cultist replied.

  “They why are they here?”

  “We are the parents of Ayano Yoshida,” the mother said in a firm, clear voice. “We came here for justice. We came here to tell people this hospital is not to be trusted, and now we’ve proved it – crooks and madmen, that’s all you are! If you think you can just walk in here and order decent people around–”

  “That’s enough,” her husband said, moving in front of her to grasp her hands. “Stop it, dear, that’s enough.”

  “Move over there,” the leader said with a wave of his hand, indicating the chair where the lawyer slumped. “We need to focus on those who’ve already received the Treatment. Stay over there, with that bloodstained idiot. If he moans too much, see to him. I don’t want my concentration broken.” Matsuoka paused to readjust his white robes. “You can all watch the dream becoming real!”

  With that, he stalked away, leaving Fujita facing a pair of white-faced, middle-aged parents, who looked totally out of place.

  With an effort, the lawyer raised his head, and caught the eyes of the father. Mr. Yoshida licked his lips, glanced around the Sleep Research Lab, and then looked wordlessly back at the lawyer. He could guess what the man was thinking; at least Saori isn’t here.

  But where was she?

  *

  The noise of the MRI machine was difficult to explain to someone who’d never heard it. A chugging, knocking sound, almost at the limits of tolerance, the sound of the powerful electromagnets behind it working as they scanned, this time, an empty bed.

  Nozaki stood concealed behind it in the dark, the machine switched on, the lights off, both of his arms wrapped tightly around the canister that the machine was trying to pull from his grasp with its powerful magnetic field.

  As the door began to give way to the bludgeoning from outside, Nozaki suddenly thought of his father.

  On the rare occasions they had gone out together, which usually resulted in Tetsuo drinking oolong tea and w
atching his father get progressively drunker and claiming to enjoy it, his father had said something. Said something about the jidai geki, the samurai dramas. He had talked about the real samurai.

  “The thing is, Tetsuo,” he had slurred, “the finest samurai hardly ever used his sword, but he was always ready to fight. He was prepared for trouble but preserved his calmness at all times. The real samurais of today, the true heroes, are the average working guys, getting through the day without complaint, without disaster, and taking care of their families. But few understand how hard they work, Tetsuo. So few really understand.”

  The memory came out of nowhere and left Nozaki blinking, looking around in confusion. His grip upon the canister tightened. A loud crack came from the next room, and he knew the door must have given way at last. Voices, loud but still obscured by the giant machine’s cacophony. Two hooded figures burst into the room, their swords drawn…

  Swords plucked from their hands as if jerked by invisible strings, to slap against the MRI machine with a resounding clang.

  Nozaki stepped out from behind the machine. He held up the fire extinguisher, pulled out the pin, and squeezed the lever hard. A spray of white powder bloomed out into the attackers’ faces. They staggered back, yelling incoherently. Nozaki swung the extinguisher at them as he ran past and let go, hearing the cylinder strike flesh and bone as it was pulled towards the powerful electromagnets of the machine. He closed the control room’s door, hurriedly locking it behind him.

  Nozaki’s run took him out through the door and into a collision with a third cultist standing outside. The force caught them both off balance, clutching at each other’s arms, stumbling through a plastic curtain and into a nurse’s workstation. They hit a cabinet hard and then sank struggling to the floor, medicine bottles, thermometers, Q-tips, plastic gloves and woolen blankets raining down on them.

  Sprawling on the linoleum, Nozaki felt something rubbery wrapped his neck and pulled tight. A stethoscope. The cultist squeezed tighter, cutting into Nozaki’s neck, his throat closing tight. He gasped and turned his head, saw a thermometer lying next to him amid a scattered pile of instruments. He reached out, grasped it, snapped the tip off against the floor, and lashed out.

  He felt the thermometer stick where he thrust it. The cultist gave a fierce cry of pain, the pressure around Nozaki’s neck slacked off. He pulled his head free, pushed the screaming cultist off him, and got to his feet.

  Without looking back, Nozaki was through the door, and down the flight of steps to his left.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Hooked

  “Is this all we’ve got on the Heralds of the Storm?”

  The female police officer nodded. Leaning back in the plastic folding chair, Kohama scanned the printout as quickly as he could. Charges were still pending from a case last year, a case he vaguely remembered; charges of fraud against the religious organization, by people who claimed they’d been pressured to buy sacred artifacts they thought would restore their health. A common claim against so-called cults.

  So why this hospital, he thought, why this research program?

  “There is also this, sir,” Fukuda continued. “The hospital’s been buying medical equipment from a company called Jaksystems Corp. The team investigating the Heralds found that it’s a dummy. Just a front for the cult.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  Fukuda looked at the screen keenly. “Something for that research program. They’re called Sleep Modulators.”

  “Excuse me!”

  Kohama jumped to his feet as a uniformed officer opened the van door, a middle-aged man impatiently pushing past him. “Excuse me for disturbing you, but I can’t wait any longer!” The man shouted in a panicked voice.

  “Who’s this?” Kohama called to Shibasaki.

  The man wore a brown jacket with a yellow shirt and red and gold tie, an ID badge clipped to his jacket lapel, and had a green armband with the name of the hospital emblazoned on it in bold white kanji. His face was a waxy, off-white color, and his thinning hair was combed in a broad swath across his bony forehead. “I’m Dr. Nemoto, the Chief of Staff. I have to know, sir, what are you doing about Dr. Kageyama?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The head of the Neurology Department. Those terrorists have barricaded themselves in with him, he’s in terrible danger!”

  “We’re taking all the steps we can, sir, but…” Shibasaki began.

  “All the steps, you say? What about the Special Weapons branch? It won’t take them long to get here from the base in Hokkaido.”

  “I think we can get this resolved without having to call the big guns in. We haven’t even started negotiations yet, so if you could…”

  “You’re not going to call them?” The man refused to calm down. “If anything happens to those hostages, it’ll be you to blame, you know!”

  “Mr. Nemoto. I mean, Dr. Nemoto.” Kohama stepped closer to the head doctor, pushing his face closer to the other man. “You don’t catch fish by standing on the bank and shouting.” He held up his hand, dangling it in front of his face. “If you want to catch fish, you need a hook.”

  “Sir.” Another uniformed officer opened the door, and stood to attention with the briefest of bows. “Sir, one of the hostages has got out.”

  *

  A sub-tropical night had fallen by the time Weiss and Namiko had returned to the hospital. The entrances were almost unrecognizable – thronged with black and white police cars, uniformed officers, security cordons, the boom mikes and camera lights of the mass media.

  “Problem number one,” Weiss muttered as the car cruised past the seething mass of humanity.

  “We’ll go to the delivery entrance,” Namiko answered.

  Parking the car in the first place available, the two of them walked to the street that led to the narrow side entrance. Weiss had readied his sigil in preparation, but Namiko placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

  She had her own glamour. With one finger to her lips, and the other holding up another scroll of exquisite Japanese calligraphy, she led him through the gates. The reporters fell silent and stepped aside, their eyes glassy. Police officers bowed and held up the tape so that they could pass underneath.

  Walking around the side of the building to the back, they located the north stairwell. “This won’t work on TV cameras,” Namiko told him.

  “I know. Let’s just get up as quickly as we can.”

  The rusted metal staircase of the south fire escape rang hollowly with their steps as they climbed in double time up the side of the building. Halfway up, a megaphone started with a click and a robotic voice shouted into the night.

  “They’ve seen us,” Namiko said.

  “I know,” Weiss puffed. “How much further?”

  “We’re about halfway.”

  “I do hope we can get to the top before they decide to send the helicopters in.”

  They were at the ninth floor when the sound of whirling blades filled the night, and the blazing, insect-smooth shape of a helicopter swung around the side of the hospital and tilted towards them.

  Namiko called back over her shoulder that it was the police. At least it wasn’t the TV, Weiss thought; if the Heralds of the Storm had a TV on inside the hospital they’d know Weiss was on his way even before they got inside.

  An orange ladder leading to a tiny door, the message had said, that leads on to the roof. The large window leads to a main building elevator control room.

  At last they were at the ladder. They both pulled themselves up to the lip of the rooftop, and the door gave way to Namiko’s touch.

  The roof before them was crowded with metal pipes, ladders and big humming boxes, all a jumble of shadowed surfaces. Stepping gingerly over the obstructions, they searched for the window. It was at waist height, big enough to squeeze through.

  *

  On the top floor the escapees were lying quietly on tarpaulin spread over the bare concrete floor. Saori was lying in the crook of
David’s arm, her arms around him, her hair fanned out across his midriff. David could smell her scent every time he breathed, and the sensation brought him close to tears.

  David lay as still as he could, listening to the faint sounds coming from below, footsteps, voices, and unidentified thumps. He stared up at the ceiling through the dusty air, wondering suddenly if the dust could be asbestos. As if it matters, he thought with bitter humor – asbestos poisoning has got to be the least of my worries…

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Ishida. The sleepless, frightened man who’d gone to the café with him. Ishida was dead. Ishida had told him about the 3/11 tsunami that afternoon in the café. He said it had been a beautiful warm Friday afternoon in March. After the massive earthquake had hit, the seawater had drained away, returning as an unstoppable flood.

  The same thing was happening here, and David could feel it. A dark tide was gathering within the hospital. It would spill out, smashing everything in its path, and people would scream as they tried to run away. But soon there would be nowhere to run to. No England, no family. He’d never see them again. Magic was useless against this.

  Saori stirred, lifting her face up to look at him, breaking into his thoughts. “David, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well…I’m glad you met my family. And got involved. What I mean is, I’m glad that I met you.”

  He stared at her, nonplused, and he couldn’t help giving a short laugh. “Yeah, well, after all this, I…but listen, if I hadn’t got involved, maybe this wouldn’t have happened, I…”

  “Yes, it would. I’m trying to tell you that I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what’s happened to my parents, but at least I’ve got you.”

  He stared at her, speechless, and she stared back. You don’t get something for nothing, the Professor had told him. If you want to bring about change through magical ritual, there has to be some kind of sacrifice. So you have to ask yourself, David. What do you have to give?