When they reached the central control room, Petrushka cursed.
Her Quantico courses hadn’t prepared Masterton for the smell. There were hints of indefinable, noxious scents—brimstone crossed with the sour fumes of rot, scents that only agents of the Lovecraft Squad would encounter—but other smells were distinctly human. The thick, coppery aroma of blood. The meaty odors of eviscerations.
Surrounded by the other agents, Masterton stepped out of the side hallway into the control room, where the agents’ desks cluttered a large open space.
“Watch it,” Reyes said to her. She looked down and saw that she’d nearly stepped in a wide pool of blood. It came from Shakman—or what was left of him. She saw a severed arm, cast aside. A hand, the stump chewed. And, worst of all, his head, the eyes still open, looking as if they might blink at any second.
“Masterton?” That was Deputy Director Jefferson. She pulled herself upright, swallowed down the lump that had found its way into her throat.
“Sir,” she answered, hating the way her voice cracked slightly at the end.
Jefferson, his dark eyes fixed on her, said, “What do you make of this?”
“I don’t see any signs of bullet wounds in the remains. Some of the . . . pieces . . . look scratched or chewed on the ends—”
Jefferson cut her off. “I’m asking what your special senses are telling you.”
“Oh.” She turned her awareness inward for a moment, concentrating. Every primeval cell, every nerve ending, was now telling her to flee, hide, get away from the overwhelming sensation of destruction permeating the air. “Our protections failed, sir. Not the ones designed for humans, I mean.”
The other agents cocked eyebrows or turned to Jefferson, who only nodded. “Our enemies found a way in at last.”
They tensed, looked around, ears straining for sound, eyes searching out every shadow . . . but there was nothing. Jefferson moved among them, examining remains. “I’ve got Doughty here . . . and I think this is Boyer, but . . . it’s hard to tell . . .”
From a corner, Wyatt called out, “You should see this, sir.”
Masterton trailed Jefferson as he joined the other man. They stood, covering their noses, over a three-foot-wide pool of thick, green fluid that exuded an odor Masterton could only identify as “putrid.” In low tones, turning his face aside, Jefferson said, “At least whatever did this took some damage.”
Nauseated, Masterton turned and headed away. She came to another hallway—this one led to the labs that housed Professor Brady’s Dream Division.
There was a body sprawled on the floor a few yards from the professor’s door. The trail of blood behind it gave violent testimony to a failed escape attempt.
Shotgun held ready, Masterton made her way down the hallway. The body on the floor was male, facedown, one leg chewed to the bone, the right arm outstretched. Masterton scanned her surroundings a last time before kneeling for a look at the face.
It was Dr. Orme Appleton, Randolph Carter’s former assistant.
If people had never been comfortable around Carter, they had felt the opposite way about his companion. Before Carter’s last journey to the Dreamlands, Appleton had taken care of his health and well-being, and he had always believed that one day his old friend would return from whichever plane he had disappeared into.
When Masterton had signed on, Dr. Appleton had been gracious, providing her with insights into the workings of the Lovecraft Squad that had made her new job tolerable. She had always sensed that he was a somewhat lonely figure without Carter.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Masterton closed down her sorrow. She rose and turned as Jefferson joined her. “It’s Dr. Appleton, sir.”
Jefferson’s eyes went wide. “Jesus. The dreamers . . .”
The door to the lab was open. Jefferson didn’t wait for one of his agents; instead he pushed into the lab as Masterton waited. He returned a few seconds later. “They’re not there. No sign of them.”
Olivetti said, “They probably let in whatever did this.”
Jefferson replied, “We don’t know that, Agent Olivetti.”
Petrushka said, “Olivetti may be right, sir. How else could they have gotten in? I never did trust Carter’s handpicked freaks.”
“That’s enough of that, Agent,” Jefferson snapped. He looked back down at the doctor’s corpse, his face a grim mask. “Appleton. Damn it. I don’t know how Carter will ever manage without him. If he ever returns, that is.”
Masterton gestured at a scarlet splash on the floor beyond the doctor’s outflung right arm. “What’s that just beyond his hand?”
Jefferson bent down to look. “It’s something he drew there, in his own blood. Some kind of symbol . . .”
Masterton saw a curved line, an upside-down “U,” with circles on each of the ends. Behind her, Olivetti said, “I’ve seen that goddamn thing in some of the rituals we’ve broken up.”
“Do you know what it means?”
Olivetti looked at Jefferson, shaking his head. “I thought maybe it was a sign for the Elder Gods.”
“Maybe . . .” Jefferson pulled a small pad and pen from a pocket and sketched the symbol. When he was finished, he said, “Wyatt and Masterton, you’re with me. The rest of you, finish searching this area and the cells below. We haven’t found any sign of Director Brady yet.”
Wyatt, MP5 held ready, led the way out of corridor and back down the other hallway to Jefferson’s office. Once there, Jefferson stationed Wyatt outside, brought Masterton into the office, and closed the door. As he turned to the bookcase behind him, he said, “Agent Masterton, are you familiar with something called the Necronomicon?”
“Yes, sir. I recall seeing that name in the debriefing files. It’s a reference commonly used by the followers of the Old Ones, isn’t it?”
Jefferson pulled a book from the case. It looked like a sheaf of modern copies that had been velobound—it could have been a project record or a payroll report. The deputy director spoke as he set the document on his desk and riffled through it. “It is, but it’s much more than that. It’s the guide for the dark practices of the Olde Fellowes and the other cults dedicated to the worship of the Elder Gods.” As the pages turned, Masterton caught quick glimpses of runic writing, arcane symbols, engravings of crouched winged things with human feet trailing from their open, fanged maws. “This, of course, is just a copy—there are only a handful of originals remaining, and Miss Peaslee keeps our copy firmly behind lock and key in The Library.” He paused at a page and bent down close. “Ahh, there it is.”
Masterton also leaned in. There, on the open page, was the symbol that Orme Appleton had drawn in his own blood; beside it was the same symbol reversed, with the open mouth of the “U” pointing up. “What does it mean?” Masterton asked.
Jefferson had already retrieved a second velobound document and was scanning the contents. “This is an incomplete translation by the late Professor Vilier of Miskatonic University. Let’s find out . . .” He found the page—and his dark skin turned ashen gray.
“It’s the Dragon’s Head.”
Masterton had never seen the deputy director unnerved before. She forced herself to wait until he was ready to talk. “I know what did this—what killed our men. And I know where it’s gone.”
“Where, sir?”
He looked up at her. “It’s still here, but beneath us. Below the cells that used to hold the mad dreamers, there’s a cave system that runs under Washington. There aren’t many ways to access it, but one of those ways is here, through this complex.” He pointed at the symbol. “The Dragon’s Head is part of a ritual for resurrection. According to the Necronomicon, if a creature’s ‘essential salts’ are preserved, it can be recalled by a formula accompanying this symbol. In this form, it’s known as the ‘ascending node’; if the symbol is reversed, it’s the ‘descending node.’”
“So Appleton was trying to tell us that something’s been called up . . . But what? And by who?”
&n
bsp; “Agent Masterton . . .” Jefferson trailed off, choosing his words carefully before continuing. “The architects of Washington were well-versed in occult practices. They knew of the Necronomicon, and in their researches they engaged in certain of the practices laid out in that book. Specifically, they engaged in those practices here, beneath our feet, in the catacombs of the city.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Masterton said as her mind raced through possibilities, “those men are long dead . . .”
“They are, but their acolytes continue to exist to this day, and the fruits of their experiments are still down there, including the ‘essential salts.’”
“So someone went down there and performed the Dragon’s Head ritual?”
Jefferson said, “Which means that either there are persons we don’t know about accessing those areas—or we’ve got a traitor on the inside.”
Masterton considered this for a few seconds. “Well, we know it wasn’t Orme Appleton.”
“Or Boyer, Shakman, or Doughty. And I think we can rule Randolph Carter out . . . If he’s still alive. But that still leaves a great many of us.”
“Sir . . .” Masterton weighed her words, before admitting her suspicion. “I think we should keep an eye on Agent Olivetti.”
“Is it that you don’t trust him—or that you just don’t like him?” Jefferson smiled briefly.
“Both, sir.”
“Does Olivetti seem capable to you of resurrecting the dead?”
Put that way, Masterton felt her suspicions crumble into dust. “I know, but . . . if you’re using capabilities as a measure, then you might as well suspect me.”
The deputy director peered at her, not speaking, and Masterton felt her world fall away. “Sir—if I’d done this, why would I have called you to report it?”
“Maybe to cover your tracks?”
She gaped for a second, and Jefferson relented. “Look, Agent Masterton, I really don’t have any undue suspicion of you, but I have to consider all possibilities right now.”
“I understand,” Masterton said, but she still stung from her superior’s few seconds of mistrust.
Jefferson pulled two sheets of blank paper from a drawer, grabbed a pen, turned to the Necronomicon, and began copying lines. “This,” he said, as he wrote carefully, not rushing, “is the incantation for ‘descending node,’ or laying to rest the things that have been called up. Two of us should have this.” He finished, and handed a sheet to Masterton, who stared at the strange words.
OGTHROD AI’F
GEB’L-EE’H
YOG-SOTHOTH
’NGAH’NG AI’Y
ZHRO!
They stirred something at the back of her consciousness—a sense of terrible power, power that no sane person should ever possess. Uncertain, she looked up from the paper to Jefferson.
“Why me?”
“The other agents are more heavily armed. They’ll cover us while we recite this against whatever we encounter.”
“This underground system—that’s where they’ve retreated to?”
“Or where they’re trying to lure us.”
They locked glances for a second, and Masterton knew in that instant that Jefferson trusted her fully and completely. She offered a fleeting, grateful smile before turning back to the sheet. “Do I have time to memorize this? It’ll only take a few moments.”
“Yes, but I warn you—one wrong syllable could be fatal.”
Ten minutes later the other agents had returned from searching the complex and reported no further fatalities. Since then, the small exploratory squad—Jefferson, Petrushka, Wyatt, Reyes, Olivetti, and Masterton—had finished assembling supply packs of extra batteries for the flashlights and additional ammo, and were waiting for orders.
The spell Masterton had committed to memory swam in her mind like an unknown, luminescent deep-sea creature. The folded paper with the words on it was in her pants’ pocket.
Jefferson checked his own pack and then addressed his team. “Listen up—I’m granting all of you extra security clearance for what we’re about to do. Some of you already know that there’s a cave system beneath Washington, a system which in the past was used for certain occult practices, but what none of you knew previously was that we have one of the few entrances to that system here, below headquarters. We will shortly be using that entrance to access those caves.”
Petrushka asked, “What are we looking for, sir?”
“We’re looking for Director Nathan Brady, who may or may not be in the tunnels. Beyond that . . . we won’t have to look, because whatever’s down there will find us.”
Wyatt hefted his MP5 with less confidence. “Do we know that guns will kill these things?”
Jefferson answered, “It’s unlikely that gunfire will kill them. However, Agent Masterton and I are each prepared to perform an incantation that will put them down. We need the guns to hold them back until we finish.”
Olivetti barked a single harsh laugh. “You’re talkin’ about words. Sir, do you really believe that words are going to save us from whatever tore these men apart?” He nodded at the gruesome remains of Boyer, Shakman, and Doughty.
“Yes, Agent Olivetti, I do believe in the power of these words.”
Olivetti shut up, but Masterton saw the effect his question had had on the other agents—they all looked more anxious than they had thirty seconds ago. Jefferson saw it too, and softened his tone. “We all signed onto this with the understanding that we might one day be asked to engage with things that were not human. This is one of those days. If we can’t stop whatever is down there, it will find its way into the world and spread. So, let’s go send it back to where it came from.”
Jefferson turned and purposefully walked out of the control room. Masterton saw how Wyatt and Petrushka exchanged glances before following, how Reyes shrugged his big shoulders as he headed out, and how Olivetti cursed under his breath but went along.
They made their way down to the subterranean level, which Masterton had never visited before today. A series of intermittent light bulbs cast a sickly yellow glow that barely offered any relief from the encroaching darkness. She had heard stories that this was where Randolph Carter had incarcerated his original dreamers—his “mad squad.” Down here, they preferred the darkness, where they could no longer look upon their own reflections and see how their dreaming had changed them. Since joining the HPL, she had heard whispers about this and other, even more terrible, events connected with this twilight world hidden away beneath the headquarters above.
At the end of a dim corridor lined with empty cells and storage rooms was a metal door with a sign on it reading: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. A heavy deadbolt lock supported that dictate.
The lock was broken now, the metal around the frame buckled and torn, the door hanging slightly ajar. Jefferson motioned them to silence, waved Petrushka and Wyatt forward. They raised the MP5s, nodded to each other, and kicked the door open.
Beyond was a small room, like an airlock or an antechamber, adorned only with two overhead bulbs, a pair of security cameras (now shattered), and, on the far side of the room, another door. Like the first, this door had also been battered open. As he passed through the first door, Reyes leaned down and examined the shredded metal around the remains of the lock. After a few seconds, he rose, his expression grim. “Whatever destroyed this came from down there,” he said, gesturing at whatever was beyond the second door. “This thing was battered out from the inside.”
No one answered. Jefferson, his own pistol held ready, toed the second door open and risked a look. After a moment, he pushed the door wide and once again had Petrushka and Wyatt take the lead.
Masterton was second to last, with Olivetti bringing up the rear. She didn’t like having him behind her, but she wasn’t in command. Beyond the second doorway was a stairwell with concrete walls, metal steps, and railings. It could have been in any normal building, contemporary and utilitarian.
When they reached the landing,
that sense of this being a normal structure vanished, as the concrete and steel were replaced by dank stone, steps worn slightly concave from centuries of use. Their flashlight beams bounced back from moisture coating the granite, a visceral reminder that Washington had been built on a swamp. Masterton shivered as the temperature suddenly dropped—she wished she’d worn thermals beneath her work chinos, blouse, and coat.
The bottom of this flight brought them into a corridor, unlit except for their flashlight beams. To Masterton, it felt less like a tunnel than a cave system, but as she passed through it she could see where the rock had been worked by human effort. The tunnel was narrow, requiring that they go single file. She was wedged in between Reyes and Olivetti, the shotgun her father had gifted her with giving her a small measure of comfort as she gripped it in one hand, flashlight in the other.
After perhaps a hundred yards the tunnel broadened, and they found themselves in a large central space (a cavern, thought Masterton). Overhead, their flashlight beams picked out a natural ceiling studded with stalactites; the floor was rough rock, stalagmites thrusting up into the darkness. The space was circular, maybe twenty yards in diameter, and punctuated with three other openings. Somewhere nearby, an underground river could be heard gurgling through subterranean channels, probably emptying eventually into the Potomac through hidden tributaries.
They moved silently, tense, listening. Jefferson shrugged off his own pack, reached into it, produced chalk, and drew an arrow beside the opening they’d come from. He put the chalk in a pocket, pulled the pack back into place, and studied the other tunnel mouths.
“Madre de Dios,” Reyes whispered, “what’s that smell?”
Masterton’s stomach roiled when she got a whiff. It was like week-old roadkill on the hottest day of summer, but with something else behind it, something almost sulfurous. She heard Olivetti gag—and then she heard something else: an echoing, scraping sound, like bone on rock, that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver.
The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming Page 35