Reyes waited, timing a leap up until Petrushka stopped firing. He sprayed the other agent with bullets, driving him back against the wall beside the doorway. Reyes charged, using his rifle butt against Petrushka’s head as he kicked the MP5 aside. Petrushka went down.
Masterton ran up to join Reyes, and together they stared down in disbelief at the thing that had been their trusted fellow agent.
Reyes’s shots had shredded the cloth and skin over Petrushka’s torso, revealing a glistening mess of entrails. He’d taken several bullets to the face—they could see the muscles and bones on the right side of his jaw working, as his one remaining eye swiveled in its socket. But he wasn’t dead. He didn’t moan in pain or shock, didn’t grunt or try to form words through his shattered mouth. Instead, he attempted to rise again, his efforts awkward and useless.
“Madre de Dios,” Reyes muttered.
Jefferson lifted the paper with the “Dragon Descending” spell and read it aloud as Reyes and Masterton backed away from the dead, weakened thing that grasped at them. As Jefferson finished, Petrushka’s form dissolved into a mass of thick dust, the rifle clattering to the stone floor beside the remains.
A few stunned seconds followed. When Reyes found his voice again, he said, “I don’t get it—Petrushka was fine not thirty minutes ago . . .”
Masterton answered, “And in those minutes, something grabbed him, killed him, turned him into ‘salts,’ and then reconstituted him with the directive to attack us.”
Jefferson nodded. “I think that’s an accurate assessment, agent. We need to redouble our alert status. Masterton, take Petrushka’s MP5.”
Nodding, Masterton stowed her shotgun in its case, slung it over a shoulder, bent down, and reached for the submachine gun. She found herself hesitating before she grasped it, whispering to the pile of rubble, “Sorry, Petrushka.”
Jefferson moved cautiously up to the doorway Petrushka had appeared in, examined it in his flashlight beam, and gestured to Reyes. “Agent Reyes, you’re on point again.”
Reyes gulped, but stepped into place.
As they all three entered the new tunnel, Masterton asked, “Sir, you didn’t finish telling us what the asset is. It would be helpful if Reyes and I knew what we were looking for.”
“Yes, you’re quite right. The asset is not a what, but a who. Someone who is well-versed in the things that inhabit the astral realms and other dimensions. Someone who, like Randolph Carter, we believe is not entirely human. But there’s a key difference—whereas Carter acquired his inhuman qualities, the asset was born with them.”
“And it is down here?” Reyes asked, his eyes sweeping the darkness.
“They are—protected by extraordinarily powerful forces.” Jefferson stopped walking, calling out, “Reyes . . .”
When Reyes turned to face him, Jefferson addressed both agents. “There’s another reason we don’t bring agents down to this area—the forces I’ve spoken of can be . . . difficult for us to process.”
Masterton saw Reyes’s perplexed expression and said, “I’m not sure that we understand, sir.”
“The asset is perhaps fifty yards ahead of us, and I want you both to be prepared. My suggestion will be not to look at the area surrounding it.”
Both agents were uncertain, but murmured agreement. They moved forward again, more slowly now, cautiously.
The cave jogged to the right ahead; strangely colored light shimmered on the walls. A vibration filled the air around them—Masterton felt it in every cell, like an electrical current. It stirred primeval fears, anxieties as old as evolution. It bled into her consciousness, obliterating every other thought. It was as cold as the space between stars, as mindless as ice, as uncaring as any god. Masterton struggled to hang onto a shred of her self, but it had filled her and there was no room left. She felt herself shrinking, growing smaller, invisible, infinitesimal . . .
“Masterton!”
She pushed through the vacuum surrounding her, seeking out the source of the sound, even if the syllables sounded like gibberish, with no meaning, no relation to her.
“Agent Masterton!”
Now there was a physical sensation as well, a pressure on part of her, and she pushed toward it, through layers of inertia, the hardest thing she’d ever done but she pushed, pushed until she knew what the pressure was—a hand on her arm, on her arm, and she was Diane Masterton, yes, that was her name, and she was an agent of the Human Protection League, and . . .
Her eyes focused. She saw Jefferson’s face first, realized he’d been the one calling her name. But the angle was strange, how was he between her and the roof of the cave . . .?
She was on her back. She sat up, her head throbbing with the energy that had invaded her, but now she’d learned to push it down and keep it under. “Are you with us?” Jefferson asked.
She nodded and stood, wobbly at first. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I think it’s because you’re sensitive to psychic phenomena.”
“Such as . . . ?”
Jefferson stepped aside so she could see past him. She hadn’t even realized they’d moved out of the cave into another large, open space, this one almost empty except for the great coldness that sat at the chamber’s center. More than any of the other corridors they had traveled through so far, the air in this cavern was frigid, and this unbearable cold emanated from a machine that rested at its heart.
Almost eight feet long and made of some kind of metal that seemed to pulsate with colors that matched no Earthly spectrum, the device resembled nothing less than an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus—an appropriate comparison, thought Masterton, given that the air in the cave smelled like one of the ancient, moldering coffins they’d found next to L’Enfant’s workshop. A pump in a glass sphere appeared to be recycling some kind of gaseous agent through intricate piping, while gauges set into the surface of the machine monitored its unknown functions.
Scattered on the ground, surrounding the base of the apparatus, were hundreds of stones of varying sizes with a symbol that resembled a swastika carved into them.
Masterton had to struggle to keep the basic wrongness of this place from overwhelming her again.
“What is that?”
She noticed that Jefferson couldn’t meet her eyes. “The asset,” he said, “is stored in a special refrigerating unit that keeps it in a state of permanent cryopreservation. It was created in the 1920s by a reclusive Spanish physician named Dr. Muñoz, who designed the mechanism for his own use. The pipes circulate an ammonia gas that keeps the temperature inside at a constant minus-321ºF.
Masterton moved closer, pulling her coat tighter around her, and stared down at the curved top—the lid—of the machine. A glass faceplate was covered with thick ice, completely obscuring whatever was contained inside.
“And all these stones?” Although she realized that the terrible coldness was coming from the receptacle in front of her, she also knew that whatever the psychic power was that had briefly affected her was concentrated in the stones lying scattered at their feet.
“Those are inscribed with the Elder Sign,” answered Jefferson. “They are for protection from occult forces, making this cave virtually impossible to find, or the machine to be opened if it is located.”
Masterton suppressed a shudder as she asked, “Can it be opened?”
“Only two people know the secret to getting into it. One is—”
Jefferson broke off with a small gasp. Masterton risked a look and saw what had caused him to stop.
A figure was staggering out of one of the tunnels on the opposite side of the cave. She immediately recognized the bruised face of Nathan Brady, director of the Human Protection League.
“Deputy Director Jefferson, I’m pleased to see that you’ve survived. Where do we stand?”
The normally stoic Jefferson took a second to recover before gesturing at Reyes and Masterton. “We’re about it, sir. Everybody upstairs is dead. All our other local agents are outside
the complex, monitoring the situation, until they hear from us that we’ve dealt with the incursion. Your daughter is among them.”
“Thank God.”
Reyes stared, said, “I . . . I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”
Jefferson answered. “As I was saying, Agent Reyes, there are two people who hold the secret of opening the cryopreservation machine. One is Director Nathan Brady. The other is the asset itself.”
Brady looked old and disheveled—his forehead was bruised, blood had caked beneath one ear, and he still clutched a Smith & Wesson Model 10 pistol in one hand, but as always he was self-possessed, calm, in command. “Fortunately I was working in my office late when the attack occurred. My orders are quite specific—in the unlikely event of a successful incursion, I’m to personally protect the asset. At all costs. Boyer and Shakman covered for me so I could make my way down here. You’re quite sure they didn’t make it . . . ?”
Jefferson shook his head. “None of the agents in headquarters did. We also found Dr. Appleton dead.”
“Damn. Orme was a good man.” Brady looked away for a moment, and Masterton realized his anguish was too genuine for him to have been involved with any deception.
Reyes abruptly turned toward the tunnel they’d come through.
“Agent Reyes?” Jefferson asked.
“I thought I heard—”
The deafening sound of a shotgun blast rang out. Reyes’s chest exploded as he flew backward, his M16 flying from his hand.
Masterton instinctively positioned herself in front of Director Brady, as did Jefferson. Olivetti stepped from the tunnel, smoke still wafting from the barrels of his Remington shotgun. “Masterton, Jefferson . . . move away from the director.”
Jefferson blurted out, “What are you doing, Olivetti?”
Masterton’s finger tightened on the MP5’s trigger. She’d been right about Olivetti all along. She’d been right, and yet no one had listened. Now they’d die at Olivetti’s hands, but maybe she could squeeze off a round before he killed them all, at least hurt him . . .
Unexpectedly, Olivetti lowered the shotgun. He grinned.
Masterton fired the MP5. She emptied the clip into him. Six rounds had remained.
He stumbled back as the bullets hit him. Then he regained his balance.
What oozed out of him wasn’t human blood. It was green, thick, foul-smelling, like what they’d found in the control room upstairs.
Olivetti wasn’t human.
“Oh my god . . . ,” Jefferson muttered.
One round of the MP5 had blown apart Olivetti’s right hand. Now, as they watched, stunned, a long insectile limb with what appeared to be a mouth at the end sprouted from the stump. When Olivetti spoke again, his voice was tinged with an inhuman buzz. “Like earlier this morning, I didn’t come alone,” he said.
The stone walls on either side of him faded, replaced by a glimpse of night skies, constellations unknown, in colors no stars should emit. And there were things there, coming through . . . things that Masterton had never seen mentioned in any classified files. Things without faces, with segments and exoskeletons and claws and bulbs. Things that hissed and clacked and wailed.
Things that wanted the asset hidden away in the machine, and the secret to opening it that Brady held. The whole attack on headquarters had been a trap to get the director down here, Masterton now realized.
“I won’t give you what you want!” Brady shouted.
“Oh,” the Olivetti-thing answered, “not willingly. But once we’ve removed your brain and pulled it apart, we’ll find what we need.”
The things began to advance.
Masterton pulled out her shotgun, the gift from her father. That, and her pistol, were all she had left. She knew neither would be enough. She could only hope that she’d die here for good, not be resurrected as a disembodied mind or a shambling monstrosity missing pieces.
She braced herself, raised the shotgun . . .
Suddenly the machine behind her began emitting a high-pitched whirring sound. Clouds of ammonia gas were being vented from outlets set along the length of the device, as the needles of all the gauges slowly dropped back to zero.
Her other sense—the one that had given her an inclination of Olivetti’s real nature—was sparking in her head like a burning log spitting embers. Whatever was happening with the machine, it was like something she had never experienced before, something full of arcane energies.
All movement in the cavern had stopped, as eyes—human and otherwise—stared at what was happening to the mechanism at its center.
Once all the gas was expelled, the pump contained in the glass globe slowed and stopped. A heartbeat later there was a series of clicks and whirls, like the sound of multiple dead bolts being drawn back. Then, very slowly, the curved lid of the device—again Masterton was reminded of an Egyptian sarcophagus—began to rise on soundless hinges.
Around her, she sensed the things drawing back.
As the lid came to a halt in the upright position, a very human hand appeared and grasped the top edge of the machine. Another joined it on the other side of the aperture, as a figure slowly raised itself up from a reclining position.
Despite what Jefferson had told them earlier, and with her senses now humming like an electrical current, Masterton fully expected to see the deformed body of Randolph Carter rise from the refrigeration device of Dr. Muñoz.
She was wrong. The figure that emerged from the opening was thinner, taller, wearing a good quality if somewhat antique suit in brown. Thin nose, wide forehead, and lips that hinted at habitual tight pursing. Most definitely not Randolph Carter.
The man swung his legs over the side of the machine; his worn shoes hit the ground with a sigh. He blinked at the three people staring at him. He licked his lips, croaked, swallowed, tried again. “Hello. Oh, my.”
Then he looked beyond them, to the massed monstrosities that filled the cavern, noticing them for the first time. The man walked purposefully around the three agents. He held up both hands as he moved confidently toward the Olivetti-thing and the eldritch nightmares that surrounded it.
He muttered something under his breath, something Masterton couldn’t make out, but she had the sense that his eyes were closed as he concentrated. She felt waves of force rippling around them, waves somehow coming from him. The force moved both within Masterton and throughout the entire world, connecting her with events simultaneously happening thousands of miles away—in Marrakesh, worshippers of Dagon watched as their idol was obliterated; in Berlin, members of the Armies of the Night found their tongues frozen halfway through an invocation; and in Sacramento, Squeaky Fromme’s finger refused to pull the trigger of the gun she pointed at President Gerald Ford.
Masterton’s consciousness returned to the here-and-now in the caverns beneath Washington, as the outer shell of the Olivetti-thing fell away, leaving a creature that was no longer even remotely human. It was made up of fleshy, pinkish rings, with clawed legs; where a head should have been, it was instead surmounted by antennae. Small wings sprouted from the back. Masterton did recognize this monstrosity from her official files—it was a Mi-go, a monster that flew between stars and was highly intelligent.
Now it was shrieking, in that high, buzzing voice. One of the legs was ripped away, the socket spraying more of the greenish ichor. It was being pulled apart by whatever the man before her was directing at it, and the dimensional portals it had opened were closing, irising shut, driving the abominations back to their own outer realms.
Within a few seconds it was done. Where the Olivetti-thing had stood, there was nothing but a dropped shotgun and a fuming mound of remains the color of mushrooms. The stone walls of the chamber were solid again.
The man was bent, gasping for breath. After a few seconds he composed himself and turned toward them.
“It is done,” he said. Putting a hand to his forehead, he turned to Brady. “How much time has elapsed?”
Brady smiled. “You�
�ve been asleep for too long . . .”
“Not asleep, no, not really,” the man said. “I’ve traveled. I’ve been to realms you can’t imagine—there are still places in the universe where the darkness has not yet encroached, where beauty is still untouched and transcendent. I’ve dwelt in those places for a very long time now, and I’ve been . . . happy.”
“I understand,” said Brady, “but . . . what if the Great Old Ones win here? Do you really think they’ll never find those places, or that they’ll leave them unscarred if they do?”
Shaking his head, looking down, the newcomer said, softly, “No. They won’t.”
Masterton wanted to follow every second of this—she had the sense that this was a turning point in history, and she was a part of it—but something distracted her, something biting at the edge of her consciousness like a memory trying to claw its way back into her mind.
“That is why I carry a message from Randolph Carter.”
“Carter?” said Jefferson. “But Randolph Carter has been missing, presumed lost in the Dreamscape. Nobody has heard from him in years.”
“There’s an ill wind coming,” the man continued, calmly. “Such a wind as never blew across this planet before. It will come down from the stars, and from beneath the seas, and from between the worlds. And it will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may perish before its blast. But, if we stand united against it, if we persevere against all the odds, then there is a chance that a greener, better, stronger Earth will be bathed in light when the storm is cleared.”
Masterton inhaled in sharp surprise. Now she remembered. She knew this man—she’d seen him, in both internal documents of the Human Protection League and on book jackets for sale across the country. His long jaw, high forehead, and large eyes were instantly recognizable.
“You’re Howard Phillips Lovecraft!” she exclaimed.
EPILOGUE
The Cats of Arthur
The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming Page 37