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Project Antichrist

Page 10

by Pavel Kravchenko


  “This is your mass therapy, Doc?” I asked during a commercial break seemingly hours later. “This is the ‘better place’? I think I’m about to be sick.”

  “Again you are forgetting that you are not on the pill, Mr. Whales.”

  The commercials ended. It was time for some breaking news.

  … The search continues for the former TV personality Luke Whales. Earlier today, law enforcement officials informed us that the missing U.S. Marshal Lloyd Freud, previously feared dead, may, in fact, be alive and traveling with Whales. The authorities would not elaborate in what capacity Mr. Freud is currently sought, stating only that if anyone has information on whereabouts of either Whales or Freud, they should inform the police or the FBI immediately. The third person of interest in the case is a woman named Iris Smith, seen in this recent photo. We apologize for the quality of the image. However, it is the only one currently available…

  Picture of me, Lloyd and Iris appeared on the screen. Mine were a couple of long shots from the show and a few close-ups, in which my facial expressions showed something like poorly concealed anguish. Of course, in reality I was probably adjusting my underwear while off camera or something. Lloyd was smiling, looking like a toy store clerk possibly harboring a secret. Iris’s pic was a mess of squares. No one could possibly use it to identify anybody. Still, it was her in the picture, all right.

  “This is from today,” she said.

  “Probably shot by a traffic camera on one of the intersections,” said Dr. Young.

  The talking head, meanwhile, continued.

  …Luke Whales is being sought nationally in connection to the murder of a U.S. Marshal, Samuel O’Malley, whose body was found at Mr. Whales’s Chicago downtown penthouse. In a brief statement, an anonymous medical expert from Freedom Corp., the manufacturer of the antidepressant medicine Mr. Whales reportedly failed to ingest, said the side effects of the treatment interruption, thought to have caused Mr. Whales’s alleged mental breakdown, are not uncommon. Steps are being taken to improve awareness and eliminate such unfortunate accidents in the future, the official added. Freedom Corp. will continue to be committed…

  “Great. Now I’m a TV star too,” said Iris.

  …Sports and Weather will continue after these important messages…

  Dr. Young switched off the TV. Iris slid deeper into the couch and crossed her legs in a simple lotus position. I almost apologized to her again, but remembered our earlier conversation and refrained.

  “So what now, Doc?” I asked instead. “Want to run the plan for tomorrow by me again? Apparently they are looking for Lloyd, too.”

  “Let’s leave that for tomorrow, Mr. Whales.” Out of nowhere, the old man produced a joint and lit it. Puffing at it a few times, he rose from his seat in the corner and approached.

  “This stuff from the good people at the lab too?” I asked, making no movement to accept.

  “It’s medical,” the doctor rasped. “It’ll help you relax. It is my professional opinion, Mr. Whales.”

  I shrugged and took the joint and a couple of hits, lapsing into a bout of throat-rending cough.

  “No cough — no laugh,” Dr. Young remarked, letting the smoke out.

  “I thought you were a priest,” I said to him through tears. I felt saliva accumulating in my cheeks. Iris took a single long hit, passing the joint back to Dr. Young.

  “God sees absolutely nothing wrong with a little ganja.”

  “What God is that?”

  “There’s only one God.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What’s in a name…?”

  “No need to be so damn coy, doc. I know it can’t be Christ, so who is it that you serve? Allah? Was Buddha a pothead?”

  “I don’t serve.”

  “You preach.”

  “Not really.”

  “What the hell were you doing at the church with those people?”

  “What people?”

  “I don’t know. Your flock. You wouldn’t just sing for your own enjoyment, would you?”

  “For yours, also. And that wasn’t exactly preaching.”

  I took another hit. Now my mouth was suddenly dry. Iris began to smile.

  “Wait, you chanted there in front of an empty church?”

  “I didn’t chant ‘in front’ of anything, Mr. Whales. I just sang.”

  I chuckled. Actually, I giggled.

  “It’s official. Everybody here is crazy. And I’m the craziest one for hanging around without having a clue.”

  “Would you prefer that world you just saw on the screen?”

  “There’s only one world, doc. I would prefer to hear something that makes sense.” Grinning merrily, I turned to Iris. “You’re awful quiet, Ms. Smith. Go on. I am sure you got some pearl you’d like to share.”

  She glanced at me sideways, nodded matter-of-factly, and said, “All right. Luke, I am an undercover DEA agent.” I very nearly fainted. Staring at her I froze with my mouth open. After a minute, they both began to shake with laughter. “It’s a joke, you gullible fool,” she managed eventually.

  “See?” I cried. “And you said it was hard to mislead me now Mr. Whales, because I am not on the pill and all that.”

  “You know, Mr. Whales, perhaps Mr. Freud was not that far off in his assessment of your—”

  “Screw you, Doc. Screw both of you. You especially,” I told Iris, but a grin was already splitting my face. The joint was out.

  Out of everything that happened to me in those two days, this was the weirdest thing. We laughed and told jokes late into the night, as though there was not an unanswered question in the world, as though no one had tried to shoot me earlier, as though a marshal hadn’t died in my kitchen, as though his murderer didn’t sleep upstairs. We laughed like no one ever died nor would die in the future. At around ten, when the weed began to wear off, and we began to feel sleepy, Dr. Young showed us to our separate rooms, which disappointed me a little. I even quipped something to the effect of some houses having way too many rooms for their size and went to sleep feeling relaxed and like a complete fool.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brome was looking up at a four-story condominium building, brand new and with only one duplex left unsold, according to the holographic billboard. The holographic, discounted price equaled twice the value of Brome’s house. This was where U.S. Marshal Lloyd Freud had lived for the last three months. A possible benefit of being single?

  Though supposedly occupied to near capacity, the building stood completely dark. The rain had weakened. Brome flashed his badge to the two cops in an unmarked car parked on the other side of the street and climbed the porch. He was alone. Brighton had told him Freud’s apartment would be a waste of time. Brighton was irritated, because three hours later he still had no car and, what’s worse, zero additional information on Iris Smith. Her name was not on any of the bills; no Iris Smith resided at that address according to both, the DMV and the IRS. And the picture from the car still produced no definite match. A wall dared to oppose Special Agent Brighton, and for that he meant to demolish it with his head. Everything else was a waste of time.

  Brome sprinted up two flights of stairs to get the blood flowing. Freud’s apartment was the one on the left, number five. He unlocked the door and entered slowly, steadying his breath. There was nothing to listen to. Not much to see, either. The living room Brome entered was bathed in pale orange glow of the streetlight. There was a leather sofa, a TV, which presently pulsed to life together with the lights, and a bar counter with three foggy glasses and seven different bottles of vodka. All of which had been in the report. But the people who wrote the report were not looking for Freud’s doctor.

  Brome remembered that he was late to take his medicine. He went to the bathroom and got rid of another dose. His bottle had three pills left. He flushed and looked around. Freud’s bathroom was about halfway between Whales’s and his own. Expensive tiles and shinier metal, but no pool. The mirror was set up the sa
me way, too. Brome pushed a button on top of the faucet. The mirror slid sideways, revealing the medicine cabinet. Where amidst cotton balls and disposable razor blades stood an orange plastic bottle, identical to the one Brome still held in his fist. He scanned the label and got the name and the address. The name was Freedom Corp. The address was their branch office in Skokie, Illinois. Not helpful. Brome scanned his own bottle and the name and address of his doctor immediately popped up. He scanned Freud’s bottle again. Freedom Corp. “This better not be a waste of time,” he said to himself. He called Data and sent them the scan.

  “Coming up as Freedom internal.”

  “Yes, I noticed. I need to know who wrote the prescription.”

  “All right. I’ll call you back.”

  There was nothing to do but go back to the car and start driving. Brome drove northward, wondering if the fact that he, Whales and Freud were all taking meds supplied by Freedom Corp. was as improbable a coincidence as it seemed. Because it definitely seemed pretty far out there, and probably was so, unless in reality everybody was secretly taking pills. Brome chuckled and shook his head.

  About fifteen minutes later Brighton called.

  “They found the car. You should have the location now. Still nothing on the girl. Any luck at Freud’s place?”

  Brome relayed his luck.

  “So you’re waiting for an update?”

  “Yeah. I’ll swing by to check out the car meanwhile.”

  “OK. I was going to, but I may as well stay here and keep looking for Ms. Smith.”

  “Good idea.”

  This time Brighton didn’t say it was a waste of time, but Brome figured as much. The dogs would be useless in this weather, and Whales and Co. could be pretty much anywhere in relation to the abandoned car’s location. They were probably still within the city limits, but Chicago being Chicago that wasn’t narrowing it down too much.

  He drove without turning the radio on, which lately had become his habit. Some fifteen minutes later he saw red and blue flashes reflecting off windows and walls. Two police cars silently picketing the street. Between the tree branches above, sky was turning brown. Brome parked by the “Civic” and spoke to an officer, a young fellow, straight out of the academy by the looks of him. A rookie, working the graveyard shift. Not a hint of sleepiness, all business he was, although there was little to report. Brome nodded, following politely the cop’s gestures and trying not to yawn. Another pair of flashing lights appeared from around the corner — a tow truck.

  “Thank you, officer. Tow it,” Brome said, shivered and got back in the car. Moving the “Chrysler” out of the way, he parked it on the side of the street a little farther down. He turned up the heat. In the side mirror covered with dew he saw the tow truck driver’s silhouette crossing the yellow beams of the headlights. Big guy. Six foot five or so. Fat. All tow truck drivers look the same, he thought. All are big, fat, and likely armed. They have to be, because everybody hates them. Just like cops. Or feds.

  Waste of time, Brome thought after the “Civic” had been dragged away, and the rookie cop drove by with a friendly wave. He leaned far back in his seat and stretched his hands above his head. Just go home, to Grace and Annie, to hot shower and cold dinner and short sleep. He considered calling, but decided not to. Instead, he tried to think about the case, but following his tired thoughts was like reading a sloppily handwritten story on a sheet of paper folded into origami peacock…

  Brome opened his eyes. It was hot and it was late. The windshield was a blur. It had rained again. The clock in the dashboard showed 11:58.

  “Shit,” he said, half-confused from the dream, raising the seat up and rubbing his face. His tablet was flashing. He reached for it jerkily, as though he was about to blame it for something. Two red blips flashed on the map. He popped the message. It was the name.

  Dr. Benjamin Young.

  The red dots were the addresses of his home and office. Brome stared at them, uncomprehending. A solid blue dot — his current position — was four blocks away from the latter and six from the former.

  Suddenly awake and overcome with strange urgency, Brome pulled out into the street and punched the accelerator, dialing the Bureau as he did. Poodles, a memory came. He had dreamt of poodles.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I dreamt of Iris. She was dressed in an orange summer dress and we were walking down the Oak Street beach. Two black poodles pulled at the straps converging in her hand, straining towards something unseen to the human eye. The tide began to rise and the poodles snarled and tore themselves free, galloping forward. When I thought they were going to just run away, they turned, and I saw that their maws were huge, distorted and dripping something black onto the sand. They began to advance towards us. Iris screamed and tugged at my coat.

  Gasping, I opened my eyes. Iris was gone. In her place was Lloyd’s face, grim, scared. I started to speak but he clapped a hand over my mouth. In his other hand was the gun. My face stung.

  “Quiet,” he hissed. “Up. Now.”

  He pulled me off the bed. I registered that it was still dark outside.

  “What the hell?” I whispered as soon as he removed the hand to put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Shut up.”

  I did.

  Leaning on me, as though he’d had one too many at a dockside tavern and I was the designated driver, he led me out of the room into the hallway, where we met Dr. Young and Iris. I caught Iris’s stare.

  “Stick together,” the doctor whispered. “Make your way down the stairs.”

  He had a shotgun. A ridiculously big single-barreled shotgun. It looked like a hand-held mortar I remembered seeing on the History Channel.

  Removing the arm from my shoulders, Lloyd wrapped it around my waste and got really close to me. About and inch behind doc did the same with Iris. We literally stuck together. Just like the doctor ordered. Had I not been so terrified, I would find our procession amusing.

  We began to descend. We moved so slow that the creaking sounds the hardwood floor under us made seemed like natural sounds an old house makes in the night. I tried to listen for noises outside, because I’d figured that’s where the danger must be, but there was nothing out there aside from the eerie, wavy humming of a distant highway. Under my left arm, which I had tucked in tightly to my body, my heart fluttered like a caught bird.

  At the end of our mute journey was the center of the living room. Once we reached it, Dr. Young and Lloyd turned and sandwiched us between their backs. Iris grabbed my elbow.

  “Dogs,” Dr. Young said suddenly and not in a whisper. I started so violently, my head almost fell off my shoulders. Twisting my neck, I tried to see where these horrible canines were coming from. I saw nothing. No sound outside, still. However, I believed him.

  “Bad?” I whispered.

  “Very bad,” said Lloyd calmly. He was pointing the gun towards nothing. To be exact, its barrel was trained on the middle of the wall.

  “Is there a rear exit?” I asked.

  “Yes, but we can’t run,” Dr. Young replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to get caught in that narrow hallway upstairs, that’s why we had to be quiet and move as one. But this here, I’m afraid, is as good a defensive position as we’re going to get. We cannot run.”

  “We should have left town,” Lloyd remarked. “Should have given it a try, at least.”

  “I didn’t believe they could be here tonight. Nor did you employer. And if they gave us at least another day, time spent here would slow their chase considerably.”

  “The house?” Lloyd asked.

  “Yes. That’s why they’re still outside.”

  All this conversation began to relax me. The adrenalin overload subsided and I even smiled and made a little “crazy-talk” face at Iris, who didn’t turn her head to witness it.

  “The house what?” I asked, shifting my limbs a little, but got no answer.

  It wasn’t an explosion. The c
orner of the wall to the right of me and Lloyd simply disappeared with a crunching noise, like it was ripped out from the outside. Two glowing red orbs appeared in the darkness, and then the darkness itself burst inside through the gaping, jagged hole. At the same time Iris’s shrill scream tore the air and I felt Dr. Young moving against my back.

  What I saw inside that house was not a dog. Far from it.

  I could not tell how tall the creature was, but the burning red eyes hovered far above the level of my head. It had a maw set with multitude of long black teeth, and it had a torso, but it was impossible to count the limbs or even judge with certainty if the structure of its body in any way resembled human. Darkness swirled around it like ethereal black cloak. Thankfully, I mostly saw it out of the corner of my vision. Had my brain not sent the protective signal to avert my gaze, I truly believe I would not have kept my wits. Even now, much later, I shudder uncontrollably as I recall seeing them for the first time.

  At the same time Iris screamed, the creature emitted a wail of such frequency and terror that I felt my hair rising, and not just on the back of my neck. Behind me I heard an echo, which somehow I knew wasn’t an echo. Dr. Young was facing another one just like it.

  All of this happened in the blink of an eye. Or, rather, I wished I could blink.

  Even before the cry ended I saw Lloyd moving the hand with the gun towards the creature. Iris’s scream ceased abruptly and she went limp, crumbling down with her arm stuck under mine. By fainting, Iris saved my life. As I, in complete stupor, ducked towards her, Lloyd shouted and began shooting and a black, cold shape flew over the top of my head, taking Lloyd with it as though he was made of papier-mâché. They crashed into the opposite wall, making another hole and disappearing in the backyard, from where more shots rang out. I heard Dr. Young inhale loudly, say something I didn’t make out and discharge his weapon. The guttural sound that answered him was beyond description.

 

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