by Erik Lynd
"He must have maintained this one," Hamlin said. He blew the dust off the monitor. "Somewhat."
"We can boot up the PC and see if he has the same security set up. Might give us an idea where we are when we climb out of the lair," Christopher suggested.
"Come on. Let’s just get out of here. I need a drink even if we’re not on the beach," Dark Eris said. "You can handle whatever is out there."
She said the last with a wink. He didn't like when she acted this way. It seemed fake, teasing for the sake of teasing. Or like an act she could fall back on when she was nervous, although it was hard to think of Dark Eris as the nervous type. All the same, a part of Christopher didn't want to disappoint her. Maybe they should just head out.
"Let's take this one step at a time,” Hamlin said, rescuing Christopher. Christopher shook it off, it was disconcerting that he was so different when he was around her.
It turned out they were below the airport. The security cameras, accessible via the computer station, showed people moving up and down terminals to gate after gate. The Mexican version of the TSA were stationed throughout.
"Well, it's impressive that the Beast could maintain this lair right under the nose of airport security," Hamlin said.
"Honestly, I'm impressed that he could maintain this at all. I mean if any more of the lairs are like this, with this kind of tech set up, it would be like maintaining a corporate IT department. I've never run one, but it is obvious he had to have help of some sort," Christopher said.
"Maybe it's in that stack of paperwork back at the Bronx lair you never go through," Eris said. "Just like the accountant you never visit, or the lawyers, or any of the other professionals set up to manage your vast inheritance."
"Yeah, but it's so boring."
"Children, children," Hamlin interrupted. "Let's at least wait until we are out in the fresh air before the fighting begins. It looks like the coast is clear, or at least we know what we are walking into. We should probably get to the surface."
It turns out that was quicker than they had thought. The main door out was not really a door, more of a doorway that looked like it had been bricked up with cinder blocks. Like the door in the other lair, when they touched it, one by one, they found themselves in a service tunnel. On this side there was no door, just the cinder block wall.
Christopher reached out with his power sniffing at the air. Again, like the hidden entrance to the Bronx zoo lair, he could feel the presence of the doorway. He would always be able to find it. He was certain that if he were to hold the Book close to the door, it would turn into a similar key and allow them access.
"Fade," he commanded Hellcat. With a low rumbling noise in her throat she dissolved into the shadows. He knew she would be near when he called, but it wouldn't do to walk through the airport with a huge black panther by his side.
The service tunnel went on in a straight line for a few hundred feet, and he suspected the lair itself was somewhere under the tarmac. The tunnel sloped up slightly, and eventually they could hear the noise of planes moving past overhead. After a few twists and turns they found themselves at an exit from the tunnel system near a public restroom. They were in the terminal just beyond security and customs.
"Well, that makes things much easier. No awkward questions," Hamlin said.
They had brought their passports of course. Eris didn't have a real one, but between Hamlin's street connections and Christopher's money, they had gotten her the best forgery money could buy.
They made their way out of the airport as quickly as they could. It was the one place they would be stopped and questioned. But they played the part of tourists as best they could. Once outside they found a taxi.
"Where to sir?" the driver asked as they got in the back seat. Hamlin took the front.
"The Four Seasons Hotel," Christopher responded when Hamlin didn't. He had booked them the nicest place he could think of; it was supposed to be a vacation after all. He noticed Hamlin looking back at him with raised eyebrow. Dark Eris was looking at him with a smirk on her face. "What? I told you they would probably speak English. They get a lot of tourists."
"What was that sir?" the driver asked.
"My friends here were surprised that you speak English so well, no accent that I can tell."
Now it was the drivers turn to look at him oddly.
"Kid, you weren’t speaking English when you talked to our driver. It sounded like fluent Spanish to me. But what do I know, I'm just a stupid gringo."
"Ah yes, gringo. Now that I understand," said the driver with a laugh.
It was true. It felt so natural that he didn't even know he was doing it. Now that he realized what was going on, it was obvious; he had been speaking Spanish. He switched to it now.
"You can understand me? I'm, ah, testing my Spanish."
"Yes sir, not even an accent. Sounds like you were born here."
"Now that is a nice gift, maybe your most practical one," Hamlin said.
Dark Eris' hand found his thigh. "I think the Latin languages are sexy."
Any other time Christopher would have responded to that hand, but he was engrossed in his new ability. "I can speak Russian," he said in Russian. "And apparently, I speak Japanese well, and I can speak Korean without much trouble." He said in their respective languages.
Language after language came out of his mouth. Every one he could think of he realized he could speak and understand. The driver was giving him an increasingly more worried look.
"Quick call out some languages," Christopher said.
"Swahili," Hamlin said.
"Bostonian," Dark Eris said, and was rewarded with a chuckle from Hamlin.
Christopher looked out the window and described things speaking in every language imaginable. He was pretty sure it annoyed the hell out of everyone else in the car.
"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I imagined a work vacation," Eris said as the cab left the airport, and Christopher had to agree with her. It was the middle of winter, but he hoped the coastal area would be a little warmer. It was cooler here in the city.
This area of Mexico’s capital was dirty and run down, the slums butting up against the airport. He knew from the little reading he had done that the true slums were on the other side and were considered one of the world’s biggest.
The conditions got better as they drove into the city. Soon he had to admit it looked like any other big city. He was not sure what he expected to see. He knew there wouldn't be taco stands on every corner—he wasn't that sheltered—but he supposed he expected more of an old world feel. Mexico City was a modern city. But not entirely. The deeper he looked the more was revealed. There was plenty of old world blended with modern skyscrapers. Towering glass and steel architecture blended in with old traditions. There were more colors too, it made the place seem alive. He wouldn’t say it was better than his own New York, but he thought he could learn to like it here.
But then there were the crowds, seemingly out of place. This impression was confirmed by the swearing of the driver; as they drove through the city center it became clear why there were so many people. Protests. A mass of people blocked streets and slowed traffic to a crawl. It did not appear to be an out of hand riot, but it was a large group.
"These damn protests, always fucking up the traffic," the driver said.
"Does this happen a lot?" Hamlin asked.
"This, no not a lot. But I think some people are all fired up about the government in general. Everybody has a different complaint, and it appears that all this anger is bubbling up around the same time. An unpleasant coincidence. Sure makes my life hard."
While the driver spoke a combination of broken English—apparently he spoke it well enough to communicate with tourists—and Spanish. Christopher translated when necessary.
"Coincidence or organized?" Hamlin asked. "I have seen protests and riots up close. As a beat cop I had to be right in the thick of things a few times. This doesn't look right to me."
"So, you think this whole thing, all these people are fake?" Christopher asked.
"No, I'm not saying these protesters don't have a gripe against the government. I'm just saying that this gathering seems to be... facilitated. And my guess is the group facilitating it wouldn't care if it turned into a full-scale riot."
"You think there’s a connection with this Days of Chaos thing? Maybe they are trying to create riots around the world?"
"It would kind of fit with the MO of an online activist presence. The question is how good are they at creating riots? Could be mostly talk. I mean, I'm not saying the riots can't turn bloody, but seems pretty tame in the grand scheme of things. It's not like the world hasn't seen its fair share of riots."
"Thank fucking god," Christopher said and sank back into his seat.
"Well, riots are no laughing matter; I mean, there is often violence and tons of damage..." Hamlin started.
"No, No. I know what can happen, and I'm not happy about it or the violence that might come. But it is sounding more and more like this is a civil, mundane matter. No need for a sword wielding, soul-damning guy with barely a clue about what’s going on. Maybe this can turn into a real vacation."
"Maybe," Hamlin said, but didn't sound convinced. "Let’s keep our eyes open just in case."
10
The Collector stood in the shadows of the cell block common room. It was night in the prison and the lights were low, not off—it was a prison—but low, leaving plenty of dark places for him to do his work. It smelled in this place. Dank and musky like mold gone unchecked. Harsh unpleasant scents of old sweat mingled with the smell of unflushed toilets. He could smell fear beneath the unwashed bodies as well as anger…no, hatred. That was good, it made him smile.
But most of all he could smell the madness driving that hate. It was no normal prison the Collector had chosen. It was a prison for the insane, the criminals so twisted the deepest, darkest Mexican prison was not right for them. You had to be a special type of mad to make it here, a madness he could cultivate.
Insanity, anger, hatred, suffering. It was the perfect breeding ground for evil. Fertile ground and he had the seeds. They were inside of him, his collection of seeds. He loved the way they felt, he loved the power and strength they gave him. Golyat had wanted him to give his collection away, his beautiful demon seeds. He would never do that, they were a part of him now.
But he would plant them. Temporarily. Here he could plant them and they would flourish. They would serve his and Golyat's bidding that way. They would be his army; every revolution needs an army after all. Then, when they were done, he would discard the shells they had grown into and bring them once again inside him, where they belonged.
It was hot in here, as though the concrete building absorbed all the heat during the day so there was no respite in cool night air. Outside might be perfect right now, but inside it still felt like a sauna. He did not want to be here during the day. Luckily, he wouldn't have to be. His task was short. He could be long gone before morning.
There were cameras, but one of his collection had taken care of that for him. It had a gift with electronics, a knack for making them do what it wanted, and it wanted whatever he wanted. There were guards, of course, across the expanse of the common room in their own little room with large glass windows. They would need to be dispatched.
The Collector raised his hand, palm up, and a glowing point of energy appeared on it. He tossed it like a ball a few feet in front of him, toward the guard.
As it sailed through the air it changed. The small dot of light expanded, becoming a large ball of power. Then it shifted, elongated, growing easily to the size of a large man. The mass changed again, becoming recognizable as some sort of man-shaped beast. It was well over six feet tall, but hunched over as though the weight of its heavily muscled shoulders and back overpowered its spine. It was hairless, its skin rough like it had been grown from trees and stone.
Powerful legs formed, coalescing as it ran. In less than a second it was at the guard booth. There was a moment when the guards looked up and saw the thing, fist pulled back to punch through the glass. But there was no time to react, no time to process what they were seeing before it roared and smashed its fist through the heavily reinforced window.
The glass exploded inward, and the guards raised their hands to protect themselves from the flying shards; they didn’t see the demon in those final moments. They didn’t see its slobbering mouth full of razor teeth. They didn’t see the deep hatred and anger radiating from its searing eyes. They did hear the bone-chilling roar just before its clawed hands grabbed them and pulled them toward its massive mouth.
The Collector liked to think that, although it was fast, they had time to feel the pain before the demon ripped them apart. This thought made him smile.
The inmates were up and at the doors. The noise of the crashing glass and destruction had awakened them. Those that were sane enough to show interest stood at their doors, some wearing pajamas, some underwear, some even nude. Still half asleep, some stared in shock, others cheered, and others screamed words at nobody. Some grabbed the bars and rattled them. One man started to take wild runs at his cell door, slamming his face into the bars each time; soon blood dripped from his nose
The one closest to The Collector pointed and giggled. "I told you so," said the insane man. "I told you they existed."
He was a little man with a short beard and longish wild hair. He wore some sort of pajamas, dingy with grime and sweat stains. His eyes darted about as though he was having trouble focusing on any one thing.
"This one seems like a good place to start," The Collector mumbled. He raised his hand again and another glowing ball appeared in his palm. This one he blew on gently. It drifted lightly through the air, like a bubble, as the screams of the dying guards faded away and cacophony of sounds from the mad humans around him grew.
The giggling mad man noticed the bubble of power and smiled. He turned from the spraying blood of the guards being torn apart to watch it approach. He smiled at its beauty. The ball floated at him and he stepped back letting it into his cell.
Once past the bars, however, it kept moving toward him. The smile slowly left the little man's face. The ball moved a little faster, and the little man backed away until he was up against his bunk.
"No, no, not me! There are others, go after them," he said nodding to the other inmates who were still hooting and hollering at the show of death and bloodshed they had just witnessed. But the bubble drifted closer. The man's eyes widened in fear, the whites of his eyes big and shiny with tears.
"No, no! NO!" he repeated, each word getting louder, more hysterical. Then the bubble floated into his chest. He let out one long, final scream and the bubble slowly sank into him. The scream was like no other, the scream of an ending.
Even the other inmates, across the spectrum of sanity, paused in their bloody cheers. The demons finished their grim task and then paused, awaiting instruction. Slowly, as though just discovering the sound came from one of their own, the prisoners turned toward that final screech.
As the bubble disappeared into his chest, the scream stopped. His eyes rolled back into his head and blood drained from his face. He staggered, his body tried to keep him upright, but only for a moment. He fell to the ground, his vibrating as though in a seizure, but impossibly fast. He became a blur as his body heaved up and down, as though something inside was trying to get out. Then it all stopped and he lay there on the ground.
His skin was pale, almost translucent, with black veins threaded through
his skin. His eyes were sunken as though he had not slept in a year. His chest moved up and down slowly, and a rattling sound came from deep within his chest.
The ward had become quiet. Those that could see inside the cell watched the transformation; others, who couldn't see in, watched the man with the bubbles as he looked on, a grin on his face.
With a snarl, the possessed man was off the floor, slamming into the bars of his cell. He grabbed hold of the bars with fingers, longer than before, elongated and thin. He rattled the metal bars, shaking them back and forth, pulling and pounding into them. His face, though still recognizably human, had become bestial. His mouth wider, more wolfen, and lined with sharp teeth. A large red tongue glistening with a yellow puss-like saliva lolled out of its mouth, drool dripping to the floor.
It still held madness in its eyes, but there was something more: something dark, angry, and ready to destroy. It was the demon inside. The seed had taken hold. Demons could exist in the mortal world without a host of course—the guards on this ward had experienced that—but not indefinitely and not without expending extra energy to hold their essence together. To create an army, you needed fleshy hosts—raw meat and fuel.
The creature howled and pulled at the bars. They bent and twisted under its hands.
"Shhh," said the Collector. "You will be out soon enough. You will all be out soon enough."
The creature stopped howling immediately and hung onto the twisted bars, panting heavily. It waited for instructions from the Collector.
The Collector raised his hands palms up. Bubbles of power formed on his hands and floated away as though on a gentle breeze. They poured from his palms like a bubble machine, bright beautiful colors, floating throughout the ward.