Tesla's Revenge

by Renee Sebastian

  Dorian took one of my bags, took me by the elbow, and said, “We passed a copse off to the right just before we jumped. Let's consult your map there and determine the best way into the city.”

  After plugging in coordinates into his compass and consulting the map, we saw that the line of trees was actually a forest that bordered the western side of the city. We decided to follow it until we needed to head north, into the city.

  Fires littered the buildings haphazardly with the most intense blazes appearing deeper into the city itself. The sun had begun to set when we chanced upon a hill that would give us a panoramic view of the dying city. This was not going to be a pleasurable outing.

  Once atop, we surveyed the ruins. It was a hellish sight, to be sure. The smog had lifted quickly, since coals had stopped heating and lighting people's homes. Fires bled into black wisps of smoke clawing for the last rays of sunlight. In the distance, there was a clearly delineated circle of decimated buildings. It was only a matter of time, before the government lost control of the sites to the penny presses, since it seemed to be becoming a reoccurring event.

  Dorian turned and looked at me. I could tell that he was staring not at me, but rather, behind me. I turned and saw the bloated sun setting on the horizon. Its color was a burnished gold. It was amazing. It was not something seen every day in our world of grime and smut. I felt Dorian stand beside me and then he put a loose tendril of my hair behind my ear.

  I looked at him and he said, “It's the same color as the sun.”

  I tucked the tendril back into my braid and said belatedly, “Thank you.”

  He then took my other bag in hand, “I shall be relying upon you to navigate the way, Miss Darling.”

  I nodded and then we descended into ruined city of Buffalo.

  Chapter 8

  Introductions to Lovecraft

  “By studying the actions of people, I can predict their future actions, making life very boring for me.”

  -Elijah Moore, A speech addressed to the Council of Mediums, 2089

  From Dorian's Journal of Memorable Quotes to Live By

  The wailing siren had finally met its end, thank goodness. If only I could have slain that banshee sooner. The deserted streets were periodically bathed in firelight, as we crept through the shadows of the residential district. We were finally closing in on the epicenter that we had observed back on the hill that overlooked the conurbation.

  We came across several of the sickened residents on our passage, but left them to their misery, which included the ones we could see were dragging themselves away from the epicenters, and the others that we could not see but hear. Their droning moans emanated from nearby buildings. Maybe they would live, maybe not. They held their own fate in their hands, because I was not handing out pity bullets today.

  The crackling fires, the popping of wood and the occasional sizzle of an electrical conduit going out somewhere in the dark were the only other noises coming out from the dilapidated edifices. As we traversed the rubble filled roads, the lumps of ashes started appearing again. They were still, as of yet, undisturbed by the licking, thermal winds of the building fires surrounding us.

  Dorian, who was following behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder. I stopped and looked behind me. He was cupping his ear, so I listened too. I didn't hear anything at first, but then I heard what he must have wanted me to hear. I wasn't exactly sure what I was hearing, but whatever it was, it was not the zombies. It sounded like heavy machinery on the move.

  “Military?”

  “Possibly. Shall we go and investigate it?”

  “Only if we come across it en route to the epicenter. I want some fresh clues in this case first, and I don’t think investigating peculiar sounds fits with Tesla or earthquakes quite enough yet to make it our priority at this time.”

  I nod my head sharply once, and we continued towards the ring of destruction. We took a dark alley to our right that appeared to cut across a street block. The bricks were dark and musty as we hugged the broken hulls of walls, as we walked down the alley. Thunder rolled in the distance and lightening streaked across the sky. It lit up the alleyway in a quick series of flashes, revealing overturned cans, large cardboard homes of the homeless, and more piles of the dubious dust.

  Then a gunshot was heard not too far ahead and we heard someone yelling about his idiocy for shooting off his gun. I stopped and pointed to my bags. Dorian dropped the one he still carried for me and I loaded up my weapons. I already had my stilettos in my arm sheaths, my lock pick kit in my boot, but I placed the Westinghouse into a hip holster and checked the one Iver Johnson still in my pocket loaded. I then slung my Widow on and it slid to my back on its cross strap. I left the other pistol and magsticks in my weapons bag, and then I slipped extra bullets into the other boot. I pulled my gloves tighter against my fingers until I heard them crack. They would act as an insulator in case the static charged atmosphere turned volatile with the Westinghouse.

  He loaded and checked his Colts, and then he put one in each of his side pockets. He looked at me and then slid a slender throwing knife out of a hidden pocket of his long coat. Next, he handed me his cane to hold. I looked at it speculatively. I did not want to hold the blade if it might reject me and wound me in turn.

  He sensed my trepidation and whispered, “In the sheath… protected.”

  I reluctantly took it and then he sliced open a palm with the knife. After that, he replaced the knife back into his coat. He took his sword back and then made a fist with his cut hand. I watched transfixed as his blood dripped onto his sword, the smell of varnish overpowered my resplug.

  I leaned over and whispered, “I thought you didn't like to feed your sword?”

  “It is a precarious task, no doubt, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Why not simply cut your hand across the blade to feed it?” I briefly wondered why he would jab the tip of his pen at all, when he had a perfectly good pocketknife. Maybe the damage was less from a poke rather than a slice and he needed more than a few drops to feed the sword. Maybe the quality of his blood was different when he sliced it and that was what the sword needed, versus a piece of paper. Who knew?

  He quietly explained to me, “My dear Wendy that way lays folly. It may not stop feeding should it bite my hand directly. I would only do that in an emergency.” He took his sword back and I noticed the flames from several of the open windows reflecting in his eyes, giving him a devilish appearance. I suddenly worried my bottom lip. How exactly did he gain the ability to paint his magical portrait? Could it have been the devil that bestowed his immortality upon him? While I was not the most religiously observant person, I did have my beliefs. I tried to not let this crippling thought overwhelm me.

  “Do you still hear the sound we were following?” I asked.

  He grimaced and replied, “No, I don't.”

  “Well, let's continue to investigate the center. I'll wager that is where the gunshot came from.”

  “I concur.”

  We rounded a corner, and I was surprised to see the rest of the way was a wide-open space from the blast. There were numerous soldiers surrounding the periphery of the area, with several officers closer to the epicenter. This may very well have been where the rhythmical sound emanated from, but even if it weren’t, I'd wager that there was something afoot here worth investigating.

  Most odd were the people in civilian dress located in the center. One appeared to be of the Deist clergy, dressed all in black except for his white collar. He was very disturbing to me, because his smile was huge and he had a wild look in his eyes. He swayed and danced as if listening to some music, when there was none to be heard.

  A toff stood next to him, he was both tall and gangly with large bones, as if he had been underfed. He was beardless, but had a head full of hair that he kept cropped short. His hands were very large and judging by his gait, he appeared to be the one in charge.

  Then I noticed another man standing near him, w
hom I did recognize. It was the Secretary of State, Jasper Jackson. What with his graying muttonchops and receding hairline, he was easier than most of the President's staff to pick out from a crowd. He was a bear of a man with a portly belly to match. S.O.A.R. kept biographies on all the cabinet positions, so I knew of a great deal of his pedigreed upbringing and his bullying behavior at the military academy. How I loathed bullies. I suppose having Peter in one’s life would do that to a girl, but without a doubt, something was definitely happening here. Whatever it was, it went high up the chain of command and I wanted to know what it was. I noted that Tesla was nowhere to be seen, however.

  I pressed closer to the wall, tapped Dorian on his elbow, and then pointed to the Secretary. He nodded once and held up a hand indicating that we should wait this out. I nodded in return and then laid belly down upon the ground. Best not to be in direct line of sight, just in case someone was looking. Dorian remained standing just around a corner next to me.

  I peered harder at the scene before me, but could make out nothing else of consequence. Dorian finally knelt down next me and whispered in my ear, “Do you see the detonating device?”

  I shook my head no, and then he pointed over to the right of the scene and I could see something resembling a canister sticking out of the ground.

  The Secretary of State checked a device in his hand and addressed the gangly man, “The beta decay is at its optimal levels from the positron collision. It's now or never, Howard.” Fortunately, his voice carried easily across the void to us.

  “Now it is,” he replied. Next, he asked, “Has Tesla been located yet? I should very much like to make the acquaintance of the man who has left behind such delightful toys for my amusement.”

  Jasper looked over to one of the soldiers and called out, “Officer Byrne, report!”

  A big, shaggy man with a stooped gait ran over and growled, “No, sir. Tesla remains aloof, sir.” The employment of Werewolves in this affair, ties this incident to the President himself. Wolves were a rare species. Usually only Wolves employed in the military were the President's own personal bodyguards. He must have lent one to this cause.

  The big gangly man called over to one of the soldiers from the other side of the epicenter. The soldier that stepped over was very young and fine boned. He cautiously approached and stopped before the Secretary of State. Jasper Jackson then said, “What’s your name soldier?”

  “Fowler, Eli, sir!”

  “Will you do anything and everything that our lord and master, Mr. Lovecraft, says to do?” Could this be the Howard Phillips Lovecraft? Dorian and I exchanged surprised looks. “He's a busy man and hasn't much time. This is a matter of import to the Republic of the America. Do you understand that your sacrifice is integral to the success of this mission? Will you do your patriotic duty? Will you soldier?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” The soldier replied. Jasper then turned in a circle, ordering all the men to about face and look away from the circle.

  Lovecraft approached the young soldier, looking him over from head to toe. A knife slipped out of his sleeve. In fact, it looked like an athame, with a slight bluish glow coming from within the blade itself. It glowed steadily in the flickering firelight. Lovecraft then approached the priest who appeared to be laughing now, but no sound spilled from his lips.

  Lovecraft grabbed the priest by the hair, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, “You will come back to me now. Look at me. Follow my voice. I am here. Come now. No longer hide yourself. Do this for me now! Come! Now!”

  The priest shook for a moment and then appeared to pull himself together. He then said solemnly, “Howard, is that you?”

  “Yes, Brother, it is time.”

  “It is?” A hopeful expression filled his face.

  Lovecraft gently cupped his head and said, “Yes, it is. Now do you see this young soldier standing next to me?” He stepped away so the priest could see the young soldier. The priest nodded his head.

  Lovecraft then said, “You know what must be done.” He held out the athame, offering it up to the priest.

  The priest nodded his head and took the knife. Jasper and another soldier stepped forward and grabbed the soldier to hold him still. The priest seemed to walk some sort of a circle while he slowly closed in on the soldier. After a few minutes of this, the soldier's eyes bugged, and he started to struggle.

  “No! No! Let me go!” the young soldier called out. Jasper and the Wolf were both bigger and stronger than the younger soldier was, so they easily held him immobile.

  The Priest finally completed his circuit and addressed the soldier. Gone was the look of madness from his features. Serenity now replaced it. The priest said, “I absolve you of all you sins, my son. May your spirit serve the greater good.”

  Then his words soared louder when he said, “May your soul feed the world.” Then he sliced the soldier's throat and blood gushed forth onto the priest, staining his white collar red. The Priest smiled and then tried to present the athame to Lovecraft.

  Lovecraft turned to him and said, “No, friend. It is your time now to serve the greater good.” He placed his palm over the Priest’s forehead and pushed him. He tripped and fell over the body of the soldier. Lovecraft ordered, “Do it.”

  The Priest screamed out “Yes!” Then he took the bloodied knife and plunged the knife into his own chest. A look of euphoria crossed his face as he fell to his knees. Lovecraft began walking the unseen circuit again around the Priest's dying body, chanting words that I recognized as Latin, but couldn't translate. Handy, having Dorian around as my own personal pocket translator. We'll have to see what he had to say about this.

  As the Priest's life drained from his body, Lovecraft closed in on the body like a predator stalking its prey. When Lovecraft finally faced the dying holy man again, the priest looked up at Howard with ecstasy, but then the horror of the situation slowly dawned on him, morphing his face into a mask of horror.

  The priest called out, “Please forgive me, my Lord, for I am a sinner and the devil stands before me.” As if those words took what remained of his life, he collapsed into death's embrace.

  Lovecraft smiled and commented, “Driveling nonsense, old chap.” Then he bent over and yanked the athame out of his lifeless body. He dragged the knife down his body, as if he was filleting a fish to clean it. Next, he shoved his hand into the hole the knife made in the priest’s body and extracted his heart.

  “I hope Jasper that this is enough. You do realize how much time it took to convert this one,” Lovecraft said as he gazed at the bloody lump of tissue and muscle he held in his hand.

  “Yes, Howard, I do. I know intimately of how trying it is to find these men. I was the one who found him in the first place,” he replied.

  Lovecraft seemed to ignore him as he cut open the heart and then followed the invisible path back around the bodies. He dripped the blood from the heart as he went. It certainly gave the impression that Lovecraft, like Dorian, was a Hemomage too.

  After a few minutes, I started to feel a change in the atmosphere. An unseen pressure began to build in my head. I tapped Dorian on his shoulder and he shook his head as if the clear it. Then he placed a finger to his lips. Whatever was about to happen was bad. I felt it in my bones. I moved to position the Widow. A well-placed black dart in Lovecraft should end all this now. As I pulled the dart from its slot from the Widow's spine, Dorian grabbed my wrist and shook his head no, as he pointed to the scene unfolding before us. What ever happened to a stitch in time saved nine I wondered? Only later would I regret that I hadn’t followed my instincts on this hellish eve’.

  Lovecraft now stood in the middle of an invisible maelstrom of energy. His chanting escalated in pitch and intensity until he suddenly stopped. Then I saw the faint outline of a red fiery gateway appear. Had he somehow gained a Summoner's ability, as well as that of a Hemomage's skill with blood magic? He was combining them to create some sort of gateway. I had never known anyone who combined powers like flavors on a su
cker.

  Jasper called out, “Cheerio, I say. You've done it Howard!”

  But just as the last word left his mouth, the gate folded in on itself and faded out of existence. Lovecraft scowled and said, “Damnation!”

  Then he turned to Jasper and ordered, “Find Tesla you fool, before I decide that we need to make you the next sacrifice! I must know his secrets!”

  Jasper visibly blanched in the moonlight and said in an accusatory manner, “We will need more men, if we are to have a more effective search, Howard.”

  He sliced his palm open and flung his blood in an arc before himself while he muttered a few words in Latin. A thin blue outline of a door appeared in front of him. Was that a land portal? I had read about them, but the book claimed it was a lost skill. The Summoner that could create one of these could crease space and travel vast distances in an instant. It was also supposed to taint your mind in the passage.

  “You'll have your men by the end of tomorrow. Now find me another priest. Make him a good one. You know the drill... purer the heart the better.” Then he chuckled to himself, walked through the outline, and disappeared. The door vanished with him.

  The Secretary of State barked out his orders to the remaining soldiers, “Find me Tesla or suffer the same fate as your brother-in-arms! That's an order!”

  Another man in uniform shouted, “You heard the man, formation now, boys. We head north, where the sounds of machinery were last heard! Five hundred gold dollars to the soldier who finds him first!”

  “Alive, Captain. He must be alive,” Jasper said.