Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  He was reaching for Canfield's tool kit again when he heard the whine of the air around the door atop the steps change in pitch. He felt the wind grow against his back again. He looked up and saw the door slowly moving back. Fingers appeared, curled around the edge, white-knuckled with the strain of fighting the gale. Finally with a violent lurch the door swung all the way back on its hinges and a tall, ungainly figure appeared in the opening.

  "Lew!" Jack shouted. "Jeez, am I glad to see you!"

  "Jack?" Lew said as he clumped down the steps, clinging to the banister and the wall to brace himself against the wind at his back. "What's—?"

  He stopped and gaped at the partially denuded cellar, then lurched down to the floor.

  "Where's Melanie?"

  "She left. Look, Lew—"

  "Left?" he said, his face screwing up as he stared at the hole. "You mean she went back ... back down there?"

  "Yeah. Look, just get me my jacket over there and I'll explain the whole thing."

  "But she said she'd meet me out in the car!" Lew cried, his voice rising. He stepped toward the hole. "We were going home together."

  "She must've changed her mind," Jack said quickly. If he could just get his hands on that jacket, get hold of the Semmerling in its pocket ... "Lew, my jacket—see it over there?"

  But Lew didn't look at Jack ... he started moving away ... never taking his eyes off that damn hole.

  "I've got to go find her!"

  Jack grabbed his arm. "No, Lew! You can't go there! You'll be killed!"

  The movement allowed the wheelchair to slip free of his foot. Jack had to choose between Lew and the wheelchair. He chose Lew. The chair rolled away and tumbled into the hole.

  But Lew barely noticed, and he sure as hell wasn't listening. He violently wrenched his arm from Jack's grasp and lurched out of reach.

  "I've got to be with her!"

  "All right!" Jack shouted. "Be with her. But give me my damn jacket first so I can get out of here!"

  Jack might as well have been talking to a mannequin. He kept shouting Lew's name but Lew gave no sign that he heard.

  Lew slipped and almost lost his balance in the gale that was tearing at his clothes. To avoid being swept into the opening, he crouched and kept hold of the rope ladder as he crabbed along the floor. When he reached the rim, he snaked his good foot over the edge, snagged the dangling end of the ladder as it danced in the wind, and started down.

  Not until his head had descended to floor level did he look at Jack.

  "I haven't got a second to lose," he shouted. "I need her, Jack."

  "Aw, Lew," Jack said, sensing it was hopeless to ask but giving it a shot anyway. "Just get me my jacket first? Please?"

  "I've got to find her and bring her back while the gateway's still open. After that I'll help get you free."

  "It's not going to close, Lew! It's—"

  Before Jack could tell him he was wasting his time and most likely his life, Lew was gone.

  Frustration screamed in Jack's brain, almost as loudly as the wind. He was out of options ... the draw was stronger, and the gateway ever larger—only three rope-ladder treads between Jack and the rim.

  The white box of the dryer began a shuddering slide toward the hole. Its electric cord snagged its progress for a heartbeat, then pulled free from the outlet. It wriggled halfway there before its leveling feet hung up on a crack in the floor; it toppled forward and shimmied the rest of the way to the hole on its face, then went down.

  Jack wondered if it would clock Lew along the way. He almost wished it would ... the jerk.

  Like a Romeo eager to join its Juliet, the washing machine struggled toward the hole, but its connections to the water pipes held it back.

  But nothing was holding back the hole. Its far edge had undermined the sister column to Jack's, leaving it dangling from the house's main beam, its lower end wavering over infinity.

  Then one of the overhead bulbs shattered, the pieces darting into the hole like glass buckshot.

  Jack found it increasingly difficult to hold his position against the gale blasting down the staircase and into the maw. He put the column between the hole and himself, and braced his back against it—safe for now, but when the edge of the hole reached the base of his column ...

  He squinted at the couch. It was tucked in a corner with no window, so it had remained unaffected by the draw from the hole. If only he had a stick, a metal rod, anything, he might have a chance to reach his jacket. He wished he'd thought to grab that piece of door molding as it flew down the steps a few minutes ago.

  And then, to his horror, he saw the couch move.

  Only an inch or two, but that was enough to jostle his jacket, and now one of its sleeves was fluttering in the wind that swirled around it.

  "No!" Jack shouted as the lighter side of the jacket flipped over and tugged toward the floor, dragging the heavier, gun-laden pocket after it.

  God, he had to get to it. This was his last hope. He dropped to his knees, pulling the loop of chain down to floor level after him.

  Another bulb shattered as the jacket hit the floor and began to slip toward the hole. Jack dropped flat, his cheek on the concrete, and stretched his free hand toward it, feeling the edges of the steel cuff dig into the skin of his trapped wrist as he strained every joint and ligament to the max and beyond.

  "Damn it to hell!" he gritted as he realized his fingertips would fall at least a foot and a half short. "Not enough!"

  Frantic now as he saw the jacket begin to tumble toward the hole, Jack flipped his body around and stretched his legs to the limit—just in time to trap one of the sleeves under the toe of his right sneaker.

  "Made it!"

  But he began to think he'd spoken too soon as he tried to drag the jacket toward him. With more surface area to work on, the wind was tugging the sleeve from under his sneaker. Jack rolled onto his belly and jammed his other toe onto the sleeve. He trapped a tiny fold of the fabric between them and bent his knees to draw it to his hand.

  "Gotcha!" he said as his fingers closed around the fabric, and it sounded like a sob.

  The last two bulbs blew, plunging the cellar into darkness as a sudden blaze of pain shot through the small of his back. He hadn't even been aware that the couch was moving until it had slammed into him, and now it was jammed against his spine, crowding him toward the opening that was closer than ever.

  The jacket tore from his grasp and flew toward the hole.

  Jack cried out and made a desperate blind lunge for it. Searing pain from the torn skin on his left wrist against the cuff registered only vaguely as he caught hold of the zipper. The rest of the jacket went over the edge, pulling and twisting in his grasp like a hooked fish, but Jack held on, even as he found himself sliding toward the hungry maw.

  His head and right shoulder slipped over the rim. Pink-orange light flashed impossibly far below. And nearer, he saw a figure clinging desperately to the whipping end of the ladder, looking as if he was trying to climb back up.

  Lew ...

  The couch against Jack's back lifted then and rolled over, knocking the wind out him as its full weight slammed onto his body. It slid forward and slipped over the edge, an armrest banging against the side of his head as it tumbled past.

  Jack's vision blurred as he fought to breath. He saw the couch go into a spin as it fell, narrowly missing Lew, who seemed to be making progress up the ladder.

  Couldn't worry about Lew now.

  Jack wrestled the jacket out of the pit and clamped the sleeve between his teeth. He grabbed hold of the first tread on the rope ladder and fought the hurricane-force wind back to the column.

  Gasping, dizzy, nauseated, he wrapped himself around the column and fumbled the Semmerling out of the pocket. The tiny pistol felt wonderful in his palm. Now he had a chance—he just hoped it would work. He'd wished for fully jacketed rounds on Friday night, but after emptying the pistol, he'd reloaded with the same frangible hollowpoints. Once again he coul
d have used solid rounds. He promised himself that if he got out of this he would always load the Semmerling with at least one 230-grain hardball.

  The steadily brightening flashes from deep within the hole were the only illumination as Jack pulled the chain tight with his knees and held his cuffed hand on the far side of the column; the links slipped in the blood seeping from his wrist. He reached around with his left and pressed the Semmerling's muzzle against the link between the cuffs. The pistol kicked and the cuff bucked as he fired, but the report was barely audible in the howling gale.

  Jack tugged on the cuff—no give. The damn stupid soft hollowpoint slug hadn't broken the link.

  Stay calm, he told himself. You've still got three rounds left.

  But not much floor to go before the Jack's column went the way of its sister, taking Jack with it.

  The sound of shattering glass from above and behind him—instinctively Jack leaned away from the stairs as a glittering cloud of jagged fragments whizzed by, spinning through the air like transparent shuriken.

  There go the kitchen windows.

  He fired again, hoping he was hitting the same spot—the recoil on the Semmerling was such that he couldn't be sure. Still the cuff held. He fired the last two rounds one right after the other, praying he'd feel the cuff fall away. But the chain remained wrapped around the column.

  Panicky now, Jack pocketed the gun and tugged on the chain with everything he had—and shouted with relief when he felt the cuffs part. As the chain clinked to the floor, he struggled to his feet.

  Free!

  Movement at the rim of the hole caught his eye. A hand, its skin glistening redly, clawed over the edge, clinging to the rope ladder. Seconds later, a bloody head struggled into view.

  "Lew!" Jack shouted.

  In the flickering light, it looked as if the skin had been stripped away from Lew's face, leaving the bloodied muscles exposed. Jack could see his mouth working but couldn't hear a word.

  And then the upstairs door slammed again, even more explosively than before. But this time it shattered and tore off its hinges, sending jagged wooden spears hurtling down the steps.

  Jack ducked to the side, but the missiles caught Lew full in the face. One instant he was there, the next he was gone.

  And now the edge of the hole was nibbling at the foot of the column.

  Jack swung his body onto the steps and started up. Standing was out of the question, so he crawled, squinting into the gale as he pulled himself upward one tread at a time.

  He heard a faint clatter from somewhere above. He ducked and pressed himself against the wall to—his right as a barrage of cups, bowls, and dinner plates hurtled down from the kitchen cabinets. A few of them pelted his head and shoulders on their way by.

  If only Zaleski were here, he thought insanely. Real flying saucers.

  As he resumed his climb, he prayed that Melanie's folks hadn't been into collecting carving knives.

  As if on cue, another clatter from above and then the household flatware—spoons, forks and knives, even the drawer itself—were flying toward him. He ducked again and cursed as the sharper utensils tore his shirt and cut his skin.

  And then the whole staircase moved under Jack.

  He glanced back and saw the column hanging free over the hole, wagging back and forth. The staircase was attached to its base, and the entire unit was being ripped from the wall.

  With the stairs jerking and twisting under him like a rodeo bronco, Jack redoubled his efforts to reach the kitchen, clawing his way to the top. He'd just snaked his right hand around the foot of the jamb when the staircase tore free of the wall and tumbled away, leaving Jack hanging from the doorway.

  A quick glance back showed the stairs and the column whirling into the hungry vortex. He heard a loud crack as the house's center beam began to sag.

  The whole place was coming down.

  He had a few minutes, tops.

  Through desperation-fueled kicking and scrabbling against the wall, Jack managed to force his head and chest up onto the kitchen floor, now beginning to tilt toward him as the center beam sagged further. He'd just raised a knee over the edge when he saw a dark square sliding along the kitchen counter. It hit the floor with a weighty bang and began tumbling end over directly toward him. It was almost upon him before he recognized it as a microwave oven.

  Jack lunged to the side, squeezing himself against the jamb, but the oven caught his knee and knocked him off the threshold. He fell back and was left literally twisting in the wind as he clung to the jamb with one hand.

  Sobbing with the effort, doing his best to ignore the agony in his knee, Jack struggled again to lever himself up to the ever-more-tilted kitchen floor. This time he got both knees up on the threshold—those regular workouts were paying a dividend—just as the refrigerator started sliding toward him.

  Not again!

  An inarticulate cry burst from him as he half lunged, half rolled to the side.

  The refrigerator brushed against his back and it slammed into the doorway, blocking it.

  Missed me, you bastard!

  Wind shrieked around the fridge's edges but no way was it getting through.

  Jack lay on the floor, gasping. No gale to fight ... how wonderful.

  Then he felt the floor jolt under him.

  Oh, Christ! The increased negative pressure in the basement was putting more stress on the already weakened support beam. The whole place was going to implode.

  He struggled to his feet and hobbled to the back door. He turned the knob and pulled but it wouldn't budge. How could it? He'd relocked the deadbolt when he left the other day.

  "Jerk!" he shouted.

  He turned away and limped hurriedly through the sagging house. At least the lights were still on so he didn't have to stumble around in the dark. The open front door was in sight when a booming crack beneath his feet shook the house—the center beam had finally surrendered.

  The lights went out and the living room floor dropped three feet as Jack leaped for the swinging front door. He caught the inner and outer knobs and hung there as the carpet was ripped free. It swirled and shredded through the sudden hole in the floor, to be swallowed by the insatiable maw in the cellar.

  The outer walls began to crack and lean inward. Jack felt the door hinges start to give way. He kicked off the wall, swung himself toward the doorway, and leaped through the opening onto the front steps. Without a pause, without a look back, he hopped off the steps and tumbled onto the grass.

  6

  "Is that—?" Mauricio said as a figure leaped from the shuddering house and crumbled onto the lawn.

  The One stared through the dimness. "Yes, I am afraid it is."

  "Who is this man?"

  The One nodded. A very good question. Last year this stranger apparently had wiped out the rakoshi singlehandedly, and now he somehow had escaped the cellar and the gateway.

  "Whatever his name," the One said, "he is a nuisance and a menace."

  "I've had enough of this. If the Otherness can't finish him, I will."

  Movement caught The One's eye as Mauricio crouched to leap from his shoulder. He raised a hand to prevent that.

  "Wait. Someone else is here."

  "The Twins!" Mauricio hissed. "They could ruin everything!"

  "No. It is too late—even for them."

  "It's not too late. The hole is not large enough yet. They might be able to shut it down. And you—you haven't assumed your final form yet. Until you do, they can still destroy you. And I can't protect you against their strength. Hide!"

  He watched the Twins scan the yard, saw them fix on the stranger and start toward him.

  This should be interesting ...

  7

  Still puffing, Jack slumped on the dew-damp grass. The night air was cool against his face, Canfield's van was a shadow to his right. Starlight faintly outlined the sagging roof of the house, while pink-orange flashes strobed through the imploding windows.

  He clo
sed his eyes and rubbed his knee. Had to get away from here. Soon as he caught his breath ...

  A thunderous boom shook the ground and jerked him forward.

  The house—its walls were folding in, the roof buckling in the middle. As Jack watched, the entire structure fell apart and tumbled into its foundation. The pieces—lumber, bricks, siding, wallboard, furniture—whirlpooled down into the Otherness hole, feeding it, expanding it, until nothing, not even the foundation footings, remained.

  And the hungry rim expanded farther, flashing its weird-colored light against the trees and vehicles in the yard, still coming for him.

  "Aw, cut me a break!" Jack muttered as he fought to his feet.

  What was it going to do—chase him all the way back to the city? And then he realized with a shock that was exactly what it was going to do. Just like in his dream—a giant hole swallowing everything in its path.

  He turned and started a quick hobble toward his car. He had to get to Gia and Vicky, warn Abe, head for the hills—

  But as he neared the big oak he spotted a black sedan parked at the curb ... and two dark figures in suits and hats approaching him. Jack didn't have to see their faces to know who they were.

  And here he was, unarmed and in no shape to deal with them.

  He broke into his best approximation of a run.

  They caught him easily—strong, long-fingered hands gripped each of his upper arms and fairly lifted him off the ground. Jack writhed and twisted but couldn't pull free; he lashed out with his feet, aiming for knees and groins, but he couldn't find the leverage he needed to do any damage—at least not to this pair. He remembered how he'd broken one's finger the other night without fazing him.

  They wheeled around and began dragging him back across the lawn toward the flashing pit where the house had been.

  Panic spiked through him. He tried to dig his feet in, but his sneakers slipped on the wet grass, barely slowing the two golems who held him. He was utterly helpless.

  "Wait!" he shouted. He had no hope that talk would help, but he was desperate enough to try anything. "Let's think about this!"