The Realms of the Dead (15 page)

Opening his eyes again, Chuck held the yoga-like pose for another second as he judged the distance to the next pumpkin. This leap would require him landing with his left foot and repeating the process he'd just been through. Only in reverse.

Breathe.

Hold.

Release.

And jump.

One leap at a time, Chuck made his way across the swamp, each successful hop bolstering his confidence. By the time he was halfway across, he was able to find his center within a second of landing. Rather than bounding across the makeshift stepping stones, it had begun feeling more like a series of long strides, only slightly different from walking.

The creature in the water, however, was not content to allow Chuck to pass so easily. It circled each pumpkin, rising so close to the surface that arched humps broke through. Water streamed down scales that cycled through hues: gold then purple then red and silver. Waves rocked the gourds as the fanned tail smacked the water, showering Chuck with a foul-smelling spray.

His heart skipped beats each time the beast made another pass. The thing was so large its head could have shot out of the water like a striking serpent, snatched him within its jaws, and pulled him into the depths. But for some reason, it didn't. It simply swam faster, agitating the water as its undulations grew more insistent.

When Chuck had covered three-fourths of the distance, the creature switched tactics. Its body slammed against the side of the gourd Chuck balanced upon, the jolt causing both man and pumpkin to lurch to the left. Chuck's stomach felt as though it plummeted into a bottomless pit, his feet as if a carpet had been yanked out from under them.

He leapt without thinking or taking time to aim his trajectory, but—through sheer luck—his foot landed solidly upon the next rotting pumpkin. The creature gained speed, charging once again. With no time to plan, Chuck sprang again, his heel lifting off the shell just as the thing smashed into it from underneath.

The pumpkin shot up on a geyser and Chuck was nearly running now, jumping from pumpkin to pumpkin seconds before the one behind him jetted into the air. Fountains of swamp water cascaded down on him as the creature attacked time and time again. Drenched from head to toe, he tried to ignore the damp chill seeping through his clothes, to look past the sour reek from the algae oozing down his hair and arms; all that mattered was staying one step ahead of the beast and not having his foot still on a pumpkin when it rocketed into the air.

Chuck was so close to the other side now that he saw tips of rebar jutting out from the otherwise smooth edge of the floor. Just a few more pumpkins and he would be home free. Ten feet. Fifteen at the most.

Springing from shell to shell, Chuck focused on the slab of flooring, trusting his feet to find their way to the next step.

Three pumpkins to go and he noticed footprints in the dust covering the floor: small, bare feet that made their way into the darkened lunchroom.

Two pumpkins to go and the creature launched itself out of the water beside him, its massive body rolling mid-leap as its scales flashed through their hues in the dim light. A mouth opened on its eyeless head, four segments of flesh peeling back to reveal needle-like teeth spiraling down into the thing's gullet.

Chuck arched his back as the mouth snapped shut, missing him so narrowly that rough scales brushed his spine. The creature crashed into the water and the pumpkin Chuck was poised upon rose up on a swell of the resulting wave. Propelled by displacement, Chuck wobbled and rocked with the unexpected burst of speed, rising higher and higher as the wave crested.

It peaked near the ceiling and Chuck's heel slipped as his body pitched forward, plummeting back toward the waiting swamp. Below him, the creature erupted from the water, its mouth agape and ready to catch its fallen prey.

Reflexes took over and Chuck's hand shot out. His arms hugged one of the dangling fluorescent light fixtures and his legs instinctively wrapped around its bottom, but his weight was simply too much. The fixture swung forward with a squeal and snapped away from its base amid a shower of blue sparks as Chuck toppled through the air, still clinging to the ballast with his eyes squeezed shut and a scream straining his throat.

Within seconds, the beast would have him. The cruel teeth would rip at his flesh, pulling him deeper into the creature's maw. His only hope was that the end would be relatively quick, for it most certainly would not be painless.

Chuck, however, thudded onto something hard and solid. The sudden jolt flared pain through his body and his lungs expelled their air in one sudden burst. The tube on the light fixture popped, releasing a puff of gas while slivers of glass bit into Chuck's arms and legs. Somewhere behind him, there was a mighty splash and Chuck realized what had happened before he even opened his eyes.

Forward momentum had carried him through the air before gravity slammed his body onto the checkerboard floor, delivering him from the monster's jaws. His soaked clothes reconstituted the thick dust into mud and Chuck rolled over onto his back, gasping for air as he stared up at the ceiling. When his heart no longer felt as though it were jackhammering against his sternum, he lumbered to his feet, intending to take one last look at the swamp that had almost claimed his life.

The trail of rotting pumpkins and stagnant water, however, was gone. There was nothing but hallway again, as firm and unbroken as the section he'd landed upon. The lockers on either side, though, glistened as water trickled down their doors, offering the only shred of evidence that anything other than tile had ever been there.

“You'll have to try harder than that.” Chuck addressed the school as if it were a living entity, raising his middle finger as he spoke. “Motherfucker.”

Turning, the man walked through the double doors and entered the lunchroom. As soon as he was within its confines, the hallway winked out of existence. There was no longer a doorway bridging the gap; there was only a continuous circle of darkness with the spotlighted table in its center.

Chuck noticed that the object resting atop the table was, indeed, a bag. It looked like a single piece of burlap with the sides gathered at the top and tied off with a section of rope. The bottom of the bag ballooned out, telling him that there was not only something within the bag, but that it was also fairly big.

Reaching toward the rope, Chuck's fingers coaxed their way into the knots, loosening them within seconds. He unwound the cord and the sides of the crude bag fell away, revealing what had been hidden within. A severed head stared at him with unblinking eyes; its mouth was a thin, tight line with narrow lips bordered by a brown goatee that was just beginning to show the first streaks of gray. The face was one Chuck knew intimately and for a moment he could only look at it, all words and thoughts obliterated by his discovery.

“What the hell?” he finally stammered.

Picking up the head with both hands, Chuck studied the faint pockmarks left by adolescent acne. The mole on the right cheek, the little crease between the eyebrows, and the tiny scar at the corner of the right eye: He knew all these features well, for he looked at them every day in the mirror. The severed head contained within the bag was his own.

It was heavier than he'd thought a head would be. Probably nine or ten pounds. The flesh felt elastic and cold against his palms and he raised it to eye level, surprised by the sense of detachment that washed over him.

He was studying the striations of the iris, admiring the flecks of gold peppered among the emerald green and wondering how he'd never noticed them before when the pupils contracted. The mouth dropped open and the detached head drew in a sharp gasp of air, despite the fact that it had no lungs. When it spoke, the voice was a thin, raspy wheeze.

“It's found you.” The head sounded tired, as though it had clung to the vestiges of life for centuries, waiting to deliver its message. “It's found you and is coming. Beware.
It's found you
.”

Within the skull, a rattling emerged. The sound quickly built to a crescendo as insects scuttled out of the thing's mouth and nose. Tapered abdomens reflected light as the multitude of legs sprouting from segmented exoskeletons scampered over Chuck's arms. He wanted to toss the head away, to throw it as far as he could, but his hands seemed as though they'd somehow fused with the sides of the skull.

The insects swarmed out of the head, thronging over Chuck in a steady stream. His arms had completely disappeared beneath the teeming mass of bugs as they scurried over his shoulders and thousands of legs tickled his neck and chin as he whirled, shaking his head in an attempt to fling the insects away.

But there were simply too many; they poured out of the head's orifices and darted over his body, their shells clicking and clacking as they swarmed over him. Chuck bit back a scream as the insects pushed against his lips, knowing if he opened his mouth they would flock inside, burrowing into his lungs and throat, laying eggs in the soft tissue as his chest cavity writhed with densely packed bodies.

He reeled blindly: twisting, spinning, and thrashing his head from side to side, retching as he choked down bitter bile, and stumbling over his own feet.

Tiny legs forced themselves between his lips, stinging and pinching flesh that already felt numb and swollen, demanding entrance into their new nest. A pair of insects wriggled into either nostril, their bodies restricting air flow as they crammed into Chuck's nose. Others followed and within seconds his sinuses were entirely clogged; their exoskeletons scraped against the sensitive lining and his eyes watered as blood oozed between their bodies and trickled down his upper lip.

His lungs demanded air, but his face was a mask of squirming insects, each one prepared to dart inside the moment an opening presented itself. Lack of oxygen kicked panic into overdrive and Chuck tripped as he flailed, tumbling to the ground as the colony continued swarming out of the severed head attached to his hands.

Chuck couldn't hold his breath any longer. The strangled scream burnt his vocal cords and his mouth flew open, releasing the cry as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat-soaked sheets slid off his glistening body and his hands slapped at his face, swatting away the phantom tickling of legs that were no longer there. Huffing the cool air in his bedroom, his heart raced as his eyes darted about the room. Taking in the familiar sight of his alarm clock at a glance, he barely registered the red LEDs informing him that it was two in the morning. Instead, his eyes scanned the room, leaping from object to object as his mind sought comfort in objects that were commonplace and ordinary. His bedside table, the faint glow of a streetlight filtering around the edges of the drapes, the mirrored dresser nestled against the far wall: He was home.

A dream…

It had only been a nightmare. Not a Crossfade. Not another fucked up assignment from The Institute. Only a run of the mill, everyday nightmare.

Chuck collapsed onto his pillow and tried to calm his breathing as he stared up at the ceiling. By the time the sweat on his body had begun to cool, he'd regained his composure and he sat up again, flicking on the lamp beside his bed. And there, crawling across the table, was an insect with a tapered body and dozens of hairlike legs sprouting from its segmented exoskeleton.

It was solid for a fraction of a second. Then it faded, growing more and more transparent until nothing but the polished oak of the nightstand remained. But in the back of his mind, Chuck heard the severed head wheeze its warning.

It's coming for you…

Without the steady hiss of his Sleeper's ventilator, Chuck's office was unusually quiet. Nodens had died during the night a couple days earlier; his body had been unhooked from the IVs that had kept the terminally ill patient in an induced coma, the instrumentation that monitored his vitals had been unclipped from the leads, and the breathing apparatus powered down. His body had been wheeled out hours before Chuck's shift had begun; by the time he arrived at his office, the hospital bed had been stripped of sheets and pillows, the silver railings lowered, and the plastic bed liner sprayed with a disinfectant, which flooded the room with a pine scent.

Normally, the Sleeper would have been immediately replaced with another. As a Level I Recon and Enforcement Technician—or Whisk, as they were more commonly called—Chuck's job depended on it. But there had been a shortage lately. For some reason, fewer people were willing to sign over the remainder of their lives so surviving relatives could continue on with financial security. Some claimed it was ethically and morally wrong to subject their loved ones to a funeral service that was nothing more than a ruse. Others were more direct, pointing out that infighting over inheritance had flared the moment the word
inoperable
passed the doctor's lips; these individuals didn't want to leave a single penny to people who measured an entire lifetime in dollars, cents, and material possessions. Most, however, didn't give the recruiters a reason. They simply stuck to their guns, repeatedly saying no despite substantial increases in the promised payout.

Without the data provided by a Sleeper's vitals and the recordings of the ghostly voices that spoke through them, there was no way to pinpoint the location of a Crossfade. Since Chuck's primary job responsibility was journeying into the ethereal realm and helping the souls who'd become trapped in those spaces, there was little to occupy his time while he waited for Nodens's replacement to be issued.

The first day had been spent catching up on paperwork, ensuring that his postoperation briefings were as thorough and detailed as possible. Most of the information would be skimmed over by his superiors, the key points being summarized in high-level overviews presented at The Institute's biweekly stakeholders meetings. Occasionally, though, some reports were pulled for quality audits. These scores factored highly into a Whisk's year-end review, which impacted not only how much of a raise the technician received but also what percentage of the annual incentive bonus they were entitled to. Because of this, Chuck was initially grateful for the additional time to work on them.

An hour into this morning's shift, however, all of his outstanding reports had been refined, finalized, and submitted for sign-off. He'd tried to putter about his office, but the furnishings were so sparse—and the overnight cleaning crew so thorough—that his efforts amounted to nothing more than adjusting the angle of the Buddha fountain in the corner, turning it by a fraction of an inch so he could more easily see the gurgling waters from the other side of the room.

With that task completed, Chuck eyeballed the couch he laid upon every time he guided himself into a meditative state and freed his consciousness from his body. He'd stifled yawns all morning long and he was so tired that his muscles seemed to have the consistency of spaghetti. He shuffled through his office as if in slow motion, gazing at his surroundings through the grainy veil that haunts the vision of the sleep deprived. Taking a nap was tempting; the tasseled pillows and plush sofa looked so inviting…but Chuck couldn't fully commit to the notion. He was being paid for the time he spent in his little office and the mere thought of sleeping on the job made his cheeks warm with shame. He wasn't a slacker. He wasn't a goldbricker. He was a professional, damn it, and would behave accordingly—even if there really wasn't anything for him to do.

To solve this dilemma, Chuck had gone down to Theoretical Positioning and borrowed a chess set from Jewel. The handbook, after all, recommended strategic games as a pastime since they forced participants to think ahead instead of blindly reacting. So, he rationalized, playing chess could at least be considered work-related.

With the board set up before him, Chuck sat in lotus position on the carpet with his legs crossed and each foot resting comfortably atop the opposite thigh. He took his opening move, sliding the white knight two squares up and one to the left, and glanced at the camera perched in the corner of the room.

“Your move, Control.”

For a moment, the speaker embedded in the ceiling only hissed, though Chuck thought he could hear the woman's tongue faintly clucking against the roof of her mouth as she considered her options.

“Knight to F6,” she finally said, mirroring Chuck's stratagem. As he repositioned the ebony horsehead, she continued. “You okay, Chuck? I hate to say it, but you look like shit, buddy.”

He knew she was right. Dark bags drooped beneath his bloodshot eyes and his skin had an ashen quality, as though colorization had been bleached out overnight. Trying to catch up on sleep, he'd hit the snooze button on the alarm repeatedly, drifting in and out of consciousness until he couldn't put off getting up any longer. As a result, his clothes were wrinkled and the areas of his chin and neck not covered by his goatee were darkened with stubble. Advancing one of his pawns two spaces, Chuck rubbed his eyes with a balled fist and yawned.

“Yeah. Not been sleeping too well this week. Seems like every time I close my eyes I have a nightmare. It's just starting to catch up with me, that's all.”

“Pawn to E6.” Control's voice was tinged with concern, her brow most likely furrowed as she leaned over the microphone. “Anything you need to talk about?”

“Actually,” Chuck responded as he pondered his next move, “there is. I'm wise to you, Control. All this chatter? You're trying to throw me off my game. Won't work, though. I've got this.”

Though she probably rolled her eyes, Control waited for Chuck to make his move before continuing.

“Seriously, buddy…you know what the handbook says about bad dreams.”

Indeed, he did. According to protocol, chronic nightmares should have been promptly reported to his supervisor since prolonged exposure to Crossfades could occasionally result in a mild form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Chuck, however, didn't relish the thought of delving into the innermost areas of his psyche while The Institute's resident shrink nodded and scribbled in her notebook. If he were going to be on a couch, it would damn well be the one he used to do his job.

“It's not an issue, Control.” His tone was sharper than he intended. “Are you going to play or what?”

“Jeez, no need to bite my head off. Bishop to E7. I'm just worried about you.”

As she spoke, the telephone in Control's office rang and staccato bursts of chirping came across the open com. With the link left active, Chuck heard her chair creak and when Control next spoke, her words were muffled by distance.

“Command Center, L5 speaking. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Yes, we'll be there immediately.”

Chuck arched his eyebrows as he looked at the camera, patiently waiting for an explanation.

“Hey, buddy, the Director wants to see both of us in the conference room ASAP. And he didn't sound happy, so we better get a move on.”

Standing, Chuck exited his office and entered a hallway evenly spaced with doors, each requiring a retinal scan before it would unlock. These were the offices of other Whisks and he passed six of them before entering the section of hall reserved for Command Center suites. A door marked L5 swung open as he neared it and a woman with blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail joined him; a smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and accentuated her high cheekbones as she smoothed her black skirt with her hands.

“Know what this is about, Control?”

Though he smiled back, a small part of Chuck withered every time he laid eyes upon this woman. She looked so much like her sister, Lydia, the lost soul he'd tried to rescue from a particularly nasty Crossfade and ended up falling in love with. It was easier when Control was nothing more than a disembodied voice monitoring him through cameras; actually seeing her caused all the memories to flood back into his mind, painfully reminding Chuck that the woman he loved had crossed The Divide while he remained in the physical world, waiting for the day they would be together again.

“No clue. Sounded important, though.”

The hallway terminated at a door set between two plate-glass windows. Venetian blinds hid the room from curious eyes, but unlike the offices this door had no special security measures. It opened without hesitation, leading into a room with plush brown carpet. A whiteboard covered with equations and scientific notations dominated the far wall and a television perched atop a rolling cart sat off to the side, its screen frozen on a picture of The Institute's official seal. Conference tables formed the shape of a squared horseshoe, each one embedded with Ethernet and USB ports along the far edge. Wheeled chairs ringed the tables, but Chuck was momentarily distracted by the open box of donuts near the center of the configuration: festively colored sprinkles contrasted against white frosting, globs of raspberry jelly and Bavarian cream oozed from dimples in powdered sugar, and flakes of glaze shined like treasure beneath the overhead track lighting.

Convincing souls who didn't truly believe they were dead to cross The Divide wasn't the hardest part of the job as far as Chuck was concerned; that distinction was reserved for the strict diet Whisks were expected to observe, one which excluded refined sugars and excessive carbs. It had been close to a decade since he'd relished the sweet bliss of a pastry on his tongue; yet his mouth still watered at the mere sight of them and his stomach growled, protesting the unbuttered, whole-wheat toast that was his customary breakfast.

“You look terrible, Grainger.” Director Murphy sounded as serious as he looked. The man was dressed in his usual tweed jacket and his bald head appeared shiny; he peered at Chuck through horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes seeming to burrow into Chuck's soul.

“So I've been told, sir.”

Chuck and Control took seats across from their boss and for the first time, Chuck noticed the little girl sitting beside the man. Braided pigtails brushed the tops of her shoulders and her skin was a rich, cocoa color that perfectly complemented her dark eyes. She couldn't have been older than eleven, but her expression conveyed a gravity not normally seen in one so young.

“Allow me to introduce Miss Marilee Williams.” The girl nodded her head by way of greeting as the Director spoke, her eyes sparkling as she studied the couple sitting across from her. “Marilee is on loan from Physical Research and Anomalies. You'll be working together closely in the coming days, so I don't want to hear any reports of patronizing or condescending attitudes. Especially from you, Grainger. Do I make myself clear?”

Chuck and Control exchanged a glance, each raising an eyebrow in a silent question. They had a passing knowledge of the work done in Physical Research and Anomalies; tasked with investigating events commonly referred to as paranormal, it was rumored that the department identified candidates who scored well above average on tests measuring clairvoyance and other extrasensory abilities. These candidates, it was said, then had microchips implanted in their right brain hemispheres. These chips acted simultaneously as receivers, broadcasters, and amplifiers. If this were true, it would certainly explain the thin scar half-hidden in the child's hairline.

“Sir, may I ask what interest P.R.A. has in our work?” Control pronounced the acronym like the word
pray
as she leaned forward. “Crossfades and Cutscenes, after all, have no manifestations in the physical—”

“I'm getting to that,” Director Murphy interrupted as he picked up a remote control from the table. He swiveled in his chair and pointed it at the TV as he clicked a button.

The Institute's seal was replaced by white lettering on a black background, the text warning that disclosure of any information contained in the following footage would be in direct violation of non-disclosure agreements and punishable in accordance with subsection C, paragraph 4 of the Disciplinary Actions policy.

“The video you're about to see was taken two nights ago at precisely oh-two-hundred hours.”

The warning faded from the screen. In its place was a slightly grainy image of an office, captured from a high angle. The camera focused on a Sleeper who was stretched across a hospital bed, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator by his side. Partially hidden by the time stamp in the lower left-hand corner, Chuck could just make out the contours of a fountain shaped like Buddha.

“That's my office! That's Nodens!”

The Director frowned at Chuck's use of a nickname for the comatose man, but remained silent. At the moment the time stamp changed to 2:00
A.M
., Nodens's body was racked with convulsions. The man twitched and flopped on the bed, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his temples bulged in sharp relief. His eyelids flew open and even the dim lighting couldn't hide the glassy sheen of terror reflected in them as his arms and legs twitched with spasms. Glistening with sweat, Nodens balled his hands into fists as his entire body stiffened.

Chuck felt as though he'd been sucker punched in the gut. His stomach threatened to purge his breakfast and he pressed his hands against his abdomen as if he could soothe the queasiness inside.

They were watching a man die. A man whom Chuck had seen nearly every day for over a year. A man whose true name he'd never known. Since the pharmaceutical cocktail fed through the IVs kept the Sleeper in an induced coma, no personal bonds had ever formed. It wasn't as if the two had chatted about their days, sharing jokes and little tidbits of personal history. According to protocol, Nodens was supposed to have been no different than the equipment that kept him alive: just another useful tool, destined to break down and be replaced with a newer model. Knowing protocol, however, was not necessarily the same as following it.