The Realms of the Dead (22 page)

The knot in his stomach tightened and he held his breath as his fingers closed around the phone. The device felt heavier than it actually was, almost as though he was holding a brick, and the glow emanating from the screen seemed unusually bright in the darkness beneath the bed.

Time slowed to a crawl and Chuck closed his eyes as his sense of dread grew to a crescendo. His entire body was trembling now and he silently cursed himself for his apprehension. He just needed to answer the damn thing and get it over with. But five words plagued his thoughts, repeating like a dark mantra.

The beginning of the end…

Sitting up, Chuck cupped the still-ringing phone in his hand and opened his eyes. The screen had an icon of an old-fashioned handset flashing on it, just above an arrow emblazoned with the words
Swipe to Answer.
Culled from his contact list, a description of the caller hovered above the icons and Chuck's voice was a harsh whisper as he read it aloud.

“Control (Office).”

His index finger glided over the smooth glass just before he raised the phone to his ear.

“Um…Control?”

The line crackled and popped with static as his body tensed and his stomach felt as though it had been twisted into a cold, compact ball. Cutting through the hiss and drone of static, a woman wept softly, the sound of her grief rising and falling with raw emotion.

“Control!”

Between the choked sobs was a whispered plea, “Help…help me…”

Chuck sprang to his feet, unable to voice the emotions raging within.

“Help me…”

And then, from somewhere in the background, a young girl screamed.

There were still several hours before the trains started running and the subway tunnel was a sea of darkness. Every fifty feet, sodium lamps affixed to the curved walls created islands of light and Chuck's footsteps echoed in the silence as he ran. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp and his wound felt as if a knife were plunged into his gut with every step. But still he ran: splashing through puddles that rippled from dripping condensation, panting as his taxed lungs sucked in the cool, moist air, and praying that he wasn't already too late.

The tunnel seemed to stretch into infinity as it wound past junction boxes and tangles of wire. Around every bend, Chuck hoped to see the platform and service elevator that marked the end of the line. But time and time again there were only rails and concrete walls, yet another stretch of tracks burrowing deeper into the bowels of the earth; over the years, he'd become so accustomed to his daily commute that he'd never really taken into account how far the subway actually traveled. Now, however, he was all too aware of exactly how much distance a speeding train could cover in a relatively short amount of time.

As he raced through the tunnel, Control's sobs and Marilee's scream haunted him. The sounds looped in Chuck's memory, needling him with guilt as he struggled to force unspeakable images from his imagination.

Why the hell had he taunted Lewis? Why had he challenged the vengeful spirit when he knew damn well he had no means of fighting back?

Whatever had happened to Control and Marilee was on him. It was his fault and he'd have to live with the repercussions for the rest of his life…however short that might be.

When Chuck finally reached the end of the line, the service elevator doors were already open. The fluorescent light inside was apparently on its last leg and dim light flickered within the chamber like a weak strobe. Though faint, the light glistened on the walls, reflecting off some sort of clear slime that oozed down the elevator's interior before seeping across the floor.

The goo smelled like roadkill that had baked in the August sun and when the doors slid shut Chuck gagged as his eyes watered. Trapped with the stench, he slapped his hand over his mouth and nose; his shoulders hitched with every retch and his throat burned as if he'd swallowed battery acid. His mouth and sinuses filled with vomit, but he forced himself to choke it back down while the elevator continued its descent.

A chime accompanied the opening of the doors and Chuck spilled into the corridor, falling to his knees as he finally allowed his stomach to purge. Though he'd only been in the elevator for a little over a minute, the stink had permeated his hair and clothes; it clung to him like a moldering shroud, causing his stomach to heave long after its contents had been entirely spewed across the floor.

Chuck stood as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and for the first time got a good look at the hallway. Reams of paper were strewn across the carpet and doors dangled on their hinges. Desk lamps from within these silent offices bled ambient light into the otherwise darkened corridor and blue sparks crackled from scorched electrical outlets. The motivational posters that normally lined the walls had fallen, their bent and twisted frames lying amid shards of broken glass that glinted in the gloom. Where the posters had once hung, the walls were marred by four crimson smears that receded into the distance, almost as if someone had trailed bloody fingertips over the surface as they walked.

Where are the maintenance workers?

Chuck knew crews worked through the night: vacuuming, emptying wastebaskets, watering potted plants, and squeegeeing windows with a solution that left the panes smelling faintly of pine. Yet The Institute was completely silent.

Part of him wanted to call out a greeting. If nothing else, the sound of his own voice would confirm that at least
someone
was alive down here. For a conviction had anchored itself deep within the core of his being; though he lacked enough evidence to draw any true conclusions, he was certain that his hunch was correct.

Dead…they're all dead.

Clearing his throat, Chuck began moving forward again. He wanted to run to his office as quickly as he'd darted through the subway tunnels, but instinct warned him otherwise. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and there was a lump in his throat, almost as if a chunk of half-digested food had lodged there as he vomited.

Danger lurked within the ruins of this hallway. Chuck was positive of it. Every shadow was a potential warren, every office a lair where evil might lie in wait. So he picked his way through the debris, sidestepping broken glass and peering into each door before allowing himself to pass.

Keep it together, man. You've got this.

His breathing wanted to match the runaway rhythm of his heart and stress pulled his shoulders into a hunch.

Fight or flight. That's all it is. An automatic response. You can control this shit.

As he passed a water fountain, Chuck froze. Cocking his head to the side, he listened past the thumping of his own pulse.

Maybe it had just been his imagination, but he could've sworn he'd heard something. Something faint and furtive. Something cloaked by the darkness at the end of the hall.

His fists balled so tightly that fingernails dug painfully into his palms and his eyes scanned the wreckage, searching for something that could be fashioned into a weapon.

You're overreacting.
Keep cool.

The sound, if it had existed at all, didn't repeat.

You're not going to help anyone by freaking out.

Chuck lifted his foot to take another step, but stiffened before his sole even touched the floor.

That was not my fucking imagination!

Somewhere within the gloom, something rustled. Though the noise disappeared almost before it even registered, Chuck immediately knew what it was: a foot crinkling the paper that littered the hall.

Peering into the darkness, he steeled himself against whatever hid within its veil.

Perhaps, part of him insisted, it hadn't been a footstep at all. Maybe air from the overhead ducts had stirred a piece of paper, its currents imbuing the scrap with fleeting life.

It was a logical assumption. But when dealing in the affairs of the dead, logic often held no sway. As much as he would've liked to believe that he was reading too much into a mere noise, Chuck couldn't deny what he knew to be true: he was not alone.

Once again, he checked the corridor for something—
anything
—he could improvise into a weapon. With limited options, Chuck finally snatched a shard of glass from a ruined frame. The sliver was shaped like a jagged triangle and he clutched its base, brandishing the fragment at shoulder level as though it were a knife.

What good, however, would a makeshift blade be against a spirit?

Chuck forced the question from his mind. Maybe the piece of glass was useless. But at least he felt better with it in hand.

Paper rustled again in the darkness, this time accompanied by a dull thump.

He didn't move.

He didn't breathe.

Rushing headlong into peril would be foolhardy at best. At worst, it could prove to be fatal. No matter what was out there, the best course of action was to let it come to
him
.

Chuck gripped the glass so tightly it felt as though his heart thudded from somewhere within his hand. He was vaguely aware of pain twinging his palm and knew that the sliver had sliced into his flesh. But this knowledge felt as muted and distant as the pain itself. Both were peripheral compared to the eons-old dance of conflict and survival.

The hunted and the prey, locked into a struggle from which only one would emerge.

And he was ready.

Chuck peered into the darkness. As he watched, something moved. Cloaked in obscurity, it rattled papers in its wake, creeping further along the hall.

At first there was only the vague impression of movement, lacking any true shape or structure. As it grew closer, though, it seemed to knit itself from the surrounding darkness, pulling shadows into a nucleus that had dimension and form.

Blood trickled from Chuck's palm and the glass was warm and sticky in his hand. But now, more than ever, he was grateful for the weapon. Whatever emerged from the gloom was no ethereal spirit, no disembodied entity against which traditional weapons would prove fruitless.

It had substance. Which meant it could be stabbed. Sliced.
Attacked
.

The silhouette abruptly stopped as though it had noticed the man at the other end of the hall. Neither moved. They stared at each other across the darkness and Chuck tensed. He gripped the glass until his knuckles were bone-white and the fragment dug more deeply into the meat of his palm.

Hold your ground. Wait for it…

Blood dribbled from his clenched fist and splattered against the floor.

Wait for it…

And then, with no forewarning, the thing charged.

“Chuck!” The sound of his own name was like a slap across the face. Still wielding the piece of glass, Chuck blinked and took a step backward. “Oh, thank God!”

The voice wavered as if on the verge of tears and raw emotion raised it to a shrill pitch, but Chuck had no difficulty recognizing it. It was, after all, a voice he'd heard nearly every day for years.

“C…Control?” He retreated another step, still unwilling to lower his weapon.

It's a trick! Don't let down your guard!

“Control, is that really you?”

The shadow rushing toward him ran through a pool of light, illuminating the familiar features of a woman who was both his friend and colleague. The shard of glass slipped from Chuck's grasp and fell to the floor as his partner practically leapt at him. Her arms pulled him into an embrace as she buried her face against his shoulder.

“God, I thought…I thought you were…
dead
.”

Control pulled away sharply and placed her hands on Chuck's cheeks. Her eyes shimmered behind a veil of tears, but they scrutinized his face intently, darting from feature to feature as if searching for something.

“Are you okay?” Words spilled from her lips in rapid succession, her cadence hinting at panic. “Are you hurt?”

Chuck felt stunned by the chain of events. He gaped at Control, his mind insisting that she was posing all the questions he should have been asking
her
.

“Oh God, you're bleeding!” She pulled his hand close to her face and peered at the gash on his palm, wrinkling her nose as blood flowed from the wound. “First aid kit. There's gotta be one around here somewhere. Gauze. Bandages.”

“Control”—Chuck wriggled his hand out of her grasp as the shock of seeing her subsided—“what the hell's going on here?”

Now it was her turn to look as though she'd been slapped.

“I…I was worried,” she stammered. “When I got your phone call, I thought…”

“
My
phone call?
You
called
me
.”

“No,” she insisted. “Your call woke me up, Chuck. I mean, it was a bad connection, but I
know
your voice. You were crying. Begging for help.”

A chill raced down Chuck's spine as the implications of what Control was saying hit him. They had both been lured here. Their friendship had been used against them like bait, each one thinking the other was in mortal danger.

Chuck quickly recounted his version of events. Other than the voice on the other end, their respective phone calls had been identical in every detail. Right down to the girl's scream at the end.

“Where's Marilee?” Chuck demanded.

“I thought she was with you.”

“Well, I thought she was with
you
.”

“Okay,” Control reasoned, “I bet she's fine. Probably safe at home, tucked in bed.”

“Unh-unh.” While searching for a personal possession linked to Nodens, Chuck had also done a bit of interoffice snooping, hoping to learn a little more about the girl they'd been partnered with. “Chipheads from P.R.A. live here nine months out of the year. There are dorms in one of the lower subsections. Marilee's parents probably tell everyone she's at boarding school or something. But she's here at The Institute, regardless.”

“Either way, I'm sure she's fine, buddy.” Control's tone, however, implied otherwise. Her eyes flittered to the wall and her gaze traced the trails of blood smudged upon them. Trails that looked as though they'd been smeared by a hand…and were just about the right height to have been left by a little girl.

“The way I see it, we were tricked into coming here for a reason, Control. So the question is, now that we know it's some sort of trap…how do we proceed?”

The pair stood in silence for a moment, Control's eyes straying from the blood-smeared wall to the littered corridor. The once-welcoming halls of The Institute now felt like an alien landscape, as though they'd slipped through some cosmic wormhole and emerged into a parallel dimension where entropy reigned.

“We need to make sure she's okay. Like it or not, that little girl is part of this. If we were tricked into coming here…” Control trailed off as her eyes alighted on the wall. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “We
need
to make sure she's okay.”

There was nothing else to be said. The duo turned in tandem, facing the darkness from which Control had emerged. Back there—hidden amid the blackness and wreckage—Chuck's office awaited.

Though she had no way of knowing for sure, Control was positive that was where the long smears of blood would eventually lead them. After all, it was where all of this had begun, so long ago. Back when Chuck had journeyed into the bleakest of Crossfades, intent on proving his mettle against a killer whose evil had only been amplified in death. Back when they'd ignored every warning and operational procedure the handbook had to offer.

Maybe if they'd simply followed the rules, none of this would have ever happened. Perhaps a more experienced Whisk might have been able to deal with Albert Lewis on the first excursion. But Chuck's ambition and naïveté had proven stronger than adherence to protocol. And she, of course, had been desperate. Desperate to save her sister's soul from the hell in which it had become entangled. Desperate to assuage the guilt, to atone for not being there when Lydia had needed her most.

And yet, here they were again, throwing protocol to the wind…

“Ready for some more
cowboy shit,
buddy?”

Chuck glanced at her and the corner of his mouth turned up in an approximation of a smile.

“Yee-haw, pardner.”

Side by side, Chuck and Control walked into the unknown and were devoured by the darkness.