Crossfades (10 page)

“Let's get going.” He tried to sound more authoritative than he actually felt as he turned toward her again. “We don't want to stay put for too long. Hard to tell what else is in this place.”

Chuck didn't wait for Lydia's reply. He trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and trusted she would follow. As they climbed, he tried to explain everything to her as best as he could. He told her about Crossfades and Cutscenes, explained in layman's terms exactly what he did for a living, and tried to help her see that she'd transitioned into an entirely different dimension when the last of her brainwaves had faded.

“Energy,” he explained, “can be neither created nor destroyed; it can only change form. This is part of the first law of
thermodynamics.
Basic physics. Now keep in mind that the human body contains massive amounts of energy. In fact, there's enough in our fat alone to charge a one-ton battery. So if it can't be created, where does it come from? If it can't be destroyed, where does it go? Your energy has changed form, Lydia. And you need to start coming to terms with that.”

The top of the stairs led to a vestibule dominated by a heavy oak door set into the wall facing them. The studded slats were held together by wrought-iron fixtures shaped like horizontal stalks of corn and a stone arch framed the doorway, hiding the hinges from view.

“So you're trying to tell me that I can just walk through this?” Lydia rapped her knuckles against the wood as she spoke. “Hear that? Solid. I may not know exactly where I am, but I do know a door when I see one. And this is a door. This is
real
.”

“No, you just think it is.” Control whispered something in the back of Chuck's mind; the babble was rushed and excited, but the words were drowned out by his own conversation. “It goes back to energy. Everything we
think—everything
we experience or perceive—it's nothing more than electricity jumping from one synapse to another. It just so happens that we humans have somehow come to a collective arrangement, an agreement as to what constitutes reality as we know it. You're still honoring that contract, Lydia. Even though you don't have to. Not anymore.”

“You're insane…you know that, right?”

“I'll prove it.” Chuck smiled. “I'll walk through the door myself. And you'll see.”

“Fuck that.” Lydia pushed the door with both hands and its hinges creaked as it swung inward. “You try running through this and you'll end up on your ass with a bloody nose, crazy man.”

Lydia walked to the entrance and Chuck rolled his eyes before following. Though part of him dreaded the moment she disappeared into whatever came next, he knew the only way she'd truly be safe was to leave this realm entirely. And her well-being far outweighed his own selfishness; her security was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary.

The tops of the walls in the room they entered were bordered by an inset trough affixed with panes of stained glass. From somewhere on the other side, light streamed through and the images depicted in chunky blocks of color lit up in vibrant hues, their colors tinting the wooden floor. A red serpent gorged itself in a tangle of green brambles, the thorns piercing scales that leaked ruby teardrops as a pair of human legs jutted from its mouth; in the background, an azure sky masked demonic faces within seemingly innocent clouds and the sun was an angry orange sphere whose rays ignited fire within hollow-eyed skeletons. Body parts littered the landscape and strange symbols separated portions of the scene, multipointed stars trapped within circles of bone.

For a moment, neither Chuck nor Lydia spoke. They stood in silence, their minds fumbling through the details of the room as they struggled to make sense of it.

“Oh…my…God.” Chuck's head swam with the realization of what he saw: not the images depicted in the stained glass, but what was below it.

He reached out to steady himself with one hand, and the stone archway surrounding the door felt as though it sighed in response; rather than the rough texture of rock, the blocks felt spongy and warm. They throbbed as if he were feeling a pulse through his fingertips and Chuck snatched his hand away, feeling as though his fingers had been irrevocably tainted by the brief contact.

“Are those”—Lydia's voice was barely above a whisper, her tone one of shocked confusion—“
moths
?”

The walls of the room were literally carpeted with the creatures. Dusty-colored wings fluttered and flapped, struggling against the silver needles that pinned their thoraxes to the wall. There were so many that their bodies overlapped each other, making it nearly impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Though the eyespots on their wings were nothing more than defensive mimicry, each one seemed to glisten behind a well of tears, and Chuck pressed his palms against his eyes, remembering what Johnson had told him about moths sometimes being linked to departing souls.

“How are they even still alive?” Lydia leaned toward the creatures with her mouth pulled into a frown; for a moment it looked as though she were about to cry as well, but her expression hardened with a furrow of the brow. “What kind of sick fuck does this shit?”

Uncovering his eyes, Chuck stepped toward his companion and placed his hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Exactly how many souls were pinned here? He had no way of knowing, of course. Even if he wanted to count them, it would've been impossible. So many moths were tacked to the walls that they blurred together in fuzzy blobs if he stared too long, and he continually shifted his attention to the walls and ceiling, to Lydia and the stained glass…
anything
.

Lydia's hand crept over her chest, seeking out Chuck's. She squeezed it tightly as her body tensed. He hadn't mentioned the correlation between moths and the dead to her, but it almost seemed as if the woman somehow knew that this was more than the torturing of small animals.

Behind them, the door banged shut and they both jumped, impulsively clutching each other as they spun around as a single unit. At the same instant, fog rolled up through the floorboards. At first it was nothing more than a thin mist, but within moments the tendrils had merged into a veil so thick that Lydia was nothing more than a vague impression, despite the fact that she was mere inches away.

The moths' wings beat more rapidly, providing a soundtrack of agitated swishing as the fog continued to thicken. Footsteps thudded against the floor, each step slow and precise as the newcomer circled, entirely hidden behind the veil of fog.

This concerned Chuck more than he cared to admit. He should have been able to sense the person in the fog like he had the creature that had pursued them. Yet every time he thought he'd pinpointed a position, it changed. Almost as if the person winked out of existence mid-stride, only to immediately reappear in a different location.

Whoever this person was, it was clear that he was far more dangerous than the monster in the dark. For that type of power implied that Chuck and Lydia had just been joined by the Master of this realm.

“What have we here?” The voice was old but strong, each syllable hinting at mockery and disgust. “Have you come to grovel before me, boy? Have you travelled all this way to present yourself as an offering?”

The voice was hauntingly familiar. Chuck knew he'd heard it somewhere before, but couldn't quite place where or when. It wasn't someone he personally knew. That much he was sure of. An actor perhaps? Someone peripheral to his daily existence?

“And you, my dear; what do you make of your so-called savior? Do you think him a knight in shining armor?” The voice paused to chuckle and the pair spun in a slow circle, tracking it with their bodies. “Shining armor denotes inexperience or cowardice. Did you know that? Armor that has been tested by battle is dented and worn. It's scuffed and blemished. Your hero, as it were, is nothing more than a child playing make-believe. He can't save you. No one can. Not here. Not from
me.
”

The temperature in the room felt as though it had dropped thirty degrees, and chill bumps dimpled Lydia's arms as she shivered. The footsteps continued circling them, but the speaker was closer now. His nebulous silhouette faded in and out of the fog like an apparition attempting to manifest.

“I will leave you one good eye, boy.” He spoke as if making an executive decision, as though Chuck should thank him for his benevolence and generosity. “One good eye to watch what becomes of your pretty little whore. One good eye to see what lies beneath that pale skin.”

“Stay the fuck away from her!” Chuck's shout echoed as though the room had quadrupled in size; pulling away from Lydia, he positioned himself in front of her, shielding the woman with his own body.

“Organs, my son, are like slippery pouches of warm velvet and notoriously difficult to hold on to. But you will have one good eye to see what I bring you. One good eye to witness how miserably you've failed her.”

Wings beat so hard that it sounded like a gale of wind stirring leaves.

“One good eye…”

The floor felt as though it dissolved beneath his feet and Chuck suddenly found himself falling, shattering dimensions like panes of glass as realities splintered in his wake. He tried to claw his way back to Lydia, to scramble away from the force rocketing him back to the confines of his physical body. But there was nothing to grasp on to, nothing to anchor him to the world Lydia was trapped in, no footholds to break his descent.

In the business, they called this Crashing. It was an escape technique the handbook said was only to be implemented in worst-case scenarios. And there was absolutely nothing Chuck could do about it.

Someone in the physical plane had called him back, leaving Lydia defenseless and alone. She was now completely within the hands of a madman, and even though he knew it was impossible, Chuck could have sworn that he heard the voice chasing him through the abyss, deriding his escape with a repetition of those three words.

“One good eye, boy…one good eye…”

Chuck ripped the halo off his head and flung it at the wall as he sprung from the couch, his hands clenched into fists and nostrils flaring. Anger had detonated within him like an atomic blast, hunching his shoulders and melting his face into a mask of wrinkles. His entire body shook with rage and frustration and his eyes sparked with fury.

“Damn it, Control!” He wanted to smash everything in the room with nothing more than his bellowed roar, to rip the supports from the walls and bring the entire establishment crashing down in clouds of debris and dust. “He was
right there
! I fuckin' had him exactly where I…”

Words dried up as his gaze met cold eyes glaring through horn-rimmed glasses. The Director stood with beefy arms crossed over a tweed jacket and the veins in his neck bulged against the Nehru collar. The man's jaw quivered as though he clenched his teeth behind the thin, hard line that formed his mouth and trickles of sweat rolled off his bald head.

“Sorry, Chuck.” Control's voice was soft, sounding sheepish and genuinely apologetic, even through the tinny speakers. “It wasn't my call anymore.”

Chuck's stomach lurched and he gulped a single time. The fires of anger had guttered out, leaving nothing more than stammered excuses and nervousness bordering on nausea.

“Director Murphy…I can explain, sir. There was…”

“My office.” The Director jabbed his finger against Chuck's chest, punctuating each word like a playground bully. “
Now!
”

“Director, please, you have to listen.”

The man stormed out mid-sentence, slamming the door so hard that the table holding the Buddha fountain rattled and shook. Chuck's gut felt as though it were twisted and kinked, and he wiped moist palms against his slacks as he stared blankly into space. He was vaguely aware of how hard his heart pounded in his chest, and needles of pain rammed into temples, causing him to squint as tears blurred his vision. With his face hot and flushed, Chuck's cheeks puffed with every labored breath and he swooned back and forth as waves of vertigo hammered his consciousness.

“Chuck…” Control sounded so very, very far away. Farther than she ever had. “Chuck, you're
hyperventilating.”

Concerns pinged through his mind, each one tightening the vise that seemed to squeeze his body. The Director had been pissed. Angrier than Chuck had ever seen him. Maybe he could make the man understand, avoid a suspension, and return to work as if nothing had ever happened. He had to. He had to get back out there, back to the Cutscene.

Lydia.

He had to find her again. He had to keep her safe, to help her transition to the other side.

Lydia…

Time was extremely relative in a Cutscene. In the few seconds the exchange with his boss had taken, the equivalent of twenty years could have passed. Two decades in the hands of a lunatic. Seven thousand, three hundred days of torture and misery. More than one hundred and seventy five thousand hours of praying for it to end.

If the bastard would do something like that to moths, what was he capable of when presented with the embodiment of an actual person?

He remembered the cacophony of wails and cries he'd heard from the turret's stairwell, the chorus of misery and suffering. Was Lydia now counted among their number? Was blood staining ashen skin as she screamed and writhed?

“Chuck, you're having a panic attack. Just breathe. Everything's okay, buddy. You'll see. Everything will be all right. Everything will be fine.” Control sounded as if she were trying to convince herself of this more than she was Chuck. But he knew she was right. He had to get a grip on himself. Passing out in his office wouldn't do anything to help Lydia. The longer he wallowed in the throes of anxiety, the longer she had to endure whatever unthinkable acts that son of a bitch thought up.

And it would only get worse. What the handbook didn't mention was that first and foremost The Institute was a bureaucracy. There were protocols to be followed, reports to be filed, and selection committees formed to decide which Level I was best suited for a particular assignment. By the time another Whisk ventured into that realm, a millennium could have passed there. And that was a long time to beg for a death that would never come. So he had no choice. He had to get his act together.

Closing his eyes, Chuck breathed through his nose, consciously forcing his lungs to stop gulping down air. Once his breathing steadied, his heartbeat evened out as well. The surges of adrenaline trickled away and the tension that had stiffened his muscles dissipated, leaving him feeling as though he'd just run a marathon. Mentally and physically exhausted, Chuck felt hollow inside, but at least he'd managed to pull himself away from whatever brink he'd dangled above.

Turning, he looked up at one of the cameras. He knew Control's mic was still active; he heard what sounded like sniffles beneath the hiss of an open comm. At first, he thought he was going to say something; but it occurred to him that he had no idea what he wanted. Or even expected. Reassurance, perhaps. Or maybe permission to bar the door and delve back into the assignment, all metaphysical gun blazing. He really didn't know.

Nothing seemed real. It was as if Chuck existed within a dream so detailed that it was only barely
distinguishable
from reality. The fountain babbled water over the stones cluttering the lotus in Buddha's lap. The scent of sandalwood grew fainter. And through it all, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Sleeper's respirator marked time.

Control finally cleared her throat, and when she spoke her voice was a raspy whisper.

“You better get going, Chuck. It'll only make it worse. And for what it's worth…I'm sorry.”

Opening the door, Chuck turned and threw a half-hearted wave at the camera.

“See you soon, Control.”

With those words, he shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath, and walked to his fate.

The apartment was so silent Chuck could hear his neighbor's television through the walls. It was a soft murmur, occasionally interrupted by canned laughter and applause. Which meant Mrs. McNeil had probably dozed off in front of the set again, allowing The Game Show Network to play through the night. Outside, a car alarm whistled and honked in the distance and Chuck's refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. The bedside clock said it was 6:00 a.m., which meant he'd been tossing and turning for nearly four hours. The sheets were twisted beneath his body and his pillow was damp with tears; he felt drained, as if he could close his stinging eyes and dream for all eternity, but sleep refused to grant reprieve from the events of the day.

Normally, this would have concerned him to no end. To leave the apartment by seven, he had to wake up by six-thirty at the latest. Which would have only left four and a half hours of shut-eye. When a deeply relaxed state is an essential part of a job's duties, sleep deprivation could really throw a wrench into the works, turning a planned Walk into an unscheduled nap.

But that didn't matter now. Nothing did.

Chuck no longer had a job to go to. And Lydia was still out there.

Still suffering.

Alone.

He'd failed her. He'd bought into her captor's baiting when he should have been concentrating positive energies. When he should have been fighting back. Now she was at his mercy. And there he was, on his pillowtop mattress, watching occasional headlights splay through the venetian blinds as the clock ticked off another minute.

Admitting defeat, Chuck sighed and rolled out of bed. He'd picked up a cheap coffeepot and a can of Maxwell House on the drive home in the same way a reformed alcoholic might purchase a bottle of booze; now he shuffled into his kitchen, filled the basket with grounds that no longer smelled as rich as they once had, and lumbered into the living room as water gurgled through the machine.

He could still make out Mrs. McNeil's television through the walls and the laughter made him wince each time it rang out. Let them laugh. Let them
all
laugh at this joke of a man, at this pathetic loser whose ambitions were so much loftier than his abilities. They could chuckle and snort and guffaw. He deserved it. But, at the same time, it didn't necessarily mean that he had to listen to it. Why rub salt in a wound he knew perfectly well was there?

Slumping onto the sofa, he plucked the remote control from a coffee table littered with spiral-ring notebooks and turned on his own television. What he watched wasn't important. He just needed a distraction. Any distraction. Even the inane commercial with the talking baby currently playing was better than nothing.

The commercial ended and an anchorwoman who looked perkier and more put together than anyone at that hour had a right to be appeared on the screen. The station's logo hovered ghost-like above a scrolling news ticker and a square appeared over her left shoulder, framing a picture of an old man with watery blue eyes and a shock of white hair. Though it was a still photo, the man's expression seemed to radiate cruelty, gazing at viewers with callous disregard.

“Convicted serial killer Albert Lewis was put to death earlier today, bringing a close to his legacy of evil.” The anchorwoman had assumed a serious tone, but her eyes twinkled, reflecting the studio's light. “Lewis, dubbed The Dark Butcher of Burberry Hollow, was responsible for the deaths of nearly seventy people, spanning a period of nearly three decades. Sentenced to death by electric chair, the killer remained unrepentant until the very end, his final moments echoing the frequent outbursts that characterized his trial.”

The newscaster paused as courtroom footage filled the screen. Lewis hunched over the defendant's table, half standing as his hands made wild passes through the air. A barrage of Sumerian curses spewed from his lips amid a spray of spittle and his eyes blazed as his lawyer tried to pull him back into his chair. The anchorwoman was providing a voiceover again, but Chuck no longer heard her words.

The moment Lewis began talking, he'd bolted upright, his body so stiff and rigid it seemed as though he'd been petrified. His mouth hung open and he clutched his own hair in one hand, frozen mid-pull.

That voice.

“One good eye, son…”

That's why he'd sounded familiar. That's why Chuck had trouble placing him. Like most people, he'd followed the trial, but he hadn't exactly hung upon every word.

Albert Lewis
.

A chill raced along Chuck's spine and tears once again warmed his eyes. He didn't want to think of Lydia in the hands of such a monster. He tried to envision her smile and replayed the warmth and security of her hand in his as they fled through the darkness. But there were other flashes of imagery that burst into his imagination as well: extreme close-ups of her mouth, screaming in agony; darting, frightened eyes that shirked from the white-hot blade reflected in them; beads of blood against pale flesh.

He'd failed her.

“So what are you going to do about it, Chuck?” Oddly enough, his conscience sounded like Control. He knew it wasn't really her. It wasn't as if he were out in a Crossfade, after all. “You gonna sit around feeling sorry for yourself? Are you gonna mope and moan:
poor me, poor, poor me…
? Or are you gonna get off your ass and find a way to help the woman you love?”

Chuck didn't balk at the idea. For he realized the truth as soon as it flitted through his mind. He
did
love her. More than he'd ever thought possible. It was like he'd lived his entire life with part of himself missing, and now that he'd actually found that piece, he wasn't about to let it slip through his grasp.

Chuck jumped to his feet as he flirted with an idea almost as crazy as Lewis himself. His nameless Sleeper, the banks of machinery and monitors, the halo…and, as much as he hated to admit it, even Control: All of it was unnecessary. Mystics and pagans had been embarking on The Walk long before the boys in the lab had invented colorful names for the process. Astral Projection. Dreamtime. Out-of-Body Experiences. It was something anyone could do with the right training. Training that he possessed.

Snatching a notebook from the coffee table, Chuck ran across the room, whooping and laughing so loudly that he'd probably receive a call from the landlord about noise complaints. But he didn't care. Hope gushed through his veins and excitement forced him to shout
Yes!
as if it were the only word in the English language. Approaching the kitchenette, his uneaten dinner crashed to the floor with a sweep of his arm.

Huddled over the table, Chuck scribbled the translocation equation at the top of a blank page, ripped another one from the back of the notebook, and jotted down all the variables from Nodens's
instrumentation.
He pored over them several times, positive he was forgetting something. But they were all there. Everything he needed to pinpoint the space-time coordinates for Lewis's Cutscene was laid out in a crooked column of numbers; all he had to do was finally solve that damn formula.

Forty-five minutes later, Chuck's hair was a disheveled mop from continuously running his fingers through it and his mouth was bitter from the dregs of lukewarm coffee. Crumpled balls of paper bunched around his feet and his fingers ached from squeezing his pencil between them. His initial burst of enthusiasm had died out, leaving only stubborn determination to take its place. Starting a new page, he tried plugging the numerals into the equation again, forcing back the urge to snap the pencil in half from sheer frustration.

She's counting on me
.
I've got to do this
.

Two hours passed and the pencil's eraser had been worn to a nub. Every few minutes, Chuck pushed the chair away from the table, its legs grating against the tile, and paced around the kitchen, mumbling a string of numbers like a deranged mathematician. His mind would seize upon a possibility and he'd dart back to the table amid a flurry of scribbling, only to throw the notebook in disgust minutes later.