Dead Jack and the Old Gods, page 13
“That hurts my feelings, Jack. I care about what’s going on. I listen to the radio. I hear what’s going on. And that looks like Black Powder to me.”
“That’s exactly what it is, and we need to take it. So, if you don’t mind, we’d like some privacy. We might be asleep for a while. Lock the door if you go out.”
“Lock it yourself.” Lilith floated out of the office.
“What if you take it and you don’t ever wake up?” Oswald said.
“I wouldn’t complain.”
“You don’t know if it’s time for everyone to go to R’lyeh. Plenty of people have been taking it and not getting there.”
“I have a trick. I’m going to take a lot of it.”
“And what about me?”
“You’re going to take it, too.”
“No. Not me. I don’t do that type of stuff.”
“Of course, you don’t. Why would you sacrifice anything to help?”
“I hope you’re joking. There’s got to be a better way.”
“This is the only way. Trust me.”
I leaned toward the desk and inhaled the Black Powder through both nostrils. It gave me a hell of a kick. Whew! Like snorting hot sauce. My eyes watered and my throat went dry. Then I waited.
“What do you feel?”
“Like I need to scratch my brain.”
I waited some more. Nothing. Not even drowsy.
Oswald hopped on the desk, licked a finger, and dipped it in the remaining powder. He placed it in his mouth and immediately made a sour face. “I don’t think that’s real Black Powder.”
I knew he was right. We had been duped.
“Goddamn werewolf goon. And now I’m out two grams of dust.”
“You wasted all this time, Jack. We could have been doing something constructive. If we had told Zara we lost the book, we could have come up with a plan, and had been doing something by now. You just wanted to try Black Powder. Now your stupidity and selfishness could have destroyed the Pandemonium.”
I was taken aback. The little runt had never spoken to me like that before. His diary writing was turning him into a narcissistic monster.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stupidity and selfishness? You opened the damn portal.”
“And you won’t let me use my powers.”
“Because you’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you. I’m protecting you.”
“You did a great job protecting me when you had me blanket the Pandemonium Device and then had Zara smash me with a hammer. I was so safe.”
“It was an extreme situation. Like now.”
“And I’m always the one put in an extreme situation. To be honest, I’m getting sick of it. This was another one of your ridiculous ideas. I shouldn’t listen to you. I stupidly trust you, but no more. I’m done.”
A commotion came from the streets. Shouting and honking. Something was happening down there, and it didn’t sound good. We both rushed to the window. I pulled up the blinds.
Thousands of people in dark robes had flooded Broadway. They marched north. Cars came to screeching halts and the supernaturals kept walking.
Lilith swooped in. “Turn on the radio, guys. Something big is going on.”
I reached over to the Philco and turned the power switch. A panicked voice was speaking.
“We have reports they’ve filled every street in ShadowShade. They are believed to be converging on the Wood of Shadows. Several of our reporters have tried to talk to the marchers but none of them would speak to us.”
“This has to do with the book,” I said. “The cultists needed for the ritual. They must have been activated. I told you now was the time. If we only had real Black Powder.” I punched the wall and a framed news clipping about the Pandemonium Device being destroyed crashed to the ground.
“Come on,” Oswald said. “We’re going to the Wood of Shadows.”
“If you’re not coming back, let me know,” Lilith said. “I have some plans to convert this place into a cute apartment.”
“If we don’t come back, ShadowShade probably won’t exist anymore.”
“Still, let me know. I get anxious.”
When we exited the building, we saw a steady stream of cultists moving uptown. The cars in the road had been abandoned. I didn’t see the drivers. Either they joined the march or got the hell out of here.
“We can’t take the Studebaker,” I said.
“There’s always the subway.”
“The subway is way too unpredictable. Besides, why are you tagging along? I thought you said you were done?”
“Where else am I going to go? We’re all going to the Wood of Shadows, aren’t we?”
Cultists moved past us. None so much as gave us a glance.
“You’re right. We’re all going to the same place. So, let’s just walk with them.”
33
The Long Walk to Doom
We went with the cultist flow, moving silently, eyes straight ahead. We stuck close to the buildings, and I hoped no one noticed we weren’t in robes. How did they all get robes on such short notice? Was there a cultist tailor who specialized in robes?
As we headed uptown, cultists swarmed out of storefronts and alleyways. They came from the east and west, flooding the streets, and moving as one.
There had to be thousands of supernaturals on the street. They moved faster with each block they passed, as if pulled by an invisible cord toward the Wood.
I tapped an ogre beside me on the shoulder. He was the usual tall and wide brute of the fairy tales, green and mean. It took three hard taps before he noticed me.
“Hey, buddy, where are you going?” I asked.
He looked at me like I had just insulted his ogre mother. I was afraid he was going to tear my head off, so I backed off, but then he spoke.
“The Gathering is upon us,” he grumbled, and his little eyes glowed with crazy glee.
“The Gathering, huh. Yeah, we’re heading there ourselves. I hear anyone who’s anyone is going to be there. Where did you get that snazzy robe?”
Now he looked at me like I had spit in his mother’s eye.
“You’re a non-believer!” He stopped suddenly. “Non-believer!” he shouted.
Other cultists slowed around us. The ogre continued shouting, “Non-believer! Non-believer!”
I got the cue, and I started quick-shambling. Oswald was at my heels. I whispered to him, “Are they following us?”
“He’s talking to a few of the cultists and they’re pointing toward us.”
“I think it’s time to run.”
I hightailed it into the center of the crowd, weaving in and out the cultists, hoping to get lost. I heard roaring and heavy footsteps. I looked back to see if Oswald was behind me. I didn’t see him. Crap. Then I felt cold hands on me and they were pulling me out of the crowd. I swung around, my fists cocked. It was Oswald. He pulled me into an alley. We ducked behind a pile of garbage bags and watched as the ogre and his lynch mob stomped past.
“Okay, remember not to talk to these dunzies,” I said.
“If we make it to the Wood of Shadows what are we going to do? We can’t stop all of them. I wish Zara was here.”
“Let’s get to the Wood first and take it from there.”
We kept our heads down and mimicked the blank, emotionless stares of the cultists. They weren’t very different from zombies. Except they were dressed better.
As we headed uptown, more people joined the psycho parade. The adult bookstores emptied and joined the party, the restaurants, and the automats, the dry cleaners, and pawnshops were all deserted.
It was getting so crowded that we were rubbing shoulders. Occasionally someone would fall in the crush and cultists just walked over them. The trampled didn’t even scream. I almost tripped over one of the bodies as we crossed 48th Street.
The Wood was just ahead. Thousands of people flooded into the park and disappeared into the shadows, swallowed by the dead trees.
The Wood of Shadows lies in the heart of ShadowShade. A rectangle a half-mile wide and three miles long, it’s home to ghosts and wraiths and all the spirits and specters and spooks of the Five Cities. Shrouded in mist, the Wood is home to ponds haunted by jilted brides, hills where murdered lawyers unrestfully lie, gnarled trees from which damned men hang, meadows where hungry spirits roam like lost children. Most of the spirits are trapped within the Wood, though some come and go as they please. You’ll also find the occasional creatures of the night—ghouls, vampires, gargoyles—skulking through the mists. On rare occasion, a human will venture inside looking to speak to a dead relative or to glean information from the beyond. That rarely works out. I’ve been inside the Wood on only a few excursions and I never stayed long. It’s probably the worst place in the Five Cities, not because of the creepiness, but because of the loneliness and despair. Thinking about it, the Wood is the perfect place for the cultists. What’s a cult member but a desperate, lonely person looking for answers and a family?
We crossed 51st Street and hit the park. A bronze statue of Jacob Marley, covered in heavy brass chains, stood at the entrance. But no one paid ol’ Marley any mind. They pressed forward and entered the mist. The smell of damp and rot greeted park-goers.
Oswald pressed against my leg. “I guess we’re going in,” he said, fear in his tiny voice, something unusual for him. He probably thought we’d never get out. I thought the same thing.
We didn’t so much as enter the Wood as the mist pulled us in. Instantly, visibility was zero. Just a second ago we were surrounded by thousands of cultists and now we were alone in the fog. No sound. No wind. Nothing.
“Oswald,” I called. He didn’t answer, but I felt him tug on my pants.
We pushed forward and the mist thinned. Blurry figures appeared in the distance. I thought they were ghosts, but as we got closer I realized it was the cultists. We rejoined the crowd as they marched down the wide road leading to the Meadow. Dead trees with branches like witch’s fingers flanked us. Now I could hear the wind and plaintive horror show cries.
We made it about a quarter mile from the Meadow when everyone suddenly stopped.
“Why did we stop?” Oswald whispered.
“We must be where we’re supposed to be.”
I craned my neck and saw torchlights coming from the center of the Meadow. Cultists surrounded the lit area from all sides.
“Come on,” I whispered to Oswald. “Let’s get a closer look.”
34
Incident in the Meadow
I had no problem pushing the dunzies out of the way. They gave no resistance, barely noticed our presence. Like deer in the headlights, they stared toward the center of the Meadow. As we got closer, a small dais came into view. Several figures stood atop it—Ratzinger, Ingrid, and that traitor Herb were there. I didn’t see Werewolf Hitler. A stand held the Necronomicon. Ingrid guarded the infernal book with a magical revolver. Behind them was a large crate and several other members of the Red Order.
Ratzinger was speaking, at least his mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The cultists seemed to be listening.
“Can you hear him talking?” I asked Oswald, who now sat on my shoulders. “I don’t hear anything.”
“He’s talking in their heads.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s in my head.”
“Why is he in your head and not mine?”
“I don’t know. I must be special.”
“It probably has to do with the dreams. All you dunzies must be linked.”
We got about twenty yards from the dais before we couldn’t make any more progress.
Ratzinger threw his hands into the air as he silently spoke, dramatically gesturing, sweeping his robed arms across the stage. He looked like he was giving a hell of a speech.
“What’s he saying?”
“That we’re getting ready to go to R’lyeh and then we’re going to wake up Cthulhu and usher in a new era of despair and darkness. Typical evil psycho stuff. But first he has to read from the book.”
“We need to get that damn Necronomicon.”
“I can use my powers. Stop being a jealous idiot before we’re all slaves to these creeps.”
“Jealous idiot? Who the fook are you talking to, you little leech? You wouldn’t be alive if you didn’t steal my soul. Get off my shoulders. I’ve been carrying you long enough.”
Oswald leapt off my aching back. He’s heavier than he looks. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “You’re holding me back and you’re going to destroy the universe because of it.”
“Boy, you think highly of yourself, don’t you? I’m holding you back from saving the universe, huh?”
Then Harbinger showed up and things got really fooked.
A howling came across the Pandemonium sky.
A tall man in dark tattered robes floated down toward the dais. What did the Sisters say about the Old Gods plunging from world to world?
The Red Order dopes began shouting to each other. Ingrid grabbed the Necronomicon, ran to Ratzinger’s side, and began firing at Harbinger. He didn’t try to evade the blasts. He continued to float down, unperturbed by the commotion and flying bullets. Herb cowered behind Ratzinger as two lackeys grabbed crowbars and shoved them into the top of the crate.
The cultists didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.
When the blonde realized her gun was useless, she tossed it and ushered Ratzinger off the dais.
As Harbinger landed on the stage, the lackeys yanked off the lid of the crate.
Werewolf Hitler sprang out of the crate and was immediately knocked down by Harbinger, who merely needed to raise a palm at the abomination. Harbinger walked across the stage toward the lackeys, who didn’t want anything to do with the god who wasn’t a god and ran off.
Werewolf Hitler was back on his feet and leapt onto Harbinger’s back, clawing and scratching Harbinger.
“This would be a good time to go after Ratzinger,” Oswald.
He was right, but, boy, did I want to see this fight. I hadn’t seen anything like it since I went to Madison Square Garden as a kid. I shambled in the direction of Ratzinger and hoped Werewolf Hitler would be able to distract Harbinger long enough for me to get the Necronomicon.
I caught a glimpse of the trio turning off the main road.
We followed.
They had taken a trail that led up a steep hill filled with black tree stumps. The fog was thinner here, hovering just inches from the ground.
We came upon a small graveyard. Most of the headstones were overturned and cracked. A marble statue of a winged angel lay in pieces. The wind whistled a sad tune, but I felt no wind. The air grew colder as I watched Ratzinger, Ingrid, and Herbert scuttled through the graveyard and down an embankment.
When we got to the edge of the graveyard, we stopped.
“A damn haunted amusement park,” I said.
“Let’s get the book from them,” Oswald said.
“Let’s wait.”
Below, Ratzinger, Ingrid, and Herb passed a carousel of demented sea creatures. It played a sweet melody that made me want to hang myself at the nearest tree.
Who knew if there ever was a time when the rides and concession stands were in use. Maybe this was all dressing for the Wood’s little spook show. The faint music of the carousel echoed in the cold air. The lights of the carousel threw out thick beams into the fog.
The three Nazis passed the carousel when the ghosts appeared. Gray spirits floated out of the mist. The howling wind rose. The spirits multiplied and surrounded them. Haunted faces, hollow-eyed, sunken cheeks, hungry mouths. These spirits nourished themselves with blood from the living. You were supposed to make them an offering before you could pass through, but the Nazis didn’t know that.
The blonde still had the gun in her hand, and she fired into the specters, the bullets passing through them and pinging off the carousel monsters and concession stands. Herb – the sneaky little traitor he is – made a grab for the Necronomicon, but the blonde turned and fired into his chest. Herb crumpled to the ground and the ghosts had their blood. Ratzinger and the blonde both screamed as the wraiths fell upon them.
“Should we help them?” Oswald asked.
“Are you kidding?”
I slowly made my way down the embankment. “We don’t have anything to worry about. We don’t have blood, and I doubt they’re interested in the book.”
Oswald came down the embankment as the ghosts’ howls mingled with the wind’s cries.
I stopped a few yards from the ghost frenzy.
“Go ahead and reach in there and get the book,” I said.
“So now it’s okay for me to use my powers?”
“You could always stretch your arms. It’s nothing special.”
“I’m just making sure.”
Oswald’s right hand shot out, stretching through the feeding ghosts. Funny how they were incorporeal when it was convenient for them.
The book lay beside Ingrid, who had ghosts attached to her neck and arms and legs. Oswald picked up the book and reeled it in.
“Give me that,” I said.
Oswald rolled his eyes and dropped the Necronomicon at my feet.
“You could have handed it to me.”
The book felt heavier. It felt diseased and gave off a dirty heat.
“We have to destroy it,” I said.
“Mort said you can’t destroy the book.”
I opened the Necronomicon. The pages were filled with mad scribbles and infernal illustrations. The handwriting was crazed and slanted. I tried hard not to read the words.
I grabbed a page and pulled at it, but it didn’t tear. I tried with two hands, but still no dice. Out of frustration, I slammed the book against a haunted cotton candy maker. Not even a scratch.
“See,” Oswald added, unhelpfully.
“Okay, big shot, you have the Jupiter Stone inside you. You destroy it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. That could be like using an atomic bomb to destroy another atomic bomb.”
