Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (36 page)

“Good morning,
is your mommy or daddy home?”

The boy shook
his head and pressed his knuckles into bleary eyes.

Cobb heard
Daniel Wheatley’s voice in his ear, “What the heck is wrong with
people?” He knelt down, “Do you have a babysitter?”

The boy shook
his head and his lip quivered as if he was about to cry. Cobb held
out his open hand, “It’s okay, don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”
Wheatley’s voice again, “I should call this in to protective
services.”

“Do you know
where your mommy or daddy are?” Cobb tried again, now eager to
curtail Wheatley’s social outrage.

“Daddy’s in
bed.” The boy managed, pointing an awkward scrawny arm back towards
the depths of the apartment.

Cobb smiled,
“Okay, there’s no need to wake him. You have a nice day.” The
child’s brow furrowed as his small hand pushed the door shut on
Cobb.

West held up
his hands to silence the others. He ushered Charlene and David into
the bathroom, and motioned for Stanwick to join him in the hallway.
Closing the bathroom door gently, he walked a little way down the
hall and entered his bedroom, leaving Stanwick on her own.

Stanwick walked
quietly back towards the living room and waited.

Footsteps.
Knock.

Stanwick walked
back down the length of the hallway and opened the door, raising
her eyebrows in feigned surprise.

“I’m sorry for
taking up your time,”

Stanwick
shrugged, “Don’t worry, I have plenty.”

Cobb
floundered, distracted by being pulled off-script. He held out his
badge, but Stanwick shrugged it off, pointing towards the crisp
white lettering emblazoned across the front of his chest, “FBI
right?” She took the piece of paper from Cobb’s hand before he was
able to launch back into his spiel.

“Aw, she’s
cute. What’s
she
done to get on the FBI shit list?”

Cobb raised his
eyebrows as Stanwick looked up at him demurely, “I’m not at liberty
to discuss the nature of our investigation mam. Do you recognize
either of the people pictured here?” She noticed Cobb’s
helmet-mounted tactical Camera and tilted her head, allowing her
hair to fall in front of her face, “I’m sorry … I don’t recall
seeing them around, I just moved in recently though.”

Cobb reached
forward to retrieve the paper from the woman. His hand paused in
the air between them, a short click of static sounding off in his
ear piece, Daniel Wheatley’s voice, steady but urgent, “Agent Cobb,
we have a positive ID on your current mark. Stanwick Thrass …
card-carrying member of the GOP. She attended several rallies which
Beach would have been present for. I can’t confirm the Beach
connection, no record of his attendance at the events, but
Undersecretary Carlton was present so it’s a safe assumption that
Beach attended.”

Cobb moved
closer to Stanwick, tilting his head so that he could see the page.
He pointed at the image of David Beach, “How about this man, are
you sure you don’t recognize him?”

She held the
paper closer to her face, pretending to examine the picture more
carefully, “Should I?”

Cobb heard
Agent Middleton’s voice in his ear now, “Keep her talking, we’ll be
with you in less than a minute.” Cobb was bemused by what he heard.
He hadn’t requested backup. Whether or not this woman had ever been
in the same room as David Beach, he didn’t think she posed a threat
and certainly not such a threat that it would warrant the support
of three additional agents.

West’s voice
called out from inside the apartment, “Who is it hon?”

“Sweetie, you
should get a load of this, it’s only the frickin FBI.”

“Jesus hon, do
you think they could gimme a minute, I don’t even got my pants on
in here.”

Cobb wiped the
back of his hand across his forehead, mopping away a little of the
perspiration that had built up under the heat of his helmet,
“Actually mam, I’m boiling in this getup, do you mind if I step
inside for a glass of water?”

West came into
view behind Stanwick, wiping his hands on his pants before leaning
towards Cobb, “Good afternoon sir, what can I do you for?”

His rifle held
to his chest, Cobb shook West’s still damp and oddly limp hand,
craning his neck to try and get a better view of the apartment’s
interior.

“You want to
come in?” West stepped aside and welcomed agent Cobb into his
apartment, pushing the door to behind him.

“There some
kind of trouble?” West asked, stepping past Cobb and making his way
towards the kitchen.

“No trouble,”
Cobb hoped, “we’re just on the look out for these two.” He followed
West towards the kitchen and laid the contact sheet down on the
counter.

Wheatley again,
“Cobb, I’m patching your camera through to everyone now.”

West poured a
glass of water and handed it off to the agent as he picked up the
sheet of paper. His eyes traced over the photos of Stephanie and
David. No trouble. Not anymore. He listened, not to the footsteps
in the hallway, or the distant voices of the city, but to Agent
Cobb’s breathing, his heartbeat, the movement of his muscles, the
particular rumblings of his gut. Even through the ballistic
padding, West could hear that Cobb wasn’t one of them.

McMahon’s voice
now, “Agent Cobb, proceed with caution. The guy you’re looking at
is the same asshole who attacked us yesterday.”

Wheatley came
back quickly, “Affirmative McMahon. I’ve got a probable match on
West Yestler… I …” she paused, “I’ve got nothing. There’s no rap
sheet on this guy, but he’s in the database, so there has to be a
reason.”

There was a
knock at the front door. Cobb looked over his shoulder, glancing
self-consciously at Stanwick. He spoke openly, casting his eyes
towards the ceiling, pacing in a confined circle in an attempt to
avoid eye contact with his hosts, “Agent Middleton, have you
completed your surveillance of the upper floors?” The voice in his
ear was abrupt, “Cobb, cut the shit and open the door.” Cobb looked
at Stanwick and smiled nervously, “That’s a negative Agent McMahon,
I’m nearly done in here. Catch up with you in a minute.” This time,
Middleton’s voice in his ear actually sounded vicious, “Agent Cobb,
clear for breach in ten …”

Nine,
Middleton’s voice continued. Cobb’s eyes flitted about the room
nervously, his finger’s crawling over the surface of his weapon,
searching for the M4’s safety. He placed the glass of water on the
counter behind him, but his hand was met by West’s. With a firm
tug, West spun him easily, opening up his stance with his free arm
and lifting the rifle in a smooth motion so that the strap slipped
off over Cobb’s head. Eight, too quickly the woman closed in on
him, sweeping his legs and grabbing him by the chest, throwing him
easily over the back of the couch so that his head landed near the
large pedestal desk.

Seven, West
stood over him, stripping the M4 down, tossing the magazine to the
floor, pumping the charging handle rapidly, his hands a blur of
motion as, six, he popped the awkward locking pins and threw the
stock and barrel to opposite sides of the room.

Five, Cobb
lifted his head up off the floor and started to prop himself up on
his elbows, but West shook his head knowingly, pointing to the
floor, mouthing the word ‘down’.

Four, Cobb watched as
the two figures moved out of sight. With his head lowered to the
floor, he could see their feet through the gap under the couch,
both of them crouching by the wall at the end of the hallway.

Three, he
shuffled backward, towards the far corner of the apartment,
unholstering his pistol and trying to steady his shaking hands by
holding his right arm against the floor.

Two,
Middleton’s countdown was all but drowned out by Agent Wheatley’s
voice, “Hostiles sited in cover, South East, agent Cobb in cover,
South West corner.”

One, Cobb
inhaled slowly and aimed down the Glock’s iron-sights, ready to let
off a round into the male target’s torso.

“Breach,” Cobb
heard the first half of the word, but the rest was lost in the
small explosion, the breaching charge blowing the lock and door
handle into the apartment.

Agent Middleton
peered through the doorway, looking down the length of the hall.
With no sight of the hostiles, he nodded to Agent Myson and the two
of them moved silently, stepping carefully across the threshold,
pressing their backs against opposite walls. Carmichael and McMahon
followed, both of them taking the right-hand wall, creeping behind
Agent Myson while Clements held back by the door, his rifle primed,
the stock tucked comfortably into his shoulder.

Philippa Myson
saw it first; a shadow passing through the space at the end of the
hall, the light from the windows flickering momentarily. She felt
the weight of her fingertip on the trigger, but she hesitated,
feeling a cold air pass over her body. The hallway darkened again,
but this time it was no fleeting shadow; it took form and rose up
beyond the expanse of the room, sharp edges forking down from where
the ceiling had been. She tried to inch forward, but ash gray smoke
rings reached towards her, roping around her feet and neck, holding
her against the wall. She could hear the slow thumping of McMahon
and Carmichael’s rifles, the machines grinding laboriously, but she
was certain that their bullets made it no further than the black
beyond. The floor rose, a billowing charcoal tongue, curling at the
edges as it pulled away from the amorphous walls. The darkness
swallowed, contracting about them, cancerous serpentine strings of
saliva obliterating all visibility and hope.

“What the
hell’s going on in there? Why aren’t you moving?”

Myson gasped
her relief, holding on to the sanity of Agent Wheatley’s words in
her ear. It pained her to open her mouth, her jaw rigid, the
muscles of her neck fighting against her own words, “Are… you not…
seeing this?”

The voice that
answered wasn’t Wheatley. Where there had been shadow and smoke,
now a tar-like slurry slapped and gurgled the words, echoing in the
cavernous pit that surrounded the agents, “I see all. You offer
your hands to the service of a false god. Your tongues pronounce
his lies. Lay down your arms and repent, or answer for his
blasphemy.”

With immense
effort Middleton stepped forward, leaning against the wall, feeling
his way with both hands. He could barely make out the forms of the
other agents, but he signaled for them to move with him. Myson felt
Carmichael’s hands on her back, urging her forward. She willed her
legs, pushing her right foot slowly, desperately.

Now the voice
came as a chill and thunderous blast of wind, roaring all about
them.

“This is the
hour of Ahken’s folly; see his Blood-Bastards offer themselves unto
my mouth. The first to fall,” deeper the voice pounded, “first to
bleed.”

Myson felt the
weight of her upper body dragging her to the floor, her legs too
weak to support her. She reached out, afraid of what would happen
if she didn’t wrench herself through this despair. Suddenly there
were hands at her throat, dragging her up from the floor. She
lashed out desperately, kicking and punching at the shades that
moved about her. Connecting with something, she squeezed
instinctively, digging in her fingers, writhing with as much energy
as she could muster. When she could do no more, she fell back to
the ground, or perhaps the ground rose up to catch her because she
could no longer be sure. She could scarcely see her own hands
raking at the floor, but there beside her, she caught sight of
Agent Carmichael, his empty eyes staring at nothing.

Danielle Wheatley was
hesitant to leave the comfort of the van. She’d watched the feed
from Clements’ tactical camera as the other agents had stumbled
into the apartment like drunks on a merry-go-round; what she had
seen hadn’t filled her with confidence. Then she had spoken to
Myson, who had started spouting off dire esoteric omens. The
situation was not inviting, but she couldn’t call for backup, at
least not officially. She considered leaving, which would only be
slightly worse than staying in the van. Her options weighed, she
climbed through to the rear cab, took a rifle and a sidearm from
the lockup, and dragged the heavy door open.

When she
reached the apartment, Clements was standing in the doorway, one
arm resting nonchalantly against the door-frame, the other holding
his rifle steady.

“Clements, I’m
on your six.”

Clements didn’t
budge an inch. Wheatley tucked in behind him, checking his view
from the AR screen in the corner of her visor.

“Has there been
any movement?”

She thought she
noticed Clement’s head shaking, but he still didn’t move from his
position. She nudged him, and his body listed forward, his arm
still cocked out to the side like a waxwork high-fiving no one in
particular. Wheatley lunged forward and grabbed the back of his
jacket, ramming her feet against the sides of the door to stop
herself from toppling into the hallway with him. She dragged him
back into the corridor, undid his helmet and pulled his visor down
towards his neck. His eyes were non responsive.

What had they
all seen?

Stanwick listened to
the sound of her own breathing, blocking out the cacophony which
was engulfing the apartment about her. The chaos was beautiful, but
she could drown in it if she allowed herself to swim too long. She
clutched West’s hand tightly, feeling his frenzy; he was lost in
the same dark mire as the agents, tumbling in dread and delusion,
but as much as she wanted to help him, Stanwick couldn’t afford to
divide her attentions. She wasn’t even sure how she’d managed to
project this nightmare into the apartment in the first place.