Consequence Page 9

  “… and report any survivors,” the man with the radio said.

  “Keep it by the numbers, safety first,” replied a rough voice.

  “Copy,” the man said.

  “Once more into the breach,” Doyle said. “A rope! My kingdom for a rope!”

  Doyle scanned the nearby houses with the glasses. One house in particular blipped on his lens. He ran up to the door next to the garage and turned the knob—locked. Doyle stuck a hand up the sleeve of his coat and fished around. He pulled out a small key made from yellowed bone. The end of the key had two small teeth, and the head was fashioned as a skull. Two rubies decorated the eye sockets and glowed from some inner light. Sometimes, Doyle swore the key spoke to him. He did his best not to listen.

  The skeleton key vibrated as he inserted it into the door’s lock. Small cracks and pops sounded off as the key reformed itself to fit the mechanism’s tumblers. Once the key stopped moving, Doyle turned it, and the lock opened. When he removed it, the key looked the same as before.

  Doyle smiled, kissed the key, and hid it away back in his coat. It was dark in the garage and smelled faintly of gasoline and old lawn clippings. Whoever owned the house took decent enough care of the place. Tools, parts, and paint sat organized along the wall and on shelves in neat order, and it didn’t take Doyle long to find what he searched for.

  “Aha!”

  He grabbed a coil of rope and threw it over his shoulder. Doyle tied one end to a tree and threw the other down the pit. It unrolled and piled across the dirt and rocks at the floor of the sinkhole. He tugged the rope a few times to test its strength and then descended into the dark.

  Doyle was halfway down when sweat poured across his and face and into his eyes. He let go of the rope with one hand to wipe it away, and his foot slipped off the rocky wall. Doyle let out a cry and grabbed onto the rope with both hands just before he fell.

  He kept his eyes shut and dealt with the sweat until he reached the bottom. Doyle wiped his face with his sleeve, but the duct tape only smeared it around. For all its uses, duct tape didn’t breathe well, and the sweat stewed under its covering.

  Doyle grabbed his glasses. He tweaked a couple wires along the rim, and the vision shifted from normal to infrared.

  Doyle made another adjustment, and the vision effect shifted again. The darkness disappeared as the specs did their job. Through the glasses, the entire area illuminated as if under the soft glow of a reading lamp. It wasn’t perfect, but at least he could see. He pulled his revolver from the coat and made his way through the maze of tumbled houses. The voices of the workers echoed off the walls and debris which made it hard to pinpoint an exact location; however, Doyle walked as if guided by an unseen compass. Streamers of data continued to move across his vision, and he focused on the information. The glasses highlighted tripping hazards, and he was able to move through the wreckage with ease.

  He came around the corner of a fallen home and stopped when he came across an arm stuck out from under an overturned pickup truck. Blood coated the hand, and the fingers twisted at odd angles.

  “Hello, do you need assistance?” Doyle asked. “I’m Special Agent Johnson, ID Hotel-Prickleypear-Linguini, 3-15-3.”

  Nothing. He inched closer to the appendage and kept his weapon trained on it.

  “Sir or Ma’am, do you need assistance? I repeat this is Special Agent Johnson, ID Horn-Papa-London, 3-15-3.”

  Still nothing. He nudged the appendage with the toe of his Crocs. It rolled over and exposed the torn muscle and blood, but nothing more. Doyle kicked the arm, and it skidded across the dirt until it came to rest next to what used to be a garage door. His Eagle Eyes zoomed in on the arm and focused on the damaged section. To the layman, it would have looked as if it were merely shredded meat; however, to Doyle, it said so much more. Long, ragged tears in the flesh told him something ate the arm’s owner.

  “Not good.”

  He jogged to the house with the yellow wallpaper. As he neared, the paper fluttered. Doyle stopped and aimed the gun.

  As if the wallpaper itself played a macabre game, it didn’t move. Doyle took a couple of steps to view the other side of the exposed wall. When the house fell, it almost entirely covered the entrance to a cave, and a slight draft blew from the opening, which moved the wallpaper. Doyle let out a low chuckle and stepped toward the entrance. As his foot crossed the threshold, the low sound of tearing paper echoed into the air.

  He stopped and listened. Doyle wanted to believe it was his mind playing tricks. He examined the yellow wallpaper again. A small hole appeared near the center, a hole he didn’t remember from before. New data streamed across his lenses faster than he could decipher. His ears pricked up to the sound of another rip—not paper, but something wetter—something like flesh or meat. The hole turned into a tear which grew in length.

  The data flow intensified and then stopped. Doyle held the revolver in front of him, trained at the wall.

  “Well, world, things are about to get crazy.”

  As if on cue, a scream emanated from the cave behind the wall. Doyle took off in a run into the tunnel. The sides of the tunnel were crudely dug, and various rocks jutted out at different angles. As he ran, the glasses captured images and magnified certain aspects for him. Black burn marks streaked along the sides and crisscrossed one another like chaotic racing stripes.

  After nearly 200 yards, the walls smoothed out, and braces of an odd silver-like metal held the earth’s weight, which kept the tunnel intact. The burn lines still scarred the walls, but overall, this section of the tunnel held an almost pristine condition.

  The smell of smoke hit Doyle’s nose. He threw a hand in front of his mouth and nose to stop from coughing. When he rounded the corner, he found the source—a burned out road flare on the ground. The haze from the flare still crowded the cavern and made it difficult to see. Doyle moved closer to the wall and tried to shoo the smoke away with a flap of his arms.

  Strange symbols and runes decorated the smooth stone surface. Some, Doyle was familiar with, others, he had never seen before. The symbols consisted of perfectly crafted circles, triangles, and squares, as well as other polygons, which put snowflakes to shame. Angelic runes.

  “Angelic art. I see a sailboat,” he said as he traced his finger along some of the symbols.

  The Eagle Eyes documented the images and translated what it could, which wasn’t much. Apparently, it was some sort of imprisonment spell.

  He moved further down the tunnel. The symbols continued along the walls, and Doyle found more discarded road flares as he went. The temperature dropped as he neared a large archway. The symbols braided the archway in three distinct lines. There should have been a door, but it was in pieces, scattered across the ground.

  Doyle crossed through the archway as carefully as he could. As he did, it was like stepping into another climate. His breath crystallized into tiny ice clouds. The sweat on his skin cooled, and he pulled the duct tape trench coat tighter around his body. It did little to keep out the cold.

  More screams bounced off the walls. Doyle picked up his pace and ran down the final stretch of hallway until he came to a large circular room. A dark metal container, taller than a double-decker bus, sat in the center. Blood-red filigree and different symbols than the ones around the walls and arch adorned the sides of the black container. They were chaotic patterns and caused a dull pressure to build behind his eyes. His specs flickered in and out.

  The language was Infernal.

  Doyle turned away from the hellish symbols. His classes on the Infernal taught him most beings couldn’t stand to look at their handiwork for too long. The results always ended badly, as in get a mop and some heavy-duty cleaner kind of bad.

  The top of the container was in pieces, spread all around the room. A small chunk of the broken metal skidded across the floor and hit his feet. As he looked up, something ran at
him from the side. Doyle spun and brought the gun up.

  One of the city workers threw his hands up as he slid to a halt. Two others crouched low to the ground with their hands in the air as well.

  “Whoa, I just want out!” the man said.

  “Where are the rest of you?”

  “Back there.” The man pointed.

  Doyle nodded his head toward the exit.

  “Go,” he said.

  The workers wasted no time and ran out of the room. Doyle frowned. The glasses clocked their time of death within twenty minutes.

  Doyle walked around the container. Two channels were built into the ground approximately six inches wide. They ran from the container along the floor to another chamber. A rusty brown color stained the grooves of the channels. Another archway, similar to the one Doyle crossed earlier, adorned the front of this new room. A mix of Angelic and Infernal symbols were etched along the rim of the archway. Their contradicting themes of order and chaos complemented one another, and the symbols blended as if they were always meant to be one. A long crack zigzagged along the archway, cutting a section of the runes in half. They glowed a dull red and blue color, and they faded in and out.

  Another worker crawled out of the chamber. At first, Doyle thought the man’s face had melted away. The worker’s facial features were distorted; his nose was crooked, one cheek sat lower than the other, and part of the man’s bottom lip was missing. Blood seeped from a dozen different lacerations and covered the worker’s features. As he got closer, Doyle realized the man’s face wasn’t melted. It had been clawed. The blood from the man’s wounds spilled down his chin and dripped onto the ground.

  Before Doyle could get close to him, something pulled the man back into the darkness. Doyle took a step toward the darkened room but stopped when the man grunted from inside. It only took a moment before a wet crunch silenced the worker. Doyle tried to see through the unnatural gloom from the chamber, but it was no use. He messed with the wires on the Eagle Eyes, but none of the spectrums could cut through the unnatural penumbra.

  Whatever was in the darkness spoke, but Doyle couldn’t understand it. Its voice reverberated through the circular holding room. The deep baritone rattled Doyle’s core. His stomach turned, and for half a moment, and he almost lost his breakfast all over the decorated archway.

  “Unfortunately, I smell you too,” Doyle said.

  The rank odor of road kill and viscera mixed with the sharp coppery taste of fresh blood.

  “I don’t have all day. I have places to be and euniphrites to kill.”

  The thing spoke again. Its voice rose into a shriek and threatened to burst Doyle’s eardrums. He brought the gun up and fired into the dark. The runes etched into the side of the barrel flared a bright blue as the bullet sped along. The thing in the dark roared in response.

  “Wrong place, right time,” Doyle muttered.

  The heavy clack of footfalls echoed off the walls, like a dog on linoleum. As it moved closer to the archway, the sigils along the curved architecture glowed bright before they burnt out like old light bulbs. It stepped into the circular room and into the light.

  The thing stood over nine feet tall with a mass of horns that twisted and curled from its forehead in all directions. Its skin was a pale hue, almost translucent, with large black veins that ran along a muscular frame. Wiry black tendrils hung from its chin and swayed on their own accord.

  Large royal purple leathery wings sprouted from the creature’s back. They reminded Doyle of bat wings, but the same tendrils that covered its chin coated the wings. The hairs held differing pigments and hues, from blue to purple, and created a design not unlike two large eyes, similar to the eyed hawk moth. The thing stretched them in a great display then relaxed and let the tips of the wings drag against floor.

  Its feet each had three toes and a large blood-red claw. Thick black hairs dressed its legs, all of which moved on their own in a chaotic dance. It wore a vest and loincloth made of patched together leather strips. Each strip was a skinned face from a different being. Although human-like in appearance, Doyle knew some of those faces belonged to the heavenly armies, as well as to the infernal legions. A bloody strip tucked into the thing’s belt was fresh. The face bore jagged slashes and sported a blood-soaked goatee.

  The creature took one of its long, hooked claws and flicked at the mask. It let out a deep laugh.

  Doyle grabbed the sleeve of his duct tape coat and shook it. “I prefer this thank you.”

  The thing chuckled again and sounded like a pneumonia victim’s hack. It stood at full height and stretched its wings again. The pressure built in the room, and wind started to whip and swirl. The creature’s eyes took on an orange glow.

  It opened its mouth wide and a pumpkin-colored light spewed forth. Doyle’s Eagle Eyes couldn’t handle it and burned out. The acrid smell of burnt electronics dissipated in the wind.

  Doyle’s world filled with orange light.

  Chapter Ten

  Evard knelt next to Sebastian. The boy clung to his mother’s leg, his knuckles white as if he held on for dear life. Maybe it was life or death.

  Evard looked the boy in the eyes.

  “You move when we move, okay? Don’t stop unless we do,” Evard said.

  Sebastian stared back, his gaze unfocused, his mouth open. Evard grabbed him by the shoulder, and the boy winced. Linda shot Evard a death glare and pulled the boy away from him.

  “You understand?” Evard asked.

  Sebastian nodded but remained quiet.

  “Good.”

  Evard stood. His knees popped, and his hips groaned in protest as he stretched to full height.

  “Okay, when we move, we move quick. Be quiet and don’t draw attention.”

  “What’s out there?” Linda asked. She crept closer to the window.

  “I don’t know.”

  He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away from the window. She shot him a look made of equal parts fear and disgust. They moved back towards the kitchen, but Linda stopped him in the hallway.

  “What did you see out there?” she whispered. “Before, outside the bedroom.”

  “Madness.”

  Evard stared at the pile of ashes on the living room floor.

  “More things like that?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Evard said.

  Linda and Sebastian grabbed their things. She had a sports bag full of clothes, food, some water, and bullets for the .45 caliber pistol strapped to her hip. The gun was Toby’s, but Evard knew she was more than capable of using it. Toby always boasted how she was a better shot than he was.

  Sebastian wore a Spiderman backpack with a change of clothes and more rations. He also wore one of Toby’s old squadron baseball caps. Evard cinched it to the smallest size, and it almost engulfed the boy’s entire head. Sebastian wouldn’t give it up though and promised he would take good care of it. He said it gave him luck. Evard figured they would need all the luck they could get.

  Linda tried calling Toby once more but got the same busy signal. She pulled a pad of paper from the kitchen and left a note pinned to the entryway wall.

  Toby,

  Evard came and helped us. He’s taking us to his house. Sebastian is safe. Please come to Evard’s.

  Love,

  Linda

  Evard stood next to the front door. His gun was in one hand and his car keys in the other.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready,” she said.

  Evard nodded and opened the door. He made sure both Linda and Sebastian followed close behind before he moved too far. Clouds covered the night sky and cast the neighborhood in darkness; only the occasional bursts of lightning in the distance shed any light. Almost all of the streetlamps were broken or burned out. It was unusual, but not as unusual as other events of the day. Evard furrowed his bro
w and crept on.

  The storm left everything shellacked with a rotten stink. A slight stickiness stuck to Evard’s skin and made it itch.

  A burst of gunfire echoed from a nearby neighborhood accompanied by screams. Evard stopped and held the gun in front of him. His heart beat faster than he thought possible, and there was twinge in his chest. Evard tried to regulate his breathing, but it was difficult, even more so when he spied a body in the street.

  Someone lay crumpled next to the rain gutter. The person’s arms crisscrossed over their head as if they died trying to fend off an attacker.

  Evard scanned 180 degrees as he moved closer to the car. A sharp intake of breath from Linda signaled she saw the body as well.

  “Leave it,” Evard whispered. “It’s too late.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me.”

  Evard didn’t know, but the number one priority was to get Linda and Sebastian to safety. When he neared the car, he did a quick survey to ensure nothing was already in it waiting for them. Nothing but broken glass from the windshield lurked in the darkness of the car’s interior. It took some effort, but he was able to open the hole in the windshield up wider so they could at least see.

  “Get in but be careful of the glass.”

  “Cool car,” Sebastian said, running his hand across the fender.

  Evard gave him a smile but continued to scan the street. A shriek cut through the night air. All the hairs on Evard’s neck stood at attention as a shiver crawled up his spine. The cry sounded human, but there was a guttural timbre to it. It was deeper than any cry he’d heard before, yet it held a quality similar to nails being dragged across a blackboard. The meaty slap of bare feet on asphalt drew his attention even further.

  A woman with long blonde hair who wore an oversized Def Leppard T-shirt and boxers ran towards them. Blood poured from a neck wound and stained the T-shirt, which plastered the flimsy cotton garment to her skin. Black liquid frothed from her mouth and bubbled as she screamed.