Hotel of Madness Page 12

  “Fuck.” The outside looks gorier than the inside. Bits of intestines hang in loops amid innocent spaces like between cars and over street lamps. The ground is still wet with blood and other less pleasant human liquids mixing with gasoline and oil from overturned cars and even a limo. But beyond that, I hear nothing, I feel nothing, and as I strain my eyes to see any hint of life, all I see is the blood mist curling ever forward.

  So she needs me. Or at the very least, my help would be a convenient service it would like to employ. And then there is Susan. IT hates her. Not sure why but there is an advantage to that. If Susan is dangerous, Vapoura could always kick her out… no, that would be bad. Kicking her out would give her access to the tree from the outside. The source, or the incarnation of the Blood Mist itself. When fully grown, I doubt a nuke would take that out but now…

  Wait! I’m more dangerous than Susan, so why let me out? Why not assume I won’t double back and try to ruin her evil plans? Unless she already has a countermeasure for me. I agreed to get Vapoura what she wanted, and because she had to make sure of that before she let me go, that means I’m bound to her service. Until she inevitably terminates the contract by murdering me.

  What scares me is that I didn’t even feel her do it. It's not like Derek’s geas where I was distracted by Maryland drivers. No, she measured and weighed me and found I was pliable.

  “I wouldn’t bother removing it.”

  “OH JESUS!” I leap, having just now realized it’s right behind me.

  “Met him once, kind of a prick.” Vapoura/Meg steps closer, eyes a deep ocean blue and lips a radiant glossy red. “Thinking hard, aren’t we?”

  “I thought you couldn’t leave?”

  “Who said I left?”

  I look at the ground and note the thickening fog blowing in from the Gaylord.

  “I found your target.” Vapoura raises her hand, which feels like an oddly familiar gesture. “I hoped you would have spent your time preparing yourself instead of thinking of ways to betray me.”

  “Hey w—”

  * * *

  I hit the ground hard. Not hard enough to bounce off the pavement, but close. A memory comes flooding in of a woman stepping out of a doorway, snapping her fingers with the forceful grace of a flamenco dancer. Why am I thinking about that now? I don’t know, but the pain of my loosening ribs prevents me from thinking about much else.

  “Arthur?”

  Oh, what the fuck? “DEREK!”

  I scramble to my feet only to fall back down and land on my ass. Standing above me on a nameless godforsaken rooftop in the fancier part of town is Derek Jameson. But instead of the irresistible urge to strangle him with his own intestines, I feel a familiar dread permeate his being.

  “Oh, you fucking idiot.” I know what he did without him having to tell me. The signs are all there, the evil swirling green mucus that has become his eyes, the twitching beneath the skin while his body grows gaunt from something trying to eat his insides slowly. He has only hours before his human body fails him and whatever he was given takes over on autopilot.

  A voice not quite his own responds to me, “Oh Arthur, so glad of you to join us.” He raises a hand toward me but thinks better of it. He smiles. His teeth are a good shade of brown, and some on the verge of falling out due to visible rot. “The heart of DURA’G is pleased that another acolyte will soon join in this most holy of communions.”

  I look beyond Derek’s decrepit form and see he has been busy in the hours since I last saw him. With a greater understanding of my bearings, I see we’re at one of the generic rooftop bars dotting the DC downtown district. Where there was once authentic Washington DC grunge and grime, it has long since been cleaned up and made safe for the well-off working professionals of capitol hill. At around this time, this place would normally be packed with enough people to be a health violation. Currently, it's empty save for a group of miserable people all singing in an alien tongue the good name of DURA’G.

  “Acolytes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how does one become an acolyte?”

  He stares at me with big hopeful eyes, in stark contrast to the visible evil inside his iris. “By partaking in the sacrament. Though I must warn you if you are unwilling…”

  My eyes wander to a group of... bodies… visibly rotting in the corner of the rooftop where I surmise there is an exit. Looking at the mess of stacked corpses, I note that the… oh, God… true nature of DURA’G is very, very present in the ones who didn’t make it. The mutations are… not pleasant, and they appear to twitch individually when one isn’t paying attention.

  “Derek, where did you get these people from?”

  “Oh, I informed the Hand of My Master where to find the local Federal Bureau of Occult Defense. Those who came willingly were spared the rest…”

  Considering that the DC office is the main office… well, damn.

  “Currently, my teacher is trying to find the League. Though—” his eyes go blank for a moment as if seeing something else from very far away, “he is returning.”

  The group of a dozen acolytes stop their singing and start chanting “DURA’G” in the usual cadence. But this time, the voices sound deeper, almost as if the words are being spoken from the center of the earth itself or at least a parallel one.

  “So much for backup.” Though I had hoped Vapuora was lying a little bit, this doesn’t end in me saving the day at this rate.

  “Look,” I slowly get up and peer down over the roof. The sight of thousands, maybe millions of undead zombies looking in silence right back at me nearly makes me choke on my next words. “Me and you had our differences. And normally, I would be happy to take out my frustrations on you.” I notice the blood at Derek's feet, blood that covers the floor of the roof and seems to move on its own. “But I wouldn’t want you to die a slave to an alien overlord.”

  I look Derek in the eye despite it hurting very much to do so. “So how about this, whatever is left of you in there, you give it the old college try. And if you win, I’ll spare you.”

  Derek, or what's left of him, smiles even wider as the skies thunder.

  “Guessing that’s a no then.” I breathe in hard, feeling the energy of the Multiverse swelling inside my lungs.

  “Arthur, I prefer you not do that.”

  “You know, talking to distract my opponents is my trope.” I can feel the force building and rising as time and space shift and break down in front of me. I can see probability in real-time, and I’ll trade a few years to affect it.

  Fuck it.

  Derek reaches out with his hand. At first, a shimmer vibrates the air violently, but then—

  Explosions happen simultaneously, the building caves first like the world's largest domino, sending brick and plaster flying as the roof collapses, taking Derek and his entourage with it. But I’m also hit, exceptionally hard, like a baseball bat the size of a semi-truck going to work on my torso. The explosion rockets me backward and over. My body is on fire, literally and figuratively, as I fall down four stories. For a blissful moment between the searing pain and the burning flesh, I think it’ll all be over. Then suddenly, I bounce hard off something soft yet solid. I hit the ground in a roll as my mind desperately shouts at my body to remain conscious.

  “W-w-wa-it f-o-r it.” And with almost comedic timing, the building explodes in a fireball of leaked natural gas and faulty wiring. The fireworks are enormous as the building heaves its contents into the air and showers the surrounding area in burning material. The crowd around me staggers and falls from the force of it all.

  “W-orth… it.” Probability magic is a matter of forcing the desired outcome out of a myriad of possibilities. Of course, doing so intelligently requires the ability to calculate probability in real-time and finding the right number of coincidences to force a favorable outcome. Like for example, a building collapsing and exploding due to not being inspected properly for 15 years. It only took exaggerating the condition of the roof, with the
addition of a not so probable gas leak while increasing the likelihood of some material being more flammable in the right conditions. If it wasn’t for previous injuries, I could probably feel the effects of forcing that many unlikely coincidences to happen all at once in real-time.

  Everything hurts. And I hope to God that killed them. However, within the burning wreckage rapidly spreading, figures drudge their way through the debris. I realize where I am too late and get grabbed by the zombies before I have a chance to hold back. They're even careful not to touch my exposed skin. Hoisting me up, they turn me toward the remains of the wreckage. The fire burns intensely, and I can feel the heat from here. But Derek is still alive.

  “Arthur, I was with my teacher when we raided the Fed.”

  “You know, I feel like the old you would have been impressed by a building being dropped on you.”

  Derek’s clothes were seared off by the explosion. The decrypted flesh hiding underneath is revealed for the amalgamation of unnatural rot and unchecked cancerous life it is. New growth moves with dark purposes beneath his skin while rancid rot corrodes his flesh. Only a thin veneer of flesh and bones remain to give the appearance of being human. And his new companions are no better, dropping skin and flesh, exposing green rotting bones in some, while cancerous tumors spread barely checked in others. The raging fire around them only highlights their jerky movements. DURA’G indeed.

  “The hour approaches, Hero. Do you wish to take the sacrament, or shall we let the Blood decide your fate?”

  Behind me, the zombies stir into life as if they were held in check by an overwhelming compulsion. Derek is their implicit boss, but I doubt killing him will disable them like so many roger-roger droids.

  “How about this, you brain yourself now and spare yourself an eternity of being your teacher's butt buddy.”

  He walks up to me, eyes crazed, lips twitching, “If you had given me your assistance, willingly and without reservation, we wouldn’t be here.” He stares at me, his eyes like searchlights crawling through my mind, “So I offer you again. Join me. Here, now and willingly, I will spare you the fate of this world.”

  I sigh. I really am tired. “You’re the second job offer I got today, but I have to say I’ve seen your benefits, and you're missing a few things in the healthcare department.” I can feel the zombies stirring around me. Several hundred mouths and pairs of hands ripping me apart is all I can imagine. “You should really read the fine print on your retirement package.”

  The greater Daemon lands behind him with a giant thud. The pavement cracks from his sheer weight despite his human frame. A 6’11 easily 300lbs frame with Conan the barbarian muscles and the face of a sumo wrestler. And beyond physical intimidation, eldritch power comes off of him in waves, making me reminiscent of the silent but dangerous power of the Avatar. This isn’t being in the jungle with a prowling jaguar. It is watching a tank rumble into view while your only cover is garden shrubs.

  “I see you found another Seeker to join our most holy of communions,” says the jolly booming thunder in the shape of a person.

  Derek doesn’t hesitate. “He is a Hero, my Lord. Atlantian.”

  The Greater Daemon walks toward me. Each step is a minor affront to nature. “I thought I enslaved your people.”

  “Different timeline.”

  “But a good memory all the same.”

  “So, are you going to offer me a job too?”

  The Greater Daemon’s face turns up in amusement, probably significantly underestimating my talent for groveling and begging for mercy, “I will level with you, Hero. There is nothing you can offer me. I give the sacrament freely, to save the minds of those with greater understanding for the wars ahead.”

  Like the upcoming showdown with the Blood Mist.

  “Take it and live? Don’t and die? Don’t let my booming voice fool you. I have no investment in your decision either way.”

  The zombies around us grow restless, moaning and shifting in anticipation. It's either Derek or this guy forcing them to stand still and wait. But for what exactly? Well, if I had to bet a million dollars, it’s probably on whether I’m on the menu. Or something else entirely. I interrupted something, something I should have gotten out of Derek before his daddy showed up.

  “Decide.”

  Taking a big gulp, I say, “Alright, you got me. BUT—” a smile spreads across his face as the Daemon steps forward, “I have one request before I join DURA’G.”

  The Greater Daemon looks at me coldly. His eyes don’t see into my mind; they burn through the inner and outer layers of my thoughts. To do this, to truly pull this off, I need to be true to my most basic desire.

  “Kill Derek. Kill Derek, and you’ll have access to the Trident.”

  Now he knows I’m fucking with him. He can feel on a molecular level. But bending me to his god’s will is way too much of a bargain. Even if I’m lying, the worst that can happen, from his perspective, is I die a pretty gruesome death, getting torn apart at the cellular level by rapidly advancing cancer followed by retroviruses turning my DNA into something a little closer to old D himself. With the side effect of rotting my flesh as the cellular by-product.

  But guys like Derek? Probably eaten by some nameless horror while playing cards.

  “Wait.” Derek begins, his life flashing before his eyes as he knows the Greater Daemon’s thoughts better than I do. “No, no, please.”

  Aww, the begging, good ol’ begging.

  The Greater Daemon turns toward Derek, who begins backing up into the safety of the still-smoldering building.

  “He lies!”

  Step.

  “Probably.”

  Step.

  “I served you!”

  Step.

  “Aww, yes. That you did.”

  Step.

  “He is a Hero. Why would he—”

  “Did you not offer him the same chance?”

  Step.

  “No— I—”

  “With him and you together, you would have been able to remove me.”

  Step.

  “I WOULD NEVER—”

  “But you would. Inside of you, ambition, great ambition. Honestly, a Daemon of renown you would have been.”

  “Teacher, please—”

  “Do not fear death. There is no death within the body of DURA’G. Only life eternal! Be reborn in blood, be His blood.”

  Step.

  Derek realizes he can’t stop him after running out of real estate. He is a cornered rat, and in his fear and rage, he realizes there is only one way out. It is through.

  The ground shakes, and the zombies holding me go slack. In fact, all the zombies moaning and shifting restlessly in the crowd fall down in heaps as if their internal cords were pulled. I feel a shift of energy rush toward Derek and realize his necromancy has reached a terrifying level. I run for cover.

  At first, the air goes stale, then it heats up, then it becomes super-heated to the point that any breath of oxygen would be introducing liquid fire into your lungs. I jump toward the nearest upturned car hoping the tons of metal will protest me. It doesn’t. The car rocks violently before flying as if propelled like a soccer ball. I am blasted high and far into the air, sailing rapidly without any real control until I hit something hard, maybe a Metrobus, before tipping that over too with the sheer impact.

  * * *

  I wake up to rough hands pulling me from the wreckage. I am inside the Metrobus, suffering from my second or third concussion of the day. The number of hard landings I’ve taken today has gotten ridiculous. So has the amount of times I’ve woken up to a situation that has gotten progressively worse since the last time I was awake.

  These folks, who are dragging me out with no regard to whether I cut my legs on glass or bang my limp body into all manner of hard surfaces, I recognize. And once we exit the Metrobus, I realize that they are the other assholes who willingly traded in their humanity for perpetual cancer.

  They toss me hard on the ground. “
Seriously, guys, concussions are a thing.” They then march back to their position behind the Greater Daemon.

  Can’t say I’m disappointed old Derek Jameson didn’t take him out. But I was hoping he did a bit more cooking this guy's skin a few notches above well-done. With the burns, the Greater Daemon's true self leaked out behind the blackened flesh as pulsating cords of muscle too large and exaggerated to belong to a human’s body.

  He looks at me with a measure of disdain, probably regretting killing someone who turned out to be a lot harder to murder than he first thought, but still insistent. He still plans for me to take the sacrament. And I can only imagine my flesh mutating grotesquely until I eventually die of shock and pain as whatever he has in mind realizes I’m lying.

  I watch him carefully as his acolytes bring him a body burnt beyond recognition and lay it down before him. The Daemon kneels next to it and digs his hands into the charred skin and flesh, only to peel away some cooked red meat. I watch him cut his own hand slowly and painfully to reveal wet ichor that the Daemon calls blood before smashing the ball of meat into his bloodied palm. After some time, he walks toward me, eyes filled with that same eldritch glow Derek had but much, much worse.

  “If you accept willingly, you keep your mind,” the Greater Daemon says with a straight face. As a veteran Necromancer and Hero, I’m somewhat offended.

  He leans down and grabs me by the head. I feel the pressure he could be applying to my skull but chooses not to. My ears feel like they are going to explode, and the nauseating dread cripples all thought, and the desire to escape returns with a vengeance.

  “Aww, here you go—”

  And those are his famous last words. As he props my neck back, so my mouth opens, I feel two sudden whooshes of air. The first one removes the Greater Daemon’s hand from his wrist. The second one removes his head.

  I collapse in a heap with the headless Greater Daemon. I watch his head roll, his face a combination of very human expressions of surprise, shock, and undiluted rage. The body convulses but not violently; each internal tremor brings the 6’11 frame back to what I can surmise is its original size. I look around and see the headless remains of Acolytes, all taken out before they had an opportunity to scream. And then I realize that my half face is covered by a rolling mist changing color from bright red to sickly brown as it washes over the bodies of the slain.