The Fiddle is the Devils Instrument Page 4

  The room glowed with some strange phosphorescence, illuminating a thick and unnatural mist that rolled and roiled along the ground. Suddenly the three drunken thugs didn’t seem so fearsome, not nearly so as whatever lurked within this place, whatever or whoever had built it, and whatever had happened to those who had found it.

  “Where are we?” I whispered into the darkness, as if there was anyone who could answer.

  The trio and their captive stumbled down an arcade that lay between two great colonnades, and reluctantly, I followed. To flee into the darkened depths of the mine would have been more pleasant.

  Tonto giggled. “This is neat. It’s even better than I heard.”

  I felt a cold shiver arc down my spine. “You mean, you’ve never been here before?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Goat wouldn’t let us. Only the higher…”

  He surely would have said more, but Piston cut him off with a single look. Then he turned to me. “You ain’t gotta stay if you’re scared, clown.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m good. Just wondering is all.” He grunted at that, and we continued to walk.

  I could see that at the end of the arcade was some sort of stone edifice. If this was a temple, I supposed it was an altar, though unlike anything I’d seen before. The stone work was exquisite, a swirl of rises and falls, of deep cuts and shallow valleys. Almost hurt to look at it, as if whatever image it produced made the eyes rebel. But whatever it was and whatever it signified, its creator possessed unmatched skill. I had worked as a stone mason in my youth, and I’d seen enough to know that this was the work of genius. Before it lay a stone slab, and beyond that a deep basin of similar construction. I realized then why the girl was here.

  “So what are you guys planning to do?”

  Piston turned to me.

  “You said you wanted to see God.”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t think I said that at all.”

  “Well, too bad.” He jerked at Hog. “Get her ready.”

  Tonto started to cackle again, and the girl screamed. Stupidly, I made a grab at her. I’m not sure what I thought I’d do if I got a hold of her, and I never found out. Piston threw me away with a single flick of his caber-like arm. I fell to the ground and the cold mist enveloped me. I felt instantly sick, like it was not mist at all but poison gas. I drug myself to my feet as Piston pointed a long dirty finger toward me. “And to think I was going to let you live.”

  But I wasn’t paying all that much attention to Piston at the moment. My eyes were on the basin. At first, I thought that was where the mist was coming from, but then I realized I was wrong. The mist wasn’t flowing from the basin; it was flowing up and into it, as if somewhere someone had flipped a switch on a vacuum. Faster and faster it went, until in one soundless whoosh the last wisp disappeared over the edge.

  For the barest of seconds, there was silence. And then, the roar. A column of viscous liquid, like oil, but somehow thicker and darker, erupted from the heart of the basin. Piston stumbled backward, and Tonto shrieked. I followed the flood up, up, up into the eternal darkness above. I supposed that if the temple had a ceiling, it was striking it, but we didn’t have long to wonder. Down it came again, but it did not crash to the floor. Instead, it gathered above the basin itself, swirling in a great, black ball that pulsated with life.

  “Piston!” Tonto cried. “Piston, what’s going on?”

  But Piston had no answers. We were all the same, standing witness to an event we were never meant to see. Then something happened I could not have expected—things got way worse.

  The black sphere ceased to be a black sphere anymore. It bulged and split, and I thought I saw feet, hands, claws. Then there was no question. Some sort of beast was forming before us. It was not emerging from the dark sphere. They were one and the same.

  Hog stared up at the birth of that hideous thing, and I suspect his grip slipped on the girl, because she did what any sane person would have done in that moment—she ran. No one tried to stop her. We might as well have been held to the spot by steel spikes. She might have made it, too, but just as she passed me, a whip-like arm of black ichor shot forth from the heart of the beast and wrapped around her throat. She gave a cry, tiny, more startled than painful, as if she simply could not believe this was happening to her. Then in one great jerk that may well have broken her neck then and there, she snapped back into the midst of the living void.

  The beast took a step forward and I understood that it intended to make the girl’s fate the fate of us all. I glanced from Piston to Hog to Tonto. They looked like children, scared little kids. The tough demeanor, the ruse they played on people smaller and weaker than them, was gone. They saw the end of all things standing before them. Or at least, the end of all their things. The beast took another step. The entrance to the temple was behind me. If I took off, I might be able to make it while that monster was busy with the others.

  But hell, I couldn’t do that. And I say again, it’s not that I’m some kind of hero. Truth be told I’m as scared of things that go bump in the night as the next guy. I just have a guilty streak, and if I’d let those poor sons-of-bitches die, I knew I’d regret it someday. True, they weren’t worth much, scum of the earth and all, and I figured they could add that girl’s death to their list of sins. But together, the three of them might just have enough good in them to be worth one of me. And a rodeo clown is kinda like a secret service agent. It’s his job to take the horn, no matter how piss-poor the guy he’s defending.

  Piston, Hog, and Tonto hadn’t moved half an inch, but the beast—I don’t really know what else to call it—was walking or gliding or floating or whatever toward them. I raised my stump hand in the air and hollered my best imitation of the Rebel Yell. Great Granddaddy would have been proud.

  “Over here you bloated cloud of cow fart!”

  Alright, so it wasn’t my best insult, but it worked. The thing didn’t much have a head, and I felt more than saw it turn, but I knew I had its full attention.

  “You’re facing an honest-to-God rodeo clown, a card-carrying member of the Brotherhood of the American Bullfighter, local 229, and that’s what I do. I fight bulls twice your size and half as ugly and I’m not one bit afraid of you!”

  And like a bull in the ring, it charged me. It came at me full on, what looked like liquid obsidian, if such a thing is even possible, forming into a mass like a locomotive. I let it come, right until it was almost upon me, and then I simply stepped to the side. It roared past, slamming into the wall of the temple.

  “We call that the pasodoble,” I said. “It’s Spanish.”

  The thing rolled over on itself, like a turning bull, and thrust at me again. So I stepped to the other side and it slid past.

  “That’s the doble!” I hollered at it. It paused in place, floating above the ground. It no longer looked like some kind of Minotaur or classic monster out of a bad horror movie, but like a black orb of impenetrable darkness. I spread my legs and crouched, a linebacker waiting for the snap. In an instant a thick tendril of oil shot out at me, just like it had at the girl earlier. I dove forward, rolling underneath it and out of the way.

  “That all you got?” I yelled as the tentacle recoiled back into the mass. But I was already breathing heavy, and I wasn’t precisely sure just how much I had left. I spared a glance at the Three Stooges. To my utter amazement, they still stood there, rooted to the spot with their mouths hanging open to the floor, and I even thought I saw drool seeping out of Tonto’s. Probably not an unusual occurrence.

  I didn’t have time to say anything as a large arm the size of a telephone poll swung around toward me. I made a guess and lunged like I was going to barrel roll again. The column of ichor crashed to the ground and swept across it. I’d guessed right. Instead of rolling I leapt as far and high as I could, clear over it, landing on the other side on my feet. I ran, knowing the arm was probably swinging back even then.

  I point
ed at Piston and yelled, “Get through the door, you assholes!” Finally understanding sprung back into his eyes. He turned and said something to the other two, but I didn’t hear him. The roar of swirling air and massive movement filled my ears. By the time I glanced back, it was on top of me.

  “Time to make the rounds,” I said to myself. I jumped to the side, right as the form almost touched me—and something told me that even the slightest contact meant death—and it slid past. But this time not all the way, just as I had anticipated. Instead it flipped on itself, attempting to double back on me. As it turned, I turned, and now we were locked in a dance of death, like a dog chasing its tail where the tail was me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the three bikers running for the crack. In a few moments, they would be there. They’d be free. And, well, I’d be dead. I couldn’t turn forever, and with no one to distract it, I’d never escape.

  Then something changed. It sensed, or perhaps it saw, the three running. It stopped turning so abruptly that I almost ran into it, but instead I fell to the ground before it. It formed a wall and, like a wave rolling away from me, arched across the chamber. It waterfalled down in front of the entrance way, blocking the only exit. The three men ground to a halt, Hog slipping and tumbling. The wave crashed down upon him, swallowing him up. He didn’t even have time to scream.

  “Shit,” I said, pushing myself up. There was a fairly hefty stone beside me and I picked it up, unsure of what good it would do. I was exhausted, but I began to run toward the inky, living wall. Piston backed away, his hands up as if he was trying to explain himself to an angry lover. When he turned to run, another tentacle shot from the mass and looped around his right leg. With one giant lurch, it had him hanging in the air, suspended thirty feet above the ground. He screamed like a child, high-pitched and urgent, begging to be released, for whatever held him to just let him go. So, it did. His keening reached its peak and then was silenced, replaced by the crunch of his head splitting open on the ground, like a walnut smashed by a hammer. The creature slid forward over the body and the growing pool of blood, and when it withdrew, the floor was clear and clean.

  Tonto was running toward me as I was running toward him, his eyes filled with madness and fear. I wasn’t sure exactly what we were going to do or where we were going to go, but I figured I’d die fighting, and maybe screaming, too. Tonto was almost to me when I heard a sound like a whip-crack and saw a serpent-like band wrap around his throat. His eyes went wide, and in another instant I knew the beast would have him. I reared back and threw the stone as hard as I could. To my amazement, it struck the tentacle and cleaved it in two. The larger part withdrew; the smaller fell to the ground where it exploded into black smoke upon contact. I was exuberant, and just as I was about to let out a massive war whoop, I looked up at Tonto. His hands went to his neck. His eyes were filled with fear and confusion. And then, I shit you not, he actually giggled. Right before his head tilted to the side and fell with a splat to the ground.

  So that was it. They were all dead, and I was next. The black curtain before me expanded. Its height reached into the infinite darkness above, its width all the way to each wall. I knew then it had been toying with me all along. It could have had me at any point. Could have had any of us. But for some reason known only to whatever mad intelligence guided it, it had waited till now to show its full glory. It began moving forward, and I stumbled back. Past one set of columns and then another. Eventually I’d run out of room and it would take me, but I was in no hurry to see that happen, so I kept walking backward toward the altar.

  Then the wall stopped. It hung there, dividing the room in half, preventing me from my only means of escape, but it came no further. For a moment I wondered why, but then I became aware of another presence. A heard a sound, as of a slapping upon the ground, a great girth moving in jerking steps. I turned to face it, whatever it was, whatever new horror was to meet my eyes. It was not what I expected.

  In my younger years, I’d gigged my share of frogs in the southern swamps. I now repented my youthful indiscretions.

  I’ll explain what I saw, but the best I can tell you is this—it appeared to be a giant frog, a great toad complete with massive belly and globular eyes that looked as if they longed for nothing more than sleep. It was covered with brown fur, which might have been disconcerting on an actual frog but somehow seemed perfectly reasonable here. Its mouth opened slightly, and the tip of a tongue darted out. I fully expected to hear the mightiest ribbit ever to issue forth in the history of the world. But when he spoke, it was only in my mind that I heard it.

  “Bullfighter, I am the one who sleeps. You have awakened me from my slumber.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, almost questioningly. My mind could not process what I was seeing and hearing.

  “No matter. You are not of the cult. The others should have known better.”

  He moved toward me, his massive splayed feet crashing down upon the temple floor with every step.

  “It is a strange thing. I knew another, of your kind, long ago, in a very different place from this. He was a thief, a master at his art, whose name is now lost to the shrouds of time. But not his memory, and not his soul.”

  He raised himself up to meet my eyes, even though one of his was the size of my entire head.

  “Twice our paths crossed, the thief and I. And twice I let him go. I promised him there would not be a third time. And now, I sense some of him in you.”

  I swallowed hard, but my mouth was so dry that there was nothing there to swallow.

  “I see into you. There is courage there, unlike most of your brethren. Enough, I think, to make me overlook my promise, oh Satampra Zeiros.”

  Upon hearing that name, something stirred within me, something I had not known was there.

  “Go,” it said, “and see that you do not come back.”

  It turned from me then and began to shuffle away. I glanced behind me and watched as the great black curtain split down the middle and opened. I looked back at the other beast as it went, the giant frog, and for reasons unknown, I opened my mouth to speak.

  “What do I call you?” I asked.

  It stopped and turned to look upon me. This time when it spoke its voice rang out with such force that it drew the consciousness from me, and it didn’t come back until I woke up, inexplicably, on the main street of the abandoned town above, Sam and Jake shaking my shoulders and screaming at me like they thought I was dead. The beast, the god, didn’t say much. Just one word…

  His own name.

  “TSATHOGGUA!”

  WHAT THE DEAD CAN TELL

  “The problem with you Americans is that you take everything so seriously.”

  Crowley poured another glass of vodka—the good stuff—and slid it across to Toporov. The man’s hands were as steady as the dead when he grasped it.

  “Don’t you think things like this are worth getting serious over?” Crowley asked.

  The old Communist looked at him and grinned. “I get serious over things I can change.” He raised the glass, said something in Russian, and downed it.

  There was a loud buzz and the door opened. In walked Stephenson. Uniform crisp and smart, mouth fixed in a permanent scowl. “We getting anywhere?”

  “Not yet.”

  Stephenson dropped a file folder onto the table, stamped Top Secret and entitled “Golden Halo.”

  “Latest satellite images on the site. You better get to it. Shit’s falling apart fast, and the energy spikes are off the charts. Brief me when you’re done here.”

  Crowley examined the photographs as the door buzzed and Stephenson slipped back outside. The site was hot alright, and time was running short.

  Toporov sat quietly, heavily lidded eyes locked on Crowley. He licked his lips, normally a sign of nervousness but in this case probably not. Toporov wasn’t the kind of man to indulge in nerves. Maybe in the Lubiyanka, Crowley thought. Maybe on his knees over a blood-stained grate with a Makarov
jammed into the base of his skull. He might be scared then.

  But not here, not in Washington, D.C., where diplomatic protocols and common, civilized, western decency protected him from such things. At least for now. Might not for much longer, if things kept getting worse.

  “I am not sure what you want from me, Special Agent Crowley. I am not sure what you believe I can give you.”

  Crowley grinned, falsely. “Come now, Colonel. We’ve known each other long enough to skip the bullshit. Golden Halo has been compromised. You know it and I know it. Things have gone to hell in Moscow. The Wall fell and now the old empire is going with it. Smart guy like you can see what comes next. This is no time for hardliners. Evolve or die, that’s always been the way of the world. Time to crawl out of the ocean and stand on your own two feet.”

  “And crawling out of the ocean means turning over state secrets to you, no?”

  “There is no state, Toporov. The Soviet Union is dead, or it’s damn near close. It’s crumbling even as we speak. In a week the party’ll be outlawed and they’ll be lining loyalists up in front of walls and shooting them. You know how this thing always goes. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. You should just consider yourself lucky we picked you up when we did and took you into protective custody.”

  “Ah yes, protective custody. How could I forget.” And then, lowering his gaze, “I thought we were skipping the bullshit, special agent. Perhaps if you could get me a pack of cigarettes we could talk. The ones with the cowboy, the Marlboro man, if you don’t mind.”

  Crowley reached into his jacket pocket and lobbed a pack of reds onto the table. “See, we’re not so different after all. I even got your favorite color.” Toporov removed a cigarette which Crowley lit before taking one of his own. “So let’s get down to business and I’ll be straight with you if you’re straight with me. We’ve had Golden Halo under aerial and then orbital surveillance for about as long as we’ve had aerial and orbital surveillance. We’ve got no idea what it is, even though we’ve tried to find out—and there are several gold stars on the wall at Langley that tidily sum up our failures. When the shit hit the fan in Moscow, Soviet troops abandoned their positions in mass. From Chernobyl to Vladivostok. What’s left of your central command deployed Spetznaz to protect vulnerable nuclear sites, and that’s good. But Golden Halo has always been protected by the best of the best, and now even they’ve booked it, and that’s bad.”