As Three Portlands disintegrates, a desperate group of survivors try to save the population, while dark forces convene to stop them. An all-new instalment of Comedown Machine.
NOTE: This is Part 7 of the 9 part series Comedown Machine. Try starting at the beginning!
« Threat of Joy ||
"With that settled, does anyone have any questions that are related to neither caffeine nor its absence?"
Special Agent Kenneth Spencer felt like the babysitter to a horde of cyberpunk preschoolers. The crowd assembled in front of his makeshift podium was diverse, even by Three Portlands standards. For this event, a representative had come from nearly every tribe the Portlands survivors had all-too-quickly organised themselves into, here to crowd themselves on soggy plywood in one of the few open spaces in the Portlands Plaza refugee camp. None of them raised their hands.
He sighed. "I am going to count to ten, and then this community meeting will be over, and you'll have to wait til tomorrow. One. Two. Three."
That did the trick. Near the back row, a dull grey robotic hand creaked into the air. Spencer pointed at it. The crowd parted around a stout clockwork automaton with glowing green bulbs for eyes. Her voice caught like an old record. "Several me-members of my congregation ha-have been corroded by the recent th-thaumstorm. Without replacement pa-parts they will die. We believe we could so-solve the problem with the parts from a few of Nikita's wa-warded bicycles, but he refuses to allow us."
A bald, mustachioed man across the crowd cleared his throat. "With all due respect, I run a gear shop, not a robot organ repository. I value cogwork lives as much as anyone else, but I can't jeopardize my business for charity."
Spencer squinted. "And how have sales been, these past few weeks?"
Nikita scoffed. "Well, obviously, business has been on hold while this whole doomsday thing sorts itself out," he said with the liberal application of air quotes. "But I plan to still have a business once I get out of this city."
Spencer leaned forward, elbows on the podium. "Give them the bikes. Do it, or the UIU will give you a crash course in civil forfeiture."
The man grumbled something indistinct and crossed his arms.
Spencer smiled. "You're welcome. This community meeting is now over. Back to your tents, everyone."
The crowd slowly dispersed. Each grimy and creatively-dressed individual milled their way into the tie-dye town of fabric canopies and tarps that had previously been Three Portlands Plaza, the bustling geometric center of the city. Above them, the sky churned with streaks of neon red and sickly clumps of purple clouds, as if the air itself was bubbling over.
Spencer took a deep breath, then dashed between the curtains behind the podium. This tent, nestled against the smoldering ruins of City Hall, had become the provisional headquarters of the Three Portlands Unusual Incidents Unit. Inside was a mishmash of scavenged communications equipment, maps, and folding tables, but it felt just like home compared to the smothering atmosphere outside.
Special Agent Robin Thorne sat at one table, a radio transmitter in their hand and a thin smile on their face. "How'd it go?"
Spencer ignored the question, opting to instead grab a seat of his own. "I'm glad someone enjoyed it. At least they didn't riot when I told them about the coffee."
"Hey, it wasn't too bad for your first time. Renee's voice will be back before you know it, and then you'll get to sit inside all you want."
"Couldn't she just stand there? The implicit trust Portlandsers have for a woman with cat ears is more than I could ever get."
His complaint was interrupted by the noise of commotion. The agents stood up and pulled the tent's curtain aside. "Another fight?" Spencer asked, hand over his holster.
"No," Thorne said. A small group of people were clustered at the far end of the meeting area, looking outwards from the camp, speaking among themselves fearfully and pointing at something in the distance. Past the refugee camp, up the slope and into the ruined city proper, there was a black blur racing down the tram tracks. It was heading straight for them, and gaining speed.
Spencer tilted his head. "What the hell is that?"
Casey struggled to keep his eyes open against the dust-laced wind slamming his face. At this speed, his surroundings were compressed into a pastel mash of half-ruined walls and windows. The dolly was going downhill fast, and ever faster.
He was engaged in a sort of high stakes Twister game, desperately clinging to one side of the wheeled cart. Every time his sweaty fingers slipped, he would lunge forward a few inches to readjust his grip on the straps. It didn't help that his ears were still ringing, and eye socket still swelling, from where Troy had punched him. Opposite Casey was the implacable Vera Garcia, whose steady stance seemed barely budged by any bumps. The duffel bag on her back rippled in the whistling wind. On the back of the cart was their newest acquaintance, technician Darcy Dale. She had hooked her elbow under the cart's handrail, giving her a free hand to keep her eyepatch from being blown away.
Between them was their prize, and a great cause to worry.
The prize: a huge pylon stolen from the Three Portlands headquarters of Oneiroi Incorporated, capable of opening minuscule pinhole Ways to other places. If their plan was well-founded, this was the key to tearing open an exit from Three Portlands and rescuing the thousands of citizens trapped inside before the putrefying city completely crumbled.
The great cause to worry: the near-comatose body of Adam Rowe, strapped against the pylon and shuddering with each bump the cart went over. The young medium had been beaten, burned, and bled nearly to the last ounce. On his left forearm, a long, jagged laceration thrummed with a raw, pink glow, timed to each tortured breath he took.
Casey tore his gaze away from Adam, and the wind stole his tears. He couldn't stop Adam from getting hurt, but he was going to get help, at any cost.
Troy had said that Portlands Plaza was a beehive of potential meme-controlled killers. Even so, it was still the biggest camp of apocalypse survivors in the city. If they could find a doctor, it would be worth the risk.
Casey took a deep breath. It was going to be alright. They would get to the refugee camp soon.
A bit of debris on the tram rails bumped the cart and jolted Casey from relief. Actually, they would get to the camp very soon. The cluster of tents and awnings at the center of the city was growing larger by the second. If they didn't slow down, they would plow right through. And then, at the very least, there would be more competition for medical treatment. Casey was fairly certain that his scavenged rollerblading knee- and elbow-pads would not protect him from getting pancaked on the cobblestones.
He glanced over at Vera. She glanced back, clutching her duffel bag tightly.
"HOW DO WE STOP THIS THING?" Casey tried to shout, but the wind snatched his words as soon as they exited his mouth. He held up one hand as if to say "stop", then waved it a bit for emphasis.
Vera nodded. After a moment of contemplation, she responded with a rapid and precise series of hand gestures that Casey had absolutely no idea how to decipher.
Casey shrugged and shook his head. She responded with another barrage of sign language. Casey shrugged and shook his head again, more intensely this time, to show that he was in the dark on the message's contents, not just trying to reply to it with "I don't know".
She nodded again, and they both took mental stock. They didn't have much to work with—most of their tools had been in Adam's backpack when bandits nabbed it on the way to Oneiroi Inc. Even if they had a spanner to throw into the cart's wheels, it was more likely to derail the whole thing and dash everyone against the pavement.
Casey glanced at Vera's duffel bag. There wasn't much inside it that could be of use: a handgun, a first aid kit, a few plastic-wrapped sandwiches and a lot of scraps deteriorated by Three Portlands' highly hostile climate.
Wait. What if what they needed wasn't inside the bag at all? Casey pointed at the bag, then held up a closed fist. Then he splayed out his fingers.
Vera smiled wide, not minding when the wind contorted the corners of her mouth into a wild shape. Without hesitation, she unzipped her bag, then overturned it beside the cart.
Out fell their scavenged handgun, tumbling end over end into the street and then out of view. The sandwiches followed, then a number of flecks of rust, before finally the first aid kit came out and smashed open on the street. Casey cringed, but first aid was of no use to anyone who died on impact.
As a matter of fact, impact was fast approaching. He saw the refugee camp ahead grow large enough that he could discern individual people, some of whom seemed to be gathering to spectate. He could also see the end of the tracks, where a large red rail buffer was posed to stop runaway trams. But it would do just as well to bring their journey to a sudden end.
Vera fastened the bag to the straps of the cart and then opened it to the wind. The bag filled immediately, a makeshift parachute increasing the cart's drag. Casey was jolted forward slightly. The cart was decelerating.
He breathed a sigh of relief. They would be safe, so long as there was enough track before the rail buffer. He turned back around to see the end of the line and—
The cart stopped, and Casey did not.
As it impacted the buffer, he flew into the air. Everything seemed to move so slowly. The ground was so far away, he almost felt like he wouldn't come back down, until it began approaching again. He was poised to hit face-first.
Elbowpads. Kneepads. He thrust his rollerblading equipment forward just in time for it to take the brunt of the impact, and he skidded across the pavement, joints burning, straining to keep himself from collapsing and grating his face on the stones. When he slid to a full stop, he took a deep breath, then looked over his shoulder.
There was Vera, standing up from her perfectly executed dive roll. Behind her, the cart was against the buffer, and Adam was still securely tied down with the pylon, continuing to shudder. Darcy stood up unsteadily from her position at the back, holding both arms up and cheering. "We did it! And without a scratch, too!" Her right cheekbone was bright pink, from where it had smashed directly against the dolly's handrail.
Casey groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. Even if the pads had taken the brunt of the impact, he could tell that his limbs were going to be sore as hell. In front of him was the Three Portlands Plaza refugee camp, distorted by the sheets of hot air clinging to the cobblestone. It was sweltering; the heat seemed to cling especially to the lower parts of town.
He blinked, and could see several figures approaching. People in dirty suits—FBI agents. At the peak of the formation was Special Agent Kenneth Spencer. He was holding a gun and looked rather tense.
Casey shouted, "Agent Spencer! We were hoping to talk to your people. We need some medical attention."
Spencer paused as he looked over the ragtag group. He still had his gun at the ready. "Are you Casey Malik?"
"Yes, hi!" Casey waved. "Wait, how do you know my name?"
"You're wanted. For murder."
"Oh. Right."
Darcy strode past the cart, indignant. "Hey, that's not fair. Casey is innocent. It was mind control!"
Spencer blinked. "Do you have any evidence for that claim?"
"Evidence?" she scoffed. "The same thing happened to me! I got a worm in my brain, and it made me stab a- hm."
The agent took a deep breath and rubbed his temple. He gestured at Vera. "What about you? Have you done any crimes?"
"None that are relevant right now."
"Greeeeeeat," Spencer said. "More paperwork."
Casey's wrists chafed against too-tight zipties. He sat on the edge of their cart, Adam's head cradled in his lap, while Vera and Darcy were clustered on the other side. It took two agents to heave the trolley forwards over the ragged, misshapen stones of the wrecked plaza, teetering back and forth with every little bump. Agent Spencer walked alongside it, pausing momentarily every time a crooked wheel got stuck on a broken brick.
"So," Casey said. "Are you guys out of handcuffs?"
"Yes." Spencer coughed into his hand. "I mean, that doesn't matter. You've been detained."
Crowds parted around the cart as they passed between torn tents and ramshackle huts. People were hurting, picking half-edible scraps out of corroded cans and stitching patches on threadbare clothing. In only a few weeks, Three Portlands had almost completely crumbled. They stared at Casey with sorrow. He couldn't meet their gaze.
Into the crowd, Casey spotted two familiarly ugly pastel jackets attempting to blend in. It was the pair of motorcycle bandits that jacked their gear, milling awkwardly in a line to receive gruel. He scowled at them as meanly as he could manage. They weren't looking his way.
Sadly, banditry still paled in comparison to murder, so Spencer paid them no mind. "Can I ask what exactly you're doing here with what I assume is stolen equipment?"
"Look, we have a plan, to get everyone out of Three Portlands before the city collapses." Casey leaned in as much as his restraints allowed. "We need your help."
Spencer scratched his patchy chin. "What's the plan?"
"I'll give you details," Casey said, "after you get Adam a doctor."
"I don't know what kind of person you think I am, but I'm not keeping anyone from a doctor. We're headed to the medic tent right now."
"Oh. Sorry. I mean, this hasn't been a great first impression."
"Why? Because I arrested you for that murder you did?"
Casey looked down. "Darcy wasn't lying. There's a worm in my brain that- it made me do that stuff. There are strange things afoot. A whole conspiracy. You must have noticed how off things are."
Spencer glanced up at the blood-red sky that ran with rivulets of magenta like melted crayons. He looked back at Casey, lips pursed.
"I- I mean," Casey stammered, "even before all this."
Spencer nodded. "I won't lie. There have been some unusual incidents."
"Let me guess. Murders, lack of motive, perpetrator dead soon after? I know it's been happening, I've seen the files."
The agent gave him a curious look. Before he could respond, the cart entered a wide, square tent packed full of stretchers and sick refugees in various states of consciousness. A one-armed woman wearing a coat that was once white welcomed them, bearing an altogether incongruous grin. "Hi! Um—" she looked over the five battered and bruised ones sitting on the cart. "Which one's the patient?"
"He is." Casey jerked his head towards Adam's limp body. "He is seriously hurt. Please."
The doctor glanced to Spencer. He nodded. "These are all… suspects. To varying degrees. Go ahead, we'll just be keeping an eye on them."
Other agents in patchy uniforms led Darcy and Vera off to the other side of the tent, but left Casey, pouting and bleary-eyed, who could not be detached from Adam's side with a crowbar.
The doctor set to work peeling Adam off the cart and setting him on a stretcher. He groaned with every movement. The Oneiroi security field had left his skin singed and stinging, and the jagged slice on his left arm still glowed with sickly light. Casey's eyes pleaded with the doctor. She gave him a grim smile.
As the doctor hurriedly applied her limited supply of balm, another suited figure ducked into the tent. Spencer turned to greet them. "Glad you could make it, Agent Thorne."
Special Agent Robin Thorne wore a thin smile. "It sounds like it's the most interesting thing to happen in days, and that's saying something. So— wait." They did a double-take at the body on the stretcher. "Is that Adam Rowe?"
Casey raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
The agent went to Adam's side, bearing a face of equal concern and confusion. "He helped me with a personal project a few months ago. Still kind of owe him for that, in fact."
"Okay, good! How much do you owe him? Is it enough to let us go?"
"I wouldn't go that far." They looked him over. "You're Casey?"
Before he could respond, Adam let out a loud groan. He held his uninjured arm over his face, squinting through too-bright lights at the people surrounding his stretcher. "Is that… Robin?"
"Yes."
"You still owe me a favor."
Thorne sighed. "Yes, I know. What can I do for you?"
"Um…" Adam's breathing was jagged and hoarse. "Do you have any apple juice?"
Robin fetched a juice box from the med-tent's refreshment bin and handed it over. Adam popped the straw in and took a deep drag. Then he looked up at them.
"That wasn't the favor. You still owe me."
"Sure."
"Adam!" Casey tried to get as close to him as he could, given the bindings. "Are you okay? How are you feeling?"
"I'm…" Adam breathed, "still hanging on."
Thorne frowned. "To be honest, you look terrible. What happened? I thought you were supposed to be laying low?"
He let out a hacking cough. "I dunno. I feel like I'm pretty low right now, all things considered." While he spoke, and took intermittent sips of juice, the doctor was still hooking up an IV. "Look, Three Portlands didn't just die, it was murdered. Some big conspiracy put my boyfriend under mind control and framed him for murder. I left Backdoor SoHo to save him, but we couldn't stop them from killing the Mayor."
Thorne's face hardened. They gave Spencer an intense look.
Spencer shook his head. "Robin, not in front of the perps."
"But later."
"Later, yes."
They looked back at Adam. "So what happened to you?"
He put his bruised arm down. "A lot of things. My dad sent us looking for a way out, but we all got hurt pretty bad on the way."
Thorne pointed at the jagged chasm on his arm. "That happened on the way here?"
"No, I got it about three weeks ago, just before the Mayor died."
"Three weeks? Adam, that's a serious injury. EVE is practically pouring from it. Every time you use magic, the drain will just amp up, and the wound is going to get even worse. You have to let it recover."
He moved his free hand over the wound, but didn't touch it. "No. I have to protect my people. There are threats out there they can't deal with, but I can."
Thorne's voice was heavy with concern. "Adam, even if you quit magic cold turkey right this second, you still might lose the arm. If you don't stop, I guarantee it will kill you."
Casey's eyes went wide. "Adam, you can't protect anyone if you're dead."
"Don't you talk to me about the dead!" In an instant, Adam's voice boomed. "They are everywhere. Survivors are dying in droves. Camps are being crushed by waves of pavement and showers of brickwork. And even dead, they're still stuck here, staring at me through my eyelids! We're all going to die soon enough, unless I can get us out of here."
Casey shook. "Adam, you can't do that alone! You just can't. You've saved us, but we saved you too. We protect each other. I'm getting better at it. I got you out of Oneiroi alive, didn't I?"
"I…" Adam sighed. "I wish you didn't have to. I wish you could've just gone your whole life without ever needing to deal with death like this. You shouldn't have to. No-one should."
"I know," Casey said. "But we make the best of what we get, right?"
Slowly, unsteadily, Adam leaned towards Casey, drawing him nearer until their foreheads touched. His breath was warm. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
"You're under a lot of pressure."
"So are you." He paused, then looked away. "I'll try to tone things down. For you."
"That's all I ask. I love you, Adam."
"I love you too."
"I hate to interrupt," Thorne said, "but you were talking about a way out. That seems awfully important."
"Yeah, it is." Adam held himself up by his elbows. "What we have on the cart is a machine from Oneiroi Inc that creates pinhole Ways. My father Eustace thinks our normal Ways are getting blocked by something the conspiracy's doing on the other side, but he thinks he could use this machine to force through the blocker and stabilize the connection long enough to evacuate. We just need to get it to him."
Thorne pulled up a shaky folding chair. "Why get it to him? Why can't he come here?"
"I don't know exactly what he needs for the working, but has an old house full of materials and paratech. More than his ancient ass can carry across the city, that's for sure. And there's… another problem."
Thorne leaned in. "We're in a problem-solving headspace. Let's hear it."
"Back at Oneiroi, while we were figuring out how the machine worked, we briefly made contact with the conspiracy. We didn't get any details, but one of our… companions turned against us, and fed as much info as she could to them before we could stop her. There's a good chance they've realized what Eustace is about to do, and they know where he lives. We need to get back fast."
"And," Casey spoke, staring straight ahead, "Troy told us that Darcy and I weren't the only ones with dormant mind control worms. He said there could be two hundred sleeper agents here in the refugee camp, with no idea they're infected, just waiting for a trigger. He said it was a beehive."
Thorne nodded gravely. "These are problems."
"And still," Casey said, his voice shaking, "Eustace thinks it's his fault he didn't stop the Mayor's death. Even though it's been my fault all along."
Thorne nodded less gravely. "Okay, that sounds more like an interpersonal issue, but I'm sure it sucks."
"It does, yeah."
"Look," Thorne said, "even if the elder Rowe can open a Way, how are we supposed to get everyone through? We've got thousands of survivors here, but there are other camps, too. ICSUT's dome over Anderson Field is still intact, some folks are set up in the old Anderson building in Prometheus Plaza, and I think the Deeries are taking cover in Vincent Anderson Hall."
"Did they really not change the names?"
"We tried, but there were protests. Say what you will about the man, he financed some durable buildings."
"I think once Eustace establishes a stable link," Adam said, "it might clear the way for other people to open their own ways unassisted. We'll just have to send word when the time comes.
Thorne tapped the radio on their belt. "We can do that, yeah. What else do you need?"
"We need some kind of transport. It took days just to get to the Oneiroi building."
"The bike punks!" Casey exclaimed. "Our stuff got stolen while we were travelling. The bandits had motorbikes and very distinctive jackets, and I saw them in the camp! If you get us their bikes, we can tow the cart to Eustace, way faster than we can walk."
Thorne scratched their chin. "I think that's doable. It's best if I come with you, anyways. Bandits won't mess with an FBI escort."
Adam nodded weakly. "I wouldn't say no. Having another wizard around might be a major help."
Spencer was standing aside, his arms crossed. "Wait, wait. We're making a lot of plans that involve multiple suspected murderers. We can't just let you go solely on your word."
Thorne gave him a glare. "What about my word?"
"You don't have the authority, Robin."
The other agent snatched a scalpel from the tray. "Then stop me."
Casey yelped as Thorne sliced through his zipties. Agent Spencer just frowned.
"This is more important than anything, Ken. We can't let them win."
"I know," Spencer said, looking away. "I know that."
Thorne pointed the scalpel at Adam. "There's your get-out-of-jail-free card. Now make the most of it. Please."
Adam crushed the empty juicebox in his palm. "Will do. Can, uh… can someone help me up?"
"And you're sure you don't have our backpack?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty goddamn sure!" The bandit was held belly-down on the ground, trying and failing to spit on Spencer's shoes, rapidly running out of saliva. "We stashed it in a ruin, but the quake collapsed the whole thing."
"Well, that sucks." Adam prodded the man with the IV stand he'd been using as a walking stick. "What about your bikes?"
The ziptied woman in Thorne's grasp sputtered. "They're stashed, but you can't take those! They're ours!"
Thorne sighed. "We're taking your bikes to save everyone in the city, which includes you."
"Bullshit, copper!" The man on the ground spat again. "You'll take everything we've got! What's next, you want our jackets too?"
Adam smoothed the cuffs of his new jacket. He had to be mindful; the doctor bandaged his arm thoroughly, but if the wound started acting up again, it would burn through the sleeves as well as the gauze.
They'd hauled the cart with the pinhole machine to the edge of camp, and now a jury-rigged harness of rope and chain connected it to the two rusted motorbikes they'd recently acquired. It was a sad chariot, but a chariot nonetheless. Casey knelt next to the setup, triple-checking that every knot was tied tight.
The UIU had attempted to keep a lid on the plan, but a crowd of nosy survivors had gathered around regardless. Spencer stood by, keeping watch over the mass of people, as well as over Vera and Darcy while the latter bid her goodbyes. Spencer insisted she stay in his custody—he could tolerate releasing one admitted murderer, but two was a bit much.
Darcy handed Vera a scrap of paper, dense with scribbles. "So that's my phone number, my Void handle, my Instagram, my home address, and my emergency contact. Do you need anything else?"
Vera just slipped the note into her pocket. "I don't need any of it, actually. Don't worry. I'll find you."
Darcy beamed. "Haha okay cool."
Thorne finished fastening a radio to the frame of Adam's bike. "That should do it for supplies, at least. We'll send the message when the time comes or if we run into any snags." They looked out across the city, over the Lime District where Eustace Rowe resided. In the sky above it, pink stormclouds drifted together in sinister confluence, arcing with jagged lightning. "There may be snags."
Casey nodded. "I guess that's why we're rush— arghhh." He doubled over. A shock from his brainstem ran though his spine like a jagged razor.
Adam leapt to his side. "Casey, what's wrong?"
He groaned. "Head hurts. Darcy—"
Adam's head snapped around, to see Darcy collapse to her knees. A dissonant harmony of moans filled the air. There were far more than two voices. Half the crowd was clutching their heads.
Thorne put their hand over their gun. "The beehive. Adam, Vera, get out of here. Now."
Spencer and Thorne drew their sidearms. Haltingly, the crowd lurched closer. Adam hopped up onto his bike and revved the engine. "Come on, come on… Vera! Get Casey!"
Casey squinted through swimming vision. "I don't… I don't feel like myself." He looked up. Vera stood in front of him, frowning sadly, her arm reared back, knuckles white.
"Casey, I am very sorry."
Her right hook decked him in the temple, and everything went dark.
Casey hurt. His head was pounding with every bump in the road, and he couldn't open his eyes. All he could feel was the throbbing of a dozen bruises and what felt like gallons of sweat seeping from his skin.
He squirmed, but he was bound. Every action felt like moving through wet concrete, and it was drier by the second. He could hear his name being called, but it sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel.
The rattling of the cart beneath him came to a stop. He felt himself being lifted and then— BANG. A lightning strike, what felt like mere feet away. His eyes cracked open.
Adam was struggling to carry him to the steps of an edifice built like a courthouse. Rain was coming down, but the instant it hit the ground it congealed into a pink ooze that gathered in the gutters and between the dust-rotting cobblestones of Outer Portlands. They were all soaked.
He could see Vera struggling to push the cart through the sludge. The bikes had been detached, cast aside and flooded with gunk. With a heave the dolly smashed into the bottom step—then, like a soap bubble, it popped up into the air and stayed there. The straps undid themselves, and the massive pillar of industrial equipment drifted up the steps of the house.
Another crack of lighting lit up the door, and there stood an ancient necromancer in a dingy robe. "You're late," Eustace said. The pinhole machine floated past him, into the darkness.
Casey stirred in Adam's arms. His brain still felt like scrambled eggs, but he was regaining his balance. Adam set him back on his feet, but kept him supported.
Eustace glanced at Casey with a look more quizzical than concerned. "What happened to him?"
"A lot of things happened to everyone," Adam said. "Can we go inside now?"
"Yeah, yeah." The old man turned around, following the machine into his home. Adam, then Casey, then Vera followed, leaving the cart to be buried in mush.
The house was so dark and isolated it felt like they were entering a deep cave, even though they could still hear the raging storm outside. Eustace proceeded to the kitchen, where the pinhole pillar had been telekinetically settled between Hevel, an organic supercomputer that resembled a jukebox made of laminated entrails, and a sink full of dirty dishes. Hevel's attached control helmet sat alongside filthy bowls that resembled it far too closely.
"I was following your progress," Eustace said. "At least, I was watching the map." He clapped his hands, and a spray of blue and purple sparks spewed from his fingertips to coalesce into his holographic map of Three Portlands. The basic shape of it was warped, even compared to a few days ago, the bowl-like curvature of the city slowly curling up like a closing flower.
"I kept an eye on that spot, the Oneiroi headquarters, until the Way-signature blipped out of existence. I assume that was you stealing this thing. But you didn't use the way-opener, even though that was our explicitly-discussed plan." He jabbed the floating model with his finger for emphasis.
Casey coughed, still regaining his sense of balance. "We got mugged. They took the bag that had the way-opener. So we brought the pillar to you instead."
"Well, it's all the same now. Uh, good job." Eustace turned to scrutinize his new hardware.
Casey screwed up his mouth. "There's another thing. The conspiracy knows what we're doing. We think they might try something."
"We were at the camp in Portlands Plaza," Adam said. "We were attacked by a mob of worm-controlled survivors. It's only a matter of time before they retaliate."
Eustace sighed. He fiddled with the meaty tubes that attached to Hevel, pondering their interface with the pinhole device. "It's okay. We'll work fast. I'll be maintaining the Way out of the city, and I won't stop even if they kill me. To be honest, they might not have to."
Adam's brow furrowed. "What?"
"I've been thinking. About a lot of things." Eustace kept his back to the rest. "Even with our equipment, a working like this requires a great deal of power. A blood sacrifice. And I… I've had a good run."
"Dad, you can't be serious."
He turned to face them, expression still as bone. "I am. This city has been my home for years. It's gone forever now, all because I failed to act when I needed to, when you first brought this crisis to me. I doubted you, and now we're all paying the price. It's only right that I go down with the ship. One act of redemption, for my decades of being a stodgy asshole."
"No." Casey's eyes were wide. His hands shook. "No, you can't do that."
Eustace blinked. "Since when do you tell me what I can't do?"
Adam put a hand on Casey's shoulder. "Casey, easy…"
"Because," Casey said, taking a deep breath, "it's not your fault. It never was. It's mine."
Eustace's face dropped. "What?"
"It wasn't that we were too slow to save the Mayor. We were playing into the conspiracy's hands all along. I distracted the Mayor for just long enough that the other bomber was able to kill them. The plot is so large, so all-encompassing, they had dozens of assets, dozens of people just like me, working towards their goals without even knowing. No matter how we acted, it was always going to turn out that way."
Eustace looked at his hands, silent.
"But," Casey continued, "that's not the important part. What's important is that I lied to you. I felt so much guilt I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. When you accepted the blame, I just let you. Because you were nicer to me. Because it took the pressure off. Because it felt so good pretending that I wasn't the one who fucked up. The one who killed Three Portlands. But I was. I am."
"I'm tired of watching people die. I'm tired of pretending. Eustace, I am so, so sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me, but ghhhhk—"
Eustace's hand snapped shut around Casey's throat like a bear trap. The necromancer lifted him as easily as a ragdoll and slammed him into the kitchen wall, eyes alight in fury without name.
"YOU FUCKING DISGRACE. I was right to hate you. Such bitter fucking vindication this is."
Casey's arms flailed for purchase, struggling to get a grip on Eustace's bony forearm.
"Dad, put him down!" Adam charged forward, but Eustace threw his free hand back with fingers crossed. Rivulets of sap sprang forth from Adam's very skin, flash-fossilizing into a coating of amber that froze him like a preserved insect from the neck down. He gasped as the air was forced from his lungs.
"You don't get a say anymore, Adam. I allowed you bring this parasite into my home, and I'll discipline you for that, later. First, I'm going to kill him. One day you'll thank me for letting you watch."
The necromancer squeezed Casey's windpipe. His other hand traced the contours of his face with razor sharp nails. "You know, I can't kickstart this escape plan without blood. Why don't you volunteer? It's just one death compared to the thousands that stain your hands."
"Enough." Eustace felt sharp metal pressing up against his back, threatening to slip between his ribs. Vera spoke through gritted teeth. "Put him down. Now."
Eustace released his grip, and Casey crashed to his knees, gasping for air. "Fucking cockroaches! Sabotaging me!" Eustace shrieked as he spun to face Vera. "Are there any depths to which you won't sink to ruin my goddamn day?"
She held a kitchen knife, eyes trained on his jugular. He grinned, his shadow cast over the room. "Vera, humoring you has been one of the great displeasures of my life. You've done nothing but hurt me." He clenched his gnarled fist, and a jagged spike of bone grew out of his forearm.
Vera bared her teeth as they circled each other. "I've had better hosts, if I'm being honest."
Casey's voice was hoarse, tears streamed down his face. "Stop, stop, please."
Eustace snapped around again, waving his morbid shiv. "There you go again, telling us what to do! You goddamn leech. How many times does the world have to beat you down before you learn to shut your mouth?"
Adam struggled to regain his breath, still bound in fossilized sap. "Stop or I'll hurt you."
Eustace sneered. "Then do it, boy."
Adam took a deep breath and shivered. The dead were all around him, still, buffeting his spirit. The chasm on his arm glowed through the amber—
"Adam, no." Casey whimpered. Adam looked at him, worry etched into his face, and let out a shuddering exhale. The glow faded.
Eustace tilted his head, distracted for a moment from his fury. "What? What's wrong?"
"It's killing him," Casey sputtered. "The magic. He can't do it."
The necromancer squinted, looking between Casey on the floor, Adam trapped in amber, and Vera with the knife. "Not even to save your life?"
Casey shook his head. "We're all just trying to save each other. To save something, anything. Eustace, please."
Eustace rubbed his temples, sighing heavily through clenched teeth. The bone spike slid back into his forearm, and the amber around Adam dissolved to sand.
Before he could speak, there was a discordant chime, the sound of bells emanating from the holographic map of the city. At one place on the outskirts, in the Lime district, around their current location, numerous flashes of light blinked into existence.
"Oh no," Adam said. "They're coming."
Eustace nodded. "Everyone, get in the pantry."
"But-"
"Do as I say."
Adam frowned, and helped Casey to stand up, unstable as he was. Vera slid her knife into her coat pocket, a suspicious eye trained on Eustace.
The old man cracked his knuckles. "Let them come. I need to get some violence out of my system."
There were eight in total, trained exhaustively and lettered by seniority. They trudged through pink slush that writhed with twitching worms and minnows spontaneously generated from the raging storm overhead.
The building that stood before them was foreboding, but not impenetrable. They planted breaching charges on the leeward wall. Moments later, it blasted inwards, obliterated to splinters and scraps of viscera. The squad filed through the hole, into what was once a bedroom, brandishing their warded rifles. The two agents in the rear spread a dull gray powder behind them as they moved; the structural wound was cauterized and the exposed beams fizzled like salt on a slug. The house shivered and groaned, a wounded animal.
Together, they moved into the parlor. One soldier kept their rifle trained on murky specimen jars on a shelf, while another was focused on the next open doorway, which led to the hall. Neither watched the coffee table.
The table erupted into motion. It leapt at a soldier, striking them squarely in the head, then kicked off with wooden legs to soar to another target. On impact, it shattered into splinters that swarmed like angry bees and wormed into the cracks in their protective gear. The specimen jars burst of their own accord, spewing soul-dissolving fluid onto the nearest agent.
The squad leader uncapped a warding charge on their vest. It spewed a cloud of thaumic chaff, and the traps in the room sputtered to stillness. The house groaned, straining overhead as the walls began to crack.
The squad rushed into the hallway as the roof came down, a whole corner of the house crumbling in self-destructive defense. Five made it out.
They rushed down the hallway, checking each room and peppering suspicious items with staccato burst-fire. In a dark branch from the hall, the silhouette of an old man stood, hands up, unarmed.
The soldiers opened fire. After the first dozen bullets, the figure crumpled to the floor. They didn't release the trigger for another two dozen rounds.
One agent kept their rifle trained on it, while another moved forward to confirm the kill.
They nudged the bleeding corpse with their boot. It was slowly deflating, like a balloon full of blood.
The skin unpeeled from the decoy and wrapped around the soldier's ankle, invading their pant leg and coiling around their body like a slimy boa. In a mere moment, there was a crunch, and the soldier collapsed.
The other soldier swapped their magazine for incendiary rounds while the skin released its victim. It slithered quickly along the ground towards the next target, but it wasn't faster than their aim. Concentrated bullets ignited it, and it sizzled with a sick stench. But it didn't stop moving. The flaming skin coiled into a spring and launched at the soldier's head, enveloping it in fire.
The warding cloud came too late. The soldier fell to the ground.
There were three. They proceeded past the decoy, down the hallway. Ahead was the entrance to the kitchen.
Eustace was pressed against the wall, waiting beside the kitchen entryway.
The instant the first soldier came through, he pounced on them. A jagged spike of bone jutted from his wrist, and he drove it through the soldier's neck, again and again and again.
The second soldier pivoted instantly to fire on him. He clutched the first one's corpse and imbued it with resilience as it was filled with bullets. Sanctified rounds were enough to make reanimation of the flesh impossible. But only the flesh.
Eustace pushed his hand through the body's back and the soldier's skeleton burst out, bones bristling with rapidly-growing thorns as it set on its former comrade with fury, driving them to the ground, rending and tearing.
The last soldier darted into the room. They had their eyes on Hevel, and pointed their rifle at its vulnerable guts.
Eustace tackled them, grasping the rifle's barrel just for a moment. In his hand, the rifle sprouted arthropod limbs and began writhing and scratching angrily at the soldier's grasp. They relinquished it, and the new lifeform fell to the ground and skittered out of view.
The soldier shoved Eustace back and drew their sidearm. The old man brought up his right hand just in time to summon a barrier, so the first few bullets clattered to the ground uselessly. He was breathing hard, nearly spent. He only had so much blood.
Another two bullets were blocked. The soldier drew a silvered hatchet from the strap on their leg. They lunged and swung, catching Eustace in his left arm. Not a direct hit; a flesh wound, but a nasty one. He hissed at the soldier as his blood steamed.
They circled each other. Eustace was straining to keep himself upright, let alone to fight back. The soldier scrutinized their prey.
They fired their sidearm again. Eustace threw his hand up to block just in time, but the hatchet was swinging from the right—
Eustace's right hand hit the floor with a meaty thud. His eyes were wide, staring at his wrist, which quickly gushed with blood.
Blood.
As the soldier aimed their final shot at Eustace's head, he thrust out his stump and his blood spewed like a boiling geyser. The eruption struck them in the chest, melting through layers of kevlar and beryllium bronze. Behind him, his severed hand shriveled like a dead spider, then imploded into powdered bone.
The soldier fell backwards. Eustace advanced on them with a wicked grin. The gout of blood dissipated, and the soldier's torso was reduced to a sludge-coated ribcage.
Eustace's smile faded, and he fell to his knees, panting hard.
"Dad!" The conjured wall covering the pantry door vanished, and Adam ran out with Casey and Vera in tow. "Dad, are you okay?"
"Stupid goddamn assassins," Eustace grumbled, "severing my dominant goddamn hand. Rude. Disrespectful." His weak fingers clutched the soldier's dropped hatchet. He raised it over his head, and brought it down on their wrist with a sickening crunch.
Eustace snatched his gloved trophy, still warm, and held it to his stump. The torn skin scarred over, foreign flesh interlacing to affix an unfamiliar hand to his arm. He flexed his new fingers experimentally.
He looked up at Adam, blood dripping from his ears and nose. "I'll be fine."
"Dad, you're not well. You need medical attention."
"No, I don't. We need to act, right now. The way I see it, life has just handed us a fantastic blood sacrifice.
"Okay, dad. So what do we do now?"
"What else?" Eustace said, tossing his new glove aside. "We make lemonade."
Lemonade was a lot more complicated than anyone remembered. Over the course of an hour, and with exacting instruction yelled across the kitchen by the currently-chairbound Eustace Rowe, they had slowly integrated Oneiroi's pinhole machine with their organic computer.
Painstakingly, they had woven fleshy umbilicals with the cold steel workings of the interdimensional machine. Now the hybrid loomed over the kitchen, the mechanical pillar jutting from Hevel's guts like a spear.
As uncomfortable as it was to look at, Casey preferred that view over the one behind him. Adam and Vera had, at Eustace's instruction, gathered the bodies of the home invaders and dragged them into a crudely drawn circle of blood on the opposite side of the room. Grisly fuel for a grisly furnace.
The old man was right at home. His face gaunt and determined, he raised Hevel's control helmet onto his head. He closed his eyes. Adam, Vera, and Casey all came close.
The machine shuddered to life.
He shivered. Hevel was pulsing, and blue streaks of energy arced along the side of the pinhole machine. He raised his hand, and a body in the blood circle slowly began to shrivel.
"Argh," Eustace groaned. "It's a wall. They're blocking us. They have something on the other side, a system of machines… gathering the Ways and cutting them short."
Casey was breathless. "What does that mean?"
"It means if I summon a sustained Way, it's just as likely to shunt us to the Outside. I'll only be able to keep it stable for a moment. Maybe enough for one person to get through, but not a whole city. And the redirector means it's just going straight to our opposition's outpost. Suicide."
"Wait, wait," Casey said, "that can't be it. The people who attacked us, they must have had an escape plan, right?"
Adam nudged one of the corpses with his foot. "Something like that. I think it's a sympathetic recall link, based on the law of contagion. Only works in a tiny area around the target, but a way to affect someone even across a universal barrier, if the link is strong enough."
"What if we use that?" Casey was frantic. "You said there's a machine. What if we send someone, they get close to it, and we can use magic to break it from here?"
Eustace nodded, slowly. He took off the helmet and set it in his lap. "It's possible. But I'm too drained to keep a link like that going. And the contagion link would need to be very strong."
"Oh god, oh god." Casey put his head in his hands. "It has to be me." He looked up at Adam. "It has to be us."
"It could work," Eustace said. "Adam's hurt, but he can still do magic. Hevel can help take the load off. And," he added bitterly, "the link between you two should be strong enough."
"And they probably won't kill me," Casey said blankly. "I'm an asset, after all."
Vera reached out to him. "Casey, this is a lot to ask. If you don't want to go, I won't blame you. None of us would."
Eustace sneered. Vera shot him a glare. "None of us would," she repeated.
"I can do it. I have to do it. But Adam, you…"
"It's okay," Adam said sheepishly, cradling his wounded arm. "I'll be careful."
Vera nodded. "Casey, I've seen you do amazing things. You've come such a long way."
"Without you, I would have been dead weeks ago. I've had so much help."
"You still have help. And when all this is over, if you're ever interested, a spot at the Directorate will be waiting for you."
"Thanks, Vera." He pulled her into a hug.
Eustace sighed heavily. "Look, Casey…"
Casey turned to him. The old man put a limp hand on Casey's shoulder. "When I first met you, I thought you were weak. A spineless sycophant with nothing to offer the world; a parasite that drains talent and drive from anyone you latch onto."
He continued. "Everything you have done since then has been entirely consistent with that impression. I am an exceptional judge of character."
Casey frowned.
"That said. If you ever wanted to prove me wrong, now's your chance."
"Um, thank you, Eustace."
The old man released his shoulder and gave him a single nod.
"Adam—" Before Casey could say another word, Adam wrapped his arms around him.
"Casey," he murmured, "be careful, okay? Come back to me."
"I will. We're going to get everyone out of here." His hand moved to Adam's arm, close to his pulsing wound. "You need to pace yourself, okay? You don't have to go against the whole world on your own. You can work with it."
"I'll try. I'll try my hardest, I swear. I love you."
"I love you too." Their lips met, and for a few moments it seemed like the world was still.
They separated reluctantly. Adam took the control helmet from Eustace, and set it on his head. Hevel churned, and he winced, adjusting to the connection.
Casey turned and looked at the pinhole machine. The tip of the pillar sparked with green and blue plasma. The ramshackle array could mean salvation for the people of Three Portlands, or maybe certain death. But every passing second risked more lives.
"I think I'm ready."
It was early morning in the woods west of Portland, Maine. The sun had just truly warmed up, the shoots of new wildflowers glistened with dew. The air was calm and cool, and the sky was a vibrant blue.
Far from the city, at the base of a tall hemlock tree, a man named Casey Malik had just materialized out of thin air.
Slowly, he lifted his face from the soft peat and took a deep breath. It was the freshest air he had tasted in weeks. His stomach churned as he gradually worked himself into a sitting position.
He heard a bird's cry, then the noise of rustling undergrowth and snapping sticks. Half a dozen agents in black tactical gear and rifles emerged from the bushes, their rifles trained on Casey's heart.
"Um," Casey said. "Good morning?"
He heard a click. A stinging shock pierced his chest.
Then everything went dark.
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