CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bleak heard shouting, running footsteps, around the corner ahead—and Loraine was that way. He turned reluctantly back. He would have to trust Scribbler.
A startling rattle of gunfire behind him—bullets pocked the wall to his left. Then he'd turned right, around a corner. A short corridor, and up ahead it turned left again.
As he ran, Bleak threw an energy bullet into an overhead light. The bulb shattered from within, and this short stretch of corridor went dark. He turned, threw a larger ball of energy at the floor by the corner where the black berets were rushing up—the floor tiles shattered, the corner edge of the wall blew apart, and the pursuing men yelled and backed up. Bleak closed his eyes, huddling into the darkest spot in the corridor. The alarm was still blaring.
“Whoa—some kind of grenade!” one of them yelled. “Hold on—we can call unit two to trap him.”
“That wasn't a damn grenade, man—let's just rush him!”
Bleak was forming the cocoon of darkness in the corner, under the darkened light. He'd just enclosed himself when the black-beret guards looked around the corner...and saw no one.
He heard them run past him, clattering down the corridor. He waited a four count, then dropped the cocoon of darkness. He was alone—but it wouldn't last. He started down the corridor, jogging along, the alarm louder with each step—and saw a circuit box near the ceiling, marked ALARM. He sent an energy bullet into it and the alarm shut off. Another twenty paces—and a corridor led left, into a series of locked doors, and right into a structure like a covered bridge to another building.
Words scribbled themselves luminously on the floor just in front of him:
Turn right
A surveillance camera looked down the hallway. If he destroyed it, the feed would go blank— they'd know where he was. He ignored the camera and ran down the wooden-walled passage, through double metal doors into another building. Glanced at the floor...
Right again then left.
He hurried right, then left...and heard men shouting behind him. They'd almost found him again. He stopped at a closed door painted a dull green—with Scribbler's red handwriting luminous across it:
This is it. As the words faded out, Bleak formed an energy bullet in his right hand, opened the door with his left, and stepped through—and time seemed to slow, for a moment, as he took in the crowded conference room.
He saw four men and a young boy. Three of the men, on Bleak's right, wore military uniforms— all three at a general's rank.
The man in the white shirt, with the slash-mark eyebrows and short beard, was standing next to the kid, on Bleak's left.
Gulcher, Bleak thought, intensifying the energy bullet in his hand. This is what Scribbler meant.
Gulcher and the boy were focused in concentration on the odd tableau in front of him in which one of the generals, a tall man with a craggy face, was strangling the shorter one, who was on his knees, face red and bloating, passively allowing it to happen.
And the third general was humming tunelessly to himself as he documented the whole thing with a small digital movie camera. His ID badge read FORSYTHE.
The strangling continued. The man's face was purpling, swelling. Bleak recognized the strangler —General Swanson. One of the Joint Chiefs—strangling another general. Apparently for the amusement of Forsythe—whom Bleak knew, by reputation, as the head of the CCA.
Forsythe was just lowering the camera, turning to look at Bleak. Who tried to decide what to do with the energy bullet beginning to burn his hand.
“Ain't this funny,” the chubby kid said, to himself, staring at the two men, the strangler and the strangled. The boy's T-shirt, Bleak noticed, read BRAINSUCKER. The boy's hands were clenching, though there was nothing in them, as if he were doing the strangling himself.
The kid was controlling the strangler, Bleak guessed. Gulcher was controlling the strangled man.
Bleak threw the energy bullet instinctively—it exploded with a strobelike flash in the air just in front of the boy and Gulcher. Both of them threw their hands up to protect their eyes, concentration broken.
General Swanson gave out a cry of relief and outrage, jerking his hands away from the other man. Wasn't the kneeling man General Erlich? From the Joint Chiefs? Erlich collapsed onto the floor, wheezing, clutching at his neck.
“Whatever's going on here,” Bleak said, “it can't be good. Let's give it a rest, what do you say .”
He began to form another energy bullet in the hand he held against his right side.
Forsythe turned, smiling coldly, to Bleak. “I suppose we have enough on video, after all. I can erase the last few seconds. Drake?” He set the camera on the conference table.
And someone stepped out to press the muzzle of a pistol to the left side of Bleak's neck.
Bleak realized that he'd unconsciously sensed the man all along, hiding behind the door—but the perverse tableau had held him fascinated. He'd become careless.
“Bleak!” the man said gleefully. “Remember me? Zweig? From Kabul? It's been a while! Where you been keepin' yourself?”
“Zweig. Yeah. I remember. Long time,” Bleak said, intensifying the energy bullet in his right hand.
“Zweig,” Forsythe said. “He's playing with fire again.”
“You dissolve that little glow-ball in your hand, there, Bleak,” Zweig said, “or I'll pull the trigger. We're talking safety off, finger already squeezin'. Just make that thing go away and don't even breathe deep.”
Bleak felt the metal chill of the gun muzzle jab harder into his neck. “Now, Bleak!”
Could he move aside, hit the gun with an energy bullet before Zweig shot him? Not a chance. He closed his fingers, extinguishing the ovoid of violet light, held up his hand to show it was empty.
General Swanson had taken off his coat, folded it and put it under Erlich's head. “What have you made me do! Oh, Jesus. He's in a bad way.”
“I...,” Erlich said hoarsely. “I'm still...not getting much air.”
“His windpipe is crushed. He needs help!” Swanson said.
“My eyes,” the boy said, blinking, whining. “That flash hurt my eyes.”
Gulcher, rubbing one eye, was squinting around at the others. Seeming to loathe everyone equally.
“This is not the room I expected you to go to, Bleak,” Forsythe was saying, looking critically at Gulcher and the boy. “Loraine Sarikosca is in another room entirely. But we can make this work. Zweig will escort you to her. Room Thirty-two.”
Swanson glowered up at Forsythe. “Recording this. You were recording it—going to claim it was surveillance footage? That I went mad and killed Swanson?”
“Oh, I wouldn't say so, no. The video is for our own research reference. What you call in-house documentation. No, we plan to simply dump your bodies somewhere interestin'.” Forsythe made a dismissive gesture with his hand—a kind of false modesty. “We'll have you destroy yourself after you're done with Erlich. We'll leave evidence suggesting you were driven to murder and suicide by the very forces that we must be free to stop—your death will be proof that CCA is needed! Ingenious? Yes. Forsythe has an ingenious mind. He's a marvelous resource.”
Bleak noted Forsythe speaking of himself in the third person. He'd suspected from the moment he'd first seen him that the general was under a dark influence; was controlled by an Outsider. He could feel the energy trail, in the Hidden, leading into the After; into the Outside...and into the Wilderness.
“And we will now conclude our business,” Forsythe said firmly. “If my proxies here have recovered. Gulcher? How are you feeling?” Gulcher just snorted and shook his head.
“I just want to point something out, gentlemen, if I might,” Bleak said mildly, while looking up at the overhead light. He focused the energy field in the room as he spoke. It was harder to funnel an energy bullet at a target by simply looking at it. But given a little more time. “Sean told me you need me. So if you shoot me through the neck, as Zweig proposes to do if I move, I don't think I'll be of much use to you. I think the gun is a bluff.”
“Try me!” Zweig growled. “I always despised you, Bleak, you smug son of a bitch! You came back when better men went down.”
“You didn't like my coming back,” Bleak interrupted, staring at the ceiling light, “because I was alive to tell people your intelligence was no good.”
Having a harder time focusing now. Zweig had stirred the anger, the old feelings. The day Isaac died.
The light, the light...the cocoon of darkness...
“Anyway,” Bleak went on, “I just wanted to establish that this might not be a time to do anything rash, Drake. Go for the good intel this once: ask Forsythe there.”
“General?” Zweig said, looking away from Bleak—just as darkness began to weave itself around” him. “Whatever he's good for—it's not worth it.”
Forsythe frowned. “Bleak? What are you...?”
Then the overhead light shattered, and the windowless room fell into darkness, with only a little illumination coming from the hall behind.
Bleak projected his image, formed of energy from the Hidden and twisted light, into the little swath of light falling on the opposite wall. He'd worked up the trick in Afghanistan and never used it till now.
The image was blurry, but Bleak was standing across the room from the door—while the Bleak that had been standing in the doorway seemed to vanish. Reflexively, Zweig swung the gun toward the image.
“No, you fool!” Forsythe shouted, as Bleak spun left and grabbed Zweig's wrist with his right hand, used his left hand and foot to pull him off-balance.
The agent's gun hand flailed and Bleak forced the pistol toward Zweig—as the gun went off.
A blue muzzle flash showed Zweig taking the shot from his own gun under the chin—and out through the top of his head.
“Billy! Gulcher!” Forsythe shouted. “Prove you're of some damn use!”
Bleak snatched the gun from the dying man's limp fingers, the reek of blood and shattered brains strong in his nostrils as he aimed the pistol toward Forsythe—who had taken a step toward Bleak.
Stymied by the gun, Forsythe froze in place—mostly a silhouette in the dim room, the right half of his face lit from the open door.
“Swanson,” Bleak said, “can you get General Erlich out of here?”
Even as he said it, as Swanson began helping the wheezing Erlich toward the door, Bleak knew he was under psychic assault.
Several things happened in a few seconds.
He was already feeling the strain of so much work with the Hidden, and he swayed, now, under the onslaught from Billy. It was like a hand made of icicles pushing against his chest, trying to stab its way inside. Bleak used the Hidden's energies to keep those gouging supernatural fingers back. But he was weakening—and he knew if that ethereal hand reached into him, it would take him over.
And that would be the end of him, in this world; the end of Loraine, and quite possibly the end of the world as anyone knew it. He had guessed what Sean was hinting at, in the pocket world.
And still the hand pushed, he felt it forcing its way through his defenses; he felt its subzero fingers clutching for his soul.
Bleak called out, inside himself, Spirit of Light, guide me.
No answer.
Hey-Mike!
He felt something then—something subtle, but clear enough. A kind of wordless suggestion: if he increased his inner receptivity to the Hidden, help would come. He had to open himself to it, without opening himself to Billy's diabolic influence. He concentrated, dividing his attention, one part to keep back the boy's influence—keeping back, really, the thing that was using Billy—and the other part opening to help from the higher forces that charged the Hidden.
And something flooded into him.
Suddenly he felt as if he were a lightbulb, switching on. A flash of piercing blue-white light— emanating from Bleak himself...from his whole body.
Billy screamed and clawed at himself; Forsythe bellowed in rage. Gulcher had covered his eyes— sensed something of the sort coming.
The pressure, the probing, was gone. Forsythe was standing there, in the dark corner, breathing hard—a very visible target. And Bleak had a gun in his hands.
I could kill him right now, he thought, feeling the gun heavy in his hand. He suspected that General Forsythe was the source of the worst rot in CCA. Was the locus of the threat.
But...Forsythe was unarmed. Bleak had never in his life shot an unarmed man.
And if he killed him—he'd be killing an innocent man. Because the threat wasn't Forsythe—it was what controlled him. Which was something that a bullet couldn't destroy.
There was no easy answer. Bleak shook his head and stepped back into the hallway, helping Erlich and Swanson through. Someone else came after them—Gulcher, hands raised as if surrendering. Bleak sensed no immediate threat from him, let him come out, then turned his attention to the door handle.
He slammed the door shut and pulsed energy from the Hidden, down through his arm, his hand, into the door handle—welding the lock closed. Locking Forsythe in with Billy Blunt.
“Nice trick,” Swanson muttered, turning to look warily at Gulcher. Erlich was leaning on Swanson, gasping raspily, his lips going blue, the scarlet mark of Swanson's fingers on his neck. Getting some air, but not enough.
Swanson turned to look at Bleak. “Now—who the hell are you?”
“Gabriel Bleak. Army Rangers, out of Kabul. No longer active duty.” Bleak saluted, though he was no longer in the army—and way out of uniform. It felt natural to salute the general; it felt good. He handed Swanson the pistol, butt first. “In case you need this, sir.”
“Bleak.” Swanson pocketed the pistol. “I've heard.” He looked at Bleak appraisingly. And nodded to himself.
Bleak decided he'd made the right move, giving Swanson the gun. “What about him?” Swanson asked, nodding at Gulcher.
Gulcher slowly lowered his hands. “We could make a deal. Let me go and I'll tell you all kinds of...” He hesitated, looking past them.
Bleak turned to see three black berets coming around the corner of the hallway, submachine guns at ready.
Bleak hesitated—then he heard someone running behind him, turned to see Gulcher running down the hallway, the other direction. Taking advantage of Swanson, Erlich, and Bleak blocking the hall between him and the sentries.
Gulcher paused at the turning in the hallway—grinning at Bleak. “You keep 'em busy, pal—I'm for the open road!”
Then he dodged around the corner.
“'Pal,' he says,” Bleak muttered, turning to face the three excited, uncertain soldiers.
Swanson stepped between Bleak and the black berets. “You there—stop pointing your guns at your commanding officer.”
The three men stopped, glanced at one another in confusion, lowering their weapons—two of them were the Hispanic-American sentries Bleak had avoided outside, newly rearmed; the third was the man who'd taken a shot at Bleak in the hall. A sergeant with a gaunt face, ears that stuck out. “Sir,” the sergeant said, “we're under the command of General Forsythe. I'm going to send one of my men after that guy who took off down the hall—he hasn't got freedom of the facility. We can't stand down without—”
“Sergeant!” Swanson barked. “Open your goddamned eyes. General Erlich is in a bad way—and that has priority. I outrank Forsythe and I've relieved him of command. You're all staying with me. We're going to get General Erlich to oxygen and a gurney. Now!”
“But that man there”—the sergeant nodded at Bleak—”he broke in here, sir—”
“That man just saved General Erlich's life,” Swanson snapped. “Unless you keep wasting time. Now call for medics!”
Bleak was already stretching his senses out, looking for Loraine.
There—he sensed her down the hall, past the soldiers. “General—will you trust me a little more?”
Swanson nodded, as he lowered Erlich to the floor. “You men let him go...help me with this man. Did you call for that medic?”
The guards reluctantly stepped out of the way to let Bleak hurry past them.
He hurried off to find Loraine Sarikosca, thinking, Now I've killed someone else. Zweig. Right then, he needed killing. But it really should bother me more than it does.
A voice spoke, then—in his mind, but not from his mind: “Gabriel Bleak. There's hope for you. “
“Is that you, Michael?” Bleak asked, muttering the question aloud.
But the voice said nothing more, and Bleak was running, had to slide panting to a stop when he got to Room 32.
***
SWANSON WAS AFRAID THEY were losing Erlich. He could still feel his hands on Erlich's neck. His heart still thumped from the inward panic he'd felt, when he'd choked Erlich, aware of what he was doing and unable to stop.
The calls had been made, and in less than two minutes a medic rushed up, a woman in an army nurse's uniform pushing a gurney from the facility infirmary.
General Swanson and the soldiers lifted the wheezing Erlich on the gurney.
Then Swanson gave a set of terse orders to the three black berets. “You three bust into that room. You'll find a dead man—and you'll find General Forsythe...and you take General Forsythe prisoner. And that boy with him. You will ignore every single word Forsythe says to you and that is an order! You'll bring him to me in restraints, right outside the infirmary. He's under arrest. I believe the boy in there is out of commission now, but you'd better give him a sharp knock on the head before he can do anything to you.”
“That Billy Blunt kid? Yes, sir, it'll be a pleasure.”
“Zweig is in there, dead, by the way. Send a detail to clean that up.” Swanson walked off with the medic, helping push the gurney. “Hold on, there, Larry, we'll get you to oxygen.. just lay still.”
It took the three sentries a full minute to get the door to the conference room open. A final kick sent it swinging smartly inward, and they stepped nervously into the dark room. One of them switched on a flashlight...to find Billy Blunt curled up on his side, next to the corpse of Drake Zweig. The boy was staring into Zweig's dead eyes. Billy was breathing...but seemed, otherwise, as lifeless as Zweig. No need to hit him.
“You okay, kid?” the sergeant asked.
Billy only said one thing, and it's all he would say, for a long time after. “The light. The light looked right at me.”
“Jesus!” the youngest of the three sentries blurted, gawking at Zweig's body. “That's ol' Zweig with his head shot half off!”
“Yes, it's what remains of him,” said someone sitting rigidly in a chair, in a dark corner of the room. He stood up, stretched, and stepped into the light. General Forsythe.
“The boy's useless, now, I'm afraid,” Forsythe said, looking regretfully at Billy. “Damaged. Probably for good. Saw too much of himself, in that light.” Forsythe looked back at the sentries. “You boys took your time getting in here.”
“Sir,” said the sergeant, swallowing, “you're under arrest. By order of General Swanson. Please come with us.” He couldn't quite bring himself to point his weapon at Forsythe.
“All right, son—we'll get this straightened out.” Forsythe smiled genially. “I won't hold anything against you. You're under orders.”
Forsythe strode across the room as if he were still in charge, walked out the door. The sergeant stepped out behind him—and encountered the heel of the general's hand, flat on the black beret's forehead.
The sentry went rigid—the general jerked the submachine gun from his hand, reversed it, and shot him through the sternum, point-blank.
He squeezed off two more bursts, killing the other sentries before they could get their weapons in play.
Then General Forsythe walked away, humming tunelessly to himself.