The Apocalypse Codex (46 page)

THE DUSTUP IN THE SLEEPER’S MAUSOLEUM HAPPENED LAST
month, but I’ve only been home for a couple of days. Mo was just about mad with worry when I rang the doorbell at seven o’clock, bleary-eyed and sweaty, straight off the red-eye from DC to Heathrow. Economy class, of course; it may be painful, but I’m not stupid—after the mission ends, it’s back to business as usual.

I slept for about six hours, ate, slept for about eighteen hours, and spent the next day in a zombie-like haze. Today’s the first day I’ve been sufficiently compos mentis to go back to the office. Lockhart, I gather, is chewing the carpet. (
Good.
)

You can blame the Black Chamber for the delay. Officious as any other component of the labyrinthine American secret state, they had to first satisfy themselves that I was not, in fact, an enemy agent. The carte blanche helped—or at least convinced them to make some phone calls first, rather than shooting me out of hand—but was not sufficient on its own to dig me out of the crater I had landed in. However, some pointed nagging from somewhere up the ladder at Dansey House—up the ladder from
Angleton
, I should add—eventually shook me loose.

Not that they were keeping me in twenty-four-hour lockdown in the brig at Quantico; I had my own private five-star hospital room to occupy while recovering from superficial burns and concussion, to say nothing of suspected neurological insults that required multiple appointments with an MRI machine to rule out Krantzberg syndrome.

Persephone and Johnny—if they survived—I don’t know about. They disappeared and the Nazgûl won’t tell me anything, and I wasn’t asking questions that might give away anything they’re not supposed to know I know. However, I’ve got some fragments, and I can speculate:

I can infer that Persephone did
not
do a runner, but in fact used the Hand of Glory to conceal her side-trip to Schiller’s vestry in the New Life Church, where she did her best to wreck the link between his pastor’s sacrifice of souls and the power source in the Temple of the Sleeper. Then she came back to rescue Johnny—and me.

Did she succeed? I don’t know. Like I said, she and Johnny disappeared while I was lying on my back in the vestry seeing stars.

I’m pretty certain that Persephone saw to it that Schiller didn’t make it out of the temple alive after he tried to sacrifice Johnny. She’s nothing if not possessive.

I’m pretty sure Schiller cut Johnny’s throat—I saw the blood. And the blood of two elders of the priesthood of the Sleeper were spilled upon the altar while it was hooked up to a grid powered by the prayers of thousands of god-raped worshippers. But the Sleeper—or Jesus, depending on which eschatology you choose to run with—did not clamber out of his sarcophagus and start rampaging across middle America. Maybe they got something wrong? Mind you, the tremors under the plateau suggest someone turning over in their sleep. The fimbulwinter that gripped central Colorado prior to Schiller’s summoning is very worrying, but the thaw afterwards suggests the information bleed between the walls of the worlds was staunched in time. Or at least prevented from turning into a flood.

Which finally brings me back to the present, and the inevitable fallout from the operation. Which, I gather, will involve a lot of committee meetings that I won’t trouble you with.

CLASSIFIED APPENDIX

GOD GAME RAINBOW

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YOU MUST UNDER NO ACCOUNT READ BEYOND THIS PAGE.

THE SITUATION MAY BE NON-SURVIVABLE.

Persephone raises her head slowly and peers out from behind cover.

She and Howard are crouched at one end of a roughly rectangular space about the size of an aircraft hanger. There are doors in the middle of each wall, and rows of strangely shaped pews—cast or grown rather than built—marching the length of the floor. A raised dais or stage at one end supports a huge stone sarcophagus, and an active summoning grid at the opposite side of the temple from the door they entered by hangs in midair before the far entrance, lit from beyond by the harsh glare of electric lights.

“Hand of Glory,” she says, holding out her left hand as a familiar figure dives through the gate back to the real world, followed by the harsh crackle of gunfire.

“I’ve got it in here somewhere…” Howard mumbles apologetically behind her as she searches for a target. The shots cease; instead, four more figures rush through the gate, chasing Johnny. They’re clearly armed. There are more figures, indistinctly seen against the back-lighting of the gate.

The situation is as bad as anything Persephone’s ever seen: she, Howard, and Johnny against at least four gunmen who control the egress they need to escape through—and Johnny wouldn’t be running away if he thought he stood a chance. It may, in fact, be non-survivable.

Howard finally produces the small, gnarled lump, then fumbles for a lighter as Persephone waits impatiently. Seconds stretch out interminably. Three more figures come through the gate. Meanwhile, behind her, she is acutely aware of the feeders driving the dead husks of their victims forward and up the stairs. If Howard can control them there might be some hope of salvaging the situation…otherwise, not.

Howard clumsily fumbles a cigarette lighter in her direction.

“Make a distraction,” she says, careful to keep the incipient tremor out of her voice—whether driven by fear or anger, adrenalin surges are infectious and can be devastating. “I’m going to sort this out.” She puts down her pistol temporarily, flicks the lighter, and ignites the pigeon’s foot. Then she pockets the lighter, picks up her pistol in her free hand, and stands up.

Mind still, calm, in the moment:
They can’t see you
. And indeed, the fighting figures are oblivious to her. There’s always the moment of cold terror suppressed purely by force of will when you rely on another’s prepared occult toolkit to shield you: all it takes is a quality control error and you’re naked in the gunsights. But no, the Hand of Glory is burning steadily.

Persephone opens her inner eye and looks round, taking stock.

Everything is light.

Beside her, Howard is a green silhouette; she hears him mumbling in the privacy of his own head, hears the hungry-tasting answers from the shamblers beyond the door, themselves limned in light, but barely visible as shadows against the vast, solar glare coming from beneath the floor of the tomb. The portal through which Schiller’s people are coming is a blinding violet hole in space, and a luminous umbilical cord links it to the sarcophagus, which is itself an extrusion protruding from the frozen explosion of power beneath the floor. The river of light pulses slowly, like the heartbeat of a sleeping whale. Persephone can’t quite shake the feeling that if she could see the Sleeper’s body—embedded in the depths of the nova-glare beneath her feet—it, too, would be pulsing.

A shout explodes from the far side of the pews and echoes shatter from the walls. Then there’s a scream in a different register, gurgling, abruptly cut off. Knife to the throat, if she’s anyone to judge: Johnny giving a good account of himself, she thinks, as she quietly hurries towards the portal. Another pistol shot hammers out and she whips round towards the shooter, but it’s not aimed at her. Schiller’s men in black have hemmed Johnny in between the sarcophagus and the far wall. He’s taken one of them down and is using his remaining knife to hold off three—that’s not going to end well, although they seem curiously reluctant to shoot him. But Schiller’s got more missionaries, and they’re guarding the gate, and they’ve seen the feeders in the night. That’s what the new shooting is about.

Come on, Howard, give me my distraction!

Persephone’s dilemma is this: she can deal with the gate, or she can deal with Johnny’s assailants. If she takes the latter, she’ll even the odds—but give herself away. And while the gate is open, Schiller can bring reinforcements through as well as continue to feed the sleeping horror.

It’s not much of a dilemma.

Schiller and a handmaid step through the gate while she’s still four or five meters away.
This
presents her with a dilemma—shoot Schiller and hope it’ll derail his summoning? But as she raises her pistol and sights, the handmaid turns, the sleeve of her gown falling away from the curved black foregrip of a P90: and then there’s a shout from behind.

“Hey motherfuckers! Over here!”

Persephone drops to the floor as the handmaid whips round towards her, bearing on Howard—whose distraction has surfaced at
precisely
the wrong moment—and braces the bullpup gun with both hands. It looks weirdly as if she’s raising her hands in prayer until the deafening roar of bullets erupts. Lips pulled back from her teeth in a rictus, Persephone crawls forward between the pews as the woman unloads. She’s close enough that a shower of hot brass cartridge cases rattle and spill across the floor around her, dangerously close to her back until she rolls sideways and stands—still clutching the burning Hand of Glory—and walks around Schiller and his guard, cat-light on her feet, then steps through the gateway back to the New Life Church.

Don’t worry about Johnny. Don’t think about Howard. They’re behind you. Think about what’s in front.

What’s in front turns out to be a squad of men in black clogging up the floorspace of a windowless locker room as they crowd in towards the gate. Persephone dodges sideways to avoid the elbow of an arm that’s cradling an AR-15 in a tactical sling, falls back against the wall beside the gate. Beyond the doorway to the vestry an eerie chant pounds away in time with the slow beat of the green light. Schiller’s reinforcements swarm through the gate at the double; only seconds later, the room is empty but for one man, who stands beside the equipment case that’s plugged into the grid to energize it.

Persephone takes a step towards him and raises the butt of her pistol, judging precisely where to strike.

He looks round and meets her gaze. “Ms. Hazard: Hello. I’ve been expecting you.”

Persephone freezes in place and glances sidelong at the Hand of Glory.

“Don’t worry, it’s still burning.” The man smiles, not showing his teeth. He has other defenses—her inner sight shows her the tattoo pulsing at the base of his throat. It’s a familiar sigil. As she recognizes it, a cold metal finger fumbles up against the back of her head. “Drop the gun, please.” She complies. “Jack there may not be able to see you, but he can touch you and hear you.”

“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” she asks, trying to maintain a shred of dignity as she lowers the compact revolver.

“I’m Alex Lockey. Yes, kick it over there. I handle Mr. Schiller’s security.”

“You do, do you?” She pauses. “And why is Raymond Schiller’s security a matter of interest to the Operational Phenomenology Agency?”

Alex’s smile vanishes. “You don’t get to ask the questions here.” His backup, standing behind her, plants a hand on her shoulder, restraining, even as he rests the muzzle of his pistol against the base of her skull. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to have you killed, and that would be a terrible waste.”

“Let me guess?” At the minute flicker in his eyes she continues. “The Black Chamber has always relied on non-human assets, hasn’t it? To a much greater extent than any of the European agencies. But now the great conjunction is beginning, and you’ve got a huge landmass to defend. You’ve also got a population who are geographically dispersed, many of whom subscribe to frankly implausible religious beliefs that will badly impair their ability to recognize the truth about what is happening. So you’ve got to find a solution to the religious lunatic problem—to people who will mistake the Black Chamber for Satan and his happy helpers—and to defending the United States. It’s only natural to look for the biggest stick. And that thing”—her gaze tracks towards the gate—“is the biggest stick that comes to hand. Am I right?”