Bleak History Read online

  “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.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bleak had to burst the lock on the door of Room 32.

  He walked in, finding the air stale, and the room looking almost barren, with no furniture, no windows; yet complex with the geometry of magical symbols on every wall. And two people waiting in it. Loraine was sitting in a corner next to a dozing middle-aged man in glasses, suit and tie. The tie was painted with flowers.

  She sat up, beaming when Bleak came in—then remembered to seem less glad to see him. “You finally made it,” she said, standing.

  “What made you so sure I was coming?”

  “I...” She raised her eyebrows. She blinked. “Urn—I'm not sure. But I knew.”

  “Who's he?”

  She looked at the man slumped in the corner. “Dr. Helman. Head honcho here—under Forsythe. Seems to be in some kind of trance.” She turned to Bleak. “Gabriel—we need to get away from here fast. I thought I heard shooting, but—”

  “You're right about Helman, but wrong about leaving,” Sean said, coming into the room and closing the door behind him.

  Bleak spun toward his brother, Sean, thinking he should simply tackle him and try to knock him cold, before he could do any magic. Or he could set the floor on fire around him, with a couple of energy bullets, to hold him off—and maybe get Loraine out of here. Or...

  Or nothing. He couldn't do anything. Not yet. Bleak just stared at him. This is my brother. Sean Bleak. In person. Not an astral projection. This was his brother in the flesh, after being gone all those years.

  Embraces were out of the question. Everything about Sean, that sickly grimace of a smile, the hunched shoulders, the burning eyes...

  Everything said that Sean would not permit himself to be touched by his brother. He stood, motionless, near the closed door, emanating raw hatred.

  I should make a move, Bleak thought. But he felt paralyzed. Straitjacketed by emotion. That's my brother.

  Slowly, Sean turned his head to take in Helman. “I planted a little something in his pocket, earlier. Used it to send him a trancing spell. Helman did surprisingly well at resisting. Babbling on and on for quite a while. I always despised him. But he's a rag doll now. Never was anything but a silly little pawn.” Sean ducked his head to look balefully at Bleak. “It's no accident you're here, Gabriel— you know that, don't you? You were supposed to be here a little earlier...you got rerouted. Apparently we should have swept for ghosts when we got rid of that Scribbler of yours. But you're here now....

  And you will help me. You will work with me. Our two opposing forces will open the doorway and Moloch will be here—and the Great Wrath will do as I command.”

  “That's not what Helman thought,” Loraine put in. “He says your Outsider will do as it pleases, once it's fully here. It's just using you.”

  Sean chuckled. An unpleasant sound. “You'll see. The plan is great, and grand. Forsythe appreciates me. He's been there for me—not like our old man, Gabe. He's made me part of the big design.”

  “I can't help you, Sean,” Bleak said, his voice hoarse. “Not that way. I can help you by taking you away from here. We can get you therapy. You've been traumatized by what happened to you.”

  “ Everyone's been traumatized!” Sean snapped, taking a furious step toward them, arms rigid at his sides. “Everyone! They look around at the world and they go, 'Oh my God, it's full of cruelty and parasites and disappointment and abandonment and sickness...and then you die!' Everyone breaks, inside, when they realize that!”

  “You know there's more to it than that,” Bleak said.

  He had to do something to stop this. But that was little Sean—grown big...

  “What 'more to it'—our glorious life after death?” Sean jeered. “But first—you have to die! You choke to death from lack of oxygen...your heart stops! Cancer, emphysema, a stab with a knife! Dying hurts...and it seems to take an eternity, Gabe. And then! Then you get that glorious afterlife...to be a confused ghost, walking in circles! Or if you leave this world, most of you fades away, and what's left reincarnates! Back to the same dreary old grind! Life after death isn't much consolation, Gabriel. Best you can hope for is to be the slave of some angel somewhere!” Sean snorted with contempt.

  Bleak shook his head. “
There are other ways to see life. And death. You've been surrounded by some pretty twisted people, Sean. You don't get the chance to meet the other kind. Not everyone is damaged—not everyone has given up. A friend of mine survived the Nazi death camps—survived it in every way, Sean. It's possible to heal.”

  Sean snorted. “I don't want to heal! I like what I am! Now you think about this. Not only are you not in this room by accident...but neither is she.” He pointed his left hand at Loraine. “Something's right there, in the room beside you, girl—invisible. Waiting for me to give it more life.”

  And from the tips of his fingers issued a stream of blue energy, infused with crackles of red. Bleak started to summon up energies to block it—but it had already infused the shape of the invisible being that had been waiting in the room all this time. The outline of something big, and sinuous—a familiar, one of Sean's “especialities.” Its glossy brown-black insect head was the first part to visually materialize, spitting and hissing close to Loraine, making her gasp and flatten back against the wall.

  In a heartbeat, four more yards of the familiar filled in, from the head down along its twisting, its interior parts first, then its armor-plated body—thick as a giant anaconda—with thousands of little sticklike, clawed arms threateningly waving. The familiar was a giant centipede—its faceted eyes, big as silver dollars, glittering with malevolent intelligence.

  The supple creature was already whipping twice around Loraine, squeezing her like a python. The sharp hooks of its glossy brown-black mandibles snapped at her neck, its clawed legs clutched at her clothing, yanked at her hair. Its coiled body compressed her right arm crushingly to her ribs; her left arm was free, and she tried to tug the jointed coils from her, looking desperately at Bleak, eyes wide.

  Bleak started instinctively toward her—and the giant, demonic centipede admonished him by tightening its grip on her, making her squeal with pain. It snapped at her hair—snipping away a piece of it, chewing it meditatively in its mandibles.