Chapter 21: Azathoth

October 28, 2004. Thursday

"What . . . ?"

What was going on? If the clown who was pounding on his head with a sledgehammer would lay off for a minute, it'd be a lot easier figuring that out. Neal vaguely considered opening his eyes, but it was too much of an effort. Better to just lie here. Wait. Where was here? What was he lying on? Cold, hard, not his bed, unless it'd turned into concrete overnight. He put a shaky hand to his head. Couldn't feel any bumps. No bleeding.

What was the last thing he remembered? That's right—the shack door. He was struggling to open the door … Peter! Where was Peter?

Neal opened his eyes wide. Blinking several times, all he could see was blackness. Had he gone blind? He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Holding up a hand in front of his face, he let out a deep breath when he could make out a faint outline. Out-of-focus, all fuzzy around the edges, but at least recognizable.

In the meantime, his headache was gradually lessening to a mere eight on the Richter scale. He gingerly felt his limbs and couldn't detect any injuries. Legs still attached, check. Arms still working, check. Gotta try to get up. Find Peter. Neal put a hand out to prop himself up, but quickly sank back to the ground as the floor rolled beneath him and took his stomach with it.

Change of plan. Stay on the ground. His head hurt badly enough. Absolutely no need for the nausea too. He lay with his eyes closed till his stomach decided to stop heaving. This time he didn't attempt to stand up but crawled along the ground.

The air reeked of decay. What was that stench? Was he in a sewer? No wonder his stomach wanted to abandon ship. It was slightly better if he breathed through the mouth to avoid smelling it. Squinting ahead, he saw a blurry shape and worked his way to it.

Good news—it was Peter. Bad news—he was apparently unconscious. Neal felt his neck for a pulse. Strong, fast. Maybe too fast? He felt his own pulse for comparison. It was also racing. That probably wasn't good, right? He couldn't detect any bleeding or obvious injuries.

Giving a gentle shake to his shoulder, Neal asked, "Peter, can you hear me?" and was rewarded with a groan in reply. A sarcastic retort would have been even better, but he'd make do with a groan for now.

"Peter, it's me, Neal. Talk to me."

Peter's eyes fluttered in response as he fumbled for words. "Neal . . . my head."

"Yeah, go slow. Mine too."

Neal helped support him as he struggled to sit up, but Peter had the same reaction as he did when he first attempted it. Putting a hand to his mouth as he gagged, Peter moaned, "God, what died? I'm gonna be sick."

"Close your eyes. It'll help. Better lie down for a few minutes." Neal helped Peter stretch out. Peter stayed like that, keeping his eyes closed and breathing heavily.

Swallowing a couple of times, he asked, "Where are we?"

"Dunno. Maybe a basement?" Neal stood up unsteadily. This time he managed to stay on his feet even as the floor pitched underneath him. He staggered to the closest wall and then slowly walked around the perimeter. "Cinder block walls, no windows. The walls seem to be coated in some sort of slime." Neal leaned over to sniff the slime and promptly gagged.

"What's wrong? You okay?" Peter demanded, blinking his eyes and squinting.

"Stay away from the slime on the walls. It's disgusting," Neal said. "The room's about twenty feet square. One door, locked." He went back to Peter. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better. Not going to puke immediately," Peter mumbled. "Is there something wrong with my eyes, or is it really dark in here? There's a weird glow to the walls. Is that me?"

"No, the slime seems to be faintly luminescent. Gives off a sickly green glow. What's the last thing you remember?"

Peter sat upright and stretched his back. "We were in the bait shack, trying to open the door, and then I must have passed out." Feeling his pockets, he added, "My watch, phone and gun—they're all gone. What about you?"

"Same thing. No phoning up the cavalry. Your eyes better?"

"Yeah, but I still feel like I'm drugged." Holding up his hand, Peter asked, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Neal squinted. "Three?"

"Not quite, two. You try me."

Neal obediently held up his hand. "All right, how many do you see?"

"One but it's pulsating. God, it's making me sick again." Peter put a hand over his mouth.

"Maybe if you moved closer to the center of the room, you'd—Wait." Interrupting himself, Neal jerked his head to one side and listened intently. "Do you hear that?"

"What? I don't hear anything," Peter asked, looking around the room.

Tilting his head to the ceiling, Neal said, "There it is again. A faint piping sound. It's almost like those sandpipers we heard. Are we still on the beach?"

"I heard it this time too. Don't think it's a sandpiper. This sound's different. Longer maybe."

Without warning, a high-pitched shriek ripped through the blackness from the wall opposite them as if some ghastly fury from the netherworld were wailing for revenge. Blasted by the sheer evilness of the sound, Neal broke out in a cold sweat and instinctively moved close to Peter.

Seemingly in response to the shriek, the room was suddenly flooded with brilliant light, temporarily blinding them.

The unearthly screams continued, the sound becoming higher pitched and more intense as if something were hurtling toward them. Transfixed in horror, they watched the wall in front of them dissolve into a swirling sea of chaotic colors and grotesque shapes.

In the middle of the sea was a black void with a tiny pinpoint of light in the center. The light was hypnotic. Neal couldn't tear his eyes away from it as it pulsated and grew larger.

Within the space of a few seconds it had raced close enough to reveal its true form—a starfish-like gelatinous mass of writhing tentacles. Bulbous red and purple arms undulated and pulsed, lashing out toward them.

Now all four walls were dissolved into the chaos as the piping sounds grew ever more frenzied. Ghastly forms exploded from the turbulence only to sink back down again. The behemoth's tentacles reached out to them, whipping around them with screaming ferocity. Adding to the cacophony of noise was an ominous drumbeat that reverberated through the chamber.

"This isn't real," Peter muttered, looking as shaken as Neal felt. "We've been drugged. Some sort of hallucination."

"Then why are we seeing the same thing? Do you see a huge starfish demon?" Neal demanded.

"Yes," he admitted.

A deafening clap of thunder stilled the turbulence and all went black again. The starfish monstrosity disappeared. The pipes, the shrieks, the drums, all fell quiet. The only sound that could be heard was Neal and Peter's heavy breathing.

"You sought me and here I am."

The voice coming out of the void was curiously cultivated, quiet and refined. It was a male voice, deep and resonant with perhaps a hint of an English accent.

"Your activities have not gone unnoticed. I've been watching you. Long have I waited for someone who could challenge me, and you may be the ones. That will be revealed tonight. You have two hours. Two hours to escape this realm. At the end of the two hours if you've not escaped, you will die. If you stay in this chamber, you will certainly die. If you leave, you still may die. But I'm not without mercy. One small sliver of opportunity remains for you to discover. If you manage that, we'll meet again. And yes, you may find what you seek. The Galileo manuscript is here. If you discover it, you may be able to keep it even as it leads to your destruction."

A blast of drums and pipes marked his last words and the room was again ablaze in a turbulent sea of colors. From the wall behind them a rush of hot air assaulted their backs as droplets of hot sticky slime rained down from the ceiling.

Then as soon as it had started, it ended. All became quiet once more. The light show had caused the slime on the walls to glow more brightly and the room was now suffused with green light.

Wiping his face, Neal said, "We've been slimed. Gross. What a revolting smell."

Peter used his hands to wipe down his pants. "At least we had our jackets on. That gave us a little protection." Taking off his windbreaker and turning it inside out, he used it as a rag to dry his face and hair. Handing it to Neal, he added, "You might as well use mine. It's wrecked anyway."

After he'd swiped the worst of the gunk off, Neal felt along the walls. "It's too dark to see the ceiling, but there must be some sort of sophisticated holographic 3D projector mounted to it. That is, if you're looking for a rational explanation. Or you could simply say we'd been transported to the blasphemous demonic world of Azathoth."

"Let's go with 3D projector," said Peter ruefully. "How are you feeling? How's your vision?"

"Still a little blurry. Getting better. How about you? Nausea under control?"

"If I could get away from the stench of the slime, I'd be better," said Peter.

"We both would. Do you believe Azathoth's challenge?"

Peter reflected. "He's insane enough, I think it's possible he means what he says. This whole business has been a setup. The symbol on the manuscript, the hidden messages. He baited us, lured us to his trap. The guy's bored, looking for a challenge—for a certain type of warped personality I suppose that makes sense. So, what do you say? Ready to kick some demon butt?"

"He might as well shrivel away now. He doesn't stand a chance," said Neal. Hey, if Peter could fake bravado, so could he. "Guess we better start with that door."

Peter checked his pockets. "I might have a paperclip that could help."

"Not necessary." Neal bent over. Fingering along the inner seam of his left pant hem, he pulled out a lock pick. "You never know when one of these will come in handy."

"Bet I know who your tailor is," said Peter, smiling with relief. "While you work on the door, I'll check the walls and floor. There may be a hidden escape somewhere else."

The lock was not a simple one. Multiple side wards frustrated matters. Fortunately the pick he had brought was his favorite design and customized to handle this type of lock, but even so it would be a challenge. There, surely that was the last pin. Neal involuntarily let out a groan when he was stopped short by yet one more recalcitrant side guard.

"You okay over there?"

"He's not making it easy," Neal said gritting his teeth. "If this is a sign of things to come, we'll have to be at the top of our game. Any luck on the search?"

"No trap doors that I could find." Peter walked over to Neal. "My eyes are better. That's a comfort. You're no longer pulsating. My stomach thanks you for that."

"Finally got it!" Giving the lock a final twist, Neal opened the door. Turning to Peter, he asked, "Ready to go demon-hunting?"

"Hold on a minute. Let me check you out." Peter took hold of Neal's chin and examined his eyes. "Your pupils are still blown wide—I can barely see your irises," he warned.

"It's dark in here."

"Yeah, but not that dark. Let me feel your pulse . . . Still racing."

Neal checked Peter's. "So is yours. Adrenaline?"

"Maybe, but I bet we're pumped full of whatever drug he used on us. We have no choice but to go forward, but keep that in mind. Also, I can guarantee he's installed video cams throughout the place, so keep your voice low."

"Got it," Neal whispered. "You ready?"

At Peter's nod, they cautiously stepped into a dim corridor. The air was heavy and damp, but at least the stench wasn't as strong. It was faintly lit, enough to show that the walls were dark, with the corridor about four feet wide. It went straight ahead for about thirty feet to an opening where stairs were faintly visible. There were no doorways leading off the corridor. Coming from the walls were faint gurgling noises which were punctuated with the puffing sounds of escaping steam and always in the background the sound of pipes.

"Only one way to go and that's up the stairs," Peter whispered.

They crept forward together, their eyes darting in all directions.

"Stop!" Neal cried out, flinging out an arm and forcing Peter back just as was he about to take a step.

"What is it?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Motion detector." Neal pointed out the tiny detector in front of them. "Your foot would have broken the field."

Taking off his belt, he dangled it in front of the detector. Instantly giant circular rotating saws emerged from both sides of the corridor and slashed across before retreating back into the walls. Anyone tripping the field would have been sliced into ribbons.

Ashen, Peter swallowed and nodded his thanks. "I owe you one. Any ideas on how to get past them?"

"There are six saws," Neal said, experimenting with his belt on the field. "Wonder what happens if we sustain the break in the field by holding the belt in place?"

"Give it a try," Peter urged.

This time when the saws darted out to make their deadly sweep, Peter and he both counted seconds to estimate the interval between each pass. They kept it up for several circuits.

"I calculate there's a five-second interval between each repetition," Peter said. "Appears to be constant. The blades are staggered such that it's impossible to run part way and pause between the blades. You have to be able to dash through all six before they repeat."

"I agree." Eyeing Peter, Neal added," Is that enough time for you to get to the other side?"

"I don't think so," said Peter, shaking his head. "I'm not that good a sprinter. You're a runner. Think you could get through?"

"I could make it, but I'm not leaving you behind," Neal said, not liking what he knew Peter was thinking. If he left Peter behind, no telling what Azathoth would have in store for him. He'd already said to stay in their initial prison would mean certain death.

"You have to," Peter insisted. "Once you're on the other side, you may be able to find a way to turn the damned things off. If you don't go, neither one of us has a chance of escaping. There's no other route to try. We already checked our prison cell and didn't find any other exits."

Laying a hand on Neal's shoulder, he added, "You'll have to do this for both of our sakes, or we might as well quit now."

He had to admit Peter was right. There was no other option. "All right, give me a second." Neal took several deep breaths. Giving Peter a quick one-arm hug, he assumed a three-point stance.

"Ready?" said Peter, and at his nod, dangled the belt through the field. As soon as the blades had retracted, Neal exploded into a dash, making it to the other side with a second to spare.

His chest heaving with excess energy, he flashed the victory symbol at Peter and started inspecting the walls. Delicately probing the area close to the nearest set of blades, he painstakingly searched for a switch, wire, anything that could stop the blades. Nothing. He then crouched down on the floor and felt along the baseboards. The baseboards were coated in a viscous substance, making it difficult to feel the surface, but finally he found it—a miniature switch almost directly underneath the nearest saw.

"Try it now," he said and watched as Peter tripped the field. Four of the saws came out but not the two closest to Neal. Flashing Peter a grin, Neal crept out to find the switches for the other saws. Now that he knew what to look for, it didn't take long to disable the other saws.

Giving the signal to test it again, Neal watched and waited. This time nothing came out. But the question was could Azathoth reset the saws? Did he have a master panel from where he could control everything? Neal debated telling Peter to hold off. It wasn't worth the risk. But before he could say anything, Peter had already sprinted across.

Breathless, Peter put his hands to his knees as he squatted down. He must have been thinking the same thing.

They nodded at each other. "That makes Good Guys two; Azathoth zero by my reckoning," Neal whispered to Peter.

Chuckling, Peter handed Neal his belt, "You can carve your notches on this when we're outta here."

They warily inched their way down the corridor, watching for other pitfalls, but the rest of the passageway was devoid of traps.

At the foot of the staircase they paused to examine it. The staircase itself was an enclosed narrow and steep spiral, winding up like a corkscrew for perhaps fifty feet. It reminded Neal of a turret staircase in a castle. They had to go single file, Peter taking the lead and followed closely by Neal. The stairs were so tightly wound, they had to bend down to avoid bumping their heads.

The staircase was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by a sporadic flapping of wings. Bats, perhaps? Unseen creatures of the night? In the low light their other senses appeared to be heightened. The slime stench was gone but replacing it was the musty smell of decay, like moldy books in some forgotten library.

At the top of the staircase they were confronted by another locked door, but the lock mechanism on this one was much simpler. It was a matter of seconds for Neal to unlock it. He looked questioningly at Peter.

"Go ahead. Open it," Peter whispered.

Neal cautiously opened the door and they peered into the opening beyond.

The hallway was deserted. It appeared to be an old service corridor, barely three feet wide which extended for about twenty feet, opening into a dimly lit room ahead. At one point the hallway was partially blocked by large wooden beams, but there was enough clearance at the top to climb over without much difficulty.

Neal started down the corridor, closely followed by Peter. Their appearance startled several bats which were roosting in a niche over the door to the staircase. Uttering shrill squeaks of alarm, they took off in an erratic flight directly over them before disappearing into the room ahead.

Neal quickly ducked then quieted his nerves. "Just bats," he muttered to Peter, "and nothing more."

"Beware the raven perched over the door," Peter warned in a low undertone as he pointed toward the room.

Neal shot a grin at him and drew a check mark in the air.

Peter shrugged. "Gotta keep a sense of humor when out hunting demons."

They'd now reached the wood barricade. Both of them checked it over for hidden sensors, metal spikes, swinging pendulums of death, anything suspicious, but it looked clean. When Neal tested the barricade with his belt to see if electric bolts would shoot through it, nothing happened.

Warily, first with one hand and then more confidently, Neal climbed over the beams and made room for Peter.

But as Peter prepared to climb over, a loud clang shook the corridor.

Crying out as a gaping hole appeared in the floor beneath him, Peter tumbled through the opening even as he flung out his arms to try to stop his fall.

"Peter!" Neal raced back to climb over the barricade. Thwarting his efforts, a metal gate crashed down from the ceiling, nearly slicing off his fingers. Neal hurled himself against the gate but it didn't budge. Through the grill of the gate all he could see was a dark opening in the floor.

"Are you okay? Peter, answer me!" Neal strained his ears but all he could hear was what sounded like the rushing of wind, and then, in the distance, mocking him, the thin sound of a single pipe.

Horrified, he watched as a trap door slid silently over the opening, sealing it shut.

Neal painstakingly felt along every inch of the wall, searching for a switch, a mechanism, anything to raise the gate, but there was nothing. Abandoning that approach, he tackled the gate itself, but the metal was much too strong to be bent. There was no way he could open it.

If he was going to rescue Peter, he'd have to find another route.

Burke residence. October 28, 2004. Thursday evening.

"By my calculation, that makes twelve bars of gold-pressed latinum that you now owe me." Mozzie tapped a finger on the table. "Pay up, Vulcan."

"Hold on. You neglected to include my rescue of the Klingon Chancellor," protested Travis.

"Talking back, 2 slips of latinum," Mozzie muttered as he made a note.

It was now eight o'clock. Coffee had replaced wine. El got up to stretch her legs and walked over to the fireplace. Travis had made a fire and the house must be warm—Mozzie had removed his muffler—but El still felt chilled as she put her hands in the pockets of her sweater. Were Peter and Neal cold too?

El was finding it impossible to focus on the game. She appreciated their efforts to distract her, but as the hours passed, she couldn't make even a pretense of joining in.

Travis's cell phone buzzed. She rushed back to hear what he was saying. It was Tricia. She must have some news as he mainly listened and nodded.

"What did she say?" El asked as soon as he turned off his cell. "I want every detail." She sat down next to him.

"You remember there were multiple tire tracks by the shack? In addition to those of your car, they were able to identify tires from a cargo van. Agents found an abandoned van with matching tire treads at a beach parking lot about twenty miles away along the parkway. The van was empty and is being searched for evidence."

"Wait—you said it was at a parking lot?" Mozzie stood up, agitated at the news. "That means a helicopter could have landed and carried them off."

"That's what they thought too," Travis confirmed. "Agents have checked with Nassau County flight control, and radar shows a helicopter landed at that location in the afternoon. Officials have only been able to trace its route as far as Manhattan. After that the trail is lost."

"So they could be anywhere." El bit her lower lip and resumed pacing.

"Unfortunately, yes. They're now attempting to get more information on the helicopter," Travis said.

El appreciated that he wasn't trying to sugarcoat it. How could he? She went over to the patio doors and looked out into the night. In the background she heard Mozzie talking on the phone with June. She could tell he was trying to reassure her.

Satchmo came up and rubbed against her leg. Dogs always know when something's wrong. She wondered if she should call Neal's aunt Noelle? But how could she manage it without falling apart? Wait till morning, she told herself.

"Peter, come home to me," she whispered into the night.

Notes: Grateful thanks and an apology to my awesome beta Penna Nomen. She had no idea I'd be dragging her into the demonic realm of Azathoth when she offered to help me on The Woman in Blue. The action comes to a head in Chapter 22: The Seventh Circle. That chapter may leave you with more questions than answers so I'm going to post it together with Chapter 23: A Burke Halloween. Both chapters will be ready for you next Thursday.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
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