Desmond Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
1958
Agent Armstrong has come to understand, for quite some time now, the true nature of this long term operation that he's been allegedly spearheading for these past five years. At first he figured they were just using the Roberts guy as a Floater, baiting certain interested parties with his whack job science. But then as one thing led to another, it became obvious that wasn't the case at all. Maybe they expected him to feel insecure about the situation, being assigned to such a simple Psych Analysis job, pretty much baitsitting a loon. Punishment for lack of progress on his main assignment. As he'd signed off on the requisition orders the info had been vague - tech. equipment was pretty much all it had said - pretty unimportant looking stuff. But then his instincts had long ago told him that if something is made to look unimportant then you could bet that it was most likely very important. He'd begun to look further into it, and before long Armstrong had tracked the warehouse for those req. forms and taken a look for himself. What he had found there, what he had been sending to Desmond Roberts for the use in his suburban basement home, has changed Armstrong's perception of everything that he was doing with the man.
It didn't take a lot more evidence for Armstrong to make the connection with his other assignment, the one he had been working on long before the Robert's came onto the scene: the assignment that he is currently engaged in on this very day. Desmond Robert's ambition was definitely a factor in all of this, another piece falling into place. And the picture that was beginning to form was an ugly one indeed.
Of course, it's thoughts like this he'd prefer to keep out of mind, sitting here behind the wheel of this stakeout, going into their second day hanging around this piece of shit neighbourhood. He'd talk to his partner in the passenger seat, but the guy's a rookie, so not much to talk about there. Armstrong's not exactly the lecturing type, and the kid - Murray's his name - he doesn't seem all that inquisitive, either.
Just as well, really. Truth is, the idea of introducing an inexperienced agent at this stage makes Armstrong's blood boil. All the more because of the true nature of this operation. Which is quite simple.
It's an experiment.
Murray's hunched forward in his seat, holding a pair of field glasses plastered over his eyes. He's peering at their target – an old rundown bungalow about a half block down and across the street. The front lawn's all knee high grass and wild sunflowers, and the driveway is broken asphalt with weeds growing through the cracks, giving all appearances of an abandoned home. And right now, the place might as well be. Nobody home. But Armstrong supposes the kid needs something to do to keep himself busy.
Murray lowers his glasses and scowls at the house. He's got a round face and a buzz cut, and combined with the attempt at a tough guy look, the overall effect is goddamn comical, like a coconut trying to get serious once and for all. Armstrong takes a sip of coffee from his thermos, to cover up the grin he can feel growing on his own face. Which is a good thing, because now Murray is tightening up his scowl so that the coconut is more like a dried up prune.
“I thought our intel said they would show an hour ago.”
Armstrong laughs, a short stifled bark. “You know the kind of people these are.”
“Another fucking cell of radicals and communists...”
Armstrong turns to Murray.
“What we’re dealing with is a little more than that.”
Armstrong turns his attention back to the house. “I mean, these fools wouldn’t know it... But we do.”
Murray smiles grimly. Armstrong turns to look at him again.
“You weren’t in Seattle last year.” Armstrong says this flatly. “So this is your first time in this particular situation. ”
Murray looks chagrined but doesn’t turn to face Armstrong. “I’ve been trained for this, Agent Armstrong. I passed all the Psych. Tests-”
Armstrong waves this away and turns to look back at the house.
“Just keep your eyes open and your mind closed, Agent Murray.”
Now Murray does turn to regard Armstrong. Armstrong leans forward and peers down the street, his eyes narrowing.
Yeah, it's a pretty shit part of town, all right. The bungalow sits on a corner, the only residence on that section of the block, next door to a storage facility that Armstrong has yet to see anyone enter or leave from. Across the street there's a long chain link fence separating the street from the expressway.
“Looks like we have contact.”
Murray raises the field glasses to look at the car that has appeared from around the corner. It’s a Volkswagon, puttering up the street towards the house. The car seems to be stuffed full of people and things. The Volkswagon rounds the corner and veers into the driveway of the rundown bungalow. A group of people pile out of the car, laughing and talking loudly. They are dressed like urban gypsies, dark brown clothing, the men sporting scruffy beards and the women wearing head scarves.
“Fucking hippies...” Murrray lowers the glasses and sneers at the group.
Armstrong turns sharply to Murray. “Where did you get that word?”
Murray seems a little uncertain for a second. He lifts the glasses up to his eyes again and watches the group some more. A few of the men are unloading some suitcases and bags from the back hatch of the car, while the rest make their wandering way up to the front door.
“Well it’s like the “Yippies”, right?” Murray says absently. “Those writers, y’know? Only I just, I dunno... I just thought, “Hippies”... ”
Something cold and heavy drops in Armstrong's gut. He reaches for the CB Radio between the seats. Murray takes notice.
“Everything okay?”
Armstrong lifts the receiver to his face. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just checking in for a confirm.”
Armstrong clicks the line.
“Uh, Station, this is Sparrow. Uh, that’s a 2d in the hatch. ”
There is a brief pause. Armstrong manages to not look over at Murray, who is watching him more closely now.
A voice crackles through on the line.
“Proceed.”
Armstrong stares at the receiver in his hand. He can feel himself squeezing the handle so tight that he almost breaks it. Then he clicks on the line again.
“Uh, Station, just to confirm, that's a 2d in the hatch.”
“Confirmed. Backup is moving into position. Proceed with extraction.”
“Copy.” Bastards.
Armstrong clicks off the Radio and smiles at Murray. “Looks like we’re a go.”
Murray casts a dubious glance over at Armstrong. Well, that's that, then. They both go back to watching the house.
By now, most of the group has entered the building. One last guy, a tall and lanky fellow with tangled blond hair and and a pathetic little patch of beard on his chin, pulls a final bag from the car and closes the hatch.
“So once this last guy goes in we move.” Armstrong wills his breathing to slow, steadies his pulse. He can feel the familiar rising energy within him, a sort of quickening that has always accompanied every operation he's ever been on, especially at these times, these moments of anticipation. The trick was to learn how to ride with it, turn that nervous energy to your advantage. He's had a lot of opportunities to hone this skill, this mental mastery, and now he is being granted another one. Another stroke of the chisel, carving the rock down to it's final form within.
The lanky guy stretches and leans back, letting the morning sun bathe over his face. For just a second he seems to look across to the car, he seems to smile at Armstrong and Murray sitting there in their car watching him, before he reaches down for the bag at his feet. He then hoists the bag over his shoulder, turns around and begins to saunter his way up to the front door.
Murray drops his glasses and winces. “Do you think he just made us?”
Maybe if you weren't using those fucking glasses. “It doesn't matter. We go in right after him.”
The lanky guy open the front door and stumbles into the house, letting the screen door flop closed behind him. Armstrong lifts his radio.
“Extraction GO.”
Several cars appear from within alleyways and around corners, rushing towards the house. It always amazes Armstrong how quickly the backup can be brought together on a job like this, considering how long he and Murray had been staked out. That was the reach of his employers, the extent of their resources, and Armstrong feels a surge of pride and maybe a little fear at the thought of this. Then he guns the engine and the Vic speeds across the street and up onto the front lawn of the bungalow. The car skids to a halt after knocking over a few sunflowers, and the two agents jump out of their respective doors with their guns drawn.
Armstrong curses the tall grass as he and Murray cross over to the porch. Lots of things could be hiding in grass like this, snakes and other things... Booby traps. They make it to the porch without incident and meet up with three other agents – Lawrence, Adams and Reno. All three acknowledge Armstrong with quick nods. Another group of agents has slipped around the sides of the house. The men on the porch lean back against the walls on either side of the door, guns pointed at the floorboards. Armstrong listens intently for a moment. He lifts his left hand and motions for the men to wait.
Between the agents, behind the screen door, the front door has been left slightly ajar, a mute invitation. No sound comes from within, no movement. The men remain ready and calm as they wait. Except for Murray. He shifts quickly back and forth, head darting in front of the bay window, trying to look in past the curtains.
Reno spares a glance at Armstrong. Armstrong turns to Murray, and is about to say something, when there is a crash of broken glass from within the house, followed by shouting voices.
“All right, let’s go!” Pulling back the screen, Armstrong steps in front of the door and kicks it in. Adams and Reno rush through the opening, guns pointed, shouting. Armstrong and Lawrence follow, then Murray.
The men comb through the front hallway and living room, announcing their presence with loud shouts of “Government Agents!” The rooms are empty of both people and furniture. The sense of the house being abandoned has extended into it's interior – layers of dust cover everything, the mouldy carpet seems to crunch underfoot and except for the torn wallpaper the walls are completely bare. They find no signs of life, no clothing, no bags or boxes. Nothing.
They meet with the second team in a dilapidated kitchen that stinks of rat droppings and ammonia. The cupboards are bare not only of food but of their doors. The kitchen sink has collapsed into the counter, is in fact half buried into the rotting linoleum of the kitchen floor, in a way that somehow seems inexplicably violent. Another agent, Louis, approaches Armstrong.
“Ground floor cleared, sir.”
The kitchen seems to heat up as a tepid orange glow pulses around them. Armstrong eyes a refrigerator with it's door open on it's hinges, as if he will find the people he is looking for in there. But of course it's pretty obvious where they must be.
Armstrong turns around and spots the basement door just before the hallway.
And that is when he first hears it.
The low, muffled sound of voices rises from the basement and creeps through the closed door into the ruined kitchen. Armstrong steps over to the basement door and listens intently. The voices are chanting, some sort of repeating monotone... Armstrong turns back to the men and sees that no one but himself has moved. He motions with his head back to the door. The other men stir to life, looking at each other hesitantly, before moving forward to join Armstrong at the door.
He closes his hand around the door knob, and finds that it is unnaturally warm. Warm, and moist to the touch. He grimaces inwardly and turns the knob slowly, his face almost pressed to the door. Behind him the other men seem to breathe in as one.
The knob cracks like a gunshot in the kitchen, and Armstrong pulls the door slowly open. The voices become louder but no more the easier to understand. Just a cycling mantra of nonsense words that echoes into Armstrong's ears as he steps through the doorway and peers down the stairs, into the gloom. From the light of an overhead bulb he can make out the bottom of the wooden steps, fronted by a bare dirt floor.
“All right,” Armstrong whispers, “Let's go.”
He steps forward and begins to descend. The rotten wood creaks and groans beneath his weight, joining with the rhythms of the chanting. The chanting – it seems to to modulate and waver into different types of sounds. To Armstrong, it is a noise like speaking in tongues slowed way down to a barely legible cadence. He wonders if it is the same for all of the men here. Probably not. His experience had shown him that this sort of thing tends to have a varied effect. Although this is something different, this time. In Seattle it had been more about smell.
Armstrong reaches the bottom of the steps. Behind him the men descend in an awkward bunch. He moves forward into the room and looks around slowly.
The single bulb he spotted from the stairs is hanging from a ceiling in the centre of the room, casting a fetid glow over the packed dirt floor. And nothing else. The room is completely empty. The walls are bare. There are no windows, no doors. The chanting rises and falls, rises and falls.
From the back of the group, Murray steps forward. “What the hell?” He mutters, eyes darting around the room.
Armstrong holds up a hand. “Quiet.”
Armstrong stands perfectly still except for his eyes, surveying the scene. Slowly sweeping from one side of the room to the other, taking in every detail, trying to see what he can't see. Sensing.
The chanting increases in volume, but also becomes slower. A chill passes through the men, who are barely in any kind of formation now, just gathered at the foot of the stairs and waiting for what's going to happen next. Armstrong continues to watch the empty room.
Then he turns towards a light switch on the wall, looks up at the single bare bulb that shines like an eye above the room. He reaches out and flips the switch.
They had been there the whole time, right in front of them. As the light bulb darkens the room instantly turns blue, and before Armstrong a group of people is revealed, sitting on the floor, chanting. There are eleven of them in all, cross legged on the hard packed dirt, facing each other in the form of a five pointed star.
Murray's legs begin to wobble as he stares at the group. “This... This is...”
Reno grabs Murray’s arm and shakes him. Murray blinks repeatedly. The other men reach out to steady Murray. "Keep it together!" Reno hisses into Murray's ear. The chanters ignore the men as they continue their warped mantra. Except for one; a middle aged woman with greying, short cropped hair, squatting at the head of the top point of the star. She is staring straight at Armstrong, a sly, knowing smile crossing her face.
He recognizes her. They have many photos of this woman, some taken from afar in public places, some taken up close in very private places, doing things that no one should ever have to even know about, much less see. And she has many names, so many that no one in Murray's association can say with certainty exactly who she is or where she has come from. The Agency has dubbed her the Star Woman. And although they have never met, she looks back at Armstrong as though she recognizes him.
Armstrong reminds himself that this is part of the power wielded by individuals such as this. They make you think that they know, and then you lower your defences, and then they do.
The Star Woman shrugs slightly, as if to say, what's to know? Armstrong swallows hard and steadies himself. When the Star Woman speaks her voice is low as a whisper yet louder and clearer than the expanding mantra tone. Armstrong’s fingers twitch as he holds the gun at his side.
“I am the North.”
She holds a hand out to indicate her flock. “We are the children. Your children.”
A tremor lowers from the ceiling and envelops the room. The chanters continue, slower and slower, their lips quivering beneath eyes squeezed tightly shut. Murray begins to convulse in the men’s arms, leaving Armstrong to confront the Star Woman alone, as she smiles and speaks her clear cutting whisper through the lowering noise.
“We are your children. Spread from your greed. Your greed is the seed that spreads over time and space.”
Behind Armstrong the men are shouting, but he does not hear them anymore. A brief thought flashes into Armstrong's mind – they hadn't seen this woman enter the premises with the others, and the house had been swept before the group's arrival. From where had she come? The Star Woman’s smiling head begins to turn sideways like an inquisitive dog. Armstrong tries to lift his gun, but his arm moves slowly as if trapped in quicksand. Her head continues to turn, chin turning up one way, forehead down another, to a point past the believable. He struggles to lift his arm while dust begins to sift from the ceiling of the now violently shaking room, echoing with the chant that as it amplifies to a deafening roar.
This chanting that has grown so hellishly loud is simutaneously winding downwards into an impossibly slow rate; it is simply too slow for human voices to reproduce. Louder and slower. Too slow... And now the Star Woman’s head turns completely upside down on her shoulders. Impossible. How was – where was her neck? ...Hallucination. Remember what you're dealing with. Armstrong squeezes his eyes shut and then open again, looking back at the Star Woman. Her head is still upside down. Her flipped grin opens up into a gaping maw, and from within her mouth a long, green tongue emerges. The tongue splits into three and begins to writhe back and forth like a trio of snakes above her chin, sending flecks of spittle that fly across the room to spatter against Armstrong's chest. Beneath her contorting mouth the woman’s nose splits open and her eyes start to flow tears of black light that spill across her forehead and down onto her blouse.
The men are collapsed in a heap against the stairs, struggling to control Murray’s violent convulsions. Murray screams as his eyes roll back in his head. Armstrong has managed to lift the gun and is now fighting to point it steadily at the Star Woman. The gun wavers and his vision blurs and sharpens as he tries to take aim. Is he crying? Are his tears black, like hers? He can feel more of the Star Woman's spittle against his gun hand, burning his fingers; it feels as though she is licking his hand with her three tongues, readying to bite the hand that feeds. The hand that kills. He has to kill her. The hand that tongues. Taste the black light from an upside down mouth that needs no neck, no throat to breathe. All tongue.
“The flower of your seed shall create a new Time in a new Space!”
Armstrong fires the gun. A flash of light consumes the room, then converges on the Star Woman’s head, still upside down and deformed, only now completely aflame. She lifts from the floor in a lotus position and floats above the group, ascending to the ceiling. Her flaming head is just like a rising sun, beaming at Armstrong as he stands with his arm pointed but his gun has fallen, has slipped from his fingers and fallen into the dirt. When the Star Woman reaches the ceiling, she explodes.
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