The Realms of the Dead (7 page)

Chuck stood in the curved stairwell of the medieval turret, looking through a window whose stone border was slick with algae. This was the same opening through which he'd viewed the silhouetted man, and that figure's presence seemed to linger in the space, tainting the air with a chill that was deeper than what could be explained by ambient temperature. Rather than coming from outside his body, the coldness seeped through Chuck from within; it was as though liquid nitrogen flowed through veins his astral body didn't actually have, crystalizing his essence from the inside out.

This is what evil feels like.

The thought burst unbidden from Chuck's mind, making him frown. He hadn't truly believed in evil since he was a teenager; the way he saw it, everyone had reasons for the things they did, even mass murderers and serial killers. The so-called logic behind those reasons may have been so skewed that they only made sense to the person thinking them, but they were reasons nonetheless.
Rationalizations.
Justifications.
A myriad of excuses to justify the most-deviant behaviors. Even extreme cases could be chalked up to mental illness or some psychological deficiency: He'd been positive of this. People didn't do bad things simply because they were bad.

Now, however, he wasn't so sure. He didn't try to explain away the cold as a trick of perception or a rogue atmospheric pocket in the Cutscene; he knew what he felt, and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

Pure, unadulterated evil.

Stepping away from the window, Chuck tried to concentrate on the features of the turret—things that would distract his mind from thoughts of morality. Flames sputtered in the breeze gusting through the window and molten tar hissed from a torch as light and shadow fought for control of the stairs. The glow burnished the condensation-covered walls, tinting the passageway with a soft orange light but never defeating the darkness completely. Time and time again, the shadows lurched and jumped, ripping bites of illumination before retreating to nooks and crannies the light couldn't reach, only to attack again. The torch's brightness weakened with every assault and the shadows pushed forward, claiming more of the battlefield with every passing second.

Before long, the torch would burn out completely. The light would die and darkness would hold sway, free to mask whatever horrors crept behind its veil. He could sense their presence, just beyond the edges of sight; they clustered and writhed, hungry for suffering and sensing that something new had been introduced into their world. Something whose screams would feed insatiable appetites, something warm and vibrant and brimming with potential passions. Something that would expose itself with the slightest show of emotion.

Chuck, however, thought he was safe. All he had to do was observe protocol. The human mind was easily controlled, and he'd spent days learning how to isolate rational thought processes from sentimental ones: replacing emotional responses with tangible facts, responding to situations with sound judgment rather than blindly reacting, controlled breathing, and meditation. There were a myriad of tools at his disposal, each one effective in its own right but made all that more potent when combined with others. Even in a worst-case scenario, he reminded himself, he still had backup.

The torch's flame was now so small that Chuck could have entirely blocked it with his hand and the impending gloom eased closer. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked out the window again. He couldn't see the ground from this angle, but the mountains rose above the horizon like inverted fangs. Their peaks raked the sky, seeming to pull long strands of cloud from the heavens as if they were tendons ripped from a carcass. No trees dotted their slopes, the ground being too rocky for roots to ever take hold. No birds looped or dove through air. The entire place was lifeless and barren, a diorama dedicated to entropy and destruction.

This Cutscene had been responsible for the destruction of Abigail's Crossfade. It had consumed the energy the little girl's construct radiated, devouring it so thoroughly that not so much as a speck of pollen remained. Had her soul fled to another location, retreating to a place where her tire swing and field could rebuild themselves, offering the comfort she so desperately needed? Or was she here somewhere? Trapped within the confines of this godforsaken world, more alone and frightened than she'd ever been?

An image of the child flashed in Chuck's consciousness. She cowered in the shadows with her knees pulled to her chest, the lenses of her glasses cracked, and her eyes squeezed shut as tears cleaned swaths from the grime covering her face. The scent of decay was so thick it saturated her hair and dress, and she cringed every time thunder rumbled across the sky.

You don't know that…she could have moved on. She could have crossed The Divide out of sheer necessity.

Chuck knew that was a possibility. The shock of the event could've been great enough to propel her into whatever lay beyond. But he couldn't shake that image. It was as clear as if he were actually seeing her, and his body tensed as his hands balled into fists.

This was no place for a child. It was barely tolerable for him, a trained professional. What must it have been like for someone who still didn't understand how these things worked? For an innocent soul who didn't even realize she was dead yet?

The air suddenly felt too thin and dry, and Chuck clenched his teeth as he breathed through his nose. The shadows surrounding him looked darker than they had before, almost as though they were gaining strength from the sense of dread that clawed at Chuck's rational thought processes.

What the fuck are you doing here, man?

From somewhere farther down the stairwell, a woman wailed. Her cries sounded as if they came from the far end of a long tunnel, muffled but echoing slightly. Though no words were actually spoken, Chuck felt the desolation as keenly as if it were his own. He felt as if hope had all but evaporated, leaving only a cold and empty expanse. So much despair in those choked sobs, so much fear in the whimpers punctuating them…

Chuck looked back over his shoulder again, seeking to calm the anxious quiver in his stomach with his silver cord's ghostly radiance.

“Remember the feel of warm sand against bare feet. The smell of saltwater and gulls squawking overhead.” It was Control's voice, broadcasting across The Divide and creating a link between his office and this castle of suffering. “Remember slicing your heel on broken glass, half-hidden within the dunes. How the wound stung as your blood oozed over sand so wet that it was almost reflective.”

She was good. With nothing more than his vital signs to guide him, Control had skillfully reinforced Chuck's bonds with the physical world, summoning memories from vague descriptions in his file. Her ability to capture sensory details, to construct an impression of a place and time beyond the Cutscene, was just as important as his silver cord. Without her to reel in emotions when he couldn't, his cord would fade; without her, he ran the risk of being lost forever.

Images of the beach chased away thoughts of Abigail and the crash of waves drowned out the woman's wailing. He was no longer within the turret of a castle, but standing before the ocean, watching sunlight sparkle on the blue water as if millions of diamonds bobbed within its surface. A white-crested wave rolled over the sand and lapped against a gnarled piece of driftwood. When the tides pulled the water back into the sea, it left behind a layer of foam whose bubbles popped until a new surge wiped it clean. But the water also washed away stress; tension was coaxed from Chuck with each new breaker, and he felt as though physical weight was removed from his chest and shoulders. Breathing became easier and confidence swelled within him, replacing the doubt and fear that had struggled to take hold. Within minutes, he was calm enough to turn away from the ocean and its limitless horizon. At his back was the castle's passage, and he stepped into it slowly…not from lingering trepidation, but because he felt so light and airy that quick movements were a physical impossibility.

“Control…” He knew the transmission was one-way. The halo allowed her to speak to him, but he had no way to actually reciprocate. And yet he whispered to her anyway, taking comfort in the knowledge that he was never truly alone. “Thanks for having my back.”

Instead of succumbing to the false world, Control's guidance allowed Chuck to face the spiraling stone stairs. Other voices reached him now as well, lending their distress to a caterwaul of suffering. Weak pleas for help and mercy, hysterical crying, and strained, warbling wails: Their torment circled him like an invisible demon. It scratched the back of his neck with cold talons and chased chills down the length of his spine; its tail constricted around his neck, squeezing him in its coils as fangs plucked at his silver cord, testing its durability and resolve.

This place is strong. So damn, strong…

Despite Control's earlier intervention, Chuck felt the flutter of panic deep within his core again. Part of him didn't want to go down those stairs. His feet had become leaden weights and he channeled all of his willpower to muster the strength for a single step.

What the fuck am I doing here? This is
so
out of my league.

“Remember your training.” Control again, establishing a link to a world of sunshine and flowers, of spring breezes and laughter. “You can do this. It's only as real as you make it, Chuck.”

He forced himself to take another step, and the keening of tortured souls grew louder. His palms felt as moist and cold as the stone walls surrounding him and his instincts screamed for him to go back, to follow his cord home and turn the assignment over to a Level I like he should have done in the first place.

“Chuck…”

A spasm tremored his thighs and yet he still placed his foot upon the next stair. Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Chuck focused on the next bend, the next flickering torch. Anything to keep him moving forward as he descended deeper into the abyss.

I can't even get the damn equation right. What the hell made me think I was ready for this?

“Chuck, you have to keep that emotion in check. For God's sake, don't expose yourself. Commence Kundalini breathing in
three…two…one.”

Drawing a deep breath through his nostrils was like snorting a line of decayed flesh. The stench watered his eyes and infected his sinuses, seeping into his saliva and immersing his mouth in the rancid tang of decomposition. His diaphragm hitched in protest, expelling tainting oxygen through retches that left his throat lining feeling as though he'd belched fire.

“That's it. I'm pulling you out.” Control's words were a panicked babble, shouted so loudly into her microphone that they cracked and popped with static.

“Negative, Control. I've got it covered. I can do this. I can. Mission proceeding.”

Since she couldn't actually hear him, Chuck knew he had to act fast. He had to let her know through respiration, pulse, and brain activity that aborting the mission wasn't necessary. He had to show her—and himself—that undertaking this Walk hadn't been an error in judgment

I've got this. I can do it.

Closing his eyes, Chuck imagined his breath pushed down his spinal column and into his legs. When he could feel it halfway down his thighs, he envisioned the exhalation taking on physical form, molding itself into vines that snaked and intertwined through his knees and calves, steadily spreading into his feet. The vines merged into one another, forming roots that burrowed through the cobblestone and into the earth, far below. Winding through soil and bedrock, through underground rivers where eyeless fish dangled phosphorescent appendages in front of needle-like teeth; deeper and deeper until the roots broke into the molten core.

Tension, fear, and uncertainty: All negativity coursed through the roots and burned in the fires below, so completely incinerated that only pure energy remained. He sucked the energy back up through his roots, back through the outer core, through the mantle and crust; it coursed into his body and dissolved the vestiges of panic. A sense of calm spread through Chuck's being as his roots retracted and he opened his eyes with a sigh.

“Grounded and centered, Control. Nothing to worry about. Just a little hitch. Won't happen again.”

At the bottom of the stairs was a lightless void. With his focus returned, however, Chuck didn't need to see. He could feel the walls on either side of him, could sense when passages branched out, and knew without exploring them which ones lead only to dead ends. With his silver cord trailing behind, he felt like Theseus in the labyrinth of King Minos. The horrors awaiting him here, however, were far worse than anything imagined in ancient myths; for he could feel the presence of something unnatural in the darkness, a beast whose mere scent would scatter herds of minotaurs in a frightened stampede.

And it was close.

If he hadn't performed The Tree Exercise before descending into the darkness, Chuck wouldn't have stood a chance. The creature would have homed in on his emotions and pulled him down, calculating its attacks as it milked pain and terror from his thrashing body.

But for now he was safe. He told himself that he, too, was a professional. Even though he hadn't received any of the advanced training—even though he'd only previously dealt with simple Crossfades constructed by children and infants—he told himself he was ready. And, at that moment, Chuck actually believed it.

He moved through the corridors at a brisk pace, adjusting his trajectory each time he heard a moan or sob from the solitary woman; the din of suffering had faded completely, telling him the souls who endured that particular Hell had been somewhere farther up the stairs. Down here, far beneath the tower, there was just that one voice, and he was positive finding the woman it belonged to would be the key. If he could save just one person from this place, it would prove beyond all doubt that he had what it took. That he would then be able to ascend the stairwell and tackle the larger job.