There is a difficulty inherent in telling a story. To whit: where do you begin? From a certain point of view, this story begins on a Saturday, September 29th, 2001. But there are other views... ======== Sixty-five years ago... By 1937, rumors of the Thule Society (and its political branch, the National Socialist Party), their dealings with 'dark powers', and their searches for 'holy' artifacts (the Lance of Longinus/Ark of the Covenant/etc.) finally worried the Vatican enough that the Pope agreed to the rather drastic step of forming a counter-organization. A young Bishop named Alberto Luccini was picked to head the group. He was given the cream of the current generation of priests to train, and access to the vast archives of the Church to research the enemy and ways to fight them. The Vatican Operations Group was born. ======== Eight years ago... Charlie Hopewell stood in a crowd of policemen. His -fellow- policemen. He grinned like an idiot and threw his hat in the air with the rest of them. <> he thought. He walked over to his mother and sister, both wearing grins matching his for size and intensity. "Oh, Charlie, your da would've been so proud." "Lookin' good, big brother. Just don't embarrass the family before I join up, alright?" He hugged his mother tightly, then stepped back and saluted them both. "Gotta go, ma. I volunteered to go on duty this evening." His mother sighed, eyes glistening. "That's my boy. Off with you, then. C'mon, Karen." Charlie watched them go for a moment, smiling sadly. Then he spun briskly on his heel and went to work. ======== Yesterday... "Goddammed editor. Sending me to this shithole because some fucking Shriner had an out of body experience and He Who Must Be Obeyed owes the bastard money. When I get back, I'm going to rip..." The people in the lobby of the New Haven Hilton moved quickly out of the way of the muttering man in the gray flannel suit, trying to give the impression that they had never been anywhere near him. He failed to notice. "...shove them down his-" "May I help you, sir?" asked the desk clerk, in the tones of one who hopes that the answer will be no, suspects that it will be yes, and knows that he has to deal with the apparant lunatic regardless. The man focused on his surroundings for the first time. "You have a room for me. I'm with the Times." Here he paused, waiting for the response he knew was coming. On the East Coast, they always assumed New York; West, Los Angeles. Overseas? London. <> "-You- are with the New York Times?" Michael Lime, zetetic at large, smiled beatifically and laid his credentials on the counter. "The -Fortean- Times. Now, my room?" ========================================= New Haven ----------------------------------------- things fall apart, the center cannot hold Scene 1-3: The Widening Gyre by Jason McCulley ========================================= At the end of the war, the Operations Group became less obvious. After all, the reasoning went, the Third Reich's paranormal advantage, the very thing the Group had been formed to counter, had never materialized. Archbishop Luccini had the power to ensure that a formal disbanding never took place, but the funding slowed to a trickle, and as the old men who ran the Church died or retired, his access dried up and his options dwindled. Until a phone call came. A parishioner in America had called her priest. The priest had called his bishop. The bishop had, forty years ago, been a member of the Operations Group. Five minutes later, he had awakened the Archbishop in his chambers in Rome. Alberto Luccini had been galvanized. Evil walked the land, as in the old days. The minions of hell had forgotten to fear. "I'll teach them," he wheezed, unaware that he spoke aloud. Now, ten hours, thirty-seven minutes later, he sat in a van parked just outside the City where Evil Dwelt. He laughed harshly. For sixty years they had laughed behind his back. They had thwarted his plans. They had shuffled his boys off into backwater parishes and driven them away from the fold, but they hadn't gotten rid of him. It had taken every favor he had left to call in, but he'd pulled two of his 'boys' back, raided the archives, and dusted off plans drawn up decades before. The Operations Group was about his work at last. And God's work. Mustn't forget God. ======== Three men in a Ford Econoline are slowly driving into the unnatural dark and fog of New Haven. Archbishop Luccini, age ninety-three. Father Gregory Bruno, age sixty-four. Father Johnathan Edgewood, age sixty-six. A brief moment of silence for them. They'd surely say a prayer for you. ======== "No! Out of the question! Why in hell do you want to go to City Hall anyway?" "It's very simple, Alicia. First, someone needs to tell the mayor that the police have all quit. It didn't look like Chief Renoir was interested." "Charlie," his sister piped up, "I really don't think it's worth the risk of-" "Second," he continued inexorably, "The people at City Hall- "If there are any left," Alicia muttered. "-will have the best idea of where the citizens who didn't run for their lives immediately are located. I am...reluctantly willing to leave the city, but if I can get other people out too, I want to." Alicia cocked an eybrow a fraction at Karen. (translation: Do you think we should bother trying to get through to him?) Karen lifted her shoulders minutely, then dropped them. (translation: What can you do? This is our Charlie.) They had had this conversation so many times over the last few years that the shorthand version was all that was really necessary. It was lost on neither, however, that had they tried harder in the past, they might be in a better position to change his mind now. "Fine, Charlie. You're the man with the plan. How do we get there?" He blinked, surprised. "Why, we take Davis to 6th, then up 6th to Main. You know the city as well as I do, sis." "What I -meant- was; how do we get there -alive-?" "We'll take your car. It'll draw more attention than walking, but it should be faster." ======== "God, I want to get out of this place," Karen said. "They were...they ate...they..." Alicia gave up trying to speak, gave up walking, and burst into tears. Charlie moved to put his arm around her, but stopped as she tensed up. "Alicia..." "Why didn't you do something, Charlie?" "They were dead already, 'Licia." "But why didn't you stop those...things!?" "Because they might have tried to eat -us-, Alicia," Charlie replied patiently. "Also, we only have one gun." "I still think we should have tried to go around them," Karen said. "I am -not- happy about having abandoned my car." "Look on the bright side, sis. If we hadn't abandoned it, those fireball things would have gotten us, too." "Charlie?" "Yes?" "Never try to cheer me up again." ======== "I've been meaning to ask someone since I moved here. Why does City Hall look like it got pulled out of a bad horror movie?" Charlie perked up. "Well, when they decided to rebuild it a few years ago, they contacted an architect from our Sister City, Granveir, and..." "Where the hell is that?" Alicia whispered to Karen. "The Trans-Belvian region of eastern Germany," she whispered back. "...with a local architect. It's kind of funny, actually. The one they built in Granveir looks like a bank. Fluted columns and everything. Anyway, construction almost didn't get started. The local Masonic Lodge insisted that they be allowed to rededicate the site with the origianl cornerstone, and there were some customs problems with the building materials. They used a lot of stones from this old castle that had been laying empty for centuries, Heck, I think they even used imported mortar..." "Jesus Christ, he goes on, doesn't he?" "He really loves this city. I'd be touched if I weren't nauseated." "But enough history. We really should go in and see what's going on." A pause. "Yes," Karen said, "That would be good." A longer pause. "This is silly. We're drawing attention to ourselves." Charlie shook off the mild aversion that the building generated in him and started up the steps. Unwilling to go in, but less willing to wait outside, Alicia and Karen followed closely. ======== The inside was anticlimactic. The lights shone brightly, chasing off the specters of things outside with the solidity of bureaucratic normalcy. Computers hummed to themselves, fans circulated the air efficiently, coffee percolated in a pot behind the front desk. The one dissonant note was the total absence of people. "Karen, there's someone under here," Alicia said. Living people. "Is he dead?" Charlie asked. "-She- is...well...maybe?" Karen knelt by the body. "No heartbeat. No breathing. I think we can assume she's dead." "Karen, her chest is still moving." Charlie said. "She is not dead," came a voice from behind them. "I have merely...placed her into...stasis, so that I might borrow some of the...less essential portions of her." All three whirled. A man stood in the doorway. His clothing caught the eye first, tunic and hose in shades of red and orange, drawing attention from his unremarkable physical form. At first glance, one might simply assume him to be an escapee from a Renaissance Fair. One might then speak to him, and in doing so, look him in the eyes. Seeing the flames within, one could not assume him to be anything less than terrifying. "Greetings. I am Harlukia. ======== Dawn still comes to New Haven, though not as it did before. Gradually the sky lightens, changing the impenetrable black mists to impenetrable grey mists. There is less danger during the 'day'; the undead have taken cover. The fish-men (topped out between ten and twelve feet for the most part) are beginning the first of what will be many forays into the areas of the city further from the water. At 'night' they will be repulsed by the undead, only to regroup and return the next 'day'. Hi-ho. An alley runs between Alexander and Mayfair streets, a few blocks from the police station. It is too narrow for most of the fish men to enter, and the bone shamblers...well, its hard to make general statements about them beyond "They're absolutely terrifying, thank God they didn't eat me". At the Alexander end of the alley two fish-men are playing catch. With a Yugo. At the Mayfair end, a puddle of unidentified liquid is hard at work dissolving a building. The concrete and asphalt beneath it appear completely unaffected, but the building is sinking at the rate of about two inches per hour. And sitting in the middle of the alley, typing furiously, is Michael Lime. His suit jacket is missing, his shirt is streaked with blood and dirt, and he is wearing a fez. tappity tappity tappity He is typing furiously at his laptop. tappity tappity tappity "...best godsdamned story they've ever seen. I'll show them. Teach that bastard editor to send -me- to cover the Shriners..." tappity tappity tappity FIN Author's Notes: Gods, I hope this doesn't come off too disjointed. Hope you enjoyed it. Questions and comments are welcomed. Hell, they're begged for. mcculley@mad.scientist.com A final note. George Walker Bush, President of the United States, attended Yale University. In New Haven, Connecticut. -zerosum 03/05/02