Mysterium

He knew as soon as they turned onto the slope of Beacon Street that this was no ordinary fire. The Gulf station was indeed burning; the underground tank had recently been filled with that leaded diesel the military cars ran on, and it looked like one of the topside pumps had not only caught fire but gone gusher. But that wasn’t all. Like the fire at the defense plant so many months ago, this fire had a frightening aspect. A tower of blue light rose from the flames to the sky… and maybe arched a little, Tom thought, as if its rainbow trajectory might bring it down somewhere over Ojibway land. But it faded before that. It was a vein of light with, if you looked long enough, faces in it—and that was terrifying.

The fire at the defense plant had been terrifying too, but that had not stopped Chief Haldane from attempting to fight it, and the chief remained an idol in Tom’s eyes even after his untimely death this past summer. With that in mind, Tom drove as close as he could to the Gulf station, supervised his men as they connected at the mains, and did his level best to end the conflagration.

The column of strange light faded to nothing in the steam, and that was fine with Tom. It made him nervous to work with the Devil looking on.

∞

Dex Graham left Howard at the Cantwell house and made his own way home, over the younger man’s protests. “Makes sense,” he told Howard. “Right now there’s chaos. In the morning there’ll be soldiers everywhere, and they might be curious about a wounded man.”

“You can make it?”

“Yes.”

At least he thought he could. He took it street by street. Pain, and the dizziness that rode with it, came in tidal movements of ebb and flood. He was only dimly aware of the sound of sirens, the distant flicker of firelight.

He reached his apartment after an eternity of footsteps. The stairs seemed at a steeper angle than he remembered; he whispered small encouragements to himself as he climbed.

He locked his apartment door behind him and left the lights off. Now you can rest, he thought, and reached for the bed as darkness took him.

∞

Among those who had witnessed the strange phenomenon above the burning Gulf station, reports were mixed.

Soldiers reported seeing what they described variously as Ialdaboath, Samael, a Demiurge, or the Father of Grief.

Civilian witnesses in the neighboring houses claimed they had seen God or, like Tom Stubbs, the Devil.

Only Howard Poole connected that visitation in the sky with Alan Stern, and Howard didn’t file a report.

∞

By morning, everything east of Oak stank of smoke and diesel fuel.

CHAPTER TEN

If Dex woke with the sun in his eyes and the knowledge that time had passed—too little or too much time, he wasn’t sure which. The events of the night had been large and significant and he dreaded the returning memory. He tried to roll onto his side but a starburst of pain prevented him. He tried again, more slowly, and discovered he was stuck to the bed.

He peeled away the bloody sheet from the shirttail bandage Howard had wound for him and managed to sit up. He didn’t remember loosening the tourniquet, but he must have done so. That instinct had saved him a close encounter with gangrene, he thought—at least, so far. He was thirsty, feverish, and appallingly weak.

He went to the sink in a drunkard’s stumble. He poured a glass of water. Sip it, he thought. From the medicine cupboard, four aspirin. One two three four.

He was scheduled to hold classes between ten and twelve and it seemed to Dex he really ought to try to be there, as impossible as it might seem at the moment. The soldiers or the Bureau could be keeping an eye on his movements; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by staying home. The Proctors might be looking for a wounded man. Better not to appear wounded. The trick would be to avoid collapsing in the street.

He examined himself in the bathroom mirror. When the storefront window blew in he had been turned away from it; his face wasn’t cut, though his back, when he worked his shirt loose, seemed to have been flayed nearly skinless. The cuts weren’t as bad as they looked, fortunately; only a lacework of shallow lacerations after he sponged the scabbed blood away. But not pleasant.

His arm…

Well, he was able to move it, though the effort cost him dearly. Wait until the aspirin takes hold, he told himself. The aspirin would help, at least a little… though a mere four Bayers, under the circumstances, might be a spit in the wind. As for the wound itself, he didn’t want to risk disturbing the makeshift bandage. He didn’t want to bleed again. Of course, it would have to be changed; it might already be infected. But later. This afternoon, say. When he could faint at leisure.

He put on plausible work clothes a cautious step at a time. The bandage bulked conspicuously under a clean shirt, but the sport coat disguised it.