“What the hell?”
In the doorway, a large, brown rat stood on its hind legs and studied him cautiously. Its nose twitched at the sound of McCann’s voice, but the rodent didn’t run away. Instead, it dropped back down to all fours and crept closer.
“You’re a brave little son of a bitch.”
As if in agreement, the bold rodent darted forward and stopped at McCann’s feet. It stood up on its hind legs again and squeaked once more. It showed no fear—only curiosity.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were tame. Is that it? Were you a pet rat? Did you belong to the guy who shot at me?”
Moving slowly, McCann knelt in the doorway. His knee joints popped and his stomach growled. Both sounded loud in the silence, but still the rat remained. He studied it closely, looking for any sign of the white fuzz, but the creature seemed free of infection. Holding his breath, McCann reached out with one finger and cautiously touched the rodent’s back. When it didn’t bite him or flee, he stroked its soft, damp fur. The rat arched its back, obviously enjoying the attention. McCann smiled.
“Look at you. You’re a friendly little guy. What’s your name, I wonder? Did he give you a name?”
He spoke in soft, cooing tones, and the rat gazed up at him with rapt attention. McCann petted it a few more times and then stood up. The rat remained at his feet.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to come up with a name for you. How about ‘Dinner’? You like that? Come here, Dinner.”
McCann’s grin vanished. He raised one booted foot and brought it down on the rat’s head. Its skull crunched beneath his heel. The rodent’s legs and tail twitched, and then it lay still. The thought occurred to McCann that this could have been the last rat left alive in the world, and that he’d just made their entire species extinct. Then his stomach growled again, and he dismissed the thought with a shrug.
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, McCann stepped into the small office and looked around. It was a windowless room, and had probably served as some sort of storage area at one time. Judging from the clutter, the man who’d attacked them earlier had been using it as a place to sleep. McCann nodded with begrudging approval. Unlike the other offices, the room was hidden from the ocean, and easy to defend if attacked. It was tucked away and not easily noticeable. Indeed, he and Gail had missed it during their initial search. It might be just as easily missed by anyone—or
The floor was strewn with makeshift bedding composed mostly of dirty, damp linens, tablecloths, sofa cushions and scraps of torn clothing. The walls were lined with metal shelving, and stacked on these was a wide assortment of various odds and ends—everything from cases of bottled water to knives and other weapons. Spying a sports coat that was relatively unsoiled, McCann made a mental note to thoroughly search the room and inventory its contents later. He selected a handgun from the assortment of weapons, but couldn’t find ammunition for it. He lay the pistol back down and took a butcher knife instead. Just holding it in his hand made McCann feel more secure. Then he picked up a pillowcase from the floor, placed the rat’s still-bleeding corpse inside, and tied the pillowcase shut, forming a makeshift sack. He slung this over his shoulder, grabbed the sports coat, and then headed back upstairs to find Gail and Simon.
He whistled as he walked, and it wasn’t until he was halfway up the stairwell to the next floor that he realized the moisture on his cheeks wasn’t remnants from the rain, but fresh tears.
CHAPTER 52
“So, are you going to tell me more about this group… what did you say it was called?”
“Black Lodge.”
“Right.” Gail nodded. “How come I’ve never heard of them?”
Simon smiled. “You obviously didn’t spend your free time trawling the internet. There was endless speculation about us on the various conspiracy-minded forums and blogs. In truth, the internet was our undoing. We’ve existed for ages, but it wasn’t until the advent of the internet that we became exposed.”
“Centuries? So, you’re not some offshoot of the CIA or FBI?”
“No, nothing like that. Tell me, Gail, are you familiar with the story of the nativity?”
“The birth of Jesus? Sure. But what does that have to do with—”
“The three wise men were also known as magi. They were representatives of our group. But we go even farther back than that.”
Gail opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, they both heard footsteps coming down the hall. They turned to look as McCann walked back into the room. He carried a butcher knife, suit jacket, and a pillowcase that was leaking fresh blood. Gail watched as a suspended droplet dripped down onto the carpet.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
McCann grinned. “Dinner.”
“Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know. Tired.”
“I am tired,” McCann said. Then he approached Simon and handed him the suit coat. “I found this for you. Hope it fits.”
Simon stood up, and Gail quickly turned away, but not before catching another glimpse of his wounds. She heard the whisper of cloth over bare flesh, and then Simon cleared his throat. She turned back around. The injured man’s face was red. He glanced down at his exposed lower half and blushed harder.
“I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
“There’s more downstairs,” McCann said. “I found the cubbyhole where our boy was living. Most of the clothes are torn or wet or dirty, but you can probably make due.”
“I’ve got an idea.” Smiling with his split and swollen lips, Simon took the coat off and tied it sideways around his waist, like a loincloth. Then he held his arms out to the side and slowly turned all the way around until he was facing them again. “Is that better?”
“Much better,” Gail said, surprised at the flutter in her voice.
“There’s other stuff downstairs, too,” McCann said. “Water. Weapons. We should be able to stay here for a bit, and recuperate. Not that it matters, though. Not really.”
Gail frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I figured it out,” McCann replied. “None of this matters, because we’re already dead. Think about what’s happened. The weather doesn’t act like this. It can’t rain like this all over the world. It’s not scientifically possible. And all those monsters—the worms and the things in the water. They can’t be real. We’re dead. We’re dead and we’re in Hell.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in Heaven and Hell.”
McCann shrugged. “No sense not believing in something that’s right there in front of your face. We’re in Hell, Gail. Only difference is that Hell isn’t hot. It’s wet.”
Simon took a faltering step forward, wincing in obvious pain. They reached out to support him, but he waved them away. Grimacing, he took another step, and placed his hand on McCann’s shoulder.
“I can assure you that we’re not dead, friend. At least, not yet. But you are partially correct. Another realm of existence—not Hell, but the Great Deep—is pouring over into our own. And if we don’t act soon, then we will indeed be dead.”
He brushed slowly past them and walked toward the door. Gail and McCann stood staring at him. When he reached the hallways, Simon turned and beckoned.
“Come. We have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER 53
When they were all together, Gail suggested they move to the secure room that McCann had discovered, but Novak was against that idea. He wanted to stay where they were, pointing out that should something happen to the
