The Apocalypse Codex

I stare at the phone as if it’s grown bat wings and fangs. “I understand,” I say. I understand that you’re telling me to leave the two contractors you made me responsible for to die in a train wreck, is what I manage to keep back. You cold bastard, you.

“Good. Call me with an update tomorrow.” The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone and stifle the urge to scream obscenities. It passes quickly enough, anyway: unprofessional, unproductive, and might attract unwanted attention. Nevertheless, my opinion of Lockhart has just taken a nosedive. Loyalty is—has to be—a two-way street in my line of work. This isn’t a painful but basically survivable workplace situation like a lay-off or downsizing: Persephone and Johnny are out there right now, being stalked by walking corpses with parasites for tongues and heads full of revelation. If I don’t do my damnedest to see them to safety, what does that say about me? Sure, Johnny is an over-muscled asshole with a disturbingly easy-going attitude to killing, and Persephone is just plain disturbing (a bizarre chimera, half sexy Eastwick witch and half KGB hit-woman)…but I feel responsible.

So I take a deep breath and go back to urgently doodling on the pizza box.

Summonings and containment grid, field-expedient, 101: if the thing you’re trying to contain is pallid, has too many legs, and is about the size of a human tongue, a pizza box will do just fine. More to the point, I really want it to be locked down properly before I try using the tattoos to call Persephone or Johnny—it’s a trophic eater, which means if it isn’t securely contained when I call it’ll be all over my frontal lobes like grease on a hamburger before I can say “oh shit.”

I’m thinking on the fly, here. (Although now that I’m in middle management I think I’m supposed to call it “refactoring the strategic value proposition in real time with agile implementation,” or, if I’m being honest, “making it up as I go along.”) Revised plan: box up the complaints department, pack my bags, and go straight to the airport. All that’s left is to call Persephone and Johnny, then pull the eject handle, get the hell out of Dodge City before it’s too late, go home, and hide under the bed for a week of gibbering reaction time.

I finish doodling on the inside of the box, and collect a handy cable from my travel electronics kit. It’s got a couple of pointy contacts; I stab these through various points on the diagram, and plug the other end into my JesusPhone. OFCUT does the rest, and I gingerly transfer the live summoning grid to the carpet in front of the bin.

The complaints department sets up a horrendous racket as I slide the grid under it. Then it stops, abruptly. I’m half-expecting a blue flash and a vile smell, but no such luck: looks like I’ve successfully contained it. I raise the bin gingerly, ready to slam it down if the many-legged monstrosity makes a bid for freedom. The thing is tightly curled in the middle of the grid, which is shimmering faintly—for all the world as if it’s held in place by magic cling- film. Great; all I have to do now is refrain from dropping it.

I disconnect my phone, close the pizza box, and stuff it in the bottom of my go-bag. Then I massage my forehead and steel myself, anticipating pain. I pinch my arm over the relevant tattoo and go knock on her frontal lobes.

***Busy.***

She’s aware of me and she’s got the blinds turned down—I’m picking up nothing about her environment, just an icy half-amused, half-angry awareness that pursuit could show up at any moment.

***I know,*** I send. ***I’ve been ordered to bug out. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, get the first plane out, and run like hell.***

She doesn’t seem to be surprised. My heart sinks.

***I think you and Johnny should get out right now,*** I add.

***Why do you think that?***

***Bad guys sent a wet team for me. They’re possessed, some kind of parasite.***

***I know.*** She sends me a glimpse of my pizza-box horror, trapped writhing between silver tongs in some kind of ritual. My stomach flip-flops. ***I’m on the run; they were going to plant one of those things on me. I blew my cover. It’s possible it was blown before I started, though: they may have tagged me right from the start, in London. Then saw me and Johnny and made the connection from him to you.***

***I got a heads-up that the local police and security agencies are compromised and presumed hostile,*** I tell her. ***I warned Johnny about it.***

***Understood. Keep your distance. I’ll call Johnny in due course to plan our exit. I’ve got to go now.***

And just like that she cuts me off.

I quickly shave and dress in my all-purpose suit—I may have to bluff my way past some desk pilots in the very near future and it doesn’t hurt to look like a civil servant—and stuff one of the pistols in a pocket. Then I shovel the rest of my crap into the case and head for the lobby, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle.

Next stop: the airport.

10. THINGS TO DO IN DENVER WHEN YOU’RE DOOMED

AWKWARD SMALL TALK OVER STALE COFFEE: IT’S NOT HOW Johnny imagined catching up with his former associate, but Patrick is badly shaken and somewhat withdrawn. Johnny is short on time and urgently needs to draw him out, so coffee in an almost deserted Starbucks with a sullen, overweight barista pushing a mop around the floor is the order of the day.

“How long have you been in Denver?” he asks.

“Four years.” Patrick’s hand shakes as he tips a paper twist of sugar into his espresso. “More or less.”

Not long after he left the Network, then. “And on their retainer?”

“About the same.” Patrick falls silent for a moment as he concentrates on stirring his coffee with the ritual focus of a heroin addict cooking up the next hit. Not spilling a drop demands infinite patience. “They’re bastards. But they look after you as long as you’re useful.”

“What do they want you to report on?”

“What you’d expect.” Patrick half-shudders, half-shrugs. “We’re up the highway from Colorado Springs. The holy rollers are big in Colorado. Mostly they’re harmless, ’long as you’re not a young woman in search of an abortion.”

“And sometimes?”

Patrick grimaces. “If there’s talk of miracles, wine out of water, speaking in tongues—they ask me to check out a service. It’s a bad job, I can tell you, but usually it’s boring. When it isn’t”—he pauses long enough to pick up his cup with shaking hand—“I’m not there.”

“Ever checked out an outfit called the Golden Promise Ministries? Out of Colorado Springs, run by a guy called Schiller?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

Johnny keeps his thoughts to himself. Instead, he pulls out his wallet and, after a quick scan, counts out bills. “Here’s five hundred. The number on this card is a burner: call me if you see anything that might interest your, uh, employers. Call me when you’ve got a repair bill for the car and I’ll pay the garage for you.”

Patrick stares at the pile of fifties. He reaches out and shakily pushes them back across the table. “Not playing that game, Johnny. I’ll thank you for fixing my car, but you don’t know what they’re like. What they do to double agents.”

It’s Johnny’s turn to stare. Then, after a few seconds, he shoves the money back towards Patrick. “Then it’s my penance for spoiling your evening, mate. Call me when you’ve got the bill for the car.”

Patrick stares at him, perplexed. “You can’t fix everything that’s broke with money, Sarge.”

“I know. But money helps.” Johnny knows exactly what’s going through Patrick’s mind: What’s happened to my old sarge, then? He stands. He doesn’t want to have to stay and explain. “At least I tried.”

He walks out the door, moderately certain that this is the last time he’ll ever see Patrick. It’s cold, and a