The Apocalypse Codex

follow her into an ankle-deep chilly white blanket.

Persephone high-steps towards the front door of the big house, holding some sort of gadget in her left hand (a ward, perhaps, or a smartphone with some nonstandard firmware). Her right hand is buried in her coat pocket. I rush after her. My mood is dismal: I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it and mostly succeeding, but since we set off on this journey I’ve had a continual sense of foreboding, and it’s getting worse by the second. We should be getting out of this rat trap, not burrowing deeper into the darkness. This is a job for the Black Chamber, along with the Colorado National Guard and maybe the USAF, not a couple of deranged external assets (whatever they are) and a junior manager who’s so far out of his depth—

Persephone is at the front steps when the door opens and a figure bundled up in cold-weather gear leans out. “Can I help—” It begins to say in a woman’s voice, as I raise my camera and try to focus past Persephone, who is standing too damn close for the smart autofocus to get a clean lock on. I can feel it in the back of my head, feel the sleepy hunger in its mind as it recognizes the thing in the pizza box I’m holding in my left hand and begins to turn towards me, reaching for its gun—

Persephone’s right hand lashes out and the figure drops. She’s holding some kind of compact dumbbell; she turns and beckons me forward urgently with it. “Get her inside before she freezes.”

“It’s one of—”

“I know. Keep a tight hold on that pizza box.”

The complaints department is twitching and writhing in the cardboard, kicking up a fuss: it knows where it is. I join Persephone in the octagonal lobby of an expensively furnished house. Reception rooms open off to either side, and there’s an alarm panel behind the door. The one she dropped used to be a fifty-something woman. Now it’s a husk with a silvery carapaced horror for a tongue. I can see it, shining green inside the victim’s mouth and throat. I can hear its panicky mindless scrabbling for escape now that its carrier is unconscious. I bend over the body and before Persephone can stop me I do whatever it is I did to the missionaries in the hotel (it feels like biting) and the host dies. Trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing I push my fingers between the unconscious woman’s lips and tug, tug again until the corpse of the parasite tugs free. (The complaints department kicks up a racket, scritching at the inside of the pizza box lid as if it thinks I’m about to eat it, too. Silly mind parasite!) I wipe my hand vigorously on my coat and catch Persephone staring at me. “What’s the problem?”

“We have a”—she coughs quietly—“job to do.”

“Oh, right.” I look around. “Where—” The answer is obvious. Going by the nacreous glow from below, whatever is waiting for us is downstairs in the basement. Of course, they sent the wrong man; this is the sort of job Agent CANDID handles best, preferably in conjunction with a house clearance team from the Artists’ Rifles. (But would I really want to put her in my shoes right now if I could make a wish and swap places with her? Probably not…) There’s a staircase leading upstairs, and a wooden door in the side of the panel behind it which probably leads down to the cellar. I’m about to go that way when Persephone gets in front of me and starts mumbling and waving her hands around animatedly, as if holding a conversation with a deaf Italian-speaking alien.

There’s a pop and a flash from the door handle. “Clear,” she says quietly, glancing over her shoulder at me. I peer at the door. Yes, there was some kind of ward there; Persephone shorted it out with her semaphore ritual.

I raise my pizza box. “Okay, you,” I say. “Lead me to your taker.”

The complaints department scritches and shuffles round, nudging urgently towards the cellar door. Persephone holds it open and I duck through. There’s a light switch just inside the door and I thoughtlessly flick it, do a double take, and shudder. I lucked out this time—no booby traps—but I am so unprepared for a black bag job that it’s not funny.

A WORD ON THE SUBJECT OF BLACK BAG JOBS:

Don’t.

I’m not a cop and it’s not my job to enforce the law, any more than it is the job of any other citizen to do so. (Yes, I know about Peel’s Principles: nevertheless, there’s a good reason we mostly leave the job to professionals.) I am, however, a civil servant, which means I work for the government, who make the laws. Consequently, lawbreaking is something I’m supposed to avoid unless there’s an overriding justification in the national interest, and it’s not up to me to define what that means.

The situation is murkier when I’m working overseas in other jurisdictions, but I’m normally supposed to obey both sets of laws, HMG’s and the host nation’s. Unless compelled by overriding justification in the national etcetera, of course, or subjected to cruel and unusual circumstances where they contradict each other.

Anyway. Black bag jobs—burglary, bugging, and breaking in—are by definition forbidden, most of the time. Especially since the Spycatcher business. They may be authorized in the interests of national security, but that happens at a level well above my pay grade, all the way upstairs. When I get sent to run a little errand, it has generally been pre-cleared by a committee, or it’s covered by standing orders relating to what we euphemistically call “special circumstances.” In which case there will be an enquiry after the event and the Auditors will be there to ask pointed questions and wield the clue-bat if I’ve exceeded my authority.

This is one of those jobs.

I’ve been ordered home, the mission terminated. Unfortunately the external assets I’m here to shadow have decided that the mission is not over, and in any case my withdrawal route is blocked. So I am unofficially tagging along to keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t do anything…no, scratch that. It’s the official truth, the pravda, but it’s not the real deal. What is going on is that Lockhart wants Persephone and Johnny to be here, raising hell, but he doesn’t want to be held responsible for the consequences: it might create a stink when the Black Chamber find out about it. At least, I think that’s the subtext.

Me, I’m here because I can’t get out, and while I’m locked in the asylum I might as well take notes on the inmates. That, and obey standing orders if I run into any of the aforementioned special circumstances. As seems regrettably likely right now.

So, you see, Persephone has to do the door-breaking. If I break down doors without orders, I might just be breaking the law. She is too, but she isn’t accountable for her actions as long as the other side don’t catch her; I’m not a cop, remember?

Listen, I didn’t make these rules—I just have to work within them.

Nobody said this job was going to be easy…

THE MISSIONARY LEADS JOHNNY FROM THE PARKING SPOT TO a side door, through the teeth of an icy gale. The door opens onto a narrow, windowless corridor curving around the side of the sanctuary. Johnny hears many voices raised in song, their joyous words muffled by the echoing acoustics of the bare concrete walls.

They come to a door that opens into the sanctuary.

“Please come this way,” says the missionary, head cocked to one side as if listening to words inaudible to others. “Our father will see you in the vestry.”

“Uh-huh.” The music is louder near the door, backed by instruments: an organ or synthesizer and electric guitars. It’s like a rock concert singalong, but Johnny can’t make out any of the words. “Lead on,” he says, palming his throwing knives. They feel as if they’re writhing between his fingers, reluctant to be here.

“Do not be afraid,” the missionary adds, “nothing here will hurt you.” Then it opens the door.

Visualize a church.

Make it a really big church, the size of a large cinema, with a funnel of gently sloping terraces set with rows of theater-style seating that converge to focus on a stage decked with altar, pulpit, and rock band. In the walls all around, stained-glass windows backed by halogen lights shine the glory of the Lord; overhead floodlights and stage spots illuminate the brilliantly gowned choir and the musicians on stage.

The soundproofing on the door is excellent, because inside the sanctuary the voice of the crowd is nearly deafening as they stand, chanting along with a holy rolling rock anthem. Johnny’s ward squeezes against his breastbone, beaten back by the passionate strength of the congregation. There are thousands of them—most of the seats would be occupied if the occupants weren’t on their feet, singing their hearts out. But there’s something odd