Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
The Elberton Granite Museum & Exhibit sat in the center of town – a nine room, two story stone structure, fronted by a small park with a statue of Hunt in its center beckoning to the west.
The museum's industrial building was home to a collection of quarry equipment, funky sculptures, examples of etched gravestones, and an older woman at the desk. The placard introduced her as Mary Jarrard.
"Hello gentlemen," she chirped, clearly pleased to have some company. "Interested in a tour?"
"That'd be great," said Jim-Bean with a smile.
Pleased to have some company, Mary fired up the educational video that the agents watched while strolling the exhibits.
"It all began with Arthur Hunt. Hunt was a local legend in Elberton," a deep, pleasant voice narrated. "He was the “success-story” of the town, almost the inversion of Douglas Yale, the Georgia River Killer. "
"Hunt rose from poverty and a life of debauchery in Elberton to forge an electronics empire that has stood the test of time – surviving even after his unexpected death in 1952. But at first, no one in town thought much of him. In fact, he was considered a local ne’er do well – someone more prone to theft, violence and lying than any productive endeavor."
Photos flashed on the screen. Each showed Hunt in various states of intoxication; including one during the celebration of the end of the Great War where Hunt climbed a light pole with his pants down.
"On May 3, 1922, Hunt was discovered at the Elberton Mound, drunk, carrying a pickaxe and shouting drunkenly about Shawnee gold. Hunt was incarcerated, but it was known in town he still visited the mound."
"Yep," whispered Archive. "Psychic vortex."
"For nearly a year Hunt rarely appeared in town. That all changed on April 9, 1923. Hunt returned to town and settled into the newly finished Elberton Public Library, and began to read for eight hours straight, reading books on nearly every subject. He remained mute, refusing to engage with onlookers. His pace increased until he was reading each page with a glance of only a second or two. He repeated this process for three weeks."
"By week three, Hunt began speaking with the locals, and it was if his entire personality had changed. His voice was quiet – monotone – without any humor in it. His English was precise and ordered. His interactions were brief, and to the point. Hunt ordered a list of 200+ items from the local five and dime, including drafting tools, a table, various metals, torches and workbenches, as well as various radios sets. He paid in gold; which was odd, but not totally unheard of."
More photos flashed, showing Hunt in Elberton, Georgia after 1923. In all of them, his expression was identical; a look of bored detachment. His eyes were passive and strange. He was well kept and clean, though his posture is odd. When standing, he seemed to stoop his head forward in a way that was unnatural for a young man.
"Hunt hired a local man named Allan Mestemacher to run errands for him in town, and Mestemacher became the local conduit for Hunt gossip. The man was working ten hours a day on drawings of complex electrical devices, and building bizarre electronic contraptions. This continued for several years, until it was assumed it would continue this way indefinitely, then, as suddenly as he had first arrived at the library, Hunt arrived in town again, filing papers to incorporate “Hunt Electrodynamics”.
"Hunt’s biggest hit, the Hunt Mark I Resistor, debuted on August 5, 1930, and rocketed the one-man company into the stratosphere. When Hunt realized he could make far more money producing the Resistor, he opened a local Hunt Electrodynamics plant. Soon, the plant was the largest employer in town."
"Speaking through Mestemacher, Hunt ordered the construction of the Guidestones atop the Elberton Mound. The structure he had in mind would serve as a compass, calendar, and clock. It would also need to be engraved with a set of guides written in eight of the world's major languages. And it had to be capable of withstanding the most catastrophic events, so that the shattered remnants of humanity would be able to use those guides to reestablish a better civilization than the one that was about to destroy itself."
"Construction of the Guidestones got under way later that summer. With the purchase of the land, the Guidestones' future was set. Hunt said good-bye to Mestemacher at the company office, adding, "You'll never see me again." Hunt then turned and walked out the door—without so much as a handshake."
"The Guidestones were completed on March 22, 1980. Its engraved edicts inspired some, distressed others. Within a few months, the New Star Crusade cult adopted the Guidestones as their home away from home, making weekend pilgrimages to Elberton to stage various pagan rites and at least one warlock-witch marriage ceremony. No humans were sacrificed on the altar of the stones, but there were rumors that several kittens were beheaded."
"Visitors kept coming but eventually the media lost interest. Curiosity flared again briefly in 1993, when Brianne Lochnar of God's Lost Children contributed a track called 'Georgia Stone' to a tribute album for avant-garde composer John Cage, with Brianne chanting the 10th and final guide nearly verbatim: 'Be not a cancer on Earth—leave room for nature—leave room for nature.'"
"It was later discovered that Hunt had been constructing a town in Death Valley, California – one of the most inhospitable places on Earth. Announcements were made that the Elberton plant would remain in operation, but Hunt would leave for California. By 1940, Hunt was living in Hellbend, California permanently. With Hunt’s mysterious death in the Hellbend explosion of 1952, the Hunt Museum was constructed in Elberton to celebrate its most famous, and successful son."
More pictures flashed of Hunt Electrodynamics promotional shots, showing an impassive Hunt standing before various constructions around the U.S., including a facility in Hellbend at its opening.
"Notice anything unusual about that photo?" asked Jim-Bean.
The last photo, taken three days before the Hellbend explosion in August 1952, showed Hunt to be smirking.
"That's not all that's weird," said Archive. "I don't think he aged a single day in thirty years."
"We need to stake out the Guidestones," said Hammer. He turned to Archive and Jim-Bean. "Go back to Mullinex's place and set up a surveillance point. I'm going to buy some supplies."
Archive looked up from the scope of a mounted sniper rifle. "I see lights," he said. "A few carloads of people." The rifle was trained on the monument from the Mullinex farmhouse, which they had graciously lent the agents for their use. They left out the part about the sniper rifle.
"That's got to be the New Star Crusade," said Jim-Bean. "The Solstice was coming up, right? This must be their ritual."
Archive returned to looking at the scope. "Yeah. We've got them covered if they try anything stupid, but I recommend we observe…"
Jim-Bean didn't respond.
"Jimmy?"
Archive looked up. Jim-Bean was gone.
Archive swore and looked back in the scope.
Sure enough, Jim-Bean was jogging his way through the swamp towards the cultists, who had filtered out of their cars and were beginning a ritual.
Archive sighed. He wasn't trained to use a sniper rifle like Hammer and Jim-Bean. Jim-Bean would be in real trouble if the cult turned on him…
To his surprise, the cult, after a moment of surprise, seemed to accept Jim-Bean. He chanted along with them, and they performed a dance and what looked like a consecration ritual. If what Jim-Bean said was true, the cult instinctively understood that something malefic was lurking in the Mound – and worse, that their efforts were only feeding it, not warding it off.
The group gathered around Jim-Bean. Archive began to sweat. He put his finger on the trigger…
Jim-Bean held up one thumb, meant only for Archive to see, though the cultists seemed to interpret his gesture as one of endorsement. Then he got in the car and drove off with them.
Archive sighed and picked up his cistron. "Hammer, I've got something to report…"
Hammer was on his way out of the Elberton general store, when his attention swung to a sudden movement a hundred feel down a dark alley. A dim light glowed weakly from beyond a dumpster, then extinguished as a car door slammed, and then a dark figure dashed away down the alley. Behind the figure, a car horn began to blow unceasingly.
Hammer threw his bags in the trunk of the rental car and approached the blaring auto. It was an idling Elberton taxicab with the body of its driver, horribly mutilated, rammed against the steering wheel. The man's throat was slashed open, his vocal cords exposed. His ribs were broken and bent back. Most of his internal organs lay in a steaming heap beneath the steering wheel.
Hammer backed away. The police would be there soon enough, and this wasn't his business – not yet, anyway.
He got in his car and drove off, circling the area as police vehicles shrieked onto the scene. His cistron buzzed with an alert.
"…police are looking for an African-American man of medium height and build, wearing an overcoat, who fled the scene."
Hammer swore and turned the car around. He pulled up a moment later in front of the Elberton police station.
As he walked his way up the steps to the main office, there were collective gasps.
Officers fumbled for their pistols. "Get down on the ground! Now!"
Hammer slowly sank to his knees and put his hands behind his head. "I am a government agent. My badge is in my front pocket. I'm going to reach for it slowly…"
"Face down! NOW!"
Hammer sighed and complied.
Officers swarmed him, roughly cuffing him. One of the cops frisked him and discovered his badge.
"Run the numbers," said Hammer. "I'm Agent Grange of the Counter-Intelligence Field Agency."
"We will," said a burly cop whose name tag identified him as Sergeant Moreno. "But until then, we have a few question for you."
Hammer shrugged. "When my ID checks out, you'll be working for me."
Moreno came sheepishly into the jail cell where Hammer had been held prisoner. He handed him his Glock, cistron, badge, and wallet back.
"Sorry about that," said Moreno.
Hammer shrugged. "You were just doing your job. Happens all the time." They walked to debriefing room. "What do we have so far?"
Moreno pulled out a file filled with pictures and autopsies. He laid it out on the table.
"The homicide detail has been significantly increased," said Moreno. "We think we've established a pattern over the years of killings since 2000: the first victim was Nathaniel Moore, a laborer for the Elberton's water department. On the day of the murder, Moore was working on a portion of leaking sewer at the Elberton Granite Museum & Exhibit."
"I'm familiar with it," said Hammer.
"Year ago, Moore called from the museum to his supervisor, indicated that the repairs were not totally complete but that he was leaving for the day. That was last Moore was heard from."
"The second victim was Brian Lombardo, a high school student. Lombardo's mother stated that Brian left home to attend a swim meet. He never arrived."
"The third victim was Russell Simons, a student at Athens Technical College. He was last seen five days before his body was discovered."
"The most recent victim you saw for yourself: Ken Stewart, driver for the Elberton Cab Company. Stewart called in a pick-up on King Street in midtown—that was the last anyone heard from him until you found him."
"Were the victims disemboweled like Stewart?"
Moreno nodded, pulling out three pictures. "All of the victims were savagely slashed numerous times with a sharp object. Kidneys and hearts of Moore, Simons, and Stewart were missing. None of them were robbed."
"Any signs of blood or struggle?"
"No," said Moreno. "In the first three murders, the bodies had been moved after death. Each body was neatly concealed behind a dumpster, in an alley, or in the sewer. Traces of blood were found only on and immediately around the bodies. My money's on The New Star Crusade."
Hammer arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You Feds must have a file on Douglas Yale. The murders fit his MO."
"Yeah."
"Then you know they churn out crazies. Back before Yale, trespassing by townies was a common thing on the New Star Crusade farm, and Danen Ignis, the cult leader, claimed we refused to act with 'necessary speed and clarity' to resolve such situations. Ignis taped his phone calls to our department and recorded our arrival times. He then filed a personal suit against the county and cost us another eight hundred thousand dollars in damages. We've been monitoring the farm since then, but can't do much else without probable cause." Moreno grinned. "I'd say this counts."
"So you've got an APB out for Yale?"
Moreno shook his head. "It can't be him."
"Why not?"
"Because he's dead. We kept it quiet, but we found Yale's bones back in October 2001. Bet that ain't in your file, huh?"
Hammer scratched his head. "Why hasn't there been more news around these murders?"
Moreno's grin vanished. "Lawyers. Back when the Yale incident happened in 2001, the cult’s lawyer in Jacksonville, Richard A. Goldfarb, sent a strongly worded letter warning us against making a public connection between Yale and the Cult. The chief is so scared of another lawsuit, he doesn't even want the press to know about it. We were hoping they were animal attacks, what with Yale dead. But now…"
"We sit tight," said Hammer.
"But we could get a judge—"
Hammer shot him a glare. "I said we SIT TIGHT. I've got a man on the inside. In the mean time, I'd like to chat with the dispatcher."
Future/Perfect: Part 7 – When You Wish Upon a Star
The New Star Crusade farm sat on twenty-five acres of land to the west of Elberton, Georgia. The property backed up on the Elberton Mound site; and a well-worn path ran from the ramshackle buildings of the farm to the Mound site. The buildings of the farm were once sane and ordered; but they had long since degenerated.
A small weather-beaten port-a-potty converted to use as a tollbooth oversaw the entrance from the main road. Someone was always here, watching those coming and going.
They passed a barn and farmhouse, a pond in between, pulling up to a grainery. Ignis and his followers marched Jim-Bean to the grainery and shoved aside loose hay to reveal a trap door. They all filed down the steps.
The polished wooden staircase led down to a large gymnasium-like room. The floor was covered by athletic foam mats, except for the center that was cut out to display an inset marble floor with an Elder Sign lightly etch in it. Various symbols decorated the walls. Candelabras and oil sconces lined the walls even though the place was wired for indirect lighting. A large locked metal cabinet that sometimes served as an altar is at the far end of the room.
Ignis reached inside and pulled out various tools of magic: a sword, a wand, a crystal orb. The other cultists filed into a doorway under the stairs into a laundry room, with a huge supply of plush towels and linen robes. Wicker hampers received their day clothes as they all changed, Jim-Bean included, into their robes.
Ignis stood at the front of the room and the cultists all assembled, Jim-Bean at the center facing their fearless leader.
"We are gathered here, brothers and sisters, to welcome a new member into our family. This man, Jim Baxter, will become one of us today. Let us profess our faith…"
The other cultists joined in, eerily in sync as one voice chanting their mantra. "We are a revival of the Adena that worshiped at the Elberton Mound in ancient times. We pray and make offerings at the mound to keep the evil white-faced people at bay."
Ignis explained that these people, who feared the sun, worshiped Maneto (“The Snake”) and after the hunting in the area soured, the Adena made war on them and forced them from the mounds. When the Adena made war on the strange people, their last shaman “drew down a star” and smashed the earth with it in revenge, killing himself, a Shawnee chief and his wives. At the point of impact, the Shawnee built the Elberton Mound to prevent their spirit from escaping and haunting the Shawnee.
"We await a new star to descend and take us from the Earth to another, more pure, world. We are prepared for conflict with those who attempt to stop us. We will be ready. Repeat after me: I believe you, Danen Ignis, as the reincarnation of the one who constructed the mounds a millennia ago."
Jim-Bean repeated it, a little uneasy.
"By accepting you, my savior, I am imbued with the spirit of the people who helped build the mound."
Jim-Bean repeated it.
"I believe that through worship at the mounds we will call down others' and these others will take us to a new world."
Jim-Bean repeated it.
"Congratulations," said Ignis. "You are now one of us."
The other cultists applauded and hugged Jim-Bean.
Ignis raised his voice over the crowd. "Do you have a gun permit?"
Jim-Bean started in surprise. "What?"
"Every member of the New Star Crusade is issued a gun permit. You must also take a state-run gun safety course. For the coming war."
"Oh, right." Jim-Bean nodded. "I have a gun permit." He looked around. "Do I get to carry one?"
Ignis shook his head. "The guns will be needed in the future. The time will be evident when they shall be issued to the followers."
"Right," said Jim-Bean. "Of course."
The cult filtered out as quickly as they came. Jim-Bean excused himself and visited the bathroom.
He reached into his robe pocket and fished out his cistron – it took some fancy sleight of hand to ensure nobody saw the transition from his normal clothes to the robe. He texted Hammer:
The Elberton Cab Company was a taxi service located in the downtown area of Elberton. A few questions uncovered that Al Wu was the dispatcher when Ken Stewart was murdered.
Of average height and in his mid-thirties, Wu was a fast-talking Asian man.
"Mister Wu?" asked Hammer. "I'm Agent Grange. This is Sergeant Moreno."
"Yeah?" asked Wu, sizing them up.
"We're here to ask you a few questions about the recent death of Ken Stewart?"
Wu's eyes flicked to Moreno. "I already spoke to the police."
Hammer gave Moreno a look. "Why don't you go get a cup of coffee." It wasn't phrased as a question.
Moreno shrugged. "Fine, whatever." He walked off.
Hammer turned back to Wu. "Sorry about that. We're all very tense because of these murders. Do you mind if I chat with you for a second?"
Wu relaxed a bit. "They told me I was a witness and had to keep quiet," he muttered. "But talking to you should be okay, being a Fed and all. Come into my office."
Hammer and Wu sat at a beat-up card table.
Wu lit his forty-third Camel cigarette of the day. “Yesterday was hot, but so muggy that business was slow. I hadn't heard from Stewart in an hour, since the driver had stopped for dinner. Stewart reported that he had been flagged down on King Street. He said his passenger was going downtown. 'You won't believe who I just picked up,' Steward said, hinting that it was someone that was missing for a long time.”
"But he didn't say who?"
Wu shook his head. “I couldn't guess either. I rattled off a half-dozen names when Stewart mentioned ‘Dep-’ and then his radio went silent."
"Dep? Is that a name?"
Wu shrugged. "My guess was he was going to say Deputy somebody. And there’s only one Deputy around these parts who went missing years ago, and that’s Deputy Arthur Falstaf.”
"Falstaf," said Hammer, thinking. "That was the sheriff's deputy who picked up Douglas Yale, right?"
"Yeah. Falstaf led the investigation to find the Georgia River Killer – shot him five times in 99 and he still escaped. Falstaf finally caught up with him in 2000 and emptied his revolver into Yale and the guy STILL survived. Then when he was in lock-up, Yale and Falstaf disappeared. Of course, I don’t know that Falstaf actually was in the cab," Wu added quickly, "but the pickup was not far from the where he disappeared. I never told the police this, ‘cause, well, I got no facts. I just have this idea," he shrugged. "We'll probably never know."
Hammer frowned. "I intend to find out. Thank you for your time."
He shook Wu's hand and left.
Moreno joined him on the way out to the car. "So?"
"Wu said that Stewart might have picked up a deputy."
"Deputy…You mean Falstaf?"
"I didn't say that," said Hammer, irritated at having to work with a cop.
"I knew it!" snarled Moreno. "The cult must have really done a number on him. Probably got Falstaf turned around so much he didn't know which way was up. Next thing you know he's helping Yale escape—"
Hammer stopped walking. "Now hold on. I didn't say that it was Falstaf for sure. We don't have any evidence."
"We could get evidence!" exclaimed Moreno. "I guarantee you we could get a search warrant! The courts have been itching to let us have a crack at that cult…"
Hammer stared Moreno down. "Do you remember Waco?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then I suggest you do as your told and leave the investigation to me." He stomped off to his rental car, leaving the police sergeant to stew in the street behind him.
Hammer put his recently purchased camping and surveillance equipment to good use. They had managed to set up a camouflaged bivouac near the pond. It was a perfect spot for surveillance of the farmhouse. It was perfect…
Except for the mosquitoes.
Archive slapped his neck. "These mosquitoes are driving me crazy," he whispered. At night, the bugs were even worse than during the day. Concealed as they were so close to the farm, they had to go without electrical lights.
Hammer lowered his night optics. "We'll be here for just another day or so. What have you discovered so far?"
"During the day only lone individuals are wander the grounds," said Archive. "At night, groups of followers walk back and forth between the main house and barn. Guards walk the perimeter at all times of the day and night."
"Armed?"
Archive shook his head. "Nope, but they do carry a flare gun. My guess is they fire that off as a warning."
"Good." Hammer handed the night optics back to Archive. " Jim-Bean's not convinced that the cult has anything to do with these murders and I'm starting to believe—"
There was a splash of light, like lightning, in the distance. Jim-Bean and Archive looked up.
It was the flickering incandescence of a flare.
"Oh crap," said Archive.
The farm immediately mobilized. Guards ran to and fro frantically. Rifles and pistols were handed out.
"Do you see anything?" asked Hammer.
Archive peered through the binoculars. "I don't…wait a minute. Yes, there!" He handed the nightvision binoculars back to Hammer.
"Cops. Son of a BITCH," snarled Hammer. Six police officers stepped out of the corn field. One of them dragged something heavy behind him.
Hammer tapped some keys on his cistron. "Get me Sergeant Moreno!" he practically shouted into the phone.
A second later Moreno answered.
"What the hell are you doing? I thought I told you no raids!"
"Calm down. What are you talking about?"
"The raid! I'm stationed at the Star Crusade farm and there are police crawling all over the place…"
"I didn't order anything!" Moreno shouted a few questions and received a response back. "Nobody here did. All my men are here."
Hammer's mouth fell open as the lead officer stepped into view of the cult's floodlights. It was Moreno.
Hammer dropped the phone and unslung the semiautomatic rifle over his shoulder.
Jim-Bean ran to and fro, trying to calm the cultists down.
"Everyone, everyone, this isn't necessary! We don't know what they want! Everyone calm down!"
Ignis agreed with him. "We must not fire first!" he shouted repeatedly. "I will speak with them! Be calm!"
The jittery cultists, who were unaccustomed to armed conflict despite their training, took their positions. The six officers stood calmly in the clearing in front of the farmhouse.
Ignis checked his pistol and made sure it was loaded. Then he approached with six similarly armed men. Jim-Bean watched from a distance.
"Hello!" Ignis squinted in the glare of the spotlights. "Sergeant Moreno, is that you? What brings you to our farm?"
Moreno said nothing. He just slowly turned his head to stare directly at Ignis. Then he lifted the bulk in one hand and dropped it.
It was the guard at the gate.
"What…" Ignis swallowed, horrified. "What did you do to him?"
Moreno was stone-faced. As one, all six of the police officers pointed at the six cultists.
Ignis' arm was up, his pistol drawn.
"Wait!" shouted Jim-Bean, "don't shoot!"
But the envoy of six cultists had all drawn their pistols. They pointed it at their own foreheads.
In perfect synchronization, they fired at once, blowing a hole in their skulls. Six bodies slumped to the ground, dead.
All hell broke loose. The cultists fired on the officers. The officers seemed to yawn, ejecting a snake head that tore loose from the confines of the flabby, false skins they wore. And it was then that Jim-Bean finally saw what was sleeping in the Mound.
Without a disguise in place, they were squat pale creatures, approximately five feet tall. They stood upright like men, but with long, muscular arms tipped by crude hands with basic prehensile thumbs. Their skin was the texture of a tire, shot through with white splotches, but otherwise it was a bright red. Their faces had two huge vulpine eyes and a slit for a nose.
"Shoot!" shouted Jim-Bean, running back to the farmhouse. "Keep shooting!"
Bullets didn't seem to slow them down. One serpent person launched itself at a cultist right behind Jim-Bean, engulfing his head with a snap of its unhinged jaw. More cultists went down as the snake-people tore into them.
Archive chanted something on the comm. "They're immune to my magic!" was his frustrated response a moment later.
"Just shoot them!" shouted Hammer, running into the clearing. He unleashed a fusillade of bullets into one of the serpent men, blowing its head off. Ichor spewed everywhere. "They bleed!"
Some of the cultists panicked and ran into the house or out into the field.
"Keep firing!" said Jim-Bean. The serpent people were taking them out one by one, but if they stood together…
One of the serpents burst into flames. Archive shouted in triumph.
"Guess they're not that immune to magic either," said Hammer. "Drive them…"
His voice trailed off. The false Moreno was swaying, its eyes glowing, staring at Hammer. Slowly, he lowered his own rifle and moved it to under his chin.
"Hammer!" shouted Archive. "Snap out of it!"
The serpent Moreno slithered closer, just within striking distance. Hammer stood perfectly still. It reared back its head…
And then Hammer thrust the barrel of the rifle into its open maw and fired. Snake brains blasted out of the back of the enormous maw.
The remaining serpents were dead, riddled with bullets. Police cars flashed in the distance.
"Jimmy…" began Hammer. But Jim-Bean already knew what to do.
"Set them on fire!" ordered Jim-Bean.
The cultists set up a huge bonfire and tossed the oddly fluid, red-scaled bodies into the flames. Of the nearly seventy cultists that were engaged in the conflict, only twenty or so remained.
"There's still the cultist bodies," said Hammer.
Jim-Bean nodded. "Set it all on fire!"
The real Moreno and his men arrived, but by then the evidence was already burning. Fire trucks roared in the distance.
"Civil war in the cult," said Jim-Bean. "Two different sides got into a conflict, it spread, then a fire started."
Moreno bit his lip, frustrated. "That's very convenient. You know what I think?"
Hammer looked at him. "I didn't ask."
"Yeah? Well I'm gonna tell you. I think that this was a lot more like Waco then you let on."
Hammer smirked. "You have no idea."
"No, I don't," said Moreno. "And it's probably better if it stays that way. Does this mean the killings will stop?"
Hammer nodded. "Definitely. You were right, Sergeant Moreno. It was the cult all along. Ignis and the people responsible are dead. The cult took care of its own."
"Why doesn't that make me feel better?" Moreno sighed. "If I look through those bones…"
"We'll be sure to share the evidence with you once my men go over it," said Hammer authoritatively. The thrum of helicopters in the darkness echoed across the farmland.
Moreno turned to the assembled rag-tag band of cult survivors. "I don't suppose we're going to get much out of you folks either, huh?"
They looked at him sullenly.
"Didn't think so. Can I at least speak to your leader? Your second in command, or third, or whoever passes for authority around here?"
As one, the cultists pointed. At Jim-Bean.
Jim-Bean smiled sheepishly. "I have some experience with cults…"
This story hour is a combination of “Future/Perfect” Part One by Dennis Detwiller and “Team Bravo: The First Assignment” by Eric Cagle. You can read more about Delta Green at [ ADDR.com: Account On - Hold ]. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero/Gunslinger) played by George Webster
Jim “Jim-Bean” Baxter (Charismatic Hero) played by Jeremy Ortiz (Jeremy Robert Ortiz)
There's a certain theme running through these two scenarios that made them go together perfectly. Like the other Future/Perfect scenarios, there's plenty of information on investigation but not on actual confrontation.
Because Archive's player wasn't playing, that really raised the stakes. As George put it, "if one of us goes down it's all over." That heightened the tension and also made the critters that much more deadly – Archive's presence ensures fast healing. Without it, a conflict that goes against the agents is deadly indeed.
This scenario ended up focusing more on the sheriff and deputy who led the investigation. Fortunately, Jim-Bean and Hammer make a good buddy team, so there was plenty of opportunity for role-playing with the locals.
I was surprised by what freaked out the players. Who thought mysterious clicking noises would be so scary?
Defining Moment: Jim-Bean uses his psychic powers to find out who the culprit is…and gets an earful of very disturbing sounds.
I recall the time they found those fossilized mosquitoes
And before long, they were cloning DNA
Now I'm being chased by some irate velociraptors
Well, believe me... this has been one lousy day
--Jurassic Park by Weird Al
"What happened to Archive?" asked Jim-Bean.
Hammer shrugged. "Something about a medical check-up. Majestic's still cagey about him being in the field after the incident in Central Park."
"Yeah," Jim-Bean shook his head. "The incident. I haven't been to a check-up recently, wonder why they're not worried about me."
Hammer smirked. "That's because you're under my supervision."
Jim-Bean rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, right. So we're in this buttcrack of a town because…"
"This is the place where Arthur Hunt's experiment blew up. If there's a legacy of the snake people we discovered in Elberton, it starts here, with the Hunt Electronics plant in Hellbend," said Hammer. "And two people were recently murdered here."
"In Hellbend? Doesn't that reduce the population by ten percent?"
Hammer nodded. "Nearly. It's all on your cistron: The first murder occurred on March 5, on the outskirts of the town. Clifford Potter, a 53 year-old white male, was found mutilated less than four hundred yards from the remains of the ruins of the old Hunt Electrodynamics plant. The county coroner from Independence, Abner White could not readily identify just how exactly he had died."
"Aliens," muttered Jim-Bean.
"You see aliens behind everything."
"It's hard not to when I'm part…something."
"No one doubts foul play of some sort — Potter's body was torn to pieces — but the sheriff's office couldn't come up with a motive. A nearby Bobcat light construction vehicle was tentatively identified as the murder weapon, but few can understand how such an event occurred. Potter had rented it at his own expense and was digging around on the abandoned lot at the ruins of the Hunt plant for some unknown reason. He was known as a local treasure-hunter and was considered just a little bit crazy. Local investigation petered out after just a week."
"Great. Hick cops."
"The second victim, Lucille Mayer, a 36 year-old white female, was reported missing in Hellbend on the night of April 24, and was discovered by State Police over the border in Nevada fourteen days later. The case was officially placed under Federal jurisdiction with the Mayer murder and reassigned to CIFA. We're going to see the sheriff's office right now." Hammer pulled the car over.
The small “Death Valley Office" of the Inyo County Sheriff was located at Hwy 190, Death Valley, California 9232. It was maintained by a two-man on-and-off crew.
"Looks like a glorified shack to me," said Jim-Bean.
They got out of the car and knocked on the shack door.
A tall, middle-aged man with brown hair and blue eyes answered the door. Hammer flashed his badge. "I'm Agent Grange, this is Agent Baxter, we're with the Counter-Intelligence Field Agency. We've been assigned to the Mayer investigation."
"The Feds, right. Come on in."
The two men worked out of a tiny office perched on the side of Highway 190 with little more than a two-line phone, a ham radio set and a sloth-like internet connection. They sat down at a cramped table.
"I'm Alfred Mann, Sheriff in these parts." He nodded towards a younger man, who leaned against a wall on the far corner of the room. There was only enough room at the table for three chairs so it was just as well. "That's Lucas Androzy, my deputy. Can I offer you boys a coke?" Mann jabbed a finger at the dusty Coke machine jammed next to the desk.
"I'm good, thanks," said Hammer. He didn't even bother to ask Jim-Bean, who had changed his dietary habits to a carefully mixed shake to keep his weight down. He still wasn't excreting normally due to his particularly unique metabolism.
Mann had some files on the table. "Lucas saw a gathering of buzzards, that's how he found the body in the first place. Tell 'em, Lucas."
Androzy frowned and stepped out of the shadows a bit so his features were illuminated by the shafts of sunlight spearing through the partially drawn shades. "There wasn't much left by the time I got there. Had to identify her by her teeth."
Mann nodded, flipping open a folder to a coroner's report. "There was serious blunt trauma and portions of her skeleton were gone."
"Gone?" asked Jim-Bean.
Mann nodded. "Missing. Nevada FBI was called in, and the Las Vegas coroner placed cause of death as violent blunt and cutting trauma—"
"In other words," interjected Hammer. "Murder."
Mann flipped open another folder. "The physical evidence — what of there, there is — matches the marks found on Potter’s body."
"So we've got one killer who tears people up and carts off the pieces?" asked Hammer. "You sure this isn't some kind of animal?"
"Maybe it is, maybe it ain't," said Mann. "I don't know." He wiped his forehead in the heat. "To be honest, Agent uh…Grange, we're a bit of our depth here. We could use your help."
Hammer nodded. "That's why we're here. We'd like to investigate the supposed murder weapon."
Androzy leaned forward. "Supposed? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Relax," said Jim-Bean. "We're just saying that we want to build on your team's forensics work." Jim-Bean managed to say "team" without laughing, but just barely.
That seemed to mollify Androzy somewhat.
"Lucas, why don't you take these boys on over to the Gas 'n Sip? The Bobcat's still there, right?"
"Yeah, sure," said Androzy slowly. "Sure, I can do that. I can drive you…"
"We'll take our own vehicle, thanks," said Hammer, rising.
Androzy was about to say more when Jim-Bean interjected. "We've got special forensics equipment in there. I can show you when we get to the crime scene."
Androzy nodded, taken aback by the offer but clearly excited about it.
"Give me a call if you need anything," Mann said to their backs. "We're here to help."
The remnants of a formerly vibrant company town were still to be found surrounding the core of what Hellbend had become. Derelict buildings, long abandoned and overrun by weeds and witch grass, dotted the roads leading up to town – Hunt Electrodynamics' legacy.
The town once supported an entire workforce of nearly 4,000 people – and they left their dwellings behind. Most had fallen into near-complete ruin; windows long ago shattered, paint peeled off, decks collapsed, foundations shifted. Some, however, were still lived in and some were even meticulously maintained.
Most of the eighty-two residents of Hellbend lived near the center of town or within a few blocks of Main and State streets. Others however lived a bit off the beaten path – further out in the desert. The only business worth mentioning was the Gas n’ Sip – the local gas station/video store/ supermarket/post office on the corner of Main and State. Nearly every piece of mail came or went through the Gas n’ Sip and nearly everyone who stopped in Hellbend did so for one of two things – gas or directions.
The Gas n’ Sip was a two-story rickety looking building with a gable roof that sat on the corner of Main and State streets, dead-center in Hellbend. It was adorned with aging Coke signs, ancient ads for Brylcreem and other less memorable products long since washed out by the relentless sun. There were two old gas pump placed dead center on a simple concrete block out front.
"Jarvis?" asked Androzy, striding ahead of the agents. "Some men here to see you. This is Agents Grange and Baxter."
Jarvis Greene, the current proprietor, lounged in a weather-beaten rattan chair in the shade of the roof. He was a young, sunburned hippy.
"Hey guys." Greene stood up. "You must be here about the murders."
"That's right," said Hammer. "What do you know about them?"
Greene sat back down. "I knew Clifford Potter—" began Greene.
"He discovered Potter's body at the ruins of the Hunt Electrodynamics plant outside of Hellbend," interjected Androzy.
Greene nodded. "I rented Potter the Bobcat Lifter for the afternoon. When Potter didn't return that evening with the equipment, I took my Jeep out to the site and found him. That's when I called the sheriff."
"Did you see much of Potter prior to his death?" asked Hammer.
Greene nodded again. "Yeah. He took to interviewing my grandfather, Montgomery Greene, about his experience in the Hunt Electrodynamics Plant. A few times, Potter taped his interview with Monty, and asked specific questions about Hunt and the plant, though what they were, I can’t recall."
"You said you rented the Bobcat to Potter. Is it still here?"
"Sure is," said Greene. "It's 'round back. Want to see it?"
"Please," said Hammer.
Hammer grabbed his forensics kit from the car and Greene led them to the shade of a garage port. They smelled the Bobcat before they saw it.
"Only one in town," said Greene. The small, one-man, propane-powered vehicle was designed for light digging, lifting and plowing. "We rent it out for small local jobs."
"And Potter rented it for…?" asked Hammer.
"Once to dig his root cellar and the second time to poke around the old Hunt Plant."
"We returned it two days after Potter’s murder," said Androzy, a little defensively.
Jim-Bean circled the Bobcat. "This is good work, good work."
"Did you clean it?" asked Hammer.
Greene nodded. "I tried, but it's…well, you can smell it."
"Mind if we take a look at it?"
"Be my guest." Greene seemed interested in very little. He wandered back to his seat at the front of the station.
"So Cletus…"
"Lucas," corrected Androzy.
"Yeah, right. You think we could cordon off this area?" asked Jim-Bean.
"Oh sure. You think someone might uh…contaminate the crime scene?"
"We can't be too careful," said Jim-Bean. He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "You know how it is, what with snooping locals and all."
Androzy nodded. "Sure, sure. I'll check with Jarvis to see if he has anything we can use." He jogged off after Greene.
Hammer just shook his head. "You're too much."
"Everything he knows about forensics he probably learned from CSI," said Jim-Bean with a smirk. "How bad is it?"
Hammer got up from his crouch. "The sheriff's department royally screwed the pooch on this one. But I can tell you one thing: this isn't the murder weapon."
"What, you don't think Potter stood still while this thing trundled along at…"
"Five miles per hour."
"…Five miles per hour and let it slowly tear him in half?"
"It's possible, if he was tied up or something. But see this?" Hammer pointed at a splash of red liquid on the side of the vehicle. "The blood's not on the digging blade. Potter would have had to be struck by the vehicle on the side. The only truly dangerous portion of the vehicle is the blade." The blade was untouched.
"What's that smell, anyway?"
Hammer used a sampling tool to scrape off some of the effluvia on the side of the vehicle. He plugged the little wand into his cistron. "That's what I thought."
"What?"
"There are several distinct layers to the stuff on the Bobcat. As if something applied several layers of biological material on the vehicle. There's ammonia in it."
Jim-Bean peered at Hammer. "Are you saying someone—or something—pissed on this Bobcat?"
"I don't know. Why don't you investigate this yourself."
"Hey, I'm not the expert…"
Hammer emphasized his point. "I mean YOUR way of investigating it."
"Oh, right." Jim-Bean sat in the driver's seat and, relaxing and closing his eyes, concentrated. He tried to block out the stink of the Bobcat and the relentless California heat.
The vision hit him hard. It wasn't visual at all. There was screeching, a screeching like an animal he had never heard of before. And there was more than one.
Jim-Bean flinched as the sound was right in his ear. He stumbled out of the driver's seat with a yelp.
Hammer came up from underneath the Bobcat. "What happened?'
"I don't know…I..."
"Did you see something?"
"Heard something," said Jim-Bean. "Heard multiple somethings. Big and pissed off things, but it's hard to explain what they sounded like. If I couldn't see them I don't think Potter did either. They caught him by surprise."
"Not those dogs again…"
Jim-Bean sighed. "Seriously? You're going to question me about how this works? I was right about those dogs, remember?"
Hammer held up a single, odd, feather-like scale. "If you're right, then I'm guessing this belongs to one of them."
Androzy led them to Potter's home next. Clifford Potter lived on the extremities of Hellbend near to what was commonly referred to as the “bluff” – a small rise in the land to the northwest of town; approximately a mile from Hellbend. He was the only resident of the area for nearly a quarter of a mile in any direction.
"Potter bought the house in Hellbend in late 1993 at a fire sale price and has lived in the town ever since," said Androzy, all business. Jim-Bean's constant stroking had pumped the deputy up considerably. "He had no friends to speak of, but was known to help out others as needed. He drank, but not overly so, and seemed content with maintaining his house and hiking around the ruined areas of Hellbend recovering pieces of valuable scrap metal to sell in nearby Independence or Beatty Junction."
"When did he start poking around the Hunt Electrodynamics plant?"
"Late 2003," said Androzy, walking to Potter's home. "He began digging up large portions of brass, bronze and copper piping from the site to make some extra money. He was often seen driving off to the ruins of the plant in his old Ford truck with an acetylene torch and other gear in the back. Word around town is that Potter thought the ruins of the plant were a proverbial gold mine."
"Mind if we look inside?" asked Jim-Bean.
"Oh sure, sure." Androzy took down the tacked notice declaring the house a crime scene and warned trespassers not to enter. That and a flimsy lock was all that kept the curious out. Androzy fumbled for a key and unlocked the door.
Potter's small dwelling was a one-story, gable-roofed house painted a sickly, lime green. It had a hand-dug root cellar separated from the main building that dropped approximately twelve feet into the ground, and a small four-foot tall attic.
Potter’s kitchen seemed to be the hub of his life. The rest of the house was military clean—sparse almost— while only the kitchen seemed “lived in”. A sign over the stove read “You don’t have to be crazy to live here, but it helps”. On the table lay gloves, two books, a notepad, a map, a boom-box and a series of tapes.
Hammer snapped on his plastic gloves. "Don't touch anything."
"Sure," said Jim-Bean, ignoring him.
The two beaten books on the table were titled Radioactivity and Geology: An Account of the Influence of Radioactive Energy on Terrestrial History and Radioactivity and Its Measurement.
"Interesting." Hammer sifted through the tapes.
The cassette tapes were strewn about the kitchen table of Potter’s house, next to an ancient, nearly inoperable boom-box. Each had a chicken-scratch label marking them as “Monty Int.” followed by a number. There were tapes in total and none of them were dated.
"Did you play these?" asked Jim-Bean.
Androzy nodded. "Each contains the rambling recollections of Montgomery Greene. I listened to a few of them. Why?"
"Nothing," said Jim-Bean, "just wanted to see if you picked up on something we might miss."
Androzy nodded again, missing the bizarre logic of Jim-Bean's statement.
"We're going to play these, if you don't mind," said Hammer.
"Sure, sure."
Hammer picked up the notepad. It was battered and water-logged. In it Clifford potter took hundreds of notes – but few were clearly legible. Besides the poor penmanship, it was obvious Potter had no need to label pages – instead, he seemed to be writing about something he knew very well. Most of the notes appear to be measurements of distance like (6’23”).
"Six foot, twenty three inches…" mused Hammer aloud.
"That's on the map here too," said Jim-Bean.
This hand-drawn map was something obviously fashioned with great care by Clifford Potter. It shows what appeared to be several passages from a bird's eye view along with careful measurements of distance and angles. It was not labeled.
"Look at this." Hammer flipped to the last page of Potter's notebook.
It was a simple, hand-drawing of what looked like an odd pool with sockets in the border surrounding it. Wavy lines were drawn in the center of the pool.
"I think it's time we checked out the root cellar," said Jim-Bean. "Jimbo, you think you could do me a favor?"
"It's Lucas."
"Lucas, right."
"What's up?"
"Can you get my forensics kit? It's in the trunk. You did some good work here but I want to take a closer look…"
"Sure."
Jim-Bean threw him his keys.
"Be right back," said Androzy.
"Did you just give that idiot the keys to our car?"
"Who said those were the car keys?" said Jim-Bean with a grin. "Now let's go check out the root cellar."
The root cellar was a recent construction; something dug in the last two years. It was a small ten foot by twelve foot room about twelve feet down in the ground, accessible through hand-made storm cellar doors and a series of slate steps. It appeared as if a great amount of effort went into constructing it.
Hammer flicked on his head lamp. Jim-Bean switched on a flashlight. They played the beams over the dirt floor.
It was completely empty except for a single long-toothed rake propped against a shored-up wall.
"Only one person has been down in the soft dirt of the cellar." Hammer pointed out footprints in the dirt.
"So?" asked Jim-Bean.
"I don't think Androzy ever stepped foot down here."
"Whoever those footprints belong to, he was really interested in raking the floor." The few footprints disrupted an otherwise perfect sea of carefully raked dirt; like a strange subterranean Zen garden.
Hammer pulled out a small utility tool from his pocket. "Start digging."
"What? Why?"
"You don't rake a root cellar unless you're covering something up," said Hammer.
In moments, Hammer's efforts with the tool were rewarded as he connected with a solid object in the dirt.
Hammer dug out around the hole with his gloved hands. Catching the edge of something plastic, he tugged on it and pulled a large zip-locked bag from the ground.
"What is it?" asked Jim-Bean.
It was a nearly three-inch cube. Hammer held it up to their flashlights. "I think this is solid gold."
Jim-Bean whistled. "That's got to be worth thousands of dollars."
Hammer rotated the bag in his hand. "It's machined into a precise, odd cube with curved corners, a slight curve on the inner faces and a strange icon carved into each face." The icons on the side of the cube were each different—they were rectilinear, mathematical-like symbols.
Jim-Bean took a step towards Hammer to take a closer look when his boot clinked something.
Jim-Bean looked down. A hint of glass in the dirt sparkled back in the flashlight beam.
Hammer dug down and tugged out a huge glass jar filled with a thick, clear liquid. He held it up to the light.
Inside was a huge insect, a dragonfly that measured approximately twenty nine inches from tip to tail. Its wings were crushed and it had obviously suffered severe trauma. It was curled in its death position in the liquid; rolled up like a spiral.
"Whoa," said Jim-Bean. "That thing is huge. I didn't know they can grow that big."
"I don't think they can," said Hammer. "Let's get it back to the lab for analysis."
"Agent Baxter?" called Androzy from the top of the steps. "I tried all of the keys and none of 'em worked."
"Oh crap!" said Jim-Bean, feigning surprise. "I threw you the wrong keys! I'll be right up. Looks like we'll need some trash bags too."
"For what?" asked Androzy, peering into the darkness.
"Dirt samples," Jim-Bean and Hammer said simultaneously.
Located approximately two miles from the center of Hellbend, California on the ruins of a formerly beautiful asphalt road, a sea of destroyed concrete was all that remained of Hunt Electrodynamics Plant #004. A partially ruined chain link fence surrounded it five hundred yards out from the ruins on all sides.
It was hardly a deterrent. Large gaps existed every fifty feet or so. All that remained were concrete slabs split into no larger than three-foot chunks, an occasional metal strut curled by some huge force, random, destroyed business devices from the 1950s.
Hammer walked the perimeter. "Looks to me like the place was destroyed more by an implosion. See how the buildings lean inwards to a center point?"
Walking the site of the plant revealed little. There were no apparent entrances below; no tunnels, holes or stairs down. The site appeared barren.
The point where Clifford Potter was digging with the Bobcat was easily found. The twenty by thirty-foot bald spot was meticulously cleared of rubble, and covered in Bobcat tracks, various footprints and the random detritus of humanity.
"From the looks of it, the Bobcat blade broke the ground maybe once or twice," said Hammer. The hole it created dipped down only a foot or two, revealing nothing. The site was suspiciously clear of anything else.
"You said Potter was digging up metal pipes?" Jim-Bean asked Androzy.
"Yeah."
"Where?" asked Jim-Bean. "There are no metal pipes—no metal at all except steel—on the surface."
"Maybe he stripped the site?"
Hammer and Jim-Bean exchanged a glance. "We're going to need heavy equipment," said Jim-Bean. "Can you rent the Bobcat for us?"
"What?" asked Androzy. "What in the hell do you want that thing for?"
"To dig," said Hammer. "Potter was looking for something."
Androzy just stared at them. "You're serious."
"Very much so," said Hammer.
"Do you know what it's going to take to get that thing out here again? We'll have to drive it over on something…"
"It's only a few miles out," said Jim-Bean helpfully.
Androzy swore and got Mann on his shoulder CB. "Al? Al? Yeah it's Lucas. The Feds want the Bobcat again. No, not for forensics…" he stalked off towards his car, swearing, "…to DIG! Yeah, I know, I told them!"
"That'll keep him busy," said Jim-Bean. "Now, what I really wanted to tell you. Take a look at this." He tapped a few keys on the cistron. Then he blew a kiss skywards.
On the cistrons, a satellite in the sky zoomed in so close that Hammer could make out that Jim-Bean was winking when he blew the kiss.
The view spiraled upwards, indicating the perimeter of the old plant. A map grid appeared over it, with various branches beneath them.
"What's that?" asked Hammer.
"That's Potter's map. From the looks of it, there are underground tunnels that run through here. They've got to come out somewhere…"
"Great," said Hammer, "now we just need to find the entrance."
The cistrons beeped as SINNER zeroed in on a probable entrance.
"You know the only reason you get away with this stuff is because SINNER identifies herself as female."
"I know," said Jim-Bean with a grin.
"She used to portray herself as prepubescent but I've noticed her voice has gotten…huskier."
Jim-Bean smirked. "Agent Hammer, surely you aren't implying that I'm causing a supercomputer to reach puberty prematurely?"
The entrance was located about a mile to the northwest of the ruins, where the land dropped two dozen or more feet. A culvert connected to the subterranean structures of the Hunt Plant.
The culvert was a twelve foot diameter concrete tube that protruded from the hill and disappeared into the depths of the ground that led back to the site. The culvert was awash with a spray of greenery—small plants with a single red flower on them that grew in dribs and drabs on a delta like stream of water which poured out into a fan, disappearing into the parched earth about five yards out. The area smelled rich and damp.
Jim-Bean took a picture of the tiny red flowers, none bigger than a quarter inch. There was a preponderance of bugs flying around the plants. The plants were littered with tiny, spore-covered corpses of hundreds of bugs.
A thousand possible matches flickered through SINNER's database. The response, "No existing matches," blinked urgently on screen.
"SINNER's stumped. Wherever these plants come from, it's not of this earth."
"I'm more concerned about that," said Hammer. He took pictures of a large heel print. It was only the ball of the creature's heel. SINNER analyzed the print: it weighed between 1,200 and 1,300 pounds.
"Jesus. So we've got a big print and a weird flower. Now what?"
"Now," Hammer checked the ammunition on his Glocks, "we go inside the creepy tunnel."
The concrete culvert, which led into the earth heading towards the Hunt plant, was quite large, capable of allowing a human to stand upright comfortably.
That's when they heard the odd noise.
It was not easily describable—it sounded somewhat like an echoey clicking. The mechanical clicking rose and fell over time.
A slow rush of water about two inches deep lapped at their heels. The culvert's walls were covered in a deep green moss up to about hip height. The water seemed to go in cycles—rising slightly in speed and depth every few minutes.
"I don't like that sound," said Jim-Bean.
They ventured further into the culvert. Eventually, the source of the ghostly, echoing clicking became clear.
The contraption, connected by a series of thick wires to Sears Die-Hard battery, sat in the cave propped up on an overturned orange crate. The device seems to be the old innards of a radio rewired to some other purpose. Two other discarded Die- Hard batteries were dumped to the side of the tunnel.
The machine spat out tiny clicks through a single, hand-wired speaker. The clicks increased or decreased with time; sputtering away in a sudden onslaught of noise, then just as suddenly fading to a barely audible click.
"Geiger counter," said Hammer. "That explains the books in Potter's home."
The culvert wound its way beneath what was once the Hunt Plant. The main tunnel led off into darkness. The water was knee deep, making movement both slow and noisy. In the distance, a low rush of water could be heard. After a hundred yards, the tunnel began to turn every fifty yards.
"I don't like this," said Hammer, both pistols held up over his head, "you know I don't—"
"Swim, I know, I know," said Jim-Bean. "But hopefully this current gets less as we get closer to the end of this, wherever it is. I don't have any SCUBA equipment in my duffel bag."
Hammer didn't respond. Jim-Bean looked back over his shoulder, playing the head lamp back and forth over the brakish water. "Hammer?"
He caught a glimpse of a red-green saurian-like head just above the surface. The light struck it full in the eye and the pupil shrunk.
"Oh crap," said Jim-Bean as something hungry and fast lurched out of the water towards him.
Jim-Bean awoke to shooting pain in his foot. He was floating, half-dragged through the current towards…somewhere. He couldn't make out what it was, but he got the distinct impression of feathers…which didn't make any sense, because he had definitely seen a scaly head.
Focus. Jim-Bean was alive. Hammer wasn't with him. This thing was dragging him back to it lair, no doubt to eat him. He had to come up with a plan.
But there was no beating these things in a fair fight. Not in a water-logged tunnel, not when he was barely clinging to life, surviving only because his protomatter-infused body never quit mending his wounds. He would have to come up with something else than mere violence.
It was time to test the limits of his powers. Valiant's crystal had unleashed powers within him he never dreamed of. He had been meditating, practicing some of the techniques he learned at Enolsis. He was about to put them to the test.
Evidence of the culvert was long gone. What little he could make out with his head beam showed a jagged, uneven ceiling. He was instead surrounded by dirt and rocks.
That's all he needed. He tried to focus.
But it was hard. The damn thing bit down on his foot every few seconds as it adjusted its grip on him. Jim-Bean's protomatter body was capable of some amazing things, but he doubted he could reattach a severed foot. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.
Focus…
The tunnel trembled around him. The teeth momentarily loosened their grip, and that was just what Jim-Bean needed. He concentrated harder, and the muddy rock fell just ahead of where his foot was.
There was an inhuman screech, the same sound Jim-Bean heard in his vision on the Bobcat. Water thrashed as muddy earth sluiced off from the ceiling and slammed into the thing again and again.
There was a barking call. Jim-Bean swore silently. The thing wasn't dead, not by a long shot.
Worse, another call, further down the culvert, barked back. There were two of them. Great.
The water changed direction. He down another tunnel, away from the noises. Splashing down that way told Jim-Bean that they were tracking him.
Jim-Bean knew that running wouldn't work. In the mean time, his protomatter would do what it did best.
Hammer had no idea that the sudden drop in the culvert saved his life. When Hammer sputtered back to the surface, Jim-Bean was gone.
He spun around, Glocks out, hoping they would still work despite being soaked. "Jim-Bean? Jimmy?"
There was an odd barking screech, almost like that of an angry seagull, only louder and angrier. It echoed to Hammer's right. Then to his left.
When Hammer caught sight of a red-green head he didn't hesitate to fire. There was a screech, and something thrashed in the water. Then he was alone again in the inky blackness.
Hammer made his way over to the side of the culvert. If he could just get his back to the wall…
Teeth snapped down on his leg, hard. Hammer cried out in pain and unleashed his Glocks into the water, heedless of the fact that he might well shoot himself in the thigh.
Whatever it was let go. He must have hit it.
Hammer half-dragged himself up to the edge of the culvert. It was shallower there.
Where the hell was Jim-Bean?
There was a series of splashes further down the tunnel. Something was hurtling towards him, faster than a human, its bird-like legs pumping, teeth and claws extended. Hammer had just enough time to bring his Glocks up as the thing slammed into him.
Its rear claws struggled for purchase, trying to tear his exposed abdomen. It effortlessly ripped Hammer's belt in two.
Jaws snapped at his throat. In a desperate ploy to keep the thing off of him, Hammer gave up trying to shoot it and just offered it his forearm. It would render his arm useless, but Hammer had to keep the thing off of him long enough to get a shot.
It worked. The jaws snapped around his arm and shook side to side, claws tearing at his shoulders and face. Hammer shoved himself forward and they both twisted into the water.
In the inky blackness, the thing didn't have the advantage. More importantly, he knew exactly where its head was. Hammer's head beam flashed on one of the cat-like pupils, wild with bloodlust.
Hammer put his Glock to the thing's eye and pulled the trigger.
There was a burst gore and the jaws clenched reflexively once more, hard enough to make Hammer scream. He nearly choked to death right there, under the water. But with his last ounce of strength, he managed to hurl himself back onto a shallower part of the culvert. And there he floated.
The current eventually floated him back out towards the entrance. Hammer felt a mixture of relief and guilt as the sunlight of the opening came into view. Whatever had attacked Hammer had most certainly eaten Jim-Bean.
Androzy greeted him at the entrance. "Been lookin' for you all day! I got the Bobcat…what the hell happened to you?"
"Hospital," wheezed Hammer, limping towards Androzy. "I need to make a call."
The tunnel finally opened into a larger cement room awash with water and odd plants. At the far end was a twelve-foot diameter stone archway with slots on the left hand side of the large portal; it was tilted forward at a slight angle, pinned in place by debris. The stone was odd—it was a deep black soapstone-like substance with an almost metallic quality. These slots looked like they would fit a cube, like the cube the agents had found in Potter's basement. The top slot was empty.
Jim-Bean slowly got to his feet, the predators behind him momentarily forgotten.
It was fascinating. Though almost the entire archway was clear of debris, as well as the topmost cube slot; much of the gate was obscured by rubble. The gate perfectly matched with the drawing in the last page of Clifford Potter’s notebook.
The archway was filled with a deep gray mist, much like steam, which did not seem to drift far from the door. There was something odd about the way the smoke drifted; it occasionally seemed to twirl, twist and congeal into tiny storm-like collections of clouds; and it never drifted far from the stone doorway before evaporating.
Every few minutes, a stream of clear, warm water poured from inside the gate. The stream continued down the tunnel where it exits out of the concrete culvert. The strong smell of a verdant jungle filled the tunnel.
A stack of equipment was scattered around the small cleared out area surrounding the gate. It was sitting on top of a pile of rubble, well out of the way of the stream of water.
Jim-Bean quickly rifled through it. It consisted of an army bag filled with various pieces of electronic equipment.
Jim-Bean unshouldered his duffel bag. There was enough C-4 to do some damage. But he had bigger problems.
Behind him, the Hellbend killers entered the cave entrance, snapping and snarling at each other as they established dominance for who would eat Jim-Bean first.
At first glance, they looked like an enormous flightless red-green colored birds the size of pick-up trucks. They had small forearms sprinkled with orange-green feather-like extrusions, and the same faux feathers on their backs. They were quite obviously predators—heads filled with two-inch long serrated teeth, and face broken by one blunt horn. Their small forward arms were tipped with five-inch hook-like claws.
They were also most definitely not lizards. These were dinosaurs.
The predators crept into the cavern, hissing, heads darting to track his every move.
"Velociraptors," whispered Jim-Bean. "Great." He set the charges on the C-4 to a few seconds. Then he tossed a brick of them into the air, using his telekinesis to control them just right.
One of the raptors snapped at the blinking brick, just as Jim-Bean hoped. With a telekinetic shove, he slammed it down the beast's throat.
The raptor squealed, clawing at its throat. The second raptor, excited by the motion, reared back with its jaw open wide and its claws raised for a charge…
Jim-Bean staggered backwards. His gun was useless. He was hoping the explosion from the C-4 would have taken care of them both.
It leaped through the air, both pairs of claws extended, maw gleaming with shark's teeth. Jim-Bean pointed at the satchel of equipment.
The heavy equipment smashed into the thing and hurled it towards the gate. It fell within feet of the smoke, but the tendrils curled around it and sucked it through.
A second later the other raptor, still clawing at its throat, exploded in a gout of blood and bone.
Jim-Bean met Hammer at the hospital. Hammer. He was laid up in bed, doped up on painkillers.
"Did you get them?" asked Hammer. His forearm was heavily bandaged. The dinosaurs had near snapped his forearm in two.
"Good to see you're alive, Jim-Bean," began Jim-Bean sarcastically. "I thought you were dead. Sorry I had to leave you behind with the scary Jurassic Park rejects…"
"Very funny," croaked Hammer.
"You're seriously messed up yourself," said Jim-Bean.
"Radiation…poisoning," said Hammer.
"Oh yeah, I noticed that. But I got over it."
Hammer continued his question. "So?"
"The dinosaurs are now definitely extinct. As for the gate, I called in a STREETSWEEPER team. Gave Larry the gold cube. They're going in now."
He showed Hammer his cistron.
They had a fish-eye view from a Larry's helmet cam. "This is Bravo Team Leader, we're inside. Corpses have been removed. We are attempting to shut down the gate."
Other agents, all dressed in NBC suits and breathing masks, carefully approached the gate.
Only Larry's hands were visible. He turned the gold cube to the face with icons of a snake, an odd axe-head, and an arrow-head pointing down. Then he placed it in the square-shaped hole on the gate.
The room shuddered.
"...effect…" shouted a garbled voice over the comm. "…attempting…evacuate!"
Men shouted, running as fast as they could in the bulky suits. The tunnel began to shift as the room shuddered in an odd mix of an earthquake and random time-lapse photography. The STREETSWEEPER team was subjected to bizarre relativistic effects—some moved extremely fast, others stuttered, and some were frozen in time, not moving at all.
A second later the line went dead.
"What happened?" Jim-Bean shouted into the cistron. "Is the gate closed?"
"Roger that," came Larry's weary voice. "We lost a few, but it's closed."
"Awfully nice of you boys to go in there and deal with that for us," said Jim-Bean sweetly.
"Don't laugh. Orders just came down. I almost feel bad for you."
"Oh?"
"This is evidence that Hunt Electronics has access to temporal gate technology. You two get to take them down."
Linear Mode
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