Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2] Read online

  “Uncooperative, eh?” he said massaging a dimpled jaw. “Anything else interesting about it?”

  “No aura,” I stated.

  Gil did a double take. “Huh? What was that?”

  “It has no aura,” I repeated. “None. Zero. Zip. Nada.”

  The pilot worked a pinkie in his ear. “No aura, you say?”

  “No aura.”

  “Impossible! Sure your sunglasses are working?”

  Taking my tinted Bureau glasses from my sweater pocket, I walked closer and offered them. “See for yourself.”

  Donning the glasses suspiciously, Lapin glanced at his own hand, then me, the rest of the team and then the trailer.

  “Damnation, I can see the Kirlian aura from everybody, but the trailer. Is this a gag? Is that hitch empty, or is there really a boojum in there?”

  As if in response, the metal cubicle vibrated with a barely contained roar.

  “Lumpy says he's still here,” Raul quipped, playing his fingers along the length of his staff.

  Shaking his head, Gil gave a crooked smiled. “And it's not a robot? Or artificial construct?”

  A warm dry wind blew on me, carrying with it the smell of nothing. “Nope,” I replied. “Living organic.”

  “Well, feather my props,” the pilot mumbled in awe. “No Kirlian aura. Technical Services will positively flip over this! Any problems in the recovery?”

  “Not really,” Jessica replied. “I wiped a few memories and then we replaced the creature with a shaved lion we stole from the Lincoln Park Zoo. When the news services discovers that it's only a lion, that should help dispel the silly idea that monsters actually exist.”

  We had a good laugh at that.

  “Oh, and we narrowly missed having another encounter with Jules Englehart,” Mindy added with a sour expression.

  In unison, the group turned and spat on the ground. Englehart was a freelance news reporter for the National Gazette, and an old enemy of the Bureau. He specialized in reporting on supernatural events, and our field agents had run into him more times than we fired wooden bullets. Bureau agents had twice saved him from being eaten by ghouls, and once he actually got his hands on physical evidence that our secret organization existed. We almost let him get consumed that time, but our oath of allegiance swears us to protect all American citizens, not just the folks that we liked. Details, details.

  Of course, when my team returned his unconscious body to his apartment, we had accidentally passed a powerful magnet over his video tape collection, short-sheeted his bed and emptied his refrigerator, but such minor revenges gave us little solace. One of these days, the fool will cause real trouble and then we would have to shoot him in the name of national security. Privately, a few of us prayed for the day to come as early as possible. But they were in the minority. Well, mostly.

  “Jess, can't you do something to him?” Gil asked, resting an arm on the canopy. “Erase Englehart's memory of the Bureau? Or give him the uncontrollable urge to live in Antarctica?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, wish I could. But Jules has got a natural telepathic block the size of Gibraltar.”

  Suddenly, the top of the trailer erupted in a spray of metal bits and out leapt our prisoner. It landed heavy on all four paws and started streaking down the road away from the Facility. I drew both pistols. Madre mia! Was Lumpy really that stupid, or did he have a death wish?

  “Outgoing!” George shouted, his big machine gun starting to yammer and spit flame.

  A line of dirt puffs exploded in front of the scampering beast and it wisely came to a halt. As Lumpy turned, Mindy threw a knife and the handle hit the bald bozo smack between the eyes, which promptly crossed. Jessica fired her taser and tossed a tear gas grenade. I pumped a couple of Sure-Kills into his chest. Raul cast a Sleep spell, Death spell, a net, chained its legs together and made the ground sticky.

  Under the accumulated barrage, the boojum staggered, then Lumpy tore itself free and charged straight at us. Its snarling savage expression saying what no amount of words could.

  “Well, screw you too,” Gil drawled, jerking on his helmet. A split second later, the right wing missile pod of the Raptor extended a stuttering lance of flame. In a staggered series of bloody explosions, Lumpy stridently disintegrated.

  But as expected, the tiny pieces scattered on the ground began to slither towards each other, as the thing began to re-assemble.

  “Wow. Determined cuss, isn't he?” the pilot stated over a PA system of the F22, his words echoing slightly. “We gotta get this clown into an Omega Cell fast, before we run out of ammo and he starts chewing the landscape.”

  On command, our mage did the wand routine again, and the twitching monster chunks wafted back into the trailer. Raul then reformed the roof, spot welded the doors shut and taking a paint brush from out of the air, wrote a glowing rune on every side of the You-Haul, including the bottom. An unusual precaution, but then Lumpy was an unusual prisoner.

  Taking a spare lock and extra chains from the equipment trunk in the van, we secured the trailer doors, and this time looped every foot of available linkage around the hitch until it resembled a chainmail cocoon. Grenades and Claymore mines festooned the yellow trailer in the manner of so many Army-issue Christmas tree ornaments.

  As we finished, Gil asked, “Raul, I don't recognize that rune. What will it do? Put the beastie to sleep? Blow off its head?”

  “Nope,” the mage replied coming to ground. “This rune will temporarily give the boojum external genitalia.”

  “A prime target,” Mindy said smiling evilly, callused hands twisting on the pommel of her sword.

  I winced, as did every other male present. Oddly, Jessica did also. Just being polite?

  Empathy with you, my dear.

  Wives, ain't they grand?

  As we climbed into the blissful shaded comfort of our mobile fort, I started the engine and rolled up the mud road with the Raptor close behind. From the trailer came a muted growl, and for a moment, I could have sworn that it sounded like a guttural laugh. Nyah, couldn't be.

  Following the flat mud road, we quickly approached the wall which grew taller and taller. Distance alone had disguised its true size. Directly ahead of us was a metal door some ten meters high. As the van neared the base, the tremendous portal started to descend with a mighty mechanical rumble. When we reached the door, it was totally underground, the flat metal top level with the road forming a ramp to drive along. Rolling across, I noted the portal was six meters thick, made of foot wide sections of laminated steel alloy with a thin crystal insert between each of them. Interesting.

  Of course, this barrier was simply here to keep folk out. To a lot of things in the Holding Facility this flimsy door wouldn't offer more resistance than a sheet of wet toilet tissue. All the real armament was in the Facility itself, and brother, there was a lot, almost enough for the place to declare itself an independent nation.

  Past this first door, we drove on top of another giant portal, with yet a third ahead of us. But that last door was closed, blocking any further progress. Roughly in the middle of the wall, I braked to a halt and the portal behind us raised silently into position. Darkness descended and I hit the lights. When the first door closed with a hollow boom, the portal before us lowered to allow entrance into Bangor-Maine. I was sure that, when necessary, the middle door would also rapidly elevate to rudely mash invaders against the mammoth steel lintel overhead. Wish we had one of these in Chicago. It sure would be a great way to deter pesky salesmen. Hee-hee-hee.

  Driving out of the wall, we could see a paved parking lot filled with Harrier jumpjets and Abrams Heavy Assault Tanks, which were scant more than military forts on treads. Definitely state-of-the-art-stuff. Very expensive. Oh heck, there goes the budget for the company picnic this year.

  Beyond the array of lethal ironmongery, was the pleasant little torture town that I remembered far too well. A double row of stores lined the main street; behind were neat two story houses, eight home
s to a block. Each of the blocks was staggered below the next, so that there was no direct avenue to the outer wall. Our commander and chief, Horace Gordon, doesn't miss a trick. The stores were there to lend a semblance of normalcy for the occupants, the houses were where the guards, teachers and students lived during their educational internment.

  Scores of pedestrians were strolling about, lugging books, wheeling carts of groceries, hauling a truckload of coffins, chatting about their new abilities, or just floating along above the sidewalk sipping a can of diet soda. The view was so tranquil and peaceful, that it made my skin crawl knowing the truth.

  “Lord, how I hate this place,” Mindy said, her pert nose pressed flat against the window glass.

  Polishing his weapon, George made some vague comment. If it didn't go whoosh or boom, it held little interest to Mr. Renault. Always made me wonder about his girlfriends.

  Curiously, I glanced about for one house in particular, a huge weather beaten Victorian mansion with seven gables, a widows walk on the roof and blood stains on the front porch, but couldn't find it anywhere. Had we passed Hell House already and I missed the place? That didn't seem possible. I tried a sneak through my sunglasses, but quickly tucked them into my shirt pocket again. Surrounded by so much magic, it was impossible to locate any particular aura.

  “If you're searching for Hell House,” Raul said, from inside the tiny closet near the lavatory. “Just look for anybody pale, sweaty and trembling.”

  “Preferably with a broken weapon of some kind in their hands,” Mindy continued. “It'd be a sure sign that we're close.”

  They sure had that correct. I still occasionally woke during the night with feverish dreams of my graduation run through that damn mansion. In spite of magical healing, I yet carry the scars of that sneaky banister which polymorphed into a live snake and soundly sank its fangs where only my doctor knew.

  From behind a curtain of her ebony hair, Jessica paused in the process of reloading her taser to laugh aloud, and I blushed. Okay, so it was now a family secret.

  With a roar, the trailer shuddered and one wall bent drastically outwards almost to the breaking point. The Raptor sent a rustling missile into the hitch, which promptly exploded, and Raul magically gestured to reform the container. I increased our speed and flicked on a flashing light.

  “Hot soup, gangway!” I called over the PA system of the van. What sparse traffic there was got out of our way fast.

  In the distance, I could see an old World War II style Quonset hut, a half-cylinder made of corrugated iron lying on its side. That was the exterior of the Holding Facility. Jail seemed far too weak and feeble a term for the inverted fortress.

  Endlessly we did left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn, but with each corner the Quonset Hut came closer. Always in the background was the Raptor hovering slightly above us, constantly keeping our boojum in range. Somehow, I think the animal knew this because it remained quiescent. Once burned, twice shy, three times exhausted.

  Reaching the exact center of town, we encountered the broad traffic circle of Alcatraz Street. On the outside of the circular road was a staggered barricade of unpretentious cinderblock warehouses. On the island in the middle, was a simple wire fence surrounding the dull plain Quonset Hut. A book and its cover. Yep. Most definitely.

  Stopping in front of the gate in the fence, we disconnected the trailer hitch and moved the van forward a few meters to give sufficient room. We had barely cleared the regulation distance when the hitch burst apart again and there stood Lumpy, now four times his original size. Okay, now he was officially a growing menace.

  Instantly, the metal side of the hut rippled in the manner of parting water and out came a huge mechanical arm, irregular slabs of armor barely concealing the mammoth gears and motors inside its adamantine skeleton. Almost the entire length of the robotic arm was lined with defensive runes, gun turrets, arbalests, crucifixes, Mogen Davids, ankhs, juju bags, or pulsating crystals. And this was only the janitor. At the end of the titanic limb, was a blunt three-fingered claw large enough to seize the moment. Which it promptly did.

  Entirely without effort, the claw snared Lumpy in its cold iron grip and gave the beast a little squeeze. Our hairless lion squealed and went limp. Smoothly contracting, the leviathan limb hauled the boojum inside the Quonset Hut with another of those really cool looking ripple effects. A split second later, there was a muffled explosion and Lumpy's dumb head punched through the metal wall like a hairy cannonball.

  It only bounced twice before a harpoon slammed directly between those slanted cat eyes. A steel cable attached to the end of the harpoon grew taut, and struggling every foot of the way, the rolling head was reeled back inside. As the wall sealed solid, we finally allowed ourselves to exhale and lower our weapons.

  Then the fleetingly memory of Lumpy's smile came to mind, and I debated if the creature had been pretending to be crazy so as to get inside the Facility that much quicker. But I dismissed the possibility, not even the ghost of Houdini could escape once inside this prison. And believe me, Harry had really tried.

  But that uneasy feeling wouldn't go away, so I reached for the hand mike and alerted the guards to watch for trouble. Just in case.

  THREE

  “By the way,” the voice of Gilad said over our dashboard radio as we rolled along the traffic circle heading back into town. “Why did you bother to come personally instead of just shunting the boojum in through a magical portal?”

  Unclipping the hand mike, I pressed the transmit switch, “Just being careful. Besides, we received permission to get a replacement mage for Anderson weeks ago, and this seemed a prime opportunity to see the students.”

  The conversation paused a moment out of respect for our long gone friend. The handbook says that there are 100 ways to leave the Bureau. Richard Anderson had discovered Option #101 and actually retired. But then, Richard had always been an amazing fellow.

  “Any wizards ready to graduate?” Jess asked, breaking the silence.

  “Actually, we have four mages,” she replied.

  Everybody perked up at that amazing answer.

  Leaning forward, Mindy took the microphone. “Four? That's wonderful!”

  “Well, two of them are a pair and one is only a Healer, can't do anything but benign magic,” the speaker crackled. “But it is an incredible number of wizards to have at once. Most years we only train four mages total.”

  “How far along are they?” Raul called out from the back of the van. As a wizard he had to stay far away from radios and other types of complex machinery, or else they behaved in the most annoying manner.

  There was a crackle of static and Raul retreated further. “Prof. Burton is running them through Hell House this afternoon,” Lapin commented. “Wanna watch?”

  “Does a gargoyle eat its young?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “I'll take that as a yes,” Gil laughed, as the shadow of the F22 moved across our van eclipsing the alien sun.

  After saying goodbye, the F22 Raptor angled off in the direction of the airfield and soon dwindled out of sight.

  “Let's go get our new mage,” I declared, shifting gears.

  “Be nice to get another female,” Mindy said, resting an arm across the beat of my seat. “This group has always been rather man heavy.”

  “Any problem with that, my proud beauty?” Raul asked, sliding closer on the couch beside her.

  Smiling sweetly, Mindy batted her eyelashes, made a kissy mouth, snuggled nearer and gave the mage an eloquent elbow to the ribs. Breath came out of him in a whoof.

  “Heavens no,” she purred. “Why ever do you ask?”

  Gasping for air, Raul's answer consisted mostly of a pained expression of how very sorry he was for asking.

  Having spent six weeks of training here a million years ago, I knew the location of the Base Command. Situated on a nondescript side street, BC was a three story brick square with mirrored windows, sans any sort of ornamentation or signs. More security
precautions. Unless you knew it was HQ, nobody could have deduced the fact. The place more resembled an insurance office than a high tech computerized command center. But then, don't they always?

  Driving into the parking lot, I took a spot alongside the walkway between a horribly beweaponed motorcycle, and a red shag flying carpet. Eagerly, the team piled out and I locked the doors as they ambled inside the building. We were each curious to see this aspect of the Academy previously denied to us as cadets.

  The foyer was made of cool blue marble and Mrs. Cunningham, the woman at the reception desk, was equally friendly. But she gave good directions, and three turns, two staircases later, my team found that holiest of holies, the Hell House Command Complex. Or as we called it as students, ‘the Principle's Office.’

  After a moment of shuffling feet and clearing throats, I knocked on the door and a voice bid us enter. Stepping into its air-conditioned magnificence, a shiver ran through my gut. External, or internal causes? Geez, I felt nervous as a new field agent opening their first grave. An enclosed, elevated walkway extended over an incredible array of computer mainframes that none of us could identify. At the far end of the colonnade was a small dais protected by a dome of clear Armorlite glass. An elaborate control curved around the entire edge of the dais going from doorjamb left to doorjamb right. Six folding chairs were set behind an impressive swivel chair that would have appeared more at home on the bridge of a starship.

  Walking along the colonnade, ringing footsteps heralded our approach, and the swivel chair did what it does best.

  “About time,” Professor Joyce Burton smiled, rising to meet us and offering a hand. We shook. She had a firm grip. “The senior class is ready and rearing to go.”

  As always, the prof was in tight black slacks and a shapeless green turtleneck sweater, her long brown hair almost tied off in a scraggly ponytail. Fashion was not a subject Our Dean of Destruction taught at the Academy.

  “Students think they're pretty hot stuff, eh?” George asked, resting his ungainly machine gun against a nearby wall.