A “Teddy London” thriller
There have always been those who will put themselves in harm’s way to save others. I forever find that amazing; it’s perhaps the single most astonishing thing in life. All the cheating, lying and grabbing we see portrayed in our media, day after day, and there is still enough goodness left in some people that they will stand up for those who cannot defend themselves. I think that’s at the heart of what makes all this tolerable. I know I couldn’t go on without it.
The door was ancient. Thick and heavy, made of lead and stone and massive timbers, great impossible things hewn from ten thousand year old trees that at one time had reached beyond the sky. Its hinges were as thick as towers, their pins the breadth of whales. It was a mighty thing, but one set in the side of a mountain so thick and wide and tall that as mind-wrenchingly large as the door was, it was a lost and tiny speck in comparison.
The mountain was a dark and foreboding place, a sheer, rugged nightmare of cyclopean peaks and colossal summits all as inhospitable to every living thing as they were to the very concept of life itself. It was a vulgar, pulsating terror, pocketed with reeking thermal pits and frozen glacial shadows. It was larger than the mind’s dimension and wider than possibility. It was beyond scope, existing not within its own dimension, but as its own dimension.
It was what the Tibetans called Mt. Meru. It was the center—it was the final threshold—the one and only crossroads to all places from all places.
And, as for the door in question—that ancient gateway locked so tightly to the cliff side was by no means an anomaly—the mountain was covered with as many doors as there are stars in the universe. As least, that was the perception of the climber working his way slowly toward that one gargantuan speck.
The man paused, pushing aside a weariness as despairing as age. He had been moving upward, hand over hand, toe and knee, elbow and wrist—straining, hanging, surviving—for what seemed like a lifetime. An entire actual lifetime. An eternity of bunched seconds lined up and played out one yard one foot one inch after another. After another.
After another.
“This is it.”
London stopped. Every function and aspect of the man that dared rest shut down in gasping relief. He had come up over a sharp outcropping of splintered obsidian and found what he was looking for. He had passed many other doors on his way up the face of the terrible peak, but he had not paused at any of them. They had not been the one he wanted. This one was.
He did not know how he had arrived at this certainty, of course. London did not even know exactly why he was searching for the door. He had never heard of it until a day before his departure for it. He did not know its name when he arrived, either. It did not matter.
Private investigator Theodore London had left his friends and family several weeks earlier knowing that he would simply have to search, and keep searching—across the leagues of other wheres and whens for who knew how many eternities—until he found the shrieking darkness he could sense coming toward his world. He had no choice.
IT had only been a dream—a vision reaching the detective in the supposed safety of sleep—of a great darkness descending on his universe. Once awake, the glance into the future held his imagination. London could not name this horror making its way to his world, or even give it form within his mind. He only knew that it’s arrival was eminent—and that he was all that stood between it and all he held dear.
A challenge had been flung. Somewhere across time and space, some horrific consciousness had set its bloated golden eye on the dimension which housed London’s world. Like hairs on the back of a person’s neck—when they just know someone is watching them—people had registered uncomprehending receipt of the foul attention. Nightmares and despair had swept throughout the detective’s world. Suicides had broken out in record numbers. Men called it the end of the world. They always do.
The problem was—this time they were right.
Whatever horror was headed toward his birth reality did not matter. London knew he was the only person in the world that had any chance of stopping it. He also knew that if he gave into his instincts that they would lead him to the correct spot of its arrival—at whatever place he could meet the whatever that was coming. Besides this, the detective also knew it would be a place both his senses and those of the approaching shambler could interpret in like manner—a commonality where they could meet and contest with one another. He had expected all of these things.
What he had not expected was to find someone else waiting on the same side of the door as him. That startled him enough to make him blink, an unexpected drain expenditure of energy that leaked bits of his soul off into the wind. Being caught off-guard was a new sensation for London. He was not a man used to being taken by surprise.
Years earlier, the detective had become involved in a case which had pulled him beyond the veil of the ordinary into a new understanding of the world that destroyed all his previous perceptions. Since then he had contested with vampires and demons, with changelings and with godlike forms whose mere visage shattered the fragile senses of most who beheld them. He had lost friends and comrades in many of the battles, had spilled a necessary ocean of innocent blood, but he had prevailed time and again, and his world was still safe.
Who the Hell ..., London wondered, his mind as worn as his body. Who is this guy?
Physically exhausted but determined—practically beyond reason—the detective threw his leg over the ledge before him. He released the braced position of his fingers, extracting them from the crevice he had used as his last handhold. After that he made his way over the crumbling edge, rolling several yards inward before he stopped to catch his breath. Clouds of dust were raised by his arrival. As he lay in the thin layer of detritus remaining, he studied the man sitting quietly further up the bluff.
London received no feeling that the man was a threat to him. Everything about the figure, in fact—the hooding of the eyes, angle of position before the door, bend of the knees, the casual iron in the spread of the fingers, et cetera—bespoke its intention to meet the same thing that London had come to stop.
The detective’s perceptions told him it was a man like himself. It was an older man, with a face unlined but whose eyes whispered of uncounted years. He was tall, slender and saturnine, with a fine-boned visage as sallow as antique ivory. His hair was thinning but still black as night, save for a dramatic silver streak that began at his right temple and zigzagged backward to the base of his skull.
At that moment, however, the detective did not care. Giving in to his weariness, he gave off wondering about the older man and closed his eyes. Instantly his depleted form snagged energy from all about him. Years earlier London had learned the secret of miracle, had realized the truth behind the monumental simplicity that the fabric of a universe can be manipulated simply by believing one could do so. It was a difficult trick, one achieved by equal parts pig-headedness and self-righteousness—a stunt where arrogance and pride were worth their weight in fantasy.
London had found his way to the mountain by entering the dream plane, a side dimension linked to the subconscious and unconscious minds. Most people could reach only the palest outskirts of this realm—and then only in their dreams. London could travel it at will.
But, such parlor magic comes with a price tag. The detective had discovered long ago that playing God was weighted by a staggering set of consequences. Every dipping into the cosmic drinking fountain cost an equal ransom in force and power. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And so on.
London did not travel the dream plane lightly any more. Not, knowing as he did that to do so—to use his abilities to transmute time and matter and space—had to be bought in like portions of fixed reality.
Now, he thought, here I am using up who knows how much energy to reach this spot, and here’s some other guy who’s doing the same thing.
Seeing no need to belabor the obvious any longer, London reined in his power. He could see that a great portion of the surrounding bluff had already disappeared, consumed by his need for compensatory energy. Walking forward, he called out to the older man.
“Enjoying the view?”
“Well,” responded the figure without moving, “that was more original than ‘hello,’ I suppose.”
“Forgive me,” answered London shortly. “I’ve never been certain what the correct bon mot is for this kind of situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
The detective stopped walking. Tiny wisps powdered around his boots. Ignoring them, he said, “The one that, and hopefully I’m not assuming incorrectly here, brought both of us to this spot.”
“You’re a guarded man, Mr. London. Handy in some circumstances, but I’m not certain we have the time for such antics now.”
“Okay, you know who I am,” answered the detective. “Fair enough. I’m listed in the phone book. You mind telling me who you are, though?”
The slender figure thought for a moment. Then, memory slid the proper answer to his tongue.
“Sorry—I haven’t used my given name for ... for a while. But when I still needed to be, I was known as Dr. Anton Zarnak. Of late, the last resident of Number 13, China Alley.”
“What?” asked London, recognizing the address as being not far from his own home.
“Yes, small multiverse, isn’t it? It had been for some time the home of Professor Roland Guicet. He was stationed there for some sixty-two years until his disappearance. Then I was sent to take his place.”
“His place doing what?” asked the detective.
“Safeguarding humanity.”
And then, before London could respond, something stirred the massive door before them. It was the slightest of shoves, but the noise reverberated across the landscape like the sonic blasts of an attacking squadron of jet fighters. Bits of rust the size of continents cracked and splintered with the movement, flecking away to drift lazily toward the ground below. Their crashing kicked up banks of dust and detritus that blotted the sky, plunging everything into darkness.
“Hummmm,” said Zarnak absently, noting the destruction, “less time than I thought.”
“Less time than you thought for what?” asked London. The detective half-sat, half-fell down onto a solid looking out-cropping of igneous rock, not waiting for an answer. He did not want to reveal how tired he was—how truly weary he felt down to the core of his bones—but he had no choice.
He had walked the dream plane many times. He had confronted all manner of monsters and gods and things in between when there. More than once he had come close to shuffling off his frail mortal shell. But, he thought, never before had he been so exhausted in the mere journeying to the site of his next confrontation. It had taken every bit of strength the detective possessed just to reach the dimension of the door.
And, it was obvious to him that Dr. Zarnak knew it.
“You don’t belong here,” the older man said casually as he checked his pockets absently, searching for something.
“Yeah?” responded London, somewhat annoyed. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re exhausted. The color in your face says you’re having trouble breathing. The set of your shoulders, the way they’re folded in toward your head ... ummm not good. Your heart rate is violently out of control. And your breathing is far too shallow and rapid.”
The door rattled again. The thin, tattered gray clouds hanging in the air began to move off, frightened by the possibility the barrier might actually open. London’s eyes went wide at the sight. Zarnak smiled.
“Nor do I think,” added the doctor, “that you are as ready for a confrontation of this magnitude as you might think.”
London did not bother to stand. He needed to collect his energy, organize his will, forge his ability to resist whatever overwhelming irresistibility was pushing at the other side of the door.
“You’ve had an interesting career, Mr. London, and you’ve conquered a number of enemies far beyond what one could reasonably expect from one as unlettered as yourself,” admitted Zarnak. “I’ll grant you that. But, what approaches now is more than you can handle.”
“And you can?”
Zarnak continued the absent searching of his pockets. Finally discovering what he was looking for, he pulled his hands free.
“No, of course not.”
London looked up. Sweat dripped off his forehead into his eyes, blinding him as he stared at Zarnak. The doctor was busy filling a pipe from a small, folded-flap leather pouch. As Zarnak put flame to the bowl, again the great door shook with the terrible reverberations of having taken a great hit. This time, however, the door moved forward on its hinges several yards.
A hideous squeal knifed through the air as the ancient hinges slid outward for the first time in over half a century. The metal surfaces tore against one other, the resulting din hammering at everything within a thousand miles.
London’s eyes narrowed as he watched more of the door’s decaying surface crash against the uneven plane all around him. Zarnak seemed too engrossed with his pipe to notice. Wiping at his brow, the detective said;
“Okay, let me get this straight. I’ve stopped things like Q’talu and Nyarlethotep, but I won’t be able to handle what’s on the other side of that door. You, on the other hand, you’re humanity’s protector. But you can’t handle what’s coming, either.”
“Yes,” answered Zarnak between puffs, “that’s essentially correct.”
London stopped for a moment. He was not exactly bewildered, but he did not know what to say. He did not know what the doctor was proposing, either. Sensing this, Zarnak told him straight out.
“Go home, Mr. London. This one is mine.”
“But you said you couldn’t handle it, either.”
“Correct.” The doctor let a great cloud of smoke escape his lips. Rapturous enjoyment spreading across his face, he said, “Neither one of us can stop what approaches. Nor could we halt it together. Ultimately, we are both but men, and men can but bar the door.”
“But listen, maybe if ...”
Suddenly, the older man was no longer across the plane, but standing inches from London. His nostrils flaring, upper lip curling, the doctor shouted over the deafening shrillness of the opening passageway behind them.
“Listen to me, little man. It’s my turn to quit. I’ve stood my post, I’ve paid my passage. It’s over. This is my job. I get the sinecure now.”
The door moved once more. Again the sky was blotted by the noise of it. Again boulders the size of moons fell from the mountain, smashing down around the two figures. Ignoring it all, Zarnak reached out and grabbed the edges of London’s coat. His pipe suddenly gone, his once calm face rippled in passion, he snarled at the detective.
“Who do you think you are? Just who in all the possible Hells are you!? Stop a few minor elders with more luck than anything else and suddenly you’re Jules de Grandin? I think not.”
The plane they were standing on split apart as more rubble battered the landscape. As the ground fell away beneath London’s feet, Zarnak held him aloft.
“Lose as much as I have,” he shouted. “Bury as many near and dear as I have—then think yourself ready!”
With but the slightest effort, the doctor threw London up onto what remained of the knoll before the door. Another deafening blow splattered against the inside of the barrier, echoing across the various dimensions all tumbled together there at the nexus. This time, however, there was a difference. This time, the door cleared its massive jam. Suddenly, it was open.
“Your time will come, boy,” said the doctor. “But it’s not today.”
Pipe in hand again, Zarnak stared at the few feet of darkness revealed by the cracking of the door as if expecting something to emerge from that tiny sliver of space. Inhaling one last time, savoring the final lungful with only minimal regrets, he smiled benignly at London and said;
“I always did enjoy a good bowl.”
Then, the doctor’s hands were free once more. Reaching under his coat, he pulled forth a grotesque mask of carved and painted wood. The scarlet, black and gold image depicted a hideous devil face with three glaring eyes and open-fanged jaws from which escaped painted gold whorls of stylized flames. As he slipped it on, he told London in a humorous tone;
“An old friend I brought along to lend a hand.”
Spreading his arms, Zarnak raised his voice over the thundering squeal of the still grinding hinges.
“Sub pat’kiaa, yef yef gerdic trum’el kuna.” The words bellowed forth from the doctor’s slender frame, “Yama hidie’ay, Yama gibgib’conna gibgib’conna.”
London listened to the spell as the words were repeated. Before him the door was being slammed open further—inch by torturous inch. Next to him, the doctor maintained his ritual. And then before him, as all around him debris continued to fall from the mountain, a new phenomenon began to stir. A curling mass of ambrosian flesh and fire swirled with a violet mist some dozen yards away.
“Trum’el kuna,” called the doctor once more. “Yama hidie’ay, Yama gibgib’conna gibgib’conna bing shem!”
who calls me?
“Anton Zarnak!” shouted the doctor.
I remember you
The voice crawled out of the growing sphere of violet fire. As the ground splintered and the mountain trembled, Zarnak demanded, “And do you remember your duty to they who speak the words?”
is there sacrifice?
“Behind that door,” answered the doctor. “You want an opponent, Yama—he’s there and waiting.”
we destroy it together?
“If it can be destroyed.”
interesting
The cloud continued its metamorphoses. As it flowed across the plane, the door opened wide enough for a massive appendage to begin to force its way outside. Long it was, covered in hairy scales that glowed with a dull orangish hue. Neither arm nor tentacle nor any other kind of flesh which London could understand, it bent in numerous spots, jointed in no fashion of which the detective could make sense.
As Yama flowed through the doorway, a great burning hissing filled the air. New tremors tossed the mountain savagely, throwing London to his feet. Green bolts of translucent lightning rained across the knoll, forcing the detective to seek shelter. By the time he dared raise his head, Yama was completely inside the doorway, Zarnak quick on his heels.
And then, the doctor motioned toward London. Somehow the detective found himself at Zarnak’s side. Before he could ask what had happened, he was silenced by the sudden appearance of another man from inside the door.
Older he was, gaunt and gray and joyless. His hunched frame was feeble and covered with blistered and burned skin that reeked of the odor of running pus and rot. Pulling the man out of the doorway, Zarnak said;
“Professor Guicet, I presume?”
The man nodded feebly, falling against the doctor. Zarnak handled him delicately, moving his desiccated form gently to where London could catch him. The detective accepted the slight burden with a delicacy akin to reverence. Then, Zarnak was through the door, gesturing at it to close behind him.
Multitudinous blasts of fiery rock erupted from behind the door. The sounds of unbelievable confrontation shattered the very air, the noise alone filling the atmosphere with burning ozone. London watched the door slide quietly shut. Then, seconds before it closed completely, Zarnak’s voice reached him one last time.
“Take good care of Guicet, Theodore. As you care for him, so shall he who comes next care for you.”
London nodded. Suddenly, he remembered what the doctor had said to him earlier.
“Your time will come, boy,” Zarnak had said. “But it’s not today.”
The detective turned his attention to the trembling old man hanging on his arm. How many years—decades—had he held the line against the thing behind the door? How many would Zarnak and his inhuman helper be able to stand?
And, London wondered, how many will I when it is my time?
Knowing there would be no answer for him until he no longer needed one, the detective turned his attention to the tortured, dying man within his arms.
Behind him, the mountain rang with the sound of battle. Beyond that, the universe spun onward—cold and uncaring. A champion had fallen. Another had taken his place. Still another waited in the wings. As it always was, and always will be. World without end.
Amen.
We’re a soft people here in America; we’re all looking forward to our retirement. Our only real goal, it seems, is to reach an age where we can put down that sword and shield, take up residence in the land of continual repose, indulge our whims and spoil our grandkids. But there is no pension plan for those who spend their lives guarding us against the darkness. The best they can hope for, it seems, is a hell-strewn sinecure in their dotage. Lucky for us they’re okay with that. But then…
…they’re hardboiled.