Session 12 - Marcus’s Journal

Carter was a mess, as I threw him into the backseat of Frank’s car he continued to babble uncontrollably as his body shook in a state of shock.  Frank was sitting next to me in the passenger seat, the bandages and dressings I had applied were quickly soaking through with blood from the wounds he had sustained.

Being the only one of us reasonably uninjured, it was my job to get us to the airstrip where Frank had landed the plane.  Without trying to bring any unwanted attention, I drove as fast as I could without pause, thinking only of getting Frank the help he needed, I decided not to go directly to a hospital as I knew that admitting an American with several gunshot wounds would most likely land the three of us in handcuffs.

Once we had reached the plane, I slapped Carter across the face in order to try and snap him out of whatever state he was in long enough to assist me with getting Frank on board.

Lying on the floor of the main passenger area, I began redressing the bullet holes littering Frank’s bloodied body.  Through the groans and gurgles, Frank spoke quickly, black book, Pedro, Pilot.  Black book, Mexico, Doctor.

I put Carter to work locating a book of some kind, within moments he was going through the cupboard full of Frank’s belongings, re-emerging with a small black leather book filled with names and locations.

Carter began dialling a number, Pedro, a Mexican pilot who Frank obviously knew in some capacity, reporting to us after a few minutes that he would be here in an hour.  A moment later, Carter was back on the phone, advising us that a doctor was on his way.

I did my best to keep Frank’s wounds clean, pouring Carter’s beloved whisky into the wounds, much to Frank’s discomfort.

After about 20 minutes, the door to the plane flung open and a large man entered carrying a sizable leather bag, not knowing who he was, I drew and held my pistol out of view by my side.  The man pushed me aside and opened his bag to reveal a mass of medical supplies and instruments, immediately getting to work on Frank, obviously this man was the Doctor from Frank’s book.

Soon after a small man who seemed to enjoy the local strong coffee more than I entered the plane also, he moved directly into the cockpit and in a loud voice introduced himself as Pedro, he then contacted all the ground staff to arrange an immediate departure.

I took my leave briefly from the plane, leaving Carter in charge as I made my way to the nearest external phone.

I called Janet advising her that we required an ambulance and a car waiting at the airport when we arrived.  After explain the nature of the injuries Frank had sustained, she told me not to panic and that everything would be ready by the time we arrive back in New York.

Two hours past with the Doctor concluding his work on Frank and advising that as soon as we land, a hospital is the only place for Frank to go if he wanted to survive.

Pedro flew the plane angrily, clearly not happy with its size, he was a man clearly used to smaller aircraft, landing back in New York with a thunderous bang as we hit the ground.  As promised, an ambulance was waiting for Frank, a car for Carter and I.  Carter was still in a state of shock, the only difference now being that he had ingested a bottle of alcohol to no effect.

Again I took the wheel as we made our way to the penthouse Janet had last taken us to.  It was a silent trip aside from Carter’s mutterings, I was more worried about getting a drunken man through a highly sophisticated apartment building than the drive itself.

Once at the building, I shuffled Carter as quickly as I could to the elevator, throwing him inside and keeping his head down until we entered Janet’s penthouse a few moments later.

Janet greeted us with coffee and a large glass of whisky for Carter.

Looking around the room, not much had changed, all except the book cases, now filled with the documents and books we had brought here previously, all filed alphabetically with a few lying open on a large desk, clearly Janet had been trying to work some things out for herself.  When inspected it closer, it seemed to me the books she was reading were completely unrelated in our investigation and the use of them together was the understanding of an amateur.

After making the introductions and giver her brief explanation of what happened to Frank and the condition he was in, Carter could not contain himself. Blurting out that he had shot a pregnant woman in the face, over and over again he said it.

Looking at me shocked, Janet demanded an explanation.  I began at my entry to Mexico, filling her in with all detail regarding Brooks, De La Luz, Novo Records, The Russian, Gonchi, everything.  It was at my explanation of the inner workings of the underground event with the pit of mouths, the killing of Brooks and the slaying of De La Luz that Janet asked Carter to withdraw into another room.  It was then that asked my opinion as to if we could continue the investigation.  I gave her my opinion that reflected we could not continue without assistance.

Carter needed care, I needed rest and our expedition needed to be more than just the two of us.

It was agreed after a short conversation that Carter would receive medical treatment for shock and further diagnosis.  I was to go to Father Gregory, not wanting to part with the recently acquired documents and texts from Brooks library, I neglected to mention them to Janet.  She would look into a guide of the area we were to travel as well as some possible assistance when it came to the rougher areas.

I took my leave and headed directly to Father Gregory, I did not want to go home, the last words spoken between myself and Zoey were not kind, I made the decision not to see her until I did not have to leave again, as it was the most painful thing to put myself through every few weeks, not knowing if I was going to return.

I reached Gregory much sooner than I thought, at least it felt that way.  He was looking older, tireder and greyer than I remember.  I sat with him, pulling from my bag the two texts, Children of the Night and Lahua Legends, a text I had sped through on the return trip to New York, we both had a knowledge of this and we agreed it was a text used for the study of early Mexican religion and Mayan worship.  The second text that I was yet to read, the Womb of the Black Stone.  Father Gregory relayed the meanings to me in his words, a Hungarian translation that reflected the same style of study as the Children of the night, only a different approach.

I then revealed to him the document I had found in the record sleeve at Brooks apartment.  The image of the tenticled being and the symbols around it also made Father Gregory pause for a moment.  He explained after carefully looking over it, it looked like a fragment of a spell, something not to be taken lightly.

The other page I offered him to examine was the reverse side of the De La Luz flying covered in the same symbols and text of the spell.  Gregory chucked and explained that even though he could not understand it, it wasn’t text at all, but a code of some kind, hence the repeating symbols.  This brought to mind the cryptologist in Los Angeles that Carter had used to crack the ledger.  I would have to summon him for his expertise.

I also spoke at length the Gregory about trying to locate people I could trust to accompany me on the upcoming expedition.  I explained that I was unsure if the man I was working with could continue and needed someone with a stronger stomach for what we were facing.

I took my leave of Father Gregory, electing to reside in a hotel close by as to further our conversation after I had some time to understand the Hungarian book.

Reading it several times, it seemed to be more of a mythical autobiography containing the beliefs of ancient civilizations.  Touching on such things as ‘The Great Eye’, ‘The Chosen Place’, ‘Gol Goroth’ and the thing that lived ‘Above the gods’.

This was troubling, it was clear I was accumulating texts all relevant to Gol Goroth, something that I found strange as after considering all we have previously found, this entity may be in serious doubt to the others we had been coming across in literary form.

Before I knew it, I had spent four days studying this manuscript, I had delved as deep as I could go.  Realising the time that I had lost with no care as to what had become of Carter, I decided to call Los Angeles, the university cryptographer, Randall Schroeder.  Arranging with him to meet me in New York was easy, a man like that required a high class hotel and some extra funding, not an issue.

I returned to Father Gregory for a brief talk on the Womb of the Black Stone, something that only confirmed my feeling that whatever we were looking for, we would find in Mexico.  Gregory informed me that my old friend, Father Rigel, the mute who carried the name ‘The Witch Hunter’ due to his quick methods of despatch for anything resembling the occult was in Canada and on his way to New York to meet me.  Finally, some help that would be useful when push came to shove.

I took my leave yet again from father Gregory, deciding to return to New York.  I arrived much slower than my trip to Gregory had taken, heading for Carters office.

I finally met his secretary Betty, who having never having seen me before was reserved to say the least about allowing me to use the space.  That was until I gave her an amount far too excessive from her reaction to the two weeks’ wages Carter had owed her.

Once satisfied, Betty allowed me to make the office my own, setting up my documents and books on Carters desk and making the uncomfortable lounge my cot for however long I was to stay.

After setting up all I needed in the office, for some reason I felt something was wrong, maybe it was Carter’s alcohol shelf always in my eye line, I don’t know, regardless I thought nothing of it.

Randall Schroeder was not what I expected, I met him at the airport, the short round man, very much plain and boring.  I escorted him to his hotel and began explaining the strange text to him, he took the paper quickly and locked himself away, refusing to come out until his work was done, explaining that his genius requires patience for the optimum result.

I spent my time waiting by phoning Janet, asking if she had heard anything more from Carter, telling me he was doing much better and was out of treatment and going to see his son, I was relieved, regardless of what my head told me, I did need him with me through this.  Janet also advised me that she had found a guide for the Mexican Peninsula by the name of Rick Luke, a travelled and burly man who was familiar with the Merida region, the location of where all the correspondence coming from the area had originated.

Glad that our numbers were growing, I returned to the Cryptographer who finally emerged, tired eyed and looking somewhat dishevelled.

He explained the series of numbers and provided me with a translation of the text in front of me.  It was clearly a spell, it outlined something to do with the Alpha and the Omega and all things in between.

I requested all of the workings and material from the cryptographer and offered for him to spend a few days, expenses paid in New York, something he took without question.

I returned to Carters office, pouring over the document and translation all into the night.  This document was a way to summon a portal, a method of transport between two points with no means of vehicle.  The harnessing of ones will and the detailed mental image of where the portal would come out, the only essential devices for this to take place.  The wording of the translation while creating the physical image already on the paper and the mental image of where the portal would lead, these were the steps to its creation.  I found myself memorising the words and scratching the designs of the portal into the open wood of Carter’s desk, something I had to stop myself doing once I realised exactly what I was involved in.

Looking at the desk and looking at the notes and documents in front of me, followed by the time of well past midnight, I decided that it was enough for today.  Climbing onto the lounge and closing my eyes.

A strange noise woke me, breathing and not that of myself.  Looking around the room as slightly as I could, it was still dark, maybe an hour had gone by since I fell asleep.  Looking carefully around the room I noticed something out of place, in the far corner of the room, the outline of a man in a coat and hat stood silently, the only noise, the breathing, however it seemed far closer than where the man stood.

Reaching down beside the cushion of the lounge I gripped the 1911 pistol I had returned from Mexico with, rolling onto the flat of my back I announced to the man that he had a pistol aimed at him and therefore needed to identify himself as I turned on the lamp in arms reach behind me.  His silence gave me no reason to withdraw, I began to rise from the lounge, my pistol still trained at the man.  As my feet touched the floor the horrific feeling of a large steel blade slithered along my right shoulder, the glint of the moonlight through the window catching the long blade as it slithered across my shoulder and came to rest on the lapel of my coat.

Knowing that I was off guard, I froze briefly before rotating the pistol in my hand so that it hung from my finger.  To my horror a second blade moved along my left shoulder the same way as the previous, there were two of them, instinctively making me drop my pistol to the floor.  The right blade moved to the pistol and dragged it from my reach as my hands were now both empty and raised in front of me in the air.

The man in the corner raised his head to reveal the same face I had seen in Savannah weeks ago, the same man who I had tried to make Carter run over in the car, John Smith.  He motioned for me to move to Carters desk, in no position to argue, I moved and followed the instruction of the blades to place my hands face down on the freshly carved wooden top of the table.

Smith then moved to the doorway and motioned to someone outside.  To my horror, in strode a large man, his face unmistakable, his moustache pronounced and bold, Captain Waker.

He sat opposite me at the desk, his voice cold as ice.  He was expecting to find Carter but seemed more than happy to find me as he explained I was clearly the more sensible of the two of us.  Looking around me, the blades had belonged to two of the Bangkok brutes Smith had been seen with in Savannah, their tattoos showing from under their sleeves.  Walker then explained that he was not a zealot, he was only after money and was sick us Carter and I interfering, he had heard of our exploits in Mexico and was now unable to stand by.  He was daring me to move against him, knowing that I would be cut to pieces without remorse if I moved a muscle, I sat still and calm as I could be.  He continued to tell me that he had been to my house, seen my family and that my work was now putting them at risk.

When I refused to show him fear, he produced several photographs, the inside of my house, that was when I could not contain revealing emotion.

The photos he was showing me were of the same vintage as that found of Echiavarria at his parties, naked bodies writhing in sexual desire, violent desire and obscenity. My horror came when I could see the participants of these photographs, strangers in my house, my best friend Tom and my wife Zoey.

My outstretched fingers turned to fists, an action that made the two Bangkok men shuffle slightly, relaxing my hands they withdrew again.  Walker explained that he had done this, he had destroyed my life, yet if I walked away now he wouldn’t have to go through the final door, motioning to a single photograph face down on the desk.  He then rose and left flanked by his men.

I turned the photograph over to reveal the doorway to my daughter’s bedroom, a freshly drawn picture of hers hanging on the door.  Once the door closed I drew my Webley from underneath my coat and raced around the office, making sure there was no one left inside.  My 1911 pistol had been taken, I was outgunned and in no state to pursue Walker.

I moved to the car and took off to go home, I had to see for myself that this was real and not some horrible dream.

It was seven in the morning when I reached my house, I walked its perimeter to check for signs of people watching, when convinced it was clear, I silently entered, the dawn sun concealing my entrance by not casting a shadow on the internal threshold.  Zoey was in the kitchen, I did not announce myself, she was cooking breakfast.  Peering at her I could see dark bruises protruding from her dress around her neck.  I moved to the guest room, Tom’s snores covering my entrance into the room, the blinds drawn, bathing everything in darkness.

I moved to his side, my pistol in my left hand.  I slapped my right hand over his mouth and pushed against his chest to hold him down with my left forearm.  I told him who I was and he seemed to calm instantly.  I turned on the light still aiming my pistol at his head, his eyes showing signs of shock.  I accused him of what he had done in the photographs before throwing them at him.  His only explanation that of someone with no memory.  Again and again I asked for his excuse, only to hear that he has no memory and didn’t know what had happened.  I opened the door and walked him to the street, telling him if I ever saw him again, it would be the last thing he saw.

Walking back inside, Zoey’s voice echoed as she asked for the milk to be brought in, clearly thinking I was Tom.  I entered the kitchen and made a loud bang as I placed the milk on the kitchen counter.  Shocked that I was home she looked at me with vacant eyes.  My pistol back under my coat, I threw more of the photos at her and demanded an explanation, again the same as Tom, no memory, no accountability.

A strange smell in the air, the smell was sickly sweet, the smell of nectar.  I searched the kitchen for it, finding no evidence of glass vials my attention was caught by the milk bottles, the nectar was in the milk.

I sat Zoey down at the kitchen counter, again she failed to give me any answers.  I felt my hand gripping my pistol under my coat, my rage buried under the surface as I desperately tried to keep it there.

I demanded to know if I would find similar bruises on my daughter to which she denied, something was also under her skin, something angry.  The nectar had affected her, I had seen the same look in the eyes of the junkie Carter and I had tussled with.  I told her I would check my daughter for bruises and if she was harmed in any way, I would be leaving with her forever.

I then moved upstairs to my daughter’s room and looked at her beautiful face, picking her up and holding her in my arms I careful inspected her without waking her.  To my relief, there was no evidence of injury.  Satisfied I returned downstairs to find Zoey waiting for me in the hall brandishing a large kitchen knife.  She demanded I leave or that she would strike.  Angry and upset, I contained my emotion and left my house, not knowing if I was ever to return.

I returned to Carter’s office, quickly helping myself to his drinks cabinet as I threw furniture, books and papers all about the room.  My frustration had overcome me.  Drunk and in a rage I returned to Janet’s penthouse, surprised as I was to find Carter there with a boy I could only imagine was Carl, his son.

Again containing my rage in the presence of his child, I introduced myself to him and listened to Carter tell me of how he was in hospital getting treatment before going to pick his son up from his relatives where he had been staying before taking Carl to the seaside for some rest, gradually returning here when he felt ready.  In return I regaled him with the story of Captain Walker, my home and why I smelt the way he normally does after a long weekend.

Shocked at the news, his mouth agape, Janet entered the room.  I then explained to her the nature of the last 48 hours, we were under attack and we needed a plan.