Carcosa: The Order of the Four Sons, Book II

By Lauren Scharhag and Coyote Kishpaugh

The Order of the Four Sons, Book II follows the team -- JD, Murphy, Doug and Kate -- as they pursue Bathory across the face of a hostile world known as Carcosa. Director Clayton Grabowski and the Oracle find themselves mired in the political intrigues of the Order's leadership, while back on Earth, Bill forges an uneasy alliance with a government agent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauren Scharhag
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781480040397

Lauren Scharhag

Lauren Scharhag (she/her) is an award-winning author of fiction and poetry, and a senior editor at Gleam. She has fourteen titles available on Amazon and other book retailers. Her 2023 releases include Moonlight and Monsters (Gnashing Teeth Publishing), Morels (Voice Lux Press), and Midnight Glossolalia (with Scott Ferry and Lillian Necakov; Meat for Tea Press). A short story collection, Screaming Intensifies, is forthcoming from Whiskey City Press. She lives in Kansas City, MO.

Book preview

BOOK II

Coyote Kishpaugh

Lauren Scharhag

Carcosa

The Order of the Four Sons, Book II

© Coyote Kishpaugh, Lauren Scharhag, 2011

Cover design by Rebecca Kenney

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors.

This book is fondly dedicated to Stephen King.

Thankee, sai, for the wondrous gift of Roland Deschain.

Content Warning

This book has adult content, including violence, sex, strong language, occult imagery, etc. Please note that some scenes depict dark and sensitive themes that some readers may find disturbing.

PROLOGUE

The farmhouse was scarcely better than a hovel with little to recommend it. But it did have a tub.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory sighed contentedly and slid deeper into the soothing warmth. When she and Katarina had arrived, she had been well and truly spent. Fortunately, Katarina could always be counted upon to take the initiative—she’d gone to the door and made arrangements with the peasants who lived here. Not even a day had gone by, and the countess found her strength returning.

Lazily, she opened her eyes, basking in luxury for the first time in far too many months. She sighed. It never ceases to amaze me just how rejuvenating a good bath can be.

Katarina flushed prettily. I knew everything would be all right in the end, Mistress.

Yes. No sound but the steady drip, drip, drip. Liquid lapped at the rim of the tub, just below the point of overflowing. Have you found me something suitable to wear?

Katarina shook her head. The light of the oil lamp touched her auburn hair, turning strands of it to copper, like sparks being struck against red rock. No, Mistress. But I have cleaned your dress, so you might wear that again.

Probably for the best. I never could abide the sort of frocks they wear here… I think this one’s just about done. It’s starting to get cold.

Katarina unfolded a towel. Grasping the sides of the bathtub, Bathory rose. I do feel much better now. As she spoke, she looked up at the source of her bath.

The young girl’s body was suspended by its ankles from the ceiling, her throat parted in a red slit. Half-clotted droplets hung from her hair. Her dead eyes, frozen in horror, were still fixed on the tub below.

Bathory stepped out, onto the plank floorboards, and Katarina wrapped her in a towel. The boards were clean but roughly hewn, with large gaps between them, showing the crawlspace beneath the house. As she passed over it, something whined down there in the darkness.

PART ONE

CARCOSA

Chapter One

Clayton & Alyssa

International flights are a bitch, Alyssa grumbled for perhaps the fifth time in the past eighteen hours.

Clayton could not disagree. They had gone from Kansas City to Phoenix, of all places, where they were supposed to have taken a connecting flight to London at 12:30. They’d wound up on holdover for seven hours. The flight to London had taken almost eleven hours, then another hour up to Edinburgh. Which would have been bad enough on its own, but they were in a group—in addition to Alyssa and himself, there was Beatrice Bentley, her assistant, and five geriatric archivists. They huddled together, exhausted, frightened, hungry, and in dire need of showers. Touching down to rain and heavy cloud cover in Edinburgh did little to improve anyone’s mood.

At one of the airport shops, they stopped to purchase jackets and rain gear. Outside, they started to hail a cab, intending to ride in pairs up to the chapel. But there was a man outside waiting for them, holding an umbrella and a sign reading: GRABOWSKI. Idling at the curb beside him was a small tour bus.

Clayton and Alyssa exchanged a look. He motioned for her to hang back. She shook her head emphatically.

He gave her a look.

She shook her head again and stabbed a finger downward in a gesture that said clearly, STAY.

Before a verbal argument could ensue, she stalked off through the crowd and stood next to the man with the sign. He watched expectantly as she searched her pockets, located her pack of cigarettes. Taking one between her teeth, she lit it with a Bugs Bunny Zippo lighter.

Seemingly apropos of nothing, the driver said, Lewis Carroll was Scottish, ye know.

Exhaling, Alyssa peered at him through the smoke. No, he wasn’t.

Och, the driver reached into the breast pocket of his raincoat and removed a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. On the cover was the white rabbit. What on earth am I carryin’ this for then?

She grinned in spite of herself. They exchanged the rest of the signs and countersigns, and she turned, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, to motion for Clayton and the others to come over. As she did, she could feel the driver’s eyes on her. His curiosity and unasked questions. Don’t worry, she said. The test results will be negative.

The driver started. If ye know that, then why do ye even need signs and countersigns?

She shrugged. Protocol.

When Clayton came over, the driver nodded to him. Yer party’s expected, sir. This way, please.

They followed him onto the bus except Alyssa, who paused to take a final puff off her cigarette. Crushing it out carefully in a nearby receptacle, she pocketed it. The way things were shaping up, she should probably start rationing.

Sure are a lot of yeh, the driver said as he got behind the wheel.

Clayton nodded. We’re all that was left in the office.

A lot of yeh comin’ from all over is what I meant. The driver signaled and pulled away from the curb. The chapel’s near full. There’s more than the gate can handle at a time. We’re havin’ to bring people over in shifts. But dinna ye worry—there’s time. The Oracles figure we got days or years before the next whatever-it-is.

Alyssa rolled her eyes. Days or years?

The driver shrugged. Ye know how they are.

Clayton smiled at his favorite Oracle. We certainly do.

She was not cheered by this and turned to look out at the rain.

Chapter Two

The Team

Kate awoke to crushing heat. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her face like cobwebs, and her hair was plastered to her cheeks in sticky swirls. Afternoon light filtered in from bare and glassless windows. It beat on her eyelids insistently until she opened them, squinting against the glare.

Stiffly, she sat up. She was lying on a bar—there were still screws drilled into the floor to hold stools in place, though there weren’t any stools. Behind it was a shelf lined with what looked like bottles of liquor, dusty and unlabeled. The place technically had four walls—someone had propped boards over any holes, maintaining a sense of enclosure. But it seemed like a strong wind could have flattened the place into the earth.

Most of her clothes had been removed. She was down to just her white cotton tank top and panties, her jacket rolled up to serve for a pillow.

She tried to talk, intending to call out names, but got only a dry croak for her efforts. She worked her mouth, got some moisture, and tried again. Murphy? Where are my pants?

Hey, his voice replied from just outside the doorway. Glad to see you’re awake. He limped into view, silhouetted against the bright sun outside. Don’t try to get up yet.

Kate swung her legs around. I’m fine. Just thirsty.

I mean it, he came more fully into the room. You need to take it easy. Let me get you some water. In the back of the room, there was a curtained doorway. He disappeared behind it for a moment, then re-emerged with a tin cup.

Thank you. She gulped it down, dimly aware that this was not the delish green water from the locus pool, but she really didn’t feel like pondering that at the moment. She was too busy enjoying the burst of hydration. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she handed the cup back to Murphy. Can I get up now?

"Slowly." He put his hand out, watching anxiously as she hopped down, clearly expecting for her to get light-headed, for her knees to buckle-- something.

Don’t worry, I have experience waking up in weird places with no memory of how I got there. At his look, she said, Never mind. Pants?

Behind the bar.

She found her clothes folded in a neat pile under the bar, next to a few rows of cans and jars. She balanced on one foot as she put her socks on. How long was I out?

Three days, I think.

Christ. She picked up her jeans. Where’s JD and Doug?

JD’s on watch duty outside. Doug is sleeping downstairs, where it’s cool.

There’s a downstairs?

He nodded.

Where are we? Kate hitched up her jeans and paused, looking over at him. He had lowered his eyes as she got dressed, his hip resting against a rickety old table. He looked haggard. And there was something else in his face-- something that Kate did not like at all.

She was about to ask again when he said in an odd, flat tone, Dunno.

She finished buttoning up her jeans. Picking up her shoes by the laces, she went around Murphy, to the batwing doors, and looked out. He did not turn around.

Back-to-back they stood in the empty cantina.

Outside, Kate looked at what Murphy had been looking at for three days. No wonder he looked so strange.

A red desert stretched away from them, dotted with scraggly greenish scrub and spiny vegetation. Two suns, one large, one small, shone so fiercely, the sky was bleached white. There was a fire going in the yard with a pot boiling over it. Near it was a pile of bones.

Her mouth felt suddenly dry again. I don’t suppose there’s a... a bathroom, is there?

You feel sick?

No. I just really need to pee.

Ah. Well, we dug a trench. Around the back of the building... He trailed off.

She nodded. I think I can figure it out.

Without looking around at her, he, too, nodded.

She stepped out onto the porch. The heat was immediate and astonishing. It had been hot inside the cantina, but this was almost unbearable, like standing right at the mouth of an industrial-sized convection oven. Pools of sweat formed instantly in the hollows of her cheeks, on the nape of her neck, under her arms. The light was like splinters, piercing straight through her skull, into her brain.

She shaded her eyes for a moment, looking around. Even from the porch, she could see that the building had once been a part of a much larger structure. There were the remains of a stone foundation. Roofing tiles were scattered around. Large boulders that looked as if they might have once been decorative were squat sentinels in the dust. Somebody had moved some of them – in all likelihood, the same somebody who had fashioned walls out of salvaged timber – butting them up against the cantina in an attempt to reinforce it. Kate didn’t know how successful this was, as the structure still looked to be on the verge of collapsing. Some ghostly whitewash remained on the exterior wall, shielded partly from the corroding winds by a wood awning. To her left, next to an old bench, there had once been a mural. She could still see the outline of a tree, so worn that the remains looked like pencil sketches, and, in black, old-fashioned script, Los Alamos.

The words gave her a peculiar turn.

She sat down at the top of the ramshackle steps and concentrated on putting her shoes on. As she made her way around back, her head bent against the light of the double suns, the sweat really began to run down. By the time she squatted, she felt wretched. When she was done, she pulled her jeans up again and paused. There was a small shack several hundred feet behind the main building. Smoke curled out of the cracks in the roof. There was another fire going in front of it, with a cauldron. The stench was awful.

Wrinkling her nose, she returned to the front of the building. She had just put her foot on the bottom step when she heard someone coming, the crunch of boots on hard-packed soil, and paused, her hand on the railing.

JD came from around the opposite side, his eyes shielded by a pair of mirrored aviator glasses, a string of dead animals in hand. Some had fur, some were reptiles. None of them looked familiar. He stopped when he saw her. They stared at each other a moment.

He tipped his hat. Katie. Glad to see you’re up and about.

She nodded. Yeah.

How ya feelin’?

All right.

There was a second, protracted silence between them. He set the carcasses down on a rock near the fire, then nodded to the porch. Ya wanna sit down a mite?

She nodded again. They went up the steps together and sat down on an old bench. It bore a passing resemblance to one that had been in front of the Royal Hotel.

They looked out into the distance. Something small ran across the desert, far away.

Finally, she spoke again. There isn’t any blood.

He didn’t look around but nodded. We took the liberty. Hope you don’t mind.

No.

More silence.

Cecil isn’t here.

No, ma’am.

She squeezed her eyes shut. We should do something.

We was just waitin’ for you to wake up.

Okay.

You sure you’re up to it?

No. But it has to be done.

Well, let’s wait till this evenin’. It’ll be cooler then, and that way, Doc can have a little more rest.

* * *

The dank stairs leading down into the cellar had been carved out of the existing rock. Kate descended carefully, a steel bucket in each hand. The dusky scent of minerals in the air coated not just her nostrils, but her mouth and throat, re-awakening her thirst. As she went down, she was aware at once of the declining temperature and her flesh rejoiced, the sheen of sweat on her body turning deliciously cool. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her head back, enjoying it. A lantern was mounted on the wall next to her, giving her just enough light to make out a small cellar.

She turned the wick up. The lantern cast yellow-green light on the cavern-like room. Its walls had been minimally shaped and smoothed to create a chamber. It was lined with bare wooden shelves, warped with age. At the center of the room was a well sunk deep into the rock. The surface of the water was still and black in the lantern light. Off to the left of the stairs was a cot, and upon it, a curled figure.

Doug had awakened when she turned up the light and rolled over. He raised his head and squinted up at her, looking both much older and much younger without his glasses, his white hair sticking up in wild tufts. Kate! he whispered, breaking into a huge, relieved grin. His cheeks were rough with several days’ worth of stubble, and he wore only his slacks and an undershirt. You’re awake!

Shhhhhh, she patted his shoulder. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk later.

He looked like he wanted to protest, but his eyes were already closing. He settled back down and was asleep again in seconds.

Kate knelt as quietly as possible at the water’s edge with the buckets. She slaked her own thirst before she filled them.

* * *

Upstairs, the area behind the curtain turned out to be a closet-sized washroom, with a stand, a basin, and a mirror. High up, there was a narrow window with a single pane of glass remaining. Kate looked at her reflection. Hair greasy and lank, eyes bloodshot and sunken, cheeks hollow. She looked starved. Then she realized she was starved—her stomach had awakened and was growling.

She heard Bill’s shout and felt again the hot splash on her back. Turning just in time to see Cecil, choking, throat cut from ear to ear. Then her own scream.

David.

Her lower lip quivered, but she wouldn’t let herself cry. She couldn’t. If she started crying, how would she ever stop?

Next to the basin was a shaving kit in a leather case. She opened it. Inside, the straight razor looked silver with mother-of-pearl handle, gleaming in the partial light. Next to it was a strop, neatly coiled, as well as a shaving brush, a small pair of scissors, a china mug, and some other implement she didn’t recognize. Something that struck her as old-timey.

Katarina. Sweet smile, bloody knife.

She closed the lid.

Christmas. The four of them laughing. Shanti saying, Never mind. You deserve the sweater.

There was what appeared to be a lump of lye soap next to the case, sitting on a neatly folded cloth. JD had advised her against using it and had given her a bar of Lava soap that he’d brought with him to use instead. Kate peered down at the bar of soap in her hand, as if she couldn’t quite remember what to do with it. Her backpack was slung over her shoulder. She swung it around, opened it, and stared at the contents. She couldn’t quite make sense of them either.

A wink, and a whisper.

They didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong here.

(Amateur.)

All the things that were in her bag. Books and papers—it was hard to believe that, just a few days ago, they had actually meant something. Now it was just a jumble of worthless stuff. Something in the bottom caught her eye, something pink. Birth control pills in a plastic container.

Her and Bill bustling around Bill’s house, getting everything ready. Decorating the tree, setting the table. Cecil gone to pick up his mother at the airport. Laughter over dinner. Everyone laughing at something Bill said. Laughing, her and Cecil(David’s) eyes meeting over the candles.

Crap. It had been at least four days since she took her birth control. Not that she was likely to have sex anytime soon. She pawed around, found the side pocket. She only had three tampons with her, too. Crap. Her mind flashed to the box of tampons under the sink in her bathroom at home.

How can you think about tampons at a time like this?

She sagged against the wall for a minute, her eyes squeezed shut. Her head was aching. There was Tylenol in the bag, but she didn’t want to take any until she had eaten, which made her realize, again, that she was hungry, but how could she be hungry at a time like this?

Everyone laughing at something Bill had said. The table laden with food that Cecil(David) had cooked. Turkey, potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, hot rolls. Macaroni and cheese (for Shanti, who was a vegetarian). Salad, corn, pumpkin pie, apple pie, chocolate cake. All homemade. She and Bill did the tasting and the cleaning up. Laughing, her and Cecil(David’s) eyes meeting over the candles, and she realizes something at that moment: He’s in love with me.

She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection again, her expression one of pure loathing.

Cecil(David) coming home with his mother. They pull into the driveway. Kate standing in the front hallway, smoothing her hair, straightening her blouse, opening the door, cold air and the flurry of arrival. Kate, this is my mother, Shanti. Mom, this is Kate. Shanti, a petite woman in a delicate blouse and voluminous, sheer, swirling hippie skirts and softly jingling jewelry. Shanti sweeping Kate up in a giant hug, Merry Christmas! Bill coming up behind Kate, Hi, Shanti. Oh, Bill! Shanti turning to hug Bill as well, who says, Wait’ll you see the feast your son has prepared. Sitting down to dinner. At the table, laughing. Her and David’s eyes meeting over the candles, both still laughing, yet Kate can see something in David’s eyes change almost imperceptibly when he looks at her, and she thinks, He’s in love with me. The knowledge just flits across her consciousness, just for a moment, very natural and matter-of-fact, then she turns back to Bill and Shanti, continuing the conversation, her new knowledge shelved, to be examined later.

The pair of metal buckets sat now at her feet, beads of water dotting the rims. Kate stripped off her clothes, set them in a stack in the doorway, (there wasn’t room to put them anywhere else), and bent over the basin. Murphy, God bless him, had filched the sample-sized shampoo bottles from the motel in Excelsior. She dunked her head into the basin, gasping at the shock of the cold. Wet her hair. Washed it.

Eggnog with dessert, spiked with brandy. Presents in the living room. Bill and David, giving each other crap, as usual, and loving every minute of it. David opens his gift first: it’s a Cosby sweater. Enormous, hideous, multi-colored. David holds it up, Oh, my God. You bastard. Shanti, clucking her tongue, "Bill! That’s just awful. Bill: What? It matches his eyes. David hands Bill a package, plainly a DVD. Open mine." Bill tears off the ribbons and wrapping paper. The film is Monsturd. Bill just sputters. There are no words— he finally manages. Shanti playfully picks up a handful of discarded wrapping paper and throws it at her son. Never mind. You deserve the sweater. More laughter.

When Kate had finished, she smoothed her hair, still dripping, back from her face and combed it so it wouldn’t dry into a weird shape. Then she picked up the basin and knelt, naked. She carefully poured the sudsy water out—the spaces between the floorboards were wide enough that she could pour it between them, onto the thirsty ground below.

Bill and David exchange their real presents: David gives Bill a CD, Canadian Brass. Bill gives David a Netflix subscription. The levity passes as the three of them turn to watch Kate open her gifts—it’s sort of Baby’s First Christmas, after all. Kate opens Shanti’s first, slowly unties the pretty ribbon (real raffia, not plastic) and removes the tissue paper to find a jeweler’s box, a pair of silver earrings inside. Kate thanks her shyly. They clamor for her to open her next gift. She opens Bill’s next: a first edition of The Blue Fairy Book. And finally, she opens David’s gift. She feels a little sweaty as she picks up the box. It’s heavy. Feeling the weight of his eyes, watching intently. Her hands are clumsy as she tears off the festive blue-and-silver paper.

Kate poured fresh water from the bucket into the basin.

It’s the singing bowl.

Head down, studiously avoiding her own eyes in the mirror, Kate scrubbed her body hard with the bar of Lava soap, using JD’s bandana for a washcloth. When she was done, her skin was bright pink.

Its wooden pestle attached to the loop with a slender velvet cord. It rang a little as she lifted it out of the box. Shanti’s oohs and ahs of appreciation.

Kate knelt and dumped the water out again. One bucket of water remained. She poured half of it into the basin, took the bar of soap and scrubbed her clothes as vigorously as she could. She rinsed them in the bucket, then wrung them out.

She stood up, still wringing out her shirt, then laid everything out on top of the washstand. Unless there was a laundromat hidden behind a cactus, she was going to have to wear it all wet. Flattening it all as best she could, she’d let it drip dry for a bit.

There was a tube of lotion in her bag. Taking it out, she considered it. This was David’s funeral she was getting prepared for. A special occasion. It was important to look her best—as best as she could, under the circumstances. What would she be saving it for otherwise?

She put the lotion on, then pulled on her still-damp clothes. She ran the comb through her hair once more. Her gaze ran over the surface of the washstand, checking to see if she’d left anything, when her eyes came to rest once more on the shaving kit.

There had been bottles and cans and such back in the bar area. Clearly, someone was using this place—someone fastidious enough to be worried about a clean shave. But who? And why? It was falling apart, an old, looted ruin.

And, more importantly, when would they be coming back?

* * *

The smaller sun had begun to set, and the four of them gathered around the fire. JD looked at Kate and Doug. Either a you remember the whole thing?

Kate shook her head, then looked expectantly at Doug, who did not speak but was staring into the flames. Doug? she asked tentatively.

His head turned slightly, indicating that he’d heard, but he didn’t answer right away. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was remote. Yes, I believe so. But it’s been a long time.

Before you do, I’d like to sing… Kate had planned to say something more but couldn’t think what. And anyway, the men were all nodding. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to recall any of David’s favorite songs—or any songs, for that matter. Head Like a Hole started playing in her head—no. Stuck in a Closet with Vanna White. Definitely not. But something appropriate? She found herself drawing an utter blank.

Dust in the Wind? Yes, that would do. The radio in David’s car was always tuned to the classic rock station. The desert was still as she sang. Only the crackling of the fire accompanied her voice.

That was beautiful, Kate, Doug said. Thank you.

A lump had formed in her throat. She nodded, unable to speak.

All right, then, Doc, JD said. Whenever you’re ready.

Doug began, Hail ye Sons of Horus. Our brethren have been counted, and there is one among us who has not answered to his name, David Ganesh Morgan.

Despite the heat, Kate shivered.

He hath laid down the jar, and, with it, he hath left that mortal part for which he no longer hath use. He hath gone to join the gods whom we serve. There is no death but only passage. Our paths lead not to the grave but through it. Immortal we are and ever shall be. All that is beautiful and good and true is no more affected by the shadow of death than by the darkness that divides today from tomorrow...

Kate’s skin alternated between hot and cold as memories assailed her again. She didn’t hear most of Doug’s recitation, though parts of it penetrated her mental fog.

Isis, his sister hath protected him, and hath repulsed the fiends and turned aside calamities. He seemed to be speaking directly to her as he said, She uttered the spell with the magical power of her mouth. Her tongue was perfect, and it never halted at a word. Beneficent in command and word was Isis, the woman of magical spells, the advocate of her brother. She sought him untiringly, she wandered round and round about this earth in sorrow, and she alighted not without finding him. She made light with her feathers, she created air with her wings, and she uttered the death wail for her brother.

Another part that struck her was, The four rudders of heaven are eternal. The four torches, the four companies of the gods. They are eternal. And the Four Sons. They are eternal. Immortal we are and ever shall be.

Otherwise, she heard nothing else until he neared the end.

Go forth by day, friends, with the name David Ganesh Morgan written in your hearts, and he will be immortal and ever shall be. Doug nodded to Kate. In her hand was a slip of paper, on which was written:

Osiris David Ganesh Morgan

Child of Shanti Patricia Morgan

March 15, 1971-April 24, 2005

Life, Prosperity, Health

She held it to the fire and let it catch. The four of them stood and watched the desert wind swirl up sparks and smoke, taking his name into the sky.

Doug gave the concluding prayer. Hail, thou One, who shinest from the moon. Grant that this Osiris Ani, David Ganesh Morgan, may come forth among thy multitudes who are at the portal. Let David be with the Light-God. Let the Duat be opened to him. Behold, the Osiris Ani shall come forth by day to perform everything which he wisheth upon the earth among those who are living thereon.

May he have a thousand, JD said.

May he have a thousand, Kate echoed. Her eyes were wet, and her shoulders were shaking. She had to keep holding her breath. That was the only way to hold it in. But her nose started to run. Sniffling meant an intake of breath. Intake of breath meant she wouldn’t be able to hold it together. The tears fell fast—too fast for her to do anything about it. She squeezed her eyes shut, and still they kept coming.

JD turned to her. His eyes looked shiny, though it could have been the firelight. He took a step toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. It’s okay, Katie, he said with uncharacteristic gentleness. Now’s the time.

At his touch, she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Her hands curled into claws, clutching at his coat, wadding its material between her fingers as the torrent that had been building in her throat burst out. David. Her friend, her brother. And everything that had happened. It all seemed to fall on her at once and she simply crumpled beneath the force of it.

Doug and Murphy stood by, helpless and awkward. There was nowhere for them to go. This wasn’t a funeral parlor. There was no waiting room or parking lot to retreat to and leave her to her grief.

On and on it went, horrible, wrenching, hiccupping sobs. Her back and shoulders heaved with the force of it. And through it all, JD held her. He patted her back until she quieted, exhausted. The lapels of his coat were soaked through. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to her. She buried her face in it. It was as clean as could be expected: it smelled slightly of his sweat. She mopped up as best she could and blew her nose, loudly and embarrassingly. Her eyelids felt about double their usual size. Everything hurt: her chest, her throat, her back. She was completely exhausted. But she felt hollowed out now, clean.

As she raised her head, JD peered into her face anxiously. He, Doug, and Murphy all seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Any scotch left? she asked.

Without a word or extraneous movement, Murphy produced the flask and held it out. She fumbled with the cap, unscrewed it, and drank deeply. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she offered it to JD, who took it, sipped, and passed it to Doug.

They all sat silently for a moment.

The Colonel said, By God, that man was a trooper, Cecil—David. I knowed it the minute I first laid eyes on him.

Yeah. Cecil, uh, Murphy raised the flask in a salute. We hardly knew ye. Doug nodded, staring into the flames. "And that sucks, man. It shouldn’t have happened this way." Doug stopped nodding.

A second outburst escaped Kate, "He liked me, and I didn’t do anything!"

There was a pause. Murphy shrugged. Yeah, well. That happens. He passed her the flask again.

Chapter Three

Bill & Emily

April 24, 2005

6 a.m.

The van was barely gotten out of the Walmart parking lot before Bill saw the first deer-- a doe. He braked, but she had already run past, scampering into the ditch on the right side of the road. Then, a few feet away, there was a fox. Then another deer.

Shit! He swerved, weaving carefully around the animals, maneuvering the van out onto the main road. Fortunately, there was very little traffic, and the people who were out had pulled over and gotten out of their cars to witness the crimson column of flame shooting into the sky from the center of town. Go figure.

As they turned onto 69 Highway, gathering speed, Bill had to swerve again when a family of raccoons darted in front of them.

What the fuck? Emily asked. "What’s up with Wild Kingdom?"

What do you think? Sometimes animals are smarter than people. They’re gettin’ the hell outta here.

Which is what we’re doing.

Right. Because we’re at least as smart as the raccoons-- or the possums, he added, weaving again.

Have you ever seen anything like this before?

Bill looked out the passenger window and did not immediately respond. Emily followed his gaze.

As they got farther away from town, the fields around them fell away, giving them a clear view of the countryside, which was teeming with animals: deer, foxes, raccoons, possums, squirrels, rats, woodchucks, coyotes, even a mountain lion. There were horses that had obviously jumped their fences and raced ahead of the crowd, and a few cows trying to keep up. There were also cats and dogs. Small shadows and movement in the grass hinted at things too small to see—frogs, maybe, snakes, mice. There was a llama, of all things, and overhead, bats and birds swooped, squeaking and cawing. All fleeing Excelsior.

Not quite, Bill said at last. He turned his eyes back to the road, still jerking the wheel to the right or the left to miss the occasional quadruped.

Emily sank back in her seat. This is fucking insane.

Chapter Four

The Team

Night wore on. The flask was empty.

So, Murphy said. What is the Order, exactly? I mean, you guys got your own funeral rites? Are you a religion?

Well, before I answer that, Detective, Doug said, "may I ask, what did you think the Order was when you signed on as a—contractor, I assume?"

Murphy shrugged. I thought you were a group of well-funded parapsychologists. A glorified ghost hunter society with a little freemasonry thrown in—y’know, all the secrecy stuff. I signed on because I thought you guys would make a good resource for my weird cases.

And have we—been a good resource? Doug’s voice was dry over the dying coals of the funeral fire. Above them, five moons seemed to curve around the sky in slow, random orbits. Four of them gave enough light to see for miles around. The fifth one was just barely visible, an outline, like a hole punched in black paper.

Yeah, in a way. I learned more about the occult than I ever thought I would need. But a lot of it... he shrugged again. Just seemed too far-fetched.

Doug looked around pointedly. Does it still seem far-fetched?

Hey! I’m asking, aren’t I?

Doug sighed. "In order for me to answer you properly, I need you to understand that there are essentially three types of history. There is what people wish to preserve, there is what people would have future generations believe, and there are the traces that people accidentally leave behind. Of these, only the third is without bias. It’s also the most fragile.

People preserve what they want to save from the ravages of time and discard the rest. And even then, they can only preserve what they know. It’s a well-known truism that history is written by the victors. Who knows how many records have been lost or altered through the ages by the dictates of a monarch, or even the negligence of a well-meaning scribe?

Murphy nodded.

So, you can see how there are countless ways for information to disappear. Perhaps not completely, but certainly enough that whatever fragments remain will be ignored by the general populace, their significance all but lost. To tell you of the Order, I must ask you to bear all this in mind. You said that what you learned before sounded far-fetched? Doug pushed his glasses up on his nose. Well, let me take this opportunity to assure you, this is going to be even more so.

Murphy looked around at the alien landscape, then back to Doug. Hit me.

"The Order is more than a secret organization. I realize this may sound melodramatic, but we exist to defend mankind against evil. We are a culture, if you will, in our own right. Most people who are in the Order now were born into it, as were, in most cases, a long line of their ancestors. I myself was not. But we have, as you observed, our own customs and our own laws that transcend the modern ideas of ‘country’ or ‘government.’ We are, in effect, a borderless nation, consisting of millions. We have an army-- at least, we had an army, and though we do not have our own religion, strictly speaking, we have certain philosophies and traditions that are left over from the days when we did. Of these, the most important, both as a matter of history and identity, would have to be the principle of Ma’at."

You’re talking about the feather thing that the ancient Egyptians believed you weighed your heart against in the afterlife, Murphy said. Right?

"In part. The principle of Ma’at is one that has many facets. It encompasses justice, compassion, virtue, purity, balance—all of these things in the macrocosmic and microcosmic sense. In the face of this, it therefore becomes paramount that we – as individual members of the Order, as well as the Order in its entirety – tend to and nurture this principle whenever possible. One of the first things that must often be clarified to new members is that we do not, in fact, exist to fight evil. We exist to safeguard good. A seemingly minor distinction, perhaps, but a vital one. Without it, we would be no different from many secular governments or institutions—MJ-12, for example. Just one more covert organization with its own list of agendas and enemies, and no regard for so-called collateral damage. A distinction my own instructors impressed upon me when I first began my training, in fact."

* * *

Kansas City, 1955

Dr. Geisel was an ancient man who walked stooped over his cane. His voice was frail except when he was teaching, especially when he spoke of history—somehow, he seemed to draw new vigor from his subject. He moved with passion then, and seemed to grow taller, younger, rejuvenated by his love of knowledge and his enthusiasm for teaching. It was difficult not to love learning from such a man.

Doug was undergoing private tutelage, having entered the Order at eighteen, too old for enrollment in any of their secondary schools. The room was comfortably lit, suffused with the scent of old books.

Dr. Geisel stood at the chalkboard. Where did we leave off last time, Mr. Grigori?

"The eighteen members of the Order had been divided—nine went on to form Starry Wisdom and nine remained. The Order realized that the Atum had escaped with them, and that he had found a host in Amenhotep IV."

"Ah, yes. The coming of Akhenaton. But Amenhotep was one of us then, was he not?"

"Yes, sir. But he betrayed the Order."

"Oh? How so? The old man tapped his pointer furiously against his leg. After all, the first founders of the Order did much the same. They accepted the Atum’s offer for power. They betrayed It and bound It for study. What exactly distinguishes us from them?"

"We seek to protect and nurture life, and those things which make life worthwhile. Not just for ourselves, but for all the world. Starry Wisdom seeks only to dominate and expand their own magical power."

"A comfortable answer. Now, his sharp gaze pierced his student. Tell me, what do you think?"

"We... Doug swallowed. We saw the error of our ways?"

The professor rapped his pointer on the desk, making the young man jump. Unworthy of you. You’ll get nowhere with that kind of weak-willed rationalization. Try again.

Dr. Geisel waited while Doug thought it over. I think... I think we have paid a terrible price for this power. We have knowledge that we cannot turn our backs on, knowledge that should not be shared, and cannot safely be destroyed. As a result, our people have been charged with protecting the earth for five millennia. And I expect we shall continue to do so until the end of time.

"Have been charged with?"

"Have charged ourselves with."

Appeased, Dr. Geisel nodded. Yes. And so, in this, we strive for Ma’at, knowing that sometimes we must stumble. Even die. But better this than have the world pay our price. Now, in order to put the conflict between the Sons and the Keepers of Starry Wisdom during this time period in context, you must bear in mind the Codices. Which are? he looked at Doug expectantly.

"The Codices are the scrolls that contain the secrets Atum revealed to the first founders of the Order," Doug said.

"Very good. You have been keeping up with your reading. Then you should be able to give me some examples of the knowledge therein that the Order is dedicated to keeping from Starry Wisdom?"

"Interdimensional travel."

"Aha! But to travel between dimensions, all you need is a gate, Geisel held up a gnarled finger. What is so special about this interdimensional travel?"

"It came from Isfet, and therefore, so would much of its knowledge."

"Is it to be trusted?"

"No, Doug said carefully. At the same time, this knowledge was used to found the Order."

"All the more reason to guard those Codices carefully, ja?"

"Yes, sir."

"What else in the Codices do we guard from them?"

"Certain magical knowledge, including the secret to immortality."

"One of the secrets of immortality, my boy, Geisel corrected. One of."

* * *

"So, what is the secret to immortality? Murphy asked. And if you know it, then why aren’t you all immortal?"

"We don’t all know it. Only the Council of Names is privy to that information," Doug said.

The what?

"The Council of Names, the supreme governing body of the Order. They are all immortal—or, perhaps, as close to immortal as it’s possible to be. First, let us discuss immortality and