Bowman’s SUV rolled to a stop a short distance from the vehicles. That is, the completely dry vehicles, standing on completely dry pavement, in the middle of a downpour, in a parking lot with no roof. I thought I could see raindrops splattering and bouncing off an invisible barrier overhead. I sighed. They apparently hadn’t wanted to get wet.
Out of the trucks walked a dozen figures in hooded black cloaks, like the guys who had shown up at John’s place a few weeks ago. Or, maybe it was the exact same guys, who knows? Under their robes they were wearing modern body armor and they were carrying bulky weapons with no obvious holes where bullets could come out. They all wore those droopy masks—at least, I think they were masks. They formed a circle in the parking lot and started chanting and drawing on the pavement with what looked like vials of blood.
Amy rolled her eyes and said, “Really?”
Detective Bowman took a drink from a flask he’d hidden under his seat and said to his partner, “You know, law enforcement has changed quite a bit since I was in the academy.”
A ramp was extended from the back of one of the trucks, and a pair of normal-looking humans in business attire used a hand truck to roll down what looked like a huge, black, featureless casket. They wheeled it out to the middle of the circle of chanting cloaks and set it up on end, like a vampire was about to walk out of it (note: vampires aren’t real).
One of the suits—a woman—gestured in our direction and Bowman said, “Will you willingly get out and walk over there, or do we have to march you over there at gunpoint? You know how I hate getting out in the rain.”
I said, “This isn’t right, Detective. You’re supposed to uphold the law. Whatever’s about to happen, you know damned well we don’t deserve it.”
“Hey, you know who else said that very thing to me? Literally every scumbag I’ve ever stuffed into that back seat.”
John said, “You see those guys out there summoning the devil or some shit, right?”
“Is that what you think they’re doing? Because I’m pretty sure all that witchcraft mumbo jumbo is supposed to protect them from you. And yeah, we’re dropping you off here because nobody’s sure a cell can even hold you. Now get the fuck out of my vehicle.”
We all glanced at each other, but short of trying to overpower the cops and steal their SUV, there weren’t a lot of options. His partner removed the handcuffs and we all stepped into the rain, took a few steps forward, and then were out of the rain.
Amy said, “Weird.”
“Hello,” said a stern-looking woman in a perfectly pressed navy pantsuit, striding toward us ahead of an even more stern-looking man with brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “My name is Agent Helen Tasker, my partner is Agent Albert Gibson.”
Later, there would be some dispute between John, Amy, and me about what names the agent had given us. But Helen Tasker and Albert Gibson is what I heard.
John said, “And you’re with…?”
“Fish and Wildlife,” said the male—Gibson—with a sneer.
I said, “So, are you the ones framing me on Nymph’s behalf, or are you also pursuing Nymph? Or are you just altogether clueless about what’s happening here? Honestly, from past experience with people like you, it could be any of the three.”
The female agent—Tasker—said, “We are here to gather information, that’s all you need to know. Now, to prevent you from coordinating, I am going to interview you separately, and simultaneously.”
Gibson walked over and opened the casket (or whatever it was—it was just a seven-foot-tall featureless box, with a door). The woman looked at me and said, “Mr. Wong, please step through the door, I will be right behind you.”
I said, “We won’t both fit in there.”
She didn’t answer. I stepped toward the door and, when I got close enough, heard moaning and wailing from the other side. A stench of disease and death wafted out. I felt my guts clench. Stepping through that door wouldn’t mean stepping inside the box. I would emerge … elsewhere.
At this point, things again get a bit mixed up in my memory.
John, Amy, and I all later agreed that each of us had stepped through the door of the black box and that each of us were questioned on the other side of it by the same female agent. But each of us remember being asked to go first, and none of us remember either of the other two being called. It’s like in the moment Tasker asked to speak to us, we simultaneously split into three separate timelines. If you understand how this sort of thing could work, please write down your explanation with as much clarity and detail as you can, then throw it in the trash because who gives a shit.
I took a breath, steeled myself, and stepped through.
I emerged on the other side and was no longer in that parking lot, or in Undisclosed. A stench hit me so hard that I thought my brain had shit my sinuses. I tried to breathe through my mouth but I swore I could taste it.
I was standing over a dying man, lying on a filthy cot at my feet. Flies crawled over a row of yellowed teeth rotting behind cracked lips. His midsection was covered by a wadded-up sheet that was encrusted with dried diarrhea. Out from under the sheet were jutting pale white sticks that were his legs, the feet black as if from frostbite, and missing half their toes. On the ground around him was a scatter of discarded rags that were red with sprays of coughed-up blood.
The man had just enough energy to turn his head toward me slightly and hiss the word “Water.”
Next to him was another man in a similar condition. Next to him, a skeletal woman, who appeared to be dead. I was, it turned out, standing in between two rows of fifty or so such cots, each containing an afflicted victim. Beyond each row was another row just like it. The grass beneath my feet was well-manicured and oddly artificial—Astroturf. There were rows of seats looming over us—a football stadium. Between the cots I could make out a faded New England Patriots logo in the turf.
I turned to find the door I’d stepped through but saw only agent Tasker. She said, “I’m sure this is a shock to you, but you understand we had to take precautions.”
“Where are we, exactly? There’s no plague in our Boston, right? This is the future or something? An alternate timeline?”
“What matters is that you cannot get back home until we reopen that door. To prevent your escape, we simply took you to a world into which you would presumably not wish to flee. You’re going to answer a few questions for us.”
“And then what?”
“That depends on your answers. But don’t bother lying, or I’ll know. In exchange, I will also not lie to you.”
The dying man next to me hissed, “… water…”
I said, “I assume we’re going someplace away from the, uh, pestilence? To conduct the interrogation? I’d prefer not to catch what these people have.”
“In this world, you’re never away from it. Your friend asked who we work for, and I am sure you’re wondering the same.”
I said, “Not really. People like you come to town, in your suits. You poke around, try to look smart, asking questions like you think you’re even capable of understanding the answers. Sometimes you act like you’re government, sometimes private, but I suspect none of you even know where your funding comes from. It doesn’t matter, it’s all the same. I’m guessing it always starts with some powerful people behind the scenes catching wind of what’s going on here and they come rolling in to … I don’t know. Try to take advantage of it, somehow? Try to harness the dark energies, to find a way to profit from them? Then it all falls apart and you pick up and leave, the rest of us go back to our weird little lives and try to muddle through. That cycle has probably been repeating itself since before this town was a town.”