Guardians of the Gates - Part 1, The New Breed by Jeff Schanz (best novels ever .TXT) 📖

didn’t have any t-shirts available, though that idea had been percolating for quite a while now.

He plopped his small duffle on the chair in the living room closet and sat down on his “bed.” His “bed” was just a motel style cot propped against the wall in the kitchen.

“Mars? You here?” he called. No answer. Sebastian suddenly remembered that Marcellus had been sent on a Saints’ scouting mission. Sebastian forgot where, and also forgot when Mars would be back. All the better at the moment.

Jesus, I’m tired. What the hell was I thinking about? T-Shirts? Ehh, later. Gotta rest for a sec.

Sebastian spread out on the cot-bed, careful not to kick over one of his kitchen chairs. His thoughts were scattered, which right then was fine. White noise was his quiet. His whole life, at least as far as he could remember, he had suffered the noises in his head that came from everywhere, including his own mind. It was as if someone turned on the radio and instead of one station playing, you heard all of them simultaneously. Some were stronger signals than others, many of them unclear, all running at once, which had the effect of sounding like very meaty static. Right now, static was good. Static was quiet.

Shoes still on, duffle not unpacked, and lying on top of his sheets, Sebastian drifted off into the depths of a noisy dreamland.

 

 

 

He woke in what seemed like minutes. The theme song from Gilligan’s Island was unmistakable and had permeated through the normal static in his cranium.

Wha? Where? Oh, the TV.

He hadn’t left it on, but it didn’t matter. He knew what had happened. His brother was home. Probably not wanting to disturb Sebastian, he had flipped on TV and was happily enjoying one of the series he recorded. In this case, the misadventures of seven stranded castaways who managed to make electricity out of coconuts and botched ninety-eight chances to get off the island. That damned theme song just had some magical power to cut through all the audio stuffing in Sebastian’s brain. Maybe Marcellus wanted to “disturb” Sebastian after all.

“Jesus, Mars,” said Sebastian, rubbing his temples. “I was trying to sleep.”

“And you were sleeping. Around three hours.”

“Three? What time is it?” He found his bedside clock and flipped the face toward him. It had been just after lunch when he arrived home. Now it was approaching dinnertime. Shit. Well, ok, you were planning to detox a little before you got to researching that loony London stuff. No harm done, and I guess mission accomplished.

He blinked exaggeratedly several times, hoping to clear his eyelids of sleep residue, then focused on his brother sitting in his usual chair in the next bedroom. It was not completely understood why Marcellus didn’t have to project himself, or do anything special, to be heard and seen by his brother. The same was not true to anyone else. Mars’ constant physical and audible presence was just part of the bond the twins shared, and made the post-death relationship easy. It was just like having a regular roommate, albeit one who didn’t eat, sleep, or use a toilet. Although Marcellus didn’t need any physical space, Sebastian gave him the bedroom anyway. Sebastian was rarely home, and even when he was, he was usually so tired that any semi-soft, flat surface would do to lie on. There wasn’t much lounging around that went on his life and he rarely entertained guests. And not that it had happened in a very long while, but should he actually have the chance to bring home a romantic interest, the brothers made a pact that Sebastian would have the whole place to himself. Marcellus was very adept at making himself disappear. After all, he was a ghost.

“You want to debrief now, or do you need a few minutes?” asked Marcellus.

“Gimme a few.”

Marcellus nodded and returned to his show. Sebastian tried to squeeze out the remaining blurriness from his eyes. He focused on the TV. Gilligan had just found some big box washed up on the beach.

Sebastian stood up and stretched. Still tired, but feeling a least a touch better, he went to his refrigerator. Milk, mustard, ketchup, jelly, soda, beer, old Chinese, and older pizza. He grabbed the Chinese and a Coke. He flipped open the top to the box.

Just rice. Damn it. He would have loved to have blamed his roommate for the meager leftovers, but Marcellus didn’t eat. Nor would it be advisable for Mars to grab groceries from a store. Although, that would be a fun exercise to watch. Knowing Marcellus, he’d levitate objects for fun and make spooky sounds while he pushed the cart through the aisles, stocking up on Pop-Tarts and potato chips.

Uninterested in cold rice, Sebastian opened the pantry and returned to the fridge with a box of Raisin Bran in need of milk. Milk located, he noticed the date on the container. Shit. He unscrewed the top and breathed in. Double shit!

“Mars!”

“What?”

Sebastian put the spoiled milk near the sink. He sighed and slid out a chair at the dining table. “I don’t know. We need a housekeeper or something.” He sat down with his dry cereal and crunched it off his fingers.

Marcellus laughed. “Yeah, right. I wouldn’t wish that nightmare on anyone.”

Sebastian shook his head. His dark little hovel was fine for him, and certainly fine for a ghost, but wasn’t going to get featured in Good Housekeeping, or one of those home designer shows anytime soon. Nor did he care. He was just grumpy. Lack of sleep, travel fatigue, mysterious wolfers, and paranoid demons had been his life for the last twenty-four hours. So, go figure why he was grouchy.

He shoveled the last of the dry Raisin Bran into his mouth and pushed the box to the center of the table.

“Ok, I guess we should debrief,” said Sebastian.

“Yeah, ok. Next commercial?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

A few moments later, Gilligan and crew had paused their pursuit to get off the island so the “Snuggle” bear could explain how to get your towels incredibly soft. As promised, Marcellus was at the kitchen table. He had paused the program, frame frozen on the bear’s smiling face, so he would miss nothing, including the commercials. Marcellus absolutely loved all TV and especially DVRs.

“Whatcha got, Sebo?” said Marcellus.

“Ok, mine is going to be long, so start with yours,” said Sebastian.

“Sure. As the council requested, I went down to Arizona to check out those crazy guys’ story about the ancient Egyptian stuff in a cave.” He saw Sebastian’s confused look. “Yeah, they were crazy. But I was still interested to see whatever it was that got everyone talking, so I poked around in one guy’s head, trying to convince him to take a trip out there to show me. Didn’t work. I got the feeling they’re not able to go back. I did get to see some of their supposed artifacts though. Bad knock-offs. Whatever got them inspired, they’re making these crappy forgeries to pass off. The only thing that keeps me wondering is where they saw the original ideas for the copies. It wasn’t pure Egyptian, but it wasn’t total bullshit either. Something tells me something is going on there, but it’s not what we think. But I have no idea if there’s a rift involved. And no wolfers or anything that I could tell.”

“Ok,” said Sebastian, who didn’t sound convinced.

“I also tried the Roswell stuff, just for kicks, but they haven’t heard anything new. I think that site is played out.”

Sebastian smiled. “Don’t tell that to the alien fan-boys. They think they see something new every night.”

“Well, they can imagine whatever they want, but I’m getting no vibe off that place anymore.”

There had been a suspected dimensional leak around Roswell, New Mexico, for some time. The actual answers as to whether it spawned creatures that resembled aliens, or attracted actual ones, or simply caused people to hallucinate such things, is still debatable. None of the Saints had recorded any physical dealings with entities there, but it had been a heavily watched spot for some time, regardless. Marcellus had a very good compass for finding and defining rifts, and if he said it was dead, it probably was.

Dimensional rifts tear through our known universe from the edges of other unknown universes. These sudden, sometimes violent pockets can make things disappear, upend deep layers of earth, and transform flesh. A simple leak is slow enough to last for years, and has a magnetism to the more desperate and unbalanced souls, which can lead them to worship it as some kind of supernatural power (which it almost is), and make them believe it can mold them into a god (which it won’t). However, it does twist and rewrite DNA like a master hacker rewrites a program and the result can be monstrous. Especially if the so-called “demon” souls on the other side of the rift are also trying to move into the earthly dimension. The energies that exist in the gap of a dimensional crossover have adapted themselves in horrific ways, borrowing pieces and parts of whatever surrounds them to survive in chaotic and tumultuous circumstances. The spirits, entities, and creatures that may thrive in such a maelstrom do not usually assimilate well into our world, and the combinations are generally volatile. Sometimes the result of combining living things in this dimension with energy from another dimension can be a monster as terrifying as anything fiction has ever dreamt up. They are rarely benevolent and usually violent. And unlike the movies, once someone has been transformed, they don’t change back.

There is the rare occasion when a soul or energy combines with a human and does not change them physically. This symbiosis is difficult to understand, and nearly impossible to predict, but it has happened. Nigel is a good example of this effect and, as it goes with symbiotes, he is atypical of any other.

Of course, neither the monsters nor symbiotes created by rifts would be categorized as typical since most living things that encounter a rift do not live through the experience. Dimensional leaks aren’t stable. No rift has ever been stable. Someone is far more likely to be torn apart and turned into unidentifiable goo if they are caught between two dimensions.

It was the business of The Saints to keep tabs on rifts and the activity around them. Lately, that has been the equivalent of using slingshots to defend against a stampede.

“Ok, then,” said Sebastian. “So, some wackos in Arizona think they have an ancient Egyptian site in a US cave, make forgeries to prove their point, might actually have some interesting artifacts, but aren’t telling the truth. So, what do forgeries get them?”

“Good question, and I’m not sure. They aren’t selling any big stuff. Small-time knick-knack selling isn’t going to move them out of their mobile homes. And selling big stuff would get them in jail, fake or not. So, I got no clue, other than I’d be interested in finding the spot, if there is one, and seeing for myself.”

“Fair enough. I can agree with that. What else?” asked Sebastian.

“That’s all I got.”

Sebastian nodded. He thrummed his fingers against the table, staring at the wall in thought.

“Sooo – your turn,” said Marcellus. “What happened in London?”

After a breath, Sebastian gave Mars the edited play-by-play. Marcellus tried to stop him when he got to the part of the dead wolf-thing’s transformation. Sebastian promised to get back to that. He skipped over some of the Jillian stuff, which seemed lame and personal, even if it was benign. But when he got to Nigel’s part, Marcellus couldn’t help himself.

“Huggy Bear!” he barked. “How is the old sod?”

“What’s a Huggy Bear?”

“You know, Starsky and Hutch? Seventies cop show? Think they made a movie not that long ago too.”

Sebastian closed his eyes and shook his head. He half wanted to inquire about what could possibly be the same about a 1970’s cop show and a paranoid reformed demon, but he knew if