WITH VORPAL SWORD IN HAND By G. W. Thomas

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son,

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

—Through the Looking-Glass

7:50

I SAT in my Miata and looked at the stuff in the envelope. Telford hadn’t been around so I couldn’t ask him anything. The photo and notes would have to suffice.

I dumped out the contents on the seat beside me. I pushed a pile of books over to make room, spilling a stack of Piccirillis on to the floor. I picked up the card first. Standard brown card—on one side a name: Jose Marguiles. (I thought briefly of Leo Marguiles the pulp editor, then moved on.) The address was in the Pindar subdivision but Telford had crossed it out in red, writing in the margin: “Searched. Empty.”

On the other side of the card I saw only five little words, but they made my heart skip a beat: “Book of the Black Sun”.

So, it had gone astray again. No wonder Telford kept putting me off. I had wanted to read it again, to further my studies of that strange book from the future, but always an excuse. Now I knew why. It was gone.

Stuck to the card was a Garfield sticky note. It said: “Smith will give this to you at 7:45 exactly. The clock is ticking.”

I recalled Smith’s bland face. Telford employed three brothers named Smith, triplets, each as dull as the other. I had joked about they’re being clones, but the look Telford gave me said, “Leave it alone.”

There it was. The old challenge. If I returned the book by 7:45 tomorrow morning I’d receive half the original fee—a million dollars. Enough money to buy an entire month with that weird metallic volume, The Book of the Black Sun. Such a short time it would prove too. The last time I had only begun to skim the book’s depths when I returned it promptly on time. I didn’t need Telford’s goons playing xylophone on my rib cage.

And now I had another chance to possess it, if only for thirty days.

I picked up the photo that came with the card. A dark, Latin-esque face, handsome if over fifty. On the back was: Marguiles/5/17/00. Not the most recent picture but he couldn’t have changed that much. I studied it, placing it firmly in my memory, then threw it in the glove compartment.

There was only one other thing in the small pile on the rider’s seat: a newspaper clipping of an advertisement. “Bedroom Warehouse Price Sale.” Another address in Pindar. Again in the margin in red pen: “Business. Searched.”

So our customer had bolted—taken the book elsewhere. Where to begin then? I could search both the house and the store but the chances of finding much were not good. No, I’d do better than that. If the house was empty, that meant Marguiles had moved his stuff out. I’d start with moving van rentals.

I dug out the Yellow Pages from the back seat. There were twenty companies listed. I headed for a pay phone. I don’t carry a cellular phone anymore. Too dangerous. Not because of brain cancer which is bad enough. I had a phone ring in my pocket once, just as I was watching a certain Christmas festival in Kingsport. Only my trusty shotgun and a hand grenade saved my ass. Now, I use the public phone instead.

8:50

I HAD time to kill before I could phone around. Most of the businesses opened at 9:30 so I stopped off at IHOP, grabbed a stack of cakes and half a gallon of coffee. (In this biz, you grab your meals where and when you can.) I still had thirty minutes so I checked over my equipment in the trunk of the Mazda. Sawed off .12 Gauge, fifty rounds bird shot, fifty rounds arcane salt, fifty rounds bear slugs. I also had an ax, lock picks, road flares and signs, a box of costumes (including a policeman, a fireman, ambulance driver, gasman, priest, insurance agent and derelict bum), a first aid kit and a box of condoms. (Hey, you never know!) I drove to a phone booth on George Street. I liked this one because it was close to an Armenian restaurant that played ethnic music over the sidewalk to entice customers. The tunes did a nice job of keeping skateboarders and bums away.

I got a fist full of quarters from the Armenians and started calling. Forty minutes later, I knew that three of the rental numbers were disconnected (out of business), two, no answer, (soon to be out of business), and the other fifteen open (still in business). I’d have to drive by and talk to somebody to learn more. The higher class of place I’d use the credit card inspector routine. In the dives, it would be a little something called a “black bill”. It’s a one dollar bill with the Sigil of Nath drawn inside the Illuminati’s Eye in gold ink. The spell is simple. When given to someone of a greedy nature it appears to be a hundred. Once touched, the subject, if simple-minded, will become quite malleable. I find it works well with people in long-term minimum wage jobs.

It was well-after lunchtime before I found Jose Marguiles. He had rented a small truck for twenty-hour hours. The rental agent, a dirty-looking fellow in a t-shirt said he had only driven fifty-two miles, there and back. So, it was a local move.

13:32

SUCKING down a chili dog and a coke, I leafed through the Yellow Pages again. Storage rentals were foremost on my mind. What I had to decide was: did Marguiles store his stuff in another house, a friend’s basement perhaps? Or did he rent a locker at some unit storage facility?

I’ve been in this business a few years now. And one thing I know about the men and women I have to find. They aren’t the trusting sort. Given the choice between a friend and an impartial business arrangement, they’d go with the money. So, I figure, it was likely a rental unit. Now, which one was twenty-six miles from Marguiles’ house?

I dug out a city map and a compass. A circle with a radius of twenty six miles enclosed three of the rental firms. The closest was on Hubert. The next was one of my “no answer” places, so probably out of business. The last was just on the line—exactly twenty-six miles. Did he drive straight there and back? If not, then Hubert Street. If so, then it was Delaware Avenue.

I looked at the arrangement of the streets. A main thoroughfare began only three blocks from Marguiles’ house, and passed right by Delaware. I was betting it all on Delaware. The name of the business: Rent-Rite. I was on my way.

14:43

THE office had the respectable image of success. New posters, clean chairs, good janitorial service, a franchise name and marketing. This would be the perfect place to use the credit card hustle.

“Can I speak to the manager?”

“He’s not in, said the bored twenty-year old woman watching the counter. Like the store, she had the same faÃ§ade of successful pleasantness: trim, attractive without any sluttiness, no earrings, tattoos or heavy make-up. A badge on one nicely formed breast said: Clarice. High-school, probably community college but no real direction. I bet on weekends she dressed up dirty and hit the bars.

“I’m Inspector Tull of American Master. We’ve been receiving fraudulent claims from this store. I’ll need to see your slips for the last three weeks.” I flashed a badge then waited impatiently.

“You’ll need to speak to Mr. Tandori. I’ll phone him—”

“You do that. Of course, you’ll tip him off and he’ll run. Gone, and you can forget about your paycheck.”

“What?” My bluff had her attention now. “What do you mean?”

“This is a typical case. The boss plays fast and loose with us, then disappears. The employees and A. M. get the dirty end of the stick.”

I let her panic for a few minutes. She rambled on about the payments on her new Fiesta.

“Of course, if I see the sheets for the last week or so I might be able to catch him in time. Make him pay up.”

Clarice started pulling stuff out of the drawers. I calmed her.

“Look for anyone using the name Marguiles. Or a business card: Bedroom Warehouse. He’s the front.”

“Here it is. From two days ago. Does this mean Mr. Tandori is guilty?”

“Quick. Get me the extra key for Number Thirty-Seven and we’ll see.”

Clarice opened a locked cabinet and extracted the key. I took it and ran.

16:03

THE cubicles were arranged by number, smallest to biggest. I ran from One to Thirty-Six, when I felt the first twinge of something unusual. I slowed down, drew the automatic from my jacket. Like the shotgun, this weapon bore special ammo, regular slugs with the Glyph of Glaaki cut into them. Not only does the sigil burn into eldritch critters but the slugs flatten out like a dum-dum on regular kinds of folks.

The lock of Number Thirty-Seven seemed normal enough until I tried it. It wasn’t locked, only closed to look shut. I pulled the padlock off and cracked the door.

The sense of power grew. The Tablet of Nargoth, which is sewn into the lining of my jacket, began to twitch. The tablet serves no purpose except to move when in the vicinity of strong currents of power. It was like a rabbit was having cardiac arrest in my coat.

I jerked the door open, gun ready. What confronted me then was both familiar and strangely new. Amongst the carelessly distributed boxes, was furniture. Unlike stacked furniture it was set up for use. Sitting on the sofa, still as the rest of the objects, was a man. Or more correctly, a man’s body. It was Jules Marguiles, dead and decomposing. Beside him was a camp light. The battery had burned down to almost nothing. It had been left on for several days.

Where the power emanated from was no secret either. Twirling in front of the dead man was a spinning, disk-shaped gate. The mandala-like opening gave off a weird green-brown light and was no doubt responsible for the clicker in my coat.

The first thing I did was get in and close the door. I didn’t need Clarice screaming her face off. Or her calling the cops—if she hadn’t already.

The second thing I did was checked Marguiles. Not for life signs. He was black around the eyes and had been so for a few days. Probably a heart attack from the look of his face and the spilled bottle of nitro tablets on the sofa beside him. Also next to him was The Book of the Black Sun. I reached over for the heavy wood box that Telford stores his books in.

It was empty.

I searched for another twenty minutes before I came to a terrible conclusion. The book had gone through the portal. And I would have to go too if I wanted to retrieve it.

17:33

I WASN’T about to dive in head long until I knew my ass was covered. I briefly thought of putting Clarice out of commission. The Sleeping Glyph would send her into a comatose state for twenty-four hours. But before I tried it, I’d have to check things out first.

I snuck back to the car. No sign of the cops yet. There was something going on inside the store—probably Tandori was giving Clarice major shit—Too late to deal with that. I opened the trunk, grabbed my case and ran back to Number Thirty-Seven. I wasn’t going to give up now—not with the book outside our reality. If the manager had the cops attack the gateway, it might seal up permanently. Bye-bye, book.

I decided instead on a safer course. I closed the door, forgetting about the padlock, and then took a tube from my coat. Inside was blood, which I smeared into six concentric circles. The spell would hold the door shut to everything short of a bazooka.

No longer worried about some schmuck sealing the portal with me on the opposite side, I turned my attention to what lie before me. I went through Marguiles’ pockets a second time, looking for notes or charms. Nada. The best I could figure was he had discovered something in The Book of the Black Sun and had run out of time. So he had fled here to try it, hoping to elude Telford and his goons. Only something had happened. A heart attack or stroke. At his age not unlikely.

Had Marguiles been through the portal? Or died before crossing over? The absence of the book said he had been on the other side. I had to go. There just wasn’t any other possibility.

I wasn’t stupid about it though. I tore into one of Marguiles’ boxes, pulling out a soup ladle. I threw it into the center of the spinning circle. It disappeared instantly. One second it was here. The next…

I had read about gateways like this in the book before. I had possessed it myself twice before. I knew only a little. I knew these mandalas could be portals, one-way or two, that terrible things might come out of them, that others were highly dangerous because of waves they gave off, and still others were completely unfathomable. I had seen actual spinning disks twice before. And each time it had changed my life.

I threw a couple more things, testing where I should jump. After six kitchen utensils I came to the conclusion that all things were pulled into the center no matter where they hit.

I opened my case. Food first. I checked my watch. Six PM. I filled my pockets with Trail Mix, crackers and a flask of water. I ate a cello-wrapped sandwich (not as easy as you think next to a guy who’s been rotting for two days), a coke and ate them while tossing more things into the vortex. When I got to the other side I wouldn’t be needing any cooking utensils.

Finishing the coke, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I filled a pack with the First Aid kit, ammo, a flashlight and picked up the shotgun. I was ready to go. Or die. Or whatever.

18:22

TWELVE hours and twenty-three minutes to Zero Hour. I had half a day to find the book. I was hoping it would just be lying there, covered in spoons, waiting for me. Wherever “there” was. I was to be disappointed.

I took a step back and threw myself into the center of the gateway. The sensation of crossing over its threshold was one of intense cold. For a second I thought I was landing at the North Pole. But the chill only lasted a brief moment. Then a loud roar like a waterfall, a blast of lemon-scented wind and finally the weird sensation of wet jelly.

I landed on solid ground. I was thankful for that. I got up, rubbing my hip. I had landed on a soup ladle.

Looking up I was amazed. Everywhere I turned was a color-rich paradise so unlike the smelly inside of a storage locker on Delaware. The only thing I recognized was the disk spinning behind me. I was glad it was there. Once I had the book I’d be right back.

It was daytime in this strange world (if they had day and night?) The ground was covered in a fine grass that looked like fur or hair. Tall trees, like old cottonwoods, broke the turf along a creek bed. But what trees! Pink, and moving, they looked more like sea anemone than pines. I saw one of them bend, grab and eat a small creature with the maw at the top of the trunk. The frond-like leaves were tentacles surrounding a vicious mouth. I’d be avoiding the trees here.

Beyond the row of pink killers ran the creek or small river, sluggish and brown. Beyond that, purple hills, leading up to black mountains, pointed like a moonscape, and finally that Maxfield Parrish sky. The entire effect was hard on the eyes, like a Ralph Bakshi flick. Examining this weird paradise, I realized the book could be anywhere. An infinite number of weird, killer miles in any direction! For a second I thought of turning around and telling Telford to politely stick his book. If he wanted it so bad let him come here and—But just as quickly I stopped because I saw something that might be a clue.

It was a flying creature, about the size of a small Indian elephant, though more slender. The wings were bat-like with lots of little scales that glinted in the weird sunshine. I had seen pictures of something like it once in a Medieval text by a French count. Shantacus, he’d called it. I had once heard a Coptic monk tell me of “shantaks” over a dying fire on the desert sands of Egypt. Perhaps this was a shantak?

Whatever it was called it flew over me like a massive pterodactyl. I freaked and almost shot at it. As I looked up I noticed the saddle. The animal was a mount. Somebody had ridden it—or had meant to. Marguiles? I followed at a hard run. I didn’t know what was dangerous and what wasn’t here so I kept the shotgun ready. For all I knew the stones themselves would eat me.

19:00

I FOLLOWED a stream to an outcropping of rock. Sitting on the high-most point was the creature. I got a good look at it now. I took binoculars from my pack and examined it slowly. Horse-like head crowned a snaky neck. The huge bat wings were covered in dirt and filth. The whole monstrosity had to weigh forty tons but moved with the speed and grace of a dragonfly. Strapped to the middle was an elephantine saddle, like something from a giant’s rodeo. Marguiles had been here. He had ridden this thing and survived. For a while.

Then I saw it. A bag hung from the saddle horn, holding something just about the right size to be the book. I could picture it all now. Marguiles had left the book on his mount, returned to our world, perhaps for his medicine. Unfortunately, he died before returning. I checked the leash strap running down from the saddle. It looked like it had been chewed through. The shantak had got tired of waiting for its master and had chewed its way to freedom.

So that explained what had happened. What it didn’t explain was why? Why had Marguiles come here to ride this creature? The answer was in the book. And I had to get it.

I started with the simplest solution. I stepped from the rock, shotgun in one hand, and called to the creature. “Here, boy. Come.” I must have sounded pretty lame. I don’t even have a dog.

The shantak squawked, like a giant chicken, flicked its wings but stayed.

I could just shoot it, but the book might be damaged.

I took a rope from my pack. This was going to be a Western after all. I made a lasso with a knot, and then moved closer a few inches at a time. The shotgun was left behind on a rock. I needed both hands.

The horse-head bobbed nervously as I approached, but the thing only gurgled a few times and didn’t bolt.

I drew within ten feet of the huge body and threw my lasso.

The creature jumped just a second ahead of me. The lariat slapped uselessly against its neck and fell to the ground. Six more tries came up with the same result. I began to think the shantak was playing with me.

As I got ready for the seventh try, a loud ruckus came from the distant weeds along the river. The creature croaked and then flew off in that direction. I had to hit the ground or be slammed with ten feet of thick tail.

“Shit!” I quickly grabbed my shotgun and headed in the same direction.

19:53

THE run was long and I had to stop once and rest. I could make out the spot along the river where the beast had fled. I counted to ten then ran on.

As I rose up the slight lip of the riverbank I was hit by several senses. My ears could hear what sounded like a million bullfrogs. My nose burned with the odor between dead fish and a reptile house. I gagged but fought it down as my eyes beheld the cause of the rankness. A flock of these elephantine creatures, each like the one I had been following. Their heads peeked from holes in the riverbank off to my left. The bank was steep for about ten feet then became more gradual for another thirty. At the bottom were the sluggish brown currents of the river. The shantaks beside me were largely young ones poking from nests, big holes cut into the sandy bank. Below adults drank and bathed at the water’s edge. I took the time to count, not including nesting babes, twenty in all.

I stopped, caught my breath and thought things over. Where was the shantak wearing the saddle? There. Not far, only four individuals in. My beast played with what looked like a squid, pulling it apart with sharp teeth. I hadn’t noticed those before. Could I sneak in and lasso it here? I’d have to try. I took off my pack and placed it beside the shotgun on the bank.

I pulled my pistol out. I had an idea. I put the silencer on it. Taking aim at the closest shantak, I fired into its eye. The animal fell over, giving out only a mild gurgle. Its fellows ignored it. Perhaps they thought it was sleeping?

I put the gun in my waistband. I might need it quickly if everything turned to shit. Then I lowered myself slowly down the bank and away from the nests. A short, rocky track led me in the direction of the dead beast. I made the first large rock. Stopped and waited. In this way I found myself beside the dead creature in less than five minutes.

I quickly examined the animal. It weighed well over thirty tons, too heavy to lift and use as camouflage. (I thought briefly of using a ploy from an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel but I was dealing with a much larger animal than David Innes.) Instead I used my commando knife to cut off a piece of one of the brilliantly sequined wings. I chopped a piece about as big as an opened sleeping bag. The slippery material was still warm but light. Using this like a blanket I proceeded to move toward the saddled shantak, who was now fighting with another of its race, using those savage jaws to bite out chunks the size of dinner plates.

Inching along, the wing covering me, I by-passed two more of the horse-heads. They hissed at me, moving slightly to the left but little else. I was careful of anything looking like a nest. I suspected they’d defend these viciously.

I was now within lassoing distance. If I got closer, the saddled beast might attack me as it had the other shantak. That other defeated rival had wandered off down the beach, unaware of its injuries.

I took the lasso from my jacket, opened the loop, started to spin it. The cast was good, landing around the creature’s small head. I was just about to pull the rope tight when something completely unexpected happened. A loud explosion of filth and death erupted from the river below. A creature as long and thin as a telephone pole smashed into the flock drinking by the shore. Its massive jaws crunched down on one of the horse-heads, killing it instantly. I was well away from the river but the entire flock was airborne!

The lasso tightened instantly. The shantak leap into the air, taking me with it. The rope was wrapped around my left hand. I expected the creature would flee quickly, smashing me to bits on some rocks far away. But the rope around its head must have acted like a bridle, forcing the creature to dive. We bumped down only ten feet from where we had started. The beast turned suddenly, following the thread of the rope down to me! It bared its teeth and charged!

It was automatic. I drew the pistol. I wasn’t sure what it could do against anything this big but I fired three shots into its eyes. The horsey head exploded as the dum-dums ripped through it. The shantak was dead before it reached me though it didn’t seem to know it. Like the proverbial chicken-with-its head-cut-off it ran down the beach in all directions, taking me with it. Old telephone pole was waiting with open jaws.

All I could do was hang on. I shot three more slugs into the dead thing but it only stopped in a red pile ten feet from the Crocodile-from-Hell. I quickly switched from shooting to untangling the rope from my wrist. I pulled the cord away and threw myself up the side of the dead shantak. The book hung only six feet from my grasp. I had the bag. The creature under me disappeared in only seconds. Crocodile boy had him down about as fast as I had the book in hand and was heading for the riverbank.

I could feel the river rise up behind me. Crocodile boy was right behind me. I ignored him, instead, concentrated on running and avoiding the large cow pies the shantaks had left everywhere. I turned only for a second as I made the top of the bank. I figured the crocodile thing would stay near the water. I wanted my shotgun but left it when I saw the long black thing coming up the bank on stubby little legs. Despite his shortcomings, he still moved faster than the average bicycle.

I wished I had the grenades from the abandoned pack, but by the time I would have opened the sack, I’d have been inside him. So, I just ran.

And it just followed.

I pushed myself to the limit. The only extra weight was the book, which flapped back and forth inside the sack. It weighted a good fifteen pounds but I wasn’t going home without it. I could have dropped it, hoped he didn’t eat it by mistake, circle back and get it. Only I wasn’t out-distancing him. Croc was gaining. I had about three minutes.

I found the strength somewhere to go faster. It was an all-out sprint for the gateway. I tried to formulate a plan, either escaping in the cracks between the boulders or leading it to one of those killer trees … No time. There was the disk, spinning in the distance like a shiny new dime. Faster!

I ran for that gateway with all I had left. I just thought to myself: get home. And never come back!

I could feel Croc’s breath on me now, fishy and hot. Once, its tongue touched the back of my neck, like a hot sponge. Suddenly, I had a little more juice…

And then the disk. I didn’t know if it would be the same, or if I would even survive the passage back to my world. Still, it beat ending up as a crocodile turd. I ran right into the gateway with a prayer and a curse.

I landed on the sofa next to Marguiles. I was so happy I could have almost kissed him. Almost. I turned around and pointed at the gateway. “Fuck you, asshole!” I yelled over and over. I got up and picked up the bag off the floor. Inside, I saw the metallic cover of The Book of the Black Sun.

I went to the door. The concentric circles held it shut. Using my own saliva, I drew circles within the circles going the other way. I pulled the aluminum door open only to find a gun in my face.

“All right, buddy. Hands up!”

My hands went up, the book swaying in an arc, smashing the gun aside. There were three more policeman who leaned in to shoot me but they quickly changed their minds as the gateway opened its widest, snaky jaws spilling out. The entire creature couldn’t fit through but enough of it did to snap up the dead Marguiles and swallow him.

The cops opened up and I crawled away. Getting back to the Miata was nothing. I got in and drove away. My watch was broken at 10:10 PM. My car clock said it was 1:27 AM.

I drove directly to Telford’s. Smith was there. He took the book and told me to come back at exactly 7:30 in the morning. I nodded, stumbled back to my car and slept right there.

7:30

I WOKE when Telford tapped on my window. “Wake up, asshole. It’s almost Seven Thirty.”

I got up, followed him inside. I felt like shit.

“What’s the big rush? I got the book back in plenty of time.”

“Shut up. This isn’t going to be easy,” Telford said, showing me the computer screen on the cash register. “What time is it?”

“Seven Thirty-One.”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday, July—no, wait, that’s yesterday’s date. Today’s—”

“Tuesday.”

“But I—”

“Somehow reversed time. I don’t know where you’ve been but wherever it was, time didn’t flow in the same direction.”

“But—”

“In fifteen minutes you’re going to arrive through that door to get this envelope from Smith here.” I looked at the envelope. It looked just like the one I had got yesterday.

“Yah?”

“Nah. You won’t show. Here’s the book. You get thirty days, starting now.”

I felt sick all of a sudden. “What?”

“Here’s the book.”

“Why would you just give me the book? I didn’t earn it.”

Telford was looking at the computer screen. It said 7:45. “You earned it, kid. You earned it.”

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