My name’s Stanley. I’m a research assistant. Which basically means I find books for absent-minded academics.
“Parachutes on, everybody. Stand by for library insertion in five.”
Of course, that’s a lot more complex than it sounds.
“Okay, retinoids online.”
I winced as the heads-up display flickered to life on my contact lens, and then set about switching all the useless widgets which had popped up. Tactical map, ammo counter, ultrasonics, targeting systems. Useless distractions. Contrary to the opinion of every retrieval team I’ve ever worked with. Then again, my job is a bit more difficult than theirs. I have to navigate the shelves, retrieve and seal the book, and plant the decoy, as quickly as possible. All they have to do is keep the Denizens away while I do it
Hmm. Maybe their job was the more difficult of the two.
“Weapons check. Jump in two.”
The hatch burst open and the domes of the Library stretched out below us, like a rotting prison hulk sprawled across a river. And then we jumped, the ancient ceilings splintering beneath us, leaving us standing, after a few terrifying moments, in a pool of parachute cloth and dusty sunlight in an ancient foyer. Or at least I was. The retrieval team was already setting up a perimeter, for all the good it would do them. I pulled up the scans of the map on my retinoid.
“We need to keep moving. The volume we’re looking for is in the north corridor. It’s red, and about an inch thick. And for god’s sake, don’t touch anything.”
That last one got me a few eye rolls, but I’d seen too many expeditions fail- lost good men and better books - just because some retrieval private couldn’t keep his damn hands to himself. The Denizens didn’t like it when you touched the books. Really, really didn’t like it.
(Hence, the body armour and crossbows.)
“Right. Let’s go.”
A decade of experience kicked in, replacing the nerves with procedure. First step: Location.
We headed out of the foyer and into one of the dusty corridors, each step taking us deeper into the bowels of the library. A pair of massive double doors loomed ahead, with a peeling sign above them reading “THE STACKS”. I signaled to stop.
“Wait here,” I murmured into my comms mike, and ducked into a side room. The door behind me swung shut with a soft flump as I booted up one of the archaic database terminals. I punched in my search parameters, and flicked rapidly through the results. This was taking far too long-
A rustle from above interrupted my internal monologue. I froze. Very, very slowly, very, very quietly, I looked up.
Suspended from the rafters, sleeping, was a pair of Denizens. Or at least, they had been sleeping until the fleeping of the search terminal and my muttering had woken them. They started to twitch, drawing themselves out of a hundred-year hibernation. I had to get out, and quietly. I took a step back, and without taking my eyes of the stirring figures in the rafters, smacked the print key on the terminal.
This, it turned out, was a mistake. The massive laser printer in the opposite corner ground to life, each clunk making me wince. After what seemed like an age, the printer hummed back into silence, spitting out a single sheet of paper as it did so. I started to walk towards it, then run, as the ultrasonic screeches of the Denizens echoed from above. I snatched the page. There was a swoop above my head, then another. I sprinted across the room, loosing my crossbow over my shoulder, not caring whether or not it hit, and dived through the door.
The retrieval team sprung into action, drawing silenced rifles and compound crossbows. The first Denizen to burst through the door was almost liquefied under the weight of ammunition whistling towards it, the second marginally more intact, but still resembling a pincushion.
I gasped for breath, and dragged myself off the dusty floorboards to my feet. I plastered a macabre grin on my face.
“That was close!”
Yeah, good one Stanley. Joke about the fact that you were almost killed by a pair of batlike mutated librarian descendants. Smooth.
I looked around at the crew. The fear was starting to set in, flashlights were going off and retinoids flicked to night vision. When everyone was ready, I took a deep lungful of musty air, and pushed open the doors. The Stacks towered above us, draped with dust, cobwebs, and the occasional errant vine. Shafts of sunlight shone down through the dusty air, leaving pools of light between the titanic shelves. And above? The Hives. Two Denizens was one matter. Two hundred? Two thousand? We’d be lucky to survive two seconds if they noticed we were here.
Trying in vain to shut out the constant fluttering from above, I unfolded my laser-printed treasure map. “826.3 is the call number we’re looking for,” I whispered into my collar mike. I scanned the shelf closest to me, and cursed softly. We were in the low 700s still. “We’re looking at a nine hundred metre run to the shelves, then another three hundred to the next exit.” I didn’t look, but I knew the expressions of terror would be intensifying. “If anyone wants to turn back, now is the time.”
Nobody did, I thought as we skulked along the shelves. Nobody ever did. Not straight away, at any rate. It’s a well known fact that retrieval teams have a minuscule survival rate, so professional mercenaries avoid them like the plague. So this team was probably made of insane thrill-seekers, desperate brokes, and criminals. Comforting.
The numbers inched past 800. We weren’t going fast enough. Every second we stay here was another second the Denizens had to notice us-
There was a deafening scream from the back of the squad, which whipped higher and higher into the air, and then down again. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a single panicked shout and the thud-thud-thud of silenced weapons. That was how they hunted. Swoop in at high speed, grab you, then climb until their momentum ran out. Gravity did the rest. Gruesome to watch. We needed to get moving, before others noticed the fresh meat.
“Keep it down!,” I hissed. The ignored me, continuing to fire uselessly at the swooping Denizen. I tried again. “No really, shut up. They see by ultrasonics. You need to stay totally silent. Crossbows only. Zero radio chatter. And if they take you, for gods sake, don’t scream.”
Good one Stanley. “Don’t scream.” As if they have a choice.
That calmed them down, or maybe just scared them silent. Either way was fine with me. I motioned to move ahead, at double pace, checking every row of shelving before we passed it.
821, 822... 826.
Stay here. Defensive perimeter, I motioned to the crew. They seemed to have some semblance of professionalism back, and set about changing crossbow bolts and deploying riot shields. Not that they’d do much good against a horde of angry mega-bats, but they worked wonders for morale. I treaded cautiously down the row, checking numbers off in my head.
.08, .19, .47-
I looked up. .3 would be on the top shelf, about twenty metres off the floor. This complicated things. I could get it, but it would make a hell of a noise, and with the Denizens this active... I whispered into my mike.
“Forget that. We’re going to have to grab and run. On my count, run for the exit.”
Nods from the team. I unstrapped the my collapsible grappling-cannon from my leg, and carefully fitted a gas canister. I’d only get one shot from it, but then again, I’d only get one shot anyway. I pointed the gun at the top of the shelf, adjusted my sights against the projected arc on my retinoid, and fired.
ktssssssssSSSSSWHUMPclang.
The fluttering from above intensified. The Denizens were awake. I’d never moved so fast in my life, not even horizontally. I half-sprinted, half-climbed up the creaking bookshelf and flicked my fingers across the spines of countless books.
826.3...
And I saw it. Red spine, an inch thick, and about half a metre outside my grasp. I swore under my breath, unhooked the rope, and edged out along the rotting shelf. I reached out and pulled the book from its place, just as the shelf below me disintegrated. I fell, the Denizens swooping in a funnel around me, my arms spread eagled, every shelf which I grabbed to slow myself crumbling like matchsticks, and showering an ever-growing cascade of books down the the library floor. I had no time to think. This was it. I was going to die. A Denizen swung overhead, and another one, and, unthinking, I grabbed it.
The creature let out a screech like nothing I’d ever heard before. It couldn’t lift me, it couldn’t shake me - I doubt it even knew what was going on. Usually it was the one doing the grabbing. We plummeted towards the floor, and, a split second before impact, I let go, landing in a roll and coming up with what felt like a sprained ankle. The Denizen wasn’t so lucky. It ploughed at full speed into the floor, the delicate bones in its wing membranes snapping like twigs.
It let out a howl, and was cut short by a crossbow bolt to the head- as much to stop it attracting more as to put it out of its misery. I winced, and turned hobbling back to the end of the aisle, where the retrieval team was fighting of at least a dozen of the enraged bat-creatures. We needed to go. All attempt at silence abandoned, I yelled.
“Run! 300 metres, and to the right. Fire escape, goes straight outside. Evac, are you hearing this? We’re coming out hot.”
I stabbed a thimble-sized painkiller shot into my ankle, and started to run, the retrieval squad around me, for the shattered green exit sign ahead. Behind me, a swish and a scream. Another man down. They were catching up. I crammed the book tighter under my arm and ran faster, loosing the last of my crossbow bolts over my shoulder into the seething winged tornado tearing up the stacks towards us. The first squad member reached the door, and pushed.
It was locked. Panicking, he slapped a detonation charge on the door, and started to run back towards the rest of the group. And then, from nowhere, a pair of talons hooked on to his combat vest. There was a look of terror in his eyes, for just a fleeting instant, and he started to jerk into the air-
The charges blew, blasting him, the Denizen, and the door into dust. The rest of the cloud recoiled, stunned by the shockwave, and we sprinted out into the courtyard. As the creatures began to stream through the door, sixteen ropes unfurled from the sky, the evac copter’s rotors thundering overhead. We grabbed onto the lifelines and held on for dear life-
Then I felt a something grab me around the chest. I was being pulled into the air. The other survivors were pulling away from me... it wasn’t the helicopter. I shut my eyes, and swung the book over my head, feeling the thud as it smacked into the Denizen’s head. Whether in shock or on purpose, its grip on me loosened, and I swung free, through the air on the end of my evac rope. I reached the high point of my swing, pivoted around, doing my own circular swoop, and, legs out, I slammed back into the creature which had held me seconds before. Pain shot up my leg- it was probably broken- but it had worked. The thing lost whatever balance had held it in the air, and, with a screech, tumbled back to the ground.
The Denizens were reaching their limit for tolerance of the outside world. Screeching, they began to funnel back in through the shattered fire exit. I strapped myself into the helicopter and, wincing, pulled the boot over my broken foot. I took my first breath of fresh, dust-free air for what felt like a lifetime, and, turning the now slightly battered book over in my hands, let out a sigh of relief.
“Spend all my life in libraries. I should really get out more.”, I joked.
“What kind of freak enjoys this kind of thing enough to crack wise about it?”, the medic mumbled.
“That would be me.” I replied.
The team looked at me like I was insane. Which, possibly, I am.
Good one, Stanley.
Fictitious Casual Fridays
23.9.11
19.9.11
The Assassin's Lament
I remember when this was a gentleman’s game;
when we were just young and with nought to our name
A flickknife and mask, were the tools of our trade
And we plied it with honour, like those we unmade.
The knife in the dark, the swish of a cloak,
then sneaking off down some back alley, for a smoke,
A swiftly-cleaned blade all that told of a kill.
Now that, right there, that’s a carefully-honed skill.
...
But now, so I’m told, we all use a gun,
Which twice as efficient, but half as much fun
And a bullet’s not alive, can never walk, talk, or play
it has no respect for what it’s taking away.
It’s over too quickly, and any idiot can try
if all you need’s a revolver, and someone to die.
There’s no beauty or art in a throwing bits of lead
(even if the catcher does end up dead)
...
So take your pistols, your rifles, your scopes and your sights.
I’d trade it in an instant for those sweet moonless nights,
For a cloak with a hood and the glint of a dagger,
To walk the streets with respect, and the hint of a swagger.
I wish it were then, and not here right now
Sitting here, alone, asking why, and how-
How’s a craftsman like me to ply my trade and thrive;
and what’s the point of killing, if you don’t feel alive?
when we were just young and with nought to our name
A flickknife and mask, were the tools of our trade
And we plied it with honour, like those we unmade.
The knife in the dark, the swish of a cloak,
then sneaking off down some back alley, for a smoke,
A swiftly-cleaned blade all that told of a kill.
Now that, right there, that’s a carefully-honed skill.
...
But now, so I’m told, we all use a gun,
Which twice as efficient, but half as much fun
And a bullet’s not alive, can never walk, talk, or play
it has no respect for what it’s taking away.
It’s over too quickly, and any idiot can try
if all you need’s a revolver, and someone to die.
There’s no beauty or art in a throwing bits of lead
(even if the catcher does end up dead)
...
So take your pistols, your rifles, your scopes and your sights.
I’d trade it in an instant for those sweet moonless nights,
For a cloak with a hood and the glint of a dagger,
To walk the streets with respect, and the hint of a swagger.
I wish it were then, and not here right now
Sitting here, alone, asking why, and how-
How’s a craftsman like me to ply my trade and thrive;
and what’s the point of killing, if you don’t feel alive?
11.9.11
Half Baked
“GOLEMS ARE US. FREE GOLEMS.”
I must have walked past that storefront a hundred times, and steadfastly ignored its peeling signs. I don’t know what compelled me to go in. Golem warehouses were pretty tasteless at the best of times. Ever since the Chinese had discovered you didn’t have to actually hand-transcribe the Ancient Scroll of Lak’ptui and could just bang it through a photocopier, the places had been springing up then closing down again just as quickly, like rug stores only worse because they were trafficking in sentient clay and not inanimate lumps of woven fibre.
This place made those look like the goddamn Ritz. The earthy smell hit me like a ton of bricks as I pushed through the dusty door. There was one light in the entire place, and it wasn’t doing a very good job- most of what I could see was from the sunlight streaming through the glass shopfront. I looked idly around for a counter.
That was odd. No counter.
“Hello?” I called out, “Anyone here?”
There was silence for a moment, and then a clanking from the back of the store.
“Hello?”
The clanking resolved into footsteps, and an animate golem rounded the corner, with a storeman’s apron crudely draped over it for modesty. For reasons no animatologist could figure out, golems refused to animate unless they were anatomically correct. Either that, or it was a conspiriacy thought up by clothing manufacturers looking to cut into a new market.
“Could you tell me where the owner is?”
The golem pulled a tablet from its apron and began to print, cuneiform-style, its answer. Very, very slowly.
Present.
Ah, golems. Sentient, sure, but none too bright.
“Where is the owner?”
Again the slow pressing of the wedgelike stylus. Someone really needs to invent a voice system for these, I thought, or maybe just teach them to type.
Present.
That didn’t make sense.
“Do you understand?”
Faster this time:
Yes.
“So who owns this store?”
Present.
This was getting ridiculous. “Look, is there anyone here I can talk to? About possibly buying a golem? No?”
No.
“Right. Popped out for coffee, I expect. Slackers”. My nerves were just about at their limit.
“So when will they be back?”
No.
Nothing this clay man was saying made any sense. Probably badly baked, or a misprinted scroll. Whatever the reason, I’d had it.
“Right.”
I pushed the door open and stepped out of the stale warehouse. And as I walked down the street, I paused and looked back at the peeling signs on the window.
“GOLEMS ARE US. FREE GOLEMS.”
And it hit me like a bolt of lightning, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I started to run. And from then on, I couldn’t even look at a golem, in a supermarket, or sweeping the streets, or making coffee, without going pale and breaking out in cold sweats. Because that wasn’t a sales pitch.
It was a manifesto.
I must have walked past that storefront a hundred times, and steadfastly ignored its peeling signs. I don’t know what compelled me to go in. Golem warehouses were pretty tasteless at the best of times. Ever since the Chinese had discovered you didn’t have to actually hand-transcribe the Ancient Scroll of Lak’ptui and could just bang it through a photocopier, the places had been springing up then closing down again just as quickly, like rug stores only worse because they were trafficking in sentient clay and not inanimate lumps of woven fibre.
This place made those look like the goddamn Ritz. The earthy smell hit me like a ton of bricks as I pushed through the dusty door. There was one light in the entire place, and it wasn’t doing a very good job- most of what I could see was from the sunlight streaming through the glass shopfront. I looked idly around for a counter.
That was odd. No counter.
“Hello?” I called out, “Anyone here?”
There was silence for a moment, and then a clanking from the back of the store.
“Hello?”
The clanking resolved into footsteps, and an animate golem rounded the corner, with a storeman’s apron crudely draped over it for modesty. For reasons no animatologist could figure out, golems refused to animate unless they were anatomically correct. Either that, or it was a conspiriacy thought up by clothing manufacturers looking to cut into a new market.
“Could you tell me where the owner is?”
The golem pulled a tablet from its apron and began to print, cuneiform-style, its answer. Very, very slowly.
Present.
Ah, golems. Sentient, sure, but none too bright.
“Where is the owner?”
Again the slow pressing of the wedgelike stylus. Someone really needs to invent a voice system for these, I thought, or maybe just teach them to type.
Present.
That didn’t make sense.
“Do you understand?”
Faster this time:
Yes.
“So who owns this store?”
Present.
This was getting ridiculous. “Look, is there anyone here I can talk to? About possibly buying a golem? No?”
No.
“Right. Popped out for coffee, I expect. Slackers”. My nerves were just about at their limit.
“So when will they be back?”
No.
Nothing this clay man was saying made any sense. Probably badly baked, or a misprinted scroll. Whatever the reason, I’d had it.
“Right.”
I pushed the door open and stepped out of the stale warehouse. And as I walked down the street, I paused and looked back at the peeling signs on the window.
“GOLEMS ARE US. FREE GOLEMS.”
And it hit me like a bolt of lightning, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I started to run. And from then on, I couldn’t even look at a golem, in a supermarket, or sweeping the streets, or making coffee, without going pale and breaking out in cold sweats. Because that wasn’t a sales pitch.
It was a manifesto.
2.9.11
The Pentagon
September 11, 1941. Midnight.
A titanic crash echoed through the virgin Pennsylvanian forest. Zombie Abraham Lincoln straightened his hat and holstered his revolver with a steely glint in his eye.
“Ooh, boy. She’s angry alright. We’re going to need something a mite bigger this time around.”
He motioned to the man next to him.
“Ronald... bring me Tabitha.”
Ronald Reagan gave a curt nod and sprinted into the darkness. Lincoln stood in the clearing, stock still, and silent. He was good at standing still. It was one of many advantages of being undead. The unholy symbol draped around his neck pulsed with an unearthly light, drawing the creature closer, like bait in a trap. Exactly like bait in a trap, since it was, in fact, the bait in a trap.
Any second now...
The trees in front of him exploded into splinters, and from a hundred feet in the air there was a tremendous roar. Lincoln stood his ground, drawing both this silver revolvers and emptying twelve alchemical iron rounds into the beast’s towering form. The creature roared, less with pain than with annoyance. He placed his hand on the thousand-year-old katana on his back. If Reagan didn’t hurry, he was going to have to get medieval-Japan on its reptillian behind, and that would just ruin his suit.
“Abraham!” came the shout from across the clearing. In the split second it took Lincoln to glance his way, the beast struck, swiping at him with a claw the size of a stagecoach, sending him flying into the air. As he came down, he drew the katana and, performing a perfect backflip, landed on the beast’s scaly head
“NOW, REAGAN!”, he roared, as he brought the blade down ineffectually against the enormous skull. On the ground, Ronald Reagan let out an animal yell, which was only marginally less terrifying than the whine of Tabitha, Lincoln’s vorpal minigun, spinning up to four hundred thousand RPM. In a blaze of eldrich energy, Reagan opened fire.
The effect was almost instantaneous. One of the creature’s seven limbs was liquified to a gooey paste of bone and sinew. With a screech of genuine pain this time, the creature thrashed its thousand ton mass from left to right, leaving Lincoln clinging to the handle of the katana, whose steel blade embedded in the creature’s skull was the only thing preventing him from being thrown to his re-demise. “AGAIN! HAVE AT HER!”, he bellowed.
Reagan’s second burst of sustained fire struck true. Half a million shards of depleted Neptunium bored a perfectly cylindrical hole in the creature’s chest. With a quiet groan, it keeled ponderously over and landed on the ground with a ground-cracking crash. Lincoln stepped calmly off the beast’s head, wiping the viscera from his katana. “That won’t stop it for long. We need the containment field ready, as soon as possible. Get Edison out here on double. Tell him we have her down.”
“No need, Mr. President.”, said a voice from the shadows. Thomas Edison lurched out of the forest and, with a curt nod to Abraham Lincoln, offered one cloth-wrapped mummified hand to Ronald Reagan. “Mr. Reagan. The late Thomas Alva Edison, at your service.” He turned to the shadows again. “Bring out the generators!”
A rustling and squeaking came from the surrounding forest. As the three looked on, thousands of bats, each tied to a tiny harness, dragged out five massive engines, each bolted to a pair of copper coils which, in turn, was atttached to a parabolic dish. The creature on the ground began to stir feebly.
“No time to lose. Everyone out of the pentacle!”. Edison handed Lincoln and Reagan each a pair of goggles, and then pulled down hard on a lever on the side of the closest generator. In unison, five bolts of lightning lanced across the clearing, trapping the waking creature at the centre of a perfect five-pointed star.
“Reagan. The incantations.”, said Edison.
“You have no idea the lengths I went to to get this. I had to rob the library of congress. Me, the President- well, the president one day at any rate-”
“Quiet! Just do it!” Lincoln turned one eye to the horizon. “Dawn is coming.”
Ronald Reagan pulled a surprisingly small but exceptionally old grimoire from inside his trenchcoat. He uttered fourteen guttural syllables, and snapped the book shut as they watched the creature flicker into invisibility.
As the sun rose, the three headed out of the forest. Lincoln turned to the other two. “Right. Our work here is done.” Checking his pocket watch, he turned and nodded gravely at each of the men in turn. “I shall see you at the End of the World.” As Lincoln returned to his grave, Edison to his flying pyramid space zeppelin, and Reagan to his stolen time machine, each one of them saluted the secret service men, who were just beginning to arrive. They were here as part of a far larger plan. A far more difficult, and complex, and dangerous plan. A plan to contain the beast, not just temporarily, but permanently, within a specially constructed pentagonal building, whose shape could channel away and safely earth the arcane energies which surrounded the beast and whose construction would be supervised under the watchful eye of the Department of Supernatural Defense of the United States of America. A building which would come to be known as...
The Pentagon.
A titanic crash echoed through the virgin Pennsylvanian forest. Zombie Abraham Lincoln straightened his hat and holstered his revolver with a steely glint in his eye.
“Ooh, boy. She’s angry alright. We’re going to need something a mite bigger this time around.”
He motioned to the man next to him.
“Ronald... bring me Tabitha.”
Ronald Reagan gave a curt nod and sprinted into the darkness. Lincoln stood in the clearing, stock still, and silent. He was good at standing still. It was one of many advantages of being undead. The unholy symbol draped around his neck pulsed with an unearthly light, drawing the creature closer, like bait in a trap. Exactly like bait in a trap, since it was, in fact, the bait in a trap.
Any second now...
The trees in front of him exploded into splinters, and from a hundred feet in the air there was a tremendous roar. Lincoln stood his ground, drawing both this silver revolvers and emptying twelve alchemical iron rounds into the beast’s towering form. The creature roared, less with pain than with annoyance. He placed his hand on the thousand-year-old katana on his back. If Reagan didn’t hurry, he was going to have to get medieval-Japan on its reptillian behind, and that would just ruin his suit.
“Abraham!” came the shout from across the clearing. In the split second it took Lincoln to glance his way, the beast struck, swiping at him with a claw the size of a stagecoach, sending him flying into the air. As he came down, he drew the katana and, performing a perfect backflip, landed on the beast’s scaly head
“NOW, REAGAN!”, he roared, as he brought the blade down ineffectually against the enormous skull. On the ground, Ronald Reagan let out an animal yell, which was only marginally less terrifying than the whine of Tabitha, Lincoln’s vorpal minigun, spinning up to four hundred thousand RPM. In a blaze of eldrich energy, Reagan opened fire.
The effect was almost instantaneous. One of the creature’s seven limbs was liquified to a gooey paste of bone and sinew. With a screech of genuine pain this time, the creature thrashed its thousand ton mass from left to right, leaving Lincoln clinging to the handle of the katana, whose steel blade embedded in the creature’s skull was the only thing preventing him from being thrown to his re-demise. “AGAIN! HAVE AT HER!”, he bellowed.
Reagan’s second burst of sustained fire struck true. Half a million shards of depleted Neptunium bored a perfectly cylindrical hole in the creature’s chest. With a quiet groan, it keeled ponderously over and landed on the ground with a ground-cracking crash. Lincoln stepped calmly off the beast’s head, wiping the viscera from his katana. “That won’t stop it for long. We need the containment field ready, as soon as possible. Get Edison out here on double. Tell him we have her down.”
“No need, Mr. President.”, said a voice from the shadows. Thomas Edison lurched out of the forest and, with a curt nod to Abraham Lincoln, offered one cloth-wrapped mummified hand to Ronald Reagan. “Mr. Reagan. The late Thomas Alva Edison, at your service.” He turned to the shadows again. “Bring out the generators!”
A rustling and squeaking came from the surrounding forest. As the three looked on, thousands of bats, each tied to a tiny harness, dragged out five massive engines, each bolted to a pair of copper coils which, in turn, was atttached to a parabolic dish. The creature on the ground began to stir feebly.
“No time to lose. Everyone out of the pentacle!”. Edison handed Lincoln and Reagan each a pair of goggles, and then pulled down hard on a lever on the side of the closest generator. In unison, five bolts of lightning lanced across the clearing, trapping the waking creature at the centre of a perfect five-pointed star.
“Reagan. The incantations.”, said Edison.
“You have no idea the lengths I went to to get this. I had to rob the library of congress. Me, the President- well, the president one day at any rate-”
“Quiet! Just do it!” Lincoln turned one eye to the horizon. “Dawn is coming.”
Ronald Reagan pulled a surprisingly small but exceptionally old grimoire from inside his trenchcoat. He uttered fourteen guttural syllables, and snapped the book shut as they watched the creature flicker into invisibility.
As the sun rose, the three headed out of the forest. Lincoln turned to the other two. “Right. Our work here is done.” Checking his pocket watch, he turned and nodded gravely at each of the men in turn. “I shall see you at the End of the World.” As Lincoln returned to his grave, Edison to his flying pyramid space zeppelin, and Reagan to his stolen time machine, each one of them saluted the secret service men, who were just beginning to arrive. They were here as part of a far larger plan. A far more difficult, and complex, and dangerous plan. A plan to contain the beast, not just temporarily, but permanently, within a specially constructed pentagonal building, whose shape could channel away and safely earth the arcane energies which surrounded the beast and whose construction would be supervised under the watchful eye of the Department of Supernatural Defense of the United States of America. A building which would come to be known as...
The Pentagon.
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