Frankie was back by the time I woke for my shift.

He'd been quietly returned to his bed while we were sleeping.
When we rose for our duty, he came up from the cave as well. It was very strange. Like he'd been reset to before Monday's events. He remembers everything, but physically, there's no sign that anything ever happened.

I don't know...
He's not allowed to cough or sneeze. That might tear his sutures.
But pick up a bus?
No problem.

Why do I feel like I'm missing something?

I tried to give him the night off, but he said he couldn't lay down - he was too charged up.

Fortunately, it's a quiet night. Most of the time can be spent relaxing, just being aware of potential needs or problems.

Frankie talks about his boat. It's a nice little houseboat waiting for his return after Holy Blood has had their way with him.
No one knows how long that might be, but he's counting on making the distance.

Hmm...

I wonder if he's into Travis McGee?

I'll have to ask him when next I see him.

 

 

The machine has been charging, and charging Frankie in turn.
After what happened, I learned a lot more about the machine Holy Blood installed inside him. It has twelve chambers instead of the merely human four. Until now, they'd pumped in slow relay, working through one full cycle in the time of 4 1/2 cycles of the average human heartbeat rate.

Today the machine ran out of control, cycling at a 1-1 rate.

I wasn't there at the time. It happened in the afternoon as I was visiting the wolfman, after my regular appointment with the vampire earlier in the day. The wolfman was looking better. He'd moved into a much nicer apartment (if one can call the previous cave with a door an "apartment") and had cut seriously down on his drinking. He's much closer to his Sister's place now, too.
He is much happier lately, and I left his place similarly uplifted.

Then I returned to the Mission and found that Frankie was gone. There was a buzz in the main hall. Murmurs of "Frankiestein" and "picked up a bus" and "gone wild" - which was always unusual to hear mentioned there without the word "girls" preceding it.

With very little prodding, I was suddenly verbally bombarded as five different voices all tried to tell their version of events, nearly driving all into incomprehensible babble. But despite the strain on my poor (in every sense) ears, I managed to pick up the basics of the story.

Frankie was up and walking around, even stepping out of the Mission into the sunlight.
"I feel Great!" he kept exclaiming, "Really GREAT!"

"Yeah, right. We get it. Great," someone said as the city bus pulled up.

"No, you don't get it. I mean Really GREAT!"
And then he grabbed the front end of the bus and picked it up over his head. Stood there with it angled up on its back wheels, holding it up high as he exclaimed again. "I mean REALLY GREAT!"

When the bus driver started to panic and hit the gas, Frankie put the bus down and stepped aside. Muttering "really Great" to himself, he headed back into the Mission.

He was found an hour later collapsed in a corner, sweating profusely with harsh labored breathing. Eventually Holy Blood came to take him away.

"Premature Reactive Overload" they said. They assured us he would be back directly.
Not to worry.

Say What?

Not to worry?

"Premature Reactive Overload." Premature. That sounds like it might be worry enough. Does that mean the only problem is the machine starting cycling at that rate too soon? Like his body wasn't ready to hold the charge yet? Yet?

Just what are they doing to him?

How soon will we see him again?

And what is he becoming?

 

 

The augers started screaming almost immediately. Mercy watches over us, and no one was harmed.
At the first indication of the fire, we knew we would have to breach the shelter of the Mission. There was no helping it, we'd just have to hope that numbers and presence would deter anything from taking advantage of the situation. While Frankie summoned the brigade, Tpapa and the Tiger rousted the brothers from their beds, ushering them out into the cold. Though the vicious northern winds had eased, the night still held unseasonable chill. Clad only in the thin night robes, they were herded out into the night just as an icy drizzle started falling.

Meanwhile I went seeking, and found the fire in the laundry - a dryer going up in flames. Fortunately, it was quickly found; not yet spreading beyond its source. Though hot, it wasn't yet unbearable to approach.

Odd how unused data surfaces from the depths of one's mind when needed. A voice from some ancient training session in my ear, instructions in fire suppression technique. Heed the inner guide - a heavy layer of foam sprayed out at the base of the fire, work the way up. Not top down, where the heat of the flames can work against the suppressant.

In only a couple minutes, it was reduced to mere smoldering and steaming, no longer flames and smoke.

By the time I reached the front of the Mission again, the brigade was arriving. Their clockwork efficiency almost spellbinding to watch as they deployed men and gear. One team was lifted to the roof to check for stray fires climbing up through the building while I led the Captain to the laundry. His men quickly extinguished any potential for the fire to break out again, communicating mostly by hand signals.

The alarms still rang out too loud for most verbal exchanges, and no one seemed to have the access to stop them. It took twice as long to extinguish the alarms as it did the fire. My half deaf ears still ring a day later.

After all was said and done, the brigade thanked us for our good work. They seemed unused to arriving to find the building properly evacuated, much less the fire contained. They gave the deskmen an A+ rating on our handling of the situation.

Who knew they gave graded ratings like that?
How strange, but we accepted it with pride, knowing we had done everything to protect the charges in our care. As soon as we could, we got them back inside and to their beds, keeping a watchful eye on the night as they entered, and sealing the Mission against the outside forces again.

The dryer was destroyed, but only the dryer - nothing else. The men were frightened, cold and wet. But all were accounted for and unharmed. Our biggest concern from it all now is hoping we don't have a wave of illness sweep through the Mission in reaction to their time in the damp chill of the night.

Given how much worse it could have been, we'll happily live with that as our biggest concern.

Frankly, I'll call that a good night.


But with the recent mood and happenings, I can't help but get a little paranoid.

Was this just happenstance?
Or another manifestation of something in the Mission?

But we'll find that out some tomorrow.
Today there's a Spider-Man comic reprint in the paper, and I'm going to go enjoy it before bed.

 

 

It's cold out on rounds tonight. A hard wind blowing bitter cold after a mild winter. i look forward to walking between the trailers for a change. The trailers are all quiet. Everything lying low as the harsh winds bring a sudden savage chill to the air.

As Deskmen, we watch over much more than the interior of the Mission. Our security patrols take us out to other compounds where the Mission's work is done, through the trailers and down by the river, through the parklands, and confronting the occasional trolls beneath the bridges.

That last can be one of the strangest, and hardest, parts of our duty. Finding those you've seen and known before, sometimes those you yourself have bagpulled and cast into the pit, now misshapen and twisted, reduced to trolls lurking from a sense of familiarity from earlier days.

You want so much to do something to help them. But what can be done? I can't draw them in past the wards if they've banished themselves.

Sometimes we find those simply lost, or those broken souls who have only now found their way here in the night. We bring them in that will come, and shelter them in the Mission. Hope perhaps their time here can help to heal them, help them to stand and walk out on their own again.

At least can can offer them that chance. But the trolls - they've been cut off from our power to help. Only the Inquisition or a Paladin can help them now. No matter how much we might wish to help, they are beyond us and must seek their own redemption. We can only suggest the path to them.

But the bridges must be kept clear, so we have to drive out the trolls before they settle and stake a home. With the sudden cold, our task becomes even more odious. It is a reminder how much of our work is bound to Duty.

Duty doesn't keep one very warm.

So completing the outer rounds, I'm glad to return to the interior warmth of the Mission. But something is different. Maybe wrong? Maybe just different. The air is still on the interior sweeps. Some familiar vibration is missing.

In the Box Room, it suddenly becomes clear. The Beast is gone. The roaring rumble, at its peak the horrific sound of a brontosaurus passing a kidney stone, was gone. Always present, since before I joined the deskmen. Gone. Always at least a low rumble, a reminder of the slumbering beast. And the thumping...

The Beast of the Box Room was the thing that went bump in the night. New graveyard deskmen were initiated by sending them in to fetch something from the recesses of the box room. When the beast's limbs flailed about independent of the sleeping body, thumping and banging in their struggles to escape from it, all the new men were startled. Some loudly startled.

Those that cried out were invariably rewarded with the roar of the Beast. By the time they emerged from the box room, the crew had a fair measure of the new recruit.

And now the beast was gone. Into the coldest night of recent times. The beast was a constant. I find that without its vibrations, the Mission feels wrong. This adds to the other somewhat ominous feelings of late.
It leaves me wondering...

Did the Beast just go? Or did it flee? Did it sense something we can't and move on before...

before....

before ?

 

 

Something Evil.

It's not fully manifested, whatever it is. Like talons piercing the veil, raking it's taint before it tears through. Dorm Four has sprouted vines wrapping all the bunks. The seem benign, but there's no getting rid of them.
And Dorm Three...

Dorm Three is what convinces us the presence is evil. It has become...foul.

Frankly, it smells like a wet fart storage facility.

But none of those bedded in the dorm can detect odor. Some small blessing, at least.

Hmmm....
Let me tell you a little of the layout here.

There are four dorms on the main floor of the mission. Each dorm has ten bunks with two beds apiece. And so we have 80 beds for the general population.
And then there are the lower floors. Where the Programmers are kept. And where our cave is, and the library as well. And beneath them, the catacombs.

The cave - They call it The Bat-Cave. Really. Since long before I arrived.
The cave is home to the graveyard deskmen. It's always dark in the cave, and We have our own privacy. Partly by policy, and partly by the natural desire to stand apart from us. To distance oneself from the things we deal with.

Back on the main floor, the deskmen take station by the main gate leading into the main hall. Off the main hall are the dining hall and kitchens, the chapel, the bath hall and small rooms for various specialists, such as barber and doctor.
The offices are set off on the opposite side of Mission. We have little to do with them in day to day operations.

And meanwhile, Dorms Three and Four in the back corner are infested by something. It's nothing major so far, but it is extremely resilient. Standard banishings had little to no effect. In the daylight, the Exquisitors will do a full purging. That should deal with whatever it is.

Until then, we keep a close eye, make sure the sleepers are safe, and wait for the dawn.

Sometimes, that's the best we can hope for.

 

 

He came to the gate in the early hours of the night, seeking entrance and shelter. But the guarding wards blew hot and shined bright red against his presence. We'll take in those we can for the first couple hours of the morning, but after that we need to secure the Mission against the denizens of the later night.
The wards forced us to turn him away. But there was something about him. Perhaps I had just seen him here before. Many faces pass without real notice. I think there was something more though. Some deep need in his gaze. He'll be back, I suspect. He'll pass the wards, too. I think he's experienced a trigger point, and that he's going to be traveling through some changes in the days ahead. And when he returns, he may even be called as a Programmer.

I'm no scryer though.
I've watched many whom I thought were on their true path suddenly lost and fallen again. I've seen those I thought completely hopeless suddenly find themselves and walk out into the day again.

Basically, I've been wrong plenty often in what I see and expect from people. I've been right more times than a few. But wrong often enough not to assume I know better than anyone else.

And still...

Still I think we'll see him again. I have no idea who he is. Didn't even get a name before the wards barred him. So I can neither watch the V-ins for him, nor summon up a history.
I'll just have to let my curiosity idle until I chance to see him again.


So often though, our curious urges are left hungry. We'll see...

 

 

You don't expect the mundane. We spend so much time dealing with the night, we forget the day.

Will was a hoop warrior. When he arrived at the mission, he was a shattered man. The dark things of the world had filled and poisoned him, had wounded him and left him to bleed his soul in a gutter.

In the last six months, he had found himself again, gained spiritual and physical strength, rebuilt a man again. He became a magnet for others to draw centered around. When the River City held their hoop wars, his efforts drew notice to the Mission's cadre of hoop warriors.

The light had begun to shine for him again.

River City is just so - a river runs through it. Not so massive as to keep a network of bridges from spanning it. But broad and placid in many areas, narrow and rushing in others. Low falls near the center of town. It makes for a beautiful variety of scenery through the town.

The day was perfect for an outing - the sun clear and hot with a cool breeze comforting in the heat. A group of men, including Will, decided to take advantage of it. Packed lunch and hiked to the riverside for an afternoon of fun and games in the sun.

The river runs past the Mission - just on the other side of the park. But they wanted a change of scenery and to get out and away for a bit. Understandably so. Many rarely set foot outside the mission walls. It's different for me, I'm gone frequently to the Archives, and my twice weekly meetings with the Vampire. And I have friends in the city to visit. But I can certainly understand the urge to get away for those who don't see the outside world. And if one looks, there is a beautiful world to see.

Wilhelm was on the shore taking in the view when it happened. Will swimming out to the middle of the river, a hidden patch of corpse weed reaching up to entangle him, and suddenly he was tugged down out sight. It was over so fast, there was nothing to be done except recover the body and summon the praetorians. That quickly he was gone.

All the horrors of the night, and something so mundane is what takes him.

The others are in shock, and they've hung his effigy on the wall. Tributes mount in gathering numbers around it.

And I...



well...I was relieved when I learned it was him.


You see, when I first heard Will, I thought it was Will the Elder who had died. I know this Will, he is part of the morning team, a kitchen monitor. I see and speak with him daily. Will the younger I barely knew. While he was popular among the men, I just wasn't around to know and bond with him like the others. And when I learned it was him, not Will the Elder as I'd first thought...

...it's my shame that I was relieved it was him.

 

 

For two nights after the first night the tension lingered. It was out there, but how close? The animals and birds were absent. The freshly slaughtered carcasses waiting for the butcher were restive on the hooks.
Nothing was right.
But it's been a week and more, and it seems to have passed. If the Elders know what it was, why it was, they tell us nothing. But the men, they'll tell anyone who'll listen plenty. Theories abound, everyone with a favorite explanation. Most of them so laughable we have to stop listening. If they knew we faced such malevolents so often while they slept...

So we say nothing.

We nod, smile quiet smiles and reassure them - "Yes. That could be it."

Fewer people tonight. Only 106. Down two dozen from last week. People were feeling cooped up and tense. Now with the fear safely gone, many have the courage to step out into the world again.

On the security rounds, I found three camping beneath the troll bridge.
They'll all quickly forget and things return to what passes for normal.
Three bagpulls tonight.
One Bed Hold breached.
A ward disturbed on the perimeter.
A couple taking advantage of the seemingly empty park for the thrill of forbidden public sex, never aware of the flashlight that stays dark a dozen feet away.
Two of the cursed tearing at the gates, seeking to force their way past the locks and wards.
The hours before dawn bring the early wake-ups, rousing those who'll feed the masses, summoning the Box Men, calling the morning crews to their duties.
Another typical night. Everything goes one. Passing things forgotten, over and done with. They're behind us and no longer exist as far as they're concerned.


But we know better. And we don't know what hell that Thing was from. Only that it was nothing they know. And that we had nothing to do with it leaving.

We only hoped it has returned and left our world behind it.

And pray that it's nothing we will ever have to face here...

 

 

We knew it was bad - the attack had left him that way months ago, before he arrived at the Mission. But it was still a shock when they came for him.

They took him away to Holy Blood, opened him up and yanked the ruined thing out.

Frankie'd been with me the longest - he came aboard back when the man from Jordan was still here. He fit in good - a fan of comics and obscure movies and odd things cool. We'd had plenty of long conversations on the merits of 100 Bullets vs. Transmetropolitan, or the finer points of Clerks vs. Bubba Ho-Tep. Frankie's a good man to have at your back; a big man to have at your back. And he could be counted on to pass the hours in an entertaining ramble of personal and cultural history.

And Friday they yanked his heart out and brought him to a stop.


Four days later they put in a machine and started him up again.


He's got a gruesome seam up the front, and some call him Frankiestein now.

He's quiter now. And weak. At first he couldn't even stand.
But he's charging.
And soon ... I wonder.
For now though, we let him just handle communications and records. We handle the physical demands, the bagpulls, the security patrols. We leave him to slowly regenerate.

But it's strange to watch him. He's a big man - my size. But suddenly so frail, as if his own mass was too much for him to support. We can only trust that the cult of the Holy Blood know what they do.

And I see the looks the Tiger and Tpapa give each other. They look at Frankie The Dago and they wonder - "Does he count as a survivor? What can we look forward to?"

 

 

We had to clear the boxroom to make room for the victim. We don't know what got him, but his feet are gnawed shreds of flesh and bone festering with green and black.
And the smell!

We couldn't put him in any of the dorms. The unholy stench makes him unfit to be around. But neither could we toss him back out into the night. Not with whatever new Thing out there that did this to him. So we put him in the box room and said a fervent prayer.

There's little we can do for him, except offer minor comfort and keep him safe from further attack during the night. Come the morning he'll be carried to Holy Blood for care. They'll help, but I doubt he'll walk again. If he survives.

Whatever is out there that did this to him is new. Perhaps it's only passing. I hope so. It's presence is affecting everyone. Everything. Even the spirits seem afraid. For a rare change, there were no bagpulls tonight.
Not a one.

Okay - this is all new. Familiar terms mean nothing to the outsider, so I'll try to remember to explain as I go along:

Bagpulls
Various non-physical entities can manage to gain entry to the Mission, and do. We deskmen run checks through the night to be sure that those in our care sleep soundly through the dark night. But the possessed sleep not at all. They wander the Mission, seeking entrance into the catacombs to pursue the interests of the spirits moving them. To protect the mission and the others sheltered here, we must bagpull the possessed.

And so we stalk the corridors, armed only with light and a hefty burlap sack. When we find one of the wanderers, we throw the bag over them, pulling it down to the feet as we knock them over. Then quickly binding the bag and invoking a seal, we drag it to the Pit and toss it in. The belongings of the bagpulled are thrown in behind them, and then we have paperwork to do, of course. Always paperwork!

However, it is no sin to be possessed. So frequently those we bagpull show up again over the next few days. Often confused, unable to retain quite what happened to them, they only know they've been forgiven and restored.

Some prove to be very susceptible to the influence of the dark forces. Sometimes through no fault of their own, but often due to their own dark natures or practices. And so those who suffer a fourth bagpull must face the Inquisition before they can be allowed the shelter of the Mission. It's a daunting thing for the innocent to face, but the danger to the others makes it a necessary thing.

Bagpulls are not always without incident, and at times can even require Light Work. But that's an explanation for another day.

Last night we had not a single bagpull. Even the dark spirits that usually find their way past the wards seem scared off by whatever this new thing is. This Thing that ate his feet.

Perhaps it won't return after the light of day.

I don't know.

We can only wait and see...

 

 

From the witching hour to dawn's bright light, we man the Graveyard Desk.

On any given night, over a hundred souls rest within our care at the Mission. It's a dark world, getting darker, and for those without it - Hope starts here.

My name is Trinity.* I lead the crew by virtue of having survived the longest. Four months on the desk. That makes me ancient compared to the average deskman. Three others currently complete the team: Frankie The Dago (he's from New York - YOU ask him), The Tiger, and Tpapa Fred. All three are sturdy veterans now, with the Tiger being our rookie at two week's experience. Two weeks might not sound like long, but the average deskman lasts only a few weeks.

We all know that means it's just a matter of time. Every night stretches the odds further that it will be the last night for one of us. We don't think about that. Not much.

It's a strange life in a strange time. I'll try to share a bit of it with you here.



*(No relation to the movie of the same title.)