I step into the laundromat, the lights flickering buzzily overhead. I expected the scene laid out to greet me, but I still have to clench my jaw and swallow hard against nausea. It gets easier after a while, but you never really get used to it.
The walls and floor are painted with gore and my steps squelch a bit. I'm just a bit too late. Even my reliable sixth sense can't speed me through downtown traffic. Eviscerated husks spew lengths of intestine like tangled yarn, the smell of shit and blood heavy in the air. Something twitches over in the corner, making a sound that shock and unimaginable agony have rendered to a dull, repeated, "uh uh uh uh." I cross the room between the rows of silent washers and dryers, ignoring what crushes beneath my shoes, and deliver the mercy stroke. For good measure I shift my grip on the knife and dig into his left eye socket, working the blade around until, with a wet sound, the gelatinous mass pops free of the red ruin.
Rising from my squat, I stomp down with deliberate viciousness, splattering viscous ooze. No mistake, this is the Church's work. For someone raised from birth in that nest of insanity, they might as well have left a neon calling card. I move counter-clockwise around the room, doing the same for each still-warm corpse. I try not to look at their faces, try not to register age, sex, the presence of a wedding band on the crimson-soaked finger.
Most people can't survive the process of the seeds tendriling into their brain. Honestly, they're the lucky ones. Some survive, and go insane, ripping anything around them into bloody gobbets of meat. A very few make it out with their faculties intact, and it's them the Church plucks out of the wreckage. It's them the Church will use as conduits, channeling the outside power of some unholy force of chaos, or nothingness, or evil, or something of all three, I never really managed to put a label on it.
I feel another pang of guilt that this is their Plan B.
Vesper, they called me, even my name a reference to the call to prayer rather than something that might acknowledge my own identity. Their golden child, surviving infection in the womb, born with a wisp of darkness behind my left eye, able to connect with It as easy as thought. Never mind that using me as the gateway to some eldritch realm would likely destroy my brain if not my body. Never mind that whatever it unleashed upon the world would make Hell look like a Sunday picnic. They brainwashed me to believe I was special, a messiah.
These shattered bodies on the ground are the result of my escape. My absence forces them to seed more people, trying to amass the sheer potential I possess. Butchery complete, I bow my head and mouth a silent I'm sorry to the dead.
I wipe my knife clean on a white towel hanging from the open mouth of a dryer.
The metallic scent of blood mingles with the artificial freshness of dryer sheets, creating a nauseating cocktail that seems to epitomize my life now – the collision of mundane normalcy with unspeakable horror. I should call this in, let the cleanup crew handle it. But I can't risk the police arriving before my people do. Can't risk them finding evidence of something beyond their comprehension.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Without looking, I know it's Marcus. He's probably watching the feeds, saw the power fluctuations that always accompany a seeding event. I let it ring. He means well, but I need a moment. Just one moment to process what I'm seeing, to let the weight of it settle on my shoulders before I have to put on my professional face.
I move to the back office, checking for survivors or stragglers. The small room is mercifully empty, though splattered with the same evidence of violence. A half-eaten sandwich sits on the desk next to a family photo – mother, father, two kids at Disney World. My stomach lurches. I check the name on the desk calendar: Carlos Martinez, Assistant Manager.
I scan the security feeds, but they're dead. Of course. The Church isn't sloppy. I should know – I helped develop their protocols. The thought makes me sick all over again. How many times had I sat in on planning sessions, offering suggestions on how to better conceal their atrocities? How many years did I spend believing I was part of something greater, something necessary?
The buzz of my phone interrupts my spiral into self-loathing. Marcus again. This time I answer.
"I'm here," I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
"Jesus, Vesper. You can't just go dark like that. Are there any survivors?"
I close my eyes, seeing again the carnage in the main room. "No. Too late again. Seven dead."
"Shit." I hear typing in the background. "Cleanup team is ten minutes out. You need to clear the scene."
"I know the protocol, Marcus." The words come out sharper than I intended. "Sorry. It's just..."
"I know." His voice softens. "But you can't save everyone. You're doing more than anyone could expect."
Am I though? Every person seeded is a direct result of my escape. Every death, every drop of blood spilled is on my hands. The Church needs a gateway, and if they can't have their messiah, they'll tear apart the city trying to create a replacement.
"The pattern's escalating," I say, moving back into the main room. "This is the third attempt this month. They're getting desperate."
"Or closer to something. Intel suggests they're planning something big. We need you back at HQ to look at some data."
I grunt noncommittally, scanning the room one last time. Something catches my eye – a symbol traced in blood on one of the dryer doors. Three intersecting lines forming an eye, with a spiral at its center. My breath catches. That wasn't part of any protocol I know.
"Marcus," I say, cutting off whatever he was saying. "They left a message this time."
Silence on the other end. Then, "Don't touch anything else. Get out now. We'll grab it with the cleanup."
But I'm already moving closer, drawn to the symbol like a moth to flame. The spiral seems to move, to pulse with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. And beneath the coppery scent of blood, there's something else. Something that smells like ozone and tastes like static on my tongue.
My left eye burns.