The Otherworldlies (20 page)

“Greetings, Telemus. Tell Mr. Alistair Kimble to come forward,” said the creature behind the door, whose voice sounded much like Telemus’s.

Mr. Kimble put his eyes flush against the grate.

“What’s going on?” Sam whispered to Bing, who was standing next to him.

“Telemar is sniffing him, specifically his eyes, to make sure he’s not a shape-shifting Blout. They’re always doing anything they can to infiltrate headquarters,” Bing said. “Here, they call him the Nose. He’s got the best sense of smell in all of New Tartarus.”

Fern thought of Vlad’s first appearance at Pirate’s Cove.

“Why are they talking like that?”

“Cyclopes are very particular creatures; they pride themselves on professionalism and formality. You’ll never see a Cyclops break protocol. A lot of people call Mr. Kimble a two-eyed Cyclops behind his back because he’s the same way,” Bing whispered to the children.

Mr. Kimble stepped back and summoned Bing to the grate. Telemus escorted him. Then it was Fern’s and Sam’s turn. Fern held her breath, scared senseless. They stood frozen as Telemar sucked in mouthfuls of air. They could both feel his hot breath as he exhaled.

Telemar slid the grate closed. The two oak doors opened out in front of him. Fern had escaped detection, once again. Maybe she wasn’t a Blout, at least not yet.

Mr. Kimble and Bing immediately walked through. Fluorescent light swamped the open door. Sam and Fern exchanged nervous glances and walked forward. Once everyone was inside, Telemus and Telemar closed the doors behind them. The
thud
reverberated loudly off the concrete. Telemar climbed back on his stool and resumed his watch.

The drabness of the place was uniform. The ceiling was high and the walls were unadorned gray. Fern, who had been expecting Oz beyond the oak doors, wondered how many cement mixing trucks it must have taken to create this fortress. Long rows of buzzing lights hung from overhead. The room looked like a warehouse; Fern imagined Costco would look much like this if it were emptied out. There were six pairs of white windowless sliding doors with red scrolling letters above each set. Two dozen people were scattered around the doors. Everyone was middle-aged and professional, some with briefcases, wearing skirts or neutral-colored ties. Fern imagined that these tired, pale people looked much like the people who took the subway during rush hour in New York City. The scrolling signs announced what Fern figured was a destination and a departure. The one closest to her read
W.A.A.V.E. HEADQUARTERS—4 MINUTES
.

When a gray-haired woman with glasses and a striped suit noticed Sam and Fern, she couldn’t take her eyes off them. She tilted her head at Fern and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Alistair?” she questioned, taking a few steps toward the new arrivals. “Alistair, is that you?”

Mr. Kimble stepped toward the woman.

“Millie,” he said without any excitement. “Good afternoon.”

“Well, well. Alistair Kimble, before my very eyes.”

“How is Outreach treating you, Millie?”

“Oh, you know, more of the same, doing the best I can, and all that.” Millie’s voice was high-pitched and fast. Every time she spoke, it was similar to the moment before someone breaks into song during a Broadway musical. “It’s been a few years since you’ve been to NT, hasn’t it? When was the last time—it must have been the VC four years ago? Right about the time you stopped talking to me. Are you still the DH of the GCD?”

Millie, it seemed, was overly fond of abbreviations and acronyms, which frustrated many less-than-knowledgeable eavesdroppers, Fern included.

“My work keeps me aboveground for the most part,” Mr. Kimble said.

“You know, all my friends warned me about you. They told me I should never get involved with someone like you, who’s always putting the job before everything else. But you could have called, at the very least—just to say good-bye.”

Mr. Kimble appeared to be in pain.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, standing more stiffly than before. Mr. Kimble followed Millie’s eyes to Fern and Sam, one freckled and blond, the other pale and dark. His salt to her pepper.

“Well, how did you go and pull a thing like that off? I’ve never seen a child here before. Are these yours, Alistair? Did you find a woman crazy enough to marry you?” More and more people were turning away from their doors and looking toward Mr. Kimble and Millie. Mr. Kimble took two steps back.

“They are not mine,” Mr. Kimble said, offering up very few answers. Bing stood nervously by, fidgeting with his collar.

“Oh my word! They’re alleged Unusuals! Don’t tell me you’ve become mixed up in all the hoopla,” Millie said, her voice so loud it was bouncing from one concrete wall to the next. Her glasses magnified her eyes and made them appear as large as poker chips. “I’d heard there was an Unusual in the western United States, but two—well, that must be it! There’s no way Chief Quagmire and his cronies would let them in otherwise.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to jump to conclusions,” Mr. Kimble said in his most patronizing voice.

“Vlad and the Legion have everyone running around scared, but I had no idea the paranoia had struck this deep. You know there’s no such thing as the Unusual Eleven, don’t you? Hah! Small children at New Tartarus . . . what next!”

Fern glared at Sam. She may have been on the small side, but Sam certainly wasn’t. A voice seven times more melodious than Millie’s shrill one came onto a public address system, though there were no speakers in sight.

“Tram to Outreach Command Center approaching portal two. Please allow passengers to exit before entering. Thank you.”

“That’s me,” Millie said, turning away and lining up in front of the closest pair of doors. Fern marveled at the idea that Mr. Kimble, who was so formal and cold, could have possibly been somebody’s boyfriend. Vampires had relationships too, she supposed.

The doors to the tram dinged and slid open, giving way to a brightly lit interior. The seats inside were gleaming white, as were the vertical poles. The outside of the tram was white with a single red stripe running alongside. Two windows on each side of the tram provided the only other break from the glaring whiteness of the transport.

“Why is everything so white?” Sam asked.

“A few years ago, the Assembly went to great lengths to brighten up New Tartarus,” Bing said. “There were claims that the darkness was making the Rollens who worked here ‘depressed.’ I think we’ve strayed a bit too far from our gothic roots, personally,” he added.

Normally Fern would have laughed—but normally she wasn’t standing in the middle of a concrete room with twenty pairs of eyes focused on her.

“Tram to W.A.A.V.E. Laboratories approaching portal six. Please allow passengers to exit before entering. Thank you.”

Although a few passengers got off the tram, no one boarded the latest arrival. Fern’s heart expanded in her chest as she watched a man approach their group. The man had a large mop of curly hair and a thick mustache that coiled around his lips and climbed all the way down to his chin. He knelt in front of Sam.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” There was a badge hanging from his lapel with a picture of him on it. Underneath it read
HARRY ROGERS, DEBUNKER BUNKER, CHIEF DISPELLER
. Harry Rogers held his arms out in front of him before wrapping them around Sam and bringing him close to his chest. Sam squirmed in the arms of the affectionate stranger. His hot breath made Sam’s neck feel as if it were on fire. After a few tense seconds, the man released him, looking almost tearful.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I just can’t believe you’re here . . . it’s amazing.”

Harry Rogers voice trailed off as he struggled to his feet and locked his eyes on Sam with a look of sheer admiration. Mr. Kimble wasted no time stepping in front of Harry Rogers and blocking his view of Sam.

“Tram to Alliance Offices approaching portal four. Please allow passengers to exit before entering. Thank you.”

There was a loose circle of people around them now.

“We must be going,” Alistair said, pulling Sam and Fern with each hand. They stepped through the sliding doors and left the man standing amid a gathering throng of other people. They all stared at Sam and Fern, whispering to themselves. Fern looked away, all the while hating the fact that she and Sam were a spectacle.

“People from the bunker are prone to theatrics,” Mr. Kimble said, expressing his annoyance. The tram was empty.

“What was all that about?” Sam said. He had uncovered his eyes after adjusting to the brightness of the tram car.

“It’s a very small community and people have many questions,” Mr. Kimble replied, taking a loud breath in and out.

“I don’t know why people automatically think the boy is the special one,” Fern said, rolling her eyes at Sam.

“Oh, like you would’ve rather been hugged by that weirdo? I took one for the team,” Sam shot back.

“Both of you settle down now. People are just curious about you because they’ve never seen children inside New Tartarus,” Mr. Bing said.

“Anybody that’s here has gone through a rigorous screening process,” Mr. Kimble added without any of the empathy of Mr. Bing. “Everyone has a job in a specific department, helping to serve the Alliance. Imagine children walking around the CIA’s headquarters. People will continue to find your presence here strange. You’ll have to get used to it.” It was as if Mr. Kimble was trying to comfort the children but didn’t know how.

The tram zipped along smoothly and silently. The twins sat next to each other on two cold white bucket seats. Fern clutched the cell phone Mr. Kimble had given her before she boarded the Atlas. Even if she had wanted to call her mother—even if she managed to forgive the Commander for sending her first on a truck ride that almost killed her and then to this concrete den of deceptions—there was no way she could. The phone had zero reception. Mr. Kimble must have known this when he’d given it to her.

Fern’s initial anxiety about the trip had disappeared. In its place there was frustration—frustration that her strange reception was the beginning of a visit where she could only rely on other people for answers. She wasn’t sure what Harry Rogers and the horde of watchful eyes wanted from her, but she knew it must be something enormous. The mere thought of what being an Unusual must entail made her sink down into her seat, paralyzed from the weight of unknown but mighty expectations resting on her slender shoulders. Fern wished she was just like Sam and Eddie—not the least bit otherworldly or unusual at all. The train continued to zoom along to the Alliance Offices. Fern and Sam had no idea what to expect when they arrived, but each felt a vague sense of dread for what lay ahead.

Chapter 16
the integration initiative

T
he tram slowed down.

“Now approaching Alliance Offices. Please wait for doors to open completely before exiting the train. Thank you.”

The doors opened. Sam and Fern were the last to disembark. The light was dimmer outside the train. The concrete efficiency of the tram hub station had been replaced by marble splendor. White marble pillars buttressed arches that outlined a blue dome. A large stone-carved archway opened to a well-lit courtyard, complete with a bubbling fountain and a marble statue of a bearded shirtless man. Above the arch on the other side of the courtyard there was a sign that read
OFFICES, QUARTERS, LEGISLATURE HEADQUARTERS AHEAD
.

A man in a tuxedo limped out of the doorway toward the group. He had a cane in one hand and didn’t appear to have another hand. His thin sleeve was pinned to his side. His mouth was full of long yellow teeth, and his stringy white hair was complemented by white stubble on his chin. He had a sagging face the color of wet sand. The crags beneath his cheeks and underneath his eyes made his face look like a skull. This, Fern thought to herself, was the oldest man she had ever seen.

He extended his cane in front of him and performed a small bow in front of Alistair Kimble and Joseph Bing.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “And most honored guests. Chief Quagmire sent me to meet you. I am Chuffy Merced the third. Shall we proceed to his office?”

Mr. Bing looked at Chuffy and bowed ceremoniously.

“It’s a pleasure to meet both of you,” Chuffy said, smacking his lips together. “I’ve been hoping to meet you,” he said, directing his watery eyes right at Fern.

“I’ve got some things to attend to,” Mr. Bing said before turning to Sam and Fern. “But I’ll be back to check in on you two. Let Mr. Kimble know if there’s anything you need,” he said. Having known the janitor for some time, Fern could detect concern in his voice. He was worried.

Chuffy limped ahead as Mr. Kimble, Sam, and Fern followed him down a long corridor. The ceilings were lined with crown molding, the walls were adorned with stern-faced portraits, and the floor was tiled with black and white marble. Unmarked doors broke up the stone walls on either side of the corridor every so often, but it seemed endless.

“Where do all these doors go?” Sam asked, never able to keep his curiosity at bay.

“Offices,” Mr. Kimble replied. Chuffy quickened his pace. Fern fell behind and almost resorted to a trot. Finally she spotted a double door adorned with a bloodred flag at the end of the hallway. As the group got closer, Fern could make out a thick white ring in the middle.

“What country is that flag from?” Sam asked hurriedly, trying to keep pace with Mr. Kimble and Chuffy’s forced march. For a man with a cane and one arm missing, Chuffy moved very quickly.

“It’s not a country’s flag,” Mr. Kimble said. Chuffy stopped in front of the door. A large brass knocker protruded beneath the flag. Chuffy grunted as he lifted it.

“Well, hello, hello!” Kenneth Quagmire, nattily dressed in a dark cashmere sweater and brown pants, opened both doors. His warmth and hospitality was a stark contrast to the chilly demeanor of Mr. Kimble.

The office itself was warm and inviting. A brick fireplace housed a glowing orange fire. A large maple desk scattered with papers and pens sat in the corner and red oriental rugs covered almost the entire marble floor. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling and pictures in golden frames hung neatly on the walls. Two brass-studded red leather armchairs faced Quagmire’s desk.

“Not exactly the Oval Office, but it gets the job done, right?”

Fern took a closer look around. Most of the pictures and paintings were familiar. Every one had something to do with vampire lore, ranging from a famous sketch of Dracula to the front of a cereal box featuring Count Chocula. Sam and Fern began to scan all the pictures and paintings.

“Everyone always focuses on the walls. Pretty neat, huh?” Chief Quagmire said, admiring them himself. “The idea is to present a pictorial view of vampires and how they’ve been represented through the ages.” The chief gazed down at Fern and offered her a warm smile.

“You’ll notice that although the vampire legend lives on, not much has changed in the way we’re depicted. Most of the time we are categorically beastly, frightening, unintelligent, brutish, full of ravenous desires, and with little to no civility. We live in cages, caves, and graves. You’ll meet a nice vampire every now and again, like George Hamilton in
Love at First Bite
or the vampire with a heart of gold, but still, the vampires in these movies and stories can’t seem to figure out a way to live without feeding off other people. They can’t live in the light of day. I keep thinking some investigative reporter or historian will catch on.”

“What do you mean?” Sam said, unimpressed by Chief Quagmire’s stature.

“Well, Sam, vampires are very much still a part of popular culture. There are hundreds of portrayals of vampires a year,” Chief Quagmire continued, thoughtfully, “and no one seems to have figured out the fact that if vampires are still around, and have been around for thousands of years, we would have evolved—we would have formed organized communities and our own form of government. Otherworldlies—the whole lot of us—are intelligent, thoughtful people. Thanks to many advancements made in the laboratory by the World Association for the Advancement of Vampiric Equipment, we now live full lives in the bright light of day. We’ve set up a democracy of our own. We have one of the most advanced communication networks in the world. And New Tartarus, if I do say so myself, is a facility any civilized country would be proud to call its own.”

Chief Quagmire looked up and smiled, almost as if he had become self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to bore you with my political speech. All of my talk is meaningless, of course. This lack of change is most likely because our people down at the Debunker Bunker are doing their jobs effectively. So no new information gets out.”

“The Debunker Bunker?” Sam said, pulling his eyes away from an enlarged commemorative postage stamp featuring Bela Lugosi with fangs and a widow’s peak. Fern noticed Mr. Kimble look askance at Chief Quagmire as he sat down in one of the red leather chairs and crossed his legs.

“Every once in a while there’s an incident—whether it be due to a Rollen or a Blout—that provides evidence confirming our existence to the outside world. The Alliance tries to control these occurrences to make sure the legend of vampires does not grow any more radiant.”

“How?” Sam asked.

“Anytime an Otherworldly, say, harms a Normal in a very vampiric way, it raises suspicion. If the suspicion becomes a measured threat, agents from the Bunker intervene. They go out in the field and do whatever it takes to make sure these things don’t begin a ripple effect,” Chief Quagmire said. He paced across the room and sat in the chair behind his desk. He put his arms on the top of his head and leaned back. “If you want to know the truth, it’s much like what I did for Fern at Disneyland, pretending to be Don Camille. A little mind-managing here, a little mind-expunging there. Of course, it’s a lot easier if the whole thing hasn’t been shown on television,” Chief Quagmire finished and smiled, winking at Fern. This made Fern uncomfortable; there was something too forced about the chief’s manner.

“Is there still a district meeting today?” Alistair Kimble interjected.

“Yes,” Chief Quagmire said, looking down at his wrist. “In fact, you’d better get going—you have your reputation for promptness to uphold.”

“What is your plan for Sam and Fern?” Mr. Kimble said coldly. Fern wondered if she was the root of the tension between them.

“My plan?” Chief Quagmire said absently.

“Where will I be able to find them after I’m finished?” Mr. Kimble responded.

“Chuffy is going to show them around a bit and then take them to the cafeteria. Does that meet with your approval, boss?” Chief Quagmire questioned sarcastically.

“I’m not trying to second-guess you, Kenneth, but I made a promise to their mother that I’d keep an eye on them.”

“That is why we brought them down here—so they’d be out of danger,” Chief Quagmire said, his boyish charm turning patronizing in the span of an instant. “What exactly do you think is going to happen to them? Quit worrying and go to your meeting. You have larger problems to contend with.”

Alistair Kimble didn’t bother shutting the large doors behind him as he left the room. Fern could tell he was upset.

“Chuffy, stop hanging around, you nosy old man, and leave me to chat with my two young friends for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Chuffy said, hobbling out of the room. The sound of the doors closing echoed through the long hall.

“Chuffy means well, but he’s a little slow, if you know what I mean. I’ve taken him under my wing here, but he needs constant guidance. He’s a bit of a problem case. Anyway,” Chief Quagmire said, changing his tone, “take a seat, you two.”

Sam thought he was trying hard to sound avuncular even though he was far too suave and well-groomed to fit into the uncle role. Sam and Fern climbed into the red chairs and felt small as their feet dangled in the air.

“I know this must be very difficult for you both . . . and your mother.” Chief Quagmire oozed sympathy. “But we’ll get this straightened out. You made the right decision by coming here.”

Sam and Fern stared at Kenneth Quagmire without so much as blinking.

“You’ve probably got a zillion questions about New Tartarus, but once Chuffy takes you exploring a bit, you’ll begin to see what we’re all about down here.” Chief Quagmire looked expectantly at the McAllister twins. “I do have a few questions for you both first, which will help us with all this Vlad business.”

“All right,” Fern said, looking at her brother. She was so grateful he had come along; his presence was one of the few things preventing her from bolting out the door.

“Some of the things I ask you might be rather basic, but answer them anyway, please.” Chief Quagmire took a pair of reading glasses from his desk and perched them on his nose. They looked out of place on his handsome face. He held a clipboard and a pen in his hand.

“Do you have the ability to teleport?” Chief Quagmire said reading from his clipboard and making his voice very formal.

“Yes, Fern does. I’ve seen it,” Sam said, deciding to answer on behalf of his sister, much to her relief.

“Can she control it?” Chief Quagmire said, rapid-fire.

“Kind of,” Sam said. “She can if it’s a place she’s been a lot.” Fern was waiting for Sam to talk about their work with
The Disappearance Directory
. He didn’t.

“How many times has it happened?” Quagmire persisted.

“Three times,” Sam said, shading the truth, once again. Normally, Fern would’ve looked at her brother with raised eyebrows, but she didn’t want to give anything away.

“What about other special qualities that Fern possesses? Have you noticed anything else?”

“Yes, she can predict the weather and she’s very sensitive to the sun,” Sam said, choosing not to discuss her hearing capabilities or her talent for moving water. Fern knew her brother well enough to know these omissions were deliberate and purposeful. She took his lead: They would be truthful to a point, but would not be entirely forthcoming, with Kenneth Quagmire. Why not wait to tell him everything until they were sure he was on their side?

“What about hearing? Some Otherworldlies have exceptional hearing.”

“I don’t think so,” Fern said, jumping in to the interrogation. “It’s not any better than Sam’s.”

“It’s worse,” Sam said, smiling at Fern. “Though sometimes I don’t hear things when I don’t want to. Our mom calls it ‘selective hearing.’”

“Anything else? Fern, would you care to add something else?” Chief Quagmire raised an eyebrow.

“I get stomachaches a lot. But I’m not sure that’s a special quality,” she said, knowing if she looked at Sam, she might break into a smile. Chief Quagmire didn’t hesitate, even for a beat.

“Now, when Vlad came to talk to you, what did he say?”

“Do we really have to go through
this
again?” Sam said.

“It’s fine,” Fern said, not wanting to tip Chief Quagmire off to their omissions. “I don’t mind. He found me in Anderson’s Grove, which is in San Juan Capistrano. He said he’d come to tell me that he’d be back for me in a month. He explained to me that I didn’t belong with Normals and that he wanted me to go with him when he returned.”

“Do you want to join him? Did you want to join him at the time?” Chief Quagmire said, without revealing how significant the question actually was.

“No,” Fern said, agitated. “Definitely not.” She had no idea if she was telling the complete truth.

“Why are you asking something like that?” Sam said defensively.

“The reality of the situation is,” Quagmire said, looking over the top of his glasses “that many people who think they’d never succumb to such things—to a dark life based on fear and wickedness—do submit in the end if nudged in the right way at the right time. We’ve lost many Rollens in exactly that way.” Fern looked Kenneth Quagmire squarely in the eye. Was that what had happened to Fern’s birth mother, Phoebe Merriam?

“And you’re saying you think I’m going to do that?”

“As long as you’re honest, Fern, we can help you avoid any such event.” Fern wondered what honesty had to do with it. She was sure Chief Quagmire was trying to manipulate her; she just didn’t know how exactly. Part of Fern thought she much preferred her face-to-face encounter with Vlad. At least she knew what to expect from him—he had come out and told her exactly what he wanted from her.

“How will I know if that’s happening?”

“There are some very dark and disturbing aspects to vampires, to be sure, but there is a dark and disturbing side to most human beings.”

“But what’s the difference between a Blout and a Rollen, really?”

“Well, Blouts still believe that feeding off Normals is acceptable behavior.”

“Why do they still do it?” Sam asked.

“Besides the fulfillment of a desire? Well, blood is extraordinarily useful to Otherworldlies. Say you’re a Hermes or a Poseidon—the sucking of blood may increase your special talents by twofold. Blood also extends the life of an Otherworldly. Say you have an Otherworldly who is on the brink of death—his life can be extended by regular feedings. So you see, it’s incredibly tempting for any Otherworldly. But at what cost? The sooner we can acknowledge the temptation and move past it, the better off we are. Many Otherworldlies share this view. I think it’s why my integration initiative has been embraced by all Rollens.”