The Solum Protocol - Prologue
Investigations into the Weird, Occult and Unnatural, using the Delta Green RPG.
Published by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this document are ©SolumProtocol, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.
Photo by BETHANY MALONEY: https://www.pexels.com/photo/view-of-a-city-through-a-big-window-in-an-apartment-10831533/
Content Warning: Delta Green contains themes of horror and violence.
Arkham, Massachusetts - November 19, 2004
“Stop. Don’t move. Hands up.” I barked. I pointed my flashlight into the room, but the voluminous black robe shielded the figure's form and face from me. It hadn’t stopped moving though, so I pulled the hammer of my 9mm back and shouted out another warning, louder this time, my voice wavering slightly as I ordered the figure to stand down. It had been a long, exhausting day, and the images I had seen at the suspect’s apartment on Crane Street would be burned into my mind for the rest of my life, but I kept her hand steady, the nose of the pistol trained unerringly into the bulk of the man’s mass. Even under the robe, and in the dark, I knew it was him standing there. I had poured over photos of Ronald Heiss long enough to recognize him even in the dim light. The small, crude star tattoo on the inside of his wrist had been the key to the whole investigation, despite what Agent Harper had said.
“I won’t tell you again Heiss, put down the scalpel and step away!” Rivulets of blood dripped from the table, and even by candlelight, the room looked like a charnel house. The reek alone was damning. The figure placed the scalpel down in a small metal tray, uncaring of the blood that spattered up the wall, and they turned to face me. His bulk hid the body he had been working on from me, but unless Heiss had broken his MO, I was too late to save the missing girl. This wasn’t my first case, and it wasn’t even my first time standing face to face with a monster like Hiess, but still, my finger itched to pull the trigger. The West Church Butcher had been front page news the last few months, and each time a new hand, or a foot was found in the garbage bins of Arkham, the press had had a field day. I had known it was Heiss as soon as I arrived in Crane Street, over a week ago now, but the local police wouldn't touch him, and even my boss back at the Boston Forward Office had told me to leave him alone. And yet, here he was, up to his elbows in blood and viscera. There were 13 missing people, all under 20, and all last seen within half a mile of Heiss’ Crane Street apartment.
“Where are the others?” I asked, through gritted teeth. The figure shifted, and I I glanced passed it. Black hair toppled over the edge of the table, a blood stained blue tracksuit and sneakers piled haphazardly on the floor underneath. Veronica Hart. She had been missing for over 24 hours, so I had held out little hope, but I felt my jaw tighten in anger. The hooded head turned to follow my gaze, and then let out a deep, throaty chuckle.
“Something Funny?” I snarled. I couldn’t just shoot him, as much as I wanted to. Procedure was clear, but damn, his laugh made me feel sick to my stomach. Heiss’ hands were still slick with blood, but he raised them, palms towards me, in surrender. As I took a step forward, a hand going to my belt for a pair of handcuffs, he closed his hands around the hood of his robe, and gently, almost tenderly, pulled it back. I froze in place. The picture I had seen of Ronalds Weiss was from 2001, and showed a healthy, robust man in his middle years, brown hair going silver at the temples, with a wide, winning smile and bright, white teeth. I had wondered what the effects of 3 years of self induced isolation would have on the man, especially as it had led to a serial killing and dismemberment spree. But the face that looked back at me in the shadows was something far from what I could have expected. Pale, deathly white skin, pulled taught over the bone of his skull was somehow the least disturbing thing about this new, horrid visage. Heiss’ mouth was gone. In its place was a pulsing, fleshy maw, filled with teeth, and viscera and blood. Baleful, scarlet eyes glared out from above the jagged mouth as it laughed again, a hissing, fleshy sound that disgorged an inordinate amount of saliva and I realized pretty quickly that this creature, this monster, was not laughing. It was gagging. It doubled over as a mass of pulp, flesh and chipped bone poured from its mouth onto the floor. My hand trembled and I took a step back, my pistol almost forgotten in my hands as I scrambled backwards, but he followed me with slow, deliberate steps. He towered over me, his head nearly brushing the ceiling as he glared at me.
“I fear for the youth of today.” Heiss said, its voice a rich, melodious tone, at odds with the horror of its source. “When flesh so young, carries so much sin.” A tongue flicked out and ran along the lipless ridge of the creature's mouth. I was having trouble catching my breath, and the seconds seemed to stretch as Heiss slowly reached up a hand towards me. In the split second of clarity, I saw that his nails were filthy, sharp and inhuman. I did the only thing that I could. I pulled the trigger.
Seattle July 14, 2005
Thanks to wonders of television, the average American thinks they understand the amount of paperwork a federal agent has to deal with, but truth is rare in fiction, and so they underestimate it by a substantial amount. Since transferring to the Washington State Forward Office at the beginning of the year, I’ve been in a perpetual cycle of paperwork, bureaucracy and desk work. It’s largely my own fault, given the fallout of the Chapel Street Butcher Case, but still, this was the lifestyle I had sought to avoid when I ditched my accounting internship for Quantico.
“Jones.” A voice called out across the cubicles. I glanced up and saw the hulking form of Agent Jack Baker glaring out at me from across the room.
“Yes Sir?”
“My office, Jones. Now.” He said, turning on his heel and retreating to his office. I dragged myself to my feet, blinking bleary eyed at the fluorescent lights as I crossed the room and ducked into Agent Baker’s office. The large man sat down behind his desk, and tapped, seemingly absentmindedly, at the table as he searched his desktop computer.
“Agent Jones.” He said gruffly. “We’ve had a complaint from one of the Senior Agents about an incident on June 11. He has said, and I quote-” Baker launched into a word for word for work retelling of the incident, his eyes locked on his computer as he nudged a blank folder across the table towards me. It hadn’t looked out of place, Agent Baker’s desk is always a flurry of folders, and paperwork, but it had the telltale barely perceptible triangle in the top corner, drawn hastily in green ink. Something from the Group, then. Attached to the bottom of a folder was a piece of paper, also marked with the green triangle. It had an address, a time and then, underlined so many times the paper had nearly ripped “No Badge.” I slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket, and placed the folder back, returning my attention Agent Baker.
“-While the language used by the senior agent was unacceptable, we expect our agents, especially our newer recruits, to act with a greater sense of decorum than displayed here, Jones, do I make myself clear?” Jack looked at me expectantly, a finger making a loop, as if to say “Make it good.” I launched into a fervent defense of my actions, and we had a civil, entirely insincere conversation about my supposed breach of polite behavior, that was loud enough to escape the paper thin walls, before I skulked from the office and returned to my cubicle. FBI agents are too surreptitious to be caught eavesdropping, but I noticed each head staring fixedly at their computer screen as I walked passed, and had no doubt they had all heard my dressing down, but it didn’t matter. This was just my day job, a way to pay the bills. I had orders for my real job, the important one, burning a hole in my pocket, and the end of the day couldn’t come fast enough.
I recognized the address as a diner across town, a favored spot for clandestine meetings due to its isolation, distance from CCTV, and lack of any electronic devices that could house a microphone. When I had moved to Seattle back in January, I had met Agent Baker there and received a debrief, as well as a key to a prepaid storage locker, or ‘Green Box’ in King Street Station. I hadn’t been back there since, but it was easy enough to make my way back there after work. I left my gear locked in the trunk of my 1999 Jetta and parked a few blocks away from the diner, making the rest of the way on foot. I had been seated for less than a minute when a figure slipped into the chair opposite me.
“The Chicken Parm is quite delightful.” He said cheerfully. Nolan Landry was a man in his late middle years, dressed up in a slightly dated tailored suit, complete with driving gloves and an air of preternatural charm. He wasn’t associated with the FBI, at least, not officially, but he was Agent Baker’s boss within the lines set out by the Program, or the Group as it was sometimes called. The waitress arrived, but I just ordered a water and club sandwich to go. My few meetings with Landry had been brief, but informative, and I didn’t expect this to be any different. As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, he gave me a warm, almost lazy smile.
“Pinegate Apartments.” He said plainly. He placed a key on the table between us. “Room #302. I need you to go there, liaise with another couple of assets and clear the room of anything Green.” He tapped at his lapel when he said “Green”, the small silver triangle studded into his collar making his meaning clear. I wasn’t sure why Green and triangles were so associated with the clandestine part of what we did, but I knew if I saw one or the other, usually both, it was time to work.
“Sweep the place, clear out anything unsavory. Got you.” I said, pocketing the key and narrowing my eyes at the handler. “Can this wait until the weekend? I have work tomorrow, and the last thing my record needs right now is a sick day.”
“As a matter of fact, you do not. Have work tomorrow, I mean.” Landry said with a shrug. “You will be attending a day of education and instruction, in light of your recent discipline issues.” I looked at him blankly, but the infuriating smile remained on his face, growing wider as the silence stretched. I cleared my throat.
“Are you serious?” I said, attempting to keep the horror from my voice.
“Oh yes.” Landry said airily. “Quite overdue, according to your colleagues. You have been, now what was it?” He pulled a notebook from his inside pocket and flipped through it for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Ah yes, here it is. “Churlish, ill-tempered and lacking in group synergy.”” He tutted and waggled his finger. “Not the best impression for a new workplace.” He chided. I felt my temper, never far since Arkham, begin to rise, but I squashed it down. Landry smiled. “Better. It is in both our best interests if you keep your job. Your department will see that you have attended a day of instruction and you will come back on Monday, bright, happy and ready to be a team player.” His tone was light, but brooked no argument. I had enough self awareness to know that I had taken my introduction into this new world of hidden messages, monstrous people and long hours poorly, and it had been affecting my work enough to flag me, but this was still embarrassing.
“Understood.” I said stiffly.
“Cheer up.” He said with a smile. “If you’re lucky, Mr Bauhgman showed more operational restraint than our other colleagues from the cowboy days and made sure to dispose of confidential information through the proper channels. If so, you’ll have the rest of the day to yourself.”
“Cowboy days?” I asked curiously. “How long have we been at this?”
“I forgot how young you were.” He said airily. “Clyde Baughman, like myself, is from an era where we did things a little differently. A little bit less of everything. Less Resources, Less personnel, but also less regulation and significantly less restraint. A few of my old colleagues had hoarder tendencies. More than one of them have become the mission, because they got too sloppy, or went off the deep end. Let's hope Baughman isn’t one of them, yes?”
I left not long after my sandwich arrived and jogged the rest of the way to my car. Landry had little else information about the mission, passing me a half a sheet of typed A4 that summarized the man’s existence in a handful of lines. Clyde Baughman had been an IRS man active with the Program between 1967-1970. He took part in 11 operations, none of which Landry could or would disclose, and retired from the IRS in 1999. He had a wife, who passed away in 2002, and two children, both still alive. His relatives would arrive in Seattle Sunday Morning, so they had 48 hours to clear out his apartment, but leave it pristine. As jobs went, it was almost pleasant. I was immediately suspicious.
Pinegate Apartments, Seattle, July 15, 2005. 9AM
Pinegate apartments was an old, 7 story apartment complex, the type of building that featured words like “Character” and “Historic.” in its rental advertisement, while being up to its eyeballs in safety code violations. Trying to use public transport would have taken well over 2 hours, so I set out early and walked a much more colorful and direct route that only took an hour and half. By the time I reached the meeting point, I had sweated into the casual tracksuit I was weaning in lieu of my usual office clothes, and the holster tucked under my shirt was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. I picked up a bottle of water from the 7/11 and took a seat on the bench just outside the park and watched the world go by until the meeting time arrived. I wasn’t the only one to appear early, it seemed, as a grizzled looking army type sat on the next bench over, staring fixedly at the apartment buildings and flicking a zippo open and closed with a rhythmic click. For what was ostensibly the most clandestine organization within the US government, it was not difficult to pick our operatives out of a crowd. Maybe I just knew what to look for. The vague, absent gaze, as though perpetually staring into a vaguely discomforting memory, as well as the rigid, constantly alert posture and don’t get me started on the various tics we all seemed to accrue like vintage baseball cards. I made sure to stand unobtrusively in his eye line, and his eyes snapped onto me, a look of recognition crossing his stern features before he snapped the zippo closed and placed it into his pocket. He slouched over and leaned against the wall nearby, his gaze never leaving the apartment building. As I suspected, he cut straight to the chase.
“Little movement in and out of the building since 0900.” He said with a voice like gravel. That was unsurprising. The building was at half occupancy, mostly single working class men working the 9-5 throughout the city. I merely nodded, and took in the other agent. This man was not FBI, or a federal agent of any kind. Neither of the agents joining me would be, according to their brief descriptions, which had come as something of a shock. All the assets I had met so far had been part of the bureau, and I had imagined that an organization with such a distinct purpose would be made up exclusively of federal personnel. Landry had found this very amusing, although he refused to elaborate why. The grizzled man staring fixedly at our target was ex-special services, with a record locked up so tight the clearance required was almost hypothetical.
“Where’s Palmer?” He asked eventually. Helena Palmer was the third member of this task force. She was a model citizen, supposedly, and so there was little to dig up on her other than a birthdate and address. Landry had said there was little he could share, just that she had extensive knowledge of various indigenous cultures, as well as what he termed “Specialist knowledge.” I scanned the park, and saw a distracted figure standing by a food truck, looking absently into the treeline as she sipped at a cup of coffee. I gestured at her, fairly sure from Landry’s description the the diminutive woman was Dr Palmer. Montford grunted.
“She hasn’t changed.” He muttered, before slouching over across the park. He towered over her, but Dr Palmer just blinked owlishly up at him before flashing a sardonic smile.
“I thought you were moving down south?” She said idly as she sipped her coffee.
“Duty calls.” He grumbled. I eyed them both apprehensively. The animosity between the two was palpable. We stood in tense silence for a few beats while Palmer finished her tea, before heading towards Baughman’s apartment.
“What are you wearing?” Montford said as we walked towards the apartment buildings. I glanced down at my grey sweatpants and shrugged, nonplussed. “Aren’t you a Feeb?”He added. I bristled at the barb, but merely shrugged.
“My wardrobe is none of your concern, Mr Montford.” I placed a hand on the door and fixed him with an icy look. “Operational Security, on the other hand, is all of our concerns. No Badges, minimum talk, and in and out as soon as possible. Understood?” He snorted, and pushed past me through the door. Dr Palmer patted my shoulder in sympathy as she walked passed and we headed towards the elevator. The path to room 303 was clear, as suspected, and the key slid into the lock without any issues. Hanging on a hook by the door was a ring with several keys, meticulously labelled in a cramped, efficient hand. My heart sank when I saw a large, old fashioned metal key with a tiny “Cabin” label across the top.
“What is it?” Dr Palmer asked, her absent gaze suddenly intent. I showed her the key, and she sighed irritably, and a comforting echo to my own feelings. Montford stood in the doorway, his eyes flickering up and down while his hand remained conspicuously inside his pocket.
“Montford.” I said, and he glanced at me before continuing his scan of the hallway. “We need to be inconspicuous.” I remind him, nodding my head into the apartment. He grimaced, but remained in the doorway. I left him there, and Dr Palmer and I split up to search the cramped apartment. The place looks spartan to the point of abandonment, a fridge full of crumbly stale donuts the only sign of recent habitation. I could hear Dr Palmer rummaging around in the bathroom, although what she expected to find there I have no idea. It took longer than I would like to find the door to Baughman’s office, tucked away at the back of the apartment behind a door that looks for all the world like a broom closet, either by choice or design. The lock is sturdy and unyielding, so I sort through the keys on the ring, eventually finding one marked “Office - 303”. It slides open easily, revealing a tiny, low ceilinged room with a small desk and piles and piles of paper, stacked in neat piles all over the desk. There’s no window, so I flick the light on and call out for the others.
“This is going to take a while to get through.” I said. “But if we sort it between the 3 of us-” I started, but Montford was already walking back towards the open door.
“That’s not what I’m here for.” He says blandly, taking up his post and resuming his scan of the empty hallway. Dr Palmer shrugs, and begins looking through the paper on the left, but I gritted my teeth and walked over to the door, fixing a smile to my face and whispering through clenched teeth.
“Do you want to be here all day?” I say, and I hold the keys up to his eye level. “There’s a good chance this isn’t our last stop. Help us search through this, and we can get out of here before anyone even notices we were here. Which is good for the mission, yes?” He ignored me, of course, and so I stalked back to the office and began shifting through the mass of paper. We had already been here for an hour, combing the place, so I put years of skim reading to the test and made rapid progress through the stacks of bills, spam mail and dated IRS case files. An hour passed, then another and then a third. Dr Palmer scanned the documents with a penetrating depth, which meant she made progress slower than I would have liked, but at least she was thorough. I gave her some pointers on scanning the pages, and she smiled blandly, and continued reading. I realized later that telling someone with a doctorate in anthropology how to skim read may have been somewhat patronizing, but hey, her pace picked up, so I called that a win. The majority of the contents were unremarkable. There was a manila folder that seemed like it could have been interesting, but just contained photos, some of them dating back 30 years, of Baughman and his family. A wife, two kids and then, much more recently, a grandchild. At the back of the folder was the oldest picture, of Baughman and his wife, taken candidly, both seemingly surprised from the flare of a camera flash, judging by their expressions. Curiously, small, barely perceptible scratches marked this one, around the edges, but increasing in intensity closer to the center of the page. I could tell it had been handled frequently, so I placed it delicately back into the folder. Once I finished my pile, I asked Dr Palmer to split what she had left and went through it together.
“I’ve found this, by the way.” She said absently, passing me a large binder. “Mortgage payments.” She added as I flicked it open. “For a cabin outside of town. There’s an exact location, but I’m not sure how far away it is. It’s in the State, at least.” I thanked her and hummed thoughtfully. I heard footsteps echoing down the wall, and shot a glance at Montford, who had stiffened and was staring out the doorway with visible apprehension. With a sense of dread, I asked Palmer to take over and rushed to the door just in time to run into a concerned looking woman in her 60s, back slightly bent and walking with a cane, a Shitzu in dire need of a haircut nipping at her heels. I plastered a smile onto my face and stepped smoothly between the woman and Montford. His hand finally left the inside of his jacket, thankfully without the side arm I was sure he had stashed there, but he still tried to step around me to greet the woman.
“What is it Ma’am?” He asks brusquely. The irritation bubbling inside me nearly toppled over, but I kept the smile on my face and placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“Oh dear, is everything ok?” She asked, trying to look past us into Baughman’s apartment. Her previously kind eyes had sharpened with suspicion, and she seemed to take in Montford’s bulk and military haircut for the first time. It didn’t take a social genius to see how quickly this was deteriorating, so I cut him off before he could dig a hole any deeper.
“Oh yes!” I said enthusiastically. “We are here as part of Mr. Baughman’s family estate. His children can’t get out for a few days, and so they asked us to check in on his assets in the meantime, so that we can expedite the process when they arrive.” The lies tumbled past my lips with a practiced ease, and the woman’s face turned from apprehension to relief.
“Oh that’s good!” She said warmly, removing Montford from her attention and focusing on me. I nudged him into the door, and he stalked out of sight as I continued to make small talk with the woman. Mrs Janowitz was the landlady, and had been returning home from walking the dog when she had spied a ‘burly, spooky type’ from the outside window. She was visibly relieved that we were seemingly on official business, and left us to our own devices after passing on her condolences for Baughman, who had apparently been in the apartment for a few days before anyone thought to check on him. I closed the door smoothly behind me and flicked the lock, before returning to the office to help Palmer finish searching through the papers. I raised my eyebrow at Montford as I entered the office, and he let out a grunt that I was starting to suspect was his primary form of communication.
“That was well handled.” Montford admitted. It wasn’t quite a compliment, and he was still an asshole, but I smiled and nodded.
There was nothing else of note in the piles of paper, so we left Baughman’s apartment with the binder tucked under my arm. We agreed that we would need to search the cabin to consider the mission complete, as it was a much more likely location to keep clandestine information. We discovered our first road bump shortly after grabbing an overpriced sandwich and bland coffee from the food truck.
“Neither of you drive?” I said incredulously. They both shrugged, and refused to meet my eye. My old Volkswagen was parked in the underground of my apartment complex, an hour and half walk across town, and it was far from an ideal car for driving around rural Washington. Still, none of us had the cash to burn on a rental, so we hiked the hour and a half to my apartment building in awkward silence. My dads 1999 Volkswagen Jetta had seen better days, but it thankfully started up and got on the road. To my dismay, Montford had designated himself the navigator, pulling a folded and worn map from his jacket pocket and delivering direction in a clipped, unpleasant voice. It was the longest 2 hours of my life.
Clyde Baughman’s Cabin, Washington State - 3PM
The drive was blessedly peaceful once we got on the highway out of Seattle, but things got bumpy, when were about a mile out from our destination. The dirt road that led to Baughman’s cabin was largely unused, and little more than a deer trail. I could feel the eyes of the two other agents as the Jetta lurched painfully over each bump and various lights flickered across the dashboard, but through perseverance more than skill, we crossed the threshold into the front yard of the cabin.
“Smells like burning.” Montford grumbled.
“Are you a mechanic?” I asked.
“Do I look like a mechanic?” He said, exiting the car before I could answer.
I glared at his retreating form and then started fiddling with the dash. The “Check Engine” light blinked weakly at me, and I hoped it was due to a dull bulb, and not because it was barely holding on. Unlike my car, the cabin was in good condition, and much better quality than Baughman’s apartment would have indicated. Faux-wood walls, stone chimneys and reasonable stretch of land, ringed by a dense thicket of forest that led to the nearby national park. Montford began skulking around the perimeter, and I left him to it, beckoning Dr Palmer to follow me to the cabin. The key on the ring slid smoothly into the lock and the door opened with a slight creek.
“Dusty.” Palmer said with a sneeze. We searched the house, which was as pristine and spartan as the apartment had been. There was little in the way of ornamentation in any of the rooms, let alone likely hiding places for suspicious materials, so It didn’t take long before we found it; A thick paneled steel foot locker, underneath a dusty desk in the garage. I slid it out, and a small envelope fluttered off the top, which I handed to Palmer so that I could focus on looking through the keys on the ring. The padlock was heavy duty, and modern, a stark contrast from the Vietnam war era footlocker. I found the key, the only one lacking a label, and the lock clicked open as Palmer pulled out a seat from the garage and sat down. She looked troubled, and began to make a strange, humming sound before putting the letter down and peering at me expectantly. I flipped the locker open, and was greeted with yet more paper, enough that it overflowed from the confines of the foot locker and onto the floor. The occasional green triangle that marked the corner of the pages was a clear indicator that Landry had been right.
“What did the letter say?” I asked absently as I shifted through the pages. It was undoubtedly Program related, even a quick skim showed continuous mention of unnatural activity and references to occultism.
“Nothing good.” Palmer said absently as she reached into the footlocker. “Sounds like Mr. Baughman was about to crack, but from what I can’t be sure. He hasn’t been an asset for some time, supposedly.” I looked up, and left Palmer to shift through the paper as I scanned the letter. It was brief, and read like a dying man’s last regret, making reference to a failed, final task.
“His last mission?” I read, confused. The briefing had said he hadn’t been active for over 30 years, what mission could he possibly have had? I felt an itchy, uncomfortable feeling on the back of my neck as I folded the note away and stood up.
“I’m going to check on Montford.” I said, sliding the letter into my inside pocket. “Are you good here?” Palmer nodded, reading over a manila folder with rapt attention. “We’ll need to destroy that.” I said, pointing at the pile of paper. She nodded.
“I’ll skim through it, but we should err on the side of caution.” She said, reaching for another folder. I left her to it.
Montford was crouched by the outhouse, glaring with what I was beginning to suspect was his usual ill-temper. My read of the man so far was of the ‘No-Bullshit’ variety, so I wanted for him to finish whatever he was doing, with my arms folder until he eventually looked up.
“The septic tank is not connected to the rest of the house.” He said, glaring at the plumbing with open hostility. “It used to be. But the connections are all cut off.”
“Strange.” I said, glancing around the open yard. “Look at this.” I said, handing him the letter as I crouched down to inspect the pipes, following them until their abrupt end, a handful of yards form a ditch likely containing the supposed septic tank. Montford joined me, his perpetual frown a few grades deeper as he read the letter.
“Fucking Ominous.” He said succinctly. I hummed in agreement.
“Help me with the gasoline?”
The letter had indicated that whatever the final mission of Clyde Baughman, it was currently taking up residence in his septic tank. I didn’t need to know what was in there, or why Baughman had been sitting on 21 cans of Gasoline, I just needed to set it on fire, along with those documents, and then we were all done, and we could try to get back to Seattle before sundown. It took longer than I would have liked to haul all of the gas cans over to the septic tank, even after Montford pried Dr Palmer away from the documents to help with the manual labor.
“This seems like an excessive amount of gasoline.” Palmer said with a hint of strain as she hauled another jerry can over to the tank. 'What could it have possibly been needed for?’
“That isn’t our concern.” Montford said tersely. “The mission is to clean up. Sometimes you use bleach, but if this guy had 21 cans of gasoline ready to go, then I’m fucking using them.” Palmer looked at me, expectantly but this time I actually agreed with the bastard.
“We should empty the footlocker into it for good measure.” I added. The sun was tracing a downwards arc across the sky by the time we had everything prepared, and visions of navigating the deer trail with my already beat up car was making me feel on edge. I was leery of opening the hatch directly, as I had no idea what was in there. Besides, Baughman had warned against it, so we began pouring the gasoline into the two intake pipes about a foot or so back from the tank. Dr Palmer looked on with mild disapproval before seating herself next to the footlocker and rummaging around in the old files again. I left her to it, keen to get this over with. The letter had mentioned ‘remains’, which would have to be disposed of after the fire settled down, which meant another few hours before we could get back on the road, and begged uncomfortable questions of what we were pouring gasoline on. I finished pouring my can and went to grab another when a rhythmic, loud crashing sound from below made me flinch backwards. I crouched down next to the septic hatch and sure enough, the sound echoed up through the ground. It sounded like something was pounding on the interior of the tank, likely near the bottom.
“Sounds like Baughman fucked up” Montford grumbled, grabbing another gas tank. I was about to join him, when an ear piercing, and utterly human shriek echoed along with the pounding. I froze, and tried to make out the words.
“Is someone there? Please, you have to help me! I can smell gasoline, please someone, anyone help me!” Palmer appeared at my shoulder, a look of alarm on her face.
“There’s someone down there.” She said, her knuckles white as she gripped her jacket tight around her. Montford, seemingly oblivious, continued pouring his gas tank in the pipe.
“Montford, stop!” I said. “We need to figure this out. I know protocol is different in these jobs, but I’m fairly certain we can’t just set some random person on fire.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and pointed sharply at the hatch.
“We don’t know it's a person,” he said gravely. “All we know is that it doesn’t want to be on fire.” He continued pouring the gas and I walked over to the hatch. I cleared my throat, which had gone dry, and called out.
“Who are you?” I asked. I heard Montford snort behind me, but Palmer crouched down next to me, her eyes fixed on the hatch. The sounds of desperate crashing stopped, and a tired, strained voice echoed up to us.
“You mean you don’t know? I’m Marlene Baughman. My husband, Clyde Baughman, you have to help him, he’s not well.”
“Marlene Baughman?” I said with a frown. I leaned closer to Palmer and whispered "She's supposed to be dead.” Marlene heard me, even through the hatch, and her voice chuckled a laugh devoid of humor.
“If only that was the case.” She said mournfully. “My husband did not cope well with my diagnosis. He moved me out here, but as I got more and more sick, he got desperate.” The voice hitched, and the sound of weeping echoed up through the hatch.
“How did you get in the tank?” Palmer asked, her tone full of compassion, although I noticed that her hands still held a white knuckled grip on her jacket.
“Clyde did something. I don’t know what, but even though I felt worse and worse everyday, I didn’t die. I still haven’t died. I don’t know what he did, but he was scared. My poor, sick Clyde.” The voice crackled as it steadily broke down into wracking sobs.
“Very sad.” Montford said as he grabbed another tank. “Still has to go. Are you going to keep gabbing, or are you going to help?”
“Don’t be a fool, Andy.” Palmer snapped. “This isn't a rabid beast to be put down. We need to call this in.” I set my jaw and looked at the hatch. The weeping had stopped suddenly, and an eerie silence filled the gap it had left behind.
“Marlene?” I called down. “How long have you been down there?”
“I don’t know.” The voice said quietly.
“Have you had anything to eat or drink down there?” I asked again, but the voice started weeping again. I grimaced.
“What are you doing?” Palmer asked me curiously.
“She died two years ago.” I said. “Baughman hasn’t been here for a couple of months at least, judging by the state of the house. He was going to burn her alive. I doubt he’s dropping food or water down there for her.”
“Whatever her mortal status, this woman is a victim.” Palmer said. I gritted my teeth. Palmer shook her head. “We should at least see what we are dealing with.” She said assertively. She scooped the keys from my belt with a surprisingly dexterous flick of her wrist, and searched for the one inevitably named “Septic Tank.” I could have stopped her easily enough, the woman was a professor and a decade older than me, but I felt paralyzed. I genuinely did not know what to do here. Montford was ignoring us, pouring another can of gasoline into the intake pipe, and the voice of Marlene was weeping softly. She sounded so real, but she couldn’t be, could she?. Baughman had called her his ‘Last Mission’. But Baughman was also hoarding documents he should have destroyed, and was keeping someone, or something, prisoner in his septic tank. Palmer found the key and undid the padlock, flipping back the hatch.
“It will be easier for you both if you don’t add a face to the voice.” Montford called over his shoulder. “But do whatever you have to. You know what has to happen.”
The smell of gasoline and putrefaction rolled out of the tank as the hatch opened. The tank ran deep, a good dozen feet down, and I could see the point at which the ladder had been sawn off, preventing Marlene’s escape from climbing up and pounding on the hatch directly.
“Light.” A voice said in the gloom, slightly hopeful. “Please, stranger. Help me. I don’t know what my husband did to me, but I’m so tired. I just want to go back to the cabin and rest a while.” Sunlight shone down into the hatch, and what little moisture was left in my mouth dried up. In a frozen instant, I knew Montford had been right. The thing in the tank was unnatural. The swollen, partially decayed corpse of a woman stood in the tank, blinking blearily up at us. Her face was pallid, and her eyes glowed in the dim light, but that was the most human thing about her. Skin had rotted off her body, and I could see muscle, blood and bone bare to the world, dead and unmoving. It shouldn’t have been alive. I didn’t realize I had drawn my sidearm until Palmer placed a hand on my arm.
“Agent Jones, what are you doing?” Her voice was filled with alarm, but my world had started to go slow. Animal panic filled my head as the smell of the thing in the tank hit me, the stench of rot overwhelming the acrid tang of gasoline, but there was also something else, something wholly unfamiliar. The smell of death. I turned away and took a breath, breaking my gaze from the thing in the hatch. With an effort of will, I forced myself calm, shut out the voices around me and then turned back, determined. I reached a hand out and slammed the lid down. I pushed my side arm back into the holster and scrambled for the keys.
“Jones, what is happening?” Palmer said urgently. I could tell by her face that she had seen the thing too, and that whatever value she placed on human life was at war with the gut wrenching feeling of wrongness.
“Did you see her?” I hissed. “Montford is right. It has to go.” Marlene began to sob again, and her keening voice begged for release, but I shut it out and slammed the padlock home. I glanced at Palmer.
“Look, I agreed with you before. We couldn’t just burn a helpless innocent. But we’ve looked now, and whether she is a victim or not, protocol is clear; she needs to go. Pour that gasoline in.”. Palmer was noticeably pale, but she only hesitated a moment before she rushed off to grab a jerry can. Montford stayed blessedly silent as I got the keys. The weeping and begging stopped abruptly as Palmer left.
“So, no dice then?” The voice said. It was so different in tone and intonation, it almost seemed like a different person, the frail old woman replaced by an almost conversational, youthful voice. “And here I was getting my voice all sore for nothing.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, pushing away the vision that rose to the forefront of my mind; Marlene Baughman’s rotting, still mobile corpse wasn’t the only thing in this tank. I could still see it, still smell it, like it had stained each of my senses. Hovering around her like a cloak of shadow was an overwhelming sense of something other, something that caused bile to rise in the back of my throat and set my hackles on edge. “Now that you have an idea of what I am, Maybe you can begin to understand what I can offer?” The voice continued seductively. Palmer froze, looking at me with wide eyes, but I shot her a glare and she nodded, bustling alongside Montford as they poured more gas down the intake pipes. Marlene kept talking. She was using a lot of technical words that I had neither the knowledge or inclination to understand, but I could tell it was something important or dangerous because Palmer kept swearing. When she started to pray, I suspected that what was on offer couldn’t be good for anyone, so I tuned it out and continued fumbling for the keys. I slid the key home and locked the hatch again while the other two continued pouring gas into the tank. The creature broke off, and let out a loud sigh.
“I refuse to be ignored by a group of barely sentient apes.” The voice said coldly. There was a crash and a sound of impact against the hatch, hard enough to rattle the lock, but it held firm. I stood frozen over the hatch before hurling myself down on it, adding my weight to take some pressure of the lock. I could see out of the corner of my eye the other two continuing to pour gas cans down the hatch, and I glanced at the remaining pile of Jerry cans. We were just over halfway, and I felt a sense of dread as I tried to crunch the math in my head. How soon could we toss a match and start the fire? The creature continued to rant and rave, an edge of desperation in its unnatural voice as it crashed into the hatch again. I felt rocked by the impact, but my weight held the hatch in place. With the ladder broken, she must be hurling her bulk at the hatch in a straight leap, a thought that filled me with abject terror, but I pushed the thought aside and repositioned myself over the hatch, yelling at the other two to hurry the hell up. Marlene let out another screech. The impact was weaker this time, but I had been repositioning and I stumbled backwards off the hatch, my joggers catching on the latch.
“We’re nearly done here, does anyone have a flame?” Montford called. I knew I didn’t, and I looked expectantly at Palmer, but she shook her head.
“Don’t you have a lighter?” I asked as I threw my weight back onto the hatch. Montford, checked his pocket, and swore loudly, and pointed at the shed with his free hand.
“Left it on the fucking table.”. Montford swore loudly. The hatch thudded again, and the lock strained under the pressure. I looked at it, saw it was still holding, then span on my heel and broke into a sprint towards the shed. A zippo marked with the red white and blue sat next to a pack of cigarettes on the desk and I snatched it up as Palmer called in a panicked voice.
“Done! Quickly, we need to set it off!” I heard a cackle from the former Mrs Baughman and another crash, this one loud enough to send an icicle of fear down my spine. As I ran back to the tank, I saw the smashed remains of the hatch, knocked clean off its hinges from the impact and a desiccated, clawing hand scrambling out as the creature tried to pull itself free. I clicked the lighter and the flame came out strong as I dropped it down the pipes. Flame leapt out of the intake pipes and I heard the creature shriek in agony. We were too slow. To my horror, the arm kept scrambling with greater intensity as the creature continued to try to drag itself free. Montford slid a pistol free firing from the hip and fired, but the shots ricocheted off hatch cover. Palmer pulled a snub nosed revolver from her belt and aimed down the sight, her hands shaking as she waited for a shot. Marlene let out another screech as she tried to tear herself free and with a horrendous wrench, the lock on the hatch gave way, and her mass of flaming, rotted flesh tore itself free from the septic tank. I slid my pistol from the holster and opened fire, hearing Montford and Palmer echo me with their own shots afterwards. The bullets sunk into the unfeeling flesh, barely rocking her as the flames roared around the creature. She shook her body hard, bits of flesh and flame flying off before she crouched and broke into a sprint and dove at me, a jagged claw wreathed in flame narrowly missing me as I ducked backwards. I backpedaled, fear and not a small bit of rage holding a titan grip on my chest as I raised my gun, firing at point blank range, aiming for the damned creatures head. The first shot sunk deep into the flesh of her chest and she laughed, advancing with shaky but the second hit her in the skull, spraying brain matter across the ground. A single, glassy eye stared at me in disbelief, before the unnatural light dimmed, and the creature slumped to the ground, immobile. I was breathing heavily, and I felt my hand tremble slightly as I advanced on the body, Montford and Palmer at my shoulder. Montford put another couple of rounds into the body before holstering his pistol.
“No point letting that fire go to waste.” He said grimly.
We rolled the body cautiously towards back towards the septic tank, earning more than a few curse words as the flames that wreathed the body kept catching on my tracksuit. We tipped the body in with a final shove, Montford’s polished army boot stuffing the corpse into the hatch with a few well placed stomps that made me queasy. Palmer had taken a seat on Baughman’s foot locker, her shoulder’s trembling and I was tempted to join her, until the screaming started. Montford and I both shared an apprehensive glance, before we both peered into the flames. Sure enough, even with half her face blown away, and flames eating away at what little flesh she had left, The corpse of Marlene Baughman, or at least, the creature inhabiting her body, still found the energy to scream. The remnants in her mouth were fixed in a feral snarl as screams louder than I thought possible echoed through the clearing. Palmer huddled in on herself, and even Montford’s impassive face took on a haunted edge. The screams went on long after the flesh had been burned away, although they took on an ephemeral, otherworldly tint once the bones began to turn to ash. I tried not to think about how something without a mouth or vocal chords was managing to scream. We kept the hatch open and watched, even though the heat made the burns on my arms itch. Eventually, Palmer dragged the footlocker over, and we started pitching Baughman’s old folders into the flames. I didn’t notice when the screaming finally stopped.
21 gallons of gasoline burns quicker than you might expect. Waiting for the tank to cool down enough to send Montford down to retrieve the corpse took longer. One of us floated the idea of trying to cool it down quicker with a water pump, but I don’t think any of us really wanted to go down there. We spent the in between time scanning cabin for any further items of note. Only one thing stuck out, an unlabeled, leather bound book with frayed pages. Palmer looked it over and grimaced.
“This is likely what Baughman used to animate his wife.” She said with distaste. “Lord knows where he found it.”
“We should burn it.” I said automatically. Palmer looked thoughtful, then shrugged. She flipped through the pages again, her eyes intent.
“The fire has gone out.” She said, almost absently. “We should knock it up the chain of command. I know Landry might have an interest in this, and if not, he is better positioned to dispose of it, further away from prying eyes.” I shrugged. I was tired, and I just wanted to go home.
“If you’re sure.” I said.
There was little in the way of remains, but we disposed of what we could, and left the footlocker where we found it. Night had arrived some time ago, and it was pitch dark when we loaded back up into the Jetta.
“You’re car is fucked, Jones.” Montford said an hour into the drive back to Seattle. It was hard to hear him over the loud, crunchy grinding noise the engine was making, and he didn’t hear me when I murmured “No shit”. The check engine light blinked weakly at me and a vague smell of burning wafted up from the engine. I was also unable to go faster than 70 MPH, without a beeping noise I had never heard before start up from the dash, and there was a clicking noise that was already driving me insane. I would have to get it repaired, which meant god knows how long navigating public transport into work. The forward office was almost comically poorly located. Eventually, I pulled up the park opposite Pinegate apartments, and Montford snuck back into Baughman’s place to leave the keys where we had found them. I saw the landlady enter the building almost immediately after him, and sighed, leaving Palmer in the car to intercept the woman before Montford ran into her and started swearing at her, or shot her, or did something else catastrophic. I could tell I was tired, and jumpy and didn’t come across well, because the jovial woman’s expression narrowed in suspicion as I nattered on about paid overtime and getting our ducks in a row and a bunch of other corporate bureaucratic language most people tuned out, but I hoped she thought I was less ‘suspicious’, and more ‘terrible at my job’. Montford nearly walked over us on the way out, and stumbled his way through a prepared response, and we shuffled back to the car as the woman eyed us with open suspicion.
“Maybe we should have done that tomorrow.” I muttered as we pulled away from the curb. Montford grunted in what I assumed was agreement. I was getting the hang of his irritable, non-verbal communication. I dropped them both off at the train station, before dragging the Jetta home. I stank like smoke, and gasoline. It was nearly 1AM, but I felt wired, as though I had just had a large cup of coffee, so I skipped bed, had a long, cold shower, and curled up on the couch to watch a few hours of late night television. I must have fallen asleep sometime before 4 AM, as I didn’t remember seeing the sun come up, and I slept clean through my alarms, meaning I started my weekend how I intended to go on. I checked my phone, which was nearly dead, flicking through the texts and missed calls as I clearly scrambled for a charger. Most were from Mom, which made me grimace, but I saw one sent from an unfamiliar number around 8AM.
Hope the day was educational, and you managed to grab a bite for dinner at the diner I told you about. See you Monday - JB.
Thanks for Reading! I’ll be writing a quick breakdown next, and then starting my next chapter with a quick “Home” Scene, followed by a Randomly generated Operation. Leave a comment or reach out if there was something you would like to see more of. Or less!
I was just attempting my own bare bones solo play through of Last Things Last. This is much better than my attempt!
Great opener! I really enjoyed your descriptions of Marlene, or whatever was wearing her skin. You did well at showing rather than telling, letting the reader fill in the details. I love me some mythos, and I’m looking forward to reading more.