Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

“Didn’t you used to work on your tractor in here?” I asked.

“I did. But after I sold most of my acreage, I decided to get rid of it. Besides, this place makes a nice study. I have enough elbow room for my research.”

“Most people just take up a little woodworking in their golden years.”

“Oh, I do a little of that, too. I’ll make you a picture frame next time I see you.” He came back with a small wooden box perched on top of a larger metal one. He set them down on the table, and then opened the wooden one, his strangely young fingers quick and sure on the latch.

The first thing he pulled out was a small book bound in thin, supple leather. I recognized it as the ritual book that we had taken from Piotr all those years ago in the train yard. There were as many extra pages of handwritten notes sticking out of it as there were original pages.

“What’s that?” asked Anne.

I handed it to her and watched her thumb through it. The original pages were covered in a dense pattern of curling symbols. They looked sinuous, as if they were meant to convey some kind of disturbing twisting motion instead of words. You couldn’t help but follow the undulating pattern with your eyes, but I knew from experience that staring at it for too long would give you a blinding headache in short order.

The handwritten notes and diagrams were in Polish.

Henry gently took it back from her. “If you translate the Polish, you’ll see that these are just notations, not a full translation like we originally thought. So it appears that Piotr could read the original text. One interesting thing that he did mention in his notes, however, was the fact that this book was delivered to him by an unknown agency. He woke up one day to find it next to his bed, wrapped in leather, next to several additional items. The altar pieces for sure, and a few other things that are never mentioned by name in his notes.”

“And you don’t know who gave it to him?”

“We do not. There’s no other example of this writing in the world as far as I can tell, and Piotr himself doesn’t know. We had hoped that taking the instruction manual and the altar pieces would be the end of it, but it appears not.”

He reached back into the box. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.”

He removed a flat, quarter-circle of metal and set it face down on the table. Twin spikes four inches long jutted towards the ceiling. I picked it up gingerly and felt my lips involuntarily thin in disgust. It felt oily to the touch, as I remembered, even though it was bone dry. I found myself rubbing my fingers together to prove that there was nothing on them. It was heavy, as though made of lead, but I knew from experience that it was harder than anything we had tried to use to smash it. Sledgehammers would only make it skitter and bounce away, a drill press couldn’t bite into it, and we even discovered that a steel plate backed by a vice would simply be punctured by the spikes.

On its front side, bumps and sinuous ridges chased each other across the face. Disturbing patterns seemed to catch your eye in them, but they never quite resolved into anything you could name. Worse, the light always seemed to be moving subtly across the face of it, making small shadows in the depressions writhe, as if it were reflecting a dim light from elsewhere.

“Can I see it?” asked Anne. She had the back of one hand pressed to her upper lip.

“Sure. Bad smell?”

She took her hand away from her face and accepted the piece from me. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I don’t smell anything,” said Carlos.

“She’s just delicate.”

Anne turned it over in her hands. “What is it?”

“According to the journal, it's a transmitter. Or part of one, anyway,” said Henry. “We think you need all four to broadcast, judging from the way we found it.”

“Meaning?” she said absently, as she ran her thumb across the depressions.

“Four of them together make a circle. We found four men nailed to a big wooden table. The feet of each man pointed toward one of the cardinal compass points, but their heads were together in the middle of the table, almost touching. Those spikes on the back were pushed through their eyes.”

The piece rang as Anne threw it down onto the table. She rubbed her hands on her pants. “Jesus.”

“The circle was resting across the eyes of the sacrifices. They were still breathing, even though those spikes must have gone deep into their brains. We tried to free them from the table, but as soon as the pieces stopped touching each other, they all died.”

Carlos looked at Leon. “No shit?”

Leon shrugged. “If that’s what the man says, then that’s what happened. Hell, it’s probably not even the weirdest thing he’s got stashed away in here.”

Carlos looked around the barn, a little wild eyed. “That’s great.”

A picture of that table, black and sticky with blood, flashed in front of my eyes. I still see it in my dreams sometimes. I remembered prying long nails out of one man’s arms and legs, and then the horrified screaming when we jostled the men enough for the metal pieces to stop touching. They didn’t die right away. First they screamed like I’ve never heard anyone scream before or since, as if their mouths and lungs simply couldn’t expel the terror and panic fast enough. Then each of them clawed at the plates where their eyes would be and died. I don’t know what they saw when looking through those metal pieces, but the shock of it is what killed them, not the spikes.

Leon looked at me across the table. “You say men are coming to get this part of the transmitter or radio or whatever it is?”

“And soon. I expect that the original owner is ready to put them to use again.”

“Fuck that shit. No way they’re getting it.”

“Hell yeah, brother,” said Carlos. “They messin’ with the wrong boys this time.”

Anne pointed a finger at Carlos. “These guys are really dangerous. Don’t get all cocky.”

Carlos laughed. “You worried about me, sweet thing? I’m touched. But me and Leon here got it covered. We’re Recon, baby, baddest of the bad. We’ll keep you safe, and you can think of a way to thank me afterwards.”

“I have no doubt you can handle yourselves,” I said, before Anne could start in on him, “but she’s right. Think junkie loaded up on PCP. You’re going to need a headshot to put them down for good, or at the very least knees and hips to get them on the floor.”

Carlos crossed his arms and leaned back from the table. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“No,” said Anne. “I’ve seen it. One of these guys killed my grandfather, and Abe shot him right in the chest. He didn’t even slow down.”

“Well, junkie or no junkie, I got a little something for him out in the truck.” He laughed and bumped fists with Leon.

Anne’s head snapped up and her eyes focused beyond the door towards the house. Seconds later, I heard the roar of an engine followed by the dull grinding sound of locked tires sliding to a stop on the loose gravel. “I don’t think you’re going to have time to get your surprise ready for the party. They’re here.”

Henry swore and threw the artifact back into its strongbox. “I thought you said we had until tonight?”

“I thought we did.” I ran to the door and pulled it open just enough to peer outside. A North Carolina state patrol car sat in the driveway. The doors popped open and two men sprang out, neither wearing uniforms. The one on the driver’s side was tall and lanky and carried a pistol, probably a Glock by the look of it. The other man was just as tall, but thick and powerful looking. A police-issue combat shotgun dangled from one hand. They turned their backs to me as they ran towards the house. I pulled back and eased the door shut.