Brian Lumley - Necroscope - Invaders

Garth Santeson had his own ideas as to what was happening or about to happen; it seemed obvious to him that the long arm of the law was reaching for Milan, and his oh-so-shady employer was about to get himself arrested (probably for skimming casino profits); in which case Santeson's monthly and more than adequate pay cheque would disappear with him. It therefore followed that the longer he kept the boss out of trouble, the better his chances of collecting his next cheque, due in a few days' time. Which in turn meant he must speak to Milan about the people he had seen on the approach road, at least two of which he'd recognized from the party that had flown in a few days ago in those paramilitary jetcopters.

Santeson knew where Milan was — his approximate location, anyway — but couldn't get to him. On any ordinary night Milan might be found in the casino for an hour or two, but much preferred the privacy of his rooms in the solar-panelled bubble on top of the dome (which on rare occasions he would also use during daylight hours). Santeson had a special elevator key, given him by Milan, which would take him to those topmost rooms when he was summoned into the man's presence. But generally, during the day, Aristotle Milan stayed well out of sight, down in the subterranean bowels of the place. Santeson understood that his employer had private apartments down there, to which he wasn't and never had been privy. To his knowledge, only Milan's goons had ever got that close—

— Well, until tonight, anyway…

It was almost as dark inside the casino when Santeson re-entered the place. Some electrical failure, which had taken out most of the lights, and no one left to fix it. But even if it was black as night in there he would know where to find Milan's minders.

Surrounding the Pleasure Dome's central spindle, six elevators formed a hexagonal tube of glass and stainless steel. Four of these serviced the casino's upper levels, excluding Milan's bubble. The fifth was for the use of casino personnel only and gave access to the basement and the almost literally bomb-proof Fort Knox-like accountancy vaults. As for number six: that was exclusive to the persons of Milan himself, his minders, and anyone else who he might choose to entertain, either in the bubble or in certain unknown regions in the belly of the place.

But associates? Visitors?

Huh! Damn few of those! Santeson thought as he approached the central area where, sure enough, Milan's bouncers were waiting to intercept him. Flanking an elevator door marked PRIVATE (the door to Milan's elevator, of course), they were seated in pink-marbled leather armchairs beside slender, urn-shaped ashtrays. But as Santeson came hurrying between the unlit rows of sullenly silent slots, so the minders came smoothly yet indolently to their feet, and stood side by side, their arms folded on their chests, like a matching pair of eunuchs.

Their expressions remained blank, but the positions they had adopted said it all: they were blocking the elevator doors.

Santeson shook his head, wondering, What is it with these two? Apart from Milan himself, they were the only ones who had keys to that subterranean level housing what Santeson supposed would be sumptuous apartments. His key would only take him up, not down. But in any case he wasted no time in argument; these zombies always reacted precisely the same way no matter who it was who approached these doors.

'I have to see Mr Milan,' he told them. 'And I have to see him now. So don't go fucking me about, because it's too important.' They looked at him, then at each other, and back to Santeson. And he looked at them.

They could be twins, he thought, and changed his mind. No, it wasn't that they looked like brothers but that they had like looks. The way they stood there — smartly outfitted, well-built six-footers in their mid-to late-twenties, with sallow complexions that looked sort of grey in this indoor dusk — they could almost be tailor's dummies, motionless yet somehow threatening. Only their eyes moved, and their eyes… were weird!

Santeson was sure he'd never noticed it before, but now he saw a kind of yellowish, almost feral luminosity in those eyes. It must be the light, or lack of it, and he was further galvanized by that thought.

'Look,' he said, 'all shit could break loose any time now, and Mr Milan has got to be told about it. Now, I don't want to see him on my own… hey, boys, if you're that concerned over security, you can escort me! I mean, you'll have to go with me anyway, 'cos I don't know where he is or how to get there. But you do. And believe me, if you don't take me to him right now, tomorrow you could be out of work…'

And then, losing it a little when their expressions didn't change: 'Er, helloP' he said. 'I mean, am I getting through to you, or would you like me to draw some pictures? Maybe your on-switches are off or something, or I don't know the secret code that could lead us to a basis for some kind of mutual, kindergarten understanding!'

But in fact he had never had anything of an 'understanding' with them, not with these two. The rest of the Pleasure Dome's workers were regular folks, but these two… everyone avoided them like the plague. Hah, even an Asiatic plague! Santeson thought.

It was a funny thing, because when they had come here looking for jobs a couple of months ago, they had seemed like regular people, too. But now: they never strayed far from the elevators, and Milan wouldn't go anywhere without them. But come to think of it, he never went anywhere much anyway! And there was the same kind of look about him, too. So maybe they were blood relatives, but Santeson didn't think so.

Finally one of them spoke. 'Mr Santeson/ he said. 'We've already told you three or four times — Mr Milan won't see you. He isn't seeing anybody. He's expecting a busy night and wants to get some rest. If we take you to him, it won't be you he'll get mad with — we'll be in trouble. So why don't you take some good advice, and…' Pausing in mid-sentence, he gave a small but violent start, and a facial tic began jerking the flesh at the corner of his mouth. Then his face took on an odd attitude of listening.

From the first word out of the minder's mouth, the spidery Santeson had backed off a pace… mainly from his breath! The man had the worst case of crotch-or armpit-mouth that the private detective had ever come across. His breath was so vile it literally stank like a cesspit, or maybe like a slaughterhouse? And now this. He stood there as if he'd been struck dumb, with his head turned a little on one side and his strange eyes rapidly blinking. But what was bothering him? What was he listening to?

It lasted for maybe twelve to fifteen seconds, until suddenly he gave his head a shake and straightened up. And smiling in a twitchy, nervous sort of way, he said, 'Mr Milan will see you now. We're to take you to him.' His eyes had stopped blinking.

Earphone! Santeson thought. Direct communication with the boss. This guy is wired, definitely, and in more ways than one! But at least it gets the job done.

The other minder thumbed the button and the elevator doors opened. Santeson got in and the goons followed on. Then the one with the earphone used his key, and the glass cage descended — down past the basement level, then to a sub-basement level (the last stop marked on the internal indicator)… where to Santeson's surprise the elevator didn't stop! Not until the next sub-level, which wasn't even registered on the indicator. And Santeson had to admire the brilliance of it, for anyone who wasn't wise to the system wouldn't even know that this nethermost level existed.

The elevator had lights, but as the doors hissed open Santeson saw that the corridor outside didn't. Well, it did, but so low-key, so subdued, he might easily be in some ultra-low-class Hong Kong brothel.