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#Post#: 161--------------------------------------------------
The Dresden Files: Fanfic: Ghostbreaker part 1 of 2
DIR By: Gallowtree
Date: September 27, 2020, 6:40 pm
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The first waves of cold menace started moving up at me as I
descended the polished, tiled steps into the subway. There is
no way to properly describe how restless spirits create such
force, except to imagine, perhaps, standing on the edge of a
great lake when November is in full swing, and the gales begin
to push fierce, cold wind across it's waters and into your body
-- through you. Even then, spiritual coldness is something
else. As an ectomancer, or a wizard who deals with the spirit
world, I was very familiar with the sensation. It still amazed
me each time how even the natural world reacted to the presence
of the immaterial -- the Nevernever.
The stairs were treacherous, covered with a thin layer of frost
that made me step carefully. I held a glow stick in my hand for
light -- the spiritual energy had shut down both the lights and
the escalators. Normally, I would have set up a line to climb
down on, but I didn't have time. The spirits below me were
gathering power in a vortex that could be felt throughout the
neighbourhood, disrupting streetcars, computers, everything it
touched that had an electrical field; magic was always at odds
with technology, and only the most simple machines continued to
function in the presence of power. The city sure didn't like
that, and I was the city's troubleshooter when it came to things
ghostly or unknown. The cops pulled back to let me in when I
arrived to the besieged station. Only a handful of city
employees knew who I was, and what I was paid to do by the city.
It was probably not politic during a recession to have a
'supernatural consultant' listed on payroll. One of the few
people who knew me was Cpt. Wesley Holt, who was on scene when I
arrived.
"Who are you gonna call, Captain?" I called to him as I walked
out from the cab and towards the station.
The station was surrounded by representatives from every city
agency I could think of...deputy fire was there, public works,
engineering, EMT, and of course, the cops. Captain Holt was
talking with one of the EMTs when I called out to him, his
normally happy-go-lucky demeanour stressed out to one of
frustration and annoyance -- I should have read that better.
Maybe there's a class I can take or something...
"Oh good. Well, at least the professionals are here now,"
replied Holt, giving me a sidelong stare, "Christ, Thomas, each
time I see you your outfit gets worse."
Most folks don't wander around in the late days of summer in a
heavy coat with a fur collar and medieval hunting leathers.
It's silly, hot, and marks you as unusual. My whitish hair and
pale complexion already did that. Coupled with my fashion
statement, a necessity of my work, I made the scene wherever I
went, according to most accounts. I couldn't have cared less,
really -- dress funny and get funny looks, or lose a toe to
frostbite. If you're going to stand out, don't do it half-way.
"You don't like my uniform Captain? My heart is broken. Not
all of us can afford to be bastions of fashion -- I apologize."
"No need, but okay," he said, and turned back to the EMT, "this
is Thomas Kurz; our consultant. Tell him what you told me,
Shirer."
The EMT was shaken up, the coffee cup in his hand shaking
slightly. He tried to meet my eyes, but just couldn't do it.
"Greg and I were the first on the scene after the call came in.
We were almost done for the night, but we took the call anyway.
I didn't want to, but Greg's always such a high-ho, away we go
kind of guy. He charged into the subway, after we got our stuff
out of the truck, like the Lone Ranger. Once we got down to the
platform, we knew something was out of whack."
"Like what?" I asked, trying to read the tension in his face.
"You know when you feel something going wrong, like when
someone's going to hurt someone, or the pressure before a storm?
Like that, I guess. I've been in bad situations before, Mr.
Kurz."
"I can imagine, sure."
"When we got down there, the first thing that happened was that
we nearly went on our asses from ice on the platform, like
frost. We recovered and stopped laughing when we saw the
people. God in heaven, those people. I've never seen anything
like that..." he said, his speech beginning to wander, lost in
his memories.
"What people? Who are they?"
Shirer blinked at me, like waking from a dream.
"The people waiting on the platform...they just hung there in
the air, above the tracks. Like mannequins, paralyzed, goddamn
bowling pins. We tried to get over to them, and then we saw
something move at the far end of the platform. It rushed up at
us, like a blue fireball...knocked us flat. When I came to on
the floor, Greg was hung up like the rest of them...I-I tried to
help him, but it was so cold...I ran."
At his last words, he hung his head low and started staring at
his shoes. I nodded at Holt.
"Thanks Shirer," Holt said, motioning over one of his officers,
"Go with Green here; he'll take care of you."
Shirer nodded, and left quietly.
"All right, Kurz. If you think you can make this situation
better, go for it. The press was here forty minutes ago, but I
had them pushed back. Anything you can do to make sure they
don't get any more fuel for their bonanza would be good -- earn
your keep. Do you need anything from us?"
"No," I replied, but then something occurred to me: "Is the
juice turned off down there?"
"Yeah, don't worry about that...won't the whatsit affect it
already?"
"Of course, Holt, but if I can get these people free, I'd hate
to drop them on a suddenly electrified rail; I can deal with the
guilt of a few broken bones."
"Yeah right," he replied, "you know what you're dealing with
here?"
"You could say I've done my homework; this station has a
history."
"Recent?"
"No," I said, "but we don't have time for a history lesson right
now. We should-"
The police car closest to the station suddenly flared it's
lights, blared it's siren, and then fell dead in a warbling,
downward, drawl.
"Damn," Holt gasped.
"If that should happen to an ambulance..." I said, pointing at
the car.
Holt's eyes widened.
"Move everyone back! Get the trucks out of here!"
One of Holt's officers turned with a puzzled look.
"Sir?"
"You heard me," Holt said, standing firm.
The officer began to help the paramedics clear out. I nodded at
Holt, and started over to the entrance.
"Now hold on just a second!"
I groaned. Not her.
I turned to see a woman pushing past Holt and making her way
towards me; she was just shy of six feet, hair the colour of
charcoal, burning blue eyes, and dressed professionally in a
dark grey suit that cost more than the cops around her made in a
month. Assistant District Attorney Sandra Michaels was one of
the people in the city that I count as skeptical towards my
profession, and generally about anything that didn't fit into
her rational frame of mind. We were the best of friends.
"Ms. Michaels, how nice to see you! You'll excuse me, but--"
"Not this time, Kurz," she replied, pulling a piece of paper
from the inside pocket of her suit jacket, "I have a court order
for you to cease and desist any activities not sanctioned
directly by the city. You are to leave at once."
"Fresh ink, I assume?"
She raised her chin, looking down her nose at me.
"That's okay Michaels; Kurz’ with me, officially," Holt
interjected, stepping deftly around her to stand next to me.
I was a little bit astonished. I don't make friends easily, and
more often than not, the dead get more of my attention than the
living. Yet, here was a man I had known for only the last few
months sticking his neck out for me. I felt a little bad for
Holt -- Michaels was his superior, as far as it goes here, and
could make trouble for him downtown. The two city employees
stood there, sizing each other up. Holt was a bulldog, and I
knew he'd dig his heels in; Michaels knew how to use her
authority, but I doubt she had the same steel buried in her
bones that Holt did.
"I should be moving along," I said, interrupting, "those
taxpayers down there aren't going to rescue themselves, yes?"
Michaels gave me a hard look.
"Fine," she said, putting her hands on her hips and looking back
at Holt, "but your boy better come through, Holt, or I'll bring
the weight of city hall down on your shoulders."
My glowstick was fading as I neared the platform, so I broke out
a new one, ignited it, and threw it inside to illuminate the
chamber below. Around my left index finger, light also began to
shine from the gold band that my father had made for me before I
left his house. It could detect spiritual disturbances, and
glowed brighter with the level of power involved...I didn't wear
it all the time, but when I was on the job it was a necessity.
Now that my hands were free, I reached into my coat and pulled
out the set of silver-plated brass knuckles that allowed me to
focus my power. Yes, I know I should have a wand, but not
everybody can afford to be conventional. For me, the knuckles
were a symbol of strength against my foes, whether they could
connect with them or not. I flexed my fingers, working the
knuckles up into place, and stepped out onto the platform.
Once, Old Mill station had been the hub of a major cultural
mecca in the west end; commerce, art, music, and cinema were all
found a few steps away. Then the suicides began in the tunnels,
couples throwing themselves onto the tracks. It kept happening,
like a hiccup. I did a lot of digging when I came to the city,
and found out that there was a suicide of a couple on the bridge
that existed before there was a subway. It was entirely
possible that the ghosts were simply some awful form of
reenactment, an echo of their deaths. Ghosts weren't really the
people who made them -- they were just patterns of emotional
energy formed at the time of death.
My breath left me as I saw what was over the tracks...people,
just as Shirer said, hung there like frozen satellites in the
gloom. I originally thought that he was merely traumatized by
what he had seen that he wasn't seeing it for what it was. Now,
I saw. They were not peaceful, but frozen in expressions of
terror and shock. I couldn't tell if they were alive or not. I
risked further exploration, and crept low behind one of the
trash cans arrayed along the walls of the platform. The glow
stick showed me that perhaps a dozen people were held this way.
They wouldn't live long in this cold. It was time to do
something that smacked of stupidity. Those that lived could
call it bravery, right? I balled up my left hand in front of my
chest, and stalked out with an impudent swagger onto the
platform.
At first, I couldn't see anything but the people...then, the
spirits formed in a chorus of whispers. There were a man and a
woman, both dressed in 19th-century clothing, walking along the
edge of the platform, touching each frozen victim in turn. As
they touched living flesh, I perceived the flesh to grow colder,
and the translucent spirits became more vivid and terrible with
each touch; the man's cheeks were becoming flushed, and the
woman's hair was slowly becoming a deep auburn instead of
ghostly grey. Outrage flooded my heart at such an intrusion,
and I channeled it into my fist.
"Jonathan and Martha Grant, I call you out; your death was long
ago, and the world has moved on. The bridge is no more, your
sorrow is ended!" I shouted.
The spirits noticed me now...usually, unless the ire of the
spirit was intended for you, you needed to get their attention.
Being dead and all, the dead had little truck with the living.
The man lifted his head and screamed, causing a blue ball of
cobalt energy to erupt from his chest and fly towards me. I
laughed at first, thinking that it was the same colour as a snow
cone, but then I saw the death's head form at the head.
"Geister-schild," I cried, throwing my knuckles up to form a
shield of force...I didn't really know if it would stop the
fireball.
The fireball hit the shield like a bull, driving me back along
the floor as I tried to hold my ground. My boots couldn't quite
stop me from sliding across the frosty platform; the shield held
up against the assault, but as the last of the energies were
dissipated, I went down on one knee from the force of the blow.
"Is that the best you've got, coffin-breath? How many more
cheap parlour tricks must I dispel?"
Such lack of respect was necessary in dealing with ghosts. Not
that they cared, but I felt better. Cockier, anyway.
The man pointed to me, and the woman turned to face me.
The next moment, I couldn't move. A strength held me to the
floor, like the weight of a car on my back, as if iron arms
pressed my shoulders to relent under their grip. The woman
stepped forward, keeping me caught in her gaze. Her eyes were
grey and flat, dull, and bottomless. I saw something flash at
her neck as I looked on her, something concealed beneath her
corset. She reached me in the next step, and began to stroke my
cheek. I winced with the cold, and the tears formed in my eyes
and froze. Her tenderness seemed to be filled with a longing,
and I knew it was for warmth. I could relate now. So damned
cold...I was losing my strength to her with each second. I
either used what I had left to give one last gasp of power, or
die away in the cold.
"Brechen!" I grunted through gritted teeth, pushing my will
against her power.
The whammy she laid on me broke, and I could move again. I
reached up with my knuckled fist and punched through her rotted
corset, tearing ghostly flesh as the knuckle's metal contacted
it. I grabbed what I found there, and yanked it out. The
resulting release of energy hurled me back several feet and over
the edge. I had a brief thought that I hoped my coat would
absorb some of the impact. Then I thought...shit.
This was a test, I thought to myself as I lay there. A test of
endurance. And pain. Yes, pain. I figured if I wasn't broken
in half, I was still alive. The pain in my shoulders and my,
er, butt, was enough to convince me that I passed the pain test.
I opened my eyes, expecting angels and fluffy clouds, but
seeing the roof of the tunnel, covered in power lines and
numerous conduits. I don't know if I was relieved, but I
decided to sit up in celebration. My back screamed; I fought it
back, concentrated on rising...a moment later, I realized it
would be hard with one of the people I tried to save, a
businessman in a blue suit, lying across my legs. I felt his
pulse. He was still breathing. Looking over our sprawled
state, I discovered that they were all lying in a heap around
me. I could see that the paramedic Greg was among them -- he
looked to be in rougher shape than the others. But they all
needed help, nowish; the temperature in the tunnel was going to
kill them all.
I wasn't strong enough to heave this guy off of me, but maybe I
could use some magical oomph. I spread out my palms far enough
to stretch out the force of the spell, and whispered a word. A
wide band of force pushed out from me, flopping Mr Suit off of
me and onto the rest of the pile. I stood up, my legs all pins
and needles. I was really wishing for a cellphone now...I
needed Holt's manpower to get these people out of here. First
things first, however. The bag was not too far away from me,
the bag that perhaps held our salvation. Reaching in, I pulled
out a bag of sugar, and began dumping it out to create a wide
circle around myself and the others. A low moaning began in the
tunnel, and I realized that it was getting much colder...a
horrible thought occurred to me. Then, my ring began to glow
brightly. I dropped the sugar bag, and started trying to push
all of the people into one place on the floor. There wasn't
enough time to do a ritual of binding. The groaning became a
shriek, and the walls began to drip with moisture...it was too
cold...the pipes were freezing. Bursting too, soon enough; the
ghosts were going to get the last laugh anyway, and drown us
all.
Not if I could help it.
Summoning up all the juice I could, I formed my hands into a
bowl to encompass all of the victims, and taking a deep
breath...
"Geister-schild!"
The shield acted as a dustpan, more or less, and I slipped it
underneath the pile of people. Now came the hard part.
"Light as a feather, light as a feather..."
The whole problem with what I was going to do is that it is a
mind thing; magic and physics meet quite often, but tend to
disagree. Magic can lift that much weight, but not if I didn't
believe it. Overcoming disbelief is tough, especially when in
you're in a stressful situation, like when a pair of ghosts
wanted to blow the water main and drown you in freezing water.
I believe that I don't want to die.
The pile moved, agonizingly, inch by inch...too slow...I poured
it on, channeling my power through my knuckles. The knuckle
brace began to spark and shimmer with the strain. Things were
coming undone all around me...I could feel the water collecting
at my feet, I could see cracks forming in the tunnel
wall...flurries began to drift on down...flurries! My fingers
were screaming in the cold. God dammit, this needed to end! I
piled all I had into one last push, energy flowing through me
like a river, my stomach twisting with the pressure, and let it
fill the space under the shield.
The pile heaved up and to the right, landing in a disheveled
pile somewhere above on the platform. If they landed rough,
that was too bad. It was about to get rougher. I fell to my
knees, my body buckling under the strain of channeling that much
energy. I pushed myself to stand, and then started looking
around for a safety ladder...
"See? I've beaten you! No reason to flood the tunnel
now...right?"
(to be continued)
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