The crusaders marshaled their forces and marched on the usurper’s throne. He was unseated, but he laughed as they tore the crown from his head.
Most of those armies are scattered, retired, secure in their homesteads thinking the darkness has been vanquished.
But those who know, who truly know what he’s capable of, they’re forming an army still. Because now they’ve turned him back into a menacing hunter.
They know the real danger has only just begun.
—
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The Underlook.
A subterranean hotel that defies the physical constraints beneath the farm in Brown County. It’s a dark mirror of a luxury mountain lodge, somehow buried beneath the great plains of the Hoosier State.
But it’s more than that. The deeper you delve into its endless warrens, following the steadily unraveling geometric patterns reminiscent of the Native American tribal art which came before, you become haunted by an unshakable sense that you’ve ventured outside the possible dimensions of the hotel.
The Underlook is an intersection and a tollbooth. Book a night here, spend a week, see where you end… up.
—
After the spectacle that was Outlast, Montague Cervantes had retired to the farmhouse to recuperate and plan his next performance. In an effort to reset and still the excitement that had come over him when Lucy Wylde and Tony Savage had upstaged him, The Showman had decided to venture into the labyrinth beneath the property, prospecting beyond the known borders of the Underlook to see what curiosities might be found there.
Recently, with the self-liberation of Jaclyn Pierrot, they had discovered passage between their home bases that shouldn’t have been possible. Armed with the knowledge of how far these corridors can stretch, Monty had been pushing a little further each day, marking his passage with inconspicuous chalk arrows each time he chose a direction at random.
Now, he finds himself faced with something he hadn’t expected; an elevator bank.
The levels of the Underlook closer to the surface are unassuming and betray nothing extraordinary, except perhaps that the entire lodging was underground. That said, once a curious wanderer finds themselves beyond the confines of the hotel proper, the change is almost immediately apparent. The overhead lights dim the further from the rooms one gets, and the wallpaper gradually gives way to what resembles carved and dynamited stone.
Discovering a well-appointed lobby of metal, sliding double doors complete with art deco lighting and even a fake plant on a half-moon table causes him to double take, to say the least.
The corridor he’s been cautiously following ends here, so he has no choice but to select one of the ten elevators if he hopes to move forward. Squinting, Montague examines the plastic sign affixed to the wall on the left of each set of doors.
To his right:
York
Masaya
Hekla
Lacus Curtius
Darvaza
To his left:
Fengdu
Actun Tunichil Muknal
Guinee
Centralia
Osore
And that’s it, no further explanation or description to assist his decision. Though he recognizes some of the words, their inclusion in this group means almost nothing to him. Shrugging, he closes his eyes and turns on his right heel, raising his left hand to point. After three full spins, he opens his eyes to find himself pointing at Darvaza.
Squaring his shoulders, Montague pushes his top hat forward and marches toward the door, pushing the button under the sign. WIth no hesitation, a chime sounds and the doors slide smoothly open. A midi of ‘Girl from Ipanema’ plays from within, and a symbol is painted on the back wall. The Doctor-Professor enters, and the door slides closed behind him.
—
Darvaza, Turkmenistan
Montague finds himself in a flat, gray desert. It’s not terribly hot, and a steady wind gusts from time to time across the hardpan. Dotted across the landscape are the tattered remains of tents, their ruined canvas lifting to ride the gusts and falling inertly back to the rocky floor.
The muted colors he can see are rapidly diminishing as the sun sets, but notices an irregular orange glow in the distance. Seeing no other options for a destination, Monty sets out toward that brightening squiggle.
An hour goes by before dread settles in over the back of his neck and raises the hairs to dance in the wind. The canary mark on the horizon has grown to become the blot of a highlighter on the darkening tan terrain. The glow undulates as if alive, and dark, slender shapes writhe around its edges. As he draws close enough to see the blot grow into a hole in the desert, Monty understands the reasons for the sense of foreboding.
A pit opens up before him, a burning crater some two hundred fifty feet across, giving off a smell like a propane grill. Dotted about the rim is an army of camel spiders, their forelegs raised and waving as if in supplication to some primordial arachnid god. Every few seconds, one of the soulifuges flings its segmented body into the pit to be swallowed up by the boiling mud and licking flames.
Though his pace has slowed as much as it possibly can while still indicating forward movement, Montague is stunned to see the wind scorpions part to allow him access to the edge of the pit. Swallowing a lump in his throat, the Showman approaches the event horizon and peers down into the glow.
Without realizing he’s doing it, Montague’s arms rise slowly, and the sun spiders mimic him.
—
Shining of the Karakum
The Doctor-Professor is backlit by low, billowing flames, casting his face in shadow as he looks down the camera. A quiet roiling of natural gas being consumed is interwoven with the staccato of skittering over carapaces in the darkness below him.
Contrary to how petitioners such as Phrixus Deimos and Johnny Hitmaker may assume, I’m euphoric over recent developments.
How unsatisfying it might have been to stagnate at the top of an uncontested throne while the Scorpion Queen rained havoc down on my subjects on my behalf. Instead, I’ve been relieved of the golden burden and given a worthy target. Who better to oppose me than someone who not only is capable and worthy of sharing my stage, but also appreciates the theatre I’ve built here? My patron, Anthony Savage, has taken the token flag and now waits for me to come take it back. What an interesting game the two of us have managed to play on UGWC.
He turns his head so that the flames below can light up his slight smirk.
Could a more desirable denouement have been envisioned for the production?
LIttle did I expect the surprise guest star, the Dark Lady, would cameo.
Montague reaches into his coat and pulls out an ornate skeleton key on a chain.
Lucy Wylde and I have been partners only fleetingly in this great dance, but each time we’ve commanded attention as we cut the proverbial rug. A little over three months ago, that dance finished with my holding this laurel. More recently, Lucy eliminated me from the dancefloor, but the second key was inches from her grasp yet again.
He tucks the key away again.
I understand why Lucy felt the need to step out last week on Synergy. She belongs in the spotlight along with Tony and I. But, with Jacky building an empire of her own and Tempest returning to spread the gospel of the Astro Creeps, they two of them have decided to join forces against me. So be it.
It says more about the rivals I’ve marked as worthy that they feel they’ll need an infantry to deal with me, than it says about me. Neither of them needed a host of soldiers to take me on until now. Something has changed. For them.
Montague shrugs.
I’m not bothered. I’m far more captivated by a war of attrition than I am with playing hot potato for the company’s favorite MacGuffin. I’m interested to learn more about Lucy Wylde. She had my curiosity, and now she has my attention. And with her comes Rogan MacLean. Soon they’ll all be part of the show.
He chuckles as the scene fades.