It didn’t take that long for Catalina to connect the dots on the map. And when she did, Cyrus was glad that they’d gone to such lengths to get exact locations on the magical residue or whatever the hell it was that was showing up in the photos.

“It’s the Cooper Place,” Steve Colfax said, comparing the old county map to the newer one that he kept in the glovebox.

“You’re sure it’s not Dead Horse canyon?” Cyrus asked.

“Positive. The lines come close, but the center point’s square on Old Man Cooper’s compound.”

Thunder pealed behind them, as Cyrus considered. “Shit,” was his final analysis.

“There’s a lady present, son. I raised you better than that.”

“It’s okay,” Catalina offered. “I’ve heard far worse.”

“Two ladies,” Dad amended, hooking a finger back toward the bed of the truck.

“What?” Beth shouted, over the wind.

“Is there a problem with this Cooper man? I don’t recall that name on our pay list?” Catalina asked. “I mean, it’s the name of the town…”

Cyrus hissed between his teeth. He was feeling sore all over, and the night was far from over. And that smell of smoke was lingering in his nose, and he didn’t know if he’d gotten too much of a lungful, or it was just the memories acting up again. The memory of being helpless under a tree, broken, as the fire drew nearer and nearer… he shook it away, but knew he wasn’t in a good enough place to explain Shawn Cooper.

Fortunately, Dad had the wind left in him to give her the story.

“You wouldn’t have him on any of your lists, unless there’s a batshi— a list of folks who really need a long stay in a loony bin. The man isn’t a rancher or a farmer. Yeah, his people farm, but… well, his main trade is in souls. He has a very unorthodox take on Christianity.”

“He runs a goddamned cult,” Cyrus summarized.

Steve grimaced. “Careful and don’t repeat that. Saying that where the wrong ears can hear gets you put on THEIR bad list. Then you’re fair game for any wickedness or use they can get out of you, because you just told’em you’re a heretic. But yeah, between us, it’s a cult of kooks who stay holed up in their compound, and listen to Shawn preach about how the world’s ending any day now, and only the faithful will be spared. Them being the faithful, of course.”

“Madre di dios,” Catalina whispered. “This is where we’re going to? Will they help us? Will they even believe us?”

“I don’t know, but probably not,” Cyrus rasped. His throat was getting tighter. Yeah, he’d definitely gotten too much smoke. “They’re supposed to shun outsiders. But I sort of have an idea. If Steve goes up and tells them some wizard is using their land without them knowing, then we can at least get them looking for intruders. And that buys the rest of us some time to sneak into the spots after they search and move on, to try and find whatever’s in the center of this.”

“Why Steve? I could go and tell them… unless they don’t listen to migrants.” Catalina said.

“No, it’s not that,” Steve said. “Shawn has a reputation… well, let me put it this way. Most of the cult that stay on are women. And when they come to town to shop, they buy a lot of supplies for babies and children. I wouldn’t let any lady near him.”

“Ah,” Catalina wrinkled her nose. Then she frowned. “Wait. How are we supposed to search without electricity? It’s a compound, yes? So it’s spread out. Will he have enough trucks or cars we can steal batteries from?”

“We won’t need to,” Cyrus said. “The guy’s got windmills hooked up to generators. His cult has a thing against oil and gas, says that it’ll be the doom of the world someday.”

“Yeah, he’s cuckoo,” Steve snorted. “Oil was the best thing that ever happened to Texas. Why, one day, mark my words, it’ll—”

“Generators!” Cyrus slapped the dashboard. “That’s it, that’s how what draws them!” A light dawned, finally. “That little path by the church, was there an orange box nearby? An orange metal box?”

“There was,” Catalina said, hesitantly.

“And you stopped Carmina’s father from digging in the ground, because there were wires… that has to be it. The wizards are using the electricity to get around and grab children. Or it’s got something to do with electricity. They came to Bunktown because of the transformers. The orange box at the church is one of the main cable junctions for the town. And our place…” a sudden realization made him swallow, hard, and his eye blurred as he felt tears swell. “My God. I’m to blame. They came there because I rewired the house for the big power draw. They followed it like ants after sugar. It’s my fault Rusty’s gone.”

“Cyrus, no,” Dad said, firmly. “You didn’t know, how could you expect this? Some random creatures from your pulp books are actually real? That’s crazy talk.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was their fault,” Catalina reached over Dad to put a hand on his shoulder. “They are the villains, here. And you are the only one who believed that there is something more going on. The only one stubborn and brave enough to chase it. Your brother is lucky to have you.”

The tears still threatened, but for a different reason, now. “Thank you,” he said, his voice husky. Took a few times to clear his throat and blink before the road ahead stopped blurring. Fortunately they were on a long, empty stretch. Wasn’t much on the way to the Cooper Compound.

Dawn was breaking to the west as they came to the barbed wire and sheet metal fence that separated the Cooper Compound from the rest of the world. Cyrus stopped on the last turnoff from the main road, and handed the binoculars to Dad, while Dad handed over the maps, and he and Catalina tried to figure out the best way to sneak up on the place.

That turned out to be a moot point.

“Nobody’s up in the watch towers, and the gate’s ajar,” Dad said, looking back at them with a worried tilt to the corners of his mouth. “Lights are on in the main building, but… it’s hard to tell, but I didn’t see any shadows passing in front of the windows. Something’s wrong.”

Beth knocked on the window into the cab, and Catalina opened it. Beth peered up from under the tarp, her hair messed. “I think somebody’s back a ways on the road.”

“What?” Steve opened the door, urged Catalina out, and had a look through the binoculars. “Shiiiiii— sugar! That’s a police car! In, in, in, we need to get out of here!”

“And go where?” Cyrus asked. “No, dumb question,” he amended as Catalina and Dad piled back in. “If there’s one place the cops won’t go, it’s Coopers. Come on, looks like we’re seeking sanctuary.”

Catalina took this in, turned to Beth, and said, “Hide. Do not come out until it’s safe. Understand?”

Beth nodded, eyes wide, and slid back under the tarp as Cyrus guided the truck down the dirt path, toward the gate. As he went, the first drops of rain spattered on his windshield.

The storm was finally here.

Nobody stopped them at the gate. Dad got out and opened it, keeping as flat to the sheet metal parts of the fence as possible, but nobody yelled an alarm from the watchtowers, or tried a potshot at him. He did get pretty wet, but that was a small price to pay. The rain made everything hazy, muffled noise. They got the truck inside and out of sight from the road, pulled the gate shut and set the chain in place, all without seeing a single soul. There were no voices, only the wooden clacking of the windmills, and a repetitive ssss-pop coming from the metal shack in the center of it. Cables ran from that shack to each windmill, and Cyrus knew that the main generator was there, knew that the key to this entire mystery was inside.

But Cyrus also knew that if there were any traps at all around here, they’d be inside that shack.

“I’ll take Beth and look through the main house,” Catalina said, practically in his ear. Cyrus jumped, and almost fell, struggled to keep his grip on his cane. His legs felt like long strands of wound up rubber bands, pulled too tight and about to snap. They itched, fiercely, and the chill of November wasn’t soothing the pain like it normally did.

“The house, sure.” Cyrus acknowledged. “Dad, can you check the other outbuildings? Leave this one to me.”

“Looks complicated,” Dad agreed. “This is more your speed.” He shouldered the old shotgun, and headed over to the nearest bunk house.

Cyrus took a breath, mopped the rain from his spectacles, and went back to the truck for his toolkit. And he was glad that he’d done so, mere minutes later. The voltmeter’s needle was flicking to the right every time he approached the door, even without the clamps attached, and that smell of ozone wasn’t just because of the thunderstorm. The door was electrified, he was sure of it.

But the rest of the shack wasn’t, so long as he steered clear of the cable ports. And like most of the rest of the metal structures of the compound, it was made of salvaged, rusty metal and old recycled wood.

Getting through the weakest point of it with the crowbar was hard work, but it paid off as the final plate gave way, leaving a Cyrus-sized hole into dimly-light, flickering darkness. And when Cyrus heard shoes crunching on the gravel next to him, he nodded and passed the tool back. “Get this back to the truck and get me the flashlight, please.”

“Sure, pal. Do you keep it in the cab, or with the junk in back?”

Cyrus turned around, crowbar upraised…

…and stared straight into the grinning face of the suited man who’d disappeared back into the smoke, back in town. The guy seemed amused at the possibility he might get his skull caved in, and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, friend! I’m the calvary. My name for this operation is George. Curious George.”

Cyrus shook his head, shook water from his glasses. Between the creaking and groaning of the metal, and the clacking of the windmill, he hadn’t heard George approach. “O…kay. Thanks for the backup. Against the… uh, red menace.” But he kept the crowbar up, just in case.

“Yeah” George’s smile disappeared, and he lowered his hands, smoothed his jacket open, revealing two holstered revolvers. “Shot two of them so far. They’ve infiltrated the local police force, we’ll have to work fast. What’s the skinny, Jenny?”

“What?”

“Tell me what we’re up against, and we’ll give them a united front to break upon! Come on man, the clock’s ticking!”

Cyrus couldn’t help but notice that the man’s eyes were flickering around, looking every which way. And the few times they did make eye contact, the intensity in them was… well, he’d seen more chill in the guys just back from the front.

It occurred to him that he might have made a small error, by involving an alphabet agency.

But the man was here, he was armed, and for the moment, he was friendly. “I need you to stand guard while I look at what they’ve got in here,” Cyrus said. “There’s too much to explain, it’s… some kind of machine. Could be a great benefit for Uncle Sam, if we can salvage it intact.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

That was evidently the right answer, because George nodded enthusiastically, sending drops of water flying as he pulled a revolver and started marching around the shack. “I’ll patrol! Rest easy, citizen, I’ve got your back.”

Cyrus watched him start walking away… “Hey!” he called. “I’m here with my Dad and two others! Don’t shoot them.”

“Actually it’s three,” called a voice from behind them, and George whirled, both revolvers out and firing. Cyrus didn’t even have time to duck.

He needn’t have bothered. Cyrus lowered shaking hands to see that he was unhit. And walking out of the rain, Bartleby, hands in his pockets, leveled a glare at George. “Stop firing you bloody idiot! And really now? Was that literally your best shot?”

George staggered back, stuck a revolver under his armpit, dug in his pockets, dropping handfuls of bullets into the muddy gravel as he tried to load one of the guns.

“He’s a friendly too!” Cyrus said. “He’s… British.”

“What?” George’s mouth was an O of surprise. The revolver under his armpit slipped free and splashed into the mud, and he dropped the one left in his hand, trying to retrieve the first gun.

“This man’s an utter ponce,” Bartleby whispered in Cyrus’ ear.

“Still dangerous. Crazy,” Cyrus whispered back. “Keep him busy?” Then something occurred to him. “Wait! You were leaving. What are you doing here? How’d you find us?”

“Oh, an ally! Good to see this is real— uh, really a problem that we can stand unified… against!” George shouted, managing to get his guns in order and, thankfully, holstered.

Bartleby sighed. “Let’s just say I had a long talk with myself, and couldn’t let you go it alone. But you’ve got bigger problems. I found you because this fellow right here has been broadcasting your location over a stolen police radio.”

“Requisitioned! And they’ve been compromised, anyway,” George folded his arms. “Don’t worry, I changed the frequency.”

“You didn’t change it far enough.” Bartleby sighed, and looked out at the now-shut gate. “Because I saw at least ten other vehicles in the distance before the storm killed visibility. Cyrus, you’ve got maybe five minutes to do whatever it is you can do here, and then your neighbors are going to show up and try their damnedest to kill you.”

*****

“I almost shot him,” Dad said in a low voice, as they watched George shimmy up the ladder of one of the watchtowers. “Glad I didn’t have to.”

“Yeah well, could still happen,” Cyrus said. “That’s a later problem. Let’s deal with the now problems. Hold that flashlight steady, and don’t touch anything I don’t.”

Cyrus started to worm his way into the dark shack, voltmeter in one hand, and the flashlight’s beam illuminating his way. It was a rat’s nest in there, and Cyrus saw the problem the same time that Dad did.

“I won’t fit.” Steve Colfax said. “Damn! I… you’ll have to let me go first.”

Cyrus looked at the flickering needle, as he waved it a mere foot off his path. “No. This place is deadly.” It might have been his imagination, but he could almost feel every hair on his body standing up. This wasn’t natural. There were no wires, no cables beyond the ones that had been collected in a star pattern, and he was sliding between those. Besides, those cables were rubbered up, they shouldn’t be bleeding like this. It was almost like there was a tracery with invisible wires, and he didn’t know what disturbing it would do, but with the way that needle was spasming, it wouldn’t be good.

“Shit,” he hissed, and started to crawl back. “Okay. It’ll take a lot longer, but we’ll have to take down more panels, try to see the place from the—”

“Beth!” Dad yelled, and the light cut away, then reappeared.

“I’ve got it. I can fit in here okay, Dad,” Beth said. Rusty turned his head in time to see her crouch low to get under some debris, then move up behind him.

“YOUNG LADY, YOU GET RIGHT BACK HERE THIS—” a rifle cracked, outside the compound.

“No time! She’s got this! Cover the crazy— cover George!”

“Damn it!” Steve pounded the side of the shack, made the metal boom and echo. “You better not die young lady, or your mother’ll make it a two for one sale.”

“Three for one,” Cyrus muttered, but by then Dad was gone, off to the walls with the rifle and the fervent hope that he wouldn’t have to kill anyone.

Then Beth was squirming up next to him, and his heart leaped. “No! Wrong side! Go right!” he said, pushing her back with his free hand. She didn’t ask why, but backed off and reoriented. He went as far left as he dared to give her more room, and when she got the flashlight ahead of him, he kept his eyes locked on the voltmeter as he moved it back and forth.

It took three turns, to get through the shelves, and old machinery, and junk that was strewn around and had made a little maze of the shack’s ground floor. But finally they came through into the center; a hollow space, with raindrops falling from the cracked roof, and puddling in decidedly unsafe ways around the bank of batteries in the center.

The ozone was thick here, and cloying. Even being here made him feel like his bones were buzzing, like if he clicked his teeth together he’d be completing a circuit.

Once they were up, he borrowed the flashlight from Beth and shone it at the front door. He half-expected to see a couple of cables redirected to it, but no, it was clear of all that.

And yet the voltmeter jumped all the way to the right, as he stepped toward it. He halted, backed up. “Okay,” he said. “We need to bring the scope in here.” More shots cracked through the rain, and he winced. “Now.”

“How are you so calm?” Beth almost shouted, looking between the mess of a maze they’d come out of, and him. “They’re shooting at Dad!”

“I’m calm because getting upset won’t help,” he said, “but I’m real scared too, and I’m trying not to think on it while I solve this… problem…” he shone the light at the wall, where he thought he’d seen a familiar shape.

He had. The beam shone on a sturdy wooden ladder, leading up to a hatch in the ceiling. “There! Beth, can you get up there? Get Catalina and get the prototype in from above!” This made sense. He’d passed a ladder on the outside of it, hadn’t realized there was a hatch up there. Just thought it was another firing position.

“They’re ramming the gate!” he heard George yell, muffled.

“Like fun they are! Aim for the tires!” Dad called back.

“You’re asking a lot from him!” Bartleby said, and then the night was filled with gunfire.

“Hurry!” Cyrus begged his sister.

It was one of the worst feelings in the world, waiting through the next few minutes. Knowing that outside, two honest-to-god secret agents and his own father were putting their lives on the line to buy him time. Knew that if they failed, they’d be shot and buried out here in the abandoned compound, with none the wiser, and all those kindly, god-fearing neighbors of his would go back to church and say a few extra hymns, and sleep soundly at night convinced they’d done the right thing. Knew that he had to get this door open to wherever Rusty was, and get his brother back. Because if he couldn’t, then he would have gotten them all killed for nothing.

Guilt and adrenaline warred in him, and his hands shook as he grabbed the nearest shelf for support, setting the flashlight on it as he cried. The tears felt good, and no one was there to see him break down. You mean break down more, you broken son of a bitch. What’s left of you? How the hell did we think we could do this? He berated himself.

CLANG!

The hatch burst open, and Catalina called down. “They’re at a standoff! We found some rope, we’ll lower it, get ready to catch it just in case!”

Box by box it came, One of four. Two of four. Three of four, and thunder vied with gunfire, as bullets tore Texas sky again. Catalina yelped and went flat, and Cyrus DID have to catch the box, was grateful as hell it was the lightest one.

“I’ll run the last one down!” Beth shouted.

“They’re going to get inside!” Bartleby shouted, during a break in the noise.

Cyrus bit his lip, tore open the boxes, and assembled what he could. He was distantly aware of more shouting, heard the noise of a wall giving way as a truck horn blared, and glanced up in time to see the falling shadow of a watchtower pass by Please God let that be the one George is on and not Dad, he prayed, but turned his attention back to the mess of wires and components.

But as he worked, he calmed himself. It was as he’d told Beth. Getting upset, getting sloppy, none of that would help right now. And this… this was his legacy. He’d poured years of his life into this. He knew it well, and as his confidence filled back up like a canteen dipped in a river, his fingers moved faster, and faster. And by the time Beth put the long, oilcloth bundle that held the main tube of the scope into his hands, he slid it into place and connected the leads with four swift twists.

Now all that was left was the power source.

Feet on the ladder, and he looked up, then down, quickly. Catalina was wearing a dress, after all.

“Your father and the Britisher are coming around the side!” she said. “I broke the ladder outside, so no one will come in above. What’s the plan?”

“No plan,” Cyrus said, as he grounded the device, then put the alligator clamps onto each of the two windmill cables that he’d selected, sending sparks up flaring around him. “This works or it doesn’t!”

Then he put the scope to his eye, and activated it.

And oh, it was beautiful.

He had no idea what he was looking at, but it shone and shimmered and danced, a vast pattern of woven rainbow threads that interlaced and came together, just like…

“Just like a circuit,” he whispered, taking picture after picture from different angles. “It’s anchored here. It’s anchored at three different points. But there’s one area that’s supposed to be connected that isn’t…”

He looked away from the scope, then back. Yes, the red strand went THERE, to that cable, and the blue strand was THERE, while the yellow strand was almost next to him on the left side, but green… green was waving loose, in midair.

Throwing caution to the wind, he moved up, and waved his hand through the air. His arm went numb for a second, but the feeling came back as he gasped and stepped away. “It’s there, but I have no idea… it’ll do something if we can anchor it. But…”

Sunlight shone into the shed.

Bullets rained inside, ripped through holes that appeared with flat, clanging snaps as the mob shot through the sheet metal.

“I’m hit!” Dad yelled, from back in the maze.

They were out of time.

Cyrus thought, spent precious seconds as he ducked and let the scope slip from his hands, winced as it broke into pieces on the floor.

I can’t move this strand to the cable.

But I can connect the cable and the strand!

He tore away the ground, took the broken remnants of the tube, wires hanging out, and threw it all into the space between where the waving tendril and the cable closest to it.

For a second he thought nothing would happen.

For a second he feared it would pass through the air, hit the shelf beyond it, and do nothing at all.

But as it connected the tendril and the cable, it slowed in midair. The copper wiring flared, almost steaming, as electricity ran up, crackling green, oddly green, and the full pattern burst into being. The scope slowed, still moving, but slowly, slowly, as the completed circuit struggled to flow through it.

Light bloomed and blossomed, green light, burning through the air like a candle burning through paper, searing a hole open…

…a hole to another world.

He saw plants, he saw water, humidity rolled out and into his face, and smells that he had never scented before filled his nose, and he knew he had no time to appreciate any of it as he yelled “GET THROUGH THERE!” and led the charge.

*****

He wasn’t in position to see Catalina and Beth dart back to grab Dad, and haul his bleeding form through. He didn’t see Bartleby hurry after them, or get a glimpse of how the British agent’s eyes glowed golden, just slightly, in the dim light of the shed.

Cyrus certainly wasn’t around to see the doors of the shed thrown open, as two good old boys toppled over dead, twitching and drumming their feet, smoke pouring out of their eyesockets as the strange, unearthly energy that both was and wasn’t electricity cooked them from the inside.

Nor did he see George, trembling and bleeding, falling from the ceiling hatch to land with a groan of pain, down to one gun, shot eyes wide, staring at the portal… then screaming in defiance.

George was beyond reason. Beyond anything, but fear. So George did what George always did when confronted with something he feared or didn’t understand, and that was to attack it head on and show it who was boss.

But as George charged in, screaming, shooting his last three rounds into the swirling vortex of colors, the tube completed its slow arc…

…and just as George disappeared from this world, the portal flickered, and went dark.

*****

Cyrus gasped, and fell onto mossy stone.

Around him, he heard exclamations and groans, as his friends and family did the same.

And he opened his eye, to look up at the sky of an alien world.