WIRS #07 'A Situation in Standish'

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 01

We parked our bags in our rooms, ate a light, quiet lunch. As you might expect, conversation was limited to stilted pleasantries. After Mike and Geoff went off to the bar, Ms. Jones muttered something about research and reports, hoped the hotel's WiFi could keep up. I put my phones and Chrome Book onto charge, fetched out my college notes, tackled my assignment.

It was really, really hard to stay focused. Between last night's flock of 'Three-Eyed Flying Monkeys', today's grim, 'Madellion'-induced flash-backs, and the revelation of its scarily weaponized tech, I kept losing my way. How do you un-remember horror ? I'd not lied to Ms. Jones about potentially shrinking a 'Madellion' to a thumb-drive. I'd just not told the whole truth. After seeing and, worse, understanding it, I could probably order in the makings, then 'breadboard' a viable 'Soul Crusher' around a PIC or Arduino in an afternoon. Net-capable, too.

The converse, a 'Soul Lifter', was equally dangerous. An unscrupulous sales team, tub-thumping demagogue or Book-brandishing preacher could use this technology to enthrall their audience or congregation. Throw in a well-crafted spiel, with appropriate, button-pushing weasel words, I feared scant few folk could or would resist its mind-sway...

Sure, the entrainment should gradually wear off but, mean-while, there'd be rampant mis-selling, bloody riots and crazed fervour...

About the only up-side was the 'Madellion' used frequencies above the range of common media. Most phones, TVs and such simply lacked the bandwidth to spread epidemic. A prepared venue, though, with a suitable sound-system, could potentially motivate / demotivate thousands. Many thousands. Many, many thousands. Some stadia and festivals drew a hundred thousand. Even if only ten percent of those went on the rampage, you'd overwhelm local authorities. There'd also be many, many casualties from the inevitable crowd crush...

Beyond tech that was arguably simpler and safer to build than any 'roll your own' IED, certainly with remarkably 'innocent' makings, I could see another problem. Ten minutes' urgent browsing via the hotel's free WiFi confirmed my concern. 'Budget' environmental audio sensors only read from 30 Hertz to 13 kilo-Hertz. Ranging beyond that took serious, serious money...

I took a few minutes out, had a long, slow drink of water, washed my face, went back to my assignment. This time, I made progress. I was honing an off-beat solution I'd found for its third problem when a knock came at my door.

"Tim ?" Ms. Jones sounded concerned. "Have you a minute to talk ?"

I opened the door to its stop-bar, then wide. "Come in, Ma'm."

Waved to the chair, she shook her head, asked, "How are you ?"

"Shaken, Ma'm," I admitted, waved at my bed-spread notes. "Took a while to settle. I'd hoped to be further along."

"Shaken..." She shivered. "Our 'Technical Section' had a collective 'Great Quake'. The danger posed by such 'Madellions'...

"I reported your appraisal, your comment about potentially down-sizing to a thumb-drive. They agree.

"Tim, I must ask you not to experiment with this technology, nor discuss it with outsiders, however tangentially. Not a doodle, not a sketch, nary a hint nor a whisper."

"Agreed, Ma'm." I nodded, added, "Ma'm, I've had time to think it through. Either as 'Soul Crusher' or 'Soul Lifter', each as potentially dangerous as the other, we've no detection system."

"That... That's what our 'Technical Section' said, when they stopped swearing."

"Ma'm, I've just had a quick look on Amazon. The audio equivalent of Mike's neat EM detector only goes up to a Baker's Dozen kilo-Hertz. Then there's a huge price-gap before full-ranged, acoustics-lab instruments, which are best described as 'luggable'...

"We need an affordable, hand-held widget, with a simple 'spectrum analyser' display ranging from deep infra-sound to about 100 kilo-Hertz, that will also flag beats. Happen this covers Bat calls--"

"Last week--"

"Yes, Ma'm." I nodded. "Remembering Simon's possible adit resonance and his bat detector's heterodyne down-shifter helped me figure a practicable mechanism for the 'Madellion'. He's familiar with the necessary techniques and sensors. He is already 'read in'. If your 'Technical Section' pitched this as an abhuman threat, the way cetaceans may use ultrasound pulses both to pod-chat and stun prey, well, his cuts and bruises are still very, very fresh..."

Ms. Jones' tight face eased by tiny increments. Finally, she deployed that unsettling smile, murmured, "Tim, that sounds like a plan !"

"Hope so, Ma'm," I admitted.

"See you at six in the restaurant ?"

"Yes, Ma'm !"

For the meal, I switched from my usual combats and plain hoodie to my good jeans and middling-smart T-shirt. The food was good, really good, and the servings were lavish. I could have stuffed myself unto a stupor, but I needed several hours with a clear head to complete my assignment. So, I drank sparkling water instead of wine or beer, went easy on the carbs, reluctantly passed on dessert then, as reluctantly, declined a superb liqueur coffee.

Ms. Jones avoided all mention of business until the plates were cleared. "Guys, would you set your alarms for 0730, please ? I'd like to be on the road by eight thirty. If the developing pattern is genuine, we should get a series of cross-bearings, shrink the 'fix'."

I reckoned I'd need four hours for the remaining assignment questions, did them in three. But, checking my work, I thought I saw an alternative solution for the fifth question via a Cascode configuration. I'd scant experience of such, so using one here took me far from my 'comfort zone'. I needed a lot of hasty Googling via the thankfully free WiFi before a surprisingly elegant circuit emerged. Lacking next year's advanced math to fully analyse it for 'stupids', I attached the Cascode and my caution as a possible 'Plan_B'.

After up-loading report copies to the college server and my personal corner of the 'Cloud', I put my assignment away. With phones and Chrome Book on charge, my 'smart' clothes packed, I was ready for the morning. I took a belated shower, dried off while the midnight TV news played. Global and national bulletins were followed by regional. No 'Flying Monkeys', but we'd had several more vicious, Meth-fuelled club-land brawls, and still no sightings of that van or those students...

I didn't sleep well. Friday night's Whatsits cull had caught up with me. And, the 'Madellion' had stirred my ghosts like a Rome plow. Worse, those descending 'Shepard Tones' reminded me of an old movie where the test-pilot's X-Plane got into a flat spin. Pinned by centrifugal force, altimeter unwinding, its recovery chute couldn't, wouldn't deploy...

I fell out of bed.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 02

I'd time for a quick shower before breakfast, which I ate rapidly, pocketing four tissue-wrapped bread rolls against contingencies. At the van, Ms. Jones issued me the detector box, made her usual call, sent a test ping. Then she handed me an adaptor cable to run the box from the van's electrics. I hung the box from convenient garment hooks on the back of Geoff's seat, connected the adaptor, cinched my seat-belt.

"Mike, head South on the A49 as far as Coppull, find some-where to pull in and wait."

"Ma'm..."

While Ms. Jones worked through her phone's backlog, we trundled along the old, winding Preston Road, occasionally glimpsing the busy M6 motorway to our right.

"Done !" she said, with obvious relief. "Okay, Tim, Mike and Geoff know the situation, let's get you up to speed."

Fetching a rather weary 'Ordnance Survey' map from her jacket's poacher's pocket, she unfolded it to show this area, criss-crossed by a fading rainbow of old high-lighter pen.

"We began getting brief but clear hits from this area as soon as the first detector array went live," she said. "There'd be two or three in succession from our 'Lancashire Locus', then nothing for days, even weeks. Jack, my predecessor, was a crypto-zoologist turned ghost-buster. He took a good look around, found no flagrant weirdness. As more elements were added to the first array, and regional arrays commissioned, he narrowed the hits to a skewed diamond between Bamber Bridge to the North, near Preston, with Skelmersdale, Wigan and Bolton across the South...

"So, bunch of hits, then an unpredictable gap. Some hits, another gap. More hits. Another, apparently random gap. Didn't match thunderstorms, tides, train times, road or rail maintenance, sport matches or 'Nuclear Fuel' convoys. Wasn't RSGB Hams, CB truckers, rural taxis with over-driven 'twigs' or the local pirate radio. Wasn't solar flares or the aurora. Not RAF or guests practising 'Time Over Target', stealth drones out of BAE Systems or an Airbus Beluga ferrying wings...

"Another problem was his 'best fix' seemed to shift between hit clusters. A bunch down by Wigan could be followed by several months' gap, then a spate up near Chorley, or vice-versa. Perhaps error-bars on the array, perhaps the source moving around...

"About eighteen months ago, when Jack was promoted to 'National', this 'Locus' topped the list of 'head-scratchers' he gave me, just ahead of the 'Jodrell Bank' lizard men and the 'Croston Curse'. I had these two great guys and the portable detector, reckoned we'd soon nail it down. Of course, the 'Locus' promptly went quiet for more than a year. There were a few, isolated hits, but they seemed random, perhaps false-positives.

"Started up again three months ago, longer and stronger than before, less irregular timing, though no obvious pattern. Still in the original diamond, give or take, but now about midway, with Croston close enough for concern...

"Though the 'Madellion' has issues, yesterday cleared it of being the 'Locus'. In a way, that was a relief, as the locations and timings didn't really match. Also, Tim, you gave me a big clue on Friday, while you were chatting to the students..."

"Ma'm ?"

"Yes, you said we'd recruited you part-time. Suddenly, the 'Locus' timing made sense."

"Huh ? Context, Ma'm ?"

"I think we have an 'Independent Investigator'. Stumbled upon portal tech. Working on a shoe-string budget in the gaps between his or her day job. And the recent pattern of hits ? I think he or she has found a sponsor..."

I nodded slowly. My own electronics projects had been hamstrung by persistently parlous cash-flow. After rent, utilities, bus-fare, food and other essentials, plus treats for the 'Minx', I'd scant disposable income for several months at a time. Any spare cash perforce went into my 'Panic Pot'. Then another month or six weeks might pass while my budget packs of components wended their way from Amazon's Asian suppliers...

"And a workshop, Ma'm ?" I suggested.

"That, too," Ms. Jones agreed. "We must shut it down. Unauthorised portals are just too dangerous."

Having seen that gaggle of Ghouls and the flock of Whatsits, I'd not disagree.

"Coming up on Coppull, Ma'm," Mike reported. He slowed the van, stopped on the forecourt of a 'Fish & Chips' fryer, currently closed.

"Now, we wait..." Her words were barely uttered when the detector box bleeped and showed a yellow.

"Straight ahead, Ma'm," I reported, warily swivelling the box. Right kept the yellow, left gave a momentary increase to amber, then back to yellow. "Perhaps slightly left..."

"Can't be," Ms. Jones began, was interrupted by her phone's chime. She glanced at the caller ID, answered with, "Yes, we're seeing it. Vector's due South or slightly East of South, from..."

"Singleton's Fish & Chips," Mike called. "A49 near Coppull."

"Got that ? Okay." Ms. Jones looked up from her phone. "Drive !"

Mike checked the traffic, sent the van forwards.

"We're inside the arrays' error bars," Ms. Jones said. "It's close, or very big..."

The signal stopped. I wiggled the box, got nothing. "Lost, Ma'm."

"Pull over where you can, Mike."

He pulled onto the hard shoulder outside the 'Alison Arms' pub, about a quarter mile from where we'd been.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 03

"Ma'm," I said, patting the detector box, "I'll not ask how this works, but could you give me a feel for the range and such ?"

"That's fair... Mike ?"

"It's 'inverse square', Tim, and 'speed of light'." He shrugged. "Not blocked by EM or radiation shielding. Techs said something about 'quantum tunneling'. Larger portals have longer range, but even our 'mouse-hole' shows up on all the fixed UK arrays."

"Thank you--" The detector box bleeped, showed a yellow. My wary wiggle brought up a hesitant amber. "Ahead ! More left than before !"

"Drive !"

Mike drove hard and fast. As the road took a gentle curve to the right, the detection angle opened. I reported, "About twenty degrees left, thirty-- And lost."

Mike slowed, slowed, pulled into an Italian restaurant's car park, deserted at this early hour. Ms. Jones turned her map about, trying to figure the fix. "We are here. Bearing takes in a big trading estate to the East of Standish, but also a sand extraction works and another, smaller estate the other side of the rail line. So, we wait."

Her phone rang. She listened, replied, "Yes, we're in position at the 'Olive Garden' on the A49. Line from there South-East-ish through, um, 'Bradley Hall Industrial Estate', give or take."

We waited five minutes, ten, fifteen. The box bleeped, showed yellow in two quadrants. My wiggling gave a steady amber. "Same line, Ma'm."

"Drive !"

Mike waited but moments for a gap in the light traffic, sent the van roaring South.

"Angle's opening left, Ma'm !" I called. "We're level-- Past ! Signal lost !"

"Gotcha," Ms. Jones murmured, peering across me and the low, road-side hedge to an isolated cluster of buildings set in the middle of open fields. "Geoff, what's there ?"

"Cross Farm Meditation Centre, Ma'm. Also 'Cross Supplements'. Access road in three hundred, beyond these houses."

"Take it, Mike." Her phone rang. "Yes, 'Cross Farm', set back from the A49. You have it ? Uh-huh ? Okay..."

Mike turned onto the access road, stopped. Looking towards the buildings about 400 metres ahead, he asked, "Multiple parked ?"

Geoff produced a spotting scope from a pouch, counted, "Five cars, a white van and shadows of two more cars in front of the 'Supplements' complex at right of yard. Farm-house and out-buildings mask left."

We studied the Google Earth views he soon found. Those older buildings made a ragged 'L' to the left. A wide, single-storey brick building with pitched roof and central entrance formed the 'Supplements' frontage, perhaps provided amenities and office space. Immediately behind it, a substantial 'industrial unit' probably housed the pharmaceutical 'works'. There was a short passage across a fire-break, with what looked a fire exit to either side. The passage led between two low brick buildings to a warehouse, which stood longer and taller, but slightly narrower than the 'works'. The gently pitched roof had some glazing, plus low ventilation turrets and what could be automatic smoke vents. I could see a drive-in door about a quarter of the way along the left side-wall then, about half way along both left and right, a fire exit. Just beyond those, the ground seemed to ramp down, probably putting the warehouse floor level with the twin, yard-facing loading bays at far-left. Beyond, air-gapped behind a strong barrier, a multi-tonne LPG's oval tank lurked near the site boundary.

Ms. Jones woke her phone, said, "We've reached the access road. Parked cars suggest multiple persons on-site. What have you got ? Uh-huh ? Uh-huh ? Understood...

"Guys, the current owners don't farm, they rent their fields to neighbours. 'Meditation Centre' keeps a low profile, but has a bunch of regulars. 'Supplements' down-sized a year back, only does one-off jobs. Most recent, three months ago. Paper trail seems okay, but their business model looks, um, flimsy...

"If we weren't here for the portal, I'd do a 'hostile audit'. So, keep your eyes open for anomalies," Ms. Jones warned. "Mike, park about half way."

He did, after a wary three-point turn. Ms. Jones' phone rang again. She listened, told us, "Guys, this may be an unusual portal. It gives a very strong signal, has, quote, 'strange transients' as it starts. I'm authorising 'Weapons Free'."

The farm's private road had a sealed surface, but stood mere inches above the winter-stubbled field to either side. Shallow, damp ditches formed ad-hoc field boundaries, regulated run-off. All three gun-slingers armed up, stuffing their pouches with magazines. Geoff shouldered the Mossberg, too, after partly disguising the barrel with an urban-camo sleeve. For non-lethal, Ms. Jones handed out our Asps. We donned Hi-Vis vests showing 'HMRC', set ear-plugs handy, walked towards the site in single file.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 04

The morning was cool, damp, dull and quiet. As we approached the farm along the access road, the only obvious activity was the steady rhythm of a mid-sized engine somewhere ahead. Standing from weeds and low scrub, an old, hip-high wall of frost-spalled bricks marked the perimeter. There was no barrier, no gate, just a weary sign whose latest paint had begun to peel, showing a previous version.

"Ma'm," whispered Mike.

She nodded. Mike went right along the wall for a dozen paces, opening his angle on the yard. Geoff almost glided to the first farm building's corner, peered around, made a hand signal. Mike returned, flanked Ms. Jones as she stepped forwards.

Our team's tail-end charlie, unemployed while my sensor box slept, I had the luxury to look about rather than scan for threats. The engine's noise was now a bit louder, a bit clearer, but my gaze fell on those parked cars, and the four more tucked into the farm-house 'L'. They all seemed economy models, nothing flash or new. The shabby panel van had certainly seen better days. Then I saw its registration plate.

"Ma'm," I called quietly, "the white van ?"

Her eyes swept it. She made the connection. "An 'FGZ' ? Hmm. I don't like coincidences--"

The unseen engine's speed suddenly rose, found a deeper beat. My sensor box beeped, went straight to red. Twisting it gave two reds flanking the quadrant, with a slight emphasis. "Red ahead, Ma'm ! Slightly right !"

That bore on the factory complex. Ms. Jones pointed to the front entrance, jogged forwards. Drawing his hand-gun, Geoff passed her at a run. He looked ready to kick the double doors off their hinges, but tried their handles. One leaf was not locked. He flung the door wide, went in hard and fast. A foyer's inner door got the same treatment. Gun drawn, Mike arrived on his heels. I heard some commotion, then Mike's call, "Clear !"

I followed Ms. Jones inside. Ahead, a short corridor ran straight back to what was probably the pharma 'works' entrance, now guarded by Geoff. On our right, there was a bare, apparently disused reception desk, with an empty office behind it, kicked door still swinging. Neither desk nor office had a visible land-line phone. Left, I saw tables and chairs, a basic coffee bar. Unlike the desk, they looked clean. Although there were no visible consumables, I caught a whiff of stale coffee.

"Empty stock room to right, Ma'm," Mike reported on the rooms off the short corridor. "Janitorial, staff facilities and two public toilet cubicles to left. Fairly clean."

"Might have begun as a farm shop," Ms. Jones allowed. She glanced at my detector box which still showed solid red ahead, added, "We go on."

Geoff eased the 'works' double doors ajar, ghosted forwards. Mike followed. When they reported no threat, I followed Ms. Jones into the foyer beyond, peered through those smoke doors' wired glass. Although I liked Chemistry, I'd visited exactly one 'pharma' site, an official 'Hugh Baird' tour of the sprawling GSK complex out by 'John Lennon' Airport. Today's 'Mini-Me' was silent, seemed deserted. Despite the dimness, emergency lights showed signs for staff-changing and several lab areas to the left of this central corridor, with blending, dosing and packaging to the right. The building's cladding muffled that engine's beat to a near-subliminal pulse.

Mike and Geoff efficiently checked each area for threats, Ms. Jones guarded their backs. As they progressed, I peeked into those 'cleared' rooms. The dim female staff changing was slightly dusty, smelled disused. Every locker stood open. Almost all hung white 'hygiene' overalls above white 'wellington' safety boots. By contrast, the male changing smelled gym-sweaty. Most of the lockers were closed. Hygiene wear heaped a wheeled laundry basket at the back. Oddly, those overalls smelled unused...

Trying to figure why, I looked into an open locker, blinked at the long, dark robe hung within. I checked three, four, five more open lockers, found the same. Grabbing one off its hook, I hustled back to the corridor. Ms. Jones heard me emerge, glanced back, whispered, "Tim ?"

"Ma'm," I kept my voice low, "there could be a dozen or more men dressed like this. Trouble ?"

She focused on my find, a traditional hooded, black, monkish robe, complete with rope belt. She sighed, nodded. "If they're cultists, all bets are off. Guys ?"

Her whisper carried to Mike and Geoff who'd just emerged from a lab area, drew their notice. She gestured at the robe I held, warned, "Potential hostiles. Dozen or more."

Updated, they allowed us quick nods. Ms. Jones woke her phone, pulled a face. "Good signal, no service ? Ah, this '!' icon flags an IMSI-Catcher. Serious jammer tech. No matter, we go on."

Mike and Geoff continued their sweep. Ms. Jones and I followed at a safe distance. Sealed windows allowed us to peer into the manufacturing zones we passed, their sanitised equipment shrouded in translucent plastic. The labs also had windows. The first room looked like any college 'Basic Chemistry' lab. Its bare work-tops awaited the generic equipment and mild reagents stored in glass-fronted cupboards and on busy wall-shelving. The second room resembled a high-tech 'micro-brewery', populated by multi-litre glass-ware and accessories on low benches and in floor-mounted frames. Squeaky clean, neat and tidy, they would surely suit pilot-scale syntheses, but something about their current arrangement nagged at me.

Belatedly, I remembered a no-holds-barred 'Health and Safety' training video on 'site contamination'.

"Ma'm," I pointed. "Could that be a high-end Meth Lab ?"

Ms. Jones' gaze snapped around. She looked, hesitated, said, "Check it out."

I nodded, edged inside. The air was fresh, the room lacked the toxic stains and garbage of a scary 'garage' lab. Deploying my WIRS-issue phone, I made a quick survey, returned to the corridor. Ms. Jones polled me with a glance. I whispered, "Clean, but the work-flow fits."

"Uh..." Mike and Geoff glanced back from the exit foyer as she exhaled, then quietly warned, "Possible Meth Lab, too. Portal, Tim ?"

"Still red ahead, Ma'm."

"That's much too long for a 'Wyrm World' connection," she mentioned, unhappily.

Mike's tiny head-shake spoke volumes. He said, "No cover between this foyer and the big shed."

She checked her phone, shook her head. "Still blocked. So, we go on."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 05

Mike and Geoff stayed close to the walls, advanced stealthily. I could not hear them over that engine's heavy beat, which was clear again, and louder. Half way along the corridor, crash-bar fire-doors opened to left and right. Adjoining the warehouse, those two low brick buildings had 'dry riser' inlets beside heavily hinged and bolted metal doors stencilled 'Flammable Solvents' and 'Active Reagents'. The former's strong padlock hung open from the hasp. Our three gun-slingers edged past, peered through double-swing doors into the dim warehouse.

After a few moments, Ms. Jones murmured, "Can you hear chanting ?"

Mike crouched to clear Geoff's weapon, tried, then eased the left-hand leaf ajar. That engine was now louder, surely within the warehouse. And, yes, there were multiple male voices raised in unison, if not harmony. They sounded like tipsy sport supporters, booze garbling their lyrics. Innate caution made me edge away.

That put me beside the 'Solvents' store. As my ears attuned to the engine's beat, I thought I heard faint noises from within. Also, its rugged, IP-sixty-something light switch was turned to 'on', the first such.

Before I could mention this, Mike whispered, "Two rows of racking set left and right of this trucking aisle. Many IBCs, palletised drums and kegs. Robed figures blocking sight-line. Most have two-metre poles topped with stiff flags or emblems--"

The strong chanting fell to a slow, repetitive cadence. A low-fi PA system boomed in a commanding baritone, "Fetch the next sacrifice !"

A pair of the robed figures turned, strode our way. We'd nowhere to hide, so flattened ourselves against the walls behind the shadowed doors, trusting to those robes' deep hoods for surprise.

Moments later, the pair pushed through the big doors' centreline, the second nasally grumbling, "... but why can't we have fun with her first--"

Two Asps struck as one. The pair dropped in their tracks. Their fall was hidden by the closing doors, masked by that engine's continued beat and the cadenced chant. I gulped, tilted a hand towards the 'Solvents' store, whispered, "I think she's in here !"

Mike and Geoff guarded the warehouse entrance. Ms. Jones tugged one bolt, then the other, heaved the 'Solvents' door wide. I glimpsed a blanket-wrapped huddle at the back, three pale faces with tear-reddened eyes. Ms. Jones blinked, asked, "Salford nursing students ?"

Their gazes registered Ms. Jones' hand-gun, her Hi-Vis with its bold 'HMRC' logo. Hope lit their eyes. They nodded. Trembling, one whispered, "We were 'Roofied', woke here..."

"They gave us mineral water, but nothing to eat..."

"There was a Serbian cleaner--"

"They took Petra half an hour ago--"

"We heard her screams, then-- Silence."

There was a sudden roar and yells from the warehouse, then cheers and, cued by the booming PA system, loud chanting.

"The F**--" Geoff whispered. "Mike ? You seeing this ?"

"Centre of shed, something dark growing," he reported, a tad shakily. "Big, segmented worm, but upright-- Three metres, four, now five-- Still growing-- Top's bending-- Lamprey mouth ? Tentacles ? Ma'm, we have an 'Active Incursion'."

"Cultists..." Ms. Jones sighed, shook her head. Turning, her voice tight as a garrote, she said, "Tim, give the sensor box to Mike, then get these civilians clear. Phone 999 when you can. On my authority, tell them-- Tell them 'DEFCON WIRS TWO'."

"Ma'm, 'DEFCON WIRS TWO' ? Okay." I nodded, un-slung the sensor box, asked the teens, "Can you walk ?"

"Yes, but we've only party-smalls and sox," one admitted, with a slight blush.

"I can fix that," I said. "This way, please ? And bring your blanket ?"

Trying not to notice their curves, bruises, winces, blushes, shivers or goose-bumps, I led them back through the pharma 'works' to the female changing. "In here. Double up on overalls, boot sizes are marked."

While they sought clothes, I woke my WIRS-issue phone. It showed several bars, no service and that 'jammed' icon. Before I'd time to worry, the students stumbled out clad, but pale as their baggy attire. The slimmest had the woven blanket around her trembling shoulders. We clumped through the front office, hastened past the parked vehicles, past the farm-house. Half-way from the boundary wall to our WIRS van, the phone's '!' icon faded, along with the 'No Service' message.

I went a little further, stopped to make my call. The weary students halted, too. I needed a moment to catch my breath, choose my words. I used the time to wake my own phone. It, too, found bars, then its budget 'Pay As You Go' network.

"Okay, let's do this," I muttered, keyed the WIRS phone.

"Emergency, which services do you need ?"

"Hello, my name is Tim. I am calling from access road to 'Cross Farm', A49, Standish on behalf of Jenny Jones, HMRC, Special Investigations Directorate, Section 'D'. We have an 'Active Incursion', repeat, 'Active Incursion', in Cross Supplements' warehouse. Code is 'DEFCON WIRS TWO', repeat, 'DEFCON WIRS TWO'..."

I heard confusion, then alarm at the call centre. I snatched a breath, continued, "You recognise that code ? Understood...

"Also, we've freed the three missing Salford students. They're here with me. 'Roofied', mild hypothermia, possible shock, very hungry. Due care, please ? Another kidnap victim was ritually killed by the multiple cultists. They have an IMSI-type cell-phone jammer...

"I'm sorry, I cannot stay on the line or give this HMRC-issue phone to the students. I'll hand them mine..." I cleared the WIRS phone, took a hasty breath, held out my budget phone, said, "Please, let the 999 call-centre contact your folk. Watch the farm and keep talking..."

As one hastily keyed it, the others nodded slowly. I dug in my pockets, handed over those four tissue-wrapped breakfast rolls. "Sorry, all I've got."

"Gimmee ! Gimmee !"

Pointing, I said, "Go well past our van, wait for the cavalry.

"If-- If Godzilla walks, 'Duck and Cover'. Dampen the blanket in a ditch puddle, use it to mask your thermal image."

"You're going back ?"

"Yeah..." I tried to find better words, settled for, "We're a team."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 06

As the students clumped towards the van, I jogged back to the farm, where that engine still pounded. I went straight through the 'pharma' building. Our three gun-slingers were gathered by that passage's warehouse entrance, peering within, but the two downed cultists had disappeared. Locked into the 'Solvent' store, I hoped. The engine's strong beat was again overlain by enthusiastic chanting.

"Pssst," I whispered from my crouch in the ajar foyer, ready to duck friendly fire.

All three did a double-take before Ms. Jones waved me forwards, quietly asked, "The students ?"

"Call centre recognised your WIRS code, Ma'm." I shuddered, continued, "Students are beyond the van, wearing wellies and doubled overalls. Eating my spare breakfast rolls. Giving commentary via my personal phone. Will 'Duck and Cover' if Godzilla walks."

"You should have stayed with them..."

I shook my head, said, "Ma'm, I'm here. What's going on ?"

She sighed, gestured vaguely, said, "Mega-Worm seems to like the cultists' chanting, is doing a 'Dancing Daisy'. I can't make out the lyrics, but they could be phonetic 'Enochian'."

"I-- I thought that was codified Glossolalia. Like, um, 'Klingon'..."

"I wish..." Ms. Jones hesitated, stated, "Pidgin 'Atlantean'."

"Okay..." I took a breath, asked, "Not missed their two thugs ?"

"Three, now," she murmured, almost casually. "Their boss seems distracted..."

They made a gap for me to study the scene. Well beyond the two high-racks, under roof glazing at the warehouse centre, a score or more of chanting, robe-clad cultists warily circled what was surely the portal. Most were beating time with the butts of their ceremonial staffs. Within their wide ring, the swaying Mega-Worm towered like a wobbly stack of glistening, purple-green 200 litre drums. A cubit or two short of the sky-lit roof trusses, it bent like a shepherd's crook. Its wide 'lamprey' mouth with tiered teeth was surrounded by compound eyes set between a waving fringe of short tentacles. Five much longer, squid-like arms dangled, twitching and twirling to the chant's rhythm.

The cultists worked their way through two more hymns, seemed to be tiring. As the second's lyrics ended, the PA system boomed baritone, "Where is our sacrifice ? Bring her, and those foolish minions, too ! Our Dark Lord will feast upon their marrow !"

As several cultists turned our way, Ms. Jones directed, "Tim, take the sensor box. Guys, I am authorising 'Lethal Sanction'."

She fitted her ear-plugs with two practised moves. After a moment for Mike and Geoff to do likewise, she pushed the doors open, yelled, "Armed police ! Armed police ! Stand down ! Stand down !"

All the cultists turned. Those nearest glimpsed Hi-Vis and levelled guns, recoiled. During that moment of terrible silence, I hastily fumbled my ear-plugs to place.

"Heretics ! Blasphemers !" boomed the PA. "Kill them for the Dark Lord ! Kill them all ! Now !"

The cultists charged, pushing their hesitant front rank ahead. Ms. Jones' first, remarkably loud shot hit the nearest's midriff, dropping him in a mewling heap. Some tried to stop or turn aside, went down beneath the following rush. Several tripped on the fallen. Most stepped around, levelling their ceremonial staffs.

Only, those weren't symbolic, but actual Medieval-ish, stabby-choppy, pole-axe halberds.

Did they have body-armour, too ? One's brief astonishment as he fell to Ms. Jones' second bullet answered that. Mike and Geoff double-tapped followers like so many urban range targets, dropping them like skittles. The few who'd merely stumbled stood, foolishly grabbed for a halberd, went down again. An irregular 'ping, ka-ching' told of magazines expended and replaced. The last two cultists had to come around the portal's now-visible plait and plinth. They charged with fanatical yells, fell to cross-fire.

Some of the cultists were still alive, moaning in pain, but not one had got near the racking.

"Heretics ! Blasphemers ! Dark Lord, kill them ! Kill them all !" boomed the PA. Belatedly remembering the language barrier, he tried again, but in 'Enochian'.

"His grammar's off--" Ms. Jones began, then stopped, speechless. The Mega-Worm was bending lower. Its long arms stretched, converged on a downed cultist. Those arms' tips investigated his bloody robe. Then, in a flicker of motion, one arm wrapped the limp body, shortened, lifted it high. Before our eyes, the body came within reach of the shorter tentacles. They took it, shoved it head-first into the working lamprey maw like a snack-sized 'Mexican Wrap'. Two, three, four ghastly, scrunchy gulps sufficed. We watched in horror as the dead cultist's sandal-clad feet vanished within, as peristalsis carried his body's bulge down the Worm.

"Dark Lord, accept our martyr's sacrifice !" boomed from the PA system.

"Where's the Wiz ?" Ms. Jones wondered.

Mike and Geoff edged forwards, one either side of the central trucking aisle. Reaching the front corners of the further racks, they peered both ways. Mike reported, "Control booth on the right. Two visible occupants."

Ms. Jones took a long look. As the Mega-Worm began to investigate another fallen cultist, she stepped back and began taking photos of that with her phone. I peeked between Mike and Geoff. The lit booth was about the size of our van, positioned along the side-wall just short of the central fire-exit. Set towards that end so almost facing the portal, its one, square side-window had the thick, greenish glazing of bank tellers, jewellers and armoured limos. Through it, I could see a stocky, gesticulating cultist laden with bizarre regalia, a second cultist warily peering between us and the Worm, and part of an end door convenient to the fire exit. The pounding engine seemed to be in the windowless half, presumably ducting exhaust through the warehouse side-wall.

"Bwaa- Ha-Ha-haa !" boomed from the PA. "You shall not interrupt our Dark Lord's triumph !"

When the scrunching and swallowing was done, Ms. Jones pocketed her phone, levelled her gun on the booth. She put six brisk rounds into the window, superficially starring it. As she changed magazines, Mike and Geoff added to the damage. The glazing was left blinded, but intact.

"Bwaa- Ha-Ha-haa !" again boomed from the PA. "You shall not interrupt our Dark Lord's triumph !"

"Knock-knock ?" Ms. Jones murmured. Geoff peeled the camo-sleeve from the Mossberg, loaded a bear-stop round. As he raised the weapon, I put my hands over my plugged ears, still winced at the crash.

The window held. Geoff tried a second. Again, the glazing held.

"Bwaa- Ha-Ha-haa ! You shall not interrupt--"

Geoff's third got through. The open mic relayed a storm of flying fragments, agonised howls, then a lighter voice, "Sod this for a game of soldiers !"

The booth's door flew open, hinged on the portal side. Part-sheltered by it, a slim figure reached the fire exit in two strides. He body-slammed the crash-bar, was gone before the booth's sprung door swung shut.

"No shot," Mike reported, lowering his gun. "But not the Wiz. No bling."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 07

Within the now-darkened booth, that engine still pounded. The Mega-Worm still towered, had begun investigating a third victim. I put a foot on the right-hand rack's shin-high truck guard, caught at the frame. stepped up. Just that extra foot gave me a much better perspective.

The live portal was easily ten metres across, impossibly filling the inner polygon of its multi-pointed star with a shimmering, almost mesmeric pearly film. I counted, "Eight, nine, ten, eleven corners ? Yes, eleven, stepped by threes..."

As with the Heptonstall Niner, the wide, wide 'trace' was plaited. But, instead of lightweight, flexible wiring, this had heavy, flattened cables, like clad bus-bars, joined by heavy clamps on hand-span stand-offs. I traced the circuit by eye. At one apex facing the control booth, converging lines were separated by shallow stand-offs. A pair of thick, but flexible cables curved down to the warehouse floor, vanished into a small access pit. Given the way the engine note changed when this portal woke, and the heaviness of the cabling, I suspected the booth housed a welding generator. I took a few photos, stepped down.

The lifted third body was being turned, transferred to those smaller tentacles when one of the fallen cultists stirred. Another arm lashed down, knocked him flat, wrapped and began to lift. He screamed.

"Can't have that," Ms. Jones hissed, double-tapped the upper part of that arm, then again. Purple-green ichor oozed, but the Mega-Worm seemed unconcerned. Mike and Geoff added their own fire, several rounds also striking the Worm's upright body. Those wounds dribbled ichor, but were ignored. With the dead third cultist swallowed, the screaming fourth was now queued. Ms. Jones spat something surely rude, shot him twice. He'd stilled before his head entered that dire maw.

After emptying her magazine into the Worm's upright body to no effect, she asked Geoff, "How many solids ?"

"Seven, Ma'm."

As those arms sought another snack, she replaced that magazine, said, "Five to the mouth."

While Ms. Jones and Mike supported with 9mm fire, the Mossberg hammered the Mega-Worm's maw and curve. We glimpsed several teeth shattering, but Geoff's target seemed unconcerned by the damage or leakage. Ominously, where dripping ichor fell on downed cultists' robes, they smoked. And, where it splattered the warehouse 'trucking' floor, that sizzled. A foul, acrid stench arose. Far worse than the Heptonstall Whatsits' dung, it smelled more like metal-pickling or etching waste.

"I'm done, Ma'm," Geoff reported.

Meanwhile, the Mega-Worm had continued feeding. Lifted, another victim showed signs of life, which Ms. Jones hastily terminated. Having cleared the easy pickings, the Worm began swaying wider and lower, grabbing cultists further from the portal, eating them faster. Geoff's one attempt to sidle around the corner of the racking drew whip-lash strikes. As he ducked back, one arm's swipe rattled the frame, another thumped a 'caged' IBC. We retreated to the cross-aisle. Ms. Jones checked her phone, which was still blocked. Reluctantly, she admitted, "Guys, even if we shut off the power, that Worm may have enough mojo to sustain the portal. There's no way to get at the plait to dismantle it..."

Stood at the back, I'd had time to study the shadowed racking. I gulped, but honesty bid me say, "About that, Ma'm ? I've an idea..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter #8

Ms. Jones gave me a long, long look, then asked, "Does it beat waiting for an air-strike ?"

"Might do, Ma'm..."

As I gathered my puzzle-pieces, Mike asked, "Rig an IED from lab stuff ?"

"Not my scene," I demurred, asked Ms. Jones, "Ma'm, you said portals bite ?"

"Yes." She added, "We've heard of some nasty accidents."

"So, if I changed the circuit by shorting a turn--"

"You'd not get ten feet." She waved at the Kraken-like arms harvesting dead cultists two at a time.

I pointed down the left cross-aisle between the laden racking rows. "If Geoff and Mike can make a gap near the back--"

"Then we distract the Worm while you flank it ?"

"Yes, Ma'm."

"Guys ?"

Mike and Geoff exchanged glances. Mike allowed, "We can look..."

The first rack, against the end-wall, was single-depth. We needed a way through the second, a double. And, please, near the side-wall. A few moments showed the potential route I'd spotted, two bays from the end, was the only one. This side's pallet carried plastic 25 kg drums of tableting lactose, stacked three high, stretch-wrapped for security and hygiene. The other side's pallet had a 'Rubik's Cube' of boxy cartons, clad like-wise.

We set to work. Mike and Geoff used their fighting knives to cut the drums' strong wrap. They unloaded the left third of the pallet, parking each drum against the aisle's end wall. That gave access to the back of the cartons, whose wrap Mike quickly cut away. He passed the first box to Geoff, who passed it to me. It wasn't heavy, so I put it on top of the furthest lactose drum. Eight more followed, creating a narrow passage.

"Uh-huh ?" Geoff's exhalation was eloquent.

"I think so," I allowed, handing Mike the sensor box when he'd clambered back. "May I have a minute to map it ?"

Mike nodded. I ducked through the racking and, sheltered by the remaining boxes, studied the scene from my offset perspective. This side-wall of the warehouse was clear between the racking and a well-stocked 'fire-point' immediately to the left of the fire exit. There was a wall reel, a 'CO2' cylinder and a water-based one, plus a sand-filled fire-bucket. Just to the fire exit's right, there was a 'spillage centre', all mirrored by the arrangement flanking that cultist's escape route. In the far diagonal corner, the roof glazing now caught enough of the watery, mid-morning sun to show a fork-lift truck and a pallet truck at charging points behind a safety rail. Near that, behind another rail, I could just make out a trolley with gas cylinders and coiled hoses, probably an oxy-acetylene welding rig, parked beside a long work bench.

More relevant, there was a scatter of halberds where cultists had fallen. Most were near the front, marking their doomed charge, but one downed flanker's had skidded wild and wide. To reach the portal's plait, I would have to step around some blood pools, but the Mega-Worm had removed their bodies.

That, too, was a constraint. I'd a fair chance while the Mega-Worm was still busy by the racking, but I'd seen its arms' speed. I must go soon, or not at all. I took a shaky breath, turned to Mike, stated, "Game on."

He and Geoff nodded to me, hurried back to the trucking aisle. Moments later, I glimpsed the Mossberg's camo sleeve being waved at the end of an Asp. That motion drew the Worm's notice. An arm lashed, missed when the Asp flicked aside. The fabric sleeve fluttered like a cat-toy or drab Tink. Again, an arm lashed, missed, thumping the racking's frame on its follow-through. When the queued cultist was gone, a second arm joined in. Then a palm-sized object arced towards the maw. Tentacles snatched it from the air, decided it was edible, swallowed it. Another such followed. And, yes, while those swift tentacles were busy thus, the long arms seemed a little slower, the Asp-jiggled sleeve more elusive.

The Mega-Worm seemed to like this game, ignoring the remaining cultists to play 'Chase the Tink' between catching those maw-tossed shapes. They looked like emptied magazines, but who'd dare quibble at such 'combat loss' ?

Inch by inch, I sidled to the very front, deep-flushing my lungs with oxygen.

Looking along the racking, I waited until another shape arced.

Go !

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 09

I did not run. Like stepping onto a dojo mat, I moved smoothly, lightly, carefully.

Off to my right, the Mega-Worm was now arced rather than upright, arm tips between the front frames of the racking. Ms. Jones was teasing with her Asp's streamer. Geoff had the Mossberg shouldered. Mike was throwing cartridge brass and spent shot-gun shells up to the maw. Ichor drips sizzled on the floor.

I stooped. My fingers closed on the halberd's wooden shaft. I lifted it silently, found the balance point. I took a wary tangent towards my target, at about ten o'clock to the others' six.

Though confident of the set-up, I spared a moment to check a plait junction with my 'live-wire' detector pen. It neither buzzed for Alternating Current, nor flickered for lethal voltage.

If I was correct, the generator fed about 25 Volts to the plaited star. Allowing for losses in the feed, there could be upwards of a hundred Amps flowing, yet barely two volts between the heavy lines at each cross-over.

But, I couldn't directly attack a cross-over, for the upper line protected the lower, and their unsupported lengths made both a bit bouncy. I gauged the angles, chose a point where they'd diverged by several fingers' breadth. I shifted my grip on the halberd shaft, raised it, landed a glancing blow. The Mossberg crashed, masking my strike. I'd partially split the upper line's side cladding, could see bare metal beneath. Pure copper or coated aluminium, that didn't matter.

This time, I struck at the lower line, again masked by Geoff's fire. I did not catch its cladding clean, needed another try.

Now for the really scary part.

I jammed my halberd between the lines, wiggled its shaft until stabby-choppy blade edges met the copper I'd exposed.

A current flowed. Like a straying river's avulsion, my shunt robbed the plait. And, it lowered the system's total resistance. To compensate, the generator's pitch rose slightly as it worked harder.

I iggled and wiggled the shaft, trying to find a sweet spot for the blade. The contact zones were now glowing hot. Resistance heating had begun to erode my weapon's edges, scorch the lines' split cladding. Changing currents made the cross-overs wriggle. The generator pitch rose and fell, rose and fell, surged--

The portal's pearly pool rippled weirdly, flickered.

Cut from its tail's support, the Mega-Worm toppled. Part of the body dropped back through the portal, the rest fell across the plait and the remaining cultists. Those long arms slapped down into the trucking aisle, sending the gun-slingers dodging back. The impact's shock sprayed ichor from every wound, bounced the cut end out of the portal. Several strong streams jetted from the body's cut. Most fell into the portal. Some landed beyond, set the floor to sizzling.

I'd taken an oblique approach against that possibility, but I didn't have time to feel pleased. Where ichor from the 'head' had splattered pallets in the racking, smoke rose. And, despite my halberd wiggling, the portal was still live...

Those jets slowly diminished as the Worm bled out. The body sagged, visibly deflating. The cut end collapsed into the portal. I tried to wiggle my halberd, found it had welded itself to place. No matter, there were plenty more just lying about.

Stepping between blood puddles, I collected an arm-load, carried them clear. Then, clutching one, I attacked the plait near the next cross-over anti-clockwise. I'd gained a feel for the weapon and the lines' cladding, didn't have to worry about Mega-Worm strikes. As Mike and Geoff watched, and Ms. Jones warily took closer photos of the Worm's arms and maw, I chopped and chopped. With enough metal revealed, I worked the halberd into place. The generator's pitch rose and fell, the higher the better, for more current shunted away.

When that blade welded, I left it in place, began with a third. The generator's pitch soon rose again, but steadied. How much more could it take ? After four, the generator was still going strong. I feared it had plenty of 'headroom' to spare.

I stepped clear of plait and blood pools, stopped beside my cache for a think.

"Tim ?"

"Working on it, Ma'm..."

I looked at the damaged plait and the halberds, sought a 'Plan_B'. I peered down the warehouse, studied the trolley with the gas-welding cylinders. Could I use that gear to cut a line ? I knew the rudiments, mostly from the safety side. Didn't have to be subtle. Didn't even need to be a clean cut. I just had to get part hot enough to cause thermal run-away. Provided, of course, there was a valve key and striker. Yes, I could force tool lockers with a halberd. I'd be happy with a heavy-duty, clip-ended 'starter cable' to short out the feed. I'd settle for a big hack-saw--

"Worm !" Geoff bellowed.

As I spun, a Mega-Worm rose through the portal, pushing the first's body aside. Three more followed.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 10

Ms. Jones didn't hesitate. I only remembered a few scraps of 'Enochian' from my 'D&D' days --Was it truly 'Pidgin Atlantean' ?-- but her full-throated 'Rebel Yell' could mean either 'GET OFF MY LAWN', or 'YOUR MOMMA...'

That, the Asp-lure or the collapsed first Worm drew all four newcomers' attention. Reaching long arms, they arced towards the gun-slingers, who opened fire. Ms. Jones and Mike hammered arms and maws with 9mm, Geoff pumped the Mossberg, sent bird-shot. As before, these Worms did not seem to notice. As before, ichor dripped from their small wounds, fizzed and smoked where it fell.

Perhaps thinking I'd frozen, Ms. Jones yelled, "Tim, get clear !"

Okay, I'd stayed perfectly still lest my motion draw eyes, but I was thinking, too.

I'd the side-wall's fire exit at my back, spare halberds by my feet, a growing notion.

I needed a moment to trace by eye the line I'd attacked, nodded. I could do this.

I snatched the nearest halberd, strode forwards, brought its axe-blade down beside my chosen point's stand-off. Well supported, the line could not bounce away. The blade bit through the cladding, bit into the copper core. I chopped again, much harder, struck slightly wide of the first cut. That didn't matter, not now. I chopped and chopped, whittling the line.

That halberd's edge soon blunted, perhaps cheaply crafted from mild steel. I dropped it, turned, stooped, grabbed another.

"Tim !" Geoff bellowed.

I threw myself sideways. A Worm's arm swept where I'd been. As it slowed, reversed, I rolled to my feet. I raised the halberd. Interposed the blade.

My weapon was barely sharp enough. Though the shaft nearly tore from my grasp, the arm's hand-sized tip cut free. Mutilated, the arm snatched back, dribbling ichor.

I feared another arm swing, or a double. They didn't come. Rather than strike again, my towering Mega-Worm seemed to hesitate. Its injured arm curled to a snail. Its intact arms' tips twitched, as if in sympathy. That gave me the respite to glance right.

The other three Mega-Worms now leaned far, very far. Their lowered maws crowded between the front racking at head-height. Their out-stretched, writhing arms had forced our gun-slingers' retreat to the warehouse doors. But, those Worms were thus constrained, and mine was hesitant.

I dashed forwards, again slammed my halberd's axe-head down on the portal's thinning line.

I wasn't trying to cut it, though that would work, too. No, I was trying to rob it. Like a channel's 'training wall', or a river's coffer-dam, raising its resistance here should divert more current via my earlier welds...

Now panting, I chopped and chopped, while Mega-Worm watched my antics. Afraid ? Surely not ! Wary ? Surely. Curious ? Perhaps...

"Tim !" Ms. Jones yelled. "Get out ! Go ! Go !"

Their Mega-Worms seemed even lower and longer, arm tips pushing open the warehouse doors. Like mine, cubit by cubit, they'd continued to emerge from the portal. Our gun-slingers perforce retreated beyond the solvent store. A clank and change of light suggested they'd opened the fire exit to the yard.

I dropped my blunted halberd, grabbed another, kept chopping.

The portal rippled. For a happy moment, I thought it would collapse. Then a truly huge Worm began rising through the portal. It was big around as a tube-train or 'Tunnel Boring Machine' (TBM). Its glimpsed maw looked like a scrap shredder. Our supposed 'Mega-Worms' were but its arms, a curled, oozing stump proof this was the same monster.

And, between those and the vast maw's writhing tentacles, a ring of soccer-ball eyes...

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 11

"Uh..." I only hesitated a moment, then continued hacking the weakened line. I'd cut more than half-way through. How much more could it possibly take ?

The TBM Worm's slow ingress paused when its big, big eyes reached my head height. Though compound, they seemed to wiggle and rock like crabs' or shrimps'. Was it studying me ? I didn't know, I didn't care. After that snatched glance, I just kept hacking.

Then, between one gasping swing and the next--

The generator spluttered, raced. The line's thick plastic sheath suddenly blackened, bubbled, spat. I must have fractured the work-hardened copper beneath. I glimpsed a glow--

My next strike tore the weakened line apart. The break shed fiery copper globules across the floor, left streaks on my vision.

At last, I'd changed the lines' topology. In that instant, the portal's eerie pearlescent shimmer died.

Fearing what would happen, I quickly backed away. I was just in time. With three 'Mega-Worms' leaning into the trucking passage and one towering above me, the cut TBM Worm was totally off balance. It toppled. It flipped on its side. Un-plugged ichor jetted five-fold across the plinth, onto the warehouse floor. My falling Mega-Worm's leverage torqued the base, swinging those jets away from me. Between the racking, that twisting jolt squirted ichor from those arms' gun-shot injuries across the palletised stores.

One Mega-Worm's 'bleed-out' had been bad. This was far, far worse. Everywhere that ichor landed, it attacked. Sizzling and smoke arose. Puddles bubbled and steamed. Copper corroded at lines' exposed junctions. Deep in the shadowed racking, I glimpsed what could become multiple fire sources. Within moments, what didn't self-quench became small flames, became several growing fires. I shook my head. This was beyond anything I could tackle with a CO2 or 'Soda' extinguisher. A skilled fire team, deploying both hose-reels here and now, might have a chance. Alone, I dared not try.

Time to save what I could.

Coughing at a swirl of acrid smoke, I hauled out my WIRS-issue phone, took a shaky panorama. I stepped sideways about six feet, took a second such. Okay, the stereo effect would be limited but, as for the Tinks, it was precious, precious data.

And, speaking of data, I'd just seen that arm's off-cut tip. I took a moment to gauge the racking's spreading fires, nodded.

I dashed to the 'Spillage' kit beside the fire exit, grabbed the neat 20 litre tub marked 'Acid Spill', ran back. I wasted precious moments wrestling the wide, screw-top lid, peered inside. Yeah, fully stocked. I tipped out the contents. I'd no time for Tyvek overalls or disposable gloves, but grabbed and donned the goggles. Hastily, I tossed the long 'absorbant' sox between the arm-tip and some ominously spreading ichor. The 'neutraliser', generic 'Sodium BiCarbonate', came as one small and two larger cartons. I tore open one of the latter. Poured onto the orphaned arm-tip and its small ichor leak, the white powder fizzed merrily. I kept adding powder, it kept fizzing. I began the other larger carton, dispensed about half before it calmed.

"Heretic ! Blasphemer !"

That howl hadn't come from the PA system, but from the booth's doorway. The Wiz was clinging to the door. He didn't seemed armed. After one glance, I ignored him, poured half my pack's remaining 'neutraliser' into the emptied tub. For my next trick, I needed a big, Teflon-coated palette-knife or food turner. I had but a halberd.

"Heretic ! Blasphemer !" The Wiz had staggered halfway to the portal's plinth. He was waving a small hand-sickle. "Violator ! The Dark Lord shall feast upon your marrow !"

Yeah, right. He'd a hand-span sickle, could barely stand. I'd a halberd and all my wits. Besides, there was a lot of fuming ichor pooled between us. I slid my halberd's blade through the heap of 'neutraliser'. Took me three tries, but I managed to flip the arm-tip. Now for some more--

"Violator ! Violator !"

I looked across, saw he'd taken several more steps towards me. I realised his mistake, shouted, "No ! No ! Go back ! Use the exit behind--"

"Heretic ! Violator !" Face covered in bloody glass-cuts, the Wiz was beyond reason. He brandished his sickle, its blade already tarnishing in the fumes. He charged--

"No !" I lifted my halberd of course, but there was no need.

Three strides took the Wiz into puddled ichor. It splashed his sandaled feet, his ankles, the hem of his robe. It attacked his flesh. It attacked his robe. He screamed, stumbled, fell head-long, splashed down. Screaming, he thrashed about, got fresh ichor all over. His robe caught fire. His soused flesh began to dissolve...

I whimpered, but the Wiz had so failed his 'Saving' roll. I'd already used most of this kit's neutraliser on the palm-sized arm-tip. Worse, I'd no way to 'mercy' him, as Ms. Jones had done for the Mega-Worm's half-dead cultists.

I whimpered again. Somehow, I managed to ignore the Wiz' continued thrashing, his hellish agony, his piercing screams. Shakily, I poured the last of that neutraliser pack onto the flipped arm-tip. Then, I used the halberd to coax the arm-tip into the tub. With it stood, I tipped in most of the smaller, third carton, replaced the lid. After a quick jiggle to mix everything, I stabbed the lid with the tip of the halberd. Wouldn't want it to go over-pressure !

The racking's fires were spreading. Some had merged. Flames rose through several levels. I'd no idea what was in the caged IBCs, but I feared they held bulk solvents, either for production or as waste. At least one was dribbling flame. Another, licked by flames, bulged ominously. Flames rose towards a third. I shook my head. At least the Wiz had finally, finally fallen silent. Folding the near-emptied third carton of 'neutraliser' into my pocket as a 'reference sample', I picked up the tub and its precious contents, headed for my waiting fire exit.

I backed the door open, took a last look. Remarkably, within the booth, that generator still ran. The racking's dribbling flame was now a real-scary fire-fall.

Yeah, time to go...

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 12

I trotted down my fire exit's short ramp, turned left. Ms. Jones, Mike and Geoff were stood opposite the corridor's exit. They stared as I started towards them.

"Run !" I yelled.

They continued to stare, having surely thought the Wiz' dire screams had been mine.

"Run !" I repeated my yell, adding, "Fire in the hole !"

Mike, detector box slung, grabbed Ms. Jones' arm with his spare hand and ran. Geoff took a few long strides towards me. He grabbed my tub, tucked it under his left arm. He grabbed my left arm, turned, ran like a ruddy winger. I barely stayed on my feet as he towed me down the length of the 'Pharma' works, past the 'office', beyond the farmhouse and out of the entrance.

Behind us, ominous noises arose, with fast 'whooshes' between deep 'whumps'. Ms. Jones and Mike turned left, took cover behind the low wall. Geoff and I went right, not that I'd much choice.

Released, I fell to my knees, peeked over the wall's low parapet. The warehouse roof vents were now open, a scary plume rising. Then the plume shivered. I went flat.

WHUMP !

Given the clangs, crashes and such that followed, I feared that was a racking collapse--

WHUMP !

Uh-huh.

WHUMP-Whang-Clang !

That was different. I glimpsed a dark shape arcing into the adjacent field, matched it to a gas cylinder from the trolley. I nodded politely. Now, was this new, high-pitched whistling temporary tinnitus or--

I remembered another no-holds-barred safety video, yelled, "LPG !"

I flattened myself, listened as that ominous whistle slowly rose to a banshee scream. The day's dull overcast suddenly brightened. A hearth-fire's warmth wrapped us for a moment, then the ground heaved thrice.

Bidda- BaDDa- BOOM.

A complex shock wave punched my chest and gut. Ballistic then variously fluttering, debris fell from the sky. I stayed down until the shower thinned, until Mike and Geoff had studied the scene with professional care. Warily, I dared peer over the wall. I blinked. The farmhouse was a ruin. Its traditional slate roof was down, the felt, battens and insulation stripped by the blast. Even windows on this side were broken. The warehouse frame mostly stood, but roof and siding panels either dangled limply or were gone. Some smoke rose. The 'pharma' and 'office' buildings seemed intact, perhaps partly sheltered by those strong store-rooms.

The yard's parked cars had taken damage. The pair with alarms set were now squawking away. For a wonder, that generator had shut down. I struggled to my feet, turned a full circle, watched small debris drift by. Along the access road, beyond the WIRS van, three white-overalled figures scrambled out of the shallow ditch and stared our way. Beyond them, I could see people looking from gardens of the houses along the main road.

Ms. Jones' phone rang, distracting her from a crouched study of the wrack.

"Yes, incursion terminated," she replied, remarkably calmly. She brushed leaf-litter from her face, added, "Portal shut down. Jammer shut down. Some collateral damage. Team intact. Situation resolved. Yes, yes, I'll liaise with the task force. Okay."

She clambered to her feet, looked me over, drew a shaky breath, said, "Tim, I really thought we'd lost you."

"Sorry, Ma'm," I replied, pushing the goggles up to my forehead. "That was the Wiz. He tried to attack me. Had a small sickle. Ran through a big puddle of ichor. It...

"You heard what that did...

"I could not help him."

"Ah. What's in the tub ?"

"That cut-off arm-tip in acid-spill neutraliser, Ma'm." I shrugged. "I hope it's okay. But our Mega-Worms were only the arms of an even bigger Worm--"

"Bigger ?" Geoff growled.

"Much." I shook my head. "I've photos. If there's a hierarchy, I wouldn't care to guess how big they go."

"Let's get back to the van," Ms. Jones said, finger-combing her hair. "I'm glad I re-stocked its chocolate bars..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 13

We walked slowly, Ms. Jones, Mike and Geoff taking turns to study my scary pics. And, yes, we had a lot to think about. That sacrificed cleaner. The rescued students. Dead cultists, by gun-fire or ichor. The Wiz' hellish screams still ringing in my ears. That failing LPG tank's ear-piercing crescendo. Mega-Worms. Mega-Mega-Worms. Fire and explosions that would make the news. Witnesses by the dozen...

The rotor and turbine sounds of a helicopter approached from South-East. A neat blue and yellow Eurocopter, it was probably Police Air Support out of the Barton field near Salford. After circling the Cross Farm site at a wary distance, it dipped towards the South, hovered, flushed a crouching figure from the distant field boundary. The figure stood, turned, began to trudge our way.

Above, a pair of blue-gray darts swept in from the East, their canard deltas making them 'Rapid Response' Eurofighter Typhoons out of RAF Coningsby. They banked, made three wide circles overhead, went back the way they'd come. I'd no idea how they'd have tackled rampaging Mega-Worms. I wasn't sure I wanted to know...

The three students met us by the van, looking rather overwhelmed.

"Yes, yes, they're here now," their designated talker said, handing my personal phone to Ms. Jones. "The call centre-- They'd like a word..."

"Yes, incursion terminated," she repeated her report. "Portal shut down. Jammer shut down. Some collateral damage. Team intact. Situation resolved. Yes, I'll liaise with the task force. Okay."

After closing the call and returning the phone to me, she told the students, "Thank you. Had the incident escalated, your live commentary would have been priceless. As it is, the time-line will be very, very valuable. I'll be writing commendations...

"However, you will have to sign the 'Official Secrets Act' and the relevant technical appendix.

"All you may say about today is that our random 'Red Diesel' inspection interrupted those crazy cultists' ghastly ritual. During the confusion, a solvent spill caught fire, spread rapidly...

"Now, d'you like chocolate ?"

Turns out they did. After sucking several blocks, the students read then signed their forms. Ms. Jones secured my precious tub and its reference sample in the back of the van, then showed me how to up-load my phone pics to WIRS via the van's encrypted link. The Eurocopter continued to circle. Between monitoring the smouldering warehouse, the crew chivvied their find towards us across the Winter-stubbled field.

The thin, robed figure, wearing trainers rather than sandals, finally stumbled through the field-edge dip onto the access road. He looked along to Cross Farm's wrack. He looked at us four in our HMRC Hi-Vis, at the three overall-clad students. He shuddered, shook his head, whispered, "I'm sorry, I thought Mack was just a 'New Age' weirdo until he went psycho..."

"And you are ?" Ms. Jones asked.

"Jack Daniels," he admitted. "Like the drink. Junior Roadie. And their technician..."

"You built the Portal ?" Ms. Jones cut to the chase.

"Yeah... Started with little 'Walgates', spent years trying to figure them. Then His Esoteric Worship Malcolm Mackensie, those mad monks' High Muckety Muck, got wind. Mack paid me for four, each larger than the last.

"Next thing, he-- Y'know his people ran a big Meth lab ?"

Ms. Jones nodded, tilted a hand towards me. "Tim spotted the work-flow. Got pics."

"He went psycho !" Jack sobbed. "Step out of line, you'd be thrown down his 'worm-hole' ! Poof, gone...

"Meditation Centre's guru challenges the cult's weirdness ? Poof, gone. Two founder members ask after the guru ? Poof, gone. Toxic Meth waste ? Poof, gone. Wrappers and stuff ? Poof, gone. Tabletting guy gets drunk, perhaps tells a friend ? Both of them, poof, gone. Old 'Bird Watcher' tracks a flock from 'Martin Mere' ? Mack thought he was a spy. Poof, gone. Dodgy reagent supplier wants a bigger kick-back for faking invoices ? Poof, gone...

"That big cannabis farm in the old textile mill ? With the moaning desk fan ? Their people wanted a lower price for Mack's Meth pills, sent a couple of heavies to 'negotiate'. Poof, gone...

"Then Mack wants a really big portal. He'd done all the Meth stuff to pay for it, made an offer I couldn't refuse...

"But he's into human sacrifice ! Summons that f***g Lovecraft monster !

"Did you kill it ?"

I looked to Ms. Jones. She said, "Worm lost an arm when Tim closed the portal. Spilt ichor started fires..."

Jack's eyes flickered past me towards what was left of the warehouse. After a breath, he said, "I'm glad you got out. Did Mack ?"

"No," Ms. Jones replied for me. She shook her head very slowly. "Went for Tim with a sickle. Lost."

"Thank you," Jack stated. "He threatened to kill my sisters and cousins and their kids unless I built and ran his stuff..."

"Ooh !" the students chorused.

"Not nice..." Ms. Jones shook her head, handed him a block of chocolate. "Hmm. Documenting this may take a while..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 14

The Police Eurocopter circled Cross Farm twice more, perhaps using its 'thermal imaging' system to confirm the warehouse fire had subsided. As it turned away, an un-marked, dark blue SUV, blue lights flashing from within its front grille, slowly approached us along the access road.

Two 'Armed Response' officers clambered out of the back, held their carbines ready. Careful to stay clear, the driver and front passenger walked towards us. Anonymously casual-smart, they still looked vaguely familiar.

About two van's length away, the stockier halted. His shoulders sagged. He shook his head, grumbled, "Jenny GoodWitch ? Not again..."

He looked very tired, but I belatedly recognised Detective Inspector Banks, as met at 'Higher Mill'.

"Hello, 'Sandy' !" Ms. Jones replied, a tad too brightly. "I wondered who'd they'd send !"

"I was co-ordinating the search for the missing students, so..."

"Uh-huh." Ms. Jones smiled, indicated the overalled trio. "Your three very brave young ladies, safe and mostly well. Sadly, we arrived too late to save Petra, the cultists' first 'victim du jour'. A Serbian cleaner, now one of multiple MisPers.

"Information received suggests the cult leader, known as 'His Esoteric Worship Malcolm Mackensie', funded his crazy monks with a high-end Meth lab. Sold tablets to your 'Higher Mill' gang, added several of their too-pushy 'negotiators' to the MisPers list.

"Mackensie is dead, along with most of his cult members. The warehouse suffered an aggressive chemical spill, an intense fire then multiple explosions. There'll not be much left. However, the three cultists we locked in the solvent store 'bunker' where they'd held their kidnap victims may have survived. They may even be coherent. Also, some cultists used the 'pharma' changing facilities. Those lockers' street-clothes should help. And their parked vehicles, of course, including that dirty white van, registration DY 63 FGZ. Which belongs on newer, so surely a fake...

"This young man in the robe is my witness. We have a lot to discuss." Her phrasing made Jack gulp as she continued, "For operational security, I must redact parts of his statement.

"I'll thank you for getting the young ladies appropriate medical attention, and Tim to a timely train-route home.

"Any questions ?"

DI Banks looked past Ms. Jones, past the ruined farm-house, to the gently smoking warehouse remnants. He turned, studied me, her, Mike and Geoff. He noted the three gun-slingers' empty magazine pouches, the Mossberg's barrel peeking over Geoff's shoulder. Finally, he found words. "Your code phrase brought five 'Armed Response' teams and that pair of fighter jets, alerted the Lancaster Regiment and the ruddy SAS...

"What, exactly, is an 'Active Incursion' ?"

Ms. Jones shook her head. "You'd know one if you saw it. Sorry, until then, that's 'Need to Know'."

DI Banks' face and neck went bright red. His hands clenched.

Before he could say or do anything, Ms. Jones added, "The young ladies are sworn to silence, and don't quiz Tim. 'Operational Security'. Understood ?"

Slowly, DI Banks' colour subsided. He nodded.

"Okay." Ms. Jones glanced back towards Cross Farm's wrack, then turned to me, said, "Tim, I'll need your full account of today. In your own time, in your own words. Plain text will do, but include your reasoning and reference your pics. I'll send details of encryption and such...

"Speaking of collateral damage-- Between the fumes and spatter, your clothes are ruined. Replace them, get spares. Use the credit card. Keep receipts."

"Ma'm..." I drew a shaky breath. "Thank you."

"Legitimate business expense, Tim." Ms. Jones' smile drew a flinch from both DI Banks and his silent DS. "Only fair, given your knack of solving problems, 'No Holds Barred' !"

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 15

One of the 'Armed Response' teams was based in Southport, so gave me a ride to their town's train station. I could see they were itching to ask what had happened, but maintained a professional silence. Although Network North-West's Sunday service was 'sparse', it got me to the elevated station facing 'The Strand' shopping centre and its bus station soon after three. As 'Sunday Trading' closed at four, I had to hustle.

Trawling the discount clothing stores for my usual budget 'casuals', including socks, smalls and foot-wear, soon left me laden. On the way to the bus-station's escalator, I ducked into 'Heron Foods', bought two ring-pull tins of cat food plus a couple of 'freezer' meals with my own money. I'd not begrudged giving my lunch rolls to the famished nursing students, but my tum was grumbling.

The Sunday bus service was 'sparse', too, so I was tired and hungry by the time I got home. Staggering up the stairs with my shopping and overnight bag, I was greeted by a scamper of paws. 'The Minx' would usually claim an ear-scritch or three. This time, she got to within a couple of feet, sniffed the air, then leaped back with a scary yowl. Her spine fur rose. Her tail bottle-brushed, lashed. Her ears flattened. She kept yowling.

Ashlee's door opened. She called, "Minx ? What's the matter ? Oh, you silly thing, it's only Tim-- Huh ? What's that smell ?"

"That would be me," I admitted. "Got too close to some stinky farm stuff."

"Worse than silage..." Ashlee looked me over. "And your clothes ! Did you go three rounds with a barbed wire fence ?"

"Aggro-chemicals," I quipped, hefted my bags, then inclined my head towards the feline ninja who was loudly 'Holding the Pass'. "I've all new. Sorry, I skipped lunch, and I really, really need a shower. Could you..."

"Off with you !" Ashlee laughed, scooping 'The Minx' from my path.

I parked the bags just inside my bed-sit, grabbed a big, black trash-bag from the mini-kitchen's roll. After a moment, I reached to the heating controller, flipped it from 'Standby' through 'One Hour' to 'Constant'. For economy, I rarely used more than an hour or two per day, but my shabby apartment had gone very, very cold. Also, I reckoned I'd need more than my usual tepid shower to feel clean.

I stripped beside the cubicle, put everything but my wallet, phones, keys, watch, tools and ID in the trash bag. My first shower, a standard 'quickie', barely blunted the stench. A seriously sudsy second approached 'stale gym'. My third rinsed clean and fresh. Hasty towelling followed. Then, rather than dig out random 'casuals', I grabbed my spare change of smalls from the overnight bag, took my gi from its hangar. Between cash-flow, home-work and WIRS weekends, I'd not worn that in six, no, eight weeks. Its familiarity helped me feel better about the day's events...

I'd just put the oven on to pre-heat for my meal, when a knock came at the door. "Tim ?"

"Just a mo', Ashlee !" I pulled my bags aside, dipped one, opened the door. "I've a couple of tins for-- What's wrong ?"

"On the TV," she said, her voice tight. "Come and look."

My 14-inch TV only got 'Freeview' channels, spent most of its time as my Chrome Book's second display. Ashlee had a much larger 'Hand Me Down' wall-hung TV, attached to both a Blu-Ray player and a 'Digital Video Recorder'. The latter let her freeze and study TV 'costume'. Today, she'd paused a local news bulletin.

Reversed, resumed, Cross Farm's ruins smoked in the background. WIRS' black van held the centre. Three slight, white-clad figures stood nearby. Four figures with Hi-Vis vests slowly approached from the farm, one clutching a plastic drum. Though amateur footage, it was better framed than a phone. And so steady. Perhaps a tripod-mounted spotting-scope with a high-end webcam ? From the back of a house just before the turn-off ? Usually feeding a bird-watcher's blog ?

The 'scope zoomed in and in. Good optics, the view stayed steady. Before it got close enough to read a migratory bird's rings, Ashlee froze the track again, put a finger to the figure clutching the plastic drum. Stilled, his face wasn't quite resolved, but a good friend would recognise it. She did. "Tim ? That's you ?"

As the Minx wound her way around my ankles, I gulped, nodded.

"Wow ! You rescued those missing Salford students ! Dealt with a bunch of murderous monks ! Busted their big Meth lab !" Ashlee gushed. "Why didn't you say ? Tim, you're a hero !"

"No way ! Again, no ! Thrice, no !" I shook my head, hastily quoted those students' script. "Our random 'Red Diesel' inspection interrupted those crazy cultists' ghastly ritual. During the confusion, a solvent spill caught fire, spread rapidly..."

"Tim--"

"Ashlee, I'm not a hero. I've had 'Beginners Luck'. I notice stuff in plain sight, make logical connections, follow my training--"

"Tim--"

"Ashlee, stop. I don't want publicity. If word gets out, I'm traceable. Our 'Special Investigations' team would lose 'Operational Security', must drop me, terminate my sponsorship. Beyond that, I've a real-scary 'NDA'..."

"Oh..." Ashlee worked through the consequences. "Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense..."

"Please, not a word. Not one. Don't even surmise." I shook my head. "Last week, I had to threaten a reluctant witness with 'Deep State' woes. Okay, I managed to 'game' her to 'non-zero-sum', but I felt so dirty..."

"You-- You'd do that to me ?"

"Better done by a friend," I replied, glancing to the TV. "And better than we gave those crazy cultists."

"Oh, f**k," Ashlee whispered. Her eyes widened as she figured the lethal implications. "Last week-- Last week, you said you'd hunted buried cables, found a walled-up doorway, 'gamed' reluctant witnesses...

"That cannabis farm in the old 'Moaning Mill' ? That unspeakable ossuary in Oswestry ? Something worse near 'Jodrell Bank' that never reached the news ?"

She read the truth from my face.

"Oh, Tim..." Ashlee was not stupid. Drawing a shaky breath, she took my two tins of cat food, stated, "Okay, Mister Secret Agent, you have a deal !"

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Coda

"Weird Incident Reporting Service !" The lady still had a lovely Scottish burr. "May I help you ?"

"Hi ! I'm Tim--"

"ID confirmed-- Hello, Mr. Brown ! Well done for rescuing the three students ! Those bonnie lassies must have been terrified !"

"We were too late for the first--"

"Aye, that puir, puir lady..." The sigh was eloquent. Her voice brightened again. "But you saved a piece of tentacle ! Though such Beasties dissolve in their own ichor, the acid-spill kit neutralised it !"

"Beginner's Luck," I stated, then said, "The reason I've called: A neighbour's recognised me from that long-lens TV news footage--"

"Aye..."

"Ashlee McClure, second-year 'Clothing and Fashion' at 'Hugh Baird'," I stated. "I gave her the official line about our random 'Red Diesel' inspection interrupting the cultists' ritual, a solvent spill catching fire in the confusion.

"Ashlee's clever. She figured there was more, deduced I was involved with last weekend's 'Moaning Mill' bust, and Oswestry's unspeakable ossuary. Also, something worse near 'Jodrell Bank' that left me pale and shaking, but didn't reach the news...

"Ashlee's a good friend--"

"Is she your girl-friend ?" There was now dangerous steel beneath that gentle burr.

"No. Ashlee is not my kind of 'Belle', nor I hers. Just good friends."

"Understood..."

"I've convinced her not to gossip, nor even surmise." I took a breath. "She promised. But, I cannot leave it at that. I'll need a set, make that three, of 'Official Secret' forms, with the WIRS appendix and return address. Also, some WIRS contact cards. Could they go 'Poste Restante' to 'The Strand' post office ?"

"Aye." The Scottish lady took a breath. "Thank you for calling this in, Mr. Brown. You may have averted much unpleasantness."

"I hope so--"

"No, no ! All part of the service ! Sorry, we've another call--"

And, just like that, she was gone.