Even the most unusual work can become mundane over time, whether that be organizing the names of black-listed persons by year, to remove all those who had already died, or digitizing the cover-up catalogue for the conspiracy department of a top-secret government agency known as the Kitchen. Brian had been working in the archives for the “Dishwasher” department for almost a year now, and it had become tedious; but, even he had to pause when he recognized a name: John James Luettgen.
More commonly known as “the Highway Butcher”, Luettgen was a notorious serial killer in Australia in the 1980s. He killed five people before being hunted down and killed by police.
At least, that’s the cover story.
According to the dossier on Brian’s desk—a file named Operation: Black Orchard—the organization had attempted to create a cover story for some of the many casualties of demonic possession, cult activity and what the Kitchen colourfully termed “paranormal misadventure”. Luettgen wasn’t real, his body belonged to an agent killed in the line of duty.
There was a note at the end of the file where the head editor noted:
“...whilst the media attention was manageable, we failed to appreciate the vigour of the conspiracy theorist community. The interrogator’s report (as shown in Doc. 17.) suggests that linking so many disconnected events created conflicting narratives. Whilst the conspiracy theory issue has been neutralized, it is my suggestion that we should not link more than two or three unrelated tragedies so as to maintain a lower profile in future operations.”Brian leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights glared back at him. Brian was barely twenty, he’d worked at the Kitchen for two years now, and he couldn’t help but ask himself, not for the first time, “What the hell is wrong with this place?”
Brian was snapped out of his occupational consternation when he heard the click of the electronic lock behind him, and he turned to see a man in the standard-issue bulletproof vest that all interdepartmental guards seemed to wear, with a rifle hanging from a strap on his shoulder. He locked eyes with Brian.
“Alright, come on,” he says, gesturing for Brian to follow.
“What’s this about?” asks Brian, not getting up. “I’m in the middle of my work.”
“Doin’ a sweep, mate. Come on,” he says, impatiently.
“A sweep?” asks Brian.
“Are you new?” the guard says, spitting the word ‘new’ like a slur.
“Not really,” says Brian.
“Well, it’s a mandatory sweep. Orders from the top drawer. All staff, carpark, now.”
Brian sighed, stood up and followed the man out of the room. He still didn’t understand what was going on but “top drawer” meant that these orders likely came from the department manager, his boss’s boss, meaning it was too far above his security clearance—and pay grade—to argue with it.
“Head for the stairwell, that’s a good boy,” says the guard as Brian steps outside and sees the dozen other employees on this floor had been corralled into the hallway, being lead towards the stairwell. He recognized the balding head of Lucas, the lead archivist, and headed over to him.
“What’s this about?” asks Brian.
“Probably another screw-up in the Oven. They’re always trying to play God, and screwing around with sub-dimensionals...” moans Lucas, as he heads into the open stairwell.
“What?” asks Brian, but his voice was drowned out by the echoing footfalls of a hundred standard-issue leather shoes as he entered the fire-escape-cum-stairwell. Brian followed the herd down the grimly lit concrete steps, until they reached the bottom, and stepped out into the building’s underground carpark. There, he saw a hundred or more staff scattered around the blacktop. Brian even recognized David Morrissey, head of the department, speaking with some interns. More people were spilling out of the stairwell, so Brian headed deeper into the clustered people. As he headed further, he saw that someone had put up a cheap barricade blocking off half the carpark. The barrier was just retractable black ribbon on metal poles, but behind the ribbon were half a dozen armed guards, with bullet-proof vests, all holding rifles. At the centre of the barricade was a windowless van.
Brian approached one of the agents behind the barricade.
“Stay back from the line, sir,” said the woman, and Brian saw her muscles tense, and her finger curl around the trigger.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deliberate step back, so he stood a metre away from the edge. “I just want to know what’s going on. I’m kind of new...”
“Just follow instructions. It’ll be over quickly,” she said, sternly.
Brian nodded and headed back into the crowd. Stove Agents were very well-trained, and his own life had been saved more than once by the Kitchen’s tactics and defense department; but, after working in the Dishwasher archives, he had come across a term: mental slippage. Working for a secret organization that dealt with the supernatural, deadly and outright demonic could be stressful at the best of times, and whilst the term could refer to employees from any departments it was clear that Stove agents were more prone to “mental slippage”. Whilst the documents never actually spelled it out, from the context of some disciplinary documents, and black-listed names, “mental slippage” seemed to be the Kitchen’s politically correct way of referring to members of staff likely to “go postal”.
“Can I have your attention, please? Everyone, please, thank you... we will begin shortly,” said a woman, her posh, almost-English accent projected through a megaphone. Brian couldn’t see her, but she was near the black van.
“Thanks to recent events in the Northern Territory, we have encountered a new demon presence, and as is standard company policy...”—several groans and annoyed mumbles rippled through the crowd, which she raised her voice to drown out—“...we are carrying out an organization-wide sweep of all Kitchen employees, for potential demonic possession. All employees must be exorcised. This is mandatory, I repeat, this is not optional. Anyone who does not undergo exorcism willingly will be detained, and exorcised forcibly. Thank you...”
There was a high-pitched whine of feedback from the speaker as the woman lowered the megaphone, then Brian heard more grumbling from the crowd.
Brian turns to a man he doesn’t recognize, an older man in a striped tie.
“Excuse me, sorry, but do you know what they mean by ‘exorcise’?” asks Brian.
“Yes...” sighs the man, glumly. “First time?”
Brian nods.
“They got a machine they use to suck ‘em out,” he says, nodding towards the van. “Consider yourself lucky. Years ago, they used to stick the tubes all the way down...” he gestures with a hooked finger towards his throat, “it still hurts like hell, but it’s not as bad as it used to be.”
“Alright, we’re ready to begin,” the posh woman calls over the megaphone. “Things will move a lot smoother, if we sort ourselves into alphabetical order. Can everyone with a first name beginning with ‘A’ please come to the front? Then we can get the ‘B’s behind them, the ‘C’s, etcetera...”
Brian joined the people shuffling to the front, beside the black van. There was some awkward banter as people asked each other their names, and tried to get in order—two men were arguing whether ‘Chris’ came before ‘Christopher’—but he stood in line and watched as the posh woman stood at the front with a clipboard. He actually recognized her, he’d seen her organizing an operation over a year ago. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was the department head of the Oven, the research and development department of the Kitchen.
“Adrien Palomar.” she said, looking up. The man at the front of the line stepped forward. She knocked on the door of the van, and it slid open. Brian was peering around the four people in front of him, trying to see what was going on. The man disappeared inside the van and the door slid shut. After a few seconds, there was a muffled whirring sound inside the van. It sounded like a powerful vacuum cleaner. Over the sound of the machine, Brian heard the sound of screaming.
A minute later, the sound stops, and he heard the sliding door on the other side of the van slide open and Brian could hear coughing as the man staggered out.
“Next!” calls out the woman. “Ashley Valdez.”
The next woman steps up, and heads into the van.
“Hey,” Brian says, tapping the shoulder of the woman in front of him, a chubby, middle-aged woman with short hair. “Do you know what they’re doing in there?”
“I’ve only been here a week,” she says, clearly terrified. “But, I’m not a smoker. My supervisor says it’s worse if you’re a smoker...”
“Next!” calls out the woman, as the machine falls silent. “Audrey Cauldwell?”
Brian was nervous, but watching the woman in front shift nervously almost made him feel better. At least he wasn’t the only one shitting themselves.
“Alright, Next!” calls out the woman. “Benjamin Blake.”
The woman takes a step, then freezes, steps back and glances around at Brian.
“Are you Benjamin?” she asks. He shakes his head.
The posh woman sighs, and picks up her megaphone, and Brian quickly covers his ears.
“Benjamin Blake! Step forward, please!” After scanning over the crowds of people, she lowers the megaphone and turns to one of the Stove guards. “Find Mister Blake, please. Use force, if necessary...” she then glances at her clipboard. “Alright... Brenda Vidal?”
As the woman ahead steps inside, Brian saw her sit in a carseat facing backwards just before the door slid closed.
“Brian Lockburn?” the posh woman asks, glancing at him. Brian just nods, and she looks down at her clipboard. The whirring sound from the van began again, and Brian started shifting on his feet, nervously.
“How often do you exorcise a demon, doing this?” Brian asked.
“About one in six,” she said, sounding bored.
“One in six people?”
“No no,” she said, frowning. “One in six sweeps.”
“Oh... well, how many demons do you usually find?” Brian asked.
“All of them,” she said sternly, staring at him.
The machine stopped, and they could hear the Brenda stepping out from the other side.
“You’re next, Mister Lockburn,”
The door to the van slid open, and Brian headed inside, sitting down in the carseat. He flinched when he saw the two rifles, pointed at his head.
“Alright, make yourself comfortable,” said a bespectacled, young man in the labcoat, who was standing between the two armed guards. The guard nearest the door slid it closed, and the scientist reached for a clear, flexible pipe near his feet, that appeared to be wrapped in a metal spring. One end of the tube was fitted with a rigid, black facemask with a rubber seal, shaped to fit one’s nose and mouth; the other end lead towards a machine that the scientist was standing over. It was the size of a microwave, and looked a bit like a car engine except it was covered in glass panels and gauges.
“Alright, just do up your seatbelt,” said the scientist, and Brian complied. Then, he held out the tube with a gloved hand, the end wobbling towards Brian.
“Just put this on, and fasten the strap around your head,” he said.
With two guns trained on him, Brian didn’t hesitate to affix the mask, pulling the strap over his head.
“Perfect. Now, take a deep breath. This will hurt a bit...” he said.
Brian inhaled, and got a lungful of air that smelled like oil and rubber, and held it. The scientist flipped a switch and the burst to life sound. The sound drowned out all other noise, like sticking your head in a wind tunnel. The pressure immediately increased in the tube, clamping the mask to Brian’s face. He felt a cold air around his lips and nose, and it started to drag the air out of his lungs. Brian exhaled, but the pressure grew and grew, it felt like the cold air was reaching down his throat. He coughed, but the pressure increased. He coughed more, but he was out of breath. He felt sick. He tried to gasp for air, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream for them to stop, but he was breathless. Voiceless. His chest was hot and cold at the same time.
Then the scientist flipped the switch, and Brian gasped for breath. It was rubbery and stale, and so cold it made him cough, but it was air. Brian went to remove the straps, but the scientist grabbed his hand.
“Not yet...” he said, as he looked down at the machine. He was reading the gauges, and checking one of the small, glass vials on the machine.
“Okay, you’re clean. Take it off.” he said.
Brian practically ripped the strap off his head, giving it to the scientist, who cleaned the inside with a wet-wipe as Brian undid his seatbelt.
“That hurt... like hell...” Brian gasped. The guard to Brian’s right approached him with a white, plastic strip, wrapping it tightly around Brian’s wrist and using a device that looked like a stapler to fuse it together.
“Keep this on for the rest of the day,” he grunted, then he opened the van door beside him. Brian staggered out, taking careful breaths as they closed the door. He glanced at the plastic wristband, and saw it was a cheap hospital bracelet labelled with the date. It was still hot where it had been melted together, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
“Keep going,” said a female guard. Brian glanced up and recognized her as the woman he’d tried to talk to earlier.
“Where?” he gasped.
“Head up the ramp,” she says, pointing to the two-laned ramp that cars used to drive between levels of the carpark, where another Stove guard was posted.
“I have to walk up?” Brian asked, weakly. Had that machine bruised his lungs?
“You can’t break the personnel quarantine.”
With a groan, Brian headed towards the ramp. After several painful deep breaths and a few swear words, Brian climbed the ramp, and the guard at the top pointed him towards the elevators. Brian crossed the empty carpark level, where a guard was leaning against the wall.
“Use the lifts, not the stairs,” says the guard, pressing the call button.
“Where to?” Brian asked.
“Back to work.” said the guard.
“Really? We just...” Brian mimed typing on a keyboard. “Right back to it?”
“Yeah, unless you’ve got a medical certificate or something...” says the guard.
The elevator arrived, so Brian stepped in and pushed the button for Basement Level 1, the Archives. He was finally starting to realize why everyone else had hated this whole process so much, since all staff had to go through that painful ordeal. It didn’t take long for the elevator to reach his floor, but when the doors opened, Brian didn’t step out.
All Staff... which includes the bosses from the top floor. He didn’t really want to go right back to work after that, and if he decided to take an hour-long coffee break... who was going to stop him? Brian pressed the button for the highest floor the elevator could reach, Level 35.
O-J, a friend that worked in maintenance, once showed him the rooftop. It had a great view of the city, and it’s where a lot of the janitors and maintenance staff went to smoke. Brian thought the fresh air might do his lungs some good.
He stepped out onto the clean, management level with its green carpets and glass walls, and headed into the stairwell to scale the last two floors. The door was kept ajar by a rusty, dented old soup can, weighed down with wet cigarette butts. Brian pushed open the door, and immediately felt the cool breeze whipping past as he stepped outside. From here, he looked out at the city. There were a few skyscrapers much taller, the William Street office loomed large, shadowed only by the clouds in the sky; but below he could see the Brisbane River reflecting the sun off its brown water, as well he saw the cars along the Inner City Bypass constantly streaming between the South-East and West.
He had to breathe carefully, so as not to further injure his tortured lungs, but he slowly took a deep breath. He was actually starting to feel better, but as he looked out over the sunlit metropolis, leaning against the concrete wall that surrounded the edge of the building, he couldn’t ignore that thought in the back of his mind: Some days, I really hate this job.
Nobody ever chooses to apply for the Kitchen. It was Top-Secret after all. As Brian had come to learn, by cataloguing the Human Resources files for the Dishwasher, there were four categories of employee enlistment: Detainees, Recruits, Victims & Witnesses.
Detainees were cultists or other “disruptive individuals”, captured by the Stove that could be persuaded to switch sides; but, few survived long enough to be captured, let alone undergo employee orientation. Recruits were people sought out for their innate talents or accomplishments, usually scientists or soldiers, recruited for military or research. Victims were persons who had been directly attacked, demonically or supernaturally, and had survived; Brian himself was a “Victim”, a survivor of an attempted blood-sacrifice that killed most of his friends, and left him more than a little scarred, and not just from the cut in his thigh. Lastly, there were Witnesses, people who had seen something they shouldn’t have seen, and couldn’t be convinced by the Dishwasher’s cover story.
Technically, anyone enlisted to join does have a choice as to whether they wish to join... but the choice is usually “you’re with us, or against us”, which was an effective incentive for employment, but it tended to negatively affect employee morale.
Brian was brought back to reality as he heard someone trudging up the stairwell, and watched the door as a guard pushed it open, holding her rifle at the ready.
“Benjamin Blake?” she asked, aiming at him.
“No, I’m Brian,” he said, holding up his hands. He gave his right hand a little shake, to show off the bracelet on his wrist. The guard stepped forward, still aiming the gun at him as she closed the distance, the wind catching her chin-length hair.
“Are you alone up here?” she asked.
“Yeah... I haven’t seen anyone else,” said Brian. “I’m not sure where that guy is.”
She finally lowered her gun, and Brian finally exhaled, but she was still glaring at him.
“What are you doing up here?” she asked. She was slightly shorter than him, but he felt small as she glared at him.
“I just needed some fresh air,” says Brian.
“You work in management?”
“No... I work in Archives. Dishwasher files...”
“That sucks,” she says.
“Tell me about it...” says Brian. “What’s this about? Have I done something wrong?”
“No, it just makes it more difficult,” she says.
“What do you mean?” asks Brian.
Suddenly, she kissed him.
It was shocking, a little exciting, but mostly confusing. He could smell her sweat, and taste the smoke on her breath. After a second, Brian finally reacted, trying to push her off, but the arms around his neck gripped tighter, and he felt the heat of her exhaling into his mouth. Hot smoke, but not cigarette smoke - it was like woodsmoke and charred meat - it poured out of her and into him. Suddenly, the guard collapsed onto the ground as the last of the thick, demonic smoke spilled out of her mouth and crept into Brian’s throat and nostrils.
Without thinking, literally without even realizing what his body was doing, Brian turned, and slammed his head into the concrete wall beside him.
He blacked out.
It’s a common misconception that demons, psychics and other brain-infiltrating aliens are capable of taking control of a person that is “weak-minded”; but this is simply untrue. No conscious, living human (even with high gullibility, low intelligence or learning disability) is naturally “weak-minded”, all human brains have similar voltage and conductivity, which is much stronger than demonic influence. Thus, field research has shown that demons possess their victims by either rendering their host unconscious, or otherwise mentally incapacitating them. Whilst there have been rare cases of demons drugging their hosts with sedatives, most use their limited control to inflict brain damage, so as to render their victim unconscious or comatose. There are even some cases where hosts have been braindead, but this is rare as even though a demon can keep the body alive for a while longer, dead brains tend to rot and liquefy, causing systemic organ failure after a few days.
The next thing Brian knew, he was staring at the road, driving past warehouses and large fences in the early morning, but to his dazed eyes the road looked like the speckled black of the night sky, and the buildings either side were made of glass and light. Looks like I’m in space, Brian thought. Seeing his fingers on the wheel, he tried to flex them, but only his index fingers moved.
“No no... not now,” said his mouth. It was his voice, but not his words.
Must be stiff... cold... like space. But I’m not cold. The ship’s on autopilot.
“Just a few more hours,” it said, gritting his teeth, but he wasn’t controlling his mouth, or his foot as it pressed the pedal, speeding faster down the road that Brian was hallucinating into starlight.
Brian’s body drove up to a security fence, stopped and wound down the window.
No, cold... Brian flinched, his whole body jerking back, then his arm forcefully reached out, to swipe his security card in the slot.
“Will you just stop it and go back to sleep?!” the demon growled. The gate opened.
His body angrily wound the window up and kept driving onto the site of a wastewater management facility. Not stiff, It’s fighting me... I can hear my voice...
“We’re almost there. Just sit there a little longer...”
As they drove through the site, Brian started to recognize large water tanks as they drove past them. It reminded him of how his work kept the secret entrance to the secure containment and storage department in a facility just like this one.
How did I drive here? ...I don’t know the way.
They drove up to what looked like a large, white shed, and stopped by a large tree. Still sitting in the car, his hand slid his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled. After a few seconds, a scratchy-voiced man answered the phone.
“Hello?” the phone answered.
“This is Brian, from the Cabinet, requesting gate access,” it said.
No I’m not... Brian thought.
“Mhmm...” said the phone. “I’ll need an authorization code.”
“Flock. Puzzle. Amaze. Shiver. Gust.”
The phone hung up, and a few seconds later, the large roller door started to go up.
I didn’t realize the Fridge was in space... or, is it? I can’t breathe space...
His foot pressed on the accelerator and he drove into the building, inside of which was a large ramp, leading deep down a hidden tunnel.
“Whoa...” Brian mumbled.
“Stop that,” the demon responded, “Just go back to sleep. This is all a dream...”
I woke up from driving... did I fall asleep driving? No, then I’d crash. How did my car get here? Was I asleep? Why can’t I remember...?
Brian was lucky to have regained consciousness at all, but his recovery was gradual. The tunnel leading to the underwater facility was almost five miles long and it took him the whole journey to be able to distinguish his hallucinations from reality. The car drove into the facility’s spiral carpark, passing several cars as Brian began to understand.
No, the car is real... which means that you’re real. But you shouldn’t be here.
“No!” yelled Brian, and he cranked the handbrake. The car screeched to a stop.
“What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to kill us?” the demon said.
“I want... you out,” said Brian, a little groggily.
“We’re almost done...” the demon whined. It sounded pitiful. “Don’t fight this.”
“Not fffffuh-ffffight,” he slurred, “I’m luh-... living.”
“Let’s just park the car first, okay?”
Brian didn’t respond, but with a will of their own, his hands released the handbrake, and turned the car into the nearest car-space, then switched off the engine.
“Just relax, for five more minutes, okay? Then I’ll be done.” it said.
“Nnnnnnno...” Brian slurred. “You are a... demon.”
“That’s what you call us,” it said. “We’re just people your organization hunts down.”
“P-p-p... parr...” Brian stammered, forgetting the word. “...I’m stop you.”
“How? You can barely talk,” said the demon.
“It’s... my job.”
“But why? You can’t trust the Kitchen, they’re corrupt. Don’t fight me, Brian, help me. Once I free my friends, I’ll go. But if you resist, the Kitchen could kill us both. I just need to hand over the papers, get my friends, then I’ll go.”
“Fffffriends?” asks Brian.
“Yes. I just want to rescue my friends that were captured. I need to save them.”
“Ssssave them...”
“Yes. Will you help me?”
Brian didn’t respond for a few seconds.
“...yesss.”
Satisfied, Brian’s hand picked up the folder on the passenger seat, got out of the car and headed into the round central column that housed the entrance. The demon walked over to the desk.
“How can I help you?” asked the young man at the desk.
“I’m Brian. I called earlier about resolving a missing record.” it said.
“Ohh, yes, the deep-freeze catalogue?”
“That’s the one,” it says, holding out Brian’s security card. “I need to cross-reference the vial’s detainee number...”
“Alright,” says the man, scanning the card, “the floor manager’s waiting for you on level ten.”
Brian’s lips smiled at the man, then he headed for the elevators in the middle of the room. It stepped inside, pressed the button and sighed with relief as the doors closed.
“Thank you,” it whispered. “I was worried when you woke up, but now... I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Okay...” says Brian.
The elevator doors open onto a corridor with concrete floors. There were two Stove guards standing by the door, and a pot-bellied man wearing a tailored suit.
“Brian? I’m George. Welcome to Deep-Freeze,” he said, offering a hand.
“My pleasure,” the demon said, taking his hand.
“I’m... demon,” said Brian, and he forced himself to his knees. “Help me.”
Brian shakingly forced his hands behind his head as he backed away. The guards looked confused, but after a few seconds, one of them pulled out his gun.
“You heard him. Cuff the man. Now!”
“What are you doing?” hissed the demon. It tried to pull away, get to his feet, but Brian used all his strength to tense his muscles, to keep him still.
“My... job...”
The other guard bound his wrists with zip-ties on his belt and dragged him to his feet.
“No, I was joking!” pleaded the demon. “This is a mistake!”
“No... get it out,” said Brian. The guards ignored them both, dragging him to a holding cell.
The Fridge was designed to store demons, not extract them, so it took an hour for Stove Agents to arrive with a portable exorcise machine and drag the demon out. Because of the whole ordeal, Brian had forgotten what it had felt like, but he soon remembered.
He coughed and choked, as the scientist switched off the machine. He could still taste the smoke on his tongue, his chest burned, and his lungs felt like they’d had their veins ripped out. But his muscles relaxed. He felt free.
The scientist removed a small, glass vial with a metal cap. It was an inch-long cylinder, and only as wide as a marker pen; inside it looked like it was full of swirling, grey oil.
“That’s it?” Brian asked, looking at the captured demon.
“Well, you’ll need a psych’ eval,” said the scientist. “But first, medical. You probably have brain damage.”
“Mhmm...” Brian grunted. The scientist stood up, and walked over to the floor manager, who had been watching from the corner the whole time. Brian watched them talk, but his vision was fuzzy.
“Get your guards to tail him until he’s had a psychic evaluation. Then we’ll need a debrief, and have the dishwasher trace his steps to see when he was first possessed...” the scientist sighs heavily, “...and, I have to recommend a mandatory sweep.”
“Again?” groaned George, rubbing his chest. “We just had one three weeks ago, doc.”
“Yeah... if this one slipped through, we’ll have to update procedure. We’re getting sloppy.”
“And how many got through before?” asked George, pointing at the vial in the scientist’s fingers. “He was headed for demon lock-up. If he popped a few vials, all hell would’ve broke loose.”
“Well, we got lucky this time...” said the scientist, handing the vial to George.
“Don’t forget to fill out the paperwork for this,” he says, waving the vial.
“Yeah, yeah...” said the scientist, waving his hand dismissively as he left the room.
“Can I go?” Brian asked, rubbing his throbbing head.
“Not yet, mate,” says George. “Medical; Psych’ eval; Interrogation...”
“My head hurts...”
“Probably a brain injury, but don’t worry. With rehab, you’ll be back to work in a month.”
“Work?” groans Brian.
“Tell me about it...” says George, then he heads out of the room to go find the right paperwork for this kind of situation.
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