The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (52 page)

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Authors: Adam Lance Garcia

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• • •

THE WIND picked up, tossing a strand of Jean’s fire red hair across her face. Just as Betty has surmised, Magga and Tsarong had put her through weeks of training. It had been grueling, trying to fit in to a number of months what Jethro had done over a decade and there was still so much more to learn. Every bit of her body was now tightly wound muscle, her natural figure concealing strength and skill that could take down a grown man.

Jean brushed her hair out of her eyes before she ran her hands over the pistols at her hips, jade-lined handles pointed back. She was almost certain Jethro would frown on them, but as she had told Tsarong and Magga several times, she was done taking the radioactive salts. As much as she loved the idea of supernatural strength and healing, after everything she’d experienced, the negatives simply outweighed the positives. And despite all her training in hand-to-hand, she was always a better shot than a brawler.

Jean gazed down at the city below, a smile curling her lips. It had seemed so absurd when Magga and Tsarong had approached her all those months ago, but the more she thought about it, the more she had realized she had been heading down this path all along.

She pulled the hood over her head and the Green Lama whispered: “
Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!
”

• • •

THE TREES rattled from the wind, swirls of snow wisped from the forest floor like smoke. Army trucks ran up and down the mountain, moving like ants. Guards were positioned throughout the forest, their rifles at ready for anyone who might break the perimeter.

But none of them saw Jethro.

Slipping through with footsteps like whispers, Jethro made his way up the side of the mountain like a shadow on a moonless night to the ruined cabin, the metallic faux wood twisted like dried-out pasta from a half-finished dinner. Shifting his knapsack to his chest, Jethro snaked through the narrow opening that had once been a door and slid down the rocky incline into the scorched remains of the Facility. He pulled out a flashlight, and swung it in a large arc over the vast subterranean space. The air was still filled with smoke and the smell of burning metal and bodies. Jethro didn’t move to cover his nose or mouth, or to look away from the blackened corpses that lay scattered throughout, forcing himself to take in every sensation. Charred objects crinkled beneath his feet like leaves in autumn.

He eventually made his way down to the very bottom of the Facility; it had once been the cold storage that had imprisoned him and the other test subjects. In the center of the room was a pure white scorch mark with the black shadow of a man that stretched out until it loomed large over the wall.

Jethro reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small program, the words “
The Association of American Magicians
” across the top, and four spaces below that, “Theodor Harrin—Illusions” in bold, block letters. “I never meant to forget you, Theodor. Never meant for you to suffer the way you did. You deserved better and I hope… I hope that you can forgive me.”

Jethro tucked the program back into his knapsack. He knelt down and touched the shadow burned into the floor and smiled sadly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Goodbye, Harrison. Despite what you may have thought, you were a good man. I saw in you someone who strived in everyway to help others. Someone who created miracles, only to see them corrupted, and that is something I truly understand. I wish I could have been there for you in your final moments and I… I am sorry.”

Jethro swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and looked up into the shadows. “Gary…” he said, his voice cracking momentarily. “I made you a promise, to you and Evangl both. A promise I had every intention of keeping. I thought I could find a way to make you whole again; to give you back what Pelham stole. That together, we would find what it was that poisoned us both and find a way to destroy it, but…” Jethro let out a long, shuddering sigh. “You were the first to join me on this journey. You put your faith in me, as I had put my faith in you. You showed me there was a way out of the darkness, that there was good in all of us… That it is possible for anyone to find redemption.
Om! Amitabha Hri
. But, more importantly… You were my friend.” A small, somber smile formed on Jethro’s chapped lips. “Thank you, Gary Brown,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

Jethro Dumont stood and took one last look at the darkness before he turned away and went searching for redemption.

• • •

THE ELEVATOR rose up from the bedrock, pale bands of white light cut through the lift’s grating as it made it way past sublevel fourteen, thirteen, twelve… Alpha adjusted his collar, the scarred, sagging skin around his neck itching from the starch. He rolled his eyes up at the seemingly endless shaft above and tapped his foot impatiently.

Several decades ago, when the Collective was little more than a group of men meeting in saloon backrooms while the trains were being built, Alpha and his compatriots had planned out a grand scheme for America. Together they set in motion decades of the world’s history, killed thousands—including a president and an Archduke—to ensure their machinations came to fruition. For a while it had been a glorious success and now it was all coming apart at the seams.

He took a breath and felt his lungs tighten. He pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it, speckling the white fabric with blood before folding it back up and stuffing it away. The elevator trembled to a stop and the doors rolled open to the conference room in sublevel one. The nineteen remaining members of the Twenty-Two stood up from their chairs in unison, their various Greek letter pins and signets glinting in the darkened room. Alpha gave little thought to the empty chairs.

“Calling to order the one thousandth-and-twenty-fourth meeting of the Twenty-Two,” Beta called as Alpha walked to the head of the table. The group remained standing until Alpha was seated, at which point they all sat as one.

“Our current projection for America’s full involvement in European hostilities is nineteen-forty-two,” Sigma said without preamble, “perhaps earlier if the Sino-Japanese War spreads east across the Pacific. The current political make-up of Congress is too isolationist to take action without a direct attack from the Axis countries.”

Alpha nodded slowly. That was two years too early. “And what are our predications on that?”

“Seventy-three percent chance,” Theta replied.

“Cost of life?”

“We are still processing out estimates,” said Upsilon, “but without the use of enhanced soldiers, we forecast over sixty million people—military and civilian—will be lost. Roughly over two-point-five percent of the world’s current population.”

Alpha tapped his manicured fingers against the metal table. “And the whereabouts of the Green Lama?” he asked sharply.

The silence that answered was deafening.

Alpha snarled a frown. “Nothing?” he asked the room. “We have crumbled nations and we can’t find one man in a damn green robe?! How are we—”

Alpha felt the laughter before he heard it, a rolling, scratchy snicker that sounded like nails digging into flesh. The group looked nervously into the shadows, but saw nothing. Alpha pushed himself up onto his feet, his old knees suddenly feeling weak.

“Show yourself,” he demanded. “You will not frighten us with cheap theatrics!”

“The man you call the Green Lama is not one you should ever underestimate,” the laughing voice said from the darkness. “I have seen him defeat
gods
.”

Alpha coughed into his handkerchief. He could see the silhouetted form of a man standing just off in the corner. “Who are you?”

The stranger chuckled to himself, as he walked along the darkness. “They always ask that.” He smiled—his teeth impossibly white—and wagged his finger. “But that’s the wrong question.”

“What’s your name?” Alpha asked, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Name?” The man coyly pressed his hand to his chest. “Oh, well, I’ve gone by so many. It would be difficult to choose just one. Samael, Loki, Harlequin, Mephistopheles; one for every time and place. Names have such
power
. Much like the Green Lama himself, so many faces, so many names… But what should you call me? I confess I haven’t thought of any for this time. In my most recent life I was known as Alexei, but, perhaps we should call me who I am, stop denying the truth of
what
I am. So, please…” He stepped forward, his olive skin cracked like desert stone. “Call me Nyarlathotep.”

The Green Lama Chronology

Bold
indicates Moonstone Publication.

1923 – 1933