I turned around to see if there was anything nearby that might be connected to the game, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the sky.
At first it looked like storm clouds, but clouds didn’t move like that. Something was coming. The darkness was swirling above a four-story building that took up about a quarter of the block directly across from the strip mall. At the top of that building was a neon sign that read: PYRAMID SELF STORAGE.
Their logo was a pyramid beneath a shining sun: a circle above a triangle.
I hurried across the street into the Pyramid Self Storage loading bay and ran up a short set of cement stairs that led to an open service window connected to a small office. There was nobody there, but a handwritten sign on the counter said “Back in fifteen.”
I’d been waiting around for a few minutes when I realized I didn’t have a plan. What was I going to ask them when they came back? Should I try to bribe them to show me the register, like a detective in a Raymond Chandler novel? Ask to rent a locker myself?
I decided I’d go with option two when I felt a familiar chill.
The shadow things had arrived.
A darkness descended from somewhere and began slowly pooling around the loading bay. Long tenebrous swirls twisted and slid along the smooth gray concrete. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the service window.
I wasn’t sure if the darkness was pursuing me or if I was moving along one of Meechum’s Radiants and this was just part of that process. But, either way, it was coming, and I knew exactly what was going to happen if it reached me.
I would be torn apart like the Magician in that Super 8 movie.
I took off running.
As I ran along the polished concrete corridor between the small reddish-orange garage doors that provided access to the various storage lockers, I could feel the darkness behind me, cold, hungry, and impatient—and closer now than ever before.
I could feel it longing to feed.
I rounded a corner and ran down another hall, speeding past the rows of padlocked metal doors, the darkness close behind.
Eventually, I turned in to a long corridor that ran the length of the entire building. As I ran, I finally felt like I was putting some distance between me and whatever was back there.
But the corridor was coming to an end.
About twenty yards ahead, I could make out the familiar vertical wooden slats of an old freight elevator.
I was moving so fast that I almost slipped and fell when I tried to slow down.
As I crashed into the elevator, stabs of pain from my wrist and shoulder alerted my brain that something was wrong. I ignored the pain, clutched the slats with two hands, yanked up the elevator door, and dived inside.
As I grabbed the rope and pulled the door closed behind me, I could see the gray shapes in the darkness.
Long thin shadows, like dark smoky fingers, slipped through the bars. Just as the darkness was about to reach me, I slammed the green button and the elevator started moving up with a hard lurch.
But I was too late.
The shadow things flooded the elevator and I could feel them sliding into my mind. The world swam and shook, and I felt like my head was being ripped apart. Then I was falling backward into an impossible deep black.
And then I passed out.
42
WIN THE GAME, SAVE THE WORLD
I woke up in the elevator.
Not the storage company’s freight elevator, but the elevator in The Tower that had taken me to the penthouse to meet Crow. The PH button was illuminated and I was moving up. Fast.
I was only in there for about thirty seconds or so before the elevator stopped, the doors opened, and I was staring out at the same wide hallway as before.
I did my best to compose myself. Twice I’d been up here, and twice I’d had completely different experiences. I had no idea what to expect this time.
After I felt calm enough to walk, I stepped off the elevator and into the hallway.
I made my way quickly down the hall, passed through the now-familiar glass double doors, and entered the small lobby.
The last time I’d been here, the lobby was empty. This time, however, there was a man sitting behind a reception desk. He was Persian, in his late twenties, wearing a dark gray sweater and white collared shirt.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Crow,” I said. No point in messing around.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
He nodded and forced a smile. I heard the sound of him hitting a few keys on a keyboard, and then the foyer was completely silent.
I took a seat in one of the six small teak chairs that made up the waiting area, and glanced down at the reading materials stacked neatly on a narrow glass coffee table. Rather than the usual terribly-out-of-date magazine selection, there were books: The Beatles Anthology, The Future of Architecture, Aesop’s Fables, The Malacetic Atlas, Information Graphics, and something called Cooking for Your Future Self.