James A. Hunter
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Backrooms 2: Kiosk Kingdom - Chapter 38
🕑 Added 2024-10-10 18:25:21 +0000 UTCThirty-Eight – Conspiracy Theories
“Danke Schoen, for the warm welcome. This is a very lovely home you have here by the way,” Jakob said, his hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the bookcase with obvious curiosity.
Ed snorted and rolled his eyes. “You Germans always were polite ones, but there’s no need to sugarcoat things. You can just say it’s a shithole, I won’t be offended. Still, better a shithole bunker out in the cornfield then a cookie cutter flesh house over in the ’Burbs.”
“Did you build this place yourself?” I asked, suspecting the answer was probably yes. This guy had doomsday prepper written all over him.
“Naw, I found it a bunch of years back.” Ed replied. “This place is a vestigial remnant from before the HOA consolidated its hold on this floor. Or at least in this quadrant,” he amended. “I’ve been here for”—he paused and silently counted on his fingers—“forty years, I think? Maybe longer than that. But a long time, is the point. I no-clipped sometime in the late seventies. After the war. Back in those days, this was actually floor nineteen and not floor twenty-four.”
Ed lowered his foot with a wince, then reached into his coat and pulled out colorful glass bong as long as my arm, packed something pungent into the bowl, then promptly set it ablaze with a small trickle of mana. Clearly, he had some sort of fire Relic tucked away in his core.
“Sorry,” Ed apologized, before taking a huge, burbling rip on the other end. “Like I said, wicked-bad arthritis. This helps with the pain. And the PTSD,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“I don’t give a shit what you do in your own house,” I offered with a shrug, “but I’d love to circle back around to that other thing you said.”
“The part about my arthritis?” he asked.
“Jesus, Mary, and Jospeh,” I grumbled. “No, not the arthritis. As shocking as you might find this, I also do not give a shit about your arthritis. I meant the part where you casually mentioned that this used to be floor nineteen. That seems sort of important with broad and potentially horrifying implications. I was operating under the base assumption that there are a thousand floors. Period. End of story.”
“Yeah, that’s the corpo narrative.” Ed squinted, his brow furrowed. “It’s what everyone wants you believe. Sure, maybe there really are a thousand floors. I’ve talked to some of the old timers who say there have always been and will always be only a thousand floors. Maybe that’s true, but one thing I can tell you certain as sin is that this place grows.
“About a floor per decade give or take a few years. Which means that if there really are only a thousand floors, some of ’em must merge. Or maybe they atrophy and die off—like a crab shedding its exoskeleton. Or maybe that’s bullshit too, and there’s actually two-thousand floors. Or three. Or ten. Or maybe the floors rotate just like the quadrants do. Anyone who tells you they have this place figured out is full of horseshit.”
Jakob immediately fished out a notebook from his coat pocket and started scribing furiously at a blank page. “Fascinating,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve heard both prevailing theories, but it’s always been from a second or third hand account. Never a firsthand source. You’re saying that you, personally, have been on this floor since it was floor nineteen?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, hoss,” Ed replied with a nod of confirmation. “And it’s not just that, either. I’ve had a chance to see how much the floor’s changed since I first arrived. A lot of Delvers think these floors are static, but that aren’t. They get updated, which is why I’m inclined to think there might be some merit to that whole floors-merging-theory. If you could see this place back in the seventies, you wouldn’t hardly even recognize it. Thematically, it was similar, I suppose.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a wistful look in his eyes.
“One giant, endless neighborhood, but it wasn’t modern. Not like it is now,” he said. “It was like a Leave it to Beaver fever dream. Just try to imagine a distorted replica of 1950s mid-western American town trapped in a goddamned snow globe. Reminded me of one of those government instillation towns the CIA used to build out in Nevada to test bombs on.
“Except everything was in black and white,” he added. “The people. The houses. The grass, the trees, the sky. Grayscale. All of it. Everything but the Delvers who passed through. We were all in brilliant, high-def LSD technicolor. Unless you stayed here too long. Then you started to lose your color too. That was a small price to pay for safety, though. Once upon a time, this floor was actually one of the largest Safe Harbors between the VFW Reception Hall, on floor zero, and floor 100.”
“VFW Reception Hall?” I repeated, quirking an eyebrow. “Do you mean the Lobby?”
“Is that what floor zero is now?” Ed asked, sounding tired. He took another rip on his bong, then pressed his eyes shut and rubbed at one temple. “Christ, I’ve been out of the loop too long.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “It’s been eight or nine years since I’ve come across anyone else. At least, I think it’s been eight or nine years. Time’s wonky here. Doesn’t matter,” he said, waving a hand through the air. “Point is, this place changes.
“Err, the Backrooms, I mean,” he clarified. “Back when floor zero was the VFW Reception Hall and not the Lobby—whatever the hell that is—this floor was a Safe Harbor. Being stuck in black and white was annoying, but you got used after a while. And for a lot of Delvers who gave up on the idea of ever getting home, this level was the closest we ever got to reclaiming some sense of normalcy. Nice homes. Lots of open space with trees and grass. You can even look up at the sky.”
“And there were no Dwellers here?” Jakob asked, still scribbling in his journal.
“A few,” Ed admitted with a lopsided shrug. “Mimics mostly. Weird ones, though. Instead of pretending to be furniture, they pretended to be people.” He stole a look at Croc, who no longer looked like a blue parrot and instead resembled a blue rubber dog. “They were like that thing. Which is to say, very shitty at disguising themselves. You could spot ’em a mile off and as long as you didn’t get too close, they minded their own damned business. Pretty good neighbors, all things considered.”
“So what the hell happened?” I asked. “I mean seriously? How did it go from a grayscale 1950s TV town to this suburban hellscape?”
“Like I said, this place changes overtime,” he replied. “Best I can guess, the closer a level is to the surface the more malleable it is. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I could never prove it, but I think it was a covert government black-op. Part of a joint task force, consisting of DARPA, Project Monarch, and MJ-12. And before you start laughing, just hear me out. Any of you fine folks happen to know what’s on the level below us? Down on floor twenty-five?”
“It’s a VRD laboratory,” Jakob answered matter of factly.
“That’s goddamned right it is,” Ed replied. He eyeballed Jakob, connecting a few of the dots. “Should’ve guessed you’d know about the labs since you’re a Transmog. But it isn’t just Helix Splicers they have down there, you know. There’s all kinds of weird VRD tech. Stuff that no one understands. Containment units with weird monsters, enormous armories, R and D facilities with stuff that could reshape the world—and not necessarily in a good way. And if you think the Spooks at the CIA don’t know about this place, you’re higher than I am.
“I’d bet my right arm that half of the tech DARPA is playing with are things they’ve managed to recover from the Backrooms. No different than what MJ-12 did with all the alien tech they recovered from the crash at Rosewell. I ran across a couple of their agents about twenty years back, now. They called themselves B.E.A.C.O.N. The Bureau of Extradimensional Anomalies and Covert Opposition Neutralization. The Bastards tried to recruit me, on account of my distinguished military service during ’Nam. Told them to go sit on a 105 round and spin.
“Thing was, these Suits were particularly interested in a piece of VRD tech called the Nexus Pulse. What exactly does the Nexus Pulse do, I hear you asking,” he continued, not giving anyone a chance to cut off his spiel. “It’s an enormous goddamned radio transmitter capable of reprogramming all sentient minds within a certain radius. This thing could rewrite memories, eradicate personal identity, implant subconsciousness suggestions, and pacify entire population groups.” He took another bong rip. “Imagine if the government could turn every citizen in an enemy nation state into a violent sleeper agent? Or settle civil unrest with the push of a button.”
It was a disturbing thought, I had to admit.
“And you think they were experimenting on the residents of the safe harbor using this Nexus Pulse thing?” I asked.
“You’re damn skippy, that’s what I think,” he shot back. “And that’s what I think is at the heart of the radio station—the Nexus Pulse. The signal started changing people, but not just them. It started changing the Dwellers, too. The mimics. The ones pretending to be human. Those Fed shitheads with BEACON didn’t count on that. I’m guessing they also didn’t count on the Blight.” He leaned forward, as though imparting some great secret. “Now, this is pure speculation, but I think the Blight might also have some sort of rudimentary intelligence. The Blight started infecting the residents, but the signal from the Nexus Pulse started infecting the Blight. This? The HOA? It’s the result.”
“That sounds insane,” Temperance said, folding her arms, clearly unimpressed. “I’m just going to say it. You sound like a crazy person. I have never heard of any of these clandestine organizations—DARPA, MJ-12, Project Monarch, BEACON—but your theory is clearly borne from a combination of paranoia and isolation.”
“Now, now Kleine Hase,” Jakob chided, “it’s no crazier than believing the Backrooms are a divine test, designed by an alien god to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
Not only did I agree with Jakob, but I thought there was at least some merit to Ed’s weird rambling conspiracy theory. I mean, sure, Ed was probably batshit crazy and seeing connections that didn’t exist, but the idea didn’t seem beyond the scope of possibility. The CIA had orchestrated more coups than I could count on two hands, they’d actively tested LSD on unwitting US citizens during the 1950s, and had illegally funneled weapons through Iran to the Contra Rebels in Nicaragua in the 80s.
That was just the shit that was on public record.
Considering the CIA's track record and typical MO, would they really be above testing mind control weapons on people trapped in an extradimensional prison? Yeah, probably not. That still didn’t mean Ed was right, but that didn’t really matter. Not to me.
Temp was as crazy as a bagful of caffeinated raccoons, but I still trusted her.
Sure, maybe Ed was batshit crazy, too, but everyone in the Backrooms was fundamentally damaged in one way or another. Jakob was a pacifist in a Mad-Max murder-world who’d traded away his humanity for a chance to survive. Croc was flesh-eating mimic who couldn’t properly mimic things. Temperance was a homicidal pilgrim in a skin-tight bunny suit. And me? I was an idiot with an unlucky streak a mile wide, who just couldn’t leave well enough. There were no perfect people in the Backrooms. No normal people, either.
Only the crazy survived here.
At this point, there were only two things that really mattered.
One, could Ed be trusted not to turn us into human-based meat chill the second he had an opportunity and, two, could he help us get past the wall of Kevins and Kathys surrounding the exit kiosk? I wasn’t sure about the second question, but he’d had plenty of opportunities to screw us over and leave us for dead, and he’d chosen to help us instead. As far as I was concerned, he’d earned enough goodwill for me to lend him the benefit of the doubt.
“Don’t mind Temperance,” I said to Ed, “she has very strong opinions and doesn’t play especially well with others. I’m sure she wasn’t trying to insult you—”
“—oh no, I was indeed insulting him,” Temp clarified.
“Thanks, Temp. As always, your diplomatic abilities continue to shock and amazing me,” I muttered.
Ed just chuckled. “At least she’s honest. For what it’s worth, it’ll take a lot more than that to insult me. People have been calling me crazy for decades, kemo sabe. But I was right about Agent Orange and Operation CHAOS, just like I was right about the Pentagon Papers and the Tuskegee Experiments. You’ll see. Time is on my side. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you believe me. If you want to get out of here, you need me.” He offered us a wide grin that made him look crazier than ever. “I can take down the signal.”
“Like you did back at the cookout?” I asked, feeling an ember of hope ignite in my chest. “With the radio?”
“Just like that,” he said. “But everywhere all at once. Come on, let me show you something.”
The chair squealed as he pushed himself to his feet then lumbered over toward the steel blast door at the far end of the room. He paused by the birdcage, flipped open the tiny door, then stuck his hand inside the cage. The parrot, Woodstock, immediately hopped up onto his hand.
“Who’s a pretty bird?” he said, patting her affectionately on the head.
“I’m going to kill you with fire,” she replied, making her way onto his shoulder.
“That’s my girl,” Ed mumbled, before returning to the blast door. He disengaged the locks, pulled the hatch open with the squeal of rusty hinges, then ushered us into the connecting room, which was far better furnished than his living quarters.
Tables lined every wall, all of them loaded down with various electrical equipment. Spoils of wire and buckets of gutted radio parts, along with heaps of transistors and capacitors, diodes and electrical relay switches, fuses and transformers galore. The guy had enough batteries to fill a bathtub. He also had scads of tools and although I wasn’t an electrician by trade, I’d installed enough lights and changed enough wall outlets to be familiar with most of ’em.
Decorating one wall was an enormous map with colored twine running from everywhere to everywhere else. It looked like one of those true crime quirk boards, and it definitely didn’t make Ed seem any less crazy. Bits of red twine all lead to one central location, neatly labeled as WBSC – Sunnyside Community Radio Broadcast Station.
As impressively insane as the board was, however, the true pièce de resistance was the enormous contraption occupying the center of the room. It looked two parts radio, one part bomb, and it was easily the size of a car engine.
“This here is Big Bertha,” he said, affectionately patting the side of the enormous bomb/radio disruptor. “I’ve been working on her for years and she’s finally ready to go. Once I fire up Bertha, the signal will go down all across Sunnyside.” He snapped his fingers with a loud crack. “Boom, just like that. Once the signal fails, all the Kevins and Kathys will be mindless husks just like they were at the party after I set off the smaller disruptor.”
“This disruptor can do all of that?” Jakob asked, crouching down to examine the machine in closer detail. “If that’s the case, then why haven’t you used it yet, I wonder?”
Ed grimaced then rubbed the back of his neck. “See, that’s the only catch. This thing can crash the signal, but it needs to be near the source. Within fifty feet or so of the Nexus Pulse.” He headed over to the map and pointed at the radio station. “The WBSC Community Broadcast Station,” he growled. “That’s the source. Those weird radio announcements you’ve been hearing? That’s all part of the signal. Big brother, keeping their eye and ear on you at all times. Getting into the radio station is a tough nut to crack and I can’t do it alone.
“The outside is crawling with hostile Sunnysiders and the place is built like a siege fortress, but I’ve figured out a way in. There are a series of fallout tunnels that still run beneath the city—vestigial structures, just like my bunker. Best I can figure, one of those tunnels connects directly to the basement of the radio station. The only wrinkle is that to get to the tunnel you have to go through here.” He jabbed a finger at another building not too far from the station.
It was labeled Sunnyside Little Learners Preschool.
I almost had to laugh.
“Wait a minute, I’m sorry,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him. “You need help getting through a preschool? I mean, maybe I’m missing something here, but surely a bunch of tiny tots can’t be that tough, right? Hell, why can’t you just take one of those radio disruptors with you and use it on all the little tykes inside? Quick and easy.”
Ed’s face had grown pale and his expression dark.
“The horrors inside that Preschool are worse than you could possibly imagine,” he said, serious and sober as a judge. “I saw a F-4 Phantom drench an entire town of noncombatants outside of Khe Sanh with Napalm and that still wasn’t as bad as what’s inside that god forsaken preschool. Not to mention, the disruptors don’t work on the kids, because the signal doesn’t work on the kids. The Sunnysiders reproduce like mimics.
“Their spawn hatch in clutches, and the preschools serve as breeding grounds. The toddlers are small and relatively weak, but extremely violent and unpredictable. Once they get old enough, they evolve to Timmys and Tammys before being released into the cornfields, where they’re slowly infected by the signal and the SporeFeed, until eventually they evolve again into their adult form.
“I’ve tried to get through the preschool a dozen times, at least. I’ve also died almost a dozen times, too. There are just too many of those demandable demon babies. If we all went together, though? We could do it. Get past the toddlers and into the basement of the broadcast station. From there, I activate Big Bertha, we take down the signal, and everything topside turns into anarchy. While the Kevins and Kathys are busy murdering each other, I can finally get away from this nightmare level.”
I felt a brief pang of guilt.
From the sounds of it, all Ed wanted was to leave.
Thing was, I could help him do that right now. I could use my VIP Doorway Anchor to open a gateway to my shop and he could be free. Except, I couldn’t do that because we needed him. Assuming Ed was right, taking down the radio station would incapacitate the Sunnysiders guarding the exit kiosk which, in turn, would allow us to get one step closer to the Franchisor. If I let him go now, there was no telling how long we might be stuck here for.
So, even though it made me feel like a real bastard, I kept my mouth shut about the doorway anchor.
“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” I asked instead.
Ed nodded. “My thoughts exactly. And the timing couldn’t be better.” He glanced down at his watch.
“Why’s that?” Croc asked curiously.
“It’s just a few hours until daybreak,” Ed said with complete certainty, “and like all the kids in this fucked up town, the toddlers are significantly weaker during the daylight hours. Once the moon goes up, though, they become monsters. Even more so than usual,” he amended quickly. “But starting tomorrow night it’s going to be exponentially worse. You mighta heard about it over the radio? They’ve been making announcements about it every few hours for the past four or five days.
“The lunar eclipse is coming. Starts tomorrow night,” he continued. “Best as I can figure, the eclipse happens once every few years and lasts for damn near a week. I still haven’t been able to figure out why it happens, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. The sun doesn’t come up, the moon starts to bleed, and the kids turn batshit. Instead of gaining ten levels, they gain twenty, and they get real hungry. It’s a goddaned nightmare. Point is, if we don’t move now, y’all could be stuck here for a good long while.”
If I wasn’t sold before, I sure as shit was now. “Sounds like we need to go kick the shit out of some eldritch toddlers. Let’s rock and roll.”
