O.C.L.T. Read online

  O.C.L.T.: FOCAL POINT

  By Aaron Rosenberg

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

  Crossroad Press Digital Edition 2022

  Copyright © 2022 Aaron Rosenberg

  ISBN: ePub Digital Edition - 978-1-63789-896-3

  ISBN: Trade Paperback Edition - 978-1-63789-895-6

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Aaron Rosenberg is the author of the best-selling DuckBob SF comedy series, the Relicant Chronicles epic fantasy series, the Dread Remora space-opera series, and, with David Niall Wilson, the O.C.L.T. occult thriller series. Aaron’s tie-in work contains novels for Star Trek, Warhammer, World of WarCraft, Stargate: Atlantis, Shadowrun, Eureka, and more. He has written children’s books (including the original series STEM Squad and Pete and Penny’s Pizza Puzzles, the award-winning Bandslam: The Junior Novel, and the #1 best-selling 42: The Jackie Robinson Story), educational books on a variety of topics, and over seventy roleplaying games (such as the original games Asylum, Spookshow, and Chosen, work for White Wolf, Wizards of the Coast, Fantasy Flight, Pinnacle, and many others, and both the Origins Award-winning Gamemastering Secrets and the Gold ENnie-winning Lure of the Lich Lord). He is the co-creator of the ReDeus series, and a founding member of Crazy 8 Press. Aaron lives in New York with his family. You can follow him online at gryphonrose.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/gryphonrose, and on Twitter @gryphonrose.

  OTHER NOVELS BY AARON ROSENBERG

  The Adventures of DuckBob Spinowitz

  No Small Bills

  Too Small For Tall

  Three Small Coinkydinks

  Not for Small Minds

  The Relicant Chronicles

  Bones of Empire

  Trails of Bone

  Crossed Bones

  Bones at Rest

  Tales of the Scattered Earth

  The Birth of the Dread Remora

  Honor of the Dread Remora

  O.C.L.T.

  Incursion

  Digging Deep

  The Daemon Gates trilogy

  Day of the Daemon

  Night of the Daemon

  Hour of the Daemon

  Star Trek Corps of Engineers

  Creative Couplings

  Collective Hindsight

  The Riddled Post

  Time of the Phoenix

  Shadowrun: Shadow Dance

  Height of the Storm

  World of WarCraft: Tides of Darkness

  Worlds of WarCraft: Beyond the Dark Portal

  StarCraft: Queen of Blades

  Exalted: The Carnelian Flame

  Exalted: False Images

  Eureka: Substitution Method (as Cris Ramsay)

  Eureka: The Road Less Traveled (as Cris Ramsay)

  Gone to Ground

  Stargate: Atlantis: Hunt and Run

  Indefinite Renewal

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  About the O.C.L.T. Series

  There are incidents and emergencies in the world that defy logical explanation, events that could be defined as supernatural, extraterrestrial, or simply otherworldly. Standard laws do not allow for such instances, nor are most officials or authorities trained to handle them. In recognition of these facts, one organization has been created that can. Assembled by a loose international coalition, their mission is to deal with these situations using diplomacy, guile, force, and strategy as necessary. They shield the rest of the world from their own actions, and clean up the messes left in their wake. They are our protection, our guide, our sword, and our voice, all rolled into one.

  They are O.C.L.T.

  AVAILABLE TALES OF THE O.C.L.T.

  Brought to Light—An O.C.L.T. Novella by Aaron Rosenberg

  The Temple of Camazotz—An O.C.L.T. Novella by David Niall Wilson

  The Parting—An O.C.L.T. Novel by David Niall Wilson

  Incursion—An O.C.L.T. Novel by Aaron Rosenberg

  No Laughing Matter—An O.C.L.T. Novel by Kurt Criscione

  Lost Things—An O.C.L.T. Tie-In Novel by Melissa Scott & Jo Graham

  Crockatiel!—An O.C.L.T. Novel Featuring Cletus J. Diggs by David Niall Wilson

  The Noose Club —An O.C.L.T. Tie-in Novel by David Bischoff

  Digging Deep—An O.C.L.T. Novel by Aaron Rosenberg

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  September 23, 1986

  Viktor Antonov paused at the top of the small hill and glanced down with some satisfaction at the strange depression below. At last! It had taken some time to locate, particularly since his compass had proven uncooperative of late, and no one in Lokot’ had seemed willing to even discuss the possibility that such a place might exist. Yet he had persevered, and now here he was. Judging by the trees and bushes that nearly hid the area from view, he suspected he was the first in many years to stumble upon it, which was only to the better, as far as he was concerned. He had no desire to share this find with anyone—not yet, at least.

  Making his way carefully down the hill, shoving aside brambles and branches, his heavy boots crushing grass and wildflowers alike, he finally came to a stop right at the lip. This was what had drawn him here in the first place, the stories of this odd circle. Now that he saw it, he could understand why it had been spoken of with mystery, fear, and even a little awe. He'd only expected to find loose rocks placed in a rough ring, the remnants of some primitive ritual to the woods or the like. But this was nothing like that.

  Instead, he found himself standing beside a raised ridge perhaps a meter high and as wide across at its top as his hand, though it tapered as it rose, so the base was far thicker. The top edge was irregular yet smooth, any jagged corners worn down over time, and what it brought most to mind was a caldera, particularly since the ground dipped further and further as it neared its center. That made little sense, however. The nearest volcanic activity was in the Ukrainian Carpathians, many miles away to the west.

  Pulling out his tape recorder, Viktor hit “Record,” preparing to dictate his findings as he went. But no whine came from the handheld device and glancing at it he saw that the wheels were not turning within the cassette window. He had just replaced the batteries a day or two ago—why were they not working now? With a sigh he packed the device back away in the bag slung across his back. He would simply have to remember what he saw and write it all down later.

  Next Viktor retrieved his camera, popping off the lens cap and sighting through it at the ridge. A push on the shutter release produced no response, however, and he growled as he noticed the flash indicator had not come on, either. What was going on with his equipment?

  Well, he would not let little things like this stop him. Shoving the camera back in the bag as well, he stepped over the
ridge. The ground here was bare rock and dirt, unlike the greenery growing just on the other side of the low barrier. Why was that? It didn't look as if it had seen any foot traffic, human or otherwise. Could there be something about the soil itself, he wondered, crouching to run his fingers across the uneven surface. He could take some samples to bring back and analyze, of course, but at least a first glance revealed nothing unusual, and it felt and smelled like normal dirt. Strange.

  Still squatting, he studied the full expanse. The circle was perhaps one hundred, one hundred and twenty meters across, sloping inward at a slight angle—and what was that in the center? There was a dark splotch there, but as he stood, he thought he could see some depth to the shape as well. Not a stain, then.

  A hole.

  A hole at the exact center of this already unusual pit, surrounded by its even stranger circle.

  Excellent!

  Rubbing his hands together, Viktor strode quickly across the intervening space. Yes, it was certainly a hole, and not manmade, though the edges looked as if they might have been chipped away some. The overall outline was irregular, and far more organic than geometric. Peering down into it, he could not make out anything in the darkness, and when he tried his flashlight, he discovered it wasn't working either. He tossed a pebble into the hole. It plunked against something after only a few seconds, suggesting that there was a floor below, and not terribly far down.

  Searching his pockets, Viktor retrieved a book of matches. It was a good thing he had not given up smoking as his mother and older sister and more recently even his young bride had demanded. Tearing off the book’s top flap, he set that alight and then carefully dropped it into the hole. It flickered from the air rushing past but did not go out, and bounced off a flat surface a moment later, to lay guttering, a tiny spark in the shadows.

  A part of him knew he should go back, get better equipment, an assistant to spot him, working batteries. But Viktor was too excited to wait. Digging through his pack produced a heavy piton, his coil of rope, and a sturdy mallet. Setting the rope aside for the moment, he pounded the piton into the ground a meter or so from the hole, then tested its stability by yanking it this way and that with both hands. It didn't budge. Perfect! Next, he passed one end of the rope through the hole at the piton’s top and knotted it securely. The rope was thirty meters of hemp, tightly woven, which meant he should have twenty-eight or so left for the descent. Judging by the pebble and the matchbook, that ought to be more than enough.

  Dropping the rest of the rope into the hole, Viktor listened closely. No sound of it striking the bottom, but that was fine. He could always jump the last bit if it was close enough, or simply climb back up if he felt the distance would be too great for him to reach the rope again once he’d let it go. Setting his pack on the ground, he selected only a handful of things to bring down with him. He shoved those into the pockets of his jacket. Then, slipping on his sturdy leather gloves, he took a deep breath and a tight grip on the rope and, sitting on the lip of the hole, pushed off and let himself slide down into the dark.

  Leonid and Katya Babin glanced up as the door slammed open. Both of them had reflexively reached for heavy implements—him for a nearby shovel, her for a rolling pin—wary of the risk of drunk travelers and traders causing trouble in their tiny general shop, the only one in Lokot’. They relaxed when they saw that it was only the nice young man who had been in that morning, asking directions to the stone ring out in the forest. What had been his name again? Ah, yes, that was it!

  “Viktor!” Leonid called out, leaning the shovel back against the wall and emerging from behind the shop’s counter. “Back so soon? Did you find what you were looking for?”

  The eyes that turned toward him were not the clear, warm green they had been before. Now they were dark through and through, black upon black, as if oil or tar had been splashed against the orb. They stared at Leonid and he shivered, for that inky gaze seemed to somehow pierce him to his very soul.

  The visiting Viktor opened his mouth and spoke, but they were not words Leonid recognized. Certainly, they were not Russian. He shook his head and shrugged to show his lack of comprehension and Viktor uttered something short and sharp like a bark before launching into another stream of nonsense.

  “I do not know what it is you are saying, Viktor,” Leonid insisted, approaching, hands out. “I am sorry. What is it you need?” He laid a hand on the younger man’s arm—and Viktor suddenly exploded into action.

  The forearm was jerked back and then slammed forward, sending Leonid flying across the room to collide with the counter. The heavy wood dug into his back. He didn't sag against it for long, however, as Viktor covered the distance in a blink and his large, gloved hands curled about handfuls of Leonid’s thick flannel work shirt. Next thing he knew, he was sailing through the air.

  Katya cried out as her husband was tossed toward the front door as if he weighed no more than a cabbage, or a turnip. Leonid hit the solid wooden door with a loud thud and a squeal of pain, collapsing against its base.

  “Leave him alone, you beast!” Katya cried, hoisting her rolling pin, and charging Viktor, even though he had made no move to go after Leonid once more. He glanced her way just in time to raise his arm, and blocked the blow meant for his head. The impact staggered him slightly, but an instant later he recovered, snatching the implement from Katya’s hands.

  Then he snapped the thick rolling pin in two, hurling the halves from him. The whole time he had continued to babble whatever it was that had been spilling from his lips since he'd walked in, more and more quickly, as if the sounds were somehow desperate to emerge and be heard.

  The torn pieces of wood that had been the rolling pin were still arcing toward opposite ends of the room when Viktor’s eyes rolled up in his head. He dropped to the floor, his entire body suddenly going limp, and lay there, twitching slightly and flopping like a freshly landed fish. Whatever had filled his eyes receded, leaving them green once more, but now they stared without seeing, dull and unfocused. And though his chest continued to rise and fall, Katya suspected that whatever could be said to make up the man called Viktor—heart, mind, and soul—was no longer contained within that unresisting flesh.

  Still, she made a wide berth around him as she ran to her husband, who was starting to pull himself upright with a grunt. She helped Leonid to his feet and supported him as they returned to the safety of the counter. And from there, watching Viktor all the while, they called Josef, who was what passed for police in their small community. Perhaps he would know what to do about the young man before them, who had been so friendly this morning, so violent just moments ago, and so uncomprehending now.

  It only occurred to Leonid and Katya later, when the authorities arrived—not Josef but several large, stone-faced men in severe uniforms the region had not seen in many years, followed by even more frightening figures in dark suits—to take Viktor away and then ask many questions over and over about his recent activities, to wonder whether the rock formation he had been seeking had somehow been responsible for his strange behavior and subsequent state.

  But that made no sense at all.

  Did it?

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, September 15, 2021

  Sofia Honchar had known it was late but, even so, she nearly jumped from her chair when the lantern’s flame guttered and went out, plunging her office into darkness. A gasp slipped from her lips and she reflexively clapped a hand over her mouth, even though she doubted anyone had heard. For that matter, was there even anyone nearby to hear? The hall beyond looked just as dark, and she heard no sounds beyond her closed door. Still, she took care to push her chair back without it squeaking on the worn-smooth linoleum tiles, and rose just as quietly to her feet, collecting her tablet and pen with one hand and scooping up her coat with the other. The lantern she left behind—there was little point in bringing it along, since she had no spare oil and even if she had she didn’t relish the idea of trying to refill it by touch alone. She had a lighter in her pocket and extracted that instead once she’d shrugged into the coat. She was fairly confident she could navigate her way to the exit without any need for additional light—she had certainly done so often enough before—but best to have it on hand, just in case.