Zootsuit Black
Humanity is panicking. In seven days time our universe will cause changes to reality and kill millions. Dr Jake Crux is convinced a solution lies in reacquainting ourselves with old powers – his experiment demonstrates extrasensory perception is possible; but his superiors want to pervert the result and sacrifice him in the process.
Scott Anderson has proof that the Far Right is jeopardising our chances of survival - their leader is potentially more dangerous than Hitler - and Scott's participation in a cult reality show exposes him to their mortal threats.
As the universe begins to shift, both men are periodically thrust into dealing with adversity in temporary dimensions: one battles mythical dragons; the other fights Nazis in WW11.
And they call it evolution.
Sample Chapter
Chapter One
My escalating déjà vu scares me. What’s worse, these freakish incidents are becoming coupled with my dreams and daytime hallucinations, the ones where I become unnerved by the possibility of somehow having manipulated the past. It’s a rare complaint this: to believe that you can alter reality. And to think you may have done so already.
Consequently, I detest nightmares.
Have I changed the past?
I try to breathe. And I fail miserably.
Such a trial, such a terrible thing.
Even as it starts, the rational part of me screams that, however real the sensations I experience, it is not actually happening – the images are simply one of the many recurring nightmares and visitations from the past I have suffered during these last seven years.
But this time there is a reality like nothing experienced before.
A faint, and different, childlike, subconscious voice tells me that, yes, once again, this is all being prompted by recollection of both the deaths of my two hero grandfathers, the American Roy and the Englishman Eric – events I have never come to terms with – and particularly the strange and peculiar premonition Roy experienced all those years ago. It was his violent death, as a consequence of his clairvoyant insight during wartime, which caused me to consider forsaking athletics at sixteen, sent me on this mission to pursue a fascist, and consequently forces me to suffer glances from people when I tell them about the ghosts I see.
And now has led me to suffer this. A nightmare assisted by Roy’s historically significant photographs.
The striped-pyjama uniforms immediately indicate my location with stupefying realism. But those old photographs, depicting the desperate inhabitants of the camps, missed out the other sensations that I now experience. Yes, each slow-moving figure inspects me with shadowed eyes peering out from skeletal hollows, as each ghost, one by one, tries to give a puzzled smile in my direction. Each face is indeed living mummification, each body so delicate, fragile, and wasted that just to be touched would hurt it, yet they clasp me to their chests nevertheless. But the photographs cannot relay the frightening silence – this mass of humanity and not a word spoken – nor do they portray the stench.
I start to giggle, they look so comical – these clown-dolls are clearly not human. I laugh and point at these caricatures, while moving among them.
In the part of my brain that knows I am sleeping, I begin to fervently hope that this nightmare will soon change. I will it to change. This is too real, this nightmare that makes me believe I am actually here in the compound.
I begin to run, slowly, through this bleak crowd, as though my energy is drained, all used up. The shadowed eyes watch my passage along rows of low huts, me still laughing loud and brash – so comical, so comical. Along past the now silent wire fences that used to hum, still decorated with the dead flotsam of those who chose electrocution rather than continue with something less than existence. Past more huts, past a haystack of broken sticks that is not really a haystack of broken sticks; I am laughing louder … laughing hysterically now. Into a brick building furnished with tall chimney stacks, through corridors from whence I can imagine echoing screams being cut short, and where I spy hooks lining the ceiling. Into a room where hell itself was kept warm, where the living waifs of humanity stoked ovens with dead from the broken stacks of human hay outside. But the reality of this nightmare is nothing like the photographic images I inspected during my studies, for the air has a taste and I want to keep my mouth shut.
My manic outburst is finally forced to abate. In a warm room with rows of thick metal doors, my laughter splutters to a halt. I begin to cry instead. In seconds, as I falter and stoop, a hand to my mouth, it becomes a lament of such strong and passionate pity, a despair from such depths that the world is rarely aware of, or acknowledges. And its echoes within the dust-filled room only help feed itself.
I shuffle on over to the crematorium, peering through the open doors with unblinking eyes, to see the still smouldering fire and the half-burnt bodies. My sobbing is caught short in a gasp, my knees weaken, my stomach and bowels give up the fight, until finally my soul cries out and leaves me. It escapes. It flees by racing up and out the chimney. Up and out, and then drifting on the wind, all the time feeling the heat and yet not burning, until I am back on my feet again, dressed in my customary jeans, boots and pseudo-military jerkin. But this time the nightmare doesn’t end … I am now standing at a street junction at one o’clock in the morning. And I realise instantly – as one does in dreams exhibiting such terrible clarity and logic – that I am just about to experience what it was like in the Hammerbrook district of Hamburg, on July 28th 1943, as nearly eight-hundred RAF planes – Lancasters, Halifaxes, Stirlings and Wellingtons – began their bombing runs during Operation Gomorrah.
This part of my nightmare is totally new.
I try to draw breath, try to contradict myself about where I am. But I am not mistaken. I have researched Operation Gomorrah – initiated four days earlier, mainly against the Hamburg dockyard – and I already know the consequences of this fateful night.
This raid, I know, will be different, for it will actually achieve Gomorrah in a way never envisaged.
I try to draw a breath. I know I’ll need it.
This impending raid will last only forty-three minutes, but each minute will kill about a thousand people – more victims than achieved by the entire Blitz on London.
I wonder if the nightmare will allow me time to escape.
But, as in all bad dreams, I discover that it is I alone who am forced to move with invisible weights attached to my arms and legs. The few people out on the streets push past me easily in their belated flight to the shelters. I, too, feel compelled to escape, yet I cannot – there is something I need to do.
But what?
Instead of running, I scrutinise the urban area around me. The junction I stand at is broad: there are many roads off it to inspect. One such avenue leads down to the river Bille. I should head for there, or maybe to the Elbe itself, but I can’t stop myself from studying the neighbourhood. My English grandfather, Eric, himself flew on this same raid. And I feel this new extension of the nightmare demands careful attention. I blink and try to take it all in with a historian’s eye. The four-storey houses exude a noble presence – almost as if they possess second-sight and are defiantly bracing themselves for the inevitable. Nearby a siren calls out a warning in the dry, hot night air.
Dry and hot – even the weather is colluding.
I brace myself in readiness – if I cannot escape to the river, I may as well brazen it out here. For some reason it seems I need to be here.
Stepping over to a slender lamppost, I grip it with both hands and try to shake it. As expected, it remains immobile. Grunting with satisfaction, I undo my belt and slip it off, wrap it around the lamppost and also my right leg. I tighten the belt, and then clasp my hands together behind the post itself in a sailor’s grip: the fingers of either hand hooked into each other.
It feels like I am performing some weird lover’s embrace.
My breathing quickens. I already know why.
I look up, recognising that particular engine noise – remembered from memorial flights at Duxford aerodrome and elsewhere, but here multiplied many times over.
So this it what it sounded like.
The lamppost I am holding so tightly vibrates.
Gomorrah begins.
The air pulses with that sound – one continuous throb and beat, now rumbling in my stomach and heart.
Then the bombs descend.
There comes first that insane whistle that builds to impossible intensity before it suddenly stops. A pause. Then the rabbit-punch of a brutal shock-wave – a fast-moving wall of momentum and energy that shakes the ground in its thunderous passage. It is soon repeated – and multiplied. There becomes no distinction, no beginning, no end to the cacophony of violence. Yet, even as I lose track, finding I cannot distinguish one explosion from another, I know that they are only unified in their actions and are in fact individual bombs. And I somehow survive each one of them.
The damage to the nearby houses is extensive. The concussion of successive heavy high-explosive bombs destroys windows, doors, and blasts holes in walls. In the adjoining streets, I can see other houses in the near-vicinity of each bomb, with every window smashed in by the fists of the shock-waves. Wherever bombs have exploded inside the buildings, glass and debris have been propelled out onto the road surface like some kind of surreal snow. I myself am soon covered in scratches from flying fragments.
More screaming-whistles sound as another plane passes overhead, letting loose its load of high explosives. Hamburg is being well prepared for something hideous – the terrible obliteration that is the object of Operation Gomorrah.
The subsequent stage follows quickly as sticks of incendiaries, dropped by the next wave of aircraft, flutter out of the night sky towards recently exposed attics and smashed-in windows. Larger phosphorus firebombs crash deep into cellars, to ignite with a horrible whooping noise. The individual cries of the stricken inhabitants start to increase in their frequency – I am shocked at the alien sound of a man screaming. As more planes pass overhead, further incendiaries flutter down or crash deep before exploding. Numerous fires are thus started in a city sleeping off days of summer sun, in tinder-dry buildings that have first been splintered into kindling.
People run from their hiding places, as the bomb-shelters become potential death-traps. But where to go? The streets fill quickly. Some head instinctively for the canals and the river. Others stand still, their faces blank as they wait quietly to go mad. As I feel my own panic growing, I never realised that there is a taste associated with fear. Yet more incendiaries tumble down, more heavy firebombs joining them. Buildings begin to explode with increased violence, masonry shrapnel clattering and whizzing about. Out on the streets it is now fatally dangerous. But where to hide?
I grip the lamppost tighter with both arms. The metal of it trembles to the engines’ roar.
The scattered fires have meanwhile been linking flames, and they now begin to murmur together as one. A faint breeze on my back tells me they are all now sucking in breath from the surrounding atmosphere, getting ready to sing their mutual chorus of death.
The fires are becoming one – and it grows in size.
So quickly, the wind picks up speed – sucking in further oxygen to help the swelling inferno sing even louder, and the intense heat from the fire forces the air upward in a matter of simple physics. And still the aircraft drop their loads, so that within a few minutes the conflagration has become a single beast of mythical proportions, and it is ravenous.
The blast wind increases … and increases further. I somehow keep on my feet as I cling to the now hot lamppost – instead of rolling and tumbling along with the rest of the Hammerbrook population that has ventured out onto the streets in their panic.
Some of these frightened citizens reach out to me. I try to help them, risking my tenuous grip, but time after time I feel my fingers slip from theirs. Even though they pass too quickly to allow any chance of catching them, I persist in trying. They disappear, one by one, into the surrounding flames. I finally manage to grip hold of the elbow of a woman carrying a child and I pull them close to me, both wide-eyed with fear.
The firestorm continues to scream its ululation, like a grotesque mutation of a cathedral’s organ music. It belches and sighs as the devil feeds it anything that it can consume – including its human victims. Everything not firmly secured becomes airborne. Literally everything. Even trees become uprooted, and those that survive bend under the hurricane winds to lie parallel to the ground. A plank of wood cleaves the light surmounting the lamppost, and the horror then tries its best to surpass itself. Opposite us, a man is thrown against a wall and, falling, is bounced along the road himself, perversely slowing in the fierce wind, while the baby he was clutching to his chest is snatched away. I cannot even hear his screams of torment above the roar of the flames. And then the reason he was slowed down becomes apparent: he is stuck to the road surface by melting tar. As he desperately struggles to escape, his clothes begin to smoke, then ignite in a sharp burst. I clasp the woman and child tighter to me. I try to call out to somehow reassure them, but can hardly breathe. Flames lick the heavens, as the inferno climbs a mile into the sky. Torrents of flame roll like giant barrels down roads and alleys – a tsunami of heat. Flames leap out from buildings, turning passers-by into stumbling torches of incandescent blue. Fragments of broken glass, pinned into the road surface by the force of the initial explosions, finally melt and run in rivulets along with the tar and human fat.
But still, I clasp the woman and her child tightly to me, the heat searing my throat.
With multiplying strength, the firestorm rises to a long final scream that seems to last for hours. Those not already dead in the cellars are suffocating because there is no more oxygen, and cannot even have the dignity of hearing their own last cries as they perish. They die recumbent, silent. The flames tower so high they now threaten the bombers still unloading their cargo. One plane explodes and catches fire, its crew desperately trying to escape. And still the inferno races upwards and outwards, shooting along the ground faster than any man can run. In every searing corner of this cauldron, this frenzy of hell’s dancing cohorts, the living become the dead and the dead become ash.
Yet, along with the woman and child I have saved, I live through it all – just as some few actually did. But, after all, that’s what nightmares are all about: to remember terror ... and to still taste it.
I awake so shocked I cannot even scream.
I sit upright in bed so quickly, that my back issues a painful protest.
I lunge out of bed with a desperate desire for fresh air.
Opening wider the bedroom window of my Oxford temporary first-floor bedsit, I lean out into the dawn to let the June air cool my blood. I try to force myself to inhale slowly, which causes me to suffer a brief coughing fit, but gradually the ferocity of my breathing loses some of its intensity. I grit my teeth till I am able to see properly again.
As the sweat on my naked torso begins to evaporate, a chill streaks down my back. Fresh air has never tasted so good, yet been so strange to me.
Off in the distance, somewhere near Brewer Street and Pembroke College, sounds another plaintive cry – the fourth I have heard since getting myself to the window – while nearby I hear a girl’s stuttering sobs from two windows away. Just to my left, the motor of an automatic CCTV whines as it hunts out the source of these sudden noises. With a muffled bell tone a church clock announces four o’clock, but there is no town crier to declare “All’s well”.
Because it so obviously isn’t.
From my vantage point, I can see bedroom lights still coming on all over Oxford, even though the sun is rising. Everyone, it appears, has been waking up at the same time. Perhaps some bleak devil has been abroad tonight, casting seeds of disharmony among the sleeping inhabitants, causing them to sweat and shiver under his deadly touch and black suggestions. The nearby CCTV seems as much affected as those people it is monitoring – its frenetic responses to these unexpected disturbances indicate that it cannot settle on one specific source. There are just too many points of interest for its normal settings to cope with.
Gripping the windowsill, I lean out further. The feeling of relief after my nightmare would be complete, inspirational even, if it weren’t for the mournful sounds emerging from the previously sleeping city.
I utter a long sigh almost wishing never to dream again – never to suffer again the pain of my own subconscious being laid bare in such a frightening fashion. It was so much worse tonight than the other nightmares I have experienced over the last few years.
Visiting the death camp has been a recurring motif for me in bad dreams ever since my grandfather Roy’s funeral. But tonight’s hideous sequel involving Hamburg is some new dimension of terror never visited before.
Yet I have actually been to that city as a child. I recall playing with my older brother and sister in a park there. It was a simple game of tag, but they were unable to catch me – early evidence of how I would later excel at athletics. Their adult lives would take them in a very different direction from myself, along paths they seemed destined to head down, as naturally as my own would be to me.
Michael had followed our father and grandfather Roy into the army. As Second Lieutenant M. Anderson, he is currently on some sort of secondment in America where he is training with the Yanks. Susan has shown herself part of the same mould by enrolling as an army nurse. Stationed now in the Falklands, she has her eyes set on a civilian doctor who, knowing my sister, had better accept the inevitable and propose to her soon. After demonstrating a potential to excel at athletics – the decathlon was my chosen field since about the age of fourteen – I myself took the family mould and shattered it. At sixteen I finally told my father where he could stuff Sandhurst – that was some Christmas. At eighteen I went off to study history at some godforsaken little university to specialise in WW2, while still enthusiastically pursuing athletics – a decision that confused and angered my father even more.
It’s now seven years since my discovery that grandfather Roy’s prediction about the neo-fascist Pascal Toluene was coming true. Just before his death, resulting from injuries received at the hands of Toluene’s thugs, he showed me what he’d forecast in his diary. He’d missed absolutely nothing; it was as if he’d visited the future. It is my anger at his needless death that motivates me now. It affected me traumatically. That is why I’m here in Oxford for discussions with a visiting American professor about doing further research in the States – which will mean getting closer to Toluene, who I realise, from my grandfather’s guidance, must be stopped at all costs. I am also celebrating an offer made to me from an IT company, to partake in a promotional youth experiment they are hyping up as a competition. It entails a sort of reality Internet at a new level, and it will give me a useful public platform from which to express my passionate views about the dangers posed by Toluene and his growing followers. Athlete turned political prophet – that should attract the curious.
The path I’ve chosen could prove a dangerous gamble … but I consider time is running out to make people aware. I may just have to take the risk that nobody will believe me, but I owe it to my grandfather’s memory.
This last week of selection for the IT experiment has been chaotic, but now it all appears to be falling into place. It seems I will get my chance to expose Pascal Toluene using world-wide publicity, so American academia and their sports facilities will probably have to wait.
I am convinced that Toluene is somehow entwined with the nightmares I have endured since my grandfather’s murder. He always motivates me. I keep a picture of him in my wallet.
So, I stand here and remember running barefoot across the grass in that park in Hamburg, outpacing my older brother and sister, and loving the attention and smiles from my parents, while still blissfully unaware that somewhere in the earth below me – perhaps still in the breeze – was the ash of that dreadful night in July 1943.
As I move away from the window, the murmur of sobbing and shouting all around remains constant ... even increasing. A threatening disquiet steals through the night, as the local population seems to be suffering as I have just done and I wonder, incongruously, if it has anything to do with the recent unusually hot weather. Oh, to be by the sea.
Suddenly I am assailed with an incredible longing to be home with my family. I actually sense it calling me, like a living thing.
But I’ve never before had that nostalgia for home. In fact I couldn’t wait to get away from it.
My early years were spent following my father’s military postings around the world, but that hamlet on the Suffolk coast where he eventually settled was the place where I passed most of my youth. I have been intending to head back there over the next few days, to attend TC’s mother’s funeral. Toni Cartermann is someone I had grown up with in my teens and, being the daughter of an influential television producer, it was she who pointed me towards the IT opportunity I am about to embark on. Her mother, the producer, was recently killed in a horrific car accident, and I had not really been looking forward to seeing my old friend under such trying circumstances. But now there is this awful compunction to return there as soon as possible. It’s as if I need to check that the place is safe, that nothing terrible has happened to it – that at least my home has been spared this same weird night all around me. I have never known such homesickness as now besets me.
The cries and shouting outside continue unabated.
As I head for the shower to wash the residue of sweat from my body, I again hesitate. I stand at the bedroom door, looking over my shoulder towards the open window. And I ask myself what if everyone – not only in Oxford, but throughout Britain, the entire sleeping world – has suffered these appalling nightmares all at the same time?
Is it something sweeping across the world as it turns?
For some further moments I cannot move. Then I look down and notice I am unwittingly cradling my genitals, as if subconsciously protecting myself from harm. And so instead I rapidly shadow-box – to loosen up and instil some bravado. But there is no one watching to convince.
Dr Jake Crux is one of the minority of people in Britain who has not been asleep – in fact the American scientist hasn’t even noticed what time it is, so engrossed in confirming a latest scientific theory at the Eisencrick Institute. Jake believes his experiment is now approaching some sort of fundamental turning point, that something important is there and ready to be detected – if only he continues to study the evidence long enough. A professional assiduousness prevents any possibility of sleep for him – not to mention the huge quantities of extra-strong Java coffee consumed over the last eighteen hours.
Jake drains the remains of his mug and leaps up for a refill. In the cramped room he skilfully avoids banging his elbow against a nearby monitor – the world not being built for men of his stature. He glances up at the mini-camera positioned in one corner of the ceiling, and wonders if his balletic reaction has been recorded for posterity. As he taps another monitor with a finger, Jake momentarily catches sight of his reflection in the long window separating his office from one area of his experiment beyond. He continues to track his own image as he moves to the far end of the room, realising that he does not resemble the archetypal scientist. Rather, Jake looks like a brutish bald-headed NFL Running-Back caught moonlighting as a night-watchman in some high-tech china shop. And he is contradictory in other ways.
Ever since taking up chess at the age of ten, Jake has been making himself fantasy dragon chess pieces out of plastic, or carving them from wood and stone, even using – with such large hands – fine sable brushes to paint their miniature faces. So he is not inherently clumsy, then; it’s just that around his equipment, he appears to be so … big, so out of place. And instead of the mandatory lab coat, he wears faded black jeans, a lightly starched white shirt, and an embroidered waistcoat. He suspects his superiors only tolerate his causal attitude to the clothing rules because he may be on to ‘something good’.
In contrast to him are the clean, white surfaces and straight lines of the room he works in. Besides twelve flat-screen monitors, whose screens are each sectioned into dozens of separate cam-shots of individual mice, it contains two chairs and another, tidier desk complete with its own PC for general office use. The secondary chair is standard office furniture, but the one Jake mainly occupies is a large, leather, company-executive swivel model purloined from a manager’s office, with gaffer-tape patches covering the parts that have split through constant use.
The wall facing the window sports a large poster of Buzz Aldrin standing on the moon, and right beside it is a postcard of a UFO with the stencilled legend: “Joe’s ices – stop me and buy one”. Elsewhere on the same wall are about a dozen images of various dragons cut from books and magazines.
The coffee percolator sits at one end of the bench supporting the row of monitors. Four different brands of coffee beans are arranged alongside it, together with the grinder but no milk or sugar. Six old mugs hang on a rail above, each labelled with one of the days of the week and each one a different colour of the rainbow. The gap in this collection is for the one Jake is currently using: Yellow Monday.
Armed with a fresh caffeine supply, Jake resumes his position before the bank of monitors. He settles back into his chair and starts to raise the mug to his lips. Then pauses – his mouth half-open – and glances from one screen to another, then back again. Jake slowly puts down his mug and pushes it to one side of the desk, sliding a keyboard closer to him. As he quickly taps in commands with a touch-typist’s skills, each of the screens begins to flicker as one collection of images is replaced with another, but similar set.
Within seconds, Jake manages to scan through hundreds upon hundreds of pictures of individual, but identical-looking, white lab-mice. What arouses his professional curiosity, what made him pause in the first place, is the huge number of cam-shots momentarily high-lighted in a border of red – a software response indicating that the vast majority of mice are performing the completely identical action of cleaning their whiskers. It is as though some malfunction has caused the very same image to appear on multiple screens. Even as he watches, the red borders begin to switch off – their synchronicity breaking down as the animals turn to other activities.
Jake pushes his chair away from the bench, its casters protesting, and stares through the viewing window into the larger area beyond. He minutely scans the entire laboratory that contains the cloned mice – his gaze moving from cage to cage – and ignores the thrill of suddenly discovering that the rules of a game have been changed.
There have been previous small hints that his experiment was about to yield its potential. That is why he decided to stay here on watch tonight, even though everything is being constantly recorded.
And then suddenly, before he can contemplate further a surprising sense of apprehension, even as he begins to suspect that it might be coincidental, something materialises before him.
The adjacent room seems unexpectedly ablaze with a tremendous fire – its flames a fierce red and yellow – till billowing smoke clouds the partition window and obscures the cages. Perplexed that he didn’t hear any explosion that might have caused it, and before he can leap to his feet to hit the fire-alarm, a gap appears through the flames and smoke, and a large green eye blinks in at him from the other side of the window. He recoils as, unbelievably, the smoke rolls away further to reveal an entire head that might belong to some giant species of lizard. A Komodo dragon or some sort of medieval demon brought to life? It just stares at him – alien, reptilian. Jake also senses that behind it, deeper in the flames, there are other things, other creatures – imps and grotesque goblins?
The blaze intensifies, as if some sort of Armageddon has erupted before him. He imagines he can hear the low moaning of the damned as they burn in a heat that he, strangely, cannot feel. Their faint screaming seems worse because he cannot quite discern what it is they are yelling. Jake has a twinge of frustration, since he is convinced their utterance is of serious import.
Though his mind is piqued at the discovery, he also realises that somehow he physically feels weak and nauseous. The sudden empty feeling in his gut makes him perversely think of black holes – huge gaping chasms in space where everything, including light, gravity and time itself, is swallowed and removed from existence. To flirt with such an entity, to fly too close to it, would be to risk everything. Jake now thinks he is being shown what it would be like to feel the fear of the damned dangling above the chasm of Hell, and he is able to envisage those very souls, which he imagines he can now hear, stretching out their hands, begging him to help.
Goddam it, what a hallucination!
Then, with a flash of intense white light, the dragon is gone – taking with it the fire.
For ten seconds, Jake seems to have witnessed a terrible conflagration – he still, stubbornly dispassionate, feels correct in equating it to a twisting distortion of the universe that has somehow affected him in its physical presence – and now, just as suddenly, everything is as it was before. There is no visible damage.
He feels as though the universe is sliding back into its normal course.
If it was somehow real, then what could it have meant? The universe itself changing … somehow shifting?
Jake struggles to think rationally, but the only thought, the only notion that shouts within his brain, is of an acute, deep-set foreboding.
There was genuine evil there. There was malevolence in those creatures.
It has been a long time since Jake Crux has been genuinely startled, and he finds that experience an affront to his senses. As he begins to recover, he shakes his head in disbelief.
Then Jake discovers something else regarding himself that disturbs him bizarrely. He may have recently formed an embryonic relationship with a certain young woman named Toni Cartermann, but at the moment he still has no-one to go home to. He now considers TC the only possible escape route out of solitude to have been presented to him in years. This realisation makes him feel as though someone has held up a mirror to his soul – and he has never liked that sort of close inspection.
While still staring around at the monitors, he grudgingly considers his present feelings of loneliness more frightening even than any hellish hallucination perceived through some shift in the universe.
He feels it to be ominous.
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