by Mink, Jason
Sleep was a distant memory now, an insistently seductive temptation he simply could not afford to indulge. It had been days. Even before the arrival of his visitor he'd had little, the knowledge of the coming crisis keeping him far too preoccupied to rest. He had carried this knowledge with him for as long as he could remember, though it was only recently that he'd been able to interpret it. The nightmare visions that had haunted him throughout the years were only now beginning to make sense, pieces of a vast, impossibly-complex puzzle finally falling into place after a lifetime of confusion. The thought that everything was at last coming to a head proved to be enough stimulation to keep him going in lieu of sleep, though drinking pot after pot of strong black coffee helped as well. There were other things on hand he could have taken, more powerful stimulants available but, having considered his history, he felt it best to steer clear of such things. Caffeine would have to be enough. Caffeine and sheer terror.
It had been nearly three days since beginning the ritual. In that time he felt he'd aged twenty years, the effort of steering the fledgling sentience exhausting to both his body and spirit. Now he could only watch as the casing pulsed and bulged, the thing within clearly agitated. This was the hard part. Well, the really hard part, anyway. The man had done all that was possible and could no longer help it; what was struggling within was now on its own. He finished lighting the ring of candles and stepped back. Forty-nine tiny tongues of flame lapped at the darkness, illuminating the shuddering shell. It had begun to split, spilling precious essential fluids through the floorboards. Was it truly ready or was this the abrupt end to the process, when the potential for rejection was most acute?
The man began to speak, this time whispering. His words, though soft, were insistent, undeniable; he spoke a name over and over, focusing his intent upon the violently-shaking form at the circle of the circle. It responded resentfully, turning willfully away. Unwilling to fail, the man hissed an obscenity, demanding one final push. There was a sudden liquidous dissolution, the sack abruptly bursting in a tide of acridity and secretion. It swirled about the small candles, sweeping them from their places around the recently-expanded chalk circle and snuffing them in the flood. The old man paid the diluted juices no mind, sloshing through them to reach the pale form at the center of the spent husk. It was human, and full grown as he'd hoped. He poked it experimentally with his foot.
"Hey," he said quietly, ready for any reaction. He poked it again and an arm rose reflexively to ward of the offending foot, giving the man a glimpse of the newborn's face. He felt a horrible thrill shoot through him, crouching down to help the goo-covered figure struggle to its feet.
"Take a second. Catch your breath. You've been through a hell of a lot."
The naked man did not respond to this. He was staring at his hands. He flexed his fingers, new pink skin bunching as he did. Even from where he stood the old man could see the fingertips were smooth, without grooves. For long moments the newborn simply stood there, nude and dripping embryonic fluid. The old man looked at him carefully. "Baxter?"
The other looked up from his hands in astonishment, his mouth agape.
"I...?"
It was all he could say, that single word marking the successful conclusion of the remarkable process. Relieved, the man chuckled and threw him a towel.
"Happy Birthday."
~*~
After helping Baxter into the adjoining room the man went to the kitchen. From the sink he removed a six-pack of beer and carried it over to where his guest was seated. "Want one?"
Baxter only goggled at him, his mind still addled from its recent ordeal.
"I'll just set one here, in case you want it later."
His host pulled off a can for Baxter, then one for himself. He pulled the tab and warm foam frothed over his thumb. Yanking the tab free, he licked his thumb then drank.
"Ugh. Can't see how he ever drank this stuff."
Baxter looked carefully at the person seated before him. "Shea?" he asked questioningly.
The man laughed.
"The last, I'm afraid." He leaned towards Baxter. "It was my daddy you knew. He told me about you; told me one day you'd need me."
Baxter squinted in the dim light. "Daniel?" he asked almost fearfully. The bearded man shook his head.
"Yes, sir. That would be me." Suddenly needing something Baxter opened the beer and drank. It burned going down, the first thing in his throat since he…
"Daniel. What did you do to me?"
Daniel looked at him squarely. "I brought you back, Baxter. I had to. I'm sorry."
Slowly Baxter began to remember all that had come before, but he forced the still-fresh pain away to focus on the moment. "Brought me back? How? Why?"
Daniel Shea fought the exhaustion that strained to claim him, forcing himself to once again stand. "You tell me. Why did you run? Why did you come here?"
Baxter searched his mind. "My friends…"
Daniel chastised him. "Not just your friends. You. Me. Everybody in Tull and then Pennsylvania and then…"
He did not elaborate any further, his point made. "But how? I was… dead. Wasn't I?"
Daniel sipped his beer. "Just about." He drew close to Baxter. "My dad - I know he told you everything. About the Ashtons, Clautney Iris, the Paq'qa… and me. My mother was a good woman, but she was touched. So was I. Only now I know we weren't crazy. Not really. It was an influence. Paq'q's influence. When it found my mother, it found me, and I carried it forward after she was gone." Daniel offered Baxter a shirt and trousers. "You might find these more comfortable than just the blanket."
Baxter took the clothing and dressed as Daniel continued.
"I was… unwell for the for most of my life. I spent forty-five years in the grip of irrationality, unable to cope with reality. I can remember the rage I felt, anger at a world that rejected and feared me. I remember my dad…" Daniel Shea paused, looking around. "This was his home. Everything here was his, gathered over the span of two lifetimes. The first was cut short, but Innocence usually is. The second was longer, born out of loss and pain. It was during this second life my father went into the world, seeking out those last holy men and women. Sympathetic to his loss they shared things, imparted ancient knowledge to him. He learned things now long forgotten, secrets that became untrue when written down. He kept these secrets alive, stored 'em if you will. He knew they'd be needed again. He understood that the storm was coming."
He placed his empty beer can on a teetering mound of debris. In Michael Shea's absence the tiny house had slid even further into disrepair. With the old man gone his system had broken down, the once-meticulously sorted stacks of papers now moldering in piles. Cobwebs filled the corners, held the cracked plaster of the walls in place. The scent of mildew was strong here; no doubt all of the priceless books on the shelves were now lousy with it.
"Six years ago he came to me. I was up at Pickman, had been there for eleven years. The doctors there considered me unstable, potentially dangerous; I'd had a few, err, lapses in judgment the last time I was in a minimum security hospital and had lost any chance at redemption in their eyes. They kept me in a sedated twenty-four hours a day, and I was left alone in my room to drool and stare at the wall. I would still be there, if dad hadn't come. Oh, he'd been by before. He always used to stop in when he was in town. Not that I was much in the way of company, mind you. Anyway, that day he didn't come empty handed."
He pulled an object from the shelf and handed it to Baxter. It was a thick wedge of reddish stone, perhaps four inches long. A dime-sized hole had been bored deep into the wide end; another, smaller hole had been drilled straight through the opposite end to the center.
"My father brought this to me. In the space of a hour, locked up there in my cell, we performed one of the Dadan's most sacred rituals. In the candlelight he whispered words I didn't understand, called upon Gods whose names he had no business of knowing. In the center of a chalk-drawn circle we smoked the Paq'qa and he performed my exo
rcism."
Daniel rubbed his hands together as if for warmth.
"He told me later he had no idea of whether it would actually make a difference. He was desperate, knew he needed to do something to help me before he died. He felt he failed me." He smiled.
"It worked. The fog that had shrouded my mind for four and a half decades was suddenly lifted. I was me and only me for the first time in my life, suddenly free of Paq'q's influence. My doctors were amazed at my sudden turn-around but were unwilling to let me go so quickly. Imagine finally being free of the thing that had shackled you your entire life and then being kept locked in a mirrored room so people could study you like a bug. Nothing they'd done had helped. My recovery had nothing to do with them and they knew it. So they decided to punish me. Well, my dad got a lawyer, who did what he could to free me. After six months the hospital abruptly stopped fighting and I was placed in dad's's care."
Baxter placed the hand-made pipe on the far corner of the table beside him. Even from a distance he could smell the burnt residue from the Paq'qa, a caustic scent that made his eyes water. Daniel continued to speak, in a voice that alternately was his and his father's.
"Dad died about three months after. He'd been in a bad way for a while and all of the strain from his fight with the hospital really wore him down. I took care of him the best I could; thing was, I wasn't too good at carin' for myself, let alone another person. It was okay, though. He'd succeeded in freeing me and that was enough. Before he died he said he knew between you and I his work would go on."
Baxter was staring at him. "But how was I brought back to life? You neglected to mention that bit."
Daniel scratched his head. "Yeah, guess I did."
Baxter swallowed hard. The son did not inspire the confidence his father had.
"My dad always assumed that my mother's exposure to the Paq'qa had damaged me, releasing any latent energies within me before they could amount to anything. It was only in the final years of his life he began to consider otherwise, that perhaps the "seed" of potential within me was still intact. He figured if he could stimulate it into awakening my mind might gain the strength to purge itself of Paq'q's influence, that doing so might give a shot at a normal life. He was right. The exorcism did work but something else happened as well. My gift manifested as well. My father discovered I had the power to perform... certain rituals." Daniel smiled uneasily. "I know it sounds crazy but, well… here you are."
Baxter nodded numbly, looking down at his new body. "Yeah. Here I am."
~*~
Erica wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. She'd been working at the window-seam for over an hour but had made little headway, the slender metal slat she'd pulled free from the bottom of bureau drawer too soft and flexible to be of any real use as a blade. Setting it aside, she rubbed the feeling back into her cramped fingers and considered Annie. It had been almost twenty-four hours since they'd taken Sandy from her. In that time she'd run the gamut of emotions, from hysteria to rage to hopeless despondency. Now she sat unresponsive in the corner, a small blanket twisted up in her arms. She appeared to be speaking, whispering words that could not be heard from a distance. She gave no notice as Erica approached.
"Annie?"
Annie did not respond but her lips moved soundlessly in the darkness. At first Erica thought she might be praying but then realized she was reciting an old nursery-rhyme over and over again. Disturbed, Erica returned her attention to the window. The frame had warped in such a way as to lock the pane in place and lifting it more than an inch proved impossible. Erica was determined to get it open, desperate for her freedom but mostly just needing to get away from Annie; twenty-four hours was a long time to be locked in a room with an unstable person. The sense of oppression had also grown unbearable, Paq'q's influence distorting all around them. She looked around again for a better lever or blade but the room was empty of anything resembling a tool. She thought again of just smashing the window open and being done with it but was unwilling to call attention to her escape efforts. Best to stick to the plan.
Erica wondered what was happening below. Paq'q was due to awaken any time now; it had been nearly six days since the ritual. She assumed Ashton would retrieve the two of them for the grand ceremony. What then? She was not nearly naive enough to believe that any in their little group would be held in any special favor by the new King. Chances were all of them (including Ashton) would simply be gobbled up as the first course, of no more importance now than any other potential source of food. This knowledge did little to buoy her hopes but, not wanting to be monster-chow, she re-doubled her efforts at the window. A cool breeze blew in from the crack, bringing with it the taunting scent of the autumn night beyond. Erica breathed it in deeply. The room's atmosphere had been stagnant, unpalatable since their imprisonment the day before; it was only now she was able to taste fresh air, free from the stink of must and decay. Encouraged, she further strained to work the pane free, managing to budge it another half-inch.
Winded from the effort she took a break. She was dehydrated, having been without drinkable water for two days straight. The taps in Annie's bathroom spewed the same black gunk that had sprayed from her own faucet. The toilet had back-filled with the brackish substance as well, the inside of the bowl now overgrown with ever-swaying root-like appendages. Erica tried not to think about such things, keeping her mind focused on the idea of escape. At first she'd fooled about with the door but the lock had been changed at some point in their seven year absence and proved to be unpickable with what she had on hand. Ashton obviously wanted to make sure all of his friends stuck around until the end of the party this time. The windows were their only other option but these proved just as frustrating, resisting her every effort. Still, she wasn't licked yet.
Erica returned to the window and gently began rocking it back and forth in its frame. It ever-so-slowly slid upwards, centimeter by agonizing centimeter, until it stood half-way open. Feeling a sense of accomplishment disproportionate to the accomplishment of such a mundane task, Erica allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, then turned to Annie.
"Okay, kid. Time to go."
But Annie remained as unresponsive as ever. Erica gave her a nudge.
"Hey, Annie. I'm serious. We've gotta go."
For a moment the fog seemed to lift. "Go? I can't go. Not without Sandy."
Erica could have kicked herself. She'd been so focused on getting the two of them out of there she'd forgotten they were three. "We'll come back for her," she said, pleading. "We'll go to town, get help and then…"
But Annie turned away from her, picking up the rhyme where she'd left off. It was clear now she wasn't going anywhere but crazy. Erica's mind raced. While she couldn't imagine leaving Annie behind she also knew she couldn't remain trapped in the manor a minute longer. Now was her only chance. If she was ever going to go she had to go now. Her choice was clear but in the end she lingered, halfway between the window and her friend, unable to follow through with the decision she'd made. The door opened then and Erica's heart sank. She'd blown it, had wasted her final chance in a moment of indecision. She'd doomed them both.
"Relax, it's just me."
Erica could have cried right then, the relief that swept through her body making her weak. "Zak?"
He closed the door quietly behind him, careful not to let it lock. "Yeah, it's me. Be quiet, willya? I didn't sneak all the way up here just to get caught."
"But your legs," Erica said breathlessly. "You're walking again!"
"I never stopped," Zak said, a tight smile upon his face. "Just a little fiction I wove to get us some breathing room. It was a gamble, but I figured Ashton would have to believe me if I fell on my face enough times."
He quickly made his way to Annie's seated form.
"Zak?" she asked, her voice far away. He nodded, brushing the hair from her eyes.
“Yeah, it's me, Sister. Let's go get your kid."
THEN
Glancing up from the circle, Adam was the first to realize the ritual had sent them… somewhere else.
"Where are we?" he asked, a note of panic in his voice. The others looked up, were startled by their new surroundings. While the circle remained the same it was no longer situated within the comfortable confines of Ashton Manor. It was now Outside, deep within the ruins of an enormous temple set high upon a vast stone plateau. While a thick mist obscured the view, there was a sense of immense elevation, as if being scraped against the face of the sky itself. In wonder the group studied their surroundings, stunned by the sudden shift in perspective. They were minute, infinitesimal within the confines of the mammoth ruins. From where they stood it was clear that their circle was but the smallest in a series of concentric rings spreading outwards for miles distant. The remains of colossal columns towered high above them, blasted by time and age into stunted, crumbling shapes. While no light shined behind the group, each threw a shadow, casting the gathered mass in a subterranean dark. To no one's surprise Ashton was already talking.
"We have been transported to His temple. Holiest of the holy shrines, we have been brought here to commune with Paq'q Himself!"
From the quaver in his voice it was obvious he was just as frightened as the rest of them. After all, nothing like this had ever happened before.
"I have seen it in visions before, but never did I expect…" He trailed off, unable to find the words. Beyond the realm of hallucination, the decimated temple defied all they knew about themselves and their place in the infinite, a reality complete and separate from their own. Above them the sky was illimitable, vacant and gray. Where were the stars, Baxter wondered? There was no moon, no sun, just an unclouded expanse of emptiness stretching beyond them in every direction. He attempted to see past the plateau's mist-shrouded rim but the span was simply too wide to allow it.
"Hear us, Great One! We come unto thee without guilt, without fear! We come to claim the reins of Destiny, that we may lead humanity to a new and glorious future! You are this future, O Lord, You in Your perfection and splendor! We seek only to serve You, to do Your will on Earth, to pave the way for Your rule on this most vulgar of worlds! Come unto us and we shall pledge to you! Come unto us and we shall be purified by You, remade in your image to prepare humanity for Your eternal reign! Come unto us and we shall slay in Your Holy name!"