by Deen Ferrell
Willoughby didn’t like the way the man said “something special.” He bit his lip.
“Anyway,” the man continued, turning from the foot of the bed. “Gates is not my only…pet. I have created stasis-fields around hundreds of choices. I pull them just enough out of time to keep them from being seen. I keep them seconds away from total death until I need them. A rather unique army, wouldn’t you say? At any particular moment, I could create a zombie scene more horrifying than the best Hollywood director could imagine.” He barked a short laugh.
Willoughby pointed at the hulking shape of Gates. “That’s why he doesn’t bleed—his heart isn’t beating, or it’s beating too slowly to give him a pulse. But gravity—”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You are curious.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Willoughby. “You have to be of the bloodline. Even though your hands betray that you are absolutely terrified, your brain refuses to shut down. There’s curiosity in your eyes. That’s good.” He looked down, running his long thin finger along the cold metal of the bed frame. “Outside of time, the heart doesn’t need to beat. There is no need for blood. Final heartbeats are more muscle spasms than anything else. They occur as the brain dies. I root my pets in their own time. I call them when I need them, allowing them to step out of their time for brief periods, functioning almost normally due to the stunting of time travel itself. Like a top set spinning, the soul has certain inertia. It continues to spin for a while. In stasis, however, seconds away from physical death, there are things lost. My pets eventually lose the ability to talk. Their reasoning is affected. They become somewhat, well, volatile.”
The tall man stepped around the end of the bed frame, grinning. He sat down on the foot of the bed. “Mr. Gates may actually bleed a little at some point. But not today.”
“Zombies are real?”
The man laughed. “I’m sorry, but I find it unbelievably comical how many myths my work has spawned.” He pointed to Gates. “You see the reality there. Magnificent, isn’t he? Did you know there are even cults created around the concept of the zombie? From time to time, I find human gullibility unimaginably useful.”
Willoughby’s eyes narrowed. “Wh—what are you? Do you control the Cult of the Mark?”
“Cult of the Mark?” The man returned a cold smile. “My, but you do your homework. Yes, I control the feeble cult—for what good it does me. It’s so hard to find good help these days. I’m afraid that I have no answer that would make sense to you on the first question. It would take more time than I have today to help you understand who, or as you put it, what I am. Just say I am one of the hungry ones.”
“You’re a vampire?”
The man laughed again. “Did I suck Gate’s blood? Heavens no! Next thing I know, you’ll have me in some love triangle with a precocious female and a testosterone-laden werewolf. No.” He bent his head down. “But I do feed. Power is the sustenance I crave. The will has a power I feast on. It is a power that holds time, that organizes space, that controls infinity, universe by universe.”
Willoughby could barely speak. “That’s why they call you Beelzebub, Prince of the Devils. You steal people’s will.”
“That is only one of my names. I have others—Azazel, Belial, Iblis, Keeper of the Underworld, the Dark Lord, Black Lazarus. I’ve had more names than you can count. I even have names that come from my hosts. Most recently, they called me Doctor Death.”
“From the Third Reich?” Willoughby recalled that Dr. Death was the name of one of the few German war criminals who had never been caught.
“Beelzebub,” the man mused, ignoring the question. “Because we are many…” He snapped his eyes up. “Yes. That is one of the favorites among my friends.” He gave a sigh, brushing at the hem of his coat. “Speaking of friends,” he rose to his feet, “your H.S. was certainly thorough. A cruise missile sent to sink the submersible meant to rescue Gates and his boys. Simultaneous charges on the bulkheads of the Absconditus so that she sank in minutes. It went down like a stone.”
The man had a distinctive European accent. Thinking on the man’s claim of being Dr. Death, Willoughby recognized it as German. The man moved closer. He was close enough that Willoughby could study the impeccably clean and pressed trench coat, buttoned tight from his knees all the way up to his collar. The man turned quickly and waved Gates away.
“Leave us,” he commanded. The big fellow reacted slowly. His head came up with a growl, but seemed unable to do anything but heed the command. He gave a slow nod, whispering in a low growl, “I be seeing you later.” He smiled his hideous grin, then turned and shuffled toward the small French door connecting the room with the veranda. A trail of dirty seaweed puddles marked his jerky gait. When the muscled arms yanked open the door, Willoughby caught a glimpse of a fully lighted veranda that seemed to be crawling with number strings. The light appeared to be a mix of several different shades of sunlight. It streamed in many directions at once, while trees swayed and didn’t sway at the same time. There was a blinding flash. Willoughby saw shards of numbers whirling around its edges as if being sucked into a whirlpool. Then Gates was gone.
The tall man turned back to Willoughby. “So, we are alone.”
Willoughby felt a pang of terror. The smooth, cool voice of this man was even more frightening with the white-eyed zombie, Gates, gone. Did this man, or demon, really have power over death—could he keep beings like Gates on the edge of dying indefinitely? What kind of technology would give him an ability to control space and time with such ease? He spoke of “hungry ones.” Did that mean he wasn’t alone, that there were others like him? What did he mean, “Because we are many?”
“Questions, questions,” the man said, shaking his head. “You might as well speak them aloud. It makes the conversation go easier. No, I don’t have ultimate power over death—not yet. I can play on the will of weak men, using them across time as I see fit for a time. I do use a form of technology for those who can understand it. To the brainless mass, my work is described by words such as ‘witchcraft,’ and ‘dark magic.’ ”
The man was only a few feet away now. He seemed taller than Willoughby first thought. Could he be growing, changing form here in this room? He dismissed the thought, deciding it was a trick of the light. He thought back to the night when he had glimpsed him, first sticking his head through the rip in time, and then talking to the man covered in tattoos. What had that man’s name been? Reese?
“How’s Reese?” Willoughby said in barely more than a whisper. He was hoping that the question would throw the man off, but the tall man scarcely even blinked.
“Ah, yes. About that…I knew, of course, that you were listening.” The man removed a pair of black, leather gloves slowly from his pocket and began to pull them on. “He is quite well, actually. I saw to it that he, Belzar, and that silly Indian girl managed to escape the ship after they fulfilled their purpose.”
“Which was?” There was a slight quiver to Willoughby’s voice.
“To help you and Sydney escape, of course.” The man appeared irritated with the question. “Your other friends managed to wound Belzar before escaping themselves, but not seriously. He still has a part to play in this.”
“Antonio and James Arthur escaped alive?”
“Yes, I believe that’s what you called them. They are alive, but facing…challenges.” The man placed a black, gloved hand on Willoughby’s headboard. He was unnaturally thin and gaunt up close. Wispy white hair hung over his balding head. He had pulled it into a short ponytail which ran down his back. His eyes seemed to grow darker, as if they were drinking in all the shadows of the room. He raised an eyebrow.
“The one you call James Arthur has an appointment with a colleague of mine. I check in on him from time to time. He might be a candidate for my menagerie. For the time being, he’s found himself quite a woman. Oh, the tales he will tell…She seems rather taken with him, which hope
fully means she won’t eat him.” The man seated himself again on the edge of the bed. “He might make a good fly-boy.”
Willoughby narrowed his eyes. “Fly-boy?” he managed, his voice barely a whisper.
“Of course,” the man said with a matter-of-fact tone. “Beelzebub—Lord of the flies. You didn’t think that referred to the pesky insect, did you?”
“You’re insane. You’re a nutca—” Willoughby never finished the word. He was suddenly aware of the man’s unblinking, cold eyes. Pain shot through his arm.
“Yes. Reese spoke of the fly-boys. I thought you would have put that and Beelzebub together by now. You do remember the mention don’t you? It’s one of the few things that can scare the tattooed man. Didn’t you notice? I brought one as my driver that night. I even parked where you could get a good look at him. I thought you might find him interesting.”
Willoughby pushed back against the metal frame of the headboard. “What do you want of me?”
“Many things, but first, I want you to find the seer stone that H.S. calls the ‘pendant.’ We will need that to complete your,” he rose his eyebrows, “education.”
“Why?” Willoughby hissed, feeling the pain in his shoulder again. “It’s not a seer stone. It’s a computer, and I have no idea where it is. Even if I did, why would I do anything for you? Because of you, lots of innocent people are dead. I was almost killed. My friends are missing, and that’s only what I know about.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it, Willoughby? Your friends are missing and there are lots of things you don’t know about.” He paused for a moment letting this sink in. “You’d be surprised at what you might want to do given the right circumstances. You see, it’s easy to be brave when you have no concept of what there is to lose. I could help you find your friends if you really want to find them. I know things about the girl, too. Her future is…interesting, particularly for you. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Willoughby? You would like to see the future more clearly?”
Willoughby said nothing. The man’s voice was so silky, so soft, but the cold still ached in his shoulder. His mind raced. Did this demon speaking to him really know about his friends, about Sydney?
The man smiled.
“Fear is an art, Willoughby. Real fear doesn’t happen as a sudden jolt. It is carefully cultivated, built one brick at a time. You have to really know your opponent. You have to give him a glimpse of the darkness in you. I must say, Willoughby, I don’t find you very frightening.”
Willoughby wanted to get away, to somehow escape the blistering gaze of this sick being, but the pain in his shoulder spread and held him pinned. The man’s eyes bore into him.
“You can kill me,” Willoughby gasped, “but I won’t join your cult.”
The man barked a laugh. “Kill you? Join my cult? I wouldn’t dream of either. I’m not trying to recruit you. You are smart. You are gifted. I have a far greater proposition in mind for you.” Curling his black gloved fingers, the man lowered his hand. The pain gripping Willoughby eased.
“People live, people die, Willoughby. You aren’t a normal person.”
“What do you mean?” Willoughby whispered.
“You are one of the bloodline. You show signs of the gift.”
“Bloodline? Gift? What are you talking about?”
Stepping away from the bed, the man looked toward the outside veranda.
“You sensed my movement through time. You pulled me into a junction, effectively pulling yourself out of time and freezing the world around you. That’s how I first became visible to you. You called me, Willoughby. I didn’t call you. You have to be part of the bloodline to call through time.”
“What?” Willoughby’s thoughts were spinning. “I froze time?”
“Tell me, how detailed were the equations flashing across your mind? Did you see numbers crawling over reflective surfaces, or did the equations hover as geometric shapes?”
Willoughby was caught off guard by the sudden turn in the conversation. He didn’t want to disclose anything, but his need for answers pushed him to reply.
“I saw them as number strings. I saw floating number strings, moving in wavy lines through the air. They glowed, and they floated.”
The man walked over to look out the window. “In the past, the gift was called foresight. Men known as prophets or seers were blessed with an ability to read the on-going equations of time. They could predict outcomes. They could see things that were hidden. The ability is most rare, but once in a while, one is born with the gift. Most haven’t the mathematical skill to understand it, to see these flashes of equation for what they are. They stab in the dark and make a few lucky predictions.
“Then there are those who are special. Born of a special blood, they have the ability to see patterns, to read the weaves of time. These are the ones whose will can unravel time. You are more special than the others in your group could ever understand. You are in this time for a reason, Willoughby. I mean to help you come to understand what that is.”
Questions churned in Willoughby’s mind. What was this demon trying to say? What did he really want? What need could he have for the pendant? His technology was obviously far above anything H.S. could have.
“So, we’ve talked.” The man pulled at his gloves. Willoughby once again felt the icy grip on his chest. “I will give you time to think. I never force my hand. It’s just that I’m quite good at opening minds to a different point of view, one way or another.”
Willoughby felt a sudden lump in his throat. What had he done? Who was he placing in danger now? How could he stop this monster from orchestrating more death on his account?
The man stood and walked over to where Willoughby had shoved his breakfast cart. He tipped the cart back up and carefully arranged the food back on the plate. He pushed the cart back to the bed. “Eat your breakfast, Willoughby. You and I have unfinished business. We have a history you are just waking up to.”
Willoughby tried to follow the words but it was no good. He wanted this conversation to be over. He looked frantically around the room. No curtains moved. No clock hands ticked. There were no ambient sounds at all. Strange patterns of light playing across the floor as if from a dozen suns were the only hints of movement. What would happen if he ran for it? Could he break out of this—what had the man called it? Could he break out of this junction? What if he came out in some different time? How would he get back, how could he find H.S. and Sydney again? The shadow of a bird flitted across one of the streams of light. “H.S.!” he shouted as loud as he could muster. “Dr. O’Grady? …Anyone?”
“What about Sydney?” the man smiled. “You wouldn’t want to forget her pretty face. After all, she’s the one who sings only for you, right? Or are you still angry with her? She did betray you, you know. You trusted her, and she betrayed you. They all did.”
Willoughby stared at the man with sudden resolve. “You’re messing with me.” He shook his head. “I don’t have to buy it.”
The man licked his lips. “Yes, brave to the last…” He pushed the plate of food to the edge of the cart and stepped over to sit at the foot of the bed. “Go on! Eat up. It’s still piping hot. No heat can escape in a junction out of time. While you eat, I’ll tell you a story.”
Willoughby didn’t move.
Seeing that Willoughby had no intentions of eating, the man sighed. He folded his hands in his lap. “Suit yourself. The story goes like this: once upon a time, there was a man who had a gift. His was different from your gift. He had a way of looking at science with a cold, clever rationale devoid of emotion. He became particularly skilled in genetics. He surmised that, with the proper testing, mankind could be better, how should I say, engineered. When he stumbled upon a chance to pursue this testing, he took it. One day, he was smitten by the beauty of one of his patients. She died, of course, but not before giving birth to a son. As the son grew, sadly,
he was not able to know of his parentage. But in time, this boy began to exhibit a powerful gift with numbers and equations. This brought the boy to the attention of certain, uh, acquaintances of his father. His father invited the son to join him in the bold, new world that he was creating. But, the son did not share his father’s dream. He ran away from his father, and from his gift. He hid himself far away. He tried to hide the fact that he, too, had fallen in love and had a son…
“I did not tell Reese everything that I suspected about you that night months ago, Willoughby. I did not tell him that I thought you might be a grandson.”
The man looked down at his black gloves. “So, you see Willoughby, there is much you don’t know.”
Willoughby felt as if someone had just slammed his face into a brick wall. “No!” he shouted, shoving the cart away so hard this time that the plate clattered to the floor. “I have no connection with you! I’m not part of any bloodline—just get away!”
“Unfinished business does get resolved.” The man flexed his gloves and glanced around the room. “For now, you have much to think about.” He leveled his cold, dark gaze on Willoughby and dipped his chin. “Until next time…”
Willoughby sensed untold cruelty in the man’s eyes, but forced himself to return the stare. “The power of will,” he said, his voice wavering slightly, “is something a person gives up. It’s not something someone else can take.”
“Oh, but you are giving it up.” The man flashed a tight smile. “Pity you so seldom realize it.”
A flash of light erupted from the foot of the bed and the hulking form of Gates tumbled out of it. He straightened, his shoulders hunched and his muscles rippling. He had thrown off the white smock revealing a massive chest that writhed as if snakes were hidden just under the skin.
“He be mine?” he hissed, barely holding the massive frame in check.
“No.” The tall man looked back toward Willoughby. “Not just yet.” He motioned Gates forward, heading in the direction of the hallway door. “Oh,” he said, stopping and turning at the door. “As the junction collapses, you may hear echoes from your friends. Listen carefully. You could hear clues that help you find where they’re hiding. Of course, I would warn you to keep a close eye on the pretty one. Sydney, too, interests me. But then, you want nothing to do with me.” He held out his arms in mock disappointment. “Goodbye, Willoughby.” The man turned and stepped through the door.