by Drue M Scott
Instantly regretting the use of foul language and his angry disposition, Sergei returned to his seated, yet still uncomfortable, position on the bed. “Sorry.” He paused to consciously take a breath, “and this Jacob guy is who?” In some ways, he felt like he should be staring into a mirror or some reflective surface. He was talking to a stranger in his mind, and she could see what he saw, so politeness dictated that he should make eye contact with her. Shouldn’t I?
“Jacob was,” Vevila hesitated, her memory of events only went up to the park, but Devin had unintentionally shared his own energy, and therefore, a good portion of his plans when he shredded her life-force. Unfortunately, only portions of it were comprehensible. Because the sharing of information was unintentional, it was scattered and incoherent. A tornado of mixed thoughts and emotions, which given their source, were painful and unsettling. The memory of being torn apart molecule by molecule, however, was all too clear. It caused her to twitch uncontrollably and the power of it forced Sergei to shake. “His thoughts are so chaotic and incomplete.” She attempted to convey the disorder of information as her energy waned suddenly. “Jacob was, probably still is, Devin’s endgame.” The horror she felt at the statement transferred easily to her soul’s host.
“What do you mean ‘endgame?’” Worried, Sergei questioned immediately. “I am so confused. If Devin can so easily kill energy, but wait…” A singular thought pierced Sergei so sharply he leapt up from the bed again. “Energy can’t be destroyed!” Feeling self-pride in that he had concluded something of importance, he smiled. “Isn’t that how you are here with me now? Energy can be stored, but it can neither be created nor destroyed?” His last statement sounded more like a question than he initially intended it to be.
“Exactly!” Vevila confirmed abruptly, “That is why we have to find Stewart and Kyna. They will know what to do.”
“But if a soul is energy, and it powers a physical existence, what happens when that…”
“Kyna can explain,” Vevila interrupted as politely as her anxiousness would permit. “I just know that one entity can disperse another’s life-force” She paused trying to equate it into words she knew Sergei could easily understand. “Essentially that is death for a soul. Life-force can be stolen and taken in. If it is fractured, there is a great deal of friction. The two halves want to be reunited, but the violence of being dispersed in such a way causes a temporary repelling. That is why only the spirit gets reincarnated in such instances.” Sergei could feel Vevila’s presence vibrating within him trying to piece eons of information into small digestible chunks. “Think of magnets. On one side they are attracted to one another. Flip one over and…” She began to calm as the understanding blanketing Sergei’s mind filtered over her as well. “It is not good for the host. The physical frailty of human flesh cannot hold such power endlessly.”
“So, Jacob has absorbed hundreds of souls and basically houses a nuclear bomb’s worth of energy volatile enough to go off at any time?”
“In a way, yes.” Vevila hesitantly agreed to Sergei’s over simplification. “The sudden release of that energy would have a bomb-like effect. It would vaporize living tissue.” Fear swelled up within her causing Sergei’s hands to sweat. “ALL living tissue.”
The confusion and disbelief Sergei felt heightened even further. “But how am I not absorbing all of your energy? I mean if you are too weak to defend yourself against me. What is stopping me from stealing all of you?” Shifting his weight in order to wipe his hands on his pant leg, Sergei continued, “Why are you able to be here without exploding me?”
“Can we maybe save this till after we find Kyna” Unable to contain her impatience Vevila snapped. “Right now, the world as we know it is about to change. Just trust me when I say, I am not going to explode inside you.”
“What can I do?” Mild acceptance of the utter fantastical slowly calmed his voice. “I am not sure of anything right now, but I’d be stupid not to help.” Sergei could hardly believe he had become so compliant. It wasn’t in his nature to go along with things he didn’t understand. His heart was beginning to speed up, and the sweat on his hands dampened his jeans, but this felt important—important enough to forgo his normal skepticism and do what he could to help.
Vevila pushed gently on Sergei’s mind. “I need enough energy to reach out to Stewart or Kyna. Right now, I’ve not the strength.”
“Use my energy.” Sergei without hesitation offered his life-force. Despite the fear it triggered within him, he meant what he said. Vevila could sense how earnest he was and scared at the same time. Sergei was a kind man, something she had recognized the moment she filtered into him. She could feel his unease related to his past and the guilt he felt for having been superficial in many aspects of life and love, but he was genuinely a good soul. That was far more important than any small mistakes he may have made when he was younger.
“I need more than you can spare.” Her concern washed over her host’s soul. “If I weaken you too much, your life-force would try to protect itself. You could expel me or absorb me. Neither option is all that good.”
“So, what can we do?” Sergei’s confused willingness read easily on his composure and his thoughts. His shoulders dropped heavily as he sighed. “I wish I knew how to help.”
“I need to gain…” Vevila paused. Her sudden silence washed over Sergei increasing his already unstable composure. Trying to focus, his eye sight fluctuated shifting the room from hyper-real to hazy shapes and muted colors before he could fully register what happened. “How quickly can we get to Oregon?”
Her question puzzled Sergei, but the urgency in her tone quelled his curiosity.
Lone Solider
Staring blankly at his cup of coffee and sitting motionless on the concrete slab outside his hotel room, Mathieu fought back tears. The mold-stained, hard surface and flimsy white plastic chair set tightly to the sliding glass door, which didn’t slide very well, was meant to be a veranda. At least that is what the hotel attendant said when Mathieu booked the room. Sleep had eluded him the night prior as it had for nearly every night since Paris, and the toll it was taking forced his shoulders down and his eyes back. His skin was paler now than it had ever been in his 27 years of life, and Mathieu knew his health was fading just as quickly as the evidence he followed trying to find Jacob. The typical northwest morning air emphasized the steam rising from his over-used coffee mug, which must have been white at some point, and wrought the first movement Mathieu had been aware of since leaving his stale room and sitting on the balcony. It was a stretch even calling it that. Tremors shook his body in succession from his feet, which were bare, to his head.
Three hundred and fifty-nine days had passed since he had been released from Paris General Hospital. Time was the enemy he hated almost as much as Jacob, almost as much as he hated himself. Each day carried with it a fight, a struggle to keep Aiden at the forefront of his mind. The smell of him, the quirkiness of his smile, the taste of his kiss—Mathieu did not want time to heal his wounds; he much preferred the hate-driven desire of revenge for his soulmate’s death. For the events that bought him the title: Murderer. The love he felt for Aiden and the pain of missing him so badly fueled his energy, but the uncontrollable hate that brewed within him tainted his soul. The near-year of research, undercover infiltration of cult groups, and steadfast diet of coffee, cigarettes, and amoral decisions were fundamentally changing who he was. None of this even compared to the sickness he felt for having killed the man he loved. The risks he was taking now with his eternal life-force though, in his opinion, were worth it. He had to punish the people involved, including himself. He knew that once Jacob died, preferably choking on his own blood, the time would come that he could take his own life. It was a small price to pay for the debt he owed. I am the one that stabbed him. The memory of that split-second act played like a broken record on half speed; over and over again, in achingly slow, detailed clarity. It was the singular event that spurred him into the dark-w
eb chat rooms and other seedy venues in search of knowledge about the Brotherhood of Fractured Power. Turns out the organization goes by many different names, some even worse than the one his co-worker Margo and his best friend Lucas were a part of. The absolute stupidity of it all further broke Mathieu’s already cleaved heart. Why are there so many people willing to be a part of something so disgusting? It was a question he frequently asked but had yet to find a valid answer to. Despite his revulsion at the cult following broken souls and fractured life-energy had become, he knew it was the best crowd to immerse himself in if he wanted to find Jacob. Learning about his own energy and ways to manipulate it was a pleasant side effect of his interactions. Mastering the use of his own energy, becoming skilled at borrowing other’s, and learning a few distinctly painful ways to end a soul, were just a few of the skills he had gained. Mathieu bargained with himself that his present downfall would be worth it to payback the man who instigated the death of his love. Aiden was, after-all, his true mate. Despite barely spending an entire day together in Paris, the two had discovered, most profoundly, that they had known each other before; they had been lovers for more years than either of them could count. The whole idea of past lives and eternal energy was, at some point in Mathieu’s life, just a quack idea born of some stupid religious mumbo-jumbo, but when he was with Aiden, it became far more real than he had ever imagined. The more he let his life-force—his mind—accept the idea, the more he had access to the memories of Aiden. Generations of time had changed their names and their genders, but they were definitely always the two of them. The one constant in all of it had been that they found one another. Once in Rome, again in Africa, and also on some island with no name, they always managed to end up together. But now, Aiden had been stolen from him. This lifetime he would have to endure alone because of his own actions. Actions he felt he had to take because of Jacob. Margo and her blind followers, who played a more direct cause in Aiden’s death, had met their fate already, but Jacob had not yet paid for his role in “The Missing.” The mainstream news had dubbed it one of the strangest and most macabre news stories to stain the streets of Paris. They called it “The Missing,” because so many individuals were still unaccounted for. Mathieu knew the truth of it, though. Four days of questioning while he was in the hospital trying to recover, met by a threat to revoke his passport if he tried to leave the city, and being under constant police observation, showed just how little they actually knew. His rather swift ability in losing his personal detail of detectives and escaping to America, showed just how unprepared they really were, as well. Fucking idiots! The words, though in his mind, triggered a shift in his seat. The anger behind them forced his muscles to tense. They couldn’t find themselves if they were looking in a mirror.
The sun, barely breaking free of the clouds and tall green trees, cast a single ray of brightness just perfect enough to light up Mathieu’s coffee, which had become cold. Shaking the chill from his aching body, Mathieu fumbled himself out of the hard-plastic chair. In time with his movements, the faint ding from an internet chat group he joined five months back caught his attention. One of hundreds he had joined in learning about souls and life-energy, Mathieu had spent much of the past year following Jacob and the crazy cult groups that worshiped in some form the idea of fractured entities. From the frightful to the downright ridiculous, he had come across many claiming to have known Jacob and far more who insisted they were fractured souls themselves. Anything to belong, I suppose. Mathieu mused. Quickly shuffling from the cold concrete porch-thing to his computer, he noticed even more dings lighting up his screen. In his room, despite only having been there two nights, was a complex investigator’s map of people, places, and events, all originating from the dreadful night in Paris. Jacob had been there, but Jacob had been many different places just hours before. If he was to believe the sightings and the trail of carnage that coincided with them, then Jacob was able to teleport. Is that the right word? Regardless of his efforts, Mathieu couldn’t find a better way to describe how quickly this man traveled. Just four hours prior to Paris, Jacob was said to be in South America. Was it Peru? Unsure of himself, Mathieu rushed over to his thumb-tacked wall of pictures and sticky notes to trace back. Before he could find a definitive answer though, his computer lit up with five more chimes. Something serious was taking place. Or another lonely girl was trying to hook up with some pathetic guy. Some of his positive energy began waxing. I could use some good news. A solid lead would be nice.
Snatching his computer from the make-shift desk he had fashioned out of the TV stand and night table, Mathieu plopped down hard enough on the bed to cause the box spring to squeal. Everything in the room had one random problem or another. The wall he used for his detective artwork was paper thin; he could easily hear the crack-smoking boy bring his tricks back to the room next to his several times a day. The nicotine stained curtains and popcorn ceiling lent little charm to the already stale, musky room, but the carpet, the outdoor carpet that someone just randomly decided to use indoors, bore cigarette burn holes, stains of god-only-knows-what, and frayed edges at the entry way to the bathroom. It was perfect. Mathieu wanted the lowest profile possible and staying at any hotel, in which he would have normally been found, was out of the question. The police knew that he was a hospitality major in school and next in line for property manager at the Boutique Hotel in Paris, so clearly staying in comparable places was not an option. Despite his hate for it, Mathieu was growing rather fond of the mixture of personalities he would regularly meet in places such as this.
“LAST RUMORED TO BE IN PORTLAND.” The first thread stated. Mathieu wasn’t sure exactly where he was, but he knew he wasn’t far from Portland. His journeys had carried him from Florida to Georgia to New Mexico and, most recently, to Oregon. He much preferred the Northwest to the South. The heat down there was not something he enjoyed.
“Recent photo.” The next chat room posted. “Can you believe he is fucking here?” soul_girl_89 questioned with several hearts.
What the fuck is wrong with people? His confusion knitted his brow.
“Who’s that bitch he’s with? She looks like a fucking whore.” soul_girl_89 quickly followed up with frown-face emojis. “Love his car, though. Older BMWs are hot.”
Staring intently at the photo as if it spoke to him directly, Mathieu began biting his right index finger. A nasty habit he had only picked up since Paris. Many things had changed since that day. Whether from lack of hygienic care or his perpetually awful diet of American cheeseburgers, his skin was dry, his eyes hollow, and his hair matched his mind, limp and discombobulated. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a haircut or even shaved. His spotty beard, as black as the hair on his head, hadn’t grown to a length comparable to the amount of time that had past, but it was certainly longer than anything he would have ever let grow in his previous life, the life he led before Aiden’s death. The one positive in all of it though, he frequently mused, was he was stronger physically. Being dedicated to morning push-ups, chin-ups, and crunches had beefed up his lanky limbs and toned his torso. If he were to shower more than once every four or five days and lay off the coffee and cigarettes, he might actually pass for a healthy, handsome man. Short-lived, the outlook he had related to his body always gave way to the idea that there was no reason to look good anymore. Aiden was gone, and once Jacob was, too, Mathieu would take his own life, anyway.
“Perfect!” The exclamation nearly frightened himself; it was so loud. “I’ve got you, you motherfucker.” Picking up on the one detail from the photo that was sure to garner some type of actionable information, Mathieu quickly slammed his computer closed and tossed it back to the head of his squeaky bed. Speedily grabbing his phone from yesterday’s jeans, technically the last 4-day’s jeans, he thumbed through all his tracking programs. Thank you, Georgie. Mathieu faded off a second remembering when he met Georgie. It was somewhere between Georgia and New Mexico. Your paranoia and solid access to illegal web-based programs
is paying off. The amazement of it further lifted his energy and mildly brightened his face. “What was that tag number again?” Questioning the cigarette-stained ceiling. “BTQ 772.” Keying it into his phone, Mathieu leapt up from the bed, its springs loudly protesting such rapid movements, and snatched up his other clothes; those, too, were working on their fifth day without detergent. A quick smell-check of his shirt and throwing off his stolen Boutique Hotel robe, the same robe Aiden wore the day they met, he impatiently waited for the results to flash a notification on his jail-broke, screen-broke smartphone. It was one of the many different phones he had acquired since leaving France. He had found, surprisingly enough, burner phones weren’t all that difficult to come by, especially in America. Murica. Mocking the overweight, cut-off jean, flag-waving, mullet-sporting man’s accent he ran into somewhere outside of Mobile, Alabama. That guy was a shitshow, but his moonshine was good.