by Enoch Enns
The Final Words Spoken: A Warning
“Glad you could make it,” the COMM spoke to them. Light filled the bay room and a single elevator door slid open. “There is much to warn you about and little time to speak it. Come now, that we might speak face to face; man to man. However, you must come to me alone.”
Carls was hesitant. He glanced over at Narrl and saw him seated atop a crate and playing hi-five with his daughter. Despite her young age, it seemed she was the one doing the cheering up. Carls walked toward her and knelt down. “You okay?” he asked her while giving a warm embrace.
She held tight.
“Thank you,” Narrl spoke shyly.
“I think I’m the one supposed to be saying that,” Carls said to him. “You saved her, and I greatly respect you for that.”
“No… I mean ‘thank her’. She protected me….”
It didn’t make any sense to Carls. Thankfully, Narrl proceeded to answer. “If not for her, I would have lost it. She gave me strength to fight.”
Carls felt a wave of relief and pride. He knew exactly what strength he spoke of. The strength to keep fighting. A desire to fight simply to protect.
Something worth fighting for.
“Joan, I’m gonna need you to stay here, ok? I’ll be right back for ya, ok?”
Narrl looked up at him, a surprising expression across his face. “You… trust me enough?”
“Should I not? Watch over her. I’ll be right back, and when I return, I wanna see her exactly how I left her: here and unharmed.”
The old man still slouched in his wheel chair from behind the glass. It was the same room they’d first spoken—the same mechanism that he’d awoken to with such bizarre images. He stood before the glass looking into Antoinette’s observatory room. The man wheeled his chair around and coughed.
“My age is catchy me, my boy, I can’t fight it much longer. Not with such presence overwhelming my conscience. Look here,” he pointed to the glass which suddenly displayed a large screen from which a single picture resided. A box with silver linings. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Locke? This is a Wishing Box—a very, very valuable artifact… or tomb, if you so wish to call it. Many years have its contents been wondered at. It has the power to grant a single wish, a deepest desire of the heart, to whoever opens it. It was thus sealed and guarded for many centuries due to the fear that one might open it with a dark desire within them.”
“But this picture,” Carls began, “It’s already opened….”
“Indeed, it is. And you may not believe all the powers at work but believe me when I say they are vast and very dark in their corruption. We do not know for certain when it was opened. Whoever did also had shut it quickly after. Some say it was a child, some say a poor man. Still, only speculations. However, they did know that upon this Wishing Box had also been placed a curse. A dark one. One of utter destruction—not even I know its extent, only that it is coming and doing so ever so quickly. A Shroud, some call it, a cloud of darkness that possesses all and consumes all.”
“But… how? How could something like this exist amongst man?”
“It isn’t from here. Now listen to me, you fool! Something is emerging here that goes far beyond just man and this planet. I do not know how this came to be possible but I can certainly guess that it is coming from this box! You. Must. Find it! Darkness is swelling in and it is not of this Earth, this realm--“ the man’s cough worsened and the screen cut off revealing his desperatecy. “The serum…” he coughed. The door to his chamber slid open and Carls moved quickly to find a slot against the wall where the serum lay. He grabbed hold and rushed toward the choking figure.
But Antoinette’s firm hand stopped him. “No… it is too late for me. This serum is for you.” With a shaking hand, the man closed Carls’ clasp on the vial. “Hear me now, heed my warning: the reign is coming, the storm has moved in; darkness is upon you, but you must shine through it. Pull it down to its own depths and leave it there to rot! Too long have I lived in grief of this. Too long have I done my best to forget. Fix my wrong! Find the box and return it and put to rest the name of Grevious.”
The man’s hands went cold; his eyes rolled back and head dropped against its supports. Antoinette was dead. Carls looked down upon the vial he had been given. It glowed a rainbow of color and rested warmth to his palm. Across its surface a single label: N.S.
Too Close To Call It Safe
“A man once told me: if you can’t convince one to change their own mind, then try manipulating their reasoning and he will come to convince himself. For business is won in the mind—where man boasts he is secure in his own right.”
-T.J. Lawrence, A Multi-millionaire Businessman
The box, the vial, the illusionate, TAP, the Hensers—nothing made sense to him as he took to another hall. As far as his leads went, the encampment had moved out past even the Holstein Sector. Narrl was still carrying the sash and leading the way. He knew this place rather astoundingly, but it wasn’t helping that they’d been pressured into such a fast pace from the beginning by the gathering wanderers. Something about the place felt dark… and it was stirring the life from every crevice it once hid.
He wouldn’t be able to hold this pace must longer, not to mention the drastic rate at which Narrl was beginning to slow. We just have to make it a little farther… we might be able to lose them on the second floor. He looked to either side and found an escalator that was tattered in dust. “Narrl,” he motioned upward. Narrl’s form clambered up and against the rails for support. Carls was close behind him, realizing the threat increasing. He grabbed Narrl by the arm and helped him past the last few, nearly draining his own strength. The footsteps were drawing closer. They had to reach the elevators now if they had any hopes of making an unseen turn. He saw them just down the second floor. Just past a rum shop. What? Rum? An encampment used to dwell upon this location. Carls could make out the crates of piled supplies (mainly rum) along with sleeping bags and abandoned fire pits. Obviously a wild crew that left rather quickly, but an attempt at a home nonetheless.
Narrl dropped to the floor. Carls turned around to grab hold of his arms and Joanna crawled down from his shoulders and began helping (as all children do, though not actually helping much). He doubted they’d be able to reach the elevators—it was already too late.
The illusionate had reached the top. Just one. Its breathing was heavy, eyes lusting for their prey, but itself was terrified of everything about it. Carls, Narrl, and Joan had taken cover behind a stack of crates with but a small slit to peer through. The illusionate was shortly joined by another. They prowled, obviously aware that Carls and the rest were near. But it wasn’t them he was worried about. The noise was getting louder. Not just feet, but pounding.
The look across Narrl’s face wasn’t good. His face was pale and skin beginning to sweat so much that it was forming salt. And his eyes….
Carls froze. Narrl had been looking at something, and he now noticed it himself. A dark paw slid across one of the upper crates to a low growl. In but a moment, a second paw stretched across their small bunker, revealing a fanged face behind it. A panther-- but more fearingly, a Shem.
It was too close to dare reaching for his weapon, so he remained still, a shaking hand over his daughter’s eyes. The beast crossed over them (large enough to expand the gap in which they hid with but two steps). Everything drew silent as the hunter approached its prey. Carls was losing sense of anything but sight as he gazed forward. The Shem lashed out from its waist-- paws doubling in size and forming a net-like choke.
And then the ground shook. Not from it-- but the Fallen One that had emerged from below. The massive forearms crashed into the groaning floor, and the Shem’s attack came to an abrupt halt. The Fallen One roared as it beat its chest and pounded away viscously. Their own cover was blown as Narrl kicked his legs and attempted scrambling away. The beast was looking directly at them.
The Shem hit back. Carls wrapped himself about his daughter
as the massive form crashed overhead of them. The Shem had now taken on a multi-snake form swinging its body against anything it could to lung itself forward. The Fallen One braced one of the heads and tore it limb from limb but allowing the Shem to wrap three others about it. In a powerful force, the raging horrors tumbled off the bridge-- leaving Carls to the now full-pursuing illusionate. “Narrl!” he called out wishing his weapon, but Narrl had his head buried into his hands and jaws clenched hard. Something was terribly wrong with him.
“Fight it, Narrl! Fight it!”
Carls took the first blow. But he wasn’t the only one they were after. His daughter cried with tears as she knew of nowhere to hide. A second was approaching.
Despite how much power he felt surging through him, he could do nothing to lift the illusionate off his body. They were just a strong as him-- with added madness. Not Joan, he bellowed within himself, letting out every rage a father would bare to save his own daughter.
A fist dug deep into his foes chest and a cry answered it. Knocking the illusionate’s grip from beneath it, he quickly found himself atop and with both arms tugged the savage through the air and against the second. Carls dropped to one knee, his right arm cramped-- at least one illusionate senseless. It killed him inside to not welcome his daughter’s embrace, for he still had to ward off her foes. More had appeared now-- like ants to a kill; a spider to a trapped moth. The distant figure of Narrl beat hard against the skull of his own struggle. The illusionate flew off the balcony’s edge and another skid ten feet across the floor.
Carls was speechless, but he knew exactly why now. He knew why everyone feared and hated Narrl. Not the Narrl that had saved Joan… not the one that had provided Carls an escape from behind the glass of the small dress shop… not the one that refused to become a monster-- they hated the beast that for so long warred to get out of him, to control him. They hated the actions of his weak suppression. To them, he was incapable of rescue, but to Carls….
“Narrl, you must fight it!”
“Ah!!!!! I… Can’t!!!!” With one grasp had Narrl managed to toss an entire barrel of rum into an opposing illusionate. He was beginning to draw their attention. More came.
“Daddy!” Joan called from behind, her little hands reaching out for embrace. Carls looked at her, biting his lip to tell her to stay. And she did. He hid her quickly behind a single, battered crate and made a dive for his sash-- he wasn’t about to let Narrl fall.
“Narrl!” he yelled, a blaze of blue from his tri-barreled gun. Every fiber of his concentration was at stopping the illusionate from reaching him. Narrl screamed from within as his own hands dug into his forehead like a man on the brink of atomic explosion. His joints were jolting in every which direction as his muscles expanded and retracted violently. “Narrl!” he cried out again, another blast from his barrel and glass shattering to its wake.
“I’m….. TRYING!!!!!!!”
Carls felt a knee to his thigh and tumbled back. The gun turned to blade and pierced the form clawing at his face. The figure slid to the side pulling the blade with it as another illusionate piled atop of Carls’ exposed form. “Well that’s not good enough!” he bellowed, shoving off the third blow to his face. Hand back upon the blade he found his reach extended to either end as he swung the pike around. He saw a glimmer of hope hanging upon the pillar before him. A vial dispenser.
Stay with me Narrl, keep fighting it!
He broke the wave of four pressing toward him, a beam of blue shooting off to Narrl’s aid as pike turned to gun again. And with its hilt he leapt forward and pounded against the dispenser’s lock. Vials hit across the floor. He didn’t care which his touch grabbed hold of, only that he prayed it would work. He grasped the nearest fist to his and clenched, digging the needle into it quickly. The illusionate cried out hoarsely and tore free of Locke’s hold. God, help me please, he prayed to himself, lifting his gun to the injected illusionate and firing. The form collapsed dead but was just as quickly replaced.
He’d forgotten about the Fallen One.
The beast climbed up to the floor on which they fought-- ignoring the illusionate that clung to it in attempts to bring it down. It seemed focused upon one-- a victory stained flesh over the Shem now hungry for the struggling suppressionate.
“Narrl! No!” Carls yelled as Narrl locked eyes with the beast. He charged still baring his small form but the courageousness of a hulk. The one he fought was the same that they had seen together before, and the two seemed acquainted.
The massive fists of the Fallen One were its only disadvantage. Its strength far exceeded that of the suppressionate, but Narrl had agility.
But not enough. The beast clamped tight a fist that pounded into a miscalculated lunge, sending Narrl tumbling across the expanse of space. Carls knew he had not the strength to ward off the Fallen and suppress himself. But to what extent would he sacrifice his sanity?
The Fallen One charged with relentless force. Narrl was still against the wall. Time was wearing thin; he had to delay it.
The trail of wake fled his barrel as he pushed off from his pillar of safety-- full intent of taking on the Fallen One. The beast toppled, twisted, and turned until its eyeless face raged straight towards Locke. Carls sent off another round just awhile diving between the gap of the creature’s arms.
He was unlucky.
The corner of the beast’s fist caught his cloak and flung him to the bridge’s edge. He felt his lungs bursting, but it wasn’t blood that covered the floor before him-- insects?
He heard the Fallen coming at him, body too exhausted to react quickly enough. But Narrl had. His mutating form ruthlessly hit into the Fallen One and they crashed onto the bridge, both roaring at each other. “Narrl…” Carls could be cough out.
The arrow came from nowhere against the exposed beast. Narrl was on hands and knees, his head lifted to the crates beside him and to the eyes of a small, terrified girl. And in that moment, his muscles relaxed and color of skin returned to him. As for the Fallen One… behind its form emerged a much anticipated figure—one he had hoped for. It was Kit, and the man seemed to know exactly who it was that had broken into his investment.
A smile spread the man’s face as he spoke: “You are lucky the circumstances deem otherwise….”
An Unwelcomed Sight
The encampment lay upon the top floor of the mall and just behind the overlook of massive panes of glass forming a mosaic once proud to man. Now it was dim and only a glimmer of light shone through its stains and gathered dust.
“Carls?” It was Arnold. “It’s about time. A large man with a table strapped to his back left this for ya. I know not its contents, only the address. May it do you well, and thank you, again.” At that, Arnold disappeared back into the commotion of rising panic. Carls looked down upon the small package wrapped in clothe-- he knew exactly from whom it was from. Sure enough, a collection of Hensers lay within the wrapping. What the Dealer meant of this, he did not know, only he hoped to not have to use them.
Carls looked about to the people surrounding him. He saw Arnold and Sherlin nearside the supplies trying to load them into a cart for their departure. He also recognized Linda and the kids, and Jailer directing most the commotion to proceed orderly. Trip was there also—which explained how Kit was able to reach him in time, for he had just arrived with Trip at the encampment moments before.
But now the air about him was growing noticeably thick. He soon found himself fooled by the wind of small insects swarming past. Not thick enough to see clearly, but he knew it to be them. Though why them….
“Daddy! Look! The wind!” his little girl yelled, pointing to behind the encampment. Sure enough the walls grew black and a thick breeze had gathered and proceeded their way.
“That is no wind…” he said, grabbing hold of his daughter’s hand.
“Run!” a man in the distance yelled as his wagon tipped and boxes spread the floor. The current hit hard and loud. Somehow the insects managed to create such wi
nd beneath their movements that it battered against the tents and clothes. This was no ordinary wind indeed.
“It’s him!” Jailer called out, fist pointed at the distant figure of Narrl.
“Hold it, Jailer,” Carls cautioned. But it was of no use. It took both Trip and Kit to hold the man back.
“This is no time to quarrel!” Trip tried reasoning, a scream off in the distance catching everyone off guard. A second wave hit the camp, only this time not alone. From its cloak came a sight so unexpected that for a moment all but stood in shock.
Which was to the Possessioner’s advantage.
Kit was the first to act-- a white beam leaving his forearm and penetrating the dark. But he was unable to cut the grasp it already had upon one of the caravans as it was tossed like a doll into the eyes of a petrified couple. Carls had to tear his gaze away from the nightmare to react any. Why here? Why now?
The Possessioner had taken control of Arnold’s booth-- the once inanimate displays now came to life. Trip was already moving toward it, leaving Carls’ attention to wander to the massive cluster of insects forming far down the hall where the large panes of the mall met the gloom of the outdoors. Through the crevices did they come and nest themselves in a single drive toward the encampment. Carls wrapped his daughter in his cloak and withdrew the only thing he knew to save them-- a small barrier formed before them. But the bulk still proceeded toward the mass of panicking eyes.
Behind him-- a greater barrier shielded them. Carls could hear the insects rage, and he turned to see the vibrant barrier that had deflected them, not of his own, but of one he could hardly believe.
“Go!” Pamela yelled to him, her hands moving to every which side the hordes struck-- along with the Possessioner, it was already a match for her to reckon with. Her palms were stretched to their fullest; her hood glowing in a most vibrant of ocean blue; the gold trim about her expanding its ribbons to the force of her energy.
The dark had turned its gaze now upon him.