Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Got a pretty good idea.”

  Dread filled Weezy as she watched him take the pistol from the shelf and stick it in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

  “You don’t really think that’s going to be of any use against this Fhinntmanchca thing, do you?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. But it works against people, and people brought that thing into this world, so maybe they can be persuaded to send it packing.”

  He disappeared into his room for a few minutes, then emerged stuffing things into his jeans pockets.

  “You two wait here while I see what I can do.”

  Weezy had a sick, bad feeling about this. Something awful was about to happen.

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Always.”

  And then he was out the door.

  Weezy held back tears. “Will he be all right?”

  “I cannot say,” the Lady said, “because I do not know. This is all new.”

  “But why him? Why can’t somebody else—?”

  “Because there is no one else, and he knows that. So he does what needs to be done, or at least tries to. Though he hates it, though he wants no part of any of it, that is what he must do, because that is the way he is. That is the only way he knows, the only path he can see. That is why he was chosen as the Heir.”

  Jack . . . her Jack . . . skinny, funny Jack from Johnson . . . she still couldn’t accept it.

  The Tracfone started ringing. She saw Eddie’s number in the window. She thumbed the power off and put it back on the table.

  “Your brother?” the Lady said.

  Weezy nodded. “My brother, the Septimus.” The word tasted like poison.

  “Perhaps you should speak to him. He is blood, after all.”

  “I’ve spoken to him. And I’ll speak to him again. But right now . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Possibilities and probabilities collided in her brain, producing an awful scenario: Eddie helping the Order track her through the phone. She opened its rear compartment and disconnected the battery. Just to be sure.

  “Come, then,” the Lady said, rising and patting her hair. “We will walk. The air will be good for you.”

  “But Jack said—”

  “I am the Lady. I go where I please.”

  8

  Hank shook his head in silent wonder.

  Whatever was in that stuff leaking from the Orsa, it had a miraculous effect on Darryl. At least as far as his strength was concerned. Ten minutes after lapping at it he got to his feet, but he didn’t seem any less confused. He now stood, swaying slightly, before the One.

  “Mother?”

  The One showed a hint of a smile. “Yes. Your mother. You want your mother, don’t you.”

  Darryl nodded. “Mother.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Another nod. “Mother.”

  He stepped aside and gestured toward the staircase. “Then by all means, go find her.”

  Hank watched Darryl move toward the stairs, leaving wet shoe prints. He started with a shuffle, then graduated to a slow walk.

  “What’s all this about ‘mother’?” Hank said.

  Drexler shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ve embarked upon an uncharted sea.”

  He gave the One a questioning look, but his attention was fixed on Darryl.

  When Darryl reached the wrought-iron stairs, he hesitated.

  Hank started forward. “Looks like he needs—”

  Drexler thrust out an arm. “Don’t touch. No contact. It’s in the Lore.”

  “But—”

  “Remember what happened to your coffee cup.”

  He remembered. Yeah, maybe a good idea to give Darryl some space.

  He watched Darryl reach out and grasp the railing. Smoke rose from where his hand touched the wrought iron. He looked at it curiously, then released the railing and stared at his hand. Hank gasped when he saw that the iron he had touched was gone.

  Darryl’s gaze moved from his hand to the gap in the railing, then he started up, leaving a puff of smoke and a gap everywhere he touched.

  Hank stood frozen, his tongue a sandbox. “Am I seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “Yes, Mister Thompson,” Drexler said. His eyes were bright, his lips parted with excitement. He looked ready to explode. “The Fhinntmanchca does not mix well with this world.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Only the Fhinntmanchca knows.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And of course the One.”

  The One stood statue still, staring after Darryl, and smiling.

  Drexler cleared his throat. “Sir, may we ask—?”

  “You may,” the One said without looking at him. “But if you wish an answer, you will have to follow him and find out for yourselves.”

  Drexler turned to Hank. “Then that is just what we will do.”

  Hank jerked a thumb toward the One, who hadn’t moved. “He coming?”

  “We need not worry about him. Come.”

  Hank followed him to the staircase. He waited as Drexler ascended ahead of him and checked out the gaps in the handrail. The iron appeared to have melted away but without leaving any slag. The free ends looked like they’d been cut with an acetylene torch. He gave one a quick touch but found it cool.

  The damage to the handrails seemed to have destabilized the staircase because it wobbled as Drexler climbed. Once he was off, Hank hurried up after him. He glanced back and saw the One still standing by the shrunken Orsa.

  When he reached the top and stepped out of the closet, he tapped Drexler’s shoulder.

  “Hey, how come the metal dissolved when he touched it, but his clothes are okay?”

  Drexler shrugged. “I would assume because the clothes came through the Orsa with him.”

  Made sense.

  Darryl had walked out into the main room of the basement. As they started after him, Hank heard a voice shout Darryl’s name. He recognized it and heard trouble in the tone.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Ansari said. “Not only do you look like shit, but what the fuck you doing here?”

  Hank pushed past Drexler and found Ansari confronting Darryl.

  “Mother.”

  Ansari’s eyes blazed. “What you call me?”

  He gave Darryl a two-handed shove to the chest. Darryl swayed, but Ansari wound up staggering back instead. His face purpling, he raised a meaty fist.

  Hank shouted, “Hold it!” but not in time.

  Ansari swung. His fist rammed forward, smashing against Darryl’s undefended jaw—

  —and dissolved in a cloud of red smoke.

  Hank skidded to a halt as he watched Ansari stumble back, clutching his wrist and staring at the place where his hand had been. No blood sprayed the air—the stump was blackened, cauterized.

  As Ansari screamed in pain and horror, Hagaman rushed up behind him, shouting, “What the fuck you do, asshole?”

  “Mother.”

  “Goddamn!”

  He bent and charged, as if to tackle, but Darryl put out a hand that caught Hagaman’s arm above the elbow. Another scream, another spray of red smoke, and Hagaman spun and dropped to the floor—right next to his forearm. He writhed in agony as he clutched the stump of his arm.

  Panic erupted as the other men in the room fell over each other in a headlong rush to get away from him. Darryl began to move toward them as they bunched up at the door.

  “Mother.”

  “Get out of his way!” Hank shouted.

  But either they didn’t hear or were too panicked to understand.

  Darryl reached them and put out his hands to push them aside. The result was more screams and more red smoke at they lurched away with chunks burned out of their backs and shoulders.

  With the doorway cleared, Darryl stepped through and headed upstairs. Hank and Drexler followed to the first floor. Word must have spread because everyone was pressed against the wall, s
taring in fear and wonder as Darryl walked toward the front entrance.

  “The doors!” Drexler said.

  He scooted ahead and opened one of the heavy oak doors, holding it for Darryl until he passed.

  Darryl halted at the bottom of the steps and turned in a slow circle. He stopped, facing uptown.

  “Mother.”

  He turned and began walking up toward Allen Street.

  “Any idea where he’s going?” Hank said.

  Drexler shook his head. “No. But I believe the One does.”

  “The One . . . is he even human?”

  “Yes, but something more.”

  Hank had figured that. “Can he be killed?”

  Drexler gave him a sharp look. “Don’t even think—”

  “I’m not thinking anything.” True. The question had popped out seemingly on its own. “Just wondering.”

  “Well, then, the answer is yes. But not by any such as us.”

  “Who then?”

  “Another . . . like him.”

  “You mean there’s two of him?”

  If so, he wouldn’t really be the One.

  “Not exactly. The two are mortal enemies. And that is all I can say on the subject.”

  “I need more. Is the One going to be the head honcho after the cosmic shit hits the cosmic fan?”

  Drexler’s lips pursed. “You have such a way with words, Mister Thompson.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Yes, I do. And yes, once he defeats his counterpart, the Yang to his Yin, he will be the Lord and Master of this sphere.” He glanced at Hank. “Don’t tell me you had illusions of—”

  “Hey, no way. You crazy?” But he had. He’d thought that with his Kickers at his back . . . “But we—you and me, that is—we’re going to get to wet our beaks, right?”

  He nodded. “When the Change comes, you and I will have places beside the One.”

  Well, that would have to do. Probably be fine. Just like Daddy promised—he and Jerry would be princes when the Others returned. Too bad Jerry wasn’t around to join in.

  Drexler pointed at Darryl’s retreating figure. “We don’t want him getting too far ahead.”

  As they began walking, Hank thought about how reality had begun doing slow cartwheels since his first dream about the stick figure known as the Kicker Man, becoming increasingly surreal until blossoming into the complete and total insanity of this past week.

  Darryl . . . fucking Darryl, of all people . . . the Fhinntmanchca . . . the Maker of the Way . . . dissolving everything he touched. It was all going down, just as his daddy had said. In fact, it might be all going down today, and he was right here in the heart of it.

  Hank’s pulse raced—he felt cranked and scared. Made him want to pee, but he kept walking.

  9

  The man who was more than a man, who was known as the One to many, and as Rasalom to a few, who had numerous names, the most important known only to him, stood on the roof of the Lodge and waited.

  In an hour or so, perhaps more, it would happen. He would know when it did. He would feel it.

  And so would someone else.

  You’re nearby, Glaeken. I know it. When it happens you’ll feel it and you’ll know my time has come. And you’ll be afraid.

  Though difficult to imagine Glaeken afraid, Rasalom relished the thought. Glaeken would have good cause for fear when the Lady was gone. For the beacon would be turned off, the Enemy would abandon this sphere as lifeless and worthless, and Glaeken would be on his own.

  What would that mean? Would he lose his power—his resilience, his immortality? Would he become just another mortal?

  Wouldn’t that be delicious.

  You will pay for what you have made me suffer down these millennia. You imprisoned me, you even thought you’d slain me, but always I found a way back. And this time you will die, long after you wish to, and you will find no way back.

  Rasalom’s only regret was that success today would mean forgoing his vengeance on the transgressor. Slowly destroying that man’s soul a second time would have been pure bliss. But he couldn’t have everything. He’d see the man suffer like everyone else, but that universal fate lacked the élan of what he’d been planning.

  Prepare yourself, Glaeken. The end begins today.

  10

  The man who once had been more than a man, who was known as Mr. Veilleur to many, and as Glaeken to a few, who had had numerous names, stood at his window and stared out at the Sheep Meadow.

  Far below, light traffic cruised Central Park West. A quiet, peaceful, sunny, summer Sunday morning in New York.

  Why then was he so filled with dread?

  The Fhinntmanchca . . . it could be only that. The Order, or perhaps Rasalom himself, had succeeded in bringing it into being.

  And that meant . . . what?

  He wished he knew. Perhaps then he might be able to head it off. But its purpose had always been a mystery.

  He could only wait and see. But he felt something awful coming, something cataclysmic.

  11

  “I really wonder if you should be out,” Weezy said as she strolled along the sunny side of Columbus Avenue with the Lady and the dog.

  Her long black dress and three-legged dog made it hard not to think of her as Mrs. Clevenger.

  “You keep saying that. You think I should hide? I am the Lady. I do not hide. And besides, if the Fhinntmanchca is going to disrupt the noosphere, it will do so no matter where I am.”

  Weezy couldn’t argue with the logic of that. The noosphere was all around, more ubiquitous than air. No one could protect it, no one could hide it, or hide from it.

  Still, Weezy worried.

  “But what if it’s after you—personally, I mean?”

  “Then it will find me eventually.”

  “Let’s hope Jack finds it first.”

  The Lady nodded. “And for your sake—for everyone’s sake—let’s hope he can do something about it. But I fear he cannot.”

  A warm feeling rippled through her. “Jack seems full of surprises.”

  “A very capable man, but everyone has limits, even the Heir.” She pointed to their left. “Let’s head this way. We can walk along the edge of Taxidermy Park.”

  Weezy smiled. “Why do you call it that?”

  “A piece of the city’s wild past stuffed and mounted and put on display.” As they crossed the avenue she said, “You love him, don’t you.”

  The words startled her. “We’re just old friends—dear old friends—and I care deeply for him, but I don’t love . . .”

  Or did she?

  The wall of denial she’d built collapsed, and what she saw staggered her.

  Yes, she’d fallen for him. But she’d been vulnerable. The void Steve left had never closed. She’d tried to fill it with her probings into the secrets behind 9/11, but that hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t just that he’d come back into her life, it was the way he’d come back—at full charge, with such drama. Vulnerable? She’d been a sitting duck.

  Or maybe nothing was really new about this. She suspected now that she might have loved him back when they were teens, but her neurotransmitters had been too screwed up, swinging her moods back and forth, up and down, to let her notice.

  Or were her feelings now just a manifestation of a new swing of her bipolar pendulum? Were these true emotions or just another hypomanic oscillation?

  It sucked not to be able to trust your feelings.

  The Lady suddenly gripped her arm and pulled her toward the curb. “Let’s cross the street here.”

  Weezy sensed a sudden urgency. “Why?”

  “I do not wish to walk past that place.”

  Weezy looked over her shoulder and saw a blue awning leading to glass doors. Sitchin Clinic was etched in the glass.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Their screams.”

  Baffled, Weezy looked again and saw Women’s Center in smaller letters. Women’s center . . . the euph
emism for abortion clinic.

  “You can hear . . . ?”

  The Lady nodded. “They linger.”

  After they’d walked a ways in silence, the Lady said, “His heart is taken, you know.”

  “Jack’s? Yeah, I met her.”

  And liked her, damn it. Not the kind of woman she would have expected to be paired with the man Jack had become, but their differences seemed to strengthen their bond instead of weaken it.

  “But we were close long before she even knew he existed. I can claim first dibs.” When the Lady gave her a look, she added, “Only kidding. But who knows? They could split. Nothing lasts forever, right?”

  She immediately hated herself for saying that. She didn’t wish anyone pain, especially Jack, but relationships fell apart every day.

  “They have a special bond . . . a child.”

  “Vicky? She’s a doll, but—”

  “No. Another child . . . unborn.”

  Weezy stopped walking and gawked at her. “Gia’s pregnant?”

  The Lady shook her head. “Was. I will explain . . .”

  12

  The few Kickers on the front steps of the Lodge did not seem their cocky selves. They looked shaken.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Jack said, shaking out a cigarette and offering the pack to one of the hangers.

  The guy waved him off, saying, “It’s awful.”

  The Fhinntmanchca, maybe?

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t see it go down, but Hags and Ansari, man . . . I got a peek at them. The others are bad, but they’re just awful.”

  Something awful had happened to that creep Ansari? Well, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Diana’s warning popped into his head. It’s dangerous. It’s deadly.

  “I’m not following. What—?”

  “Darryl . . .” The guy shook his head.

  “Darryl?” He remembered Ansari telling him about his HIV. “I thought he’d been kicked out.”

  “So did I. But he was back this morning and . . .” He shook his head again and looked away.

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

  As Jack turned and climbed toward the entrance, he heard the wail of sirens. From the top of the steps he could see a pair of ambulances making their way down the street. He hurried inside where he found more shell-shocked Kickers milling around.