The Last Watcher

by Richard Lee

  The Last Watcher

  Richard Lee

  Published by Triskaideka Books

  Copyright ©2017 Richard Lee

  Cover text/design copyright ©2017 Lee Pletzers

  Cover art via Pixabay free images. License CC0

  All rights reserved. No copying or reselling.

  This Book (print, audio, video and eBook versions) is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This product may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described here are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher.

  Part One

  Dust filled the sky turning daylight into miasma and obscuring the clouds and green sky.

  The old man clambered up the long flight of steps and walked directly to a stone throne built in the shape of a large Sparrow. A soft, threadbare cushion gave the only comfort on the hard rock of the throne. He laid his crooked staff at the foot of the throne, brushed the dust off his long robe and took his seat.

  On the throne, he sat at the second tallest peak in the land. Below him, the ground was a sickening red-brown. Nothing grew there. The flat land rolled out before him unchanged in the ninety years he had taken breath and the tallest building rose into the sky not far off in the distance.

  It was a Tower.

  A prison built in the times of old.

  And it held the Old Ones.

  According to tales spun by his father, they'd been here as long as time had existed. All tales were of horror and fear. Their feeding frenzy, disguises and the legend of terror they built. The words terrified him all those years ago.

  A soft chuckle escaped the old man as he remembered the stories, and watched the black tower of a prison. He wondered if anyone had really seen the Old Ones. Did they truly exist or had he wasted the last fifty years of his life?

  Had it been a wise decision to climb the steps and take the throne all those years ago? He was the only one to take the challenge at the time. Everyone else cared only for their lives; they could not see a Watcher was needed. A plague, the likes none had experienced before, washed the land with the final breath of the last Watcher. Vicious in its spree, it spared none and took all who could host the seed of sickness into their lungs, where it festered, grew and moved on; leaving a withered corpse in its wake.

  The sparse regions of water polluted quickly with the sick and infected drinking free from the pond. Puss from open and bleeding sores were cleaned and tendered in the water. It took little time for food to become sparse and for animals to turn on one another.

  He saw it clear in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday.

  The plague ravaged the land. The vile sickness stole his wife and sons and neighbors. It was maddening watching the town dies around him, while he stood fit and strong.

  Corpses rotted on the ground or in houses and the stench filled the air. Everyone was too sick to move the dead and set them alight. And in truth, most did not care.

  Apart from him.

  Lost and confused, he prayed to the Gods of the four elements for guidance. He wandered the dust-filled streets for hours, lost in thoughts and memories. Buildings made from designed rock sandstone were empty. The market held empty and destroyed stalls. The city water well was deserted. Scorpions played on the stone rim. Dust was heavy on the streets. Small riots continued with weakened souls trying to defend what little they had. Store owners fended off small groups. Private homeowners did the same. Yet no one accosted him.

  The dying and dead littered the city streets. Passing their decaying bodies he ignored the stench and was careful where he stood. Somehow managed to hold on and walk past. His feet kicked up dust with every step.

  Without realizing it, he passed the city gates and entered the wastelands.

  The sun was setting as he left the city streets and made his way across the red-brown claylike ground. In the waning light, he saw the steps leading to the watcher’s throne. Scattered nearby, small camps and clusters of people milled about.

  As sunset turned to dusk he reached them.

  On the outside border of the camp, he stopped and watched a large group of people gathered before the largest tent in the camp. Voices rose and fell in angered tones in words that were strange to his ears, but with concentration he understood them. The robes draped over their bodies were different to his. The cloth seemed to shine in the waning light.

  A small girl noticed him.

  The girl screamed.

  Everyone turned to the girl, then to him. A heavy silence befell the camp.

  “Begone,” a man said. “Your sickness is not welcomed here.”

  He searched for the speaker but could not find him. “I am not sick,” he said.

  “You are not welcome,” a woman said. She stood up to look him in the eyes. Her hair and face resembled his wife in color and tone but her body was chubby in places his wife wasn’t.

  He started to walk away from them, around the outskirts of the camp toward the steps he could clearly see even though it was almost dark.

  A small child pulled on his robe snagging his attention.

  “Are you the new Watcher?”

  He looked down at the child, considering the question. Until he met this healthy group of people, he thought he was the next Watcher, the only person left who could do the job. The rest of the camp awaited his answer. He wondered why no one here stepped forward to take on the challenge. There seemed only one answer to give them. He knelt down in front of the boy. “Do I look like a Watcher?”

  The boy shook his head. “You speak funny,” he said.

  “All Watchers speak funny, so I guess I am.”

  The child beamed as a woman rushed forward and took him in her arms and carried him back to the safety of her people.

  He stood and turned from them, facing the short walk to the base of the steps that rose into the darkened sky without any kind of support. Heavy stone steps that appeared to float in the air.

  The first few steps were tentative. He wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing or not. He knew not what awaited him above, but he did know that nothing waited for him on the ground. He was a forty-year-old man who owned nothing apart from the robe he wore and the breath he took.

  So he climbed. Each step took him higher. Soon the campsite was small. He could make out the shapes of people and objects but nothing was defined. He looked out toward the city he had come from.

  Hours passed before he reached the hovel that would become his new home. It was a hovel that would serve him as it had served other generations of watchers. A kind of magic he did not understand kept the hovel strong against the winds and rains. And it was this magic that kept him alive.

  From this flat expanse of rock, he could see the winged throne above. His legs screamed for rest, his thighs almost betrayed him as he staggered to the seat that was a gift or a curse from the gods.

  Since taking the throne, he had been alone.

  Only he and the tower existed on this plain. The tower had no windows and no door he had ever seen, and the bricks shone like metal when the sun broke through the constant cloud of dust. He wondered if the Old Ones were inside, did they have a portal to see out? Could they be watching him as he watched them?

  A sh
iver ran down his spine. He shook it off. He was being silly. It was nothing more than old age foolery.

  Fifty years passed slowly and now he was an old man watching over his kingdom. He'd considered it his soon after taking this post. He was the Watcher, was he not? He watched the tower of the Old Ones. He kept his kingdom safe.

  He knew that was true, but he did not know how he kept it safe. All he could do was watch the tower. He was an old man, he could not do battle with any beast or man. He could not run down the steps and shout a warning...how could he save his people? His kingdom?

  In fifty years he had never thought of this. All he did was watch. Perhaps it was time to pass the throne onto another. His time had come for sure. He could do as the Watcher before had done and dive off the throne to the ground below. Someone would discover him and a younger, stronger person would fill the position.

  Scrutinizing the land below him, he saw only red-brown claylike earth. He did not see any grouping of white or colored specks. Far off in the distance, he hoped to see smoke or nations flags, but he saw naught.

  It was as he expected.

  He was alone. He was always alone. He would die alone, that he was sure of. Tumbling from his throne and twisting to the earth, he would hit but the sound would go unnoticed.

  Who then would Watch?

  There was only himself. The plague had ridden this planet of all who could replace him. And his end was near. The old man could feel it in his bones and taste Death in the air.

  He could not go to his forefathers yet. He would sit and watch the prison. It was his destiny, whether the Old Ones were inside or not. His dying breath would be taken upon the throne.

  Death must wait.

  The last Watcher. Ninety years old and ready to die but refusing to give up his position. The throne was his. The job was his. He was the Watcher. There would be no other.

  Slow and with practiced ease he sat down upon the worn cushion on the stone-built throne, feeling his backache and his knees sigh with relief. He stared at the black prison. The Tower.

  The Black Tower, he thought bitterly. If such a place as Hell existed, then the tower was it. The prison of the Old Ones. Shiny like black metal but made of brick. Reinforced with magic. How many were inside? Just one or one hundred?

  He could barely comprehend their existence and here he was trying to count them.

  There are more than you can count, his father had told him many years ago.

  How do they all fit inside, he had asked.

  His father smiled. With a voice full of mystic musings, he replied: It's not for us to understand. His eyes drifted to the prison and he ruffled his son's hair.

  The old man smiled and shook his head as if the memory was powerful enough to affect reality. And maybe it was at his age--

  He sat bolt upright. Something scarred the tower, running from the top to the bottom. It ran a zigzag pattern down the brick and rock. The black rock no longer looked shiny. It was dull and worn down by the ages. A scream ripped forth as the crack widened and finally reached the ground.

  The instant it hit, a boom, louder than the old man had ever heard, shook the ground. The steps to the throne shook with it.

  What was happening?

  With mounting fear, the old man realized The Black Tower was breaking open. The bricks, rocks, and magic after all these centuries were finally crumbling. The Old Ones would soon be free.

  Part Two

  Flapping in the wind, thousands of sparrows flew high into the city sky. Above the tallest buildings, in a frenzy of sudden action, they flocked together, hiding the crystal clear sky from view. The streets darkened and streetlights flickered to life. They had turned the day to night.

  The flying was erratic, heading here and there with no sense of direction. Some collided in flight, twisting unceremoniously to the road.

  Dean jumped out of the way of two such birds. In his haste, he bumped into the person behind him. “Sorry,” he mumbled but got no response. The man also stared at the birds.

  Several blocks fell to semi-darkness as the number of birds increased and stretched across the sky. Never before had Dean seen so many sparrows. It surprised and scared him at the same time. Yet he felt the thrill of witnessing a once in a lifetime event. And he wasn't in front of the TV to enjoy it either. This was real life, living color.

  From North to South the birds packed the city skyline. Traffic was at a stand-still. Cars doors were open and drivers and passengers alike stood next to their vehicle gazing up at the amazing spectacle. Faces were pressed against the glass of busses trying to get a full view.

  No one cried. No one screamed the end of the world. No one panicked. Everyone was calm.

  Dean broke the hold the sparrows held over him. The instant he did it, he felt free. A huge weight lifted from him. Everyone else was still locked in the sparrow’s magic. The sidewalk was packed; people had exited shops, cars blocked intersections, traffic lights changed and cross signals flashed. No one moved. No one spoke. No horns blared, no impatient drivers shouted abuse, dogs did not bark and children did not cry.

  The city was silent.

  This small part of the world was transfixed by the aerial oddity and seeing the reaction around him, Dean felt more than bemused with the display above. A tingling of fear washed over him as he pushed past the watchers and made his way to the public toilets.

  Normality. Dean searched for a slice of normality. The birds were starting to jingle his nerves in this silent city. Even the flapping of the wings made no sound. He had to latch onto an ounce of what he considered reality. For now, that was his fencing class. And he had a routine he followed every Wednesday. And follow it he would. There were no birds in the sky, no emerging patterns. Just him and his routine.

  It was a weak and feeble attempt but he forced himself to follow it despite the weirdness around him and the small part that drew him to watch as well.

  Using his hands as a brush, he patted dust off his jeans as he reached the unisex toilet block of eight stalls in a semicircular design. Above, a 'Natural Light' roof stretched the expanse of space between the stalls and the cleaners’ office opposite. A woman sat behind a Plexiglas window with a circle of holes positioned as a speaker. She wasn't looking at Dean. Her neck was craned to better see the action outside.

  Dean entered the nearest stall and wasn’t shocked to see Taggers had been at work. The graffiti-covered every available space. Some of it looked quite good. It almost looked professional. Only the mirror was untouched.

  He stared at his reflection. Hours spent lifting weights and fencing was paying off. No beer stomach overhung his waist and he was looking quite built. Arnold Schwarzenegger, he was not, but he was good enough in his eyes to appear on an infomercial. Facially, he wasn't looking as good as he had ten years ago. Lines creased his eyes, his brown hair once thick and bouncy was now streaked with white. Clear brown eyes stared back at him, deep in color and haunting.

  He turned on the cold water tap and cupped cool water into his hands. His eyes closed a second before it splashed on his face. Squeezed shut, he rubbed his palms against the eyes in an attempt to dry them. He hadn't thought to check the paper dispenser first.

  Everything was blurry when he opened his eyes. The graffiti on the wall behind him twisted and turned into a swirl of mixed color. Letters and symbols elongated stretched to their limits and were violently sucked into the maddening swirl.

  Dean's heart skipped a beat, his body tensed and his eyes snapped shut. “Not there,” he whispered. “Nothing’s there. Not there. Not there. Not there.” He took several deep breaths and exhaled slowly.

  When he slowly reopened his eyes, the swirl had grown. The free-flowing cool water turned to green and brown sludge, chugging out of the faucet hitting the bowl in vomit sized chunks. The stench came from the bowels of the sewer as each blob splattered the porcelain.

  “It's not real,” he whispered. “It's not real.”

  Turning from the mirror and slu
g scarred bowl he stared at the swirl. His breath came in short bursts as his heart pounded against his chest. His mouth filled with saliva but he couldn't swallow it.

  Something was inside the swirl.

  Covered in the swirling mass of colors, the gray thing did not move with the eddy. It was stationary in the center and looked to be miles away. Too far to be seen clearly, but what he did see terrified him.

  “It's not real.” His whispered voice shook. “Please God, it can't be real.”

  An octopus head with long feelers of an ancient untouched mustache sat atop the body of a man with what appeared to be the wings of a dragon sticking out of the back and spread wide. Muscular arms reached out and gripped swirls of color and pulled forward; pearl white talons stretched toward and dug deep into the color and pulled. Part of its body leaned forth like a three-dimensional image in a cheap magazine looming out of the iridescence. The tentacles around its mouth lashed out as if they had an independent life-force as the grip was lost and the creature slid back to the center, once again becoming a part of the two-dimensional swirl.

  Dean inched his way to the toilet door. His fear-numbed fingers fumbled with the turn lock. Several times his hold on the small latch slipped. Each time his fingers slipped free, panic increased. It squeezed his chest like a vice, it danced his nerves onto broken shards of glass, his bowels tingled and his vision pinpointed.

  Frustration mingled with the panic, and for a brief moment, he thought he was going to cry.

  From the whirling colors, a howl of built-up hunger and rage seeped forth. The creature was too far away for the sound to be much louder than a hushed cough. But the power behind it bled through the bay.

  Dean's fingers found the latch and finally a grip that held. He turned it to the right and threw the door open and stumbled out into the unisex entrance. White shiny walls filled his vision. The woman at the small Plexiglas window didn't notice him, her gaze still pointed to the sky.

  Trembling, phlegm flowed over his shaking lip. He was aware of it but wiped it away with his hand and wiped his hand on his jeans.