The Last Watcher

by Richard Lee

  Walking backward, afraid to turn his back on the stall filled with madness, he moved to the exit. A tiled wall forced him to stop. His heart raced and adrenaline sliced through his veins.

  He couldn't stop his body from twitching. All energy seeped from his legs and his knees couldn't hold him any longer. Using the wall for balance he slid to the floor and hugged his knees.

  Breathing rapidly, he watched the birds.

  Part Three

  The old man didn't know what to do.

  Standing with his weight forward and gripping his staff, he stared at the unbelievable scene unfolding before him. The crack had widened. Steam rose from the ripped concrete and wafted to the heavens.

  The flat top of the tower exploded. Large chunks of rock flew skyward. Smaller pebble sized lumps landed near the old man's feet. He shuffled sideways to avoid them.

  A whistle arose from the heavens, long and high pitched. The old man looked up and saw a large chunk of rock plummet toward him. Gritting his teeth, he released his walking stick and raised his arms to the heavens.

  Words tumbled in his head. Without thinking, he spoke them: “I am the Watcher,” he cried out, eyes locked on the prison. “I command you to cease your actions!”

  The tumbling rock whooshed toward him, the whistle grew louder but the old man refused to budge. He was the Watcher, this was his duty. His life had lead to this moment.

  With a sickening crash, the rock slammed into the throne, shattered the spine and continued falling to the ground below.

  “I demand you to cease. Serve your punishment as bestowed upon you.”

  A voice spoke up, it surrounded the old man, wrapped him in a blanket of slow drawn out syllables. “Pray tell, who punished me?”

  The old man searched for a speaker but found no one. Reluctantly he looked toward the prison. Sections broke from the top and dropped hard and fast to the ground.

  His world shook with every crash of rock.

  “Pray tell, who punished me?”

  The old man sighed. He knew not the Punisher.

  The voice laughed. It was short lived. “We are both prisoners,” It said. “Everything around us has been constructed.” For a while the voice was silent. Then: “Do you think that is the sky? Look up, old man. What skies do you know of are green?”

  The old man did not answer.

  He turned his attention away from the crumbling tower. Slowly he bent down and picked up the walking stick. He was an old man and felt empty inside. He could not stop what was happening. He did not know or understand how the wall broke or why it did.

  Were they now free? Was their sentence not forever but only a few generations?

  Where was the magic?

  “We are brothers,” the voice whispered. “Both of us locked in a prison. Yours was the world below that became the throne. Mine was inside this darkness.”

  The old man did not respond. His chin rested on his chest as he stared at his feet. The sound of destruction whirled around him in a canopy of noise.

  “Our prison term is expiring. You are dying old man, and there is no one to replace you. The plague we gifted your world wiped your race from existence. You...are...extinct.”

  Now he understood. Forever only existed as long as people remembered it existed. He was the last.

  Forever was about to end.

  “I can feel your heartbeat, old man. Your time is almost up.”

  “Why do you torment me such?”

  A gruff voice replied, “I would rather stretch your skin across the remains of your throne. I would rather feast on your entrails...as you watched.” The voice rose as rage bubbled free. “There are many things I would rather perform on your trembling, stinking bones for all the years your race has watched, but you will escape via death. Mankind will pay.”

  “We are extinct.”

  The voice laughed without humor. “There are many dimensions of which you do not understand.” The voice paused. “This is not the only world. There be another and another and another. We are in a dimension unknown to all Man's science under the ocean. Locked away from time. Locked away in a prison.”

  The old man shook his head. “This is nonsense.” He stepped away from the remains of his throne, headed toward his hovel. The voice spoke rubbish and he intended to ignore any more filth that spewed forth.

  After what seemed like a long time, the old man reached the entrance to his hovel. He noted the prison had stopped its self-destruction. It could go no further until he passed his last breath. Which he feared, would be soon.

  If only there was something he could do.

  If only there was another watcher.

  Someone to continue the word; forever.

  Rain fell, soft and sparingly at first. Soft drops fell one by one in random places, across the steps, and near his feet. The rain was green. The old man looked at the cloudless sky and saw it warp and twist. Bubbles spread like lightning across the green heavenly range.

  Increasing in speed, green puddles were created on the uneven stair's surface. The old man turned from the sky and entered his hovel. Even in this small private room, he had an open view of the prison.

  Something flicked rapidly in and out of view from the jagged rock top where the explosion had occurred. Leaning against the glassless window frame for balance more than rest, he looked closer waiting for the next flicker.

  It snapped into view for only a few brief seconds before again vanishing. But those few seconds were long enough for him to see several green/gray appendages whipping back and forth in the air, almost tangling themselves in the process. For a moment he thought the creature was praising its freedom, or just stretching. Maybe it was both.

  The rain fell harder, hammering the roof and stairs. From the entrance doorway, he saw the puddles overflowing and running off the edge of the platform. The entire terrace was soaked, green water ran like a stream over the sides as the rain continued to pound down harder and faster.

  The old man had a sinking feeling. He hobbled from the safety of his home and stopped at the edge and looked down. It was as he feared. The Old Ones were showing their power and growing strength by drowning this world. Already the dry land below looked under water.

  Without warning, the old man's heart squeezed against his chest. The pain, sudden and immense dropped him. His knees splashed in the ankle deep water. Fat drops pounded his face as the rain sliced in at an angle.

  The old man wiped his hand across his mouth and tasted salt and seaweed essence. Confused, he recalled what the voice had told him. Was there a hint of truth in their words? Had his entire race been a prisoner under the ocean?

  Again the pain screamed at him, gripped his chest in a vice and tightened the screws. He dropped face first on the cold rock platform. His nose was barely out of the rainwater and his arms drooped over the side.

  He forced breath into his lungs, forced himself to remain alive. He wanted to hold the Old Ones as long as possible.

  “Why suffer pain?” the voice said seeming to read his inner thoughts. “Taste freedom and rid thy body of such agony.”

  “You've waited long enough. You can wait a while longer.”

  “You are right,” the voice said.

  The old man did not speak. His time was up, he knew that. Giving up was not in his blood, every minute he breathed someone lived longer, someone else was saved a breath of pain. Conserving his energy was the only way to accomplish that and to hold on just a bit longer.

  His fingers curled up into his palm as his heart screamed out. The prying eyes of the Old One's slugged over his body, thick and heavy they scrutinized his every breath. Tensing his body for the next rack of pain, he intended to show none. No longer would he give them the satisfaction. The agony was his alone and none other.

  A laugh, soft at first but growing louder by the second whipped around him. The sound was cold and full of malevolence. It was like a physical touch from an icy hand as it sent shivers down his spine. The Old Ones were laughin
g at his death. They drew pleasure from his agony.

  It was heartbreaking to know they would soon be free.

  Part Four

  Dean fought against the fear-induced jelly-filled knees and struggled to his feet. For a terrifying moment, his balance seemed to swoon forward, wanting to topple him onto the cold hard concrete floor. His heart slammed against his ribs. Gaining his balance was a wobbling act. His arms shot out to the side and swung in ever increasing circles until he felt stable enough to relax.

  Dean pushed himself off the wall. His first step swung out tentatively almost like a baby taking the first step forward. Putting weight on it, he moved his other leg forward.

  Slowly but surely, he made it to the entrance.

  Looking for the exit he noticed the crowd hadn't moved since the birds started their erratic madness. He seemed to be the only person who'd broken free of the spell.

  He stepped through the exit. The crowd vanished. The buildings, cars, birds all faded from existence. The pavement and roads turned to hard-packed red and brown earth. The sky was green. Off in the distance, he saw a broken black tower.

  Dean spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Where was everything? He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly opened them. He was disappointed, shocked and terrified. The world he knew and loved had not returned.

  He didn't know where he was or how he happened to be here.

  And he didn’t like it. It was madness. Stepping out of the unisex toilet he had stepped out of reality. Or had stepping into the unisex toilet taken him into this...this...alternate reality? A place where graffiti swirled, demons tried to escape from mirrors, sparrows blocked the sun and the landscape changed?

  Inside, deep inside, Dean knew this wasn't madness and it wasn't a figment of his imagination either. This was real. Somehow he had literally stepped into another world. It was as if he had been called here, ripped from a world he knew and understood and placed into one he could not fathom.

  Another look around showed nothing but open land as far as the eye could see. A dense wasteland spread out in all directions, broken only by the tower.

  Dust was thick in the air and on the ground. It caused several spasmodic coughs to issue forth that raked his chest as it drifted into his lungs. Heavy in his mouth, the dust clung to his tongue and cheeks. Repeated attempts to build up saliva to swallow away the dust failed.

  Fat drops of rain fell from the sky. Slowly at first but moments later the velocity increased. The speed and hardness of the falling rain pounded Dean and the dry wasteland he stood upon.

  A sudden, vicious spasm of coughs raked his chest and doubled him over. Rain pelted the back of his head. Straightening up, Dean raised his face to the sky and opened his mouth.

  Heavy drops pelted his tongue. Instantly he spat it out. It was raining salt water. It held the same taste of water he’d swallowed at a beach when he was a child. Although foul tasting, he opened his mouth once again to the ocean falling from the sky and allowed it to fill his mouth.

  How could there be so much dust when it rained?

  Part Five

  Heaving breath into his tired lungs, the old man stared at the ground far below the platform, a ground he had not touched in fifty years. A ground he would touch shortly. He remembered the previous watcher and he wondered why the watcher had fallen to his death. Perhaps now, he knew the answer.

  “Aaron. Are you still with us?”

  Aaron.

  That was a word he had not heard since taking his first step to assume the post of Watcher. Aaron. It sounded foreign. A word that no longer belonged to him and held little meaning apart from a link, weak as it was, to a past life.

  “How do you know my name?” the old man asked. His throat was sore and the words came out painfully dry and slow. Each word scratched his throat forcing a deep and rough cough from him adding more pain to an already tortured chest.

  When the coughing subsided he realized the Old Ones had not answered. Taking two long breaths he repeated his question, this time without the coughs. It was difficult but he managed to hold them at bay until the six words passed his lips.

  There was no answer.

  Finding a small reserve of energy, he turned his head to look at The Black Tower. Perhaps they had not heard his question or just decided not to answer it. Knowing his secrets and letting him know they knew was the only torture they could deal to him. It was minuscule but to them it was power.

  Exhaustion took hold as he rolled onto his side. The rain pelted his tired body relentlessly like a final insult and blurred his sight of the Black Tower. It took several seconds for his tired old eyes to focus the monstrosity scarring his kingdom.

  Part Six

  Rain filled his mouth and Dean swirled the water against his caked cheeks and teeth. The salt was thick and the taste revolting. It was surprising he’d managed to handle it for so long. Some had dribbled down his throat, and he’d near chocked but it was worth it to get the dust out of his mouth.

  He spat onto the ground. The water splashed in the layer of water swelling on the ground. The rain had only just started yet the ground refused to accept it, to soak it in. Dean knew an ensuing flood when he saw one.

  But there didn’t seem to be anything around to threaten except for The Black Tower. And that looked in fair disarray as it was. The top half was destroyed, jagged rocks and bricks jutted out at odd angles. Parts of the structure, the inner levels, were still intact. He could see sections of the inside of the tower. It was impossible to distinguish clearly exactly what he saw, as he was too far away to manage more than vague shapes moving within.

  Dean turned away from the tower. Behind him stood a flooding wasteland. In all directions he looked; everything was the same. He couldn’t find his entry point, which logically would be his exit point.

  His lips trembled with the realization there was no escape, no way back to his world. His wife, his job, his new car -- all gone. Forever. And it all had to do with the image in the mirror.

  The Sparrows.

  Only he had been able to break the hold on them. It was a test. He realized he’d been chosen, but, chosen for what? That was the question.

  He turned back to face the partially destroyed tower. And looming high into the sky was a row of concrete steps. Oh boy. He had been chosen. Taking a deep breath, he faced the first step. Looking up, he couldn’t see the top.

  One step at a time, he told himself.

  He stepped onto the first step. The rain eased.

  Eighty steps later, a sweat beaded his forehead. The rain had stopped twenty steps earlier. The sun was out.

  An hour later, his legs were burning with each step and just when he thought he couldn’t take another step, he saw an old man lying in a drying puddle of green water.

  “Jesus,” he cried out, found strength and hurried to the man. He lifted the thin body out of the water and his first thought at looking upon the face was God. The old man looked like God, the images he was shown as a child in Christian children books. The long white beard, the kindly face. The robe. It all fit. But it was impossible. Then again, he was in a barren land that rained salt water and held a black tower and steps that supported themselves and rose into the heavens.

  God had fallen.

  Part Seven

  Aaron opened his eyes. He barely had the strength to manage it. He expected it was one of the old ones come to personally finish him off and he wished to face them without fear.

  He did not expect to look into the eyes of a young man. The shock startled him.

  The man spoke to him. He didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to. The new watcher had arrived. The magic had found him. Praise the Gods of the four winds.

  “Welcome to your new post. Thank you.”

  The man looked confused at the words. Aaron gripped his hand as tightly as he could. Slowly, he turned his head and noticed the throne was rebuilt. He turned to look at the Black Tower.

  New rocks replaced the destroyed
rocks. Holes faded to black rock and brick. The tower was rebuilding. The magic was back at full strength.

  Aaron laughed. “You are the new watcher,” he said not expecting an answer.

  “Watcher?” the man said.

  Startled, Aaron said, “You can understand me?”

  The man nodded.

  “What is your name?”

  “Dean. You?”

  “Aaron.”

  “How do you feel Aaron?”

  “Old.”

  They both laughed.

  “Why am I here?”

  Aaron looked into his eyes. “You are the Watcher.”

  “What do I watch?”

  “That.” Aaron pointed to the tower. It was near fully rebuilt. He understood why the Old Ones had not answered him earlier. Dean had arrived and it sealed their mouths, froze their actions. Forever would last a little longer. “You were chosen.”

  “I don’t know about that. But one second I’m in the toilet, I walk out and end up here.”

  We are prisoners, Aaron thought.

  “Is there no way back?”

  They spoke the truth. The old ones did not lie.

  He looked at the green sky. Did they speak the truth about that as well?

  It didn’t matter now. Aaron closed his eyes, ready for death. A new watcher had been found. He could rest easy now. He could die with the knowledge that a new watcher would always be found. The Old Ones forever locked in the Black Tower. Forever prisoners. Forever.

  “Old man. Aaron. You still with me? I don’t know what I’m meant to do?”

  “Watch,” Aaron whispered.

  A strange sound came alive close to his ear. His eyes snapped open, fearful the Old Ones were tricking him all this time, coaxing him into death. Accelerating their release.

  Dean pulled a strange object from his pocket. It seemed to play music. He watched Dean fold it open.