by Jesse Jordan
Dink didn’t say a word. He watched James’s face and turned to follow the gaze as Ezra came along the next perpendicular street on that massive bicycle of his, executing a wide turn onto their street, riding easy through the pouring rain. His face was grave and set—the grown-up come to sort things out—as he coasted to a stop before the boy and his homunculus.
“Where were you?” James closed his arms across himself. The question screamed now; how had he not asked it before? Every time he’d needed or wanted Ezra, he’d shown up. So what happened this time? James strung the horror of the last two hours out before him, preparing to hang it all on Ezra’s neck.
“You’re alright, James.” Ezra swung off the bicycle. He took a step toward James, who mirrored it. Ezra stopped. “You’re alright.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
“Why didn’t you kill them?”
“What?”
“Why did you stay there, James? Why were you so afraid? Why won’t you grasp who and what you are?”
“You knew I was there—that, that they were holding a knife to my throat. And you didn’t do anything. You were just gonna let them do it.”
Dink sat down hard on James’s shoulder. “Nice move, Coach.”
Ezra ignored Dink and leaned in to James, imploring, “James, who is it you’re mad at? Me or yourself?”
“You! Is that a joke? I’m mad at you! They, they, they were gonna kill me.”
“Then why didn’t you stop them? Why won’t you become who you’re supposed to be?”
James’s mouth hung open. He’d been about to scream I can’t, but he suspected—no, he knew, in that deep, hidden place where we put the truths we can’t swallow yet—that he could have. He could have stopped them but didn’t. Just like he didn’t with the Schroeder brothers. Too terrified in the moment. Too scared.
But it’s Ezra making you do all this. This is all his fault. And like that, the anger was back.
“So this was a test, huh?”
“Everything is a test, James.”
James felt the urge to jump on Ezra, to punch his face until his arms gave out. He pictured Ezra toppling back, refusing to fight, smiling through blood as he was hit, cooing sweet words of encouragement.
James pushed past Ezra without a valediction and charged off, walking like each step was a stomp on the face of the Earth, equal in its guilt with everything and everyone else. James couldn’t listen to another word; he was a house on fire, and this anger consumed everything.
Crossing Main Street, James saw Mr. Llewellyn hustling through the rain toward his car, his arms laden with a Vinny’s pizza and two white bags of food. A flame burst in James’s head, a scream directed right at the science teacher. The thin, balding man stopped and rose up on his toes, bowing his back, and in the same movement, he slammed his armful of food on the wet sidewalk and let loose a howl from the bottom of his guts. As James cleared Main Street, Mr. Llewellyn was staring down at the mess of food like he didn’t recognize it.
James did not slow. He stomped the earth. The fear and uncertainty inside boiling in to righteous anger—transformed. When he turned left at Frankfurt Street he realized where he was heading, and in the realization he wanted to scream. He walked faster. Faster. Until he was running down Frankfurt Street, and all there was in the world was this anger, and he knew he wanted to see them dead. He wanted to kill them.
And then James was standing on the Schroeders’ front lawn, soaked down to the squishy soles of his shoes, the rain like walls of water now; its percussive symphony drowned out everything else.
He reached out his mind, just as he had with Mr. Worthington, only this time he could feel that what he sent out was rigid as steel, and when he felt them he grabbed them and dragged them outside, the side door by the driveway clanging open as Kevin and John and Pat lumbered outside on unsure legs, their eyes wild and fearful, searching. Finding James. Walking to James. Far-off thunder cracked, and then the three Schroeders stood in front of James, and he squeezed his fists to death and unraveled every bit of rage from inside and screamed.
All of it. Pus from an infected wound—shrapnel from a bomb. James leaned over and screamed louder.
Louder.
Kevin kicked John in the groin, and Pat smashed Kevin on the back of the head with two hands, and John bit Pat’s stomach, and the brothers screamed, but James did not hear them. He wanted them to die. He wanted them to beg to not die. The brothers punched each other in the face and ripped hair and stomped legs and insteps, and their eyes appeared as separate entities from their autonomous bodies. Their eyes were still their own, and they reported confusion and revulsion and terror. Pat stomped down on Kevin’s leg, and there was a crack as Kevin’s fibula snapped; then John bit the back of Pat’s head, and blood ran down his chin, and James looked away. But when he did, he saw Nick. Same as last time—watching through a window. Only this time Nick was watching through the living room window, too scared to help his brothers. Maybe. Maybe he thought they deserved it. James couldn’t tell. But there was no mistaking Nick’s gaze as it fell on James. It was a realization:
There are awful things in this world. There is evil.
Evil.
James stopped. The brothers stopped. James looked down, and everyone looked back at him. Scared. Pleading. Weak.
The hate could not hold. James turned and ran. He ran until the pain of running was stronger than the pain of not.
Just after sundown in Stone Grove, Illinois, James Salley sat on the catwalk of the town’s only operational water tower and stared down at the setting for all of his life so far. The summer storm had passed, and James sat up there where the wind was stronger and louder, and he looked out over Stone Grove. He didn’t see the town, though. What he saw was the Schroeder brothers tearing each other apart on their front lawn. What he saw was Old Fish-and-Vinegar’s dead eyes and dead skin and the dirt caking up his blood and Mr. Llewellyn’s perplexed gaze at his own hands.
Who am I? Am I becoming something, or was I always this?
Am I the bad guy? Screw what Ezra says. Am I the bad guy? This is what he’s asking me to do, what they’re asking me to do—bring more of this to the world. Do to the whole world what I did to the Schroeders. And why?
Does it matter? It’s going to happen.
You don’t know that.
Yes, you do.
How can you let them make this place worse?
Maybe it’ll make it better. Eventually. Like Ezra said.
A horn blew, and gates clanged and lowered, and a freight train came rushing through the town without a pause. The sound of the train populated Stone Grove, and it made James wonder what time it was, which led him to wonder how long he’d been there and why no one had called or texted to check in, and in that moment he remembered—Dorian.
James’s hand was clumsy in its panic to remove the phone. Off. They turned it off. James powered on and waited.
Black to company’s logo.
Status bar.
Home screen.
The number 7 was superimposed over the message icon.
Tap.
Where u at?
Hello?
Ok so it’s been like 30 min and I can’t stay much longer. Called u. No answer.
Gotta go. Kinda pissed.
OK! CALLED AGAIN! R U OK??????????????
THIS IS FREAKING ME OUT! I’m at the play and I just left u another VM. Did u lose ur phone?
So I don’t wanna go by ur house or anything and get you in trouble but this is super weird. I sent you an email. WHATS UP?????
James closed the app and saw that he had four voice mails as well. He started the first one, but a few seconds into Dorian’s cheery “Hey. You’re not here. Waaaiiiiting,” James closed it and called her.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up? Where have you been?”
And that was the exact moment that James realized he’d prepared no alibi, no excuse. Where had he been? Why hadn’t he called or
texted? He had nothing. The only thing that felt stone certain was that there was no way he could tell her. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I was on my way but then I got abducted by these crazy Catholics who’re out to kill me because I’m the Antichrist. I’m not actually the Antichrist—but only ’cause there really isn’t an Antichrist per se—but I guess I am who they want to kill; they’re right about that. See, a couple of weeks ago the new school librarian told me that I’m the One. I’m gonna bring about that big war they talk about in the Bible, except it’s not quite how they describe it. Anyway, I am super sorry. These guys were total dicks and they turned my phone off. Can you believe that? How was the play?”
What he actually said, though, was, “Uuuuhhhh . . .”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, thankful at least for one truthful path. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t screw up your day or anything.”
“No, it was just really weird. I started to worry that something had happened to you, which is an awful thing for me because I have one of those imaginations that just always go to the absolute worst possible thing and then sorta like obsesses on it. Y’know?”
“Yeah,” he said, though he felt fairly certain that he had no idea what it was like to think like Dorian, to be Dorian. “Sorry. That sucks.”
“So where were you?”
“I uh . . .” Oh my god, come up with something! Why are you so stupid? Think! Something! Anything! “Sorry. Something just came up and I couldn’t call.” Something came up and I couldn’t call? That’s it?
“Right. What?”
C’mon, c’mon. Think! “I . . .” There has to be some—“I can’t tell you.” James felt the oxygen leave his body, replaced by tangible defeat.
“You can’t tell me?” That tone James was having such a hard time placing? That would be incredulity. “I just, like, spent the whole day freaked out because we made a date, and not only didn’t you—” It was quiet for a second, then James heard hot breath rushing directly from Dorian’s nostrils to the phone.
“I—”
“Whatever. It’s not a big deal. I gotta go, though.”
“Dorian, listen, I’m gonna—”
“I really gotta go. I’ll talk to ya.”
The phone went silent. James let it drop onto his lap and leaned forward against the water tower’s railing, his chin resting on his wrist. There was a plane going by and the wind rushing and the highway just outside of town, and as James closed his eyes, the world sounded like a monstrous machine ready to chew him up. And on the backs of his eyes he saw Old Fish-and-Vinegar’s dead stare and Ezra’s challenging gaze and Adam’s hate and Dorian’s coldness, and they melted together until they were one face. Watching him. Coming for him.
51. “Soul of My Savior” followed by “We Three Kings” and then a second and third rendition of “Go Down, Moses.”
52. Blondie: Are we a hundred percent this is him? Fish: One hundred percent. Blondie: Hm. Well, I just want to say, this is not what I expected. Fish: Exactly. That’s how devious he is. We expect cunning and brilliance; he plays for pity. Blondie: Yes, that could be it. [Fish thinks he hears the Antichrist say something. He turns and looks at him. Nothing.] Pudgy: Did anyone else notice that he pissed himself? Blondie: Paul, please be quiet. [to Fish] Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? This was a ruse we never even considered. Oh, the Little Horn is a devious one. Alright, back to our purpose. Fish: Benediction? Blondie: Quickly. [Lord’s Prayer recited by all three.]
53. Adam, like many in the order, was a sufferer of Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia. It was thought to be genetic.
13. The Name
James tried so hard not to sleep. He refused even to sit on his bed, instead pulling over the chair from his desk to watch TV from. He purposefully covered the bed in debris—comic books and DVDs and candy and chips and empty soda bottles and wrappers—so that he wouldn’t unconsciously relax on it.
James stopped at the J&J Food Mart on the way home and bought a couple bottles of Frappuccino and Mountain Dew, along with Chili Cheese Fritos and Cool Ranch Doritos and Snickers and Skittles and Pixy Stix, which he poured into the Mountain Dew.
At two o’clock that morning he even made a pot of coffee, something he had theretofore never attempted. It did not taste good, but he found that if he mixed equal parts milk, sugar, and coffee in a mug, then it wasn’t bad.
James slapped himself and pinched himself and snuck outside twice with Mom’s cigarettes, and once he even held one to his knuckle for a second until the searing burn reminded him just how delicate he was. But still, even with all of that, even with the candy and the coffee and the pop and the cigarettes and the self-mutilation, James fell asleep ten minutes into the first Matrix movie, at exactly 3:02:07 that morning.
And that’s when it happened.
I smell matches and mold. Here. Here, in front of it. That Thing—inside—it rages and flexes against its prison. It begs me to come closer. Closer! Closer! The air is wet; the walls look like the bottom of the ocean. Cold, dead, hard, ugly, alien. Closer. Closer. Closer. Stop! Stop being so afraid! This will never end until you stop being afraid! Fear is the mind-killer! I run to the sarcophagus. I throw my arms around it. What? What do you want? Then I hear the whisper, and I press my head against it—Tell me!—and the next word explodes inside my head, and I see it written on the Moon and in the swirls of puddles and out of Dorian’s mouth and on the sides of buildings and everywhere ever and always forever.
Its name. It tells me its name.
Morning didn’t help. His adrenaline made it feel like there was someone else in his skin with him. He shook. He missed the toilet and peed on the floor, and he dropped a can of Coke trying to open it.
James slipped out the back door with one of Mom’s cigarettes, a book of matches, and Dink. The morning was already a furnace, but he started walking anyway, and as soon as he turned the corner, he lit the cigarette. That was when he heard the squeak-squeak.
Ezra came around the corner a block ahead wearing a soft Hallmark smile. He rode toward James, passed him by, and then circled back, and as James walked down the sidewalk, Ezra rode in slow, looping waves next to him on the street.
“Calmer?” Ezra said, somehow managing to keep the condescension from it. “I am sorry, James. I know you were frightened. Understand, this is my first Apocalypse too, and though it may seem that I’m asking too much of you, that I’m impatient, I am very proud of how far you’ve come. I wouldn’t have thought a boy of your age would be capable of all you’ve done.”54 Ezra paused, riding in a loop up ahead, then behind before falling in alongside again. “Are you ready to proceed?”
James knew exactly what he meant. In one sentence it seemed as if Ezra had said everything he’d been building up to since that first night. Are you ready to proceed? Are you ready to leave all this?
He had the name. All he had to do was say it and Ezra would take him away right now. That he knew. They would go to Taloon right now—no good-byes—and they would get Morning Star and the War would truly begin.
A river of no ran through him. Never see Dorian again? It wasn’t Mom or Dad or any kind of future that flashed through his mind first, but Dorian.
No.
James stopped and turned to Ezra. The bicycle came to a stop with a deep, sharp squeak.
“I wanna stop—or at least, I wanna slow things down.” James stood straight.
He looked into Ezra’s eyes. He saw something flash for a second, as if Ezra’s whole face went dark, but before James could identify or verify, it was gone, and again that smile was comfort itself. His head inclined toward James, his eyes lowered. “No,” Ezra said.
“It’s my call.”
James felt the force of Ezra’s gaze and his hand went into his pocket, where he took hold of Dink. He felt the little man squeeze back, letting him know he was there. It was amazing how quickly they’d arrived at a sort of shorthand understanding.
“James, you need to remember who you—”
<
br /> “No! Okay, we need to slow it down. Finally Dorian is . . . and the comic and lots of stuff is different now and . . . no. Listen, I’m not ready for this all to end. I can’t just say, okay, today I walk away.”
Ezra stopped.
James was a step past before he realized and halted as well. He looked back at Ezra, whose eyes tightened as they searched James’s face. “Today?”
“What?”
“You said ‘today.’”
Oh, crap.
“James, the only way you could walk away today would be if you knew the name.”
James always sucked at this game. He tried to hold Ezra’s gaze, but a twitch started in his lying, weak guts and rolled up to one of his eyes. He looked down and dropped the cigarette.
“Oh, James, this is wonderful. After all this time . . . I’d almost—oh, but to see Morning Star again. James, we should go to—”
“No.”
The rage was plain this time, and Ezra made no attempt to hide it. He seemed to grow in stature astride his bicycle, looking down at James, who could feel the fury coming off him in sheets. It’s awful to have to rely on someone else, but there’s no way around it. James could see the thoughts swirling in Ezra’s mind, could catch them as easy as bubbles floating by. Why did it have to be this kid?
It matters only that I’m the One, not that I’m me.
Ezra dragged his fingers through his hair. He dropped the kickstand and leaned against the bike and his eeeaaassssy smile was back.
“You know, James, you can want to be one of them as bad as you like. You can wish for it and wait for it, fine, but that changes nothing. It will never happen. Do you understand? It will never happen. They’re . . . they’re mice. They’re scared little creatures running from one safe, dry place to another. And here you stand, a giant, mightier than all of them put together, if only you’d embrace it, and you sit around and pine. You hope and wish that you could be one of them. You know what I say to that?” He spat on the grass between them. “Embrace, accept. You are a god trying to live amongst your worshippers, and the sooner you understand that the better. And it doesn’t mean you can’t have what you want. You know that. There’s so much work to be done here, and you can make that little girl do whatever you like—or anyone else for that matter. Fear, James! Fear is directing you. You have to shrug it off and go boldly forward. Boldly forward!”