This is Not the End

by Jesse Jordan

  I am nothing.

  James stood at the edge of the water. The smell of salt water was back and strong, and for a moment it carried James to a beach somewhere in his earliest memories, and his mother stood in the waves, hair matted to her head, laughing, as he stood on the hard, wet sand, too scared to go out. The memory rushed in and filled him and then dissolved. He tried to bring it back up—had no idea when it was from—but all that he could call back now was a memory of the memory. The moment was gone.

  This water, though, was nothing like the memory had been. The smell of salt and matches swirled the atmosphere, but there were no waves. This water lay against the shore like carpet. It was an unnerving sight, though it took James a few seconds to puzzle out why.

  It’s too big to be this still. The water disappeared in the distance, the way it did in oceans or Lake Michigan. But when there’s that much water, it’s supposed to move. This water was still as Haley Pond. James was looking out over the sea when he first saw it, and an electrothunderclap of fear blitzed his whole system. He felt it in his fingertips, in the follicles at the back of his scalp, in his knees and balls and even behind his eyes. Everything tingled. There it is.

  The Pit.

  It was out in the water, maybe fifty yards or so away, and James flashed back to the dreams, to the smells, to the shimmering walls. Four figures stood next to the Pit, facing him, the sky behind them a melting cloud of pink. James didn’t recognize three of the figures, but there was no mistaking the man on the left.

  How long would James have stood on the banks, afraid and unsure how to proceed, had Ezra not waved? That wave, so full of old camaraderie and warmth, the gesture of a visiting friend, set off a mindless explosion of rage in James and then he was in front of them, ten feet or so from the Pit. The water was different here. It flowed in, cascading over the sides as if the Pit were a vortex or waterfall of some kind. From all directions the water streamed toward it, and there, at its edge, was Ezra and his comrades. James barely looked at Ezra’s companions, even though two of them were monstrously large. He had eyes for only the interim librarian of George Washington High School, and staring at him, he remembered all the talks and lectures and admonitions, and the words came out unbidden.

  “It’s all a lie.”

  “What is?” Ezra said with a slight incline of the head.

  “The Creator, the prophecy, all of it. Mikhael made it all up.”

  “No, James.”

  “It is. I looked inside him. I saw it.”

  Ezra smiled that same patient teacher’s smile James had seen so many times. “You don’t understand, James. Even if that’s true, even if it started as a lie, it’s true now. We’ve all made it true. Look at who you are and what you can do. James, look at where you’re standing right now.”

  Ezra’s hand fell open toward the Pit. James’s gaze followed, and his surroundings turned to white noise. The world was only James and the giant Pit. Standing here, James could not deny it: something down there wanted him. It called him. He felt, in fact, as if the air itself was pressing him down into the Pit. But more than that, he felt his own desire. He wanted it—more than anything he had ever wanted in his life.

  No! Dorian. You’re here for Dorian.

  James looked up from the Pit and saw the pleased expression catch on Ezra’s face.

  “Where’s Dorian?”

  Ezra smiled, just as he had that first time they talked on the porch—and his eyes were like a hug, and his smile was trust itself. But now it was different. James could see it was only a glamour. It was a fresh coat of paint, nothing more. His eyes told Ezra as much, and he waited for the librarian to arrange his face back to its normal countenance.

  “I am sorry, James, things had to go the way they did.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at the Diplomat Motel.”

  The unexpected answer short-circuited his planned response (“I swear to god, if you don’t tell me where she is right now I’ll kill you!”). Instead he said, “What?”

  “The Diplomat. On Washington.”

  What?

  “It’s the white motor court with the colonnades. The sign out front advertises that they have HBO.”

  “But you . . . you took her. She called me.”

  Ezra smiled gently, a teacher instructing a child slow to catch on. He opened his mouth, and out came Dorian’s voice. “James? Help. Please. He took me. We’re at the factory. I—no! Get away from—” And then it was his own voice again, soft and comforting. “I apologize if I frightened you, James. It was necessary to get you here. I would never hurt someone who is important to you. You should know that, but I understand in your current, keyed-up state you’re not thinking clearly. I mean it, though—I apologize. It was a rotten trick. Dorian is sound asleep, I assure you. Safely, pharmacologically asleep at the Diplomat Hotel, room 208, peacefully awaiting your return. You see? You don’t have to choose. You can have her if you like. Free Morning Star and return to your world. If you want her by your side as you rally the world, then make it so. Surely you’ve realized by now that you can have whomever you wish.”

  “I—”

  “Enough!” It was the giant on the right side of the group. He was as tall as Gabrael but thicker, with skin that appeared pale and hard as marble. “You release Morning Star!”

  Ezra leaned in and said, “Quiet, you—”

  “No! Molok will not be quiet! Molok says boy go down and free Morning Star! Now!”

  The giant called Molok took a single step toward James, who felt a snap inside, and all of the rage and confusion churning since Dorian’s disappearance, everything which had been waiting for Ezra, was free. When Molok moved toward him, James felt that familiar rush of fear, then shame, which exploded into a single thought.

  And then Molok was gone. Or so it seemed for a moment, before all eyes noticed it: a tiny, insectile spec. Eyes strained and focused, and there, roughly the size of a fly—hard to make out against the shimmering water—was Molok, his mouth open, screaming something too small for the world to hear and running a frantic, multidirectional geometry.

  “Wow.”

  James turned to Ezra, but he wasn’t the one who’d spoken. Ezra was frozen, his hands up as if to ward off an attack, staring at the tiny scampering Molok, who had finally settled on a direction.

  It was the being to Ezra’s side who was speaking now. “Not bad, kid.”

  And then James knew him. He knew that voice and he knew those eyes, and a small warm joy of recognition pushed through everything for a moment. “Dink.”

  James looked him over and felt, oddly, that this was exactly what he’d assumed Dink would look like. He was smaller than the others, with legs like bows and arms like cables. His face was dirty and his mouth was pulled back in a playful and mocking grin, like a big brother.

  “And this,” Dink said, motioning to the one on his other side, “is Astoreth.”

  “It’s an honor,” she said. She was larger than both Ezra and Dink, and her shoulders pulled back and protruded, as if her bones might burst from the skin at any moment. She nodded to Molok, who was now trying to scale the mountainous side of her foot. “I apologize for my companion’s impertinence.”

  James found it hard to look away from the violent bones of her face, from the small dark eyes, but when he finally did pull his gaze down, he found himself transfixed by the outlined musculature of her chest.

  No. The Pit. You must!

  “I—”

  The wail of an army exploded from far away and washed over them. Ezra and James and Dink and Astoreth (and presumably Molok) turned and looked, and from over the mountains came the army of Metatron, as thick as a swarm of bees. They blotted out the sky, riding across the air. Some appeared to run across the sky, while others looked to be swimming or leaping, and still others rode on animals and things which James could not identify. The cry grew louder and louder, until their shouts drowned out all other noises, all atmosphere. It was a bla
nket of life, thrashing across the sky, undulating like a flying carpet and then angling down, toward them, toward the Pit.

  James and the others said nothing. They watched, and in moments the mass was close enough to identify. At the front edges, he recognized Gabrael and Raffi and Uri. In the center, descending to their position, was Mikhael, resplendent in gold and light, as if reflecting a sun only he could see. Mikhael floated, gossamer fabric trailing. On each side of him came Munk and Nack, as if they were his escorts, though more unimpressive escorts it would be hard to find. Each rode half-crescent chariots that required every last bit of their focus and strength to control. Luckily, the descent was quick, and within moments Munk, Mikhael, and Nack were on the ground. The remaining army followed like a tail coming to rest.

  Munk and Nack jumped from their chariots as if scalded, happy to be rid of them. They crossed to James, waving madly.

  “We thought,” Munk said, “that you would come back down.”

  “We waited,” Nack added as they reached James, bowing slightly to him and the others.

  “Nack!” Astoreth said. “We thought you were gone.”

  “No, no, just, uh, hard at work.”

  “Yes,” Munk said before turning to James once more. “This has been a very eventful day.”

  Mikhael stepped forward then. His army did not advance a fraction of an inch, but he closed the distance between himself and the Pit, and James could feel the others shrink back in his presence.

  This is it. It’s really happening. And with that, James’s whole self came alive in oneness and purpose, tingling with static energy. He could feel all of them, in him; the waiting, the anticipation, and in horror he realized this was his reaching out reversed. Their want, their need, their faith—it filled him like a hand in a glove; its power directed him. It felt . . . wonderful and true. He was a tool with a singular purpose, nothing more.

  Dorian was a character in a book. Ezra was nobody. His family was a dream. All there was in the world was the cage, the prison, the Pit. He wanted to feel the seals open, the urge as exquisite as if it were his own prison. This is all. All! James was filled with the whole-body-and-soul want—need—of addiction, of I’ll-kill-everyone-I-ever-met-just-to-make-this-happen.

  Mikhael said, “It is time.”

  And Ezra nodded as they held each other’s eyes. “Yes, it is.”

  James watched himself turn and march toward the Pit. You don’t have to listen to them. You don’t have to listen to the urge.

  But I want this!

  What about Dorian?

  Later!

  What about Mom and Dad? What about . . . ? What about . . . ?

  Later! Later! Later! I neeeeeeed this.

  James stepped toward the Pit, and as he did, he saw the form begin to appear, ascending a step at a time, just as it had in his dream. It was massive and wet, and in its movements were violence and malevolence. He could feel his own fear as it swelled into the world outside of himself. The sky darkened and the army grew quiet, losing its pep-rally ballsiness, moving closer to each other for the safety of the tribe. Then Leviathan was clear of the Pit, its clawed feet piercing the water as it stalked toward James.

  You are nothing.

  Its breath was a long, damp purge of death-stink. It stared down at James, eyes like a dumb and savage animal.

  You’re the fear. Not him. You’re your own fear. You’re everything. You’re everything.

  “You are the One,” Leviathan said, its fat, wet tongue sneaking through its lipless mouth.

  “I am.”

  “Only the One may enter.”

  James nodded. He felt the collective tension infecting him, felt the anxiety of those waiting on history. They could feel its imminence—and that was when the thought occurred to James. “Uh, I think I want my friends to come down with me.”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “No, that’s not how it works,” Ezra said. “Only the One may enter.”

  “Right,” James said. “But I bet I can change it if I want. Right?”

  “No,” Ezra said. “No.”

  “Uh, hey, Leviathan. I’m gonna bring a couple people down with me.”

  “Yes,” Leviathan said. “The One will bring a couple people down with him. Yes.”

  James looked from Dink to Munk and Nack, and he felt a swell of gratitude that no words had been necessary. The three of them were at his side a moment later.

  “Wait!”

  James turned to see Mikhael, his hands up to halt the proceedings. But then, as if he hadn’t expected everyone to look, hadn’t planned what to say next, the words sped out in a sheepish mumble. “I wanna go.”

  “Alright,” James said. “Come on.”

  James made his way to the mouth of the Pit, seeing Mikhael and Ezra following—and the Pull was different. No, not different. It was the same, but now James could see it. It was as if he’d been fighting an invisible tension, but now he saw the fisherman’s line, and while being able to follow it did not make it disappear, it did allow him the freedom of thought. He placed his right foot on the top step and began the descent. The steps were thinner than in the dream—or maybe just thinner than he remembered. James looked down and watched the steps widen into a comfortable size before resuming his decline. The drop-off was just as he remembered. It mimicked fog swirling, and the bottom seemed to call out. No, what really drew the eyes were the walls, shimmering and liquid. How had he not realized what they were? He walked, listening to the steps behind him, and saw them as if from above. He saw the Pull and tested its tension against the urge to turn and run. He felt like a horse being driven on by a master it hates.

  James stopped. To his right, beyond the flowing wall, he saw one of the gold teardrops. He inspected it, shimmering though obscured, like viewing light through frosted purple glass. He saw the glint of another, and as he looked at each one, his periphery caught the one next to it, then the ones just below and above, until the numbers overwhelmed and his sight adjusted. Blinking lights, swirling and innumerable in the descent, like trying to observe individual blades of grass. Just as in his dreams, they trembled with anticipation, shaking with life and begging pleeeeeaaaaaassssssse—

  And there was the Pull again. James submitted to it, rushing, taking the stairs two at a time—before remembering for the final time the foolishness of such things in this place. James chose, and then he was at the bottom of the Pit, in a dark antechamber. He could barely see the bottom stair for the darkness, though he could hear the others standing nearby and saw scratches of silhouettes here and there. Faint, disobliging light hung suspended miles above at the mouth of the Pit.

  The only other illumination was the pale blue glow coming from off to the side, from what James could now see was a hallway. He felt the Pull and made for it without another thought.

  James felt someone slip up next to him just as he entered the hallway.

  “It’s weird,” James said, “having you standing next to me and not on my shoulder.”

  “I imagine,” Dink said. Then, in a one-note whisper that James could barely hear, “I wonder, have you decided who you’re going to be yet?”

  James turned and found Dink’s taunting smile in the dim hall. He looked back, but the others didn’t seem to have heard. The hallway was snaking now, but James could see the tail of their group coming around the last bend. Ezra and Mikhael walked with purpose, and both looked as if they wanted to rush to James, as if they’d been left out of the cool kids’ conversation, but they were separated from him by Munk and Nack, who were walking at all angles, pirouetting around each other as they looked up and down, taking in the arched dark-water walls that made the hallway. James wanted to ask what he should do. He wanted to tell Dink he felt trapped, driven as much by them as by his own desire to see the task done.

  And as he thought this, it came gushing back, all the fears he’d had in Stone Grove. He saw Dorian singing, spine arched, head back, and he could see the musi
c, could see the breath in patterns—and the bus driver, the one who saved him. What was his name? Was he really going to make him fight? After he saved him?

  James saw his parents and the Schroeder brothers and Mr. Llewellyn; he saw Guernica.

  You can’t bring this to the world.

  It’s already there. You can’t stop it.

  No! You can’t do this! But then the Puuuuulllllll. Go! Let Morning Star go! Let everything go. James could tell himself whatever he liked, but he knew one truth in his heart: he was powerless. And when he looked back to Dink, he saw that the smile was gone, and where it had been was concern, the worry and defense of a parent.

  But if there was anything else to be said, any advice or support, it was too late.

  The hallway took a final twist and opened, and just like that James Salley found himself standing in the chamber he’d seen so often in his dreams and the bliss of mindless and singular purpose rang through him.

  He’d never really seen the entirety of the room in the dreams, though, never had eyes for anything but the solitary cell. Now he could not help but take it in. The walls rose on all sides, seamlessly up and up, and converged without line or crease in a majestic half-circle ceiling—like a church. As the others filed in behind him, James noticed that while the walls did shimmer, something was different. Ice. The walls are ice. He turned to look at Mikhael and found him taking in the room as well, though with an expression akin to pride.

  A scream issued from the sarcophagus. It fired through all of them, feeling like a personal assault on their brains. James clasped his hands over his ears and saw the others do the same. But it did nothing. The next scream ripped through them just the same. James saw Munk and Nack looking at each other with undisguised terror as he turned back to the sarcophagus. The scream was a prisoner’s howl. Let me out, it said. Look at me! Look at me!

  James took a step toward the sarcophagus, and it shook. He could feel the thing inside spinning with madness, throwing itself against the walls, begging and dying and demanding. A whisper of a scream slipped out, though James couldn’t make out what it said. What he couldn’t miss, though, was the pain, the pleading. It was like hearing the echo of a mother wailing over her dead child.