The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1)

by Mark Reynolds

  Jack placed his apartment keys in an envelope on the windowsill before he left. On the outside of the envelope he wrote, “Lou, Something came up sooner than expected. Fuck you, too.”

  Then he grabbed his laptop and duffel bag, lifted the box of food from the cupboard upon one arm, and left for the Soup Kitchen down the street.

  He never returned to the apartment again.

  GONE … BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  The Writer stepped from the Café Tangier into the morning sun; a sun not at all like the one he was used to, that burning, withering orb in a cloudless sky bleached near white by its unforgiving heat. He carried two lattés, napkins wrapped around the heavy paper cups to protect his fingers from the heat, a solution that worked only passably well.

  One was for him, the other for Jack; a little positive reinforcement to bolster his resolve. Yesterday had been a trying day for the aspiring writer, and, as it happened, Jack was fond of raspberry-mocha lattés.

  The Writer knew this.

  In truth, he knew this before the two of them even met.

  The Writer knew a great deal more about Jack than Jack ever would have guessed. And knowing what he knew, it was easy enough to manipulate the circumstances that would push or lead someone like Jack towards a certain path. Free will was an illusion, a lie believed in by those who did not see reality from all the angles that the Writer was privy to.

  He started walking towards the station, hoping he hadn’t misread his new protégé, hoping the young writer hadn’t lost his nerve during the night. It was no lie that this was the greatest opportunity of Jack’s life; his big chance to finally do what he always believed he should be doing. A second chance. He was also being honest when he told him that he needed a new Caretaker and quickly, someone who would look after his special place and protect it from the others.

  Had he mentioned the others to Jack? The Writer could not remember. He hoped so. Jack should know that becoming the Caretaker would not likely go without a challenge. Ownership of the Nexus was a prize much sought after by those few who still knew what it was and how to use it.

  The others—the ones he hoped he had mentioned—were without right or claim to the Nexus, but custom and law had little to do with reality. Survival of the fittest was an axiom that existed universally—not simply in this universe, but in all of them.

  “When did you last take pleasure in sunshine, Algernon?”

  The Writer felt the soles of his shoes freeze to the sidewalk, a feeling come over him like ice water, chasing the blood from his heart and turning him numb. Will alone kept him from stumbling, a misstep that would have ended his life right then.

  Only one other person still knew that name, all others gone now to their grave and good riddance to most of them. But there was still one who knew him, who still knew him as anything other than whom he claimed to be, one who still knew the truth.

  The Writer turned on the man standing behind him. “How did you escape?”

  “You opened a door,” the man replied, his voice harsh and papery. “You’re a fool if you think something won’t come through. Tell me you’re not surprised. You of all people should have known that I would be coming. Or did you actually believe you could hide from me in this pathetic shell of a reality?”

  The Writer stared down the empty sidewalk at the other, his cream-colored suit, loose and comfortable and inappropriate to his malefic nature. He was leaning upon a walking cane, a Panama hat tipped jauntily upon his head, casting a shadow across half of his face. To the casual observer, the man’s eyes might actually be normal.

  But the Writer knew Gusman Kreiger better. He was one of them, one of the others he had neglected to warn Jack about. And of them all, Gusman Kreiger was the most dangerous.

  “You’re not supposed to be here, Kreiger. What do you want?” the Writer shouted back, preferring to keep his distance for safety’s sake.

  “I’m surprised at you, Algae,” Gusman said, one hand jammed into his pants pocket, looking as if his fingers were struggling to keep hold of something; something wriggling to get free; a pocketful of writhing adders. “I think you know why I’m here.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Good. Then why don’t you save me a great deal of time and effort, and yourself a great deal of trouble, and hand it over.”

  “Hand what over, Kreiger?”

  “I lost the other four, but not this one. You brought it here with you, I can tell, so don’t play with me. You have no idea how difficult it is for me to be here.” And for one brief moment, Gusman Kreiger seemed to be pulled sideways, as if caught suddenly in a wall of hurricane-force wind that trapped him, tearing at him like wheat in a thresher. Kreiger’s teeth ground tight, his muscles forming rigid lines beneath a thin tissue of flesh, and his eyes locked with the Writer’s revealing a curious, half-focused, half-manic glare.

  “I’d say you overstayed your welcome already,” the Writer remarked. “Or have you forgotten that you do not belong in this place?”

  “I belong where I please,” Kreiger said tightly, regaining his consistency, if not his poise, the strain evident in the gleam of sweat on his forehead and temples. The impression of sliding sideways was gone now, replaced by a kind of rage that seemed to manifest itself physically under the flesh of the others face and head like a writhing knot of worms.

  “Of course you do, Kreiger,” the Writer remarked with a malicious grin. “But you don’t get to stay. That’s the rule.”

  “Don’t talk to me of rules, Algernon. You treat the Nexus like a back alley whorehouse, a place to come and go as you please. There are rules, true enough, and you’re breaking them with every breath you take.”

  “A lecture on rules from a Cast Out?” the Writer admonished. “I am the Caretaker. The rules are mine to break.”

  “You’re unworthy—”

  “Have you any idea of how ridiculous such an accusation is from one such as yourself? Cast from the Nexus for sheer arrogance, the refusal to acknowledge that some rules are beyond your will to control, and that you would have to bend to them, or be broken. Go away, Kreiger. You were cast out. This is no longer any of your affair.”

  “Isn’t it? You’re leaving, Algernon. You’ve come here looking for another to take your place.”

  “I came here to sell my manuscript. I write books. I’m sure a hack such as yourself can grasp the premise, even if its mastery eludes you.”

  “You came here to pass on the final ticket, Algernon. Don’t lie to me; it is an art at which you are remarkably inept. And don’t pretend not to understand what I’m talking about! Give me the ticket, now!”

  Again, Kreiger appeared to slide sideways, caught by some otherworldly wind blowing out of thin air, intent upon blasting him straight through the molecules of the nearby building, his features reduced to wet paint smeared across glass. It lasted only a moment, but the duration was fractionally longer than before, and it took him longer still to recover and pull himself back together. “I’m on borrowed time here, and so, by extension, are you.”

  “You’d better go, Gusman,” the Writer warned softly. “Stay here any longer, and this world will tear you to shreds. The Wasteland is already reaching out for you … and it wants you back. You’re to blame for where you are, Kreiger—”

  “No!” Kreiger screamed. “You are right about rules that cannot be broken, but you are gravely mistaken as to which ones they are. Now I want that ticket!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Kreiger’s jaw worked slowly, side to side, taut muscles threatening to grind his teeth to splinters. His eyes, one blue, the other green, blazed beneath a fiercely knit brow, fixing upon the Writer like barbed hooks. Then Kreiger started forward, long hungry strides eating up the distance separating them. The Panama hat slipped from his head and disappeared, smearing the air like a chalk etching brushed away by a careless hand. The Writer saw it for a moment, a fading image growing long and thin like smoke lost to the breeze, then gone without a
trace.

  Now nothing separated the Writer from the malefic stare of Kreiger’s different-colored eyes. They were eyes that understood hatred and loathing and the bitter pain of shattered aspirations that fed upon the heart like a crawling mass of ooze-blackened maggots; eyes that obtained some measure of satisfaction, even pleasure, from the pain they witnessed in others. Caught within his eyes, the Writer stood stricken, feeling like a small rodent caught in the golden stare of a serpent.

  In his life, the Writer had seen many things: some things so wondrous as to blind the eye of God, and some so terrible as to shatter all the devils in hell like so many thin, porcelain cups. But never before had he known the raw terror he felt now watching the universe itself try to drag Gusman Kreiger back to the reality from which he came … and Kreiger able to resist!

  “What have you done, Kreiger?” Algernon moaned, his voice sounding tired and feeble even to his own ears, the voice of a very old man. “You’ve become a monster.”

  “My skills have sharpened over time, Algernon, and now I’m taking my due.” The other smiled, and for a moment only, the stick he carried flickered with a ghostly image that was taller, more ornate; the retinal echoes of a staff mystically hidden behind the air. “One piece at a time.”

  The Writer stood paralyzed, his mind caught in the grip of demanding claws that sank deep into the soft tissue of his brain, digging in and holding on with jagged nails. He watched as Kreiger stepped closer, purposeful strides that would carry him up to the Writer until the two men were standing nose to nose, and he could do nothing. Then the eyes would swallow him whole. How had Kreiger become so strong? he wondered. Years in the Wasteland should have left him weak and mad. Instead, he was transformed, made into an abomination!

  A burning pain ate through the Writer’s fingertips, urgent signals of anguish exploding through the spell of Kreiger’s stare. For one dazed moment, The Writer looked down with incomprehension, and saw the forgotten drinks in his trembling hands. A napkin had fallen away and left his bare fingertips exposed to the throbbing heat penetrating the cardboard cups, the pads of his fingers bright red and agonizing. But instead of throwing them down and sucking on his burned fingers, the Writer luxuriated in the pain, focused on the sharp stabbing, the hard, slow pulses that rocked each digit and throbbed all the way to the base of his palm like a heartbeat. Turning all of his attention upon the white, excruciating source, the Writer slowly looked away from Kreiger’s mad eyes, and deliberately turned aside …

  … nearly colliding with the two figures standing directly behind him, waiting.

  How long have they been standing there? the Writer wondered morosely. How long have you been foolishly entertaining Kreiger, trading remarks like two bullies in the schoolyard, him putting the pieces in place all the while.

  The Writer felt very much alone, a man who has lost his world. And Gusman Kreiger … well, Kreiger made any place he happened to be his. Two-thousand years ago, in another reality, Kreiger had turned water into wine then walked upon the sea, if only to inspire a devout following who would indulge his ego’s every whim and fancy. This plane was not a barrier to Kreiger. That he could escape the Wasteland at all was a testament to the extent of his control over reality. That he could bring others along with him was meant as a demonstration of his resolve: Kreiger would take the ticket—and thereby the Nexus—and the Writer could do nothing to stop him.

  What were you thinking, old man?

  The two creatures—there was nothing about them that might be confused with human beings—stared back at him with blank expressions, their faces a hodgepodge of leathery skin, jagged fangs and bestial eyes. They were dressed identically: long coats of black, collars pulled up as if against some imaginary storm, their monstrous appearances concealed like comic book goons beneath the wide, drooping brims of their black hats; they were images lifted off old cinema posters, bad pulp comics, the worst kind of B-movie. One had a hawkish nose and ice-colored eyes, his face carved and creased like an ancient, wind-worn statue. The other gazed absently, eyes burned milky white, sightless, slits instead of nostrils covered with folds of skin like some abstract artist’s perverse graffiti, a skull obscenely fleshed. The flaps of skin bulged spasmodically as it sniffed the air, sensing the Writer purely by smell.

  Wasteland dregs! The Writer thought in amazement. The pompous fool has actually carried Wasteland dregs with him into this world!

  “Tell me Algernon,” Kreiger said. “You call yourself the Writer, but how will you write when my creatures have bitten off your hands? How will you see your words when they have gouged out your eyes? How will you speak your stories when they are eating your tongue?” Kreiger’s voice grew closer, his words punctuated by the steady footfall against cement like the sound of hobnailed boots stamping iron catwalks in a dungeon buried far below the earth and the sun and the sight of God. “There are many of us who would like access to the Nexus, Algae. More than you could ever imagine. Now, for the last time, where … is … that … TICKET?”

  And for the Writer, the world seemed suddenly caught like a fly in amber, all the players reduced to bees struggling through a honey jar, the air viscid and thick, every movement unbelievably drawn out and impossibly long. The Writer saw his own numbed fingers squeeze the burning hot cups, the plastic lids bending and popping loose exactly as he was tossing them, splashing the still steaming liquid into the faces of the two creatures barring his way. And then he was running, shouldering between the dregs as they hunched over squealing and clutching at their scalded flesh with clawed hands. He never slowed to see if either was hurt, or how badly. He simply ran.

  He had to get to Cross-Over Station; it was his only chance.

  Behind him, a scramble of thumping, footsteps in pursuit accompanied by a thickened wheezing sound; the dregs were unaccustomed to this world, to the water in the air. He had an edge.

  Don’t be a fool, old man. You’re the one not used to this world, he thought darkly, and knew it to be true. Already he could feel the rapid thumping of his heart against his chest, the sound of blood pressing through his neck and behind his ears. Try as he might, he could not breathe deep enough to keep running like this, reduced to short gulps of air like a landed fish. He was too old; too old for Kreiger and his pet demons. How much further to Cross-Over Station? Two blocks? Three?

  He had to try. He harbored no illusions about what they would do to him if they caught him, especially when they discovered that the ticket was gone.

  I have to warn Jack!

  Around him, no one looked up, or saw him, or even moved, all trapped in the moment between moments, the last battleground between the Writer and the mad wizard of the Wasteland. Or was this all in his head, invisible monsters, the manifestations of his own secret madness? Will the world miss me when I die? Will they even know?

  Must get to Cross-Over Station, he thought through a cloud of exertion.

  The dregs devoured his lead with inhuman strides, lions charging across the savannah, single-minded in their intent, eager only for the kill. If he stayed in the streets where the way was straight and open, the Writer knew he wouldn’t make another block before they dragged him down … and started to feed.

  How could he have underestimated Kreiger so completely? How had he made himself believe he could simply give the Nexus over to a successor of his choosing without a challenge? Was Kreiger right? Had he become so arrogant as to believe his own fiction? All he could do now was try to get to the station and warn Jack before it was too late.

  The Writer ducked into an alleyway, hoping he could force the dregs to sacrifice speed for maneuverability. If he could just reach Cross-Over Station, things would be different. Once there, he would be able to show these damnable dregs what was what. Kreiger wasn’t the only one who had picked up a few tricks over the years. Fuck with me, will you, charlatan? If I make Cross-Over Station, your last act upon this plane will be eating your own entrails.

  The black-coated creatures skidded into t
he alleyway, the speed of the hawk-nosed one carrying it part way up the brick wall before it leapt back upon the pavement, its pursuit undeterred. The blind one crashed face first into the side of the building, backed away blood-spattered but unfazed, and paused only long enough to smell the air anew before starting down the alley.

  Disappointed, the Writer pushed himself to run even faster, desperate to reach Cross-Over Station, that thin spot—just one of many—where realities touched …

  … and collided head-on with the outstretched arm of a third dreg as it reared up from the alley debris like a wolf spider pouncing from its hole, clothes-lining him.

  The Writer’s head snapped backwards, the world, gelid and impenetrable a moment before like bad stock footage of slow-motion newsreels, instantly freed itself from the torpid ice. In a flash, he found himself staring straight up at a blur of cool blue sky, a feeling in the back of his head like he had cracked his skull. Probably not, he reasoned, or you wouldn’t think it so coherently. But you did lose your glasses. And that feeling in your chest and down your arm, like you were impaled upon a fence post … that can’t be good.

  Something pale and shadowy loomed over the Writer, then pressed closer, made itself clearer. He was again looking into the blue and green eyes of Gusman Kreiger, the man’s face framed in silver-white hair. Only the blue and the green were broader now, the man’s pupils little more than pinpoints in the strange sea of color. And he was making a tiching sound with his tongue. “You broke your glasses, Algae.”

  Kreiger held the wire frames close to the Writer’s face for inspection: one lens completely gone, the other so spider-webbed with fractures that it would likely shatter with the lightest tap. “If you can’t see me,” Kreiger said, “How will you know if I’m pleased with what you tell me?”