Nail snarled, a guard dog ignorant to the conversations around it, understanding only what it should hate.
“All of your tricks are revealed, Jack. Nothing more up your borrowed sleeve but a dead rabbit and a few faded scarves. If you’d like to see how ineffectual he really is, order him across that line you’ve drawn in the sand. My friend would enjoy nothing more than augmenting his talismans with a few long bones from your pet pit bull.”
Reginald Hyde smiled pleasantly, but his stare went past the small gargoyle and on to the others, sizing up fairer bones than Nail possessed.
“You see, I know the tricks of your Sanity’s Edge Saloon.” Then Kreiger paused and corrected himself. “Forgive me; Algernon’s Saloon. You are simply borrowing it, Jack. You understand that, don’t you? He created everything you see here. You’re simply occupying his throne, a boy-king undeserving of his laurels. You must realize that now, Jack. I can see the confusion in your face, the complete lack of understanding. You come before me making hollow threats of what I can and cannot do with no concept of the extent of my power, or the limits of your own. Algernon underestimated me, and paid for it with his life. What will you pay, Jack?”
“You don’t scare me,” Jack lied; the adrenaline jacking through his system had him nearly shaking with the urge to run.
“Nonsense. I can smell your terror from here, Jack, even over the stench.” Kreiger snapped his fingers, and the two carcasses slid back amongst the crowd of dregs as if towed on invisible strings. The other Wastelanders fell upon the meat, tearing the bodies apart to the Cast Out’s indifference. “Be honest, Jack. What have you accomplished so far? You proclaim yourself to be the ruler of the Nexus, the very power of the universes at your fingertips. So what have you done with it?”
What indeed? Jack thought. A good computer? A CD player? A timely couple of beers?
“I’ll bet you managed to conjure something to eat,” Kreiger pursued. “You smell of coffee, sweetly flavored with cream. And maple syrup. Or did one of your constructs come up with that one?” Kreiger’s eyes traced over the other four, measuring each in turn. His gaze lingered on Ellen. “She must have been the one. She has a deepness about her that surpasses your other constructs. I’m sure she’ll provide hours of amusement for you before she fades away.”
“What’s a construct?” Ellen whispered into Jack’s ear. “Why does he keep calling us that?”
“Forgive me,” Kreiger said. “I thought he would have told you by now.” Then Kreiger turned to Jack. “Shame on you, Caretaker. This above all things, you should have told them.”
“Told us what?” Leland demanded angrily. “What should he have told us?”
“None of you four exist. Jack does, just as we do, because Jack came from one of the worlds outside. But the rest of you are just ideas, figments, the beginnings of stories with no middle or end. Constructs. You exist here and only here, in this minuscule fragment of a world, but none of you actually exist in any true sense. I thought Jack would have told you that by now. Unless he didn’t know.” The possibility seemed to amuse the Cast Out.
“Look here, mister,” Quince declared, “I don’t know what kind of mind-games you’re playing, or what the hell you and the freak show are on, but if anything isn’t real, it’s this place and all of you. I know I’m real. I know where I come from, and what I do, and where I’m going. So you can save the metaphysical babble about how we’re all just undone stories, or whatever nonsense you’re peddling, because it’s bullshit. Bullshit! My name is Leland Quince, and I’m late for a very important meeting—”
“A meeting for what?” Hyde challenged.
Mr. Quince hesitated as if he had lost his train of thought, or his place on a cue card. “I buy and sell companies—”
“Name three,” Hyde demanded, his prissy tone made sinister as he stared down the businessman.
Leland glared, lips pursed tightly, refusing to be baited.
“You say you know where you were going,” Hyde pursued. “Let me guess. A high-powered business meeting to discuss the profits and figures and forecasts of the last five quarters, cost to serve, EBIT. Who to take over, what stocks to buy up, and what companies to tear down.”
Leland would not answer.
“So tell me the name of any three people who were going to be at the meeting with you. Any three. Your secretary? Your aide? The CEO? Anyone?”
Mr. Quince’s face reddened with frustration, but he would not answer, maybe could not answer.
“Don’t wrack your brain any more than necessary, Mr. Quince,” Hyde concluded, dismissing the issue and Leland both at once. “It simply isn’t within your capacity to know. The answers you’re looking for aren’t there. They never were. You are a character; poorly fleshed, pedantic, and predictable. A bad cliché. Were you not a construct, you might be worth my pity or even my scorn, but you don’t even merit that. You’re nothing more than a bad idea.”
Both Alex and Jack caught Leland as he started towards Hyde, scarlet with rage, hands clenched into fists. The dregs shifted near the guarded no-man’s land, and Hyde smiled, looking ridiculously pleased by the reaction.
“They’ll rip you apart,” Jack warned severely.
“He’s baiting you, Mr. Quince,” Alex said. “Think about it.”
Leland shrugged them both off, but did not renew his attack, instead turning away to adjust his tie and straighten his lapels. When he turned back, he looked at all of them, the Tribe of Dust and the group from the Sanity’s Edge Saloon alike. “I know who I am.”
“My associate may be too hasty in judgment, Mr. Quince,” Kreiger said politely. “Myself, I never judge harshly the dream for the inadequacies of the dreamer.” He turned again to Jack. “Do you know where he will go, Caretaker, a man with ambitions and potential? All he’s waiting for is you to write the life that will complete his ticket and bring back the train. For a construct, it’s the only way. Knowing the little of him that I do, I envision four different scenarios revolving around someone like Mr. Quince. What about you, Lovebone?”
“Seven,” the fat man remarked offhand, “though some are a bit … outré.”
“Seven,” Kreiger repeated with feigned admiration. “What about you, Jack? You’re the one holding the Nexus. You’re the one with the tickets that lead out of this world and back into the lives and realities yet to be. You have all the cards—or so you claim. Tell us the story of Mr. Leland Quince.”
Jack stared back, feeling the eyes of the others fall upon him, watching, waiting. What do you expect from me? he wanted to scream. You think I know what I’m doing here? You think I’m God or something? How can I create lives for anyone when I can’t even fix my own? What he saw was desperation; one he did not know how to assuage. The Writer never explained this. As Caretaker of the Nexus, the duty fell to him to look after them, but how? It was his mission, the one singular task that he needed to perform. Only it was a task for which he was unprepared, perhaps even incapable.
And the others would soon discover that fact—those that did not suspect it already. So much for second chances.
“What a waste.” Kreiger lamented. “Do you know what happens to constructs if you don’t finish their tickets in time? And there is a time limit, in case you didn’t know.”
“I knew,” Jack said, and immediately regretted it. Both Kreiger and Hyde smirked; Rebreather might have as well, but his mask closed away all expression.
“They fade away,” Kreiger declared. “Run out of time before you complete the task of finishing those tickets and sending these people on, and you lose it all. The Nexus rejects you, and you join the rank and file of the Cast Outs, roaming the Wasteland collecting the spare bits of cosmic power that blow around like the winnowed chaff of last autumn’s harvest. Someone as weak as you will die within days. And when you do, all those unfinished constructs will simply fade away. Seldom does the unrealized idea outlive the dreamer who conceives it. Soulless, they’ll dissolve into oblivion.”
Kreiger shook his head. “There you go again, Jack. Soon they won’t know whether to believe you or not. Fail and they’ll fade away and be lost, and you’ll die a madman’s death in the Wasteland, all the while screaming at your invisible friends.”
Kreiger let his words hang in the air a moment then added, “But it doesn’t have to end that way. Give us the tickets, relinquish the Nexus, and we’ll send all of you home … or anywhere else you would like to go.”
“You’re lying,” Jack said.
“No, Jack. You’re lying, to yourself and to them. You just don’t recognize the difference.”
“You were already cast out. What makes you think you could possibly succeed any better this time?”
“The Nexus cast me out almost two thousand years ago, Jack,” Kreiger said, anger slipping through some of the veneer. “And for two-thousand years I have lived in the Wasteland, perfecting my skill. The three of us have survived this world and risen to the top because we are the best. We are the creators and the shapers of reality, bringing forth life from the emptiness that exists all around us. What are you, Jack? Do you think reality will change because you can brew a cup of coffee? What makes you think you have the answers when you don’t even know the questions? Algernon made a mistake that he paid for with his life. That mistake was you. And your mistake will cost not only your life, but the lives of these four, as well.”
“How can we trust you?” Ellen asked.
Jack thought her question sounded less like an accusation than a search for information to bargain with.
“You can’t, Ellen Monroe,” Kreiger said. “And yes, I know you. I know everything there is to know about each and every one of you. Constructs are like open books. The question you should be asking is can you afford not to trust me? Can you afford to leave your existence in the hands of the charlatan around whom you now rally? Can any of you?”
Ellen seemed about to say something, glanced across at Reginald Hyde who was now staring at—or was he reading? —Lindsay. She kept her mouth closed, and tried to think back to things she knew in her life before, wondering if the gaps and holes were simply selective rejection of the mundane, forgotten trips and lost brain cells, or if the Tribe of Dust was actually hinting at a far greater truth.
“That’s our offer, Jack. We want the Nexus. Give it up, and all of you will be spared. Drag this out, and the gloves come off. Do we understand each other?”
“You’re lying,” Jack said softly. “You’re offering no guarantees except your word, which you said yourself we can’t trust. You’re just trying to scare us.”
“Oh no, Jack,” Kreiger said innocently. “I’m trying to scare them, a nightmare to drive them awake and see you for the sham you are. What have you done in your life, Jack? Have you made any headway in any area at all, or have you simply spent your time lamenting the things you do, and wishing for opportunities you don’t make happen, opportunities you don’t deserve to come your way and give you the chance to do you know not what?” When Jack failed to answer, Kreiger looked to the others, twisting the argument home. “You’ve tethered your fate to a sinking ship. Better than you have left their bones in the Wasteland, Jack, trying to hold the power of the Nexus. Ignorance is not a crime, but forcing others to suffer for it is.”
“I’ve heard enough, Kreiger. I have work to do. You and your Cast Outs stay outside of the perimeter. Nail will make sure your pets do the same.” Angry and humiliated, Jack momentarily allowed himself to forget that Kreiger was right: he didn’t know what he was doing, and he didn’t want to be responsible for the others, and he wanted very much just to go home. Blood from the dead dregs still stained the sand, the rotten stench prickling his sinuses. God, how he wanted all of this to be over.
But not Kreiger’s way. Jack turned around and started walking.
“Hide behind your walls then, Jack. You haven’t changed the outcome; you’ve only delayed it. I know every secret you thought might save you; you have nothing left. To the rest of you, those who have the most to lose and the least hold on the outcome, I will pledge to make your life anything you want. No wish is too big, no desire too great. This to anyone who brings me the tickets: the Nexus is all we want. The rest of you are free to go.”
Leland Quince turned to Jack. “You have these tickets, don’t you? The ones you talked about earlier?”
The Cast Out had probed the wall for the weakest point in the stone, and he had found it. “Come on, Nail,” Jack said. “They won’t try crossing again today.”
The gargoyle turned and followed, wiping blood from his face with the backs of his paws. The no-man’s land would remain inviolate, the entire confrontation orchestrated by Kreiger to test his mettle and theirs, to demonstrate his knowledge and Jack’s ignorance. Jack was reeling, uncertain of everything, especially himself. But nothing about their confrontation seemed to have taken Kreiger by surprise. In one move, the Cast Out had thrown down the gauntlet and drawn first blood.
“Determination will decide this battle,” Kreiger called after them. “Determination and steel.” Then the Cast Out turned away, dismissing Jack as one might a fraudulent painting hung with undue circumstance. “You have neither, Jack. Admit that, and you might save yourself and your friends a lot of pain and suffering. Make no mistake, the Nexus is ours, and your trespass upon what is ours shortens with every breath you draw. The rest of you remember my offer.”
From the nothing of the Wasteland, a trio of nomad’s tents sprang up, striped black and maroon like the dried husks of a venomous spider, the smell of sandalwood introduced to the desert air. The dregs curled down upon the border, lumps of sinew, claws and teeth, waiting like shamans in training for the call from God whom they might have confused with wizards or madmen.
A more somber group returned to the Sanity’s Edge Saloon, one lingering behind to stare at the retreating Cast Outs before following the others back.
A LESS THAN PLEASANT
GATHERING
“Well?”
Jack held a wet washcloth to the left side of his head because it made him feel better; the bleeding had long ago stopped, the injury not that severe. Considering a bullet ricocheted off his skull, he should probably count himself blessed. But the fact remained, he was living in a saloon perched on the edge of nothingness surrounded by strangers and enemies, both expecting things from him that he wasn’t sure he could deliver, and his head was pounding. And on top of all that, Leland Quince; the man’s open question an accusation hanging in the air.
“Well what, Mr. Quince?” Jack asked back.
“How much of what Kreiger said is true?”
“Some of it. All of it. None of it. How the hell should I know?”
“You’re the Caretaker!” Quince hollered, the word somehow taking on improbable importance. “If you don’t have the answers, who does?”
“Kreiger didn’t tell you anything I didn’t already try to explain to you on the platform half an hour ago. If you choose to listen to him over me, that’s your prerogative.”
“You were blithering on the platform. You had no idea what was going on, or what you were supposed to do, and you still don’t. What you call an explanation sounded more like the ramblings of an escaped mental patient. Why would you expect me to listen to that?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Just like the fact that you don’t know what you’re doing. That’s true as well, isn’t it? Our lives are in jeopardy and you haven’t got a clue what to do or how to do it.”
The bar yielded up scotch and ice—neither had been there this morning—and Leland was pacing the floor with a glass of it, sometimes gulping, other times pointing with it for emphasis. While Jack found a washcloth to clean the blood off his face and neck, Alex offered up his spare change for the Pepsi machine outside, buying cans of soda for the others. After that, an uneasy silence, long minutes of uncomfortable stares: accusation, confusion
, loss.
Until now.
In all fairness, Leland Quince might be correct. And Jack hated him even more for it. “I know more about what I’m doing than you, Mr. Quince.”
“Do you? Do you really? Then make those three madmen out there disappear. Make those animals they dredged up from the sand go back where they came from. Hell, just bring the trains back so we can all go home. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? What a Caretaker is supposed to do?”
“Believe me I’d like nothing better—”
“Where are the tickets, Jack?” Quince cut in. “You’ve been talking about them. Kreiger says you have them. So where are they?”
“Why?”
“Because you have no right to decide my future. I decide; not you. I want the train to come and take me back to my life. And don’t tell me I don’t have a life back there because I do.”
“I know,” Jack said quietly.
“No, Jack, I don’t think you do. Because if you did know, if you understood for even one second, you wouldn’t be standing there telling me you knew something about what you were doing. I don’t know whether to believe those three lunatics or not, but I know one thing: they’re the ones in charge, not you. And as far as I can tell, they have no issue with us; just you.”
“We’re in this together, Mr. Quince,” Ellen said, eyes never leaving the safety of the floor. Since their return, she’d sat against the wall, looking as if she wanted to melt into the wood. “Jack will do whatever he can to get us out of here.”
Leland Quince rolled his eyes. “Excuse me if I don’t find your analysis of his capabilities very credible. And in case you forgot, you’re in the same boat as the rest of us: stories without endings, bad scripts the studio’s giving one last rewrite to before dumping us for good. That is how we all ended up here, right Jack? You’re the writer they commissioned to rework the ailing storylines?”
The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) Page 18