The Dark West

by JT Dylan

  TWENTY-NINE

  Freeman's mind had no clarity. He could only see in flashes. He didn't know if they were memories or events that were happening at this moment. He only knew of the pain that came with them. He saw himself in a falling steel cage. Heard the hiss of air leave as the oxygen supply was compromised. Felt himself swim away into a fog, fighting against the sleep. The klaxons waking him as the craft drifted off course. Saw his own hand reach too late for the magnetic coil, the huge tidal waves almost licking the falling hull's glass belly by the time he pulled the cord, and then the crash of impact. Then darkness. He awoke again with his legs on fire, and rain in his eyes. Red and blue lights, a needle in his arm, a mask on his face. The world swam away but still the pain remained. When he came back the pain was greater, but so were his senses. His trained mind was already racing through his options. Survive first, reminisce later. He had no memory of who he was or how he got here. But he saw that he was in a medical facility, with people trying to fix him. No immediate threat. His legs were on fire, and he couldn't fight past the pain. He knew that no medical facilities could help him. He didn't know how he knew any of this, he just had a deep ingrained knowledge of what he needed to do to survive. He needed to give his mind and body some time, shut the pain off manually. It had been called a manual reset during training. It meant shutting the body down by activating the nano bots twice within a short period. By reactivating them while they were still in their recharge cycle they would enter their standby phase. Essentially they would power down all of their host's non essential biological systems , giving them the resources needed to heal their power source, the host body. There were a couple of side effects. One being an incremental time jump of a few seconds. The main by-product was of course that the host body would be completely shut down. An induced coma.

  He had little power in his hands, and his legs were no use, but he could just about focus past the fog long enough to squeeze his jaw shut. His last coherent thought before the darkness took him was one of abstract wonder. The lights above his bed were dancing.

  With the sudden increase in jaw pressure, the blood from Freeman's tender gums trickled onto his tongue. The dormant artificial cells reacted instantly with the saliva in his mouth, the first catalyst for digestion, and the nano-bots ignited in a chain reaction through his body. His bloodstream became a wave of silent re-boot instructions. Each micro-synthetic capsule signalling its neighbour to enter the shutdown phase. His blood pumped through his body, carrying the message along his arteries, through his veins and into tiny capillaries. The cells travelled unseen along connected IV lines, and through tiny pores in the electrical sensors on his chest. The nano-bots went into hibernation with a huge surge of negative ion energy, plunging the hospital into darkness and flickering Ben Freeman briefly out of existence.

  THIRTY

  They could smell the carnage before they saw it. The thick black smoke greeted them over the final ridge. There was no barking to welcome them this time, only a grim silence. The boy saw the smouldering ruin and slipped from Jack's grip. He ran towards his home, screaming the dog's name. Jack cursed and ran after him. The old man had told him what to expect but his instinct was still to protect the boy. He caught up to little Sonny just as he reached the charred grassland. A blackened post jutted out of the ground, still crackling with red embers at its tip. The dog's wooden post. The mutt's last stand. Jack knelt down and held the screaming boy close. He buried the boy's face into his chest, sparing him the prolonged sight of the charred fist-sized skull on the ground. The boy pushed Jack away and Jack saw the farmhouse's fire burn in the boy's wet eyes. Jack saw the boy become a man in that instant. The last trails of childhood burned away forever. He looked up at Jack.

  'They will die where they stand. The bastards will die a thousand deaths.'

  Jack's sweat suddenly felt cold with the realisation that this was the moment the boy's journey began. If he meant it or not, the boy would likely have the opportunity to fulfil his vengeful promise to the letter.

  Jack looked to the sky for answers that weren't there. He had his own errands to run. Where he was going was no place for the boy. He planned to stop the devil himself and there had already been one too many lives lost on that particular journey. The black book dug into his flesh as he moved and reminded him of even more complications. He watched the boy wipe away his tears and the loss Jack saw in those eyes reminded him so much of another boy, many years gone. The boy's face darkened.

  'Where's Pa? You don't think...' The boy looked suddenly terrified.

  'No.' Jack put a quick stop to such thoughts. He sighed and pushed himself up, adjusting his hat against the early sun. 'I have an idea about your Pa's whereabouts, and if I'm right, then he's far, far away from here.'

  The boy calmed a little.

  'Come. Let's see if we can't track down these bastards and bring hell to their door, what do you say?'

  The boy, realising he was no longer an army of one, blushed with gratitude.

  Jack held out his hand; A gesture of support.

  'Walk with me son. Let me show you something.'

  They walked together toward the burning shell of the house. The old man had been right. It was all gone. Burned to the ground. A cooking pot and some old iron tool were the only survivors inside the wooden carcass. The solid wooden table and stools nothing but stumps of black charcoal. It had been a furnace. Jack walked the perimeter with the boy, kicking the smoking earth as he went, searching for something. The boy looked up at Jack for the first few steps, hoping for answers. Jack ignored him and stuck to the task. The boy gave up eventually and held his eyes on the ground too, his grubby feet mimicking Jack's boots, overturning stones, pushing through thick black knots of grass.

  It was the boy that eventually found it, and Jack was glad. It would help a little with the boy's healing. Not much, but something that would at least help him focus his anger. The boy held up the item with curiosity. When he realised what it was he trembled. He brimmed with anger at what they had done and a great pride that the dog had gone down fighting. It was an index finger, chewed off at the bone. It was dark with soot, but not burned. Two more lay close by, and a thumb. The boy picked them up as if they were precious stones. He held them up to show Jack, but would not hand them over completely. Jack offered no objection. The boy would have his spoils of war. Besides, Jack had already learned all he needed from the first glance. He had an idea where he could find the owner of the digits, and that would lead to some answers. For the boy's sake and for his. Someone had tried to kill him last night, and Jack had never been one to forgive easily.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The hospital lights flickered back on and the patient was gone. A female member of staff screamed in surprise, and stumbled backward over the instruments trolley. Another ran out of the double doors. The anaesthetist was closest to the patient when it happened and was the only one that saw what happened next. He had time to notice the IV drip that lay disconnected across the bedsheets. The cardiac monitor cables slithered off the bed, pulled down by their own weight. He saw the pink blood-soaked gown lying forgotten on top of the bed linen. The sheets themselves now covered in caked dark mud, stones, rusty nails, and random fragments of glass and steel. It looked like someone had emptied a bucket of debris onto the bed. There was a moment of calm, then he saw the patient flicker back into existence on the bed. Like strobe lighting at a disco. Somewhere outside he heard shouting, and sneakers making a u-turn back towards the theatre. He just stood there, unable to react, studying the naked patient. The patient seemed to be breathing regularly, curled into an extreme foetal position. The anaesthetist saw that the man's bleeding had stopped. A dark crust of blood had congealed at the corner of his mouth, and his crushed legs were a criss cross of thick pink scars. While the bed sheets and gown still dripped with a ruby-red shine, all the blood on the man's wounds were dark and dry. They looked like they had healed. The anaesthetist's mind finally succumbed to this new reality and
he gripped the bed frame for support as his legs gave way under him. He heard the staff burst into the room, their bewildered shouts muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. His final thought as he fainted was of the blinking red light on the ceiling. He watched the hypnotic red light as the rest of the world turned into a thick haze.

  The tiny light emitting diode was attached to the front of a black and chrome device about the size of a small penlight. It was housed in a clear glass dome. It had a wide angle aperture and was surrounded by a cluster of 8 infra red LEDs. The device was a standard night vision closed circuit camera installed in most of the new medical units. It silently transmitted the unfolding events as packets of zeros and ones to an offsite, unmonitored secure server almost four hundred miles away.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The scratching was getting worse. His mind was a dark fog. He'd been in this glass box all his life and his mind was the only company he had known for a long, long time. The scratching was an intrusion. It made him angry. The light patterns streaming in to the life support unit were changing. Weeds now blocked out most of the sunlight that seeped into the outer room.

  It had once been brighter. Much brighter. He remembered artificial lights. Moving shapes he knew to be his protectors. They had talked to him through the glass. Their voices had been comforting. Their instruments and tools had sparkled under the lights. Then they had stopped coming. They had left him all alone. For years he had been here. And now this scratching. His body felt warm and he felt an urge to change things. He had never felt the urge to move in all the years he was entombed. His mind could always go wherever it needed without any need for the weak vessel it lived inside. But the scratching. He would stop that scratching and the world would be calm again.

  His mind told his arm to move up and it did so. His eyes saw the arm float up into view. The life fluid around him swirled and the outside world bobbed out of focus. He bought his other hand up to his face and he looked upon his own hands. They seemed larger now. He had been growing in here. He clenched his fists and thrust them outwards. They hit the glass wall and he felt pain for the first time. His mouth drew into a smile. This was a new feeling. He would like to feel that again. He pushed against the glass with more strength and felt his bones click and twist under the pressure. He gave out a wet yelp of delight. Bracing his back against the far side of his chamber he pushed the front wall of glass away from him until the blood in his ears roared. A tiny crack appeared in the center, and he exhaled sharply. Bubbles from his mouth warped his vision and he forced himself to become calm. He traced the crack with a long bony finger, his nail finding the groove and snaking down until it reached the widest point. With new vigor he lashed out at the crack, hitting it twice, three times, and then a fourth. Tiny bubbles of air now rose up from several places and he targeted those places with a final flurry of punches. The glass gave way and the crack grew into a gaping mouth and shattered the glass plate into a thousand tiny pieces.

  The liquid surged out onto the cold concrete floor and the life form inside collapsed under its own weight inside the suddenly empty steel tank. It choked on the cold air and retched and gagged until its insides burned. What had he done? He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe and he couldn't think. That terrible scratching still clawed at his mind. He used the steel framework of the pod and hauled himself out, flopping onto the wet laboratory floor like a newly born calf. He blinked and saw the brightest source of pain. A bright wall of glass. Weeds poked through in places and the sun burned brightly on the other side of it, mocking him. The scratching noise was all around him. He dragged his weak form toward the sunlight, suddenly overwhelmed with rage. He would squeeze the life out of the white ball of pain. The room buckled and darkened as he willed his muscles to pull him onward. He saw bright purple stars and then there were only dreams.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The old man stood and watched as they slept. The stars faded briefly as the wind pushed the clouds overhead. One last flame danced on the fire, throwing an orange flicker over Jack and the boy. Sonny saw that they were both uneasy in their sleep. He crept away as quietly as he could, the last ember giving out, leaving only the smell of smoke on his clothes. He wished he could stay a while longer. He knew only too well that the boy would not take it well, and would carry it with him for the rest of his days. Even now, knowing why it had to happen, old Sonny couldn't quite put that loss behind him. Tears rolled down the cracks of his cheeks and yet he smiled as he walked on toward the mountains. He had come full circle in life, and soon he would be out of the loop forever, with the boy taking his place at the start. But first he had someone to see. He hadn't seen him in years. It would be a pleasure to see him again. Yes sir, a goddamned pleasure. Sonny's fists clenched involuntarily at the thought and he redoubled his pace. Somewhere in the darkness a fox screeched. And Sonny walked on.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the dream, Jack sees his daughter. That's how he knows he's dreaming.

  His breathing quickens and he shakes his head. He tries to wake up but already knows that he won't until he sees it happen again. She giggles as she dances away from him. His legs are useless blocks of wood, his mouth full of tar. All he can do is bring his gun hand up and aim past her. Aim at whatever comes for her this time. The scenery moves past him as he ambles forward. It doesn't look real. The distant mountains are like theatre props, endlessly scrolling by on pull-ropes and winches. He is a cardboard mannequin, destined to move too slowly through the screeching winds. He can hear her laughter for a few seconds more, then there is only the wind. His face feels warm. There is a vocal rumbling sound. It’s almost a groan. It's faint, but he can hear it. He always hears it.

  Then she comes. Ahead, through the dark tunnel of his vision, she comes toward him. The Witchen. She's horrifically tall. Much taller than he is. Her head bowed down low, her stick legs and bone arms sticking out from beneath the long burlap sack. Her hair blows like oiled straw in the wind and she shimmers, as if she were nothing but a swarm of black bees. He sees her head begin to lift from her chest and he knows that if their eyes meet it will be the end of him.

  He raises his gun higher and sees that it is not loaded. It has no chambers to fill. It is a gun of dreams - only a metaphor. Jack knows that metaphors don't need bullets. He pulls the trigger. The pistol barks four times. The witch's head erupts with each kick and roar. Black flesh rips away from the skull, revealing the dark bone of something that is far from human. He empties the gun into the skull, shattering it into pieces. The fragments float on the wind and become a single pitch-black butterfly of death. The witch creeps on toward him without her head. He shoots again. The shots puncture her torso, her legs, and her arms. Long trails of blood drag on behind her and still she comes. She is almost upon him now and the stench of her is terrifying. It symbolizes all of his fears, all of his loss, bound in a bleeding wet blackness. He raises his hand inches away from where her head should be and focuses on something in the distance. He aims, closes his eyes, and shoots. The bullet flies true, piercing the void above her neck and tearing through the insect behind her – the black butterfly. As the moth explodes into oblivion, the witch crumbles at his feet and fades into wisps of charcoal ash.

  Jack breathes out and continues on. He knows that she was only the first of many monstrosities. Every night he has the same dream, and every night he fails. He never saves his daughter. He knows he can't undo the past, but because he has no other choice, he grits his teeth against the howling wind, and he tries again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was the dirt that Rogers felt first. He needed to take a leak and the damned dirt was in his shoes. There was warmth on his face and he awoke in the midday sun. He sat up and looked left and right. A black asphalt road ran as far as he could see in both directions. A fuzzy shimmer blurred the furthest points. His head felt like the day after his twenty-first all over again. With a groan he stood up and vomited. Jesus Christ. What the hell had he been drinking last night? Images flashed in
his head but there was little time for that now. First things first - he stepped a couple of polite steps away from the road and relieved himself. It felt like he'd been holding it in forever. His thoughts went to the most pressing memories. His wife. Was that real? Was she gone? He would fix that. He had to. But then the rest of the evening crashed down on him. Christ. He placed a hand on his forehead. What kind of messed up shit was this? He remembered an intruder, something about being outside looking at the starry night sky with the cat. What the hell was he doing here? Where was he? He shielded his eyes against the light and saw a building about a mile down the road - a truck stop. He took off both his sneakers and emptied them onto the track. The small pile of sand was much darker in color than the road beneath and the world swam away from him briefly. He struggled to tie his laces and started the head-pounding journey toward the diner on the horizon. His hands patted down his pockets out of habit. And froze. His gun. He remembered slipping his gun into his pants. It was missing. He whirled around and checked his waistband frantically. Nothing. He strode back to the side of the road, the headache momentarily forgotten. He had nothing on him except his clothes and his shoes. No keys, no wallet, no gun, and no black book.