Epoch

by Timothy Carter

  “Fly through the power source, touch the portal, then blow the source up,” Vincent said. “Got it. Hey! You’re in astral form. Why can’t ... ”

  “I don’t have a silver cord any more,” Grimbowl explained. “My body’s gone, remember? Your silver cord is what’ll connect the portal to the power source. Sorry, should have explained that earlier.”

  “Okay, fine,” Vincent said.

  “One more thing,” Grimbowl said, and he hovered right next to Vincent’s astral form and whispered.

  “You did what?” Vincent said.

  “Tell her later,” Grimbowl said. “And tell her I said sorry.”

  “Okay,” Vincent said. “I’m ready.”

  “Good,” Grimbowl said. “Now, all you’ve got to do is stay in astral form until you find the power source. It’s got to be around here somewhere … ”

  “Uh oh,” Vincent said.

  Chanteuse and her mother were walking toward his body, accompanied by Barnaby and his father. Walking up behind them were none other than Mr. Edwards and his two robotic bodyguards, and they did not look happy.

  “Francis Wilkins!” Mr. Edwards barked. “I understand you employed three company helicopters without my permission, and brought a multitude of persons here against my express instructions. Explain yourself.”

  “I went to rescue my son,” Wilkins told his boss. “He was in danger.”

  “I see,” said Edwards. “And these people?”

  “They kidnapped us!” Barnaby cried, pointing at Miss Sloam. “She’s a troll, you know.”

  “Barnaby!” Chanteuse cried.

  “Oh, not good,” Vincent said.

  “Is she?” Edwards said.

  “She sure is,” Barnaby said, “and she’s plotting to bring down the magic wards!”

  Vincent felt rage boiling in him. Barnaby had betrayed them—again—in spite of everything they’d done for him.

  “Calm down, kid,” Grimbowl told him. “We still need to find that power source.”

  “I see,” Edwards said, returning his attention to Mr. Wilkins. “You and your son not only brought post-epochal beings here, but you brought the very people who threaten me the most.” As he spoke, he turned and looked over at Vincent’s body. “Tell me, Francis, is there any reason I shouldn’t simply leave you two behind with the rest of your species?”

  Barnaby and his father’s faces became masks of terror, but Vincent’s astral face lit up with a sudden revelation. Mr. Edwards always talked about humans as if he were not one of them. That meant he was probably something else. Max’s comments about the Prisons & Poltergeists book came back to him, and Vincent suddenly knew what something else was.

  “I’ve found the power source,” he told Grimbowl.

  “Great,” the elf’s spirit answered. “Where?”

  Before Vincent could answer, he saw Edwards nod to his bodyguards. The robots responded, raising their gauntlets and aiming them at Barnaby and his father.

  “Then again, you have been useful to me in the past,” Edwards went on, “and so I shall grant you both a far more merciful death.”

  Barnaby and his father turned to run, but they were too late. Horrified, Vincent looked away, but what he saw was just as chilling. The demons, led by Bix, were coming for Miss Sloam.

  “They’re going to kill Chanteuse’s mother!” Vincent cried, frozen with cold dread.

  “Vincent, control it!” Grimbowl said. “You have to ... ”

  But it was too late. Vincent’s soul snapped back to his body, and he woke up moaning in pain.

  “Oh no,” he cried, clutching at his chest. “Now what do we do?”

  Vincent watched, helplessly, as the demons zoomed in around Miss Sloam. He tried to get up but couldn’t, the pain in his chest was too great. Big Tom couldn’t help him—he’d run straight into the battle, cans spraying. Vincent had never been so proud of his friend.

  It was not enough, though. Big Tom’s efforts were keeping the demons at bay, but the cans would not last forever. Even if Vincent joined in with his own two cans, they still probably wouldn’t kill them all. And if only one demon remained, Miss Sloam and the two pixies were dead.

  Vincent had one advantage, though—he knew what the power source was. However, he couldn’t project his soul out of his body to do what had to be done.

  But there was one person left who could.

  “Vincent, are you all right?”

  Vincent raised his head and saw his brother running toward him. Their parents were right behind, carrying a couple of picket signs they’d managed to cobble together from items they’d found in the helicopter.

  “Help me up,” he wheezed, and Max took his arms and pulled him to his feet.

  “Come along, boys,” Mr. Drear said, dropping to his knees. “We will pray for strength, then we shall go forth and put an end to this portal heresy.”

  “Max,” Vincent said, taking his brother’s arm before he could kneel. “I need you to help Big Tom. And I need Chanteuse. She’s the only one who can save the world.”

  “What?” said Max.

  “What?” said Mr. Drear, rising to his feet in a split second. “The witch? No! That is the path of Evil!”

  “I need her,” Vincent told Max, squeezing his brother’s arm hard. “Please. Everything depends on her.”

  “No!” Mr. Drear said, taking Max’s other arm. “I forbid it! The Triumvirate forbids it!”

  Max looked from his father to his brother. Vincent released his arm, lowered himself with his legs, and picked up the two remaining spray cans. He winced as he stood back up, but he didn’t let the pain stop him.

  “Please,” he said, holding out the cans.

  “Father,” Max said, “there is more to the world than is written in any one book. I know what is right. Please release me.”

  Mr. Drear looked horrified beyond words, no doubt contemplating the loss of both his sons’ souls to the lure of the occult. Vincent understood this, and knew they didn’t have time for it. He raised a spray can and shot his dad right in the face.

  “Gaagh!” Mr. Drear cried, releasing Max at once and covering his eyes.

  “Vincent!” said Max. “Honor thy father and mother!”

  “I’ll honor them later,” Vincent said, handing him the cans. “Go. Now.”

  Max rushed off toward the battle, where six demons swarmed around a scratched and bruised Miss Sloam. The two pixies had joined the fight, doing what they could and then dashing behind Big Tom for cover. And watching it all was Mr. Edwards, who seemed to be enjoying the fracas a great deal.

  “You have betrayed the Triumvirate this day,” Mr. Drear said, his eyes painfully bloodshot. “And you have damned your brother. On this, the Day of Judgment!” He raised his hand and swung at Vincent’s face, but Mrs. Drear caught his wrist.

  “Gerald, no,” she said. “You know the Triumvirate works in mysterious ways. Perhaps this is the way of things. Perhaps our boys are right.”

  “You betray me as well?” Mr. Drear said. “Then I have no family. I have no sons, no wife. But I still have the Triumvirate.” He pulled his hand roughly free from Mrs. Drear’s, then he turned and stormed off.

  “Dad, please stay,” Vincent called after him. In the distance, he saw lava shooting into the sky from newly formed volcanoes, and his father was walking toward them.

  “Let him go,” his mother said, wiping away a tear. “The Triumvirate gave all of us Free Will. He has made his choice, as have we, and we must respect it.”

  Vincent would have agreed, but he was distracted by the shouts coming from behind. He turned and saw Max dragging a very angry Chanteuse toward them.

  “Let me go!” she said. “I will not abandon my mother!”

  Vincent looked over their shoulders
and saw Miss Sloam fighting with Max’s spray cans. The number of demons had been cut down to five, and two of them looked very sick.

  “My brother says you are needed,” Max said. “You must come!”

  “Chanteuse,” Vincent said, walking toward her. “You must help us. Only you can do it.”

  “Do what?” she snapped, still struggling in Max’s grip.

  “Astral projection,” Vincent said, and he told her briskly what he needed her to do. Chanteuse listened, then immediately refused.

  “Vincent, I told you,” she said. “I can’t do that. Someone I care about will die.”

  “No, that won’t happen,” Vincent said. “The being you saw? That was Grimbowl. He told me. He told you not to project because he didn’t want you to know about the seedier things the elves have been up to.”

  “Grimbowl did that?” Chanteuse said. “That filthy little bugger!”

  “He said he’s very sorry,” Vincent went on, “and hoped you’d find it in your heart to forgive him.”

  “I … well, that will come later,” Chanteuse said, lying down. “Very well, Vincent. I will do as you have asked.”

  “Thank you,” Vincent said. “Mom, please watch over her and keep her safe. Max, help me walk over to Mr. Edwards. I have something to say to him.”

  It took them a minute to walk over to the battleground. In that time another demon fell, and the remaining four looked pretty sick. They were more cautious now, hovering just out of spray range and looking for an opening to strike. Bix was one of them, for which Vincent was glad. Having a demon around that he knew by name would be handy.

  “Mr. Edwards!” he called, and the half-man and his robot minders turned to look at him. “Mr. Edwards, I want to talk to you.”

  “What do you want?” Edwards said. His bodyguards had raised their gauntlets, and he did not discourage them.

  “I just wanted to know how you feel,” Vincent asked, “about us spraying aerosol into the air. You know, one last chance for us humans to pollute before the end.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Edwards said. “You humans do nay deserve the wonderful world you’ve been given.”

  “Humans are filthy, aren’t they?” Vincent said.

  “You certainly are!”

  “Just like you,” Vincent said.

  “I most certainly am not!” Mr. Edwards roared. “My race has always been the cleanest ... ” He stopped, realizing what he’d said.

  “Huh?” said Bix, turning to listen.

  “That’s right, Bix,” Vincent said, sending it home. “He’s a centaur. Aren’t you, Mr. Edwards?”

  “I … I am nay!” Mr. Edwards said, his mechanical legs taking a step back. His guards immediately took positions in front of him, and re-targeted their gauntlets at Bix.

  “You may have lost your horse-half,” Vincent said, “but that doesn’t change what you are. You’re the only creature with enough magical energy to power the wards.”

  “You know,” said Bix, drifting closer, “there was a story about a centaur who got away.”

  “Yeah,” said another demon, joining Bix. “His whole lower half was bitten off, but he escaped into a cave or something.”

  “Stop them!” Mr. Edwards cried. “Keep them away from me.”

  The bodyguards fired their electrical bolts, stunning the demons but not stopping them. Bix dropped under their defense and bit clean through a bodyguard’s chest. It collapsed to the ground, sparks flying from the wound. The second bodyguard fell just as quickly, though in much smaller pieces.

  “Get back, all of you,” Mr. Edwards said. He waved his hand at Vincent and Max, and a force like the wind knocked them both over. “Stay away! Or I’ll ... ulg!”

  Vincent guessed, correctly, that the spirit of Chanteuse had just passed through him. Perfect timing, if ever there had been. The demons took full advantage of Mr. Edwards’s distraction and zoomed in, and moments later the only thing remaining of Alphega Corp.’s founder was his mechanical legs.

  “Yikes,” said Vincent. “That was ... ”

  And then he couldn’t speak. He and everyone else on the planet felt a powerful compulsion, a near-overwhelming desire to get to a portal site. Vincent felt the pull coming directly from the portal, and would have known it was there without looking, without even knowing what it was.

  “We did it,” he said, turning to Max. “We … no!”

  The four remaining demons had turned, and stared hungrily at Miss Sloam and the pixies. Nod, Clara, and Miss Sloam hadn’t seen them, nor had Big Tom, so wrapped up were they in the portal’s call. And there was a rolling sound ...

  Vincent looked down. Big Tom’s spray cans had fallen from his limp fingers, and they rolled toward him.

  Vincent ran, grabbing Max’s hand and pulling him along. The demons charged, their mouths open. Vincent ignored his pain and scooped the cans up, snapping off the nozzles as he did so. Spray poured out of the tops of the cans as Vincent gave one to Max and tossed the other. Max got the idea and tossed his own.

  The first one hit Miss Sloam in the shoulder. The second hit her head. She turned, and saw the demons almost upon her. However, the spray in the air made the demons stop and gag. Miss Sloam raised both her cans and emptied them into the demons’ mouths.

  “Close,” said Max, watching as the demons shriveled and melted on the ground.

  “Too close,” Vincent agreed. “Well, shall we go? The world’s about to end.”

  The whole world over, people got the message. Human and post-epochal creatures alike dropped what they were doing and journeyed to the nearest portal site. Some were lucky enough to be close by; their trek was short. Others had a longer way to go, and their chances of making it in time were slim.

  That any of them had a chance at all was a miracle. The actions of a few brave humans, two pixies, nine elves, and one troll had made all the difference.

  Four of those humans, one of the pixies, and the troll sat by the edge of the portal, watching as people arrived by the dozens. Vincent absently watched them stream in, his mind lost in thought.

  “What do you figure the next race will be?” Vincent asked Chanteuse, who sat next to him beside her mother. “Cockroaches? Or dolphins, maybe?”

  “My money’s on dolphins,” Nod said, slouching on Miss Sloam’s shoulder. “Big brains. I bet the second we go, one of them’ll evolve opposable thumbs.”

  “I say roaches,” Miss Sloam said. “They know how to survive anything.”

  “That’s what Big Tom would have said,” Vincent told them.

  Big Tom had already passed through the portal. Half an hour earlier he’d been reunited with his parents. It seemed they’d been having car trouble when the earthquake struck, and hadn’t been able to get home. Vincent had smiled widely as Big Tom filled them in on what had happened, and how their spray cans had saved them all.

  “It might be a creature we know nothing about,” Chanteuse suggested. “Who knows what Mother Earth will create?”

  They pondered that in silence for a few minutes.

  “I’m with Nod,” Vincent decided. “Dolphins.”

  “We should go,” Max said. “We probably don’t have much time left.”

  “Just give Clara a few more minutes,” Vincent said.

  “Don’t worry,” Nod added. “She never fails.”

  As if summoned by her name, Clara appeared above the heads of the crowd. Vincent couldn’t see her right away, but he could clearly see the one she carried.

  “Put me down!” shouted Vincent’s father, flailing his arms and legs helplessly. “In the name of the Triumvirate, I command you to release me this instant!”

  “He wasn’t hard to find,” Clara said. “He was the only one walking in the wrong direction.”

  “I thought we’d agreed
he’d made his choice,” said Vincent’s mother, though she sounded more relieved than critical.

  “He did,” Vincent replied, holding out his arm for his brother to help him up. “And I made mine. Just this once, let me force my beliefs on him?”

  Mr. Drear kept arguing and thrashing as Clara carried him into the portal. Chanteuse and her mom stood up and went next, followed by Mrs. Drear.

  “Here we go,” Vincent said. The parts of his chest that were not in pain swelled with excitement. Then, feeling that something should be said to mark the historic occasion, he turned and looked back at the planet he’d called home.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It’s been fun.”

  Then he and Max stepped through the portal into the mystery beyond.

  • • •

  Two hours later, the portal sites closed. Those who hadn’t made it felt a strong sense of loss.

  A few minutes after that, some new portals opened in the sky. Out of those portals, demons poured by the thousands. People ran. Some tried to hide. But all of them knew one thing for certain.

  Their time was up. This was, well and truly ...

  The End of the World.

  About the Author

  Timothy Carter was born in England during the week of the last lunar mission, and he turned thirteen on Friday the 13th. He grew up in Canada’s National Capital Region, and studied drama at Algonquin College.

  His first YA novel, Attack of the Intergalactic Soul Hunters, was published in 2005. Timothy lives, writes, and watches for signs of the apocalypse in Toronto with his wife and cat.