Bob's Greatest Mistake_Part Two of The Journals of Bob Drifter

by M. L. S. Weech

  “Remember what I told you?”

  “Dat we have no way ‘o knowin’.”

  “That situation hasn’t changed.” That was helpful, Drisc thought sarcastically.

  “How bad do ye think it could get?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

  “Bad enough that I strongly suggest you stop him now, for you and your friend’s sake as much as for mine.”

  Drisc didn’t bother finding his chair. He plopped his back against a wall and slid down. “De ye have any idea ‘ow strong he is already?”

  “He broke four of my ribs and ruined my shop, Mr. Navin,” the Clockmaker said in answer.

  “How am aye suppos’d ta stop ‘im, then?”

  “As quickly as possible. Goodbye.” He didn’t wait for Drisc to respond before hanging up. Drisc threw his phone across the room. All he had to do was stop something stronger than an immortal who could see death. He picked up the bag of empty pizza boxes. If he was going to die, he should make sure his room was clean first.

  17

  Tragedy

  November 17, 2007

  No ... I can’t.

  Bob stayed in bed late. He kept his eyes closed and refused to acknowledge that the pain in his head was gone. He wanted to ignore the comfort. He wanted to ignore the fact that today, a lot of people were going to die, and he would be there when it happened. He’d never hated his job. He accepted that he was a part of something, even if he couldn’t see the entire situation. That didn’t mean he looked forward to watching people die.

  He found the strength to get out of bed and get dressed, doing so methodically. He could feel his Death Sense and hated it. Why did I ever worry over not feeling it? As with every event where a large group of people died, it felt muted, like a person’s thoughts when they first wake. He knew he had time, and he meant to take every second he could to gather his will.

  After brushing his teeth, angry at how normal the day felt so far, he convinced himself to get into his car and drive under a thick, dark sky and light snow.

  Let’s get this over with, Drisc told himself when he realized his migraines were gone. He considered calling Bob and trying to cheer him up, but it would be a lie, and Bob would know. Instead, he resolved to be as comforting as he could when it was all over. They were supposed to meet at the event. Drisc imagined he’d be there first. That didn’t mean he looked forward to it any more than Bob. He just figured getting something over with was better than letting it draw out. At least when it’s over, things can get back to normal.

  He opened the door, and his heart nearly stopped. He took the image of Grimm in pieces at first: The blackness around him, the maw hidden inside the cowl of his cloak, and the large scythe made of the same black substance. He did the only thing a reasonable man could think of doing: He slammed the door. It didn’t do much good. Drisc only earned himself a split second’s head start before his front door burst into splinters.

  Drisc felt the blast of power launch him through the air and into a wall. He slid to the ground, trying to find his breath. Grimm flowed at him as graceful and fluid as a snake and raised his weapon. Drisc rolled out of the way. We can’t kill! he thought frantically. He shouldn’t need to duck. Grimm kicked him so hard that he felt a rib break. But we can sure hurt people, Drisc reminded himself, trying to keep the black spots in his eyes from blurring his vision.

  Grimm picked him up by his throat and began choking him. Drisc threw a few punches. He felt a comical surge of pride when a third punch forced Grimm to let him go. The pride lasted only a moment before Drisc realized all he’d done was piss the bastard off.

  A flurry of black strings whipped from Grimm’s cloak and wrapped themselves around Drisc’s arms, legs, waist, and neck. He could hear screaming along the coils of blackness. None of the screams were coherent, but he could hear the agony and rage in the high-pitched tones. He only had a second to listen to the terrible sound before Grimm began flinging him around the room. Drisc fought as hard as he could before his head knocked against the ceiling and then a wall.

  He started to reach into his pocket. He wasn’t sure what good it could do him, but he had to do something. He could feel himself losing awareness. Grimm lifted Drisc back up to eye level. There’s a man in there somewhere, Drisc tried to convince himself. His finger brushed against what he reached for. The strands of blackness pulled all of Drisc’s limbs. He felt a shoulder pull out of its socket. Grimm roared at him, strong and terrible. He can’t kill me. He can’t! He can’t, Drisc kept reminding himself, like a child’s prayer before bed. Drisc felt himself fly at and through the glass window of his apartment. He thought it was strange, but he didn’t feel the impact of the ground. His mind raced with random thoughts. My apartment is on the second floor; I’m not dead. Why would he come here? What does he want? I’m not dead.

  “Bob,” he whispered. He meant to yell, but he couldn’t find the energy. “Bob, run.” Bob can’t hear me. Why am I trying to warn him? The answer came to Drisc as he passed out. There’s nothing else I can do.

  The weather only got worse as Bob began to track his Death Sense. A misting rain joined the snow flurries and quickly developed into a downpour. By the time he found the source of the Death Sense, he couldn’t see a foot past his windshield. Gusts of wind pushed against his car so hard he could feel the wheel jerk in his hands.

  The cold was so bad that the joints of his fingers felt frozen despite the gloves and the heater of the car on high. His wipers worked furiously to keep his view clean, but sheets of rain and ice covered everything. The radio called the storm a nor’easter. He thought “micro hurricane storm” would have been more accurate. The damn storm came out of nowhere, and the flurry of wind, rain, ice, and snow seemed to fall in blankets. He saw a large yellow blur in front of him. Perhaps a cab, but it looked too big. The wind gusted again, shifting the rain for a moment.

  “No ...” Bob whispered to himself. He only saw it for an instant, but he recognized it. He was following a school bus.

  Bob found himself honking his horn frantically. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew he had to do something. “Not them!” he yelled at whatever might be listening. “Not them!” He flashed his high beams and screamed for the bus to stop.

  It did. Bob wasn’t sure if it stopped for him or because the driver couldn’t see any better than he could. Bob felt panicked. If I save them, they’re doomed, but I can’t watch them die. Dear God, help me, but I can’t.

  He reached across himself to undo his seatbelt before he noticed something large and gray rush straight at his car and the bus. There was an odd crunching sound. In an instant, Bob felt his car crumple around him, his left knee slam against the steering wheel, and something that used to be a dashboard pin his chest to something else that used to be a rear seat.

  Pain blinded him for a time. He screamed in agony and frustration. Something was wrong with his arm. He felt an icy-cold breeze whip through his hair before he even realized that the rain and snow fell around him. The collision had ripped part of the roof of his car off. That didn’t matter too much because his car had been twisted like a wet towel. The rear tires still touched the ground, but the right front seat lay on the snow-covered pavement.

  Bob felt blood ooze over his right eye. His breathing was slow, but he was alive. He looked around in horror. It was a snowplow that had crushed his car. It had ripped the back half of the school bus out before rolling and crushing the other side. The driver lay dead on the ground not too far from Bob.

  Bob cried out again and vomited. He cried out a third time and retched again, even though his stomach was empty. He tried to clear his thoughts, but the pain was terrible. They were all dead. Even without a Death Sense, he would have known. He had to Collect their souls. Nearly four hundred years of practice kicked in, and his mind realized that he had a job to do. He tried to move, but he couldn’t.

  “Help!” he screamed. “Please!” He had to help those kids. They were dead, but there was still a pa
rt of the kids he could save. That only he could save. Drisc, I need you! He couldn’t afford to wait. Drisc would show soon.

  A new chill climbed up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He noticed a ripple in the shadow of the ruined snowplow. The shadows rippled and joined. Slowly, they came together as the form of Grimm rose out of the wreckage. It stepped from the shadow and glanced at Bob.

  “You have to help me,” he whispered. It cocked its head at him. “You have to get me out of here and help me Collect those souls!” Bob shouted. His ribs surged with the effort, causing him to grimace in pain.

  It ignored him. Bob watched in horror as the enormous shadow melted back under the snowplow, then rose from the front section of the school bus. “What?” Bob screamed. “Do you want to do it all? Fine! Just hurry. Please, hurry.”

  One moment, Grimm was standing over a dead child; the next, he flowed out of the shadows in front of Bob and gave a terrible roar. Bob shut his eyes and turned away from the monster’s maw. Bob took a few painfully slow breaths. When he opened his eyes, Grimm was back over the wreckage of the school bus.

  “What are you waiting for?” Bob yelled. Bob saw the gold, radiant light of each child’s soul. They were right there. All Grimm needed to do was Collect them. The light pulsed. The gold flickered. “Please,” Bob whimpered.

  The golden lights dimmed and faded to black. They became absences of light. They hardened, and Bob heard a terrible scream. It was high-pitched and agonizing. The truth of it hit Bob like an anvil. It turned out that his leg, arm, and ribs were nothing against the horror he felt as one scream followed another. The souls were rotting. That was what Grimm had been waiting for.

  The screams were terrible, a symphony of agony. Each black shell shook violently. Bob watched one shake and crack. What came out was the worst thing Bob would ever see. He knew he could live a hundred lifetimes and never see anything so disgusting again. A skeletal black hand, covered in pitch-black sludge, emerged from the shell. It was the size of an infant. It crawled from the shell; black goop dripped off its polished-onyx, skeletal frame.

  The sludge began to writhe around the skeleton. It whipped around as the creature fought frantically. Other shells shattered, and other creatures were born and fought against the very sludge they crawled out of. The skeletons were the last ounce of soul, black and dead, that each victim had. The sludge devoured it. Sickening cracks and horrific sounds of bone crushing under the force of the black ripples sounded from all around Bob. He retched again. Drisc had told Bob the birth of a Blacksoul was something no man should ever have to see. Bob saw forty-three Blacksouls fighting and screaming at their own birth. One by one, they formed and flowed silently toward Grimm.

  Grimm howled as they approached, claiming their power. It was the same power Bob had felt the previous year when he first saw the monster. The power of the Blacksouls grew each time a new one attached itself to Grimm’s cloak. It was a cloak of Blacksouls, whipping and flowing around the form. They linked and flowed around him as he roared, and Bob knew the roars were laughter. The Blacksouls’ screams and Grimm’s laughter were the last things he heard before the pain and sadness took him into darkness. As he passed out, Bob prayed he wouldn’t wake.

  Richard Hertly heard a roar as he plodded slowly through the snow. He heard an accident that drew his attention and knew Drifter was the cause of it. He dialed 911 and began to make his way toward the sound of the crash. The storm made moving nearly impossible. The wind gusted so hard it nearly knocked him down. The air was so cold his hand could hardly hold the gun he’d drawn. He heard a series of inhuman screams. They shook him to his core as he began to pick up his pace.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed as he made his way to the accident. Whatever had happened was nearly over when he got there. He saw the remains. A snowplow had burst through Drifter’s car and a school bus. His desire for vengeance fled as his protective instincts kicked in. Slipping and crawling, Richard tried to make his way to the first person he could get to. Drifter was closest, but Richard refused to go near him.

  Something flickered in the corner of his eye and drew his attention. Richard had considered his bravery about the only thing he had going for him in his life. It fled when he saw the monster. It towered over him at least seven feet high. It was a giant cloaked in darkness.

  Panic filled him, but he found the presence of mind to empty half of the magazine in his 9mm Beretta into it. For all the good it did him; the damn thing only let out an enraged howl that Richard knew had no pain in it. The monster dove into the shadow of Drifter’s car and disappeared.

  Hertly sat up and tried to control his breathing. His heart raced, and he tried to convince himself he was in a dream. The sight of the dead children around him brought him back to reality. Rage replaced his fear. He brought up his gun and aimed it at Drifter. He may already be dead, but Richard meant to be sure.

  Why would he let himself be trapped like this? a tiny voice in his mind asked. He blinked a tear out of his eye and aimed more carefully. Would anyone let himself be trapped if he knew that thing was around? Richard lowered the gun.

  He tried to collect his thoughts. Could Drifter be working with whatever that was? It was a dream; monsters aren’t real. They don’t exist. Only monsters like Drifter. He did this! Richard brought his gun up again. He’d kill Drifter, and it would all be over. He’d kill Drifter and run home before anyone had even known he was in town. The sound of sirens in the distance told Richard to hurry.

  He aimed. He looks hurt. He took a deep breath. Would he let himself be hurt? The sirens sounded again. What was that thing? Richard cursed in frustration and rushed back to his car as quickly as he could. The questions pestered him all the way to the car and didn’t stop even as he drove away just as the ambulance passed him by.

  18

  Shame and Shameful

  November 18, 2007

  What’s the point?

  Bob didn’t realize he was dreaming until he woke up to vomit. It took him a moment to realize Patience was the one holding the hospital bucket. His eyes traveled from the bucket around the hospital room. His arm was in a sling, and his injured leg was in a cast. He kept his head down, trying to forget his dream. A nightmare woke him, but it had happened nonetheless. He failed.

  He thought of Calista smiling as she handed him a flower to feel better. He thought of her soul, dying, souring, and becoming a foul abomination. A cough that had nothing to do with the bile in his throat escaped him, along with a giant sob. He felt Patience’s hand on his back.

  “It’s OK,” she said gently. It was the worst thing she could have said. She had no idea how bad it was. The tears came out in force.

  “Did anyone ...?” he asked. He didn’t need to explain. He wanted to know if anyone had survived. Just one child, he begged. He prayed to whoever might be listening. Just one, and I will be OK.

  “I’m sorry, Bob,” she said. “The news says it was the worst accident in the Liverpool area in ten years. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Bob let out a rather hysterical chuckle. He didn’t feel lucky to be alive. He felt filthy. He felt ready to give every ounce of his own life if it brought back just one of the souls he’d lost.

  “Your knee was broken and pinned,” she said, trying to hide tears of her own. “Your shoulder was only sprained, and you’re covered in bruises, but you’ll be all right. The point is, you couldn’t have done anything.”

  “The point is, they’re gone,” Bob said. He remembered the forty-three rotting souls. “All of them. There’s nothing left.”

  She wrapped him in her arms. He felt weary, angry, tired, hurt, and warm as she held him. The pain was there beneath the surface of her warmth, but she made him feel safe.

  “Patience,” he said calmly. “I’m going to try and explain.” He tried to think of how to tell her what he was and why the accident was more horrific than even the news could know. He took a breath to try, but a knock on the door took his a
ttention.

  Drisc stood there, looking battered. He looked as if someone had thought he was a block of cheese and tried to shred him. He had a bruised eye and a bandage on his forehead.

  “Did ye have to out-do me, lad?” he asked, pretending not to have a care in the world. “Here I thought aye was the most pathetic-looking lad, and I’d have all the nurses tisking over me. But there ye are, all bandaged up like a mummy, with a beautiful girl at yer side.” His smile said the Irishman didn’t care in the least. Drisc’s eyes told Bob how sorry he was.

  Patience smiled at him. She introduced herself as Bob’s girlfriend. He was too upset to really think about it, but a small part of him smiled at the comment.

  “And here me own best friend never told me,” Drisc said. “I’m Driscoll Navin, but ye can call me Drisc. All me friends do.”

  “I’m glad to meet you,” she said. She tried to smile to keep the mood light, but the glower on Bob’s face must have ruined the attempt for her. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “I’ll let you two talk,” she whispered to Bob. She left the room with a polite nod in Drisc’s direction. She’d hardly let the door close before Drisc pulled up a chair and sat next to Bob’s bed.

  “The bastard got to me before aye even left the apartment,” Drisc said, to explain how he looked. “By the time aye woke up in the hospital, it was over.”

  “He let them sour, Drisc,” Bob said. His throat was dry. He reached over his slung arm to grab a pink pitcher of water. “That’s how he gets the extra powers.”

  “Bob, I’m sorry,” Drisc said, refusing to look him in the eye.

  “You knew,” Bob said, half dumbfounded, half enraged.

  “I thought,” Drisc said. “Aye was suppos’d ta find evidence and report what aye learned. We had no idea he’d do someth’n like this.”