by Justin Bloch
He walked, humming to himself. Trees rustled in a slight breeze and were lit an unnatural, harsh yellow-green under the sodium-arcs. He gazed at the murals which transformed the sides of buildings into artworks and honorariums. Not a one, he noticed, was marred by spray paint or tags. Cars ambled by every once in awhile, their drivers peering through heavy-lidded eyes as they sipped their coffee from spill-proof mugs.
Nathaniel looked forward at the two impossibly old men he was accompanying, one a seraph, the other the history of the world. It struck Nathaniel for the first time that he might have gone insane. The fact that it had taken so long for that possibility to enter his mind seemed more evidence toward its truth. It was very likely that at some point he had just cracked and was now living out an elaborate delusion. He considered this for several minutes and finally decided that it wasn’t that bad. Reality or fantasy, at least he was having an interesting time.
The buildings began shrinking around them. They had entered the seedier section of town, where employees stood behind bulletproof glass while they waited on customers at delis and fast food joints. The sidewalks were littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, knotted clumps of hair weave. Small groups of people milled around on corners and in shadowed doorways, regarding the strangers with wary, cheated eyes. Bums stood huddled around steam grates or snored on building steps. Metal gates guarded the front of nearly every business, and a police car rolled past with silhouette passengers.
They reached the Temple University campus eventually, passed a dorm with a few kids outside, smoking cigarettes. A white van sat just down the block, a cop behind the wheel, reading a book. Nathaniel stared at the teens and wished he was back in school, a simpler time when he could retire to a soft bed with an unworried head. Then he remembered that school had also meant complete anonymity and pushed away his false nostalgia.
They stopped at the intersection and waited for the light to change. Sol pointed to the Lincoln Fried Chicken that sat caddy-corner to where they stood. “That’s Son right there,” he whispered as a subway train crashed by beneath.
Son, supporting himself on crutches, was at the base of the steps outside the restaurant. His gray hair was unkempt and stood up at all angles, and under the sickly yellow light of the sign, his dark skin looked glazed, the color of a pumpkin. He was talking to two people, one a raven haired girl, the other a boy with brown hair and glasses. They were holding hands. They looked young, students at Temple, Nathaniel assumed. They were laughing, a trifle uneasily. As the light changed, Nathaniel and Sol and History crossed the street and the kids went inside the restaurant.
The trio paused on the corner opposite where Son stood and waited again for the light. People came and went from a Rite-Aid beside them, most with bloodshot eyes and a case of the munchies. History patted Sol on the back. “This is where I take my leave, gentlemen. Nathaniel,” he said, offering his hand, which Nathaniel took and shook, “it was a pleasure to meet you, and good luck with the Allamagoosalum. Sol, always good to see you.”
“Is there anything you can tell us that might help, History? Where it might attack next, where it will go now that it’s killed, anything?” the cop asked, a final plea.
“I’m afraid not. I am only what has been, not what will be.” He looked up at the sky for a few seconds, then tilted his hat to the karma policeman. “There will be a room for you at the Fives when you’re done here. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
The cop thanked him, and History walked across the parking lot of the Rite-Aid and went inside, straightening the hat atop his head. Sol and Nathaniel made their way to the Lincoln Fried Chicken, sidestepping puddles.
“Hello, Son,” Sol said.
The old man turned, taking his time because of the crutches. His eyes were dull and hazy, dark irises surrounded by yellow corneas. He wore a frayed pair of corduroy pants and a shabby windbreaker that might once have been white. He did not look ecstatic to see Sol.
“Hello,” he replied, then, spying Nathaniel, “Got any change?”
Nathaniel dug into his pocket, came up with a few coins, and put them in Son’s hand.
“We’re looking for—” started the cop.
“D’you see how he do that?” the old man asked, interrupting Sol, his voice muddled. “D’you see how he do that like he was mean?” He motioned for Nathaniel to hold out his hand and Nathaniel, completely confused by the sudden turn of events, did. “He pressed the money inta my hand like he was tryin’ to press it right through my palm,” and demonstrated by pushing the quarters back into Nathaniel’s hand hard enough to force it down. Nathaniel held the money in his open hand, bewildered. “Now give it back to me nice,” instructed Son.
Nathaniel gently placed the few coins in the old man’s cupped hand.
“Thank you,” responded Son and made the money disappear.
“We’re looking for information on the Allamagoosalum,” Sol said, crossing his arms over his chest. Behind him, the two kids who had been talking to Son left the restaurant and headed back toward the dorm, laughing.
“Hmm. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that.” He once more turned to Nathaniel, whom he seemed much more interested in. “You know Satan’s a scientist, boy?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Nathaniel replied, both befuddled and amused by this strange man on crutches. He felt like one half of a conversation between a professor and the hyper three year old to whom he was trying to teach string theory: a lot was going to be said, almost none of which was comprehensible to either party. The worst part was, Nathaniel didn’t know which of the two he was.
“Yep. Down south. I’m fighting him.” He turned to the karma policeman and said in a clear voice, “I don’t know anything about the Allamagoosalum, Sol, so you might as well just move along. Anything I could tell you would be suspect in any event, me being crazy and all.”
“If you can think of anything, it might help,” replied the karma policeman.
Son favored the cop with a scornful look and faced Nathaniel, his speech growing garbled again. “Y’know I’m a king? Like David, or Solmon. Or King Richard. You ‘member him? Eat, drink, and be merry!” He laughed, bouncing a little on his crutches. “I said that, y’know. Whadda they call it? Coined it.” He jingled the money in his pocket to make the point stronger, then peered around suspiciously and leaned closer to Nathaniel. “You gotta be a king to fight Satan.”
“Son,” the cop snapped. “I need to know whatever you know about—”
“You believe I’m a multi-zillionaire?” the old man asked Nathaniel, running dirty fingers over his scraggly beard.
“No, not even for a minute. Not even a little bit,” he replied honestly.
Son looked affronted. “Whadda you think this jacket is? This’s a yacht jacket, look at it. And look at these shoes.” He held out one foot, encased in a beaten, filthy sneaker. “These’re yacht shoes. Gotta be a zillionaire to battle Satan. Ask your father.” He considered for a moment. “Or any of the Masons in your family.”
The karma policeman stepped forward, putting himself between the older man and the younger. “Inhabitant,” he demanded, “what do you know about the Allamagoosalum?”
Son rocked back and forth on his crutches, clenching and unclenching his fists on the handles. His eyes flickered between glazed and clear. Nathaniel watched him, trying to decide whether the old man was stalling for time or fighting for control and clarity. He was still confounded by everything that had happened since they’d crossed the street, but if Son were simply playing a role, he was doing a convincing job of it.
Finally, the old man’s eyes focused. “I hear it’s the same as before. Ask the Divinors. Citizen,” he spat.
Sol gave him a strange look, then took a step back and away from the old man. He rubbed his hand over his cheek and turned to face the street, folding his arms over his chest. A big truck thundered by and the gust as it passed blew the cop’s long jacket into the air.
“Hey,” Son whispered, nu
dging a distracted Nathaniel in the ribs.
Nathaniel looked at him.
“Y’know, I’m the true Count Dracula,” the old man rasped, then spread his lips to reveal a mouth empty of teeth save two long, dull canines.
Nathaniel jumped back to the edge of the curb, caught off guard. Son cackled, tilting his head back with the hilarity of it.
The karma policeman swiveled on one heel and looked down Broad Street and back toward Center City. “Come on,” he murmured. “We have all we’re going to get.” He crossed the street just before the light changed to red as a bus rumbled and bounced its way to a stop at the curb. Sol mounted the steps and Nathaniel watched his silhouette move toward the back of the public transport before realizing that he needed to be onboard too. He ran across the street, waving a hand in apology as a car blared its horn at him. As he climbed the steps he heard Son call out to him, and he leaned back out of the bus doors.
“You be careful,” he cried. “Cipher ain’t nothin’ but murder.” As he waved one crutch in the air, Nathaniel yanked his head out of the way of the closing doors.
He ignored the bus driver’s mumbled epithets as he stumbled to the back to share a seat with Sol. This early in the morning the bus only carried a few other passengers. The karma policeman was lost in his own thoughts, his attention turned to the city rolling by outside the window. The bus banged and jostled its way through Philadelphia, taking on only a sprinkling of new riders, bleary-eyed and puffy-faced.
“Who’s Son really?” Nathaniel asked, his voice soft in the rattle-bang of the bus.
The karma policeman remained silent a moment, then sighed. His face was reflected in the window, ghostly, indistinct, and he spoke without turning. “He told you himself. He is a vampire, the first to murder a human.”
“I thought you said that wasn’t allowed. You killed that vissika just for trying to kill me.”
“There are exceptions to any rule,” Sol said. “Son was shown leniency because he gave humanity one of the greatest gifts an Inhabitant can.”
Nathaniel looked at the cop, uncomprehending, before realization finally dawned. “A story. He gave us a story.”
“Exactly,” responded Sol, a note of praise in his voice. “The Source is not a strictly black and white being. There are shades of gray even with the force of creation.”
They didn’t speak for several minutes, both falling back to the silence of their own thoughts. “What did Son mean about the Allamagoosalum?” asked Nathaniel eventually. “That whole thing about it being the ‘same as before.’”
“I don’t know.” The bus dove into another huge hole and Nathaniel wondered if the driver was aiming for them. “And I don’t know why he would have suggested we talk to the Divinors. Son is often very vague, just like History said. He is a demon, and he hears things through other demons he knows on this world, but his mind is warped.”
The sun was nearing the edge of the horizon and the sky was lit the flat tin color of dawn. The road was beginning to fill with cars as men and women left early for their jobs, weaving in and out of traffic. Nathaniel sat quietly, watching a little girl and her mother a few seats up on the left. The girl, no more than five years old, had a floppy stuffed bunny clutched in one hand and her mother’s pocketbook strap in the other. She had fuzzy little pigtails that puffed out on either side of her head and a soft peach aura. She yawned and leaned her head against her mother’s arm, closed her tiny dark eyes and hugged her rabbit closer.
Several stops later, Sol motioned toward the front of the bus, and they made their way forward and got off, the only passengers to do so. Once the bus had pulled away, its engine screaming, the karma policeman pointed to the building across the six lane road.
“The Fives,” he whispered.
The complex was massive and perched atop a small hill, a great gray cube whose eastern windows were just beginning to reflect the new day’s light. A giant ‘555’ decorated the roof of the building.
They crossed the road using the pedestrian bridge, and Nathaniel stopped halfway across to look at the rising sun as cars raced by beneath him. It was young enough still that he could look at it without shading his eyes, as unnaturally orange as Jell-O. He followed the karma policeman the rest of the way, and they climbed the hill side by side. They went to a back entrance that appeared to be locked until Sol touched the knob and pulled it open without trouble, revealing a dimly lit stairwell. On the fifth floor, Sol opened the landing door, allowed Nathaniel to pass through first, then led the way down to the last room on the left, room 525.
“You people really love palindromes, don’t you?” Nathaniel asked.
“There is magic in them,” Sol responded matter-of-factly. He pushed open the door, again as if it was already unlocked, and they entered a modest room with a view of the radio towers across the river. “The bedroom’s through there,” he said, pointing as he sat down on the couch. “Go get some sleep.”
Nathaniel, too tired to give much thought to a reply, stumbled into the bedroom and drew the blinds, then shed every last stitch of his clothing and crawled into bed. He hadn’t been up an extraordinary amount of time, but he’d spent most of that time walking, and the last few days had been emotionally exhausting. He pulled the cool, plush comforter up to his neck, closed his eyes. After a moment, he reopened them, stared up at the ceiling. He had just realized something: Sol had avoided answering one of his questions about the Allamagoosalum. He still didn’t know where it had come from. He frowned, then yawned. He would ask the karma policeman about it later, after he’d slept. It could wait till then. He closed his eyes once more.
The world fell away and he was asleep.
Chapter IX
Five.
The number came to him from nothing. Nathaniel could not tell if it had been spoken aloud, or only in his head. He was nowhere.
Five is the number of your fate.
Where are you? Nathaniel asked. Who are you? He could barely hear his own voice, couldn’t see anything, wasn’t even sure he existed.
Five is the number of your fate, the number of his fall.
And then the world was there, without any transition, all around him. He was sitting on the floor of the Walmart where he worked. The store was lit dimly, as if by emergency lighting, and the shelves stretched nearly to the ceiling. He could see only to either end of the aisle he was sitting in, but the store was a labyrinth. He knew this to be true, although he did not know how he knew it. He pulled himself to his feet, took in his surroundings. The shelves on both sides of the aisle held a seemingly infinite variety of doorknobs: crystal, brass, steel, antique, ornate, plain. Nathaniel walked to the right, reached the end of the aisle and turned left. This aisle was stocked with model car kits, and although the boxes were all different, every one of them was for a canary yellow, classic Camaro. He turned right at the next crossroads, strolled down an aisle where the shelves held endless bottles marked “Planter’s Aspirin” and filled with what looked like almonds. He continued on like this for awhile, alternating left and right when given the choice. He meandered through the store until he reached an intersection, turned right, and stopped dead, his breath caught in his throat.
The shelves of this aisle were packed with board games till it seemed they could barely hold the weight: Backgammon, Parcheesi, Trouble, Candyland, Sorry! And standing in front of a display of chessboards was the being Nathaniel had known first as Anopheles and then Pestilence. His preacher’s hat sat low on his head and cast a sharp, dark shadow across the upper half of his face, and he rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his white-stubbled chin.
You’re running outta time, son, he said, still considering the array of boards before him. Below the shadow of his hat, his lips curled into a wicked, pointed smile. But he did not turn to face Nathaniel, and that made the Cipher’s fear worse. You’re mine, and I mean to have you. Not even the Beloved could break my claim, not even with their gifts.
Nathaniel tried to turn away, to leave beh
ind the grinning monster, but his feet would not move. Why wouldn’t the old man face him? All he could see was that hideous smile, and if the smile was that bad then the eyes would be worse, so much worse, and all Nathaniel wanted was to see them. It was like waiting for the death of a loved one stricken with a painful cancer.
Something pressed against Nathaniel’s calf and he looked down, startled. Robber Baron peered back up at him with large, round eyes and meowed plaintively. The cat wove in and out of his legs, purring, his tail curling up and over his back, and Nathaniel realized that this was a dream and wondered why he hadn’t known sooner. Dreams couldn’t hurt you.
I beat you, Nathaniel said.
That you did, agreed Pestilence. He picked up a board in one gnarled, hoary hand, turned it this way and that, and placed it back on the shelf. And here you are, in the world’s store, because I let you go.
Only because Sol cast you out.
He did me a favor, youngin’. And besides, I bow to no angel. The power he wielded over me is a fool’s power, and soon enough even that will mean nothing. You left that Cathedral alive because I let you leave, but now your time is drawing to a close. Five is the number of your fate, and none shall stand in our way.
Get out of here. Your name is Pestilence and I expel thee.
The old man faded, grinning all the while. Nathaniel continued on through the maze. Robber traipsed along beside him.
Where am I? Nathaniel asked, no longer paying attention to the direction he was going. He simply walked because that was what he was supposed to be doing.