The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  Sheridan edged up behind me—reflexively dropping into his role as an officer of the law—and set his hand on my shoulder. I had to give him respect, most people would have cracked up after only a fraction of what he'd seen.

  "You have no right—" I started to say.

  "I have every right!" the Man in White snapped back. "This is my world! You Outsiders are the ones who don't belong here!" He stamped up to me, his face inches from mine. I could feel the heat of his breath—smell the scent of ancient, desiccated dust. "I could have killed you at any moment, and there is nothing you can do to lay a hand on me. My body," he spat out the word as if it were spoiled milk, "is no more corporeal than Ruth's! You barely understand what I am, what this world is! That you brought this thousandth generation shell of a man …"

  "Now wait just a minute," cut in Sheridan. "Who do you think—"

  "SHUT UP!" snapped the Man in White.

  Sheridan backpedaled into the couch and collapsed, drooling from the side of his mouth. Even at the fringes, that blast was enough to rattle me.

  "The fact that you brought this worthless husk of a soul that can't even stand up to a stiff breeze is proof enough of how much of a fool you really are!"

  Our eyes locked for an instant before he turned and walked away. He paused at the front door, hat in hand.

  "By the way, now that our business association is effectively complete, I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," he said, looking back at me with a wicked smile.

  "What are you talking about? The only business we have together is me ending you," I stated.

  "Of course! Didn't I just tell you 'our association is effectively complete'? Now that you've found the one thing in all of Pocketville that escaped my own efforts—Anne Currie. Even better, you brought me Aden as well! Yes, you've done much better than even I could have hoped!"

  Things started falling into place in my mind that should have been obvious from the beginning. He saw the realizations crossing my face and turned to leave.

  "Good bye, Artemas! We won't see each other again."

  "Bastard!" I yelled and rushed at him, unleashing pent up anger that had been building for decades—hatred that had stewed in the depths of my soul since the day I discovered the Founder's Archive hiding in the recesses of my mind. That was the day I learned what Pocketville really was. Sheridan tried to stop my attack, to hold me back—I brushed him aside as though he weighed nothing. The Man in White—T.E.M.—disappeared through the door before I could catch him.

  "Don't! There's still a storm in the Wastes," yelled Ruth. I swung the door wide and nearly fell over as foul wind blasted past me. Inky, black rain was falling in a thick curtain as searingly-bright, multi-colored lightning crashed into the ground. Each bolt resounded with a deafening concussion hardly classifiable as sound as it licked the earth just past the lawn's edge. T.E.M. was gone and there was no hope of me following him in this mess.

  I fought the door closed—the wind forcing me to unleash even more of my family heritage than I had already. That bastard had used me to find her. To find Anne. I punched the wall until my knuckles bled and kept on punching, again and again. He knew I would eventually be forced to use one of Anne's matches—that she'd come looking for whoever had set off one of her toys.

  Movement to my left distracted me, and I found myself staring at a face I couldn't recognize. Pitch black marbles filled with boiling darkness instead of eyes, a twisted caricature of a mouth, and hollowed, grey cheeks that were more bone than flesh. I reached for my pistol only to see the figure do the same—I was staring into a mirror Ruth kept by the door.

  I pulled my hand away from the butt of my forty-five and drew my palms together—forcing myself to breathe slow and deep, focusing on purging the tension. I could feel the anger flowing away with each exhale—my muscles loosening, the twangy edge of power subsiding slowly. Five breaths and I could think clearly. Ten breaths and I could recognize my own face in the mirror again. My hand was still a bloody mess—only damaged skin, no broken bones thankfully. I took a moment longer to watch splatters of my blood, a much darker red than I had expected, being slowly absorbed into the wall—only seconds passed before all I could see was clean, off-white paint. There wasn't even a dent in the plaster. The house was as hungry for life as everything else in the Wastes.

  "I take it you know that guy?" said Sheridan, his voice carefully level as he edged up behind me again.

  "You could say that," I said without turning.

  "Yeah? I'd be real interested in hearing the details," he said and slapped a pair of handcuffs around my wrist. "What would make you take potshots at a guy like that in front of a police lieutenant?"

  He reached to take my pistol, but Ruth cut him off. "I suggest you stop, before you make the worst mistake of your measly existence."

  "Shut your trap, sister. You're next on my list," he said after pocketing my nineteen-eleven and pulling out a bundle of zip ties.

  "I take it you're not the most observant person," said Ruth, eyeing the plastic restraints.

  "You're under arrest for interfering …" Sheridan fell silent when his hand passed through her arm. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" He tried again, and didn't even ruffle her sleeve.

  "How about this, I'll be nice and surrender," she held out her hands to him, "just put the cuffs on and I'll come along quietly."

  Sheridan just scowled.

  "I'm right here, officer, and I've done some very bad things. I'm as evil as they come!" she laughed. "Tens of thousands have died at my hand! Just look around you! This wasteland is mine! My creation! And there's not a damn thing you or anyone else can do about it!"

  Ruth rushed forward causing Sheridan to reflexively backpedal until he hit a wall. Her face had twisted itself into a distorted caricature of humanity. Jet black hair writhed around her head as if blown by some strange, ethereal wind. Her eyes glowed a searing, caustic blue, obscuring the rest of her features except for a ragged scar of a mouth filled with cruel carnivorous teeth. Sheridan reacted by reflex, his mind unable or unwilling to reconcile past experience with the present. Ruth couldn't physically hurt Sheridan anymore than he could touch her, but he didn't realize that.

  Something slammed into my back, and I went down hard, narrowly avoiding the coffee table with my head. Sheridan doubled over, the Candice-thing's fist buried in his gut. He had my pistol pressed into her side. It was loaded with Anne's rounds.

  "Xidorn! Don't do—"

  Too late, I watched in slow motion as he squeezed the trigger, firing at point blank. A wave of heat washed over me, thankfully just enough to be felt and not the all consuming fire from before. The pistol clattered to the floor—the clump of ash that had formed around it shattering into dust when it hit. Sheridan wasn't far behind it, clutching the smoldering stump of his right arm.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  T- 17 Years - The Limits of Power

  "How much longer until he starts to materialize?" asked Ruth.

  "You have approximately five more minutes," answered Paige. "Janus used the slowest form of the process in hopes of giving you an advantage."

  Ruth frowned. No matter what this guy had done, using the thirty-second cycle was downright sadistic. The five-second transfer cycle alone was enough to induce convulsions and who knew what else.

  "How dangerous is this guy?"

  "I believe… he is effectively immortal, and as a consequence, minimally affected by physical injury," said Paige. "I was unable to contain him without Janus's assistance."

  "That's bad," Ruth exclaimed. "I've never known you to back down from a fight."

  "I did not back down. It was necessary to request assistance to bring the situation to a conclusion."

  The tiny hint of annoyance in Paige's voice made Ruth smile. Paige being bested by anyone was a very rare occurrence. And the person who accomplished just that was about to appear, molecule by molecule, in the transfer chamber. Ruth nodded to her and dropped the connection, letting her former
student's image fade from the screen. The last time that Janus had sent a hostile combatant through she had planned a month in advance for the arrival. Even with advance notice, all hell broke loose and it took her nearly a year to straighten out the mess.

  "Ma'am?" called a female technician from the hall outside her office.

  Ruth looked up from the blank screen inset in her desk and leveled her eyes on the woman. She caught the technician's name tag—Jill—and frowned, it was unusual for anyone to interrupt her.

  "What is it, Jill?" asked Ruth.

  "We have something coming through in the transfer chamber. It looks big," said Jill. "Energy levels are off the charts, and whatever it is appears to be fighting in the stream."

  Ruth sighed. Looks like Paige's five minutes was going to be a good deal less.

  "I'll be right there. Prep a containment unit."

  "Are we expecting a dangerous incoming?" asked Jill.

  "Definitely," said Ruth. "Someone who could give Paige a run for her money."

  Jill glanced at the hidden screen uneasily and then back to Ruth.

  "I'll get right on it," she said and bolted from the doorway.

  "Make sure that Lee has a medical team ready as well!" Ruth called after her. The only question was who Lee's team would be patching up.

  Ruth took off the light jacket she was wearing and stretched her arms. There was just enough time for her to limber up a little before their guest started taking shape. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the tension and stress flow out and away as she did. Calm. Completely loose.

  Jill was waiting for her in the anteroom to the transfer chamber, nervously dancing between the various dials and gauges on the transfer chamber. Ruth could sense her unease, as if the room were flooded with palatable fear, and let the younger woman's emotions flow around her without allowing them to disturb her own calm. There wasn't enough room in the transfer chamber or the small receiving area around it for any kind of protracted fight, which meant keeping a cool head would be Ruth's only hope if their guest escaped the containment procedures.

  "Jill! Slow down!" Ruth ordered. "We don't have time for any screw-ups."

  Jill paused in her work for a moment before another warning alarm demanded her attention.

  "Sorry, ma'am. This guy is big, and there's a lot of energy coming through with him. I'm worried that it'll be too much for the chamber."

  "That's why I'm here," said Ruth. "Paige mentioned that he brushed off physical injury as if nothing had happened. I'd imagine the energy you're seeing might have something to do with that. Any way we can divert it?"

  Tiny sparks were starting to flare from all of the corners and edges around the room. Ruth could feel the fabric of reality stretching inside the transfer chamber—way too fast for her liking. The threads "tasted" wrong to her, like someone had mixed essence of skunk with chlorine and added a dash of spoiled milk for good measure.

  "Something's not right here, the equip… POWER SURGE!" screamed Jill and dove through the anteroom's door. Lightning punched a hole in the bulkhead door of the transfer chamber with a deafening bang. Wild arcs of electricity roved the room, turning anything they touched to molten slag or ash instantly. It found its way to a wiring conduit and blew the lights, leaving a sickly green glow coming from the transfer chamber window as the only illumination. Ruth stood her ground, unmoving in the face of the onslaught, a slightly crooked smile on her face—the seed of her own power burning deep inside her.

  "Is that all you've got?" she called out, not expecting an answer—their guest wouldn't have ears yet much less be aware enough to hear. Jill peeked her head around the anteroom's door, just enough to see what was going. She could see black flames rolling off Ruth's body like sheets of night, and Ruth's eyes were a pair of obsidian marbles filled with boiling smoke.

  "Is that all you've got!" Ruth screamed, feeling giddy. It had been so long since she tapped the well of her full power. The energy bolts kept coming, tearing everything around her apart.

  "Five!" yelled Jill from the hallway.

  Then the screaming started.

  A primal scream that carried with it rage and pain. It cut through Jill's brain like nails on a chalkboard mixed with rending metal. Nothing Jill had ever heard compared to it.

  Ruth inhaled slowly, raising her arms in front of her, palms flat, facing up as though lifting an unseen burden.

  "Four!" called Jill with her hands held tightly over ears to block out the sound. It helped a little, but the noise was so loud it permeated her entire body, tearing at the core of her being.

  Ruth exhaled slowly, pushing down with flat palms.

  "Three!"

  Another inhale, while slowly raising her arms. The black flames seemed to retreat into Ruth's body.

  "Two!"

  She pushed down again, exhaling, and the flames all but disappeared.

  "One!"

  Last cycle, Ruth thought, concentrating on the seething energy she had gathered. She inhaled one last time and pulled her arms in tight to her sides, palms facing out.

  "Zero!"

  The concussion wave flowed around Ruth and slammed into the wall behind her with enough force to pulverize concrete. Ruth's hands exploded forward, expelling all the energy and tension she'd built up. If her estimation was correct, it might just be enough to counter the newcomer's uncontrolled burst before it destroyed too much of the superstructure around them. The transfer chamber's door folded inward and smashed into his writhing body with a wet thud. He was flopping around like a fish out of water, splattering blood and gore everywhere, finally collapsing in a heap against the wall.

  Ruth slowly approached her new guest, never taking her eyes off his still form. She could see evidence of several gunshot wounds and a gash running the length of his arm. What remained of his clothing had melded with the flesh it had covered, creating a rippling effect in his skin. Given the amount of blood on the walls, there was no way he should be alive.

  "Are you finished?" he said, coughing up blood.

  Ruth jumped like she'd been bitten—putting a good ten feet between herself and the gruesome mass of flesh in the transfer chamber.

  "That's quite a wallop you have," he continued, throwing the mangled door aside.

  As Ruth watched, his skin seemed to be forcing the tatters of his jumpsuit out of his body.

  "Not bad yourself," said Ruth. "Do you have a name or is 'Sick Bastard' good enough?"

  He laughed until he started coughing again and spit blood against the floor.

  "That's one I haven't heard before. Now, where am I?" he said, sniffing the air. "Doesn't really matter. I can smell her here, stronger than anywhere I've been."

  "You're looking for someone?" asked Ruth. Did this bastard want to be here?

  "Pretty and bright!" answered the newcomer with a wry smile. "I can smell you too—little girl—so you might as well come in and join the party."

  Jill peeked around the wall, took one look at the newcomer, and disappeared again.

  "Or not, it doesn't really matter to me," he said, advancing on Ruth. His bulk towered over her like an angered bear—his face a demon mask of ruined skin. "You're both dead in the end."

  "There are two ways this can go," said Ruth backing away with each step the newcomer took. "You can come quietly and peaceably with me to the infirmary and have those wounds looked at, or you can spend time alone until I decide what to do with you. Which is it going to be?"

  "How about I skin you alive, limb by limb—finger by excruciating finger—just to hear you scream? Your friend in the hall can watch," he replied. "She'll be next."

  "That wasn't one of the choices," commented Ruth coldly.

  "I make my own choices," answered the newcomer with a wide grin.

  "You really don't know who you're messing with do you?" said Ruth as she shook her head.

  "I really don't care, you're in my way. I'm looking forward to peeling you, the taste of your agony will be so exquisi
te."

  "No," said Ruth, letting power roll off her tongue.

  The newcomer froze where he stood, confusion in his eyes, and disappeared.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  T- 6 Hours - Unreality

  Sheridan slowly raised his right hand while he lay on the bed, clenching and unclenching his fist. He stared at it, counting the fingers several times before accepting that the hand actually existed. Then he saw me and went for his service pistol—which I had taken the liberty of removing just to be on the safe side. I pointed to the room's one small table where I'd left his revolver and shotgun. It took a few seconds for the new information to percolate through his recovering mind. When it did, he tried—quite heroically—to make a jump for the weapons, but his pants dropped to his ankles, and Sheridan promptly fell flat on his face with a resounding smack.

  I'd already dragged his unconscious dead weight out of Ruth's house, across the Wastes, and back through the door on Kokura Street so I saw no need to help the treacherous bastard get to his feet. Especially not when he wanted a weapon to point at me.

  "We're wasting time," snapped Anne, pacing by the door. Lee had finished putting her back together well before Sheridan and I made it back. "Every minute we're sitting here is another they—whoever they are—have with Aden."

  "We know who has her," I said quietly.

  "You might," Anne cursed, "but you haven't graced the rest of us with whatever your she-demon of a mother told you."

  "She didn't tell me much of anything," I responded. Ruth hadn't been very communicative after Sheridan incinerated the Candice-thing. The creature had apparently been a gift from T.E.M., otherwise known as the Man in White—a man I had more reason to hate than most. There were two more puzzles to add to an ever-growing list of questions. Why was Ruth talking to him? The bastard was ultimately responsible for her own incorporeal state, not to mention—indirectly—the Wastes. Then there was the other oddity. Why had Anne's bullets carried significantly less punch on the Candice-thing than the other creatures? Anne might be able to answer that one, but she wasn't in the mood to explain much of anything.