The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  Anne shuddered. Reminding her of Ed's vile habits and abilities may not have been the best choice, but it kept the conversation in the realm of things she was familiar with. After all, she took him down once before.

  "He will have found another victim by now," said Anne, not taking her eyes off Michelle's shattered corpse. "If he's involved …" Her face went pale. "Not again. They couldn't be trying that again …"

  "Trying what?" I asked, slamming down an empty glass. I offered Anne the other one. She ignored me so I gulped it down, letting the scotch numb my throat. It settled into my stomach like a hot ember, reminding me that it had been quite a while since my last full meal.

  "Well? What are they trying?" I asked again, heading for the kitchen behind the bar. There should have been enough back there to put together a quick sandwich if nothing else. I pushed open the door and nearly tripped over a hunk of flaking, twisted metal. The kitchen was a mess—burnt and broken splinters of wood all over the place. Heat-severed strands of steel cable were scattered around a scorch mark burned into the concrete floor. The refrigerator, a massive stainless steel upright, looked like someone had taken a cutting torch to it—a torch about four feet wide. If that wasn't enough proof Aden had been there, several strands of fierce red hair were caught on what was left of the cable. Had been being the key phrase—she wasn't there now. The back door was partially melted and still hot to the touch but open just enough to have been her exit.

  "I think I found where they were keeping Aden," I said. Anne came running, jumping the bar to get to me. "Looks like she got away—"

  "They let her go," said Anne, cutting me off. "She'll run for my lab. Zachary, we need to go, now!"

  "That's a good thing, right? If she makes it to the lab she should be safe," I said.

  Anne shook her head. "They'll follow her. It's as protected as I could make it, but Ed could force his way in. He's gotten stronger—much stronger than I ever imagined he could be."

  "We need help," I said. "For one thing, what the hell is going to happen when someone discovers this mess?" I grabbed the phone and started speaking without even waiting for the dial tone to drop. "Adam, I need—"

  "This is becoming a habit," he replied instantly. "I must warn you that your current level of indebtedness is equivalent to—"

  Anne snatched the phone away from me. "Listen to me you sniveling little pervert. Tell Paige that Ed is moving and get a clean up crew here now." She didn't wait for an answer before dropping the phone and storming out of the bar. I gingerly hung up the phone, afraid to say anything or even to put my ear to the line.

  As I turned to follow Anne, I spotted a message etched into the bar top, "You're too late."

  Anne flagged down a cab and nearly ripped off its door getting in—I could hear the hinges groaning as she pulled it open. There was barely enough time for me to make it around to the other side before she screamed "Step on it!" to the driver. He took one look at our blood spattered clothes and my shotgun and decided it was better not to ask questions.

  The meter ticked over, counting the seconds in pennies and dollars as we raced through Pocketville's winding streets. Anne said nothing, silently watching the buildings and people rush by. I reloaded empty magazines and wished for a few more shotgun shells, but that was one weapon I didn't have in my personal collection.

  We pulled up to a tall brick building with rusted bars over the first four stories of windows. Anne bolted out of the cab while I threw cash at the driver and ran just to keep up. She barreled through the building's front door, barely noticing a woman with two large sacks of groceries. I caught the woman, apologizing profusely as I passed, and made it up the front steps just in time to see Anne disappear down the basement stairwell, jumping railings to cover ground faster.

  "Anne! Wait!" I yelled after her. "We don't know—" She was standing stock still at the bottom of the stairs, smack in the middle of my path. I had just enough forethought to dodge her and slam into the wall—bruising my shoulder in the process—instead of bowling her over.

  Heavily insulated industrial piping lined the walls, parts of the heating or cooling plant for the rest of the building I guessed. There was just enough light from the stairwell to make out broken bits of glass below a mangled wire cage a short way down the hall. Someone had been through here, someone who didn't want to be seen.

  "No," whispered Anne, pulling out her tube. It gave off a dull red glow, illuminating another ten feet into the darkness. "No. No! No!" She took off running with me huffing to keep up, but she was too fast for me, and soon I was left chasing after the faint glow of her weapon.

  The hallway kept going long past where the building's walls should have ended. A slight downward slope along its length left no doubt that this was where Anne had been hiding all these years—I could almost feel Ruth's handy work in the taste of the air. She had always been good at creating "nooks" in the fabric of Pocketville in much the same way that Anne was good with heat. When I finally caught up to Anne, she was standing in front of a heavy vault door, examining its hinges closely. From their sheer size, the door itself had to be several feet thick.

  "The door looks intact," she mumbled, spinning a small combination dial and reaching for the door's wheel. The door swung free before she could turn it, almost too easily. "No …"

  Smoldering papers and ash were strewn everywhere. One of Anne's custom floor lamps lay in a corner of the room, partially hidden by a smashed book case. I gave the lamp a once over before setting it back up-right. It looked fine—no cracks in the globe and a faint blue glow inside—so I adjusted the little slider up, sending harsh, actinic light and stark shadows throughout the room. The six inch glass globe at the top enclosed what Anne called a "small" reactor. Beyond light, one was enough to power all of the equipment in her lab without so much as a flicker. I never could get her to tell me any more about the things.

  Steel tables were scattered around, discolored by heat or wrapped around supporting columns like thrown, wet towels. Several of the walls held silhouettes of a massive human figure cast in faintly glowing concrete and black soot as if his body had blocked an unbelievably hot gout of flames.

  There was another lamp in the middle of the room, its globe shattered. Dried blood was smeared along its length, and the control slider was turned all the way up. This one was bigger and had several heavy cables connecting it to mangled lumps of metal that might once have been other equipment. It was still giving off harsh, blue-white flashes of light, so I reached for the controls to turn it off and yanked my hand back instantly. The lamp was insanely hot—hot enough to singe the hairs on the back of my hand. I hooked the slider with the shotgun's barrel and was glad enough of the mechanism was still intact to power it down.

  I'd checked every side room and every corner but found no sign of Aden. She'd been here, that was certain, but wasn't anymore. Anne was further back in the lab next to a surprisingly intact wooden cabinet. It was the only piece of combustible furniture in the whole place and the only one that hadn't been burned.

  "She put up a fight, " I said, trying to sound reassuring. "And it looks like she made it out."

  "They're gone," said Anne, her face pale.

  Her tone sent a chill through me. "What are gone?" I asked.

  She pointed at the cabinet, "The matches I kept in there."

  "Okay, what was so special about …" I recognized the cabinet, Ruth had reinforced it herself back before the incident. Back before Ed attacked and my old neighborhood became the Wastes.

  "How many matches were in there?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice level.

  "There were originally twelve," she said. "But there are only ten left now. You were there when we tested the first one, and I …" Her voice trailed off.

  "You used one to stop Ed," I said through clenched teeth. "I was there too."

  "Zachary, she doesn't know how powerful they are!" Anne screamed, her eyes pleading with me. "She doesn't understand what they can do! I never told her
about the Wastes."

  "Are you sure she has them?" I asked. "Could they have been destroyed in the fight?"

  "The cabinet is coded to me," said Anne. "No one but Aden or I could open it, and anything potent enough to breach the cabinet would have set them off. It's the same as before."

  "We have to find her," I cut Anne off. "They'll be maneuvering Aden to somewhere high, where the blast will do the most damage. Did any of your tracking equipment survive?"

  Black flecks of carbonized paper and ash scattered into a cloud beside us. "You lose," said a hoarse whisper behind my ear, "Make your peace."

  "Not this time," I growled pulling my forty-five. Anne's lamps were peculiar, self powering toys. Each globe was made of thick, leaded glass—thick enough to shield the tiny reaction that powered it but not, I reasoned, thick enough to stop a bullet, especially one of Anne's custom bullets. One round, dead center, and the room was flooded with searingly bright light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  T- 17 Years - Broken Containment

  "You should be careful about loud noises for a few more days but I don't think there will be any permanent damage," said Lee. "And it doesn't look like you were exposed to a significant amount of radiation."

  "You almost sound disappointed," chided Anne.

  "Well, I won't get to try out that new, experimental treatment …"

  "Don't worry, I have eleven more matches in the lab," she laughed.

  "You mean what's left of the lab," Ruth corrected. "I think we'll be putting those in a more secure location. They're too powerful to just have laying around like that."

  Anne frowned.

  "I'm not finished with them!"

  "She's right, Anne," said Zachary. "If one of those matches went off inside your lab, not the blast chamber, there wouldn't be anything left to clean up."

  "I suggest that you take this discussion outside, if you don't mind," said Lee. "You three, except for a few bruises, are in perfect health, and I have other patients to attend to."

  "You're right. We'll continue this discussion in my office," said Ruth, shooing Anne and Zachary out the door. "May I have a word with you Lee?"

  "What can I do for you?" asked Lee.

  "A new guest arrived several days ago," said Ruth.

  "And did a number on the transfer chamber from what Jill has told me."

  "I'll have to have a talk with her about spreading rumors," said Ruth with mild annoyance. "Did she mention how bad his injuries were?"

  "No, just that there was blood everywhere."

  "I'd like you to examine him," said Ruth. "The bastard brushed off a thirty count transfer, Paige's attacks, and a concussion wave without batting an eye. I have him sealed up on a containment level until I decide what to do with him."

  "Does 'he' have a name?"

  "I'm calling him 'Sick Bastard' for the time being," said Ruth.

  "Huh?"

  "He wouldn't give me his name," answered Ruth.

  "Okay then! Take me to the patient," said Lee.

  Ed couldn't move. No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that he couldn't move so much as there was nothing to move. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear, or smell, or taste, or feel anything. There should be pain coursing through every fiber of his being, yet he felt nothing. The overwhelming hunger, the insatiable desire that colored his every waking thought, had simply disappeared. There was nothing but silence. A silence that let his mind roam. Is this what death is like? he wondered.

  "This is a fine way to find my assassin."

  The words appeared in Ed's mind out of nowhere. He didn't, couldn't, hear them as he was. Even so, there was a quality to them that reminded him of his current employer and the man's spotless white shoes.

  "I'd ask for an explanation, but I doubt you would be able answer in your present state," continued the words. "Not that I'm really disappointed. Ruth is a rather competent opponent after all."

  Tingles started running through Ed's hands. Whatever had been done to him was starting to wear off. He could feel the bindings at his wrists and the soft flow of air moving over him like a warm blanket.

  "Ah, that's more like it! Don't worry, I haven't given up on you just yet," said the words, Ed could almost feel their owner smiling. "You'll get your chance to escape shortly."

  "He's coming around," said a different male voice coming from a long way away.

  With sensation returned the hunger that he'd lived with for as long as he could remember. With the hunger came pain—never ending pain that burned in the very core of his being. The pain grew with the hunger, and only one thing could sate it.

  "He looks like he's been through a blender!" exclaimed Lee. "What happened?"

  "He fought Paige," Ruth answered. "Then tried to fight me."

  Ed recognized her voice but not the man's. He still couldn't move, but could at least tell that he still had a body. So the little freak who tore up my arm is named Paige, he thought.

  "Can you hear me?" asked Lee, talking close to Ed's ear.

  "Yes, I can hear you," Ed croaked out. His throat was dry and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. The discomfort didn't matter nearly as much as his hunger, the need to be free and back on the hunt.

  "What's your name?" Lee questioned.

  Ed laughed. "Why do you care what my name is? It won't be much use to you when you're dead," he said, smiling.

  "Ruth named you 'Sick Bastard,' but I don't think I want to put that on my report," said Lee while Ruth smirked off to the side.

  Enough sensation had returned to Ed's body that he could feel the restraint collar locked around his neck, along with straps binding his chest and legs to the surface he was lying on. They felt small, almost insignificant. A strong overhead light ruined any chance of Ed seeing into the dark shadows around the room. He wasn't even sure there were walls outside the cone of illumination.

  "Ha!" laughed Ed. "Is she here?"

  "I'm here," answered Ruth, stepping into his field of vision.

  "You smell like my prey," Ed commented. "Give her a message for me. Tell her death is her only escape."

  "You're not going anywhere," said Ruth.

  "We'll see," smirked Ed.

  "Let's get this over with! Lee, if you would?" Ruth barked and turned to leave as Lee continued with his examination. "I'll be in my office when you've finished."

  "Yes ma'am," stated Lee and turned back to Ed. There were so many old wounds criss-crossing the large man's body that Lee couldn't catalog them all. Scar over scar over scar until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. Finally, Lee stood up straight, shaking his head.

  "How many times have you been shot?" asked Lee, with a pen poised to take notes on his clipboard.

  "I don't have that many fingers and toes," answered Ed. "Let's just say 'not enough.'"

  Lee sighed and started examining Ed's arm very carefully. Paige's notes mentioned tearing a bone from the limb, but from what Lee could tell there was barely even a bruise there now.

  "You heal fast," commented Lee. "Almost as fast as I do. How does it work?"

  "Do you really want to find out?" asked Ed.

  "Of course!" said Lee. "This is a research facility after all."

  Ed smiled and flexed the muscles in his neck causing the restraint collar to groan against the pressure—one of the wrist cuffs snapped with a resounding pop. Lee's eyes went wide. He turned to run, but Ed's hand closed around his throat before Lee made two steps.

  "Let me show you," stated Ed as Lee's scream died on his lips. Alarms started sounding in the background, and Ed paused for a moment to listen. Lee clawed at the hand around his throat, unable to pull away even a single finger, as his face turned beet red.

  "Containment Breach!" said a highly amplified female voice that seemed to come from everywhere.

  "It looks like—" Ed started to say, but a wild bolt of lightning cut him short and knocked him several feet back. Lee was thrown clear, still gasping somewhere in the darkness
. Ed frowned, examining the patch of frost left on his shoulder.

  "That's not a very effective weapon," he commented, taking another step back. He could make out ten shapes in the darkness, each holding something small and gleaming in their hands. One of the shapes was helping Lee through a faintly lit doorway. "You'll have to do better than that."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  T- 1 Hour - End Game

  I was aware of pain and a flickering, reddish-blue shadow filling my vision and not much else. Then I could tell that my eyes hurt and that my face felt like someone had splashed me with boiling water. Finally, I could feel pinpricks where tiny shards of glass had embedded themselves in my skin. My throat felt raw, and that was when I realized I was screaming at the top of my lungs, but I couldn't hear myself over the all the other voices.

  There were thousands of them—men, women, even children—screaming and moaning, an infernal chorus of damned souls. Each voice echoed against stone walls, redoubling with every passing moment as the last vestiges of sanity left their tortured minds. I could feel them all, each twisted and distorted face flashing across my mind's eye. Their pain burned itself into my memory, nearly rending my own perception of reality to shreds. Slowly, the other voices faded to silence, as what little of their essence remained was expended in one final burst of excruciating torment—one last gasp before the fabric of Pocketville reclaimed them. Layer after layer of accreted souls burning away in a column of hellish fire. The thousands became hundreds, the hundreds became tens, then one, and finally silence fell.

  My body felt like it had been pounded flat with a meat mallet. I could barely move, but I still had my pistol in hand. The stench of raw sewage and burning flesh almost keeled me over right then and there, but our phantom killer was finally visible—at least what was left of him. Every inch of his skin had been scorched to black, papery flakes peeling away as what little flesh remained twitched. His mouth was held wide, croaking as foul smelling breath escaped.