The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  But those days were in the past, back before everything went wrong. Now, my mind was floating further from Pocketville than I had ever considered possible, and my only guide had just tried to consume me. I could feel the Archive, at the very edge of whatever senses a free-drifting mind had. If this place was anything like the Archive itself, time in the outside world would have slowed to such a crawl that I could spend the equivalent of days or weeks here and experience little more than a few seconds or minutes in the waking world.

  Maybe I could use …

  SMACK

  "Wake up!" The voice was decidedly female and significantly calmer than I would have expected under the circumstances. My cheek felt warm and tingly, and I could suddenly feel all the little aches and pains that went along with having a physical body which meant someone had rudely pulled me back to reality. The rest of my body hadn't quite caught up with the fact I was back in the driver's seat and teetered sideways for a moment before falling over.

  "That wasn't very polite," I croaked out. My eyes weren't working yet, so I had no idea who hit me. Under normal circumstances, a trip like that should have taken mere seconds, this felt like much longer. "How long was I out?"

  "About ten minutes," said Anne.

  "What were you doing in the Archive?" said the other voice, completely flat and toneless. "This is no time for games."

  My eyes finally creaked, painfully, open. There was Paige, kneeling over me, wearing a flat black combat unitard with strategically positioned armor plate and her hair pulled into a tight pony-tail. The clothing was a gift from Ruth. Anne seemed to have composed herself and was working on a mangled piece of equipment in the corner. She looked up from its flickering screen for an instant before going back to tweaking loose wires.

  "A really nasty round of poker," I replied. "Our friend had one last trick up his sleeve and I almost fell for it …"

  "Found her," Anne interrupted. "Oh no… she's fusing the matches together!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  T- 17 Years - The Wastes

  "Where is Sick Bastard now?" asked Ruth calmly.

  There was barely enough room in her office for the four of them. Even the walls seemed to stretch to accommodate the combined bulk of Ruth and the three technicians. Jill glanced around the tiny space, nervously taking in the room. The only illumination came from the dim light of the glowing work table—just bright enough to barely make out shapes in the dark. Every spare inch held a miniature statuette, picture, or book stacked in a disorganized jumble that was somehow devoid of empty spaces. Even Ruth's desk was overflowing with papers and a small collection of half-finished miniatures. The only exception was the square work table the four of them were grouped around—one to a side.

  "We have him on level fifteen, near the new arrivals lab," answered another of the technicians, a man named Arnold. Ruth knew his name but couldn't spare the concentration needed to recall anything else about him. A bead of sweat dropped from his forehead onto the table, blurring the projected schematic floating between them. He quickly wiped it away, but not before a grunt of annoyance from Ruth.

  "Sorry about the heat," she said absently. "There's some tissue on my desk, if you can find it." She motioned to a four foot tall pile of papers topped with a tiny model cat crouching for a pounce. It was only half finished, but Arnold could almost feel its cold, predatory eyes staring at him like he was its next meal.

  "Right! Okay, people—hold on to something, this ride could be a little bumpy," said Ruth as she closed her eyes tight. The room seemed to bulge out around them, like an inflated balloon, and lurched hard to the right. All three of the technicians struggled to the keep their footing as the floor violently dropped out from under them. The third, a man Jill knew as Isaacson, lost his grip on the work table and fell sideways.

  "Help!" he screamed, just before disappearing through the wall, leaving a faint ripple of distortion behind. None of the others dared take even one hand off the table.

  "Medical! We just lost a man somewhere around—" Jill glanced at the schematic and found the pinpoint of blue light that represented the office zig-zagging through the facility as it chased after a tiny red dot. "—Level twelve! Medical? Hello! Lee, are you there! Damn it!"

  "No time to worry about it now," said Ruth, barely moving her lips. "Just hope he didn't land inside a wall."

  "He's on the exit level!" yelled Arnold. "The bastard's going outside!"

  Jill looked at the red dot and spotted another one coming up to the facility's main entrance. "We have someone coming in!" she yelled. "It looks like, Anne Currie."

  "Are you sure?" asked Ruth.

  "Positive I. D., it's Anne all right," answered Arnold.

  "Right! Last jump!" yelled Ruth.

  Ed knew his prey was close, so close that her scent surrounded him—he could feel her, like magnetic attraction drawing them closer together. The proximity of Ed's victim so overwhelmed his senses that he could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but his prey's presence. There was a barrier between them, thin and flimsy—it yielded instantly to his fists. Something pierced the skin of his arm, so subtly that he almost didn't notice. It was enough to clear Ed's mind ever so slightly. Just enough to spot a man aiming a rifle at him through the cloud of pulverized concrete dust. Ed rushed forward and gripped the man with both hands—the rifle crumbled like a blade of grass against Ed's palm. Squeeze, tear, and the man was in two pieces, oozing through Ed's fingers like jelly-coated modeling clay.

  Metal doors closed behind him, and the room shifted—the floor seeming to drop out from under him while his stomach felt like it was being pulled sideways. Ed leaned against the wall to steady himself—smearing it with a dark red mixture of blood and liquified flesh. A tiny metallic ping sounded behind him, and the doors slid open.

  Ed turned around and sniffed the air as he stepped cautiously forward. This place was different. To his eyes it looked like the living room of a house, but he could feel its desire—its hunger. As his eyes roved the room, he could see it pulsing with life—breathing in his scent like a predator savoring the smell of fresh prey. Behind him, the metal doors slid quietly closed, leaving no retreat.

  Blood dripped from his fingers onto the carpet and disappeared before it could soak into the fibers and spread out. Ed flung his arm in a wide arc, slinging the red liquid around the room. It splattered onto furniture, the walls, the carpet, even the ceiling, fading away as soon as it touched any surface. The house itself seemed to groan in pleasure as though it smelled a tasty treat.

  Ed smiled. "Not today I think," he said taking a careful step forward. The walls seemed to snap at him like caged, starving wolves even though they were as solid and immobile as granite. It wasn't sound or telepathy, and yet he knew the sensation was real—a predator recognizing another beast of like mind. But this beast was bound, unable to do more than bare its teeth at him unless released.

  He passed carefully through the room. All the time, his hunger screaming at him to plow forward, to smash through the walls as though they were nothing more than tissue paper—an act he knew, as surely as one predator knows another, would be little more than suicide. Only a few seconds had passed by the time he reached the front door, but Ed was dripping with sweat from the effort of restraining his nature. The door knob turned easily in his hand as the room screamed its frustrations at him. Ed swung the door wide and caught sight of his prey for the first time since his hunt began.

  "NOW YOU'RE MINE!" screamed Ed as he sprinted forward.

  Anne was getting out of a car when she spotted Ed rushing at her. She barely had time to take in the hulking beast of a man and jump sideways before he reached where she'd been standing. Ed turned, reaching for Anne with his left arm but had too much momentum to change course. He crashed into the car at full tilt, shattering the passenger side windows and wrapping its frame around his body like tin foil. Anne ducked and rolled, coming up with a match pressed against the striking surface of a small matchbox.
/>
  "What the hell?" she asked as Ed extricated himself from the mangled car.

  "You dodged me," said Ed, sliding the remains of the rear passenger door off his arm. "Not many people can do that."

  "Dodged?" she asked, edging backwards. "What the hell were you trying to do?" Her back was to the house now, but she knew she wasn't fast enough to make it there before Ed could catch her.

  "Isn't it obvious?" answered Ed. He jumped at Anne, launching his massive bulk ten feet in the air. Anne rolled out of the way again, ending up five feet to Ed's side as she struck her match. A six-foot wide gout of flame shot from the minuscule wooden, stick burning away Ed's shirt and blistering his skin. He smiled, savoring the pain as his flesh bubbled, and climbed slowly to his feet.

  The fire disappeared, and Anne frowned as Ed's body healed in front of her eyes—his flesh reforming into heavily scarred skin in mere seconds. He took a step forward, enjoying the fear radiating from Anne's every pore. She struck another match, again filling the air with the stench of burned flesh, but doing nothing to stop Ed's inexorable advance. Anne struck match after match with no more effect until the box was empty. She had almost backed onto the porch—there was nowhere left for her to go. She was outside of Ed's reach, but not far enough that she could rush inside before Ed caught her. Anne searched her pockets—hunting for more matches or anything else she could use as a weapon. All she could find was a small box with one last match in her shirt pocket. It vibrated with pent up energy as she slid the cardboard rectangle open.

  "You see this?" she said, her hands shaking as she held up the match. Light seemed to bend around it like a summer mirage. "This match will end you. So why don't we-"

  "You don't get it," Ed laughed. "I'm going to kill you. There's nothing you or anyone else can do about it."

  He took another step forward, and Anne set the match against the striking surface on the box.

  "Please," she said taking a step back. "Don't make—"

  "Shut up!" yelled Ed. "I think I'll cut out that tongue of yours first."

  The front door burst open. Ruth rushed out as the technicians behind her scrambled to grab their weapons.

  "I thought I locked you up," said Ruth.

  Anne looked away from Ed for a moment as Ruth spoke. That was all Ed needed. He rushed forward and was almost on top of her before Anne looked back. Her eyes went wide as she dropped backwards and down to avoid Ed's encircling arms.

  "No!" yelled Ruth, spotting the match. She moved as fast as she could to get between the two, but she wasn't fast enough.

  Anne struck the match, and the world screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  T- 0.5 Hours - Choices

  "Where is she?" I asked, trying to keep Anne focused. One, just one, of those matches had created the Wastes—a wound that the City itself had sealed away to protect itself. If Aden set off all the remaining matches at one time, there wouldn't be anything left of Pocketville, or anyone inside it.

  "She's on the top floor of the Pocketville First National Bank," said Anne. Her voice was calm and measured, but her eyes were darting around like a caged animal hunting for a way out.

  "That's a problem. We're on the other side of town from the bank—"

  "It's directly above us," said Paige. "Ruth built this hideaway for one of her research projects, and the Bank building was too good an antenna to pass up. There should be a tunnel up to the first floor over there. Assuming Aden's tantrum didn't fuse the door."

  "Right, she did have a way with folded space-time," I coughed out, frankly embarrassed I hadn't realized the hideaway's nature when I first arrived. Before being forced into her incorporeal state, rearranging parts of reality had been Ruth's specialty. Her "lab" was in the basement of our home and consisted of more floors than I ever had a chance to see—each one several square miles in area at the smallest. Of course, you'd find nothing more than dirt if you started digging.

  "How long do we have before Aden's ready to let loose?" I asked. Somehow, I still had the creature's right eye—now a dull, greyish marble—in my hand. The slow pulsing from before was completely gone. It had to be dead. So why wouldn't my hand let go of it? I shoved my hand into a pocket and was finally able to release my grip on the marble. Not a good sign, but there wasn't time to worry about that yet.

  "If we're late, we'll never know it," said Anne.

  With the exception of a little thermally induced warping, the tunnel door was still serviceable, and Paige barely needed to "persuade" it open. Of course, her idea of persuasion meant it would never close again either. Inside we found a spiral staircase extending up farther than any of us could see. Paige started climbing without a word, moving faster than any human had a right to, and disappeared before Anne or I could take our first step. This was not what I had in mind when Paige said tunnel. The two of us started climbing, each too out of breath and too absorbed in our own thoughts for conversation.

  The creature's eye felt heavy in my pocket, heavier than it should have been for its size. Somehow it tied everything together, if I could just figure out how. It had to be the source of the creature's ability to disappear and seemingly stop time. It was also the bait that T.E.M. had sent me after to flush out Anne. What I couldn't figure out was how it worked or where its power came from. Not knowing made me nervous—especially since the damn thing wanted to hang onto me. That was part of what made it so strange, the eye had desires of its own—it wanted things and had just enough will and focus to get what it wanted. So what did it want with me?

  "You know what it wants," whispered a voice just behind my ear. I spun around on the stairs—pistol drawn and ready—only to find nothing but darkness behind me. This whole mess was making me jumpy—not a good thing with a firefight on the horizon.

  "Zachary?" Anne said, noticing I wasn't behind her anymore. She saw my pistol and pulled her own weapon, sweeping her eyes over the darkness.

  "Yeah?" I asked.

  "What did you see?"

  "Nothing," I said and started climbing the stairs again. "It was nothing." Her tube disappeared, and we went on in silence for a while, moving too fast to talk. At the rate we were moving, Paige would have the situation resolved before we made it out of the tunnel. Then Anne slipped on something wet that nearly sent her tumbling. I caught her before she went over the side and nearly lost my own footing in the process.

  "Blood," I said. It was fresh, no more than a few minutes old, and there was a lot of it. Light was filtering into the stairwell from just around the corner so we had to be near the top. Then I caught the stench of freshly slaughtered meat.

  "Paige!" gasped Anne, nearly leaping up the stairs.

  I scrambled after her, fighting to keep my balance on the slippery steps. Bursting into the bank's lobby from the darkness of the tunnel blinded me, but not so badly that I didn't see the shotgun barrel pointed at Anne. I had just enough momentum left to knock her out of the way before a slug whizzed past my ear. One more second and that slug would have torn a hole the size of a watermelon in her chest.

  "You made me miss," stated Ed, his voice filled with scorn. "I was supposed to let you live, but you just got in my way."

  He racked the shotgun and pressed the still hot muzzle into my forehead. Anne rolled over and let loose with her malicious little tube. This time Ed backpedaled several steps when the bolt struck and he fell over with a gaping hole in his side. He was still moving, so I grabbed Anne's free arm and dragged her behind an island counter in the middle of the room. She was covered in sweat and gasping for air even though I couldn't see any injury on her.

  "I used too much," she coughed out.

  "Stay down," I said. "Let me handle this bastard."

  "He's after me," she said. "Not you …"

  "That wasn't very nice," called Ed. We couldn't see him, but could hear as he climbed to his feet. "Now I have to patch this hole."

  I took a chance and glanced around the corner to get a better idea of what was going on. The room
looked more like an abattoir than the inside of a bank lobby. The front doors were barred by what looked like someone's leg forced through the handles crosswise. Flesh had been peeled away from the bone in a continuous strip, with a tiny band still attaching it near a bruised-black ankle and foot as though the handles were some monstrous apple corer. No one was coming in that way short of bulldozing the doors off their hinges. The entire floor was slick with blood, other bodily fluids, and speckled with bits of entrails and bone. Other than the leg barring the front door, nothing larger than a mangled foot or hand had survived.

  Paige was nowhere to be seen, but evidence of her arrival was all over the place. The vault door held a deep dent roughly Ed's size and shape. It was mangled enough that anyone hoping to get inside would have to cut it open. Besides the quickly healing wound in his side, Ed's face was already pummeled to ground beef and his left arm hung uselessly. There was glimmer of motion to my left, and Ed went flying into the ruins of the teller's counter—panes of bulletproof glass spider-webbing around his body like a plastic shower curtain. Paige jumped back from the rubble, calm and collected as always, not a single hair out of place.

  She glanced at me, "You should go. Leave this beast to me."

  Ed was getting up, tossing bent metal and laminated glass aside as he wrestled his way free of the rubble.

  "Now I need another toy. You're going to pay for that, bitch!" Ed cursed. He lunged at Paige, relying on his girth and reach to counter her speed. She shot straight up and would have landed behind him if the ceiling had been braced enough to handle her impact. Instead, Paige found herself embedded in sheetrock up to her waist with no time or leverage to get free. Ed smiled, tearing her out of the ceiling with his good hand. Paige landed on her back, too stunned to roll clear of Ed's reach. He slammed his ruined left arm into her. She tried to block but it didn't matter—his mangled hand flowed over her crossed arms, merging with them as though their flesh were wet clay. She screamed, the only time I'd ever heard her react to pain.