The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  “He loves you, you know. He just has a...well, his own strange way of showing how he feels.” She smiled and laughed.

  Warren joined her. “You can say that again,”

  The lights flickered, sending the house into spikes of darkness, almost taunting, and then all went dark. Warren and his mother held fast their hands as the blackness overwhelmed the Brennan's home.

  “Oh, crap,” Warren said.

  The door slammed open and his father rushed inside. “Into the cellar, now,” Warren's dad shouted as the cold air rushed into the kitchen. Within minutes, they all rushed to get everything they needed into the cellar.

  11.

  Lights Out

  Piccadilly Circus.

  London, United Kingdom.

  June 1985.

  Elton Habersham slumped against the lobby wall of the Palace Theater, fumbling through one of his satchels. The thoroughfare was normally packed with locals as well as tourists and offered raunchy pornographic films to even more seedy viewers. Now, it sat in darkness and offered the tired keeper a chance to catch his breath, and if luck was on his side, maybe a few minutes of shut eye. Having been on the run since the debacle at the Keeper's Hall and brief liquid respite before the terrorists released the dirty bombs. Sleep had not come easy.

  His shaking, wet hands found purchase on the item he was desperately searching for and Elton’s weary heart was lifted. It was a small silver disc, the size of half-dollar and was infused with illusionary, anti-detection magic. The effects would make it nearly impossible for the spawn of Orcus to detect the presence of the Children of Light. In the gloaming darkness, the exhausted keeper found himself smiling at this one, tiny, yet much needed victory. Elton let the tears flow and offered a prayer of thanks as the sky outside the theater exploded with a war of lightning and violent thunder.

  Wiping his crying, tired eyes, he peered out at the walking dead filling Piccadilly Circus. He was the Keeper of the Flame, Guardian of the Children of Light, and had spent hours in front of the High Keeper's Council, pleading his case. He'd seen the prophetic truth of the Cult of Orcus in the Keeper's Eye Orbs. All of the vile deeds that the mad German had plotted. But the arrogance and blinding idiocy of the council deemed his evidence lacked “Any significant and profound evidentiary legitimacy to further explore or consider retributive action have been not provided and, therefore, while we thank you for your effort, Keeper Habersham, unfortunately, we, the High Council have concluded your charge, unfounded and void of any mitigating proof. Thank you for your service. Next order of business?”

  “Bullocks! You're making one hell of a bloody, catastrophic mistake. I'm talking the end of the world cock-up here. You do remember that saving the bloody world is our sworn duty, to prevent such an event, right?” Elton finally shouted from the floor of the council chamber. It was then that the High Council's guards escorted the frizzy-haired keeper out of the head quarter's interdimensional doorway and into the cold night air of Stonehenge.

  That had been a long while ago, and there had been plenty of time to prevent the mad German from implementing his plans of selling a demonically-tainted rabies virus to the even bloodier mad terrorist from the Middle East. The memory was vivid and still made Elton's fist clench in spite and disgust.

  The expulsion from the Keeper's Hall and the subsequent Hell on Earth scenario coming to fruition had sent him on a nightmarish run of survival and desperation. Elton knew the keepers had fallen far too complacent for years, never imagining they would blindly, unabashedly, ignore the warnings of the keeper whose sole duty was to watch over the world for any sign of demonic presence. Protect the Children of Light, especially the Child of Fire, the most powerful and final defender against its hell-spawned enemies. Elton had to do something.

  The unusually cold temperature chilled the flask, and Elton sipped and watched the heavy rain that had been a constant since the virus was released. A yellow-colored mist covered Piccadilly Circus. Shambling forms ambled around the once-busy thoroughfare as if waiting impatiently for their favorite shop to open. Elton chuckled. He realized the undead out there, in the cold rain doing the apocalypse ballet, weren't far different from the normal sods he'd seen out in the streets before the fall. Shaking the flask, he took another pull and hoped he didn’t run out of liquid courage.

  He rummaged through his backpack, prayed he had all he needed, and that the Great Creator would provide the rest. Inside his travel-worn shoulder satchel, three spell books, all the components needed for all the celestial spells and, after digging deep, he smiled. Two more bottles of vintage scotch. Kissing the cold glass of the bottle, he was tempted to take just a small sip. With the groans that sometimes sounded like actual speech, Elton decided now was not the time to imbibe the delicious good stuff. He carefully placed it back into the large satchel.

  “This will have to do in a pinch.” Elton took a long pull from the flask and placed it gingerly back in its place inside his tweed jacket. He needed more food and more time to decide what to do next. Without the proper divining spell, there was no telling who, or even where, the true Children of Light were. While each keeper had an innate sense of where the Children of Light were, it was only the high keeper himself who knew of the whereabouts of each of them, and the only magical recourse was the sacred Anima Luceat or Soul Shine spell. It was written on an ages old codex and stored away deep inside the Keeper's Hall vault. If he could get his hands on the holy book, he just might be able to divine the identity of the true Child of Fire; the potential savior of our world. Elton was fairly certain there was no returning there. And something felt rotten in Denmark with the High Council. He felt it in is gut. He may be a wayward drunk, but Elton Reese Habersham was no daisy.

  Closing the latch on his backpack, he looked out into the downpour. The foreign yellow steam rolled off the pavement and the undead crowding the square.

  “All those poor, poor, innocent souls. Gone...lost. How could those arrogant sycophants ignore the truth? How in the all that is righteous, could they stand idly by and let this insane catastrophe happen?” He knew he would never get an answer. Evil had no reason. It just existed to torment and punish the good. Elton's stomach roiled and he was damn sure it wasn't from the piss-poor scotch in his flask. Something didn't ring true with the Keeper's High Council. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was amiss. But, alas, what did that drivel matter now? Here he was now, hunkered down in a porn theater and as lost as the dead, shambling about in the driving rain.

  The random scream or cry for help would tear through the moans of the undead on the cold wind. Each voice, a fiery hot poker jabbing deep into his heart. Another soul lost to these wretched demons, and there was not a damned thing he could do to help them. His grip on the flask tightened, and his pulse pounded in his temples.

  Elton Reese Habersham III, the possibly last Keeper of the Eternal Flame, the Protector of the Children of Light, sat in the clinging darkness. Questioning. Wiping the tears on his worn jacket and praying to the Great Creator, or Buddha, Krishna, Father Christmas, or even Paul McCartney for guidance. His weary gaze turned back to the rain-filled mass of moving zombies outside, and he let out a small chuckle. A crisis of faith was a bit late and a pound short at this point.

  As he drained the last of the poor man's scotch from the flask, suddenly it hit him, like a lightning bolt to the cranium. One command filled his mind...his body...his soul.

  Arcadia Falls, New York. Wherever in the bloody world that was?

  Elton spat the liquor over the dust-covered carpet. He almost certainly thought he was going mad. But then the same voice filled his mind again...and again.

  He was long while past the point of listening to the broken record in his brain, Elton stood up, looked outside, and decided even if his mind was going the way of the dodo, any action was better than stagnant oscillation.

  After all, the world wasn't going to save itself.

  He double checked to see if his Traverse Stone wa
s still in the bag. Once sure, he shrugged into the backpack and ran out the back of the theater, avoiding the zombie-filled plaza. Taking a long, deep breath, the last Keeper of the Flame headed north to the closest Nexus point.

  As the steel security door creaked open, Elton froze, hoping it didn't draw the attention of the unknowing. Just when he believed it couldn't rain any harder, the freezing rain proved him wrong, once again. He peered out over the parking lot where a dozen or more cars sat dark, like patient children waiting for their parent's return. A return that would never come to be. In fact, the entire city of London, and perhaps the world, now sat static, empty, just like the automobiles he watched the rain pour down upon.

  Pushing that apocalyptic thought from his mind, he plotted his course. If he didn't get waylaid and was lucky enough to find one of these autos with the keys in it, he could make it to Scotland in a few hours. All the while, the monotonous, internal directions filled his every thought.

  Arcadia Falls, New York.

  Taking one deep breath, he spent the better part of an hour searching the vehicles in the parking lot and finally found a van on the far end. It started up, had three-quarters of a tank of petrol.

  He sped off northward, leaving the theater and the unknowing, unwilling dead behind him.

  12.

  Mad House

  The Brennan's Cellar.

  Arcadia Falls, NY.

  June 1985.

  Warren should have been walking across the stage and anxiously accepting his diploma from Mr. Stubbins, the old curmudgeon principle, but instead, he sat on his musty smelling cot and was slowly going crazy. His leg bounced nervously, and he'd flipped through the same copy of EPIC Illustrated magazine a gazillion times. They'd been down in this damp, spider-filled cellar for well over two weeks, and he was about to wig out. His Nazi of a father only allowed him enough time to grab a few things before it was all Stalag Brennan in the cold cellar.

  Maico, Warren’s old yellow lab lay on his cot next to him and snored lightly.

  He did manage to bring down his boom box, cassette tapes, and headphones, which he spent most of his time listening to WSMF and that gravel-voiced DJ radio show, Capt. Al's Drop Zone. As much as Warren disliked much of the old hippie's sappy, peace, love, and harmony vernacular and even sappier 60s tunes, the guy was up to date with all the goings-on in the world and the city of Rochester. Warren didn't want to admit it, but he was starting to like some of the Beatles stuff. It pained him to do so. Every once in a while, he'd have to pop in some Iron Maiden, Priest, or Dio, just to cleanse his musical palate.

  Among some of the other luxury items, as his dad cursed them, he managed to snag a few D&D books. Luckily, he had kept some old doubles of his comic books down here before the end of the world happened. They were stored inside a handful of old metal milk boxes his folks used when they actually used to deliver milk to your door. But that wasn't what had him tearing at the seams. There had been no word from Dex, Arnie, Jack, or Frank. Once the power went tits up, it was like he was back in the Middle Ages. The Middle Ages with Mussolini as the leader didn't make matters any better.

  Warren wanted to go to town and find his friends. He'd fallen asleep crying for them each night he'd been trapped in this dungeon. It truly made him rethink his love for Dungeons & Dragons. He had a composition notebook, where he'd kept track of the days, and it really started to fill up. The cellar couldn't have been more than twenty-five feet by twenty feet, and it crept shorter with each passing day.

  “You done with that?” Andy asked.

  It took Warren a few seconds to realize his brother was talking to him.

  Laughing, “Oh, yeah, man, here.” He handed the magazine over. “Hey, do you think Dad would let us go find Dex?” Warren asked.

  Andy took the heavily dog-eared magazine and flipped the pages. “No way in hell.” He looked up, his long bangs hiding most of his face. “We're lucky he lets us out long enough to take Maico here out and check on the fences. Besides, how would you get to town? You don't really think Dad will let you use the car or the truck, do ya? And you sure as shit won't be walking there. Not with all the weird zombie things out there.”

  Warren tugged at his shirt and mulled over the surmounting odds of his father letting him go. A small fire burned in his stomach as deep-seated worry filled him.

  “I know, I know. But, man, we can't just sit here and do nothing. I mean, they might be hurt, need help. We have to do something.” Warren heard the worry in his voice, and that just made him feel worse.

  Andy sat for a while and Warren could tell when his brother was doing heavy thinking. He'd have his tongue slightly hanging out the corner of his mouth. Kind of just like Maico would do. With a grim look on his face, he finally spoke. “Don't mean to be a complete dick, bro, but you do know they're probably already...dead. Right? And Dad isn't going to take you either. You know that.”

  The small fire in Warren's gut exploded into a blazing inferno, and his face grew hot, and the rage that his brutal brother's words caused was about to catch the entire cellar ablaze. His hands balled into tight fists, he jumped up and glared cold death at this much bigger brother.

  “What the hell, man? How can you say that? Like...like you don't give a shit. I'm sorry you don't have any friends, bro, that's not my fault. You don't need to be such an uncaring dick your entire life, ya know.” Warren's words flew out without conscious thought as he wiped the angry spittle from the corners of his mouth.

  Andy just sat there with the same old, emotionless, Lurch-like expression on his wide face. He waved a big hand for Warren to sit down. “Warren, you best sit your ass back down before—”

  “Before what? You're gonna try and kick my ass again. Oh and the operative word here is try.” Warren stepped closer to his brother who still sat calmly on his cot. “You want a dictionary to look up operative? I'm not afraid of you, ya know!” He knew he stepped way beyond the line.

  “No? What about Dad?”

  “The hell with Dad. I'm not afraid of him either. And I don't need his permission to go find Dex.”

  A sudden wide grin cracked Andy's stoic facade, and he looked over Warren's shoulder.

  “Is that so, young man?” The calm, cold voice froze Warren in place. His feet felt like they were buried six feet deep in the concrete floor.

  Andy laughed hysterically and stopped.

  Warren felt his father's large hand on his shoulder as he spun him around to look at him.

  “Now, let me make this absolutely fucking clear, son,” His father's deep blue eyes squinted, and his wide face formed a controlled, violent sneer. “I don't give one red cent if you fear me or not. I strongly believe we both know how the sad scenario would end, don't we?” It wasn't a question.

  “Honey.” His mom's voice interrupted, and the only attention it received was that of a harsh sidelong glance of warning from Warren's father.

  “No, Maggie! I think it's high time, Mr. I live in a Fantasy World with Superheroes and Play Fight with Stupid Dice needs a huge whole helping of truth.” The strong grip shot waves of pain through Warren's quivering shoulder.

  Warren's fire still burned, but now it was mixed with a growing self-doubt and fear. He took a deep breath and forced the fear away and lifted his gaze to his father's.

  The sneer on his father's face turned into a patronizing grin. “Before you go all Bruce Lee on me, son, I'd think long and hard about that if I were you. You're not going anywhere. You belong here with your family. Not out there in the shit that's going on. What? You want to be some kind of hero like in those useless funny books?” He let go of Warren's shoulder and snatched the magazine off the cot, next to Andy.

  He watched as his father crumpled the magazine in one hand and then shoved it against Warren's chest, digging the pages deep into his skin.

  “Andrew!” his mother shouted.

  Warren found himself pushing against the piercing pages of the magazine, his eyes never leaving his father's. He truly th
ought he'd lost his damn mind or was possessed. Either way, he knew he needed to find out if his best friend, his one true brother, was alive. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time his father smacked him around.

  “You really want to risk your life, our lives, by going to check on those worthless Lee brothers? The pieces of shit that lucked into all that money, that I’m damn well certain they’ve already blown it all on booze, whores, and drugs? Oh, I am sorry it's a business. Even better, they sell drugs?” The curled-up magazine bored deeper into Warren's chest. He felt the warm blood running down his chest. “They are useless slugs, Warren, and all they will do is drag you down with them. Hell, they're probably already dead, eaten by those crazy bastards out there. So, that is what you want to leave this safe place for?” He shook his head in the all-too-familiar disappointed motion Warren had grown well accustomed to. “The world is better off without them.”

  He splayed the magazine open against Warren's chest and shoved him backward.

  “You are not going anywhere. Do you understand me? Nowhere!” His father gave one last warning look and turned away.

  That's when Warren moved.

  With the surprising speed he never knew his two-hundred and seventy-five-pound frame was capable of, he bull-rushed past his father, sending the man sprawling into the metal shelving against the wall, causing many glass bell jars, filled with canned vegetables and savory sauce, to smash to the hard floor.

  Warren made it to the cellar's walkout door and had the first of two latches slung open before his father had gotten off the floor and run toward him.

  “Goddammit, don't open that fucking door!” his father bellowed behind him.

  Warren slid the second latch and flung the door open. The cold, November-like air smacked him in the face. The yellow moon cut through the ebony clouds, casting ghastly shadows on the once, comforting lawn.