Without having to be asked, Matthews handed the necklace to Chase. After a moment’s appreciation, Chase handed it in turn to Clare. It was like touching Mitchel again. No—it was better. For the first time since he was gone, she didn’t miss him. She didn’t miss anything. Her soul didn’t cry out for oblivion. She felt a supreme sense of completeness and wondered what the others had felt when they’d held it. She closed her eyes and allowed a small moan to escape her lips. The moment was everything… everything she had hoped it would be. No high could compare to finding and handling this trinket. But as it had with Matthews only minutes before, the strong, sharp edge of the feeling left quickly, boiling down to a more tolerable pleasure. The men watched her, and she was aware she was turning them on, and she felt bad about it. She knew they weren’t trying to see her like that. A real sense of trust had developed between them, and controlling them in any way felt like a betrayal. All the same, she moaned again, enraptured by the gem, unable to keep her lips closed.
Eventually she handed it back to Matthews, though there was no real reason he should be its keeper instead of her or Chase. It just made sense for him to hold it.
Chase said, “I know you don’t want to, Shad, but we should take this to Paul. If we don’t, and he finds out we kept it from him, he’ll kill us.”
Matthews didn’t say anything right away. Clare had become privy to their private emotions and knew there was something Chase was thinking but not saying. He didn’t just want to return the necklace to Paul because he was afraid for his life. He wanted to take it to Paul because it would feel good. She sensed it too, the pleasure it would be to return it. It might even feel better than holding it.
“Okay,” Matthews said. “If you’re okay with it, Clare.”
She laughed, a real laugh, tinged with a hue of sadness. “Don’t worry guys. I’m not going to be the one to stop us from getting our next hit.”
Matthews was not amused, but he didn’t offer any kind of retort. He simply headed out. Chase nodded slowly to himself as he, too, left, perhaps as a way of admitting that what she’d said was closer to the truth than anything he could think of.
Outside, as he stalked out of sight from them into a tree patch, Matthews said. “Let’s spend a little more time with these soldiers first. Maybe we can learn something. Maybe somebody will talk us out of giving it back.”
6
Time had ceased its struggle, at least within the confines of the camp.
Here an hour meant no more or less than a year. Matthews, Chase, and Clare had no concept of how long they’d spent with the platoon of soldiers. It could have been three days as easily as three months. The sun never set, and no one needed sleep. There was food in abundant supply, but when anyone ate they did so because they wanted to taste something, not to soothe hunger. The only indication any of them had that perhaps time was passing was the gently growing sense of need to return the necklace.
The three of them spent their time conversing with the soldiers. One young man who appeared to be of South-east Asian decent, regaled them with the story of his capture and escape from a POW camp. His story included an evil Sergeant, a magician, and a dragon. They soon learned that each soldier had an tale to tell, a story that was touching, succinct, and real, despite the jarring presence of samurai, microwaves, and lightsabers. Matthews suspected the three of them might be simply conversing with the creative hogwash of Paul’s mind, but for whatever reason, this diminished the emotional impact of each story not at all. He grew attached to each tale and even more to the soldier telling it.
When they were not eating food fit for a five-star resort and listening to incredible yarns, they were playing games with the soldiers. It didn’t matter what; these men knew the rules to—and they had the necessary equipment to play—any game their three visitors could think of. This included such diverse amusements as croquet, Balderdash, Halo, and the schoolgirl favorite, MASH. A game in-and-of-itself for the three was to try to think of the most random games they could and try to stump the soldiers. They had, as of yet, been unsuccessful. They had become perpetually giddy. No longer were they engaged by the world around them; they found that playing and talking with these soldiers was almost more fun than looking for the necklace had been. It fed the part of the mind that ate delicious novels, and they quickly shirked their perceived duty of returning the necklace, not so much forgetting the threat of Paul’s wrath as ignoring it.
During one such game (a more obscure farming board game Chase’s nephew liked, called Agricola) the large beast the three had seen in their search passed through camp. Matthews’ policeman instinct, though malnourished and withering, still perked up when he perceived the animal’s movement into the main open area of camp. This internal alarm was quieted however when he saw the whole thing at once. It didn’t just have the coat of a dog, as Matthews had thought, it was a dog. Roughly the size of a large minivan. A poodle, if Matthews was correct. Its proportions were clearly those of a smaller dog. This caused everyone playing the game at that moment (Clare, Chase, Matthews, Davis, and a dark young man named Pedro) as well as any soldier in visual range to stop what they were doing and laugh. It was extremely funny to them all. The dog’s attitude was one of confused delight, and it momentarily pranced around with some of the more playful soldiers. Soon, it returned—looking rejected and saddened—to the covering of woods. With the novelty over, everyone returned to their leisure activities without another thought of the creature.
Another animal that amused the group was Scott’s Anaconda, who was—as Davis had said—at least twelve feet long and about as thick around as a fire hydrant. This snake was friendly, playful, and curious. Not even Chase, who had always been repulsed by snakes, could help but give the big guy attention when he wanted it, which was often. Scott himself, a plain-looking man with brown hair, had little to say, but he always kept an eye on his snake, as if prepared at any moment to help rectify any trouble it might cause. But of course it never did; the snake was too intelligent and affable for trouble.
Though all the soldiers were happy for the company, no one seemed more pleased than Davis to have Matthews’ band join them. He was pleased both by the fact of their presence and because they had so far done nothing with the necklace that he so clearly disdained.
The only person they did not see often was Captain Jeffs, who spent most of his time brooding in his death-veiled tent. Matthews tried to think of him as little as possible, for he was a reminder of the faint obligation he had to return the necklace to Paul, and—ultimately—to stop Paul’s madness. For now he was content to live within that madness. Who knew? Maybe the three of them could stay here forever, and never worry about taxes, or jobs, or Paul, or anything ever again. Matthews would often look at his two compatriots, whom he had grown to care for and love, and think that such a thing really wouldn’t be too bad.
Clare’s belly had been growing steadily with the life it stitched within, but it didn’t seem to make her ill or encumber her at all. Though time had no real meaning now, he could tell that it was getting bigger quickly. At least, it felt quick. Matthews vaguely thought about what it would be like if she ended up giving birth in this camp.
CHAPTER TWO
PAUL’S REST WAS ANYTHING BUT RESTFUL. He had locked himself within the womb of the earth. Completely blocked from all light and air, he had entered the Mayhemic equivalent of a butterfly’s cocoon. As his captives conversed with his soldiers, Paul dozed in a fit of growth that seemed to tear at the very fiber of his muscles, bones, brain, and soul. As a child locked in the grips of some near-deadly fever will drift in and out of disturbed sleep—often seeing things that are not there, constantly vacillating between extreme discomfort and extreme detachment—Paul let the time pass, as unaware of this passing as Matthews, Clare, and Chase.
During this growth period, he was shown large chunks of history in their entirety, as well as the individual daily troubles of perhaps half a million of the earth’s inhabitants of the last
thousand years. He was intimate in the lives of those from all walks of life, in all religions and racial groups, and yet he felt nothing for those whose lives he witnessed, and he felt he learned nothing of significance. These visions did not extend any further than about 1,000 BC. Paul was audience to the rising and falling of nations, both great and small, and he found that each one had lived and died within the grip of the power he was only just now learning to wield: the power of Mayhem.
He became certain that there was no God, no benevolent power seeking to help his little children ascend toward some heavenly reward. There were but two forces, men and Mayhem, and Mayhem would always win in the end. This seemed so clear and obvious to him that for a time he resisted the knowledge as if it were being forced upon him, but eventually he agreed with the intense, even painful, thoughts that assured him there was no deity or deities of any kind.
Instead of God, he found himself. He saw how important he was. How his life belonged to himself and no one else. Had he wanted a child? Whatever for? He saw how he had wasted his time. He had tried to build a family and an artistic legacy when he should have focused on those things that mattered most: pleasure, destruction, fun… himself.
He should have focused on himself.
Throughout all this, he was in pain. Gut-wrenching, mind-numbing pain.
Growing pains.
Troublesome images burdened the corners of these visions. There had been others with the same knowledge as he, others with his same desires. Men, women, even one who had been just a little girl. He banished these, for they were as irrelevant to him as the policeman’s schemes. Even if there had been others before, others whom Mayhem had used for its purposes, none had been given the power that was now being offered to Paul. Obviously, none had succeeded.
Paul knew that if he endured the searing torture of his transformation, which he could and would do, nothing would be able to stop him from achieving all that they had not. He did not trouble himself with thoughts of why that had failed. Whatever had stopped them would not stop him.
Jen.
That was the worst part.
Periodically, he thought of her. He remembered killing her. He would then think of her as she had been: small of stature, but big with temper and personality. He saw her wrapped in seductive white linens, draped and waiting on a large bed. They had never been in any such place so far as he knew, but the image had a penetrating effect nonetheless. And, in a way the great dramas of human lives he witnessed in the throes of his fever dreams could not, the thought of her moved him.
But he knew she was nothing.
The painful thoughts he spared for his dead wife were only the last vestments of his human costume being shed. Still, it was terrible, almost beyond his ability to withstand, to remember her killing. But thankfully, often just at the point of his breaking, she would again vanish from his mind, and the passage of other souls—just people, strangers—would take her place.
The fear that Matthews, Chase, and Clare had that Paul would be angry with them for not coming to him as soon as they found the necklace was unfounded. Most of the time during this period of change, Paul did not even know who they were.
2
Eventually, Jeffs came out of his tent.
Matthews noticed that despite the cool assurance in his voice, Jeffs had the mannerisms of an extremely distressed man. He was dressed like Davis, not like most of the other soldiers with their weird mockeries of uniform. The tight, pale-blue fabric adorned with gold buttons suited him well. Matthews didn’t know if the outfit was authentic or not. Without it, Jeffs’ nervous glances and general state of uncertainty might have seemed like those of a man unfit to lead. Based on what he’d read of the man—the character, he reminded himself—this insecurity was out of the ordinary.
Jeffs waited more or less patiently while they finished their current round of cornhole, a popular bar game Clare had introducing them to. It was clear that Jeffs wanted to speak to Matthews alone, and based on the grimace under his moustache, it wasn’t about anything pleasant. Matthews would talk to the man, but he wanted to finish his turn first. He took aim and with one huge hand lofted the beanbag directly into the desired hole.
“Yes!” Matthews said, and Chase, Davis, and Clare all groaned in good nature.
Clare said, “You know, I really should be schooling you all. I’ve got the most practice.” But she playfully punched Matthews’ shoulder, showing she was happy for him.
With this task out of the way, Matthews went over to Jeffs, who silently indicated they should walk some distance from the others. Reluctantly, Matthews let Jeffs lead him twenty-five yards from his friends. Jeffs stopped at the edge of the woods. They stood beneath a large reddish-brown tree of indeterminable species.
Between them, one of the delicious rabbits hopped by, just begging to be somebody’s dinner.
“I’m worried,” Jeffs said, once they were definitely out of earshot of Clare, Chase, or any of the soldiers. Again Matthews heard flashes of Don Corleone. Jeffs seemed to be saying much more with these two words than they alone implied. If Matthews wasn’t mistaken, it was close to a threat. This made no sense to the police officer, who had fully and gaily entered into the life of innocent fun they’d found at camp.
“I can tell you’re worried,” Matthews said. “I think you just need to relax.” If Matthews had been closer to his right frame of mind, he would have noticed that this was unlike anything he had ever said before; he was not typically the advocate of leisure.
“When you came to me,” Jeffs said, “you came for one reason. Do you remember what that was?”
Matthews’ face then made a marvelous approximation of Davis’ patented sheepish look. It was out-of-place on his wide head. He felt the silly grin there, and wanted to banish it in favor of one of his tough detective faces, but he seemed to be fresh out. “Of course I do,” he said. “We came for the necklace.”
“That’s right,” Jeffs said, not quite as if speaking to a child. “I knew you would want it because I dreamed you would. I’m not the kind of person who puts a lot of stock in dreams. But as you see,” he motioned to the camp around them, which resembled a lazy circus more than any kind of organized military group, “this is no longer my world. These days my dreams seem more real to me than my waking life.”
This had something of a sobering effect on Matthews. Perhaps he was simply remembering the fact that his entire life had been changed by another person’s dream—the dream of Clancy Miller. Matthews watched a tall young man with a basketball in one hand and a rifle in the other pass by. His uniform was part Civil War, part Chicago Bulls. He was struck by how happy the kid looked. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll bite. What have you dreamed?”
The look on Jeffs’ face indicated that this was the right question. Matthews suspected Jeffs had been hoping he’d ask, but was confused why Jeffs felt he needed an invitation in order to share something. Many things seemed more confusing to him now, and he felt the urge to simply let all such matters drop and return to things that gave him pleasure to consider. Things like cornhole.
Jeffs said, “I will. But not only the dreams. I want you to understand what surrounded them. I can tell that you are the leader here, much more so than I am, and I think you need all the information.”
“Okay,” Matthews said, fighting off childish feelings of boredom that were already encroaching in on him. All he really wanted to do was keep playing games with his friends, but he heard the truth in Jeffs’ words. He was in charge here, whether he wanted to be or not.
“The day before I had the first significant dream, I was with a woman named Valerie Hardstetter. A woman I had begun to care for very much. In light of recent understanding, such as the possibility of my not existing, my feelings for her are even more unsettling. I had explained to her various complexities of an upcoming battle, and I found her insights fascinating. That night I walked her home, and I made my way back to camp, where a makeshift cabin had been erected for me. I w
ent to sleep there as I had the three nights previous. That night, I dreamt of a man I’d never seen before…”
“Paul,” Matthews said without thinking.
Jeffs face was impassive, cold. “Yes,” he said. “As you say. It was Paul. I knew his name immediately. Though I have never known him, he was familiar to me right off. I’ll tell you, I feared him. I am not prone to fear. I have always been able to assess a situation without being carried away by this primal feeling—”
“I know,” Matthews said, remembering the section of Manpower where Jeffs had saved the day.
Jeffs let this comment pass unanswered. “I saw Paul weaving my body together as a woman might weave a rug. Everything about him disturbed me. He seemed ill, yet dangerous. I had the feeling that my very existence was in his hands. It is difficult to explain, but I worry that you already know what I mean. Perhaps you understand this better than I. I was then woken by a banging at my door. An officer, one I’d never met, presented me with all the proper papers for a change in my assignment. I was to take a platoon deep into enemy territory, the reason unknown to me, something that I can never recall having happened before.”
Another rabbit hopped passed, and Matthews heard a cheer from Clare. She must have scored.
Jeffs continued. “I met with the men in town, and only recognized a few of them, Davis included. I was unclear as to why personnel had changed so much in one night. My inquiries were met with disdain from my superiors, who immediately began questioning my allegiance, something else I had never experienced. I had no choice but to do as they ordered. That, or give up my rank and posting, which I was not willing to do. I was also confused by their choice of men—as you can see, they are not all American. I did not even know where they had come from. But by this point I had seen the futility of fighting against them. Anyone you see in this camp with a traditional uniform is a man I have served with before; all the others are new. They are kind enough, but they have made me uneasy from the first time I saw them, perhaps for obvious reasons. We were to leave the very next night. Try as I might, I could not find Valerie anywhere in the town. Not at her house. Not in the tavern. Nowhere. It was as if she had vanished completely. I feel her presence at times, even now. But physically, she had disappeared.
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