by David Beers
Christian nodded.
“Good. Are you ready to go downstairs? They’re all waiting.”
Christian turned from the window and Luke saw his face for the first time. Luke couldn’t tell what emotions swirled inside of him. Anguish. Sadness. Anger. Any number of feelings that created the drained person in front of him. Still, Christian had spoken of a coming storm, but Luke didn’t see that in his face.
He saw resolution.
Was it resolution for Luke’s purpose, though?
“Let’s go,” Luke said. He turned and started to the basement. The pistol sat in the back of his pants, and Christian could have kicked him down the stairs if he wanted, but Luke hadn’t sensed any fight in him.
Luke understood what he saw in Christian by the time his foot hit the second stair. He was watching a man walk to his death. Those emotions barely surfacing on Christian’s face? That’s what they were about. Christian understood that the last piece of him would die shortly.
They both reached the bottom. The lights were on and a hallway went to the right and left. On the right were the rooms Luke had kept everyone in and to the left were where they now waited. The previous night had been long for everyone—for Luke too. They all awaited their fate, but they didn’t understand he awaited his as well. Christian had a storm to face in his mind, and Luke hadn’t known what would happen when he emerged.
It appeared that everything had gone as it should, though.
“They’re on our left,” he said. “Your mansion, or where it resided, is everything okay there?”
“Nothing is okay, Luke. Not there. Not here. But this is where we are and we can’t turn back.”
It wasn’t a question and Luke was fine with that, too.
“Come,” he said and walked down the hallway, hearing Christian’s footsteps as he followed.
They entered the kitchen area. Luke stepped to the side and let Christian move further in, so that he could see what he’d come to do.
Waverly sat on the floor, his legs straight in front of him. White gauze was wrapped around the right one, no blood reaching the top layer. His face was drained and dirty, but Luke understood that if a chance presented itself, Waverly would still fight.
The Senator was against the back wall in a corner. He had cried much of the night. Cried and begged. Luke had finally placed the pistol in his mouth and let him know the consequences of his continued nonsense. Now Robert Franklin sat with his legs folded up to his chest, tear lines criss-crossing the dirt on his face.
Canonine was the only one missing, but he doubted Christian would notice. Luke had finally disposed of him early this morning, his psychosis reaching a point Luke no longer wanted to care for. He’d been kind about it, much kinder than the doctor would have been to Luke—snapping his neck quickly. Canonine didn’t matter to Christian’s metamorphosis.
The two women sat in chairs, close together. They held each other’s hands while doing their best to not cry. Luke was impressed with Veronica’s mental improvement. He had brought her deep into his hypnosis, but she was capable of showing emotion now—even if not the full range that Christian’s mother could.
Christian stared at them all, slowly taking everything in, his eyes stopping on his mom.
“Do you remember what we talked about in the desert?” Luke asked.
Christian nodded.
“Have you given it more thought?”
Another nod.
“Why isn’t suicide a viable solution?”
Christian closed his eyes.
Christian had woken up in a very strange mindset. It was actually something he’d never experienced before. Throughout life, he had either been in his mansion or in reality. There was no way to combine the two of them, and yet, he woke up seeing the world around him and the storm raging in his mind.
It was somewhat difficult to focus on both, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t help but see Luke and the storm.
He had closed his eyes when Luke asked the question on suicide, wanting to only focus in one place. He understood he couldn’t shut his mind off. Whatever was happening inside of him wouldn’t stop, except perhaps for one reason. That’s what Christian had begun to understand last night. The storm would finish what it came to do if Christian didn’t go forward. It was the same dilemma he’d faced with the dead, only now the cancer that had grown without check was in its terminal stage.
He shut his eyes in reality and the storm filled his vision.
Cold water rushed around him, the rain having continued pouring upon the lands he’d created. He could no longer see the mansion beneath him, couldn’t even think about swimming that far down. Ground was a foreign thing and Christian struggled to stay above water. Winds roared and waves slammed against each other, against him.
He went under again, his feet kicking to bring him back to the surface.
The lightning flashed above, slamming into the outer sky. The sky’s blackness rippled; it was weakened from last night, parts of it now considerably faded. Christian had watched the floods come, and then watched as they swept him up. There were no more vast fields of brown grass to see, but now a flood that just kept rising, embracing everything in its cold death. Even if the sky broke and revealed what was behind it, Christian was going to drown here.
He held his breath and went under.
The dead were floating around him. Bloated faces with burnt and torn skin trailing out from their bodies like jellyfish tentacles.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see any of them. He only cared about Luke’s question, and the answer he would give.
In dark water, with a storm raging around him, Christian found his answer. He found, once again, he didn’t have any choice.
Luke watched Christian open his eyes.
“Did you just go to the mansion, or whatever’s left of it?”
Christian nodded, his eyes still on his mother.
“Did you find the answer? Why you won’t kill yourself?”
Christian’s voice cracked as he spoke, but still, he spoke—and that was what mattered. “Because I want to be with you.”
“Tell me why,” Luke said.
“You’re the only place I’ve ever felt at home.” He was crying now as he looked at his mother. Christian was coming to the realization that Luke wanted: the two were each other’s destiny. “You’re the only place I feel peace.”
“Good,” Luke said. He stepped up next to Christian, placing his hand on his protege’s shoulder. “Now, we start. Who is first?”
A tear dripped from Christian’s face, falling to the floor.
“The Senator?” Luke asked.
Christian nodded.
“Come.” Luke turned and walked to the corner.
“NO! PLEASE! GOD NO! DON’T!” the Senator began shrieking.
Luke ignored the screams echoing across the small room. He turned and watched as Christian followed him. Luke pulled the pistol out.
“Are you ready?”
Bleary eyed and pale, tears continually welling and falling down his face, Christian nodded.
“NO! NO! NONONONO!” the Senator screamed, trying to stand up, trying to run.
Luke didn’t even look at him. He simply pulled the trigger twice and silenced the Senator. He kept staring at Christian, though his peripheral could see limbs twitching on the floor.
Christian watched the Senator. He had flinched momentarily at the weapon’s loud concussions, but now he was still. His eyes moved up to Luke.
“Three more.” Luke smirked. “The Senator doesn’t really count. He was more for fun. The Director next? Mr. Alan Waverly?”
Christian closed his eyes, but nodded.
Luke walked across the floor to the wounded man.
Christian forced his way to the lake’s surface. He saw large waves in the distance, 20 feet in the air, crashing down and sending white foam spraying back up. His eyes went to the sky, desperately wanting to see what was behind it. That was all he had left in this
place. The mansion was drowned and now the dead were bobbing just beneath the surface.
He felt something touch his leg but didn’t look down. He felt certain the dead wanted to grab him and bring him below with them—thought they could if he gave them any attention at all.
No, just watch above. Just wait for the sky to show itself.
The lightning struck out, battering the black tarp that covered this place. Christian’s legs pumped vigorously, his arms doing the same to keep him afloat. Water sloshed against his face, getting in his mouth and nose. He kept looking up.
Another. Another, please. Just make it happen.
And if his mind might still obey him, lightning ripped upward, and Christian saw the sky finally split. It started as a single dot, something little more than a star in the far distance. Light flowed through though, bright and orange as if the sun might sit just behind the blackness holding this place.
Another bolt struck and another star appeared a mile away.
The stars began spreading, though not circular, but in lines—looking like cracks in a windshield, with the initial star-burst followed by long trails.
More light poured in.
“MORE!” he shouted.
Christian focused on nothing but the splitting sky, missing the wave that had risen 30 feet off and was now rushing toward him like the hand of God.
It slammed into his right side, shoving him deep down amongst the dead.
“He isn’t important, either,” Luke said. “Not really.”
Luke stood facing Waverly, the pistol against his temple. He looked down at the top of the man’s head, the Director refusing to deign Luke with even a glance.
Christian stood in front of Waverly, a foot or so from his shoes. The two stared at each other.
“Any last words?” Luke asked.
“I’m sorry, Christian,” Waverly said without hesitation. “I’m sorry for our first meeting. I’m sorry for not seeing this before it happened. I’m sorry all of this was done to you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”
Luke couldn’t see the Director’s eyes but he heard the emotion in his voice. Luke looked to Christian.
He only nodded at Waverly. Accepting the apology or giving permission to continue, Luke didn’t know. It didn’t matter; Waverly was nearly as disposable as the Senator. It was the final two that were important.
He pulled the trigger, watching this time, because he’d wanted to kill Alan Waverly for years.
The bullet smashed through his right temple, and then the left side of his head exploded. Waverly slumped over, slowly sliding down the wall and leaving a trail of blood as he went.
Luke looked over to Christian. “Two more. Are you ready?”
Christian didn’t look up from Waverly. He stared at his dead friend, seeing the contents of his head leak out across the floor as if it were a spilled bowl.
“Christian, are you with me?”
He cried silently, the tears dripping from his face in an endless river.
“Christian,” Luke whispered.
He looked up.
“Are you with me?”
Luke watched as he closed his eyes and went back to the storm.
The dead grabbed at him. They were no longer content to watch. No longer content to stare. They swam toward him like sharks toward wounded prey, pushing past and over each other to get to him.
Christian kept his mouth closed, though he wanted to scream—knowing to do so would suck water into his lungs. He flailed upward, even as their hands took hold of his legs. They—and how many were there?—wanted to pull him down deep. They were going to drown him, once and for all.
He needed to get to the sky. He needed to see it. Then they could have him, once he saw what lay behind this mental madhouse he’d built.
Not until.
He pushed upward, kicking them off as he went. His lungs burned and his legs ached, but still he kept going.
His arm thrust into the air and his head emerged right after.
He looked down, back into the black water, and saw the dead circling him. They had stopped reaching though. They couldn’t grab him, not while he was above the waterline. They would wait for the next wave—his mind’s next surge—to bring him back down.
Christian’s chest heaved, sucking air in and exhaling it almost as quickly. He turned his head from the ocean below to the sky above.
The lines.
They were so beautiful.
There were 20 of them now, all stretching in half arcs. Light flooded down, and yes, Christian thought the arcs were widening. Stretching.
The light fell, slicing through the dark clouds and landing on the raging waves.
Another hole opened in the sky and the light shined directly down on Christian’s face. He stared up in awe, forgetting about the dead beneath, and the water that seemed to desperately want to send him down with them.
He only looked at the light.
“Why?”
Christian’s head whipped to the right and he saw himself. Not his negative—the other—with blood dripping down his face. Christian stared at himself, and this replica stood atop the water as if walking on dry land.
“I’m with you,” Christian said, opening his eyes.
“Why did you close your eyes?”
“I wanted to see the sky,” he said.
Luke’s own eyes narrowed, but only slightly, and only for a moment—a slight lapse in controlling his emotions. This wasn’t the time to concern himself with whatever was happening inside, especially not with Waverly lying dead at Luke’s feet. Not with Christian’s mother and Veronica up next.
“Can you see it?” Luke asked.
“Almost.”
Luke was quiet for a second. “Are you with me, Christian?”
“Yes.”
Only …
Something is changing.
It wasn’t the empathetic leap Christian might have made, but rather a deduction from the entire situation. The flex of Christian’s face, the look in his eyes. Both were missing the depressed resolution from upstairs.
The tears aren’t welling anymore either, Luke thought.
Speed then. This had to be done. Once it was finished, whatever was happening in his mind would cease.
And yet, Luke’s curiosity—a piece of him as large as his genius, perhaps even causing his genius—wanted more. “What’s happening? What’s going on inside your head?”
“I don’t know,” Christian said, blinking.
Luke believed him. Whatever it was … it was beyond both of them. Luke couldn’t get inside; there simply wasn’t time, and Christian wasn’t understanding either.
“Come then,” Luke said, mastering the nervous emotions arising in him. He stepped over Waverly’s legs and moved to the two in the chairs. They were crying audibly now, clutching each other as their eyes moved back and forth from Christian to Luke.
Luke didn’t remove his own eyes from Christian, following him closely as he walked to the women.
“It’s your turn. Are you ready?”
Christian nodded.
In one place, Christian stared at his mother, a gun being offered to him.
In another he struggled to keep his head above water, staring at a replica himself walking across that very same water.
“What!” Christian screamed, trying to get his voice heard above the thunder and crashing waves.
“I said why? Why does it matter what’s behind the sky?”
“IT’S ALL THAT MATTERS!” Christian screamed back, growing angry at whatever apparition was creating this replica of himself. He didn’t have time to sit here and answers questions. He was drowning, the dead from his life ready to eat him alive, leaving only moments to understand what was behind the screen above. Everything else was gone, except that.
The replica sat down on the water, folding his legs under him Indian-Style. The water tossed up onto his jeans, wetting his clothes, and he swayed with it, but it didn’t reach his face.
Christian’s head went under water. Immediately, he felt a hand grab his ankle, something cold with flayed flesh, and he kicked it off, thrusting himself up again.
“You’re going to die in a moment,” the replica said, his voice sounding as if he sat on a sunny, green field, instead of a raging ocean. “I’d like you to answer that question. It’s not your fault, Christian. Your mind and the things it’s done to you. Perhaps no one in the world could have handled the brain you were given, but you did your best, and that’s what counts. So before you die, I really would like to just take a moment and figure out why the sky matters?”
Words flew at him from the replica, but Christian’s face was barely above water, his nose, mouth, and eyes the only things touching air. Another hand brushed his leg, and yet another his stomach.
He looked up and saw the light growing.
Is it fire? he wondered just before a wave pushed him deep.
The hands of the dead were so, so cold.
Luke put the gun forward a few inches.
Christian’s chest was moving up and down fast, as if he was about to hyperventilate.
Luke held the gun where it was. He hadn’t expected this. A break down, maybe, but the way he was breathing … Luke didn’t like it.
“Are you okay?”
Christian nodded, his eyes narrow, but far away … as if he didn’t see anything in the room. Not Luke, nor the other two.
“Christian?” Mrs. Windsor said.
He only shook his head, a short firm thing.
“Quiet, please, Mrs. Windsor. We’re almost there.” Luke took another step forward. “Christian, take the gun. Take it and do what we came here for.”
Luke didn’t like any of this, but he saw the finish line—bright red and beckoning him with a seductiveness Luke hadn’t truly known before. All his work was nearly at fruition, if they could only shove through this.
Luke pushed the gun into Christian’s hand.
Christian took it and turned to his mother. He knelt down on both knees in front of her. He raised the gun in front of his chest, holding it with both hands so that it faced the ceiling.