Nemesis: Book Five

by David Beers

  Rigley took a step toward the bed. "What is it, what could hurt the children?"

  "You've seen the other person that came back, my friend, Michael?"

  Rigley nodded.

  "She thinks that Michael is inhabited by her lover, right? You've seen the two of them together?"

  Rigley nodded.

  "It's not him. Someone …,” he paused, closing his mouth and eyes at the same time. "Someone from outside, maybe the government? They're inside him. And when they're ready, they're going to kill her and her kids."

  "That can't happen," Rigley said, her suspicions gone as if they never existed. The boy in her room, the other man that came with him—all of it not even a distraction. They mattered less than nothing. The children mattered. Saving them. Preventing whatever he spoke about. "We can't let that happen."

  "We can't tell her though, not straight out. She'd kill us, she wouldn't believe us."

  "How then?" Rigley asked.

  Almost, but not quite, Bryan thought, which might have been the first positive thought he created since all of this began. He almost came unhinged, almost let all those little pieces of glass fall apart from the makeshift mirror he created. The pieces didn't fit and they cast a ghoulish image back at him, but they no longer crunched against each other as he walked. They sat firm on the wall, if only for a few moments.

  And when he spoke to that bitch in the other room, they almost all collapsed.

  She would have killed him, he saw that from the moment he walked into the room. She was out of her goddamn gourd, and with each passing second, he realized how far out. He stood there for a solid minute before she even looked over at him, just walking back and forth so fast that she might have been trying to rub holes in the carpet.

  Her hair was falling out of her head, though Bryan didn't think she knew it. He didn't think she knew much, actually, about anything around her. A huge clump was missing in the back, revealing a pale, nearly white scalp.

  And then when she looked at him, God—that was worse than anything else in the whole room. Because her eyes weren't empty like he thought a mad person's would be. Instead, longing filled them. Something very, very big was missing inside her, a hole that she hadn't ever been able to fill, and the way she looked right now, that hole might be spreading.

  Once Bryan decided to act, it didn't take much to change her, which was scary.

  The woman's face went from complete distrust to wondering how she could help in seconds. Bryan had never seen anything like it. Her … loyalty to those things out there was sickening; he didn't know if he was looking at Stockholm Syndrome or plain insanity, but that woman was all in on the alien's side.

  Which was fine, at least since Bryan acted so quickly.

  Because she would do anything to help Morena, and Bryan told her exactly what she needed to hear. He didn't see any way out of this, not at all—Morena's strength outweighed any maneuvers he, or anyone else, might be able to perform. That wasn't the point though; he thought if he played this right, used this woman correctly, he would get back to Thera.

  Wren wanted Michael back and Bryan did too. The difference between Bryan and Wren, though, was that Bryan understood no one would make it back. Michael was dead. Wren was dead. And Bryan too.

  Just die next to Thera, he thought. That will be okay.

  Nothing could stop Morena, not Michael, not Wren, not the entire world.

  She liked walking.

  Rigley liked it so much, she couldn't stop. Well, she briefly did when the boy was in her room, but as soon as he left, she got back to it. Moving was so much easier than sitting, than standing still, or anything else she could think of. As long as she moved … except she didn't have anything to finish the sentence with.

  The boy … what was his name? Bryan! That was right. Bryan. A part of Rigley thought she should go to Morena about it and tell her what the kid said, but what if he was right? What if that red-eyed sonofabitch was …

  And it clicked.

  Only one man in the world could do what Bryan claimed.

  Nononononono.

  The word moved through her head like machine gun rounds through a jungle, ripping down everything they came in contact with. It couldn't be. She left him back there. Was done with him the moment she pressed that button. She did her time and paid her fines; Rigley was supposed to be free.

  But he was in the house.

  The boy didn't know that, not the whole story. He knew the thing wearing his friend's body was government, but he didn't know who.

  Rigley did.

  Marks.

  She wouldn't ever escape him. He would follow her wherever she went, hunting her the way a starving polar bear will hunt a human stranded on ice. And if he found out she saw through his new disguise? Well, she would die then. He would kill her, and more importantly, he would kill all of Morena's children—sooner rather than later, because Rigley held no doubt that he would eventually destroy everyone she cared about. She thought she could run from him, even thought that she could escape. He would find her wherever she went in the world—whether in humanity's domain or Morena's. And did he know? Did he know that killing her didn't matter nearly as much as hurting the children?

  She needed to keep him thinking that no one had any idea about his true nature.

  And second?

  Was the boy's plan the way to go?

  It could work, she thought. If Rigley executed everything flawlessly.

  And if not? Then Rigley died, as did Morena's children. She couldn't let that happen. No, only one option presented itself in the end, an option that she should have seen long ago—maybe she did and avoided it purposefully.

  "I've got to kill him," she said, her voice a fast whisper, so that someone standing a few feet away wouldn't have understood. "Kill him for real. Kill him. Kill him."

  She repeated the words over and over, keeping up with her feet that repeated the same steps over and over.

  23

  Rigley's Mind

  Rigley stood in perhaps the darkest place of all the floors. She could see nothing, neither above nor below, nor right in front of her.

  Huge, ragged breaths heaved in and out of her lungs. She was bent over, her hands on her knees, her ass against the wall, doing her best not to throw up—though she thought it was coming no matter what she did.

  She could still feel the heat baking up from the floor below, not quite ready to burn through the barrier separating it from her, but getting closer by the second. She didn't know where to go though. Sam and his feast awaited all the way up at the highest level, and on the others? Would she go back to look at that statue and those pictures? Christ, how had all this happened? How did she end up here, and how did that fire start below?

  "Okay, think," she said. "Just think, because there has to be another way out of here. There has to be…."

  A window.

  Surely, at least one room in this damn place had a window, and she would leap out of it as fast as she could—damn the consequences.

  "Okay. Okay. That's the plan. Find a window."

  She straightened up, her breath still struggling to catch up with the rest of her body. It took her a second, but she started plugging away, moving up the stairs one step at a time. She kept her hand on the wall, bracing herself for whatever she couldn't see, but was surely in her way.

  And once again, she reached the top of the stairs, though the hallway wasn't cold as before. The fire below was heating the whole place up, keeping it nice and goddamn toasty.

  She looked down the hall, seeing the red lights at the end, the same ones that she had been pushed toward earlier. Now she was going back willingly, but just like last time, she didn't have a choice. Stay to the edges; don't go near anything you see in there. The windows will be on the edges.

  Doubt didn't flee, but Rigley did her best to shove it away as she moved down the hall, her feet going as fast as they could without tripping her. She wanted out of this place. To break her leg on the fall fro
m whatever window she found was more than fine if it meant she could leave.

  Rigley didn't even glance up as she reached the red lit door. She didn't care if she was walking into the room with her dead daughter or the room with the dead soldier, all of it was the same—a means to an end at this point. She pulled open the door and walked through, into an even deeper black than was outside. Outside, the red light held sway over all, but in here, darkness replaced it.

  Had there ever been a picture or statue in this room?

  Because she saw absolutely nothing. Everything had changed in this place, this house. She could trust nothing, perhaps not even herself. Trust didn't matter at this point, not when you couldn't see a damn thing anyway—what could she trust? Her eyes?

  No, all she could hope to believe in was what she could actually touch.

  "The edges," she said, taking on a bit of a frantic pulse. She expected to see her daughter or a statue, but she hadn't expected to see blackness—and this certainly wasn't the room marked Grayson. "Fine. Fucking fine."

  Rigley backed up slowly, until she hit the wall behind her. There, that's what you need. She turned around, placing her hands against the smooth surface. Now move until you feel a window.

  So, Rigley started moving across the black room, trying to find some escape from her predicament. Blind, moving like a cripple, she worked with the faith of Samson.

  24

  Present Day

  Bryan didn't knock on the door, but opened it as quietly as he had exited.

  Wren watched him enter, not daring say a word until the door was closed and Bryan as far away from it as he could get.

  "What happened?" Wren said.

  Bryan didn't look at him, but went back to the bed. He laid down, not bothering to pull up the blankets, but simply curling his legs beneath him.

  Wren turned, following him.

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "Yeah," Bryan said, staring straight ahead. All he needed, Wren thought, was to put his thumb in his mouth and he'd look completely catatonic. Just staring out at nothing, sucking his finger, his brain no longer working. Was that where this was heading? Bryan turning into a vegetable while Wren sat in an alien's house, watching the world burn?

  Wren squatted down, his knees popping as he did, though he made no sounds at the pain. He wasn't quite eye level with Bryan, but close. The bed was low to the ground, and small; whoever lived here before must have had little kids.

  "I need you to talk to me, Bryan. What did you tell her? I need to know what's happening."

  Bryan's eyes finally registered him, looking at Wren for the first time since coming back.

  "I have to talk to Michael," he said.

  Wren waited, but Bryan kept silent, only staring up at him as if nothing else need be spoken.

  "Yeah, Bryan. We all do. The fucking Pope needs to talk to him, but that doesn't tell me anything." Wren felt his anger rising, coming to the surface like some kind of dark beast hidden deep in the ocean, but finally rising to destroy whatever vessel dared venture into its territory.

  The anger of old.

  It wasn't strange to him; in fact, it felt like coming home. It made him feel like he could grab Bryan's head with one hand, and with the other strike it over and over again. Strike him until he bled and told him every goddamn word Wren wanted to hear.

  That's how you want to end this? Linda said. You want to kill your son's friend, and when that creature walks in, with Michael inside of him, he'll be able to see exactly what you are.

  Her voice was cold, and a chill rose up his spine as if she dragged an icicle across it.

  You can do it, Wren. Even as decrepit and fucked up as your body is, I think you could probably do it, given that the kid is barely functioning. You might get a few bruises, but he would take the beating he deserves. So why not do it? He won't answer you, so why shouldn't you beat him within inches of his life?

  Wren stared at Bryan, though he didn't see the boy. The anger of old. How many times had he felt this, directed at his own son? Countless. Year in and year out, except it hadn't just been feelings. A lot of actions were tied to this old anger, actions that he kept committing even when Michael grew too strong for Wren to hurt.

  That word.

  Hurt.

  That's what he wanted to do, what he had always wanted to do, and what he always did. Alcohol wrecking his brain, creating completely different structures of firing synapses, allowing abhorrent actions.

  How long had it been since he sipped his old friend? He couldn't remember, but as his hand moved to his back pocket, he didn't feel the flask there anymore. And just as the anger rose, so did the panic, coming from somewhere deep inside him—a place that still believed he couldn't live without the bottle. It was his elixir of life.

  No, he said, closing his eyes. Nothing else, just that single word.

  He didn't need to let the anger rise up; he didn't need to panic because he no longer felt the flask in his back pocket. Those things, they needed to be left in the past. Buried though not forgotten. His mind wouldn't let him forget, and in all honesty, he didn't need to.

  Wren opened his eyes.

  "Bryan, I'm sorry. I … I didn't mean to snap at you. I need you to talk to me, to tell me what's going to happen. We're not going to save Michael or get out of here if you don't."

  Wren's eyes were wet, but his voice didn't shake.

  "I have to talk to him," Bryan said again.

  Wren kept quiet this time.

  "There's a place. That same place I saw him before, the place she took Thera and I to. The Ether. I think he can come and go, maybe. At least I hope he can. I need to get back there."

  "Okay," Wren said, nodding, not at all sure what the kid was talking about, but believing him all the same. "That woman will help you get there?"

  Bryan nodded, his eyes breaking their connection with Wren. "I hope so."

  Wren reached out and put his hand on the kid's shoulder. Not for long, because it felt as awkward as anything he ever did, but he left it there long enough for Bryan to hopefully feel it.

  He stood up, knees popping again, and walked to the window. He looked out at what used to be a green yard. The rest of the past had been buried underneath millions of white, growing wires. The grass beneath wasn't trying to make a return, but had accepted its place. Buried beneath the present.

  Wren didn't know what Bryan was talking about, but he knew that wherever the kid went—including another world—he was going too, if it meant he would see his son.

  "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Michael said, smiling. What else could he do, reading what was in his hands? He wasn't floating, exactly, as it felt like he lay on something (a board, maybe?)—though if he turned over from his back, he wouldn't be able to see it.

  He lay horizontal, facing the ceiling, and maybe a foot away from the upside down shelves full of books.

  This Briten guy, he came from a seriously fucked up place. The politicians on Earth were always ranting and raving about the violence in inner cities, and the atrocities seen in the middle east, but everyone on this goddamn planet—including the politicians—were amateurs.

  Briten's family, the whole planet, they were professionals. They reveled in war like Stephen King did in words. Loving it as parents loved their children.

  Michael couldn't stop reading about the planet.

  Maybe that wasn't true; he would certainly stop reading if he could take control of his body again, but that wasn't a possibility. So the next best thing was to sit here and read the most deranged soap opera he could imagine.

  Briten's father, who was apparently like a god on their planet, had killed his second born son. And by itself, that was pretty bad, but not nearly the worst part of it. These creatures could apparently withstand nearly any amount of pain thrown at them without dying, and so the father stretched the son—stretched him until whatever bones and organs in his body split apart and broke, and left him in a public square for a year, at a total
length of twelve feet. The alien wouldn't die, somehow kept alive by his aura (though Michael understood little how that worked), only lay there suspended, screaming.

  The brother had tried to initiate a coup, over both Briten and his father. Second born and unhappy with his proverbial lot. It seemed to Michael that all anyone on Briten's home planet cared about was power; in fact, they seemed a lot closer to humans than Morena's crew.

  Briten, clearly, never tried to attempt a coup.

  And as far as Michael could tell, no one else did either—not after the ruler decided to kill his own son.

  Tortured his own son.

  Michael felt Briten moving, though it didn't affect anything he was doing at the moment. More just a knowledge that Briten was using his body, outside of Michael's control, of course.

  "What?" Briten said, speaking to someone else. Michael snapped the book closed, having not heard Briten's voice sound like that before. He wasn't speaking to Morena or any other Bynum (Michael understood more and more of the language, not having much choice as he either could look out someone else's eyes or read the volumes before him). Briten's voice sounded harsh, as if whoever woke him from his slumber shouldn't have had the gall to do it.

  The transition from library to body always worked seamlessly, the books fading away, revealing themselves as nothing more than Michael's imagination. He stepped forward, mentally, and looked out his eyes as he always had, only no control came with the view. He saw as he always did, but now was completely paralyzed.

  He looked out at the brunette who was here when they all arrived.

  She was dying.

  Michael didn't know if she understood that, but he saw her future as if looking into a crystal ball. Hair falling out of her head. Splotches across her neck and arms. Body thin and dark rings spreading out under her eyes like nightfall.

  "I just wanted to say hi," the woman said.